by Alan Judd
‘A lot of people here dream of England.’
‘Do you?’
‘I used to. I lived in Lincoln until I was nine. I used to dream of it all the time but I don’t any longer, not now that I can go back to it whenever I like. That’s why I was on the plane. I’d been visiting my family.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘England?’ She walked towards the pool, her arms folded. ‘Not much, no. I was disappointed. I hadn’t been back for some years, you see, and it was not – I won’t say not as I remember it, but not as I wanted it to be. It was shabby.’
Patrick tried to defend his country, partly, he suspected, because her Lower African accent and her criticism made her seem more independent of what he knew, and therefore of himself, than he wanted. She thought London dirty and the people pale and unhealthy-looking. Everyone hurried and looked miserable. The whole place felt as if it were running down and no one seemed to care.
‘Did you go outside the cities?’ he asked.
‘Not much. Should I have?’
‘No, no, I just wondered.’ He argued that the shabbiness was in fact ordinariness, a reassuring normality, that the people were kind, that Britain was an easy, peaceful, civilised place to live.
‘The quality of life, you mean?’
He had been trying to avoid the phrase. ‘Well, yes, sort of.’
‘Perhaps you’re a romantic after all.’
‘After all?’
She knelt by the pool and felt the water. ‘He never heats it, you know. It’s always like this and he always goes in every day, even in winter. More of an English than a Lower African habit, I should think.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘He was a friend of my husband’s.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? What do you see?’ She smiled again and walked slowly round the edge of the pool. From somewhere nearby a bird made several perfunctory cheeps. A shrub gave off a heavy sweet smell. ‘I’m divorced and I’m twenty-six and I have a little girl, the one you saw on the plane. Does that answer your next few questions?’
‘Yes, I think so, thank you.’ Short of asking if she would ditch Jim and have an affair with him instead he could think of nothing more.
She laughed quietly. ‘Are you always so polite?’
He thought. ‘Probably. I usually am, yes.’
‘And do you probably usually mean it?’
‘Sometimes.’
She laughed again and began unpinning her hair as she walked. There was a careless intimacy in the way it fell and in the way she shook it. ‘Where else has the Foreign Office sent you?’
‘Nowhere. I’ve just joined. I was at university before this.’ He saw her glance at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Why, do I look older?’
‘No, but you seem older. A little bit – well, ragged around the edges.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t mean that unkindly.’
‘There you are.’ Sandy walked down the lawn towards them, rubbing her arms. ‘We’ve been wondering where you both were. You’d better come in if you want some food. Aren’t you cold? I’m freezing. I’m sure the blood gets thinner out here. Yours will after a while, Patrick.’
‘When I get used to the altitude?’
‘That’s just what I said to Jim. He’s worried about you because you wanted a tomato juice. He thought there might be something wrong with you, like principles. I told him that whatever it was it wasn’t that.’
Inside the house Clifford and Jim were discussing Lower African wines. Clifford insisted that some of the dry were sweet. Joanna went in ahead and Patrick reached to close the door at the same time as Sandy.
She smiled. ‘Don’t say I don’t give you a chance. You were making a meal of it, though. I thought you’d run off to a bedroom together.’
‘We were only talking.’
‘Keep it that way. She ain’t your sort, love. Too conventional.’
He was not sure he had a sort. If he had he wanted it to be Joanna. She was, by all the conventions, unusually attractive.
Sandy gave a look that was exaggeratedly arch, then steadied herself before walking carefully into the sitting-room.
Refusing all help, Jim cooked fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, sausages and toast. It was his servant’s day off and on that day he always looked forward to a fry-up of anything he could find. The others sat talking in the sitting-room, Patrick by then almost wholly absorbed in the smells of cooking. He finished his food before anyone else. Afterwards they drank hot chocolate and whisky. Jim nodded his approval at Patrick’s having whisky, then talked to Clifford about the blacks. He was drinking a lot. Joanna and Sandy discussed local schools.
