Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  There was a screech of metal on concrete as the front wing of the Jaguar jammed against the pillar. Clifford’s face was red and angry. ‘Look what you made me do. I thought you were supposed to be directing.’

  His anger was so great and so obvious that it was almost unconvincing. Patrick was careful not to smile. ‘I wasn’t watching,’ he confessed.

  ‘That’s right, he wasn’t, he was talking to me,’ said Sir Wilfrid.

  Clifford’s fury was constrained by his desire to be respectful. He got out to inspect the damage. ‘It could be worse, I suppose.’

  Sir Wilfrid regarded the vehicle without interest. ‘Perhaps we’d better leave it as it is and call the garage.’

  However, a few minutes more shunting, twisting and turning saw the car parked. ‘Thank you, Clifford,’ said Sir Wilfrid, slamming the door twice before it would shut. ‘I’m sure there’s something wrong. It ought to be easier to park than that.’

  Clifford was further annoyed to find that the ambassador and Patrick had already introduced themselves. The confusion at the airport was explained to him, with whispered references to the Lost and Found man. He shook his head and exhaled noisily through his nose. ‘Sometimes I despair of these African drivers, sir.’

  Sir Wilfrid raised his eyebrows. ‘Very understandable mistake. After all, I made it myself.’

  When they were safely in the lift the ambassador put one hand in his jacket pocket and held his glasses with the other, scratching his jaw with the Sellotaped arm. ‘Told the L and F chap to go to earth. He must lie low for a while to make sure no one’s on to him, otherwise he’ll disappear, too. Damn shame he was brought to the residence like that. Good idea for you to lie pretty low as well, Patrick.’

  Patrick was not sure what this involved. ‘Does that mean I stay at home, sir?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Just keep a low profile. Try to act normally. Don’t do anything to make LASS take an interest in you or you’ll lead them to the L and F chap. You’ll have to meet him eventually, of course, to hear how he’s getting on, but not yet. I’ve every confidence in that young man. He’s bound to turn up something sooner or later.’

  They got out of the lift. Sir Wilfrid put his spectacles back on and his hands fluttered over his pockets. ‘Briefcase. Damn. Must’ve left it in the car. Or at home. Got to have it because it’s got all yesterday’s telegrams.’

  ‘Patrick will get it,’ said Clifford.

  Sir Wilfrid turned to Clifford, his hearing apparently no better than his eyesight. ‘Would you? Most kind. I’ll give Patrick his introductory lecture.’

  As the lift doors closed on him Sir Wilfrid remarked that Clifford would need the keys. ‘Never mind. I’ll leave them with Jean, my secretary. Come in and have the welcome chat. I always give it to newcomers. Don’t s’pose it does any good but does no harm, anyway.’

  They walked quickly through reception, a shower of respectful glances falling upon Sir Wilfrid. The receptionist pressed a buzzer to open a door marked ‘Private’, which led into a corridor at the end of which was another door marked ‘Chancery’. This was normally opened by pressing buttons in a secret sequence but for the ambassador it was held open by his secretary who had been warned by reception. She was a slim, severe-looking woman in her late thirties with dark hair and thin lips. She held out a cold bony hand to Patrick when they were introduced and smiled with a sudden, desperate friendliness.

  ‘So pleased to meet you,’ she said.

  Sir Wilfrid gestured at the heavy door. ‘All this in case of terrorist attack. Chap came all the way out from London and said we were at risk. God knows who they think is going to get at us here. Not easy to carry out a terrorist attack in a police state.’

  The ambassador’s office had a conference table at one end and a desk and leather armchairs at the other. It looked across the city to the great slag-heaps outside, produce of the gold mines, levelled, squared-off and neat. The conference table was polished and had pencils and notepaper set out. On the desk was a confusion of books, papers, ink-wells, newspapers and pipes. To one side of the desk stood a tall grandfather clock showing ten past four. The door of its front hung open, revealing an immobile pendulum, weights and chains.

