Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  5

  A woman was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the electric light in the hall. She was saying something he could not understand, although he knew the words. He propped himself up on his elbow and recognised the female servant. He remembered he was in Lower Africa.

  ‘The lady has come for you.’ She had already repeated the statement twice. He thanked her and she went out, leaving the door ajar.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his bare feet whilst the events of the past twenty-four hours were marshalled by his memory. It was quite dark. No light came through the curtains. It was evening and he had gone to bed during the day, in the morning. Before lunch, therefore. He could not recall lunch, so it must have been in the morning. He could not think what lady could be calling for him. Perhaps he had misheard.

  Something metallic on the floor gave off a dull brassy gleam in the light that came in from the hall. He picked it up and found it was a bullet, small and solid, cold at first but warmed quickly by his fingers. He remembered something falling from the bed when he got into it, then that the L and F man had been there before him. He stood the bullet on its base on the bedside table, wrapped the big white towel around his hips and stepped out into the corridor, blinking.

  At the far end stood Sandy, Clifford’s wife. She leant against the wall, her arms folded and a black handbag over her shoulder. She wore a pleated black skirt with a cream blouse and her short hair shone from recent washing. He remembered that Clifford was supposed to have picked him up to go to the party.

  She smiled. ‘You look awful. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He heard his voice as if from outside. He was possessed by a feeling of dreamy unreality.

  ‘How long have you been sleeping?’

  ‘I don’t know. What time is it?’

  ‘Gone seven. I’ve come to take you to the Longhursts. Clifford was late back from the embassy. We’ll pick him up on the way. There’s no one here except the servants.’

  ‘Right.’ He stood without moving. He had a strange feeling he had forgotten something.

  She laughed, looked down, then up, then laughed again. ‘I don’t want to embarrass you.’

  ‘No.’ There was definitely something.

  She looked down again, shaking with laughter. ‘Your towel.’

  He was clutching it to his hip but had inadvertently let go of one corner so that only his left thigh was concealed. He looked at himself, as if it were important to know what she could see. ‘Thank you.’ He rearranged the towel.

  She pushed herself off the wall and after a momentary unsteadiness began to walk towards him. Her step was heavy and uneven. ‘Have a bath. It’ll wake you up. I’ll scrub your back.’

  She did not follow him into the bathroom but walked past the door and along the corridor. Perhaps she had not meant what she said. It was the kind of remark people often made without translating it into action, whether or not they’d meant it at the time.

  He turned on the bath, then searched for the flannel he knew he must have had when he’d had his first bath some hours before. He found it tucked into one of his shoes. The hot water gushed, filling the room with steam.

  Just after he had lowered himself gently into the water Sandy returned with two large gin and tonics. She put one on the soap-rack for him then sat on the stool which she pulled up to the side of the bath.

  ‘When did you last wash your hair?’

  ‘Yesterday, or the day before. I’m not sure. It was in London.’

  ‘Where’s the shampoo?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She found it in a cupboard. ‘Wet your hair.’

  ‘The water’s too hot.’

  ‘Then we’ll make it colder.’

  She leant across him and turned on the cold tap. She smelt of perfume and drink. Desire and the sense of reality returned together. He wanted to touch her but feared to make her clothes wet. She briskly washed and massaged his head, then scrubbed his back with a loofah.

  ‘Would your husband mind?’ he asked, his eyes closed. He enjoyed having his head pushed from side to side.

  ‘Of course he would.’

  ‘Did he mind your coming here?’

  ‘Probably. I didn’t give him time to object. He’s quite jealous.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Anyway. Not of you particularly. But he’s more jealous than he has reason to be.’ She squeezed the sponge over him once more and then flung it aside. ‘Come on.’

  He dried himself in the bedroom whilst she went off to refill her glass. The bullet was still on the bedside table and he wrapped it in his handkerchief just before she returned. Presumably she was not to know about the L and F man. She entered the room as if walking on wobbling floorboards, touching the wall with her fingertips. She sat on the bed and watched him dress.