Patrick felt drowsy. He asked a few questions of Joanna and Sandy then listened to the other conversation. He was interested but was sinking gradually beneath a rising tide of alcoholic tiredness until the awareness of growing anger on Jim’s part cleared his head.
Jim stood by the fireplace. ‘They’ll never get it together,’ he said, interrupting Clifford suddenly, ‘not in a million years. Well, in a million maybe but that’s because I’m an optimist. They just don’t have what it takes, you know?’
Clifford glanced uncomfortably at Patrick. ‘I don’t think you can say that, really. I mean, it’s all a question of environment. As they become industrialised—’
‘Environment my arse. It’s in their heads, you know, in here.’ He tapped his forehead several times. His dark eyes were hard and glistening. ‘Look around you if you don’t believe me. Look at black Africa. Corrupt, inefficient, brutal, lousy dictatorships. And the farther they get from colonial rule the worse they get. Look at Zimbabwe and Kenya – the great black hopes. Where are they headed? Down the plug-hole with the rest. Straight down the plug.’ He jabbed his thick forefinger downwards. Clifford’s eyes followed it. ‘You say we should leave them to make up their own minds how they live. All right, supposing we walked out of here – not that there’s anywhere for us to go, mind you – what do you think would happen? I’ll tell you. For twenty years they’d tear each other to pieces, then they’d have so-called peace and slip back to what they were before the white man came – a lot of tribes living without the wheel and dying off because of diseases the white man taught them to conquer. Left to themselves they can’t even keep the bloody mosquitoes down. Their only hope would be if the Japs took them over.’
The room seemed to reverberate for a second or two with Jim’s energy. Clifford started to say something about democracy but Jim cut in again, slicing the air with his hand.
‘They don’t give a damn about democracy. A few do – all right, but only when they’re in Europe or America, not when they come home to rule. They’re not interested. Your African wants food in his belly, many wives, many children and stable government. He wants a leader, not a vote. Anyway, that’s not the point, is it?’ Jim smiled and glanced round. ‘The point is not what they want but what we want. We, the ones who are in control.’ He pointed at Clifford. ‘The point is whether you’d want to live under black rule, like you say we should. Do you? Do you want to bring up your two little girls in a black one-party state? Well? Do you?’
Clifford appeared awkward, almost shifty. Joanna, no longer talking, looked at the toe of her shoe. Sandy stared at Jim as if hypnotised, both hands clutching the empty glass in her lap. Patrick tried to avoid catching anyone’s eye. He said nothing, but felt he was being involved against his will.
‘The point is, Jim,’ Clifford began slowly, ‘you can’t expect progress in decades that took centuries for Europeans or – or Arabs. I mean—’
Jim thrust the whisky bottle towards Clifford. ‘The point is, you haven’t answered my point. Never mind, let’s stick to yours. Centuries for Europeans and Arabs, you say. Centuries also for Indians, Chinese, Japanese, even the Goddam Incas. And why do we know about them? Because they all developed civilisations that lasted, they all had some degree of mastery over their environment instead of being slaves to it, they all learnt from
other civilisations and fast, too, in decades often. The survivors, that is. All except the blacks.’
He held the bottle at arm’s length and stared at them all. Patrick looked out from beneath half-closed lids. Jim’s gaze rested upon him for a moment, then he relaxed and refilled his glass.
‘Even the bloody Eskimos turn out to be natural mechanics,’ he continued quietly. ‘It didn’t take them centuries either. So what is it that’s missing?’ He tapped his glass against his forehead. ‘Why don’t people admit it? They admit that blacks are better athletes or that Japanese work harder or that Jews are cleverer but no one admits that blacks as a whole don’t seem to have it up top. Why not? If we have the same kind of evidence for or against physical abilities and we all admit them, why not mental ones?’
‘Because it’s more important.’ Sandy blurted out the remark like an eager schoolgirl, causing everyone to look at her.
Clifford breathed in deeply. ‘You must admit, Jim, that they haven’t had much of a chance.’