  Sir Wilfrid waved at a chair. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and gazed out of the window, his back to Patrick. Patrick removed a crumpled brown tie from the chair and sat down. There was silence.

  ‘Real problem here is heartlessness,’ said the ambassador firmly, without looking round. ‘Lack of heart. People don’t care for other people. The evil that this country is so rightly condemned for is not the essence of the problem but its symptom. They’re self-righteous, obdurate, thick-headed, hard-hearted. They don’t want to feel. That’s one side of the pioneering coin, you see. They’re also determined, loyal, resourceful, brave. They’ve set their faces against the world and told themselves they’re hated. And so they are, now. They themselves have brought about that which they feared and it need never have happened, that’s the tragedy. They pretend they don’t care but they do. They feel guilty. And so they harden their hearts and pretend they don’t.’

  He turned to face Patrick, jingling the loose change in his pockets. The seriousness and urgency with which he spoke contrasted sharply with his relaxed manner. ‘’Course, you haven’t been here for five minutes. After a while you’ll see what I mean. Perhaps you won’t, though, p’raps you won’t. Depends how sensitive you are. Are you sensitive?’

  Patrick smiled, partly from embarrassment. ‘Not at the moment. I’m rather dull.’

  Sir Wilfrid laughed loudly and stamped one foot. ‘We all are, we all are, blunted by habit. The immigrants are often the worst but also the short-stayers like us, so watch it. In fact, the sensitive are sometimes the worst of all. Because they won’t admit to feeling guilty they’re filled with self-hatred, which is unbearable, and so they externalise it and hate other races, creeds, opinions instead. Poisons everything. Their whole lives become one long monotonous excuse, an attempt at self-justification which becomes less consoling the longer it lasts.’ He shook his head. ‘I know you probably think I’m an eccentric old fool, going on like this, but no one else will say it if I don’t.’

  He picked up a pipe from the desk, put it in his mouth, removed it immediately and examined the mouthpiece, which had been bitten through. He tossed the pipe into the open interior of the grandfather clock and picked up a stained meerschaum from another part of the desk. Patrick shifted in his seat and was about to attempt a remark about self-deception when the ambassador continued. ‘The other sort are less passionate. They cut themselves off and pretend they don’t see and in the end perhaps they don’t. They’re the majority. Kind, decent, honest, ordinary, indifferent. You will meet them in this embassy.’ He lit the pipe, which billowed smoke, then took it from his mouth and examined it again. ‘I say this to all new arrivals. They laugh behind my back but never mind. It ought to be said.’

  Jean came in with coffee and chocolate biscuits. ‘Clifford is in my office asking for your car keys.’ Sir Wilfrid gave them to her and she went out, another smile drawing a thin line across her face in the direction of Patrick.

  Sir Wilfrid sat in an armchair and crossed one long leg over the other. He waved to Patrick to help himself. He swallowed his first cup of coffee and poured another, took two biscuits and then, whilst he was talking, took the last.

  ‘Read much?’ he asked, his mouth full.

  Patrick nodded and swallowed. ‘A fair bit. Not as much as I’d like.’

  ‘Novels and what-have-you?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘That sort of thing?’ Sir Wilfrid waved at the books scattered on his desk.

  There was Josephus’s History of the Jewish War, volume M–S of the Battenburg telephone directory, David Jones’s In Parenthesis, three books in Lower African and two of Evelyn Waugh’s early novels.

  ‘I’ve read most of Waugh,’ Patrick said.

  ‘That’s wha
t this country needs, a humorist, someone to show them themselves. It can’t come from outside, it has to come from within and he has to stay here. He mustn’t leave. He’s got to see it through.’

  The ambassador talked enthusiastically until Clifford returned. He put the briefcase reverentially on the desk then sat quickly on the nearest empty chair to the ambassador. He glanced at the coffee pot.

  ‘Just telling Patrick here what this country needs,’ said Sir Wilfrid.