  The silence made him awkward.

  ‘D’you enjoy being a diplomatic wife?’

  ‘I don’t enjoy being a wife.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  ‘True.’

  She crossed her legs and leant back on one arm, pressing her glass so hard against her bottom lip that the lip was flattened. ‘You’d better take those off.’

  He paused in zipping up the flies on his jeans.

  ‘Everyone else will be in suits.’

  Even now he frequently forgot he was no longer a student. Fortunately he had a suit with him but the search for a tie was fruitless. ‘I know I’ve got one. More than one. I brought them with me. They must be somewhere.’

  ‘You’d better borrow one of the ambassador’s. He’ll be there but he never notices.’

  She went down the corridor and returned with a blue and white checked tie.

  ‘That looks odd. It’s like a duster.’

  ‘It’ll be even more odd if you don’t wear one at all.’

  When they were outside she walked towards the Cortina estate with careful deliberation. ‘If the keys aren’t in it I’ve lost them. Clifford’s always telling me not to leave them in. I hope they are.’

  They were. ‘Would you like me to drive?’ he asked as they were about to get in.

  ‘No. Think I’m drunk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can drive. I do everything better when I’m slightly drunk except walk. Don’t know why, it’s just walking. I even knit better. Not that I do that often, mind you.’

  She drove steadily through the wide avenues. Street lights were few and the headlamps picked out secluded gateways, high walls and the inevitable jacarandas in slow succession. Occasionally there were blacks walking, or sometimes simply standing.

  Either the sense of unreality or the gin had left Patrick lightheaded and confident. ‘Why don’t you leave him if it’s so bad?’

  She pouted briefly. ‘The girls, really. I don’t want to bring them up by myself. Also, both families would be horrified. It’s a lot to break up for no obvious reason, nothing dramatic, you know. And he’s not always that bad. He makes an effort sometimes. It’s just boring.’

  ‘Is he faithful?’

  She smiled as she looked past him at a road junction. ‘Sometimes I think it would do him good to have a fling. But he’s frightened of women, really, and he doesn’t get much chance, poor thing.’

  ‘So why did you marry him?’

  ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. Isn’t that what they all say, the married ladies you ask? I had a boring job and I was sharing a flat with three other girls in Paddington and he was in the glamorous Foreign Office and made a fuss of me. Adventure, travel, all this, you know. Why haven’t you married?’

  Patrick was still feeling pleased with himself. ‘How d’you know I haven’t?’

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘Too young.’

  ‘So’s everyone when they marry.’

  ‘I’ve never been in love.’

  She laughed, took a cigarette from the packet on her lap and pushed in the dashboard lighter. ‘D’you think you ever
will be?’

  Patrick had always assumed that love and marriage would come to him as they came to others, separately or together but inevitably and in an apparently indefinite future, like his death. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think you will. I don’t think you care enough. You seem remote, you keep yourself back from everything. You probably don’t care about anyone else or anything else and never have. You might do it out of boredom or for money, I suppose.’

  He was surprised. He thought of himself not only as approximately normal but also as what was normally called ‘nice’, more or less. Her accusation suggested coldness and detachment, qualities which he did not greatly like in others. The dashboard lighter popped out. He took it and she held his hand during the lighting, without taking her eyes off the road.

  ‘Watch out tonight for Pat Eliot, the military attaché’s wife,’ she said, exhaling smoke. ‘She might not be there but if she is she’ll be drunk and after anything in trousers. There’s nothing personal in it so don’t get conceited. She grabs anything new.’

  ‘Is the party going to be awful?’

  ‘Anything to do with the Longhursts is awful. Actually he’s okay when you get him alone. She’s a pain. Don’t repeat that to Clifford. He thinks it’s all good experience for you. I suppose it is in a way. Gives you a taste of what you’re in for.’