‘Haven’t had a chance?’ Jim turned and almost shouted. Joanna said his name quietly but he did not look at her. He held up his hand before Clifford’s face, the fingers splayed. ‘How many millions of them are there in America? How long have they been there? What have they done? Nothing. No thing. Don’t tell me it’s all because they’ve been kept back, downtrodden. Look at the Jews. No race in history has been more downtrodden than them. Look at what they’ve done, in America or anywhere. They run this city, I’ll tell you that, and good luck to them so long as they make a good job of it. And what about the Puerto Ricans in America, or the Mexicans? Or the Chinese – sweated labour who were no better than slaves, there and here? They’ve all adapted better than the blacks. Why won’t everyone admit that for some reason the blacks don’t seem to be able to make it in the way that other races make it? Eh? Why won’t everyone admit that?’
He downed his whisky and poured himself another. A small vein throbbed on the side of his temple. He looked at each of them in turn. His gaze rested on Patrick.
Patrick was tired, he did not want to have views, but he was the newcomer and they were all waiting, Jim especially. Joanna glanced at him and looked away. ‘It doesn’t matter whether what you say about blacks is true,’ he began. The point is that people should be given equal opportunities, equal resources and freedoms. They should at least be equal before the law. You could argue that different races don’t get on with each other and that therefore they should have separate development. All right, so long as no race is put at a disadvantage to any other.’
Jim stood with his legs apart. He was holding his whisky glass in one hand and pressing the palm of his other on top of it. He rubbed the glass with a backwards and forwards movement of his palm and smiled with self-conscious deliberation. ‘You only came today,’ he said quietly. ‘This is your first day. You haven’t seen anything.’
‘My point’s the same whether or not I’ve seen anything. It’s a moral point.’
Jim nodded and held up his hand. ‘A good liberal moral point. Maybe even a true one. But not relevant, not important, not to us. We’re not moral. No one is, really. It’s just that with us it’s more obvious because our choice is starker. It’s dog eat dog in this life. You either rule or be ruled. Either the white tribe rules or another tribe. It’s the same for you in Britain ultimately but for us it’s more dramatic and immediate. In Britain you have the luxury of not having to decide, not yet, anyway. You can afford to be liberal. You don’t have to choose whether or not you’ll be ruled by another tribe. We do. We live with that choice. It’s us or them.’
Joanna spoke his name again but he ignored her. She pushed back her hair and looked away.
Patrick could feel Jim’s stare upon him. ‘In oppressing others you oppress yourself,’ he said without looking up. ‘You become less than you were. It’s not just the blacks, it’s you that’s diminished. The oppression of one diminishes all.’ He knew he must be quoting someone and hoped no one would ask who.
Jim was still smiling but his eyes were nearly closed. ‘So what?’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘What do I mean?’
Patrick could feel his heart beating. ‘You say the moral point doesn’t concern you but you know it does.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Jim was still quiet but was no longer smiling.
‘You. You keep trying to justify your attitudes, justify yourself. You wouldn’t do it if it didn’t matter whether or not you were just. You’ve been trying to justify yourself all evening. You say “so what” but you don’t mean it.’
Seeing Jim’s raised arm and feeling the glass whistle past his right eyebrow were almost simultaneous. The glass broke on the floor and someone, probably Sandy, gasped. Jim crouched, his left arm holding the edge of his jacket. No one spoke or moved. There had not even been time for Patrick to flinch. He and Jim stared at each other. He remembered Joanna had said that Jim sometimes carried a gun and it occurred to him that he could be shot as he sat in the chair. It was more a ridiculous than an alarming thought.
Joanna was on her feet tugging at Jim’s shoulder and saying something but he continued to stare. His eyes had lost their depth and showed only rage, impersonal and unselfconscious. As Joanna tugged at and spoke to him his stare softened. His eyes were still fixed on Patrick but showed growing awareness and recognition. He relaxed and straightened. She spoke quietly, her hands on his arms. For a moment Patrick thought he was about to grin, perhaps actually had grinned. He almost grinned himself.