  Clifford nodded. ‘Oil.’

  The ambassador had been running his hand slowly through his white hair and now stopped, his palm on the top of his head. ‘Oil? Why?’

  ‘Well, sir, the country has virtually none of its own and although they turn coal into oil that isn’t very efficient.’

  ‘And what would having oil do for them?’

  ‘It would make them wealthier and less dependent upon the outside world.’

  ‘What a bizarre suggestion.’ Sir Wilfrid kept his hand on his head.

  Clifford looked bewildered and wretched, like a dog that does not know what is expected of him.

  ‘The very last thing we want,’ the ambassador continued slowly, ‘is for this country to become independent of the outside world. Then, they’ll be impregnable, they’ll never compromise, they’ll be impossible to influence. No, no, what we’d decided they really need is a Waugh.’

  Clifford frowned. ‘With whom?’

  Sir Wilfrid tipped the coffee in his saucer back into his cup and gulped it. ‘Well, I won’t keep you.’ He picked up his pipe and stood so abruptly that the others were left sitting. ‘You’ve got plenty to do, no doubt, settling in and all that. But remember’ – he lowered his voice and pointed his pipe at Patrick – ‘low profile.’

  Once away from the ambassador Clifford began to reassert his authority. He spoke of the importance of trade with Lower Africa and of the extent of British investments. ‘No doubt HE gave you the usual ear-bashing, did he? He always does. Perfectly correct in its way – from the point of view of policy, that is – but not always practical for those of us down in the boiler-room. You’ll find you just have to get on with things as they are. No point in theorising about them, trying to change what’s beyond your control.’ He hesitated, perhaps thinking he was on the verge of impropriety. ‘Mind you, he’s a very clever man.’

  ‘Yes, he seems it.’

  ‘Not that you’ll be seeing much of him. You’ll be working through Philip Longhurst to me. It’s pretty demanding for a first post, quite apart from the complications that have been foisted upon you. In fact, I’m surprised they sent you. Lots of paper to move, you’ll be up to your ears. The important thing is not to let yourself be distracted by this other business of yours. London expect a very high level of political reporting from this post as well as a lot of it and if they don’t get it they’ll soon start shouting.’

  It was hard to imagine Mr Formerly shouting for anything but Patrick nodded his agreement.

  He was to share Philip Longhurst’s office. Philip was a slim, pale, worried-looking man with brown hair. His handshake was limp and brief and the arm so far extended that he appeared to be trying to dissociate himself from whatever the hand might do. Clifford asked after someone’s health – either Philip’s or his wife’s or both, it was not clear – and from Philip’s answer it seemed that there was either no improvement or some improvement or that it didn’t matter very much anyway.

  Philip looked and sounded clever, and after initial coolness was quietly friendly. They talked about the altitude, Patrick’s journey, how long Philip and his wife had been in Lower Africa, how they had preferred Vienna, what it was like in the mountains and whether or not there would be cuts in allowances as a result of the forthcoming visit by the inspectors of posts. Philip’s speech was careful and some words and phrases were spoken as if in inverted commas. This had the effect of distancing him from them, suggesting they were not his first choice and might carry with them implications for which he would not wish to be held responsible.

  ‘Your desk,’ he said, looking at the empty one opposite him, ‘carries a heavy work-load, though it has been known to fluctuate.’

  ‘Heavy to very heavy,’ said Clifford.

  Patrick was not sure about paperwork. He had imagined when joining the Foreign Office that there was an activity called diplomacy that was conducted by people talking to each other. This may have been true for some but there was a depressing amount of paper on Philip’s desk. Patrick felt tired.

  ‘It’s a matter of identifying priorities,’ Philip continued. ‘You have to know what needs action this day and what to put on the back-burner, as it were. Not everything demands or can be given immediate attention.’

  ‘You can’t do it all at once,’ said Clifford. ‘You have to sort it out.’

