by Alan Judd
When eventually they stood to go to bed Sir Wilfrid pushed some of his damp hair away from his eyes. ‘Didn’t realise you were at the House.’
Patrick stopped. ‘The house, sir?’
‘You know, the House. Christ Church. The college. Just noticed the tie.’
For the third time that evening Patrick involuntarily touched it. ‘Ah, yes, no, sir, this is a borrowed one. I couldn’t find mine – I mean, any of them.’
‘I see. Where were you, then?’
‘Reading.’
‘One of the new ones, I s’pose? ’Fraid I’ve not kept up with them. There’ve been one or two new colleges since my day, I believe. Good night to you. Sleep well.’
7
The move into Arthur Whelk’s house was easy for Patrick but moving out seemed hard for Sandy. It was twice postponed and when the day came she was fraught almost to the point of incoherence. Clifford lost his temper and shouted at her that they were moving only a couple of miles down the road, not to Peking. She ignored Patrick until they were about to leave with the last carload.
She turned to him in the hall while Clifford tried to fit two lamp-stands into the car. She looked drawn and irritable but smiled for the first time that morning. ‘Have a good time here. I expect you will.’
‘I hope you enjoy being at home again.’
‘There’s no need for hypocrisy. It doesn’t suit you.’ She stopped smiling and stared at him.
Clifford reappeared and asked bad-temperedly if there was anything else. She walked out past him without answering. Patrick felt awkward and so asked more questions about the payment of Sarah and Deuteronomy. Explaining things improved Clifford’s temper, as usual. He spoke repetitively and at length until Sandy called him from the car. As they drove off she glanced at Patrick, then purposefully away as if catching his attention in order to demonstrate ignoring it.
Patrick was as self-conscious about having Sarah as a servant as she clearly was about having him as a master. It took very little time for her to sort out his possessions and put them in the appropriate cupboards and drawers; rather longer for him to learn where they were. Dirty clothes were washed – by hand, since the embassy did not provide a washing-machine and it had not occurred to him to buy one – dried and ironed within a day. Sarah was so anxious to be doing things that she followed him around the house, wanting to clean up wherever he went. One day he stripped in order to have a shower and returned to the bedroom to find that his clothes, clean that day, had already been removed for another washing. After that they agreed that he would put all dirty clothes in the laundry basket and that Sarah would not wash any not in the basket.
At first he tried to cause as little work as possible but he soon found that this increased her anxiety. She became puzzled, then bored and after a while started on unnecessary reorganisations of the kitchen. Used to looking after families, she felt that she was not doing her job properly unless there were always more things to be done. Patrick next tried to create as much work as possible. He took his meals in solitary state at the head of the highly polished dining-room table, his tea and coffee on the veranda or in the sitting-room. He left everything where he had put it down and cleared up nothing. He even took to smoking the occasional cigar, without much pleasure, so that she would have ashtrays to clean. He encouraged Snap to roll on the sitting-room carpet.
The tactic worked in that Sarah was busier and so more cheerful than before but it was nothing like enough. It crossed his mind to import some children for one or two days a week. The young Steggleses were not a good idea, with Sandy in her present mood, but perhaps Joanna could be persuaded to lend her daughter and thus make herself more available.
However, the announcement of a visit by Miss Teale, the administration officer, caused Sarah days of real worry. Miss Teale was to check the inventory. Embassy possessions, Arthur Whelk’s and Patrick’s, had all to be identified. Miss Teale would also comment on the state of the house. Sarah feared her and, despite Patrick’s reassurances, spent hours checking and rechecking.
In the event Miss Teale had no comments to make on the state of the house and reserved for Patrick her dissatisfaction with the inventory. She spoke with sharp displeasure. Her sagging cheeks wobbled.
‘It’s quite the wrong house for your grade, as I’ve told you before. The inventory is a hopeless mess with all these comings and goings. Just look at it. How am I supposed to keep track of the items when the people themselves disappear?’ She pointed at the large double bed in Patrick’s bedroom. ‘That will have to go to start with. As a single person you’re not entitled to a double bed. Unless you find a wife to put in it – one of your own, I mean.’ She looked tartly at him.
Perhaps Sandy had been giving people the impression that they were having an affair. He ignored the remark. ‘Supposing I were married but unaccompanied?’
‘Only if your wife were coming to join you. And I can’t imagine your being in that position.’
It was some time before he realised that Miss Teale was not naturally or even personally unpleasant. She was as she was partly because she had been left behind by those who had enjoyed her, and wanted to no longer, and partly because she had to administer the domestic detail of other people’s lives. For this she was unthanked, resented and sometimes abused. Patrick gave vent only to his curiosity. ‘How was it that Arthur Whelk, a bachelor, had a double bed?’
‘Mr Whelk was not a bachelor. He had a wife who was coming to join him.’
Patrick knew there was no wife recorded under Whelk in the ubiquitous Green Book which adorned every office. It listed all British diplomats, their wives, offspring and professional records, like a stud-book. Also, Mr Formerly had said there was no family. ‘Was she always coming to join him? I mean, did anyone ever meet her?’
Miss Teale looked down at her clipboard. ‘What Mr Whelk did with himself is none of my business. He assured me he was married and that his wife was to join him from Tunbridge Wells as soon as her ailing mother died. That was enough for me. Mr Whelk was – is, because I’m sure he still is, you know – a gentleman. I wish you’d met him.’
As they left the bedroom she handed him a PSA booklet entitled Guide to the Care of Official Furniture. Illustrated by cartoons, it gave instructions on how to install, fit and maintain such items as curtains, pelmets, loose covers, divans, rugs and underlays. There was an appendix on how to remove stains.
‘And you know all about locking the rape-gate,’ she added, pointing at it.
He had not heard it called that before. It was a solid iron grill, painted cream, like those that protect secure areas in banks. It spanned the landing at the top of the stairs and reached from floor to ceiling. The part by the stairs was a gate and could be locked by a heavy iron key.
‘You do understand,’ continued Miss Teale, ‘that the PSA pay to have these installed as a protection against theft of government property, not as protection for you. If you don’t lock it at night you’re not insured – as well as being more at risk yourself, but that’s by the by – so if you take my advice you will. The only other thing is your car and your heavy baggage.’ She leafed through her notes. ‘Yes, here we are, they’re either still at Tilbury or they’re on their way to Oslo. There’s been a mistake. It doesn’t much matter either way because it’ll be some time before we hear anything more. The ship they were meant to be on is halfway here now. Sign here for the inventory, please.’
After this visit he locked the rape-gate at night. He did not want to because it seemed cowardly, especially as Sarah was outside it. She had several times mentioned the legendary brutality and ruthlessness of ‘black men thiefs’ and was visibly relieved that Patrick at least was safe. As when any emotion came upon her, her English deteriorated.
‘I am pleased you lock the gate, massa,’ she said. ‘It feel better now.’
‘Only for me, surely, Sarah. You’re outside the gate.’
She shook her head. ‘But I worry. Now I stop worrying. Anyway,
there is Snap. Also, Mr Whelk keep a big gun in the cupboard.’
‘Where? Which cupboard?’
‘A cupboard in the bedroom which he always lock.’
‘Show me.’ There were thirty-seven fitted cupboards, wardrobes and drawers in the master bedroom. The locked one was unlocked and empty. There were no guns in any of the others but beneath the bed there was a truncheon of a sort commonly sold in hardware shops. ‘Did Mr