Everyone started to move again. Sandy began to pick up the glass, Clifford stepped decisively forward but then stopped and simply watched Sandy. Patrick remained where he was. He wished Joanna wouldn’t touch Jim so much.
The door at the far end of the room opened and a middle-aged black woman appeared. She wore a light pink dressing-gown which she held together with one hand. Her feet were bare and on her head was a white nightcap. Her face was creased with concern. She addressed Jim in Lower African. He replied, she nodded and asked a question. He spoke again, this time in Zulu. She laughed, replied in Zulu and went away chuckling.
Jim looked at everyone except Patrick. ‘She said she heard noises – shouting, things breaking, was I looking for food? Just smashing the crockery, I told her. Did I want her to wash up the dirty plates? Wait till the morning, I said, see which ones I break.’ He laughed. ‘She’s a good one, Alice.’
Clifford asked Jim where he had learnt Zulu. Jim had learnt it on his father’s farm. He spoke some dialects as well. Conversation began again.
Patrick went to the study next door. It was filled with model aeroplanes, target-shooting trophies, antique firearms, photographs of police training courses and a framed police award. On a table by the desk was a small screen with buttons and connections that, had he been certain of identifying one, he would have said was a small computer. There were no books. He was interrupted by Joanna.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘No damage done.’
‘I could see it coming. He was very angry.’
‘Is he often angry?’
‘A lot of the time.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s unhappy.’
‘Why?’
She pursed her lips, shrugged and raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s not at ease with himself. I don’t know why. He never is.’
He felt elated and confident. ‘Why are you with him?’
She turned away. That’s a little premature.’
‘May we meet?’
There was an amused light in her grey eyes. She nodded. He asked for her telephone number, found he had no pen, then that he had no paper. He used one of Jim’s pens and a sheet of Jim’s notepaper. He sought for something to say during the necessarily bureaucratic action of folding the paper and putting it in his wallet. ‘I thought for a moment he might shoot me.’
‘He’s capable of it.’
‘It struck
me it would be an absurd way to die.’
‘I suppose any way is to the one who’s dying.’
‘I suppose it is, yes.’ It was not the ideal note on which to finish. They were interrupted by Clifford who had been sent by Sandy to ask where the vacuum cleaner was.
Sir Wilfrid was still up when Patrick returned to the residence. He wore a dressing-gown and nothing else, having just had a bath. His white hair sprouted riotously. His long thin legs were almost as white.
‘Have a nightcap.’ He poured two large whiskies. ‘Less said about the party the better. Who is this Joplin character, anyway?’
‘An American negro musician. He’s become fashionable again. He’s been dead for some time.’
‘Dead, is he? I didn’t catch that bit. Many more parties like that will kill off the fashion, too. Lucky he didn’t live to see it, poor chap.’ They sat in armchairs. Sir Wilfrid crossed his legs revealingly. ‘Saw you talking to that Rissik chap. He has the reputation of being a police whizz-kid. Looks after all the dips – he told you that, I expect? Probably spies on us all, too, though what for I don’t know. He’s also the chap you’ll be dealing with over the Whelk business. How d’you get on with him?’
Patrick described what had happened at Jim’s bungalow. Sir Wilfrid was unsurprised. He commented that Jim sounded an excitable sort of chap and that Lower Africans were a red-blooded lot with plenty of spunk who, whether right or wrong, were always passionate. The British, on the other hand – in public life at least and particularly since the Great War – had become timorous, dilatory, spinelessly selfish and inward-looking. The Lower Africans never paid any attention to anyone who wasn’t as red-blooded as they.
‘Not that I mean you should’ve thrown something at him. I was making a more general point. But you don’t think he suspects anything about the L and F man, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Patrick was less confident than he sounded. Jim’s manner early in the evening had suggested complicity of some sort but could have meant anything or nothing. It could have meant he was aware of Patrick’s interest in Joanna.