  Clifford was angry because they were late and insisted on driving. The younger of the two girls was coughing again but Sarah knew what to do about it. To her husband’s further annoyance, Sandy said she would go and see anyway, and go to the loo as well.

  Clifford turned the car round and sat with the engine running. Patrick was about to get into the back. ‘No need,’ said Clifford. ‘I’d rather have her in the back when I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘I suppose it’s safer.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so.’ Clifford opened the window and sat with his elbow on the door, drumming his fingers against it. ‘You mustn’t think tonight is going to be typical. For one thing, there’s some sort of entertainment and for another there’ll be Lower Africans as well as dips – diplomats, that it. Businessmen mainly, more commercial section contacts than chancery but it doesn’t hurt once in a while. We don’t see as much of the Lower Africans as we should, really. So damn busy. Now you’re here, though, I’ll be able to get some systematic entertainment going. HE will be there for a part of the time – quite improperly since there’s no one else of his equivalent seniority and most ambassadors would never come to a thing like this. Sir Wilfrid’s very keen on doing his bit with his staff, you see, and when he heard about this he just invited himself. Feather in Philip’s cap, of course, but don’t read too much into it. At least the presence of HE will give things a focus. Social occasions need a focal point, don’t you think?’

  ‘They need some point.’

  ‘Precisely. Exactly what I think.’

  Clifford gave a prolonged blast on the horn that brought Sarah to the door but no Sandy. Sarah had to be waved back. Sandy made a brief appearance, then retreated to get some more cigarettes. When she reappeared Patrick again offered to get into the back.

  ‘Don’t. I’d rather go there.’ She got in clumsily and slammed the door.

  Clifford glanced at her in the driving mirror. ‘Darling, what did I tell you last time about that door?’

  ‘What you always tell me.’

  Clifford drove fast and no one spoke. Once, when Patrick turned to look at a group of blacks who were sitting huddled in wraps beneath a street lamp arguing, he noticed Sandy sitting very still and staring straight ahead. She looked small, crumpled and unhappy. She clutched the packet of cigarettes in her lap but did not smoke. He wondered if she felt ill. She did not appear to notice his looking at her.

  Philip’s house was an extensive bungalow spread like a small motel along grass terraces. His wife, Claire, was short and chunky with small hard brown eyes like buttons. She greeted everyone with a determined smile.

  ‘I heard all about your arrival,’ she said to Patrick. ‘It must’ve been simply awful and you must be dying for a drink. Did you have one at the Steggles’s? Well, you must be dehydrated by now. Philip will take you in and see that you get one but mind the altitude till you’re used to it. We must talk later.’

  Philip smiled automatically at Patrick, then reached forward to stop a servant who was attempting to relieve Sandy of her handbag. ‘I must introduce you to some people. It’s going to be rather awkward because with the ambassador coming and no precise equivalent for him we’re going to have to make up in numbers what we lack in rank. We’ll have to provide him with a series of guests, as it were. That might not leave many for you, I’m afraid – nor for anyone else, of course. Red or white?’

  ‘Red, please.’

  ‘I’d advise white. The red’s rather strong and should be treated with care until you’re used to the altitude. Particularly at your first function.’ He beckoned to a waiter and handed Patrick a glass of white wine.

  When Philip turned away Patrick substituted it for a red. Clifford was talking seriously to the commercial officer, nodding thoughtfully without lifting his gaze from the carpet. Sandy was standing with two other wives who were apparently talking about a third. She still looked subdued.

  There were three camps in the room. The British were entrenched before a table and were seemingly so absorbed in each other that they were unaware of anyone else. They talked with the nervous excitement and boredom that usually afflicts people who have nothing to say but are forced to talk on their feet in a small space, clutching their glasses like tickets.

  The foreign diplomats were grouped in a solid defensive position in the far corner, complacent but watchful to see who came in. The Lower Africans, outnumbered but resolute, had formed a laager in another corner from which they fired mistrustful glances as if expecting a trap. They said little and observed a lot.