  Miss Teale, the administration officer, was a harassed-looking lady nearing retirement. Her cheeks sagged so much that when she shook her head they wobbled. Her mouth was small and cross. Patrick later heard stories of her having had affairs with men who had gone on to become senior ambassadors, leaving her behind. She now had the manner of one who considered herself frequently put-upon.

  ‘Things were bad enough with Arthur Whelk here. I never thought they could be worse when he isn’t. It’s hopeless trying to administer someone’s accommodation and possessions without the someone. But it’s even more of a problem with you coming in and using them for however long it’s going to be. As for your own heavy baggage – d’you know what ship it was on?’

  ‘The Limpopo.’

  She looked through the mass of papers on her desk. ‘No record,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘It probably hasn’t been loaded yet.’

  ‘What about my car?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing about any car.’

  ‘Well, I ordered one in London. It was supposed to be delivered directly to the docks.’

  Miss Teale shook her head with her eyes closed. ‘If I haven’t heard about it it can’t be coming.’

  ‘You’ll need a car to get to work,’ put in Clifford. ‘Don’t know how you’ll manage until it gets here.’

  ‘Aren’t there any buses?’

  They both looked surprised. ‘There are,’ said Miss Teale, ‘but they’re not usually taken by diplomatic grades.’

  ‘What about trains?’

  ‘There are no suburban trains. Now, I’ll have to come and do an inventory of your house after you’ve moved in. God knows how I’m going to do it with all Arthur’s things still there. Not that it’s your house, anyway, so I shouldn’t call it that. You may have to move soon whether or not Arthur returns so I shouldn’t make yourself at home if I were you.’

  ‘It’s all wrong for his grade,’ said Clifford. ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to do the inventory before I move in?’ asked Patrick.

  Miss Teale turned away. ‘I’ll do it when I can. I haven’t time to go chasing here and there at everybody’s beck and call. You’re only at the residence for a night or two, aren’t you? Well, then. One thing I shall have to do, though, is to remove the double beds. Single people aren’t entitled to them.’

  Patrick was shown round the library, the consular section – where he was to take over an undefined portion of Whelk’s responsibilities – and the registry. He shook hands with everyone and remembered no names. Clifford looked bored and distracted. Ignoring his earlier promise of a long day ahead, he suggested Patrick should go back to the residence to rest. There was nothing he could usefully do at the embassy that day so he might as well catch up on his sleep. The only essential fixture was the party Philip was giving that evening – ‘at which your kind presence is required’. Clifford would call at the residence to take him to it. They parted with mutual relief.

  The residence was a 1930s mansion set in acres of garden in the most expensive part of the northern suburbs. Built of red brick, it had castellated wings and a double front door painted white with gleaming brass fittings. House a
nd gardens were festooned with security lights and devices.

  A woman servant led Patrick to the guest wing while a man carried his baggage. The three walked in silence along polished corridors and up and down carpeted stairs. In one hall they met the ambassador’s new guard dog, a young doberman that ran whining into the garden and hid among the bushes. Patrick was given a twin-bedded room overlooking the swimming-pool and tennis-courts. Across the corridor was a bathroom in which someone had recently showered, leaving a soggy white towel in the middle of the floor. The woman servant hastily tidied it, explaining that it must have been left by the other gentleman that morning, the one who had had breakfast with Sir Wilfrid.

  It was blissful to be alone at last. He drew the curtains and pottered about in the semi-darkness, unpacking some of the items he did not need and failing to find those he did. He soon gave up and ran a bath in which he wallowed, dozed and dreamt vividly for a few seconds about vacuum-cleaning a lawn. He dried himself on a fresh towel the size of a blanket.

  As he slipped gratefully between the sheets he noticed from the state of the pillow that the other gentleman had also rested there, but he was too tired to mind. Something fell from the bed and rolled along the floor. It sounded like a coin but he was too tired to look. He was not aware of his head touching the pillow.