  Patrick sipped his wine and tried to avoid catching anyone’s eye. When he glanced in the direction of the door he saw Philip enter with the blonde woman he had seen at the airport. She had her hair pinned up in a bun, showing her face to be sharper than he had remembered it, and she smiled as she said something in reply to Philip. She wore red again – her blouse, this time – with a high-shouldered black jacket and matching skirt and boots; a Spanish effect. The dark-haired man with her was the one who had met her at the airport. He was stocky, tanned and fit-looking and wore a brown leather jacket with tight white trousers. He nodded to one or two people in the Lower African laager then looked round the room, calm and unhurried.

  Clifford abandoned the commercial officer and made a determined diagonal sortie from the British corner. He obviously knew the couple and began chatting with proud assurance whilst Philip hesitated uneasily. Everyone’s eyes were on the group since they were in no man’s land, the centre of the room. Philip’s eyes flickered around the other groups seeking a home for this rogue one.

  The wine was already having an effect. Patrick could feel it brimming in his eyes though his head felt clear. He would have to talk to someone soon. Better someone he wanted to talk to. He crossed no man’s land quite steadily but a little quicker than he intended. Clifford broke off from what he was saying and with ill-concealed irritation performed the introductions.

  The man was Jim Rissik of the Lower African Police Force and the woman was Joanna McBride, no explanation. Hands were shaken and there was a polite show of interest in how long Patrick had been in Lower Africa, where he had been before and how long he expected to remain. Philip went off to greet more newcomers.

  Jim Rissik was in charge of that section of the LAPF that dealt with the protection and problems of diplomats. ‘Every now and again someone remembers us and I get invited to a few functions. At Christmas we give a ball round a pool somewhere but not many of you dips turn up to that.’ He grinned.

  They talked about the difficulty of protecting diplomats, of terrorism in other parts of the world, of the line between p
rotection and infringement of liberty. Rissik was robust and foursquare. He looked Patrick in the eye whilst talking and stood very close as though the better to push his points home. The clipped speech and the thick Lower African accent were harsh on Patrick’s unaccustomed ear. He thought of Arthur Whelk. He guessed that Rissik must be the man he was to deal with and wondered whether Rissik knew that. Perhaps Rissik already knew of the presence of the L and F man. He had remarked with a slight smile that in protecting people you got to know a lot about them and that not much escaped the protectors.

  ‘D’you follow us around all the time then?’ asked Patrick.

  Rissik hesitated, still smiling. ‘We look after your physical security for some of the time.’

  Patrick smiled back. ‘So we’re safe, are we?’

  ‘So long as you’re sensible.’ Rissik took another glass of wine from a passing waiter, making it clear by his posture that he wanted to continue talking. ‘What did people tell you about us Lower Africans before you came? Did they say we’re a bunch of racists and fascists?’

  ‘They told me I had to learn to make small talk.’

  ‘Less dangerous than big talk, eh?’

  ‘Easier than big talk.’

  ‘Well, maybe we are a bunch of racists and fascists but you’ll get used to that, I reckon.’

  Joanna McBride laughed at something Clifford said. Her lips lingered over the smile some time after the laugh had ceased. Patrick caught her eye fleetingly but she showed no recognition. Sandy joined them. Jim talked about how unfairly Lower Africa was dealt with in world news. Other countries in the continent escaped criticism because they were black though they were every bit as bad, often worse. It was because the liberal conscience was unconsciously racist, expecting better of white men than of black. Also it was weak and mistrustful of itself and sought to denigrate its own. Patrick tried to see a way of swapping partners so that he could talk to Joanna.

  ‘What annoys us here more than anything is that we get criticised and others don’t,’ continued Jim. ‘Even the liberals get annoyed by that.’ He turned to Sandy. ‘Even your husband and he’s not Lower African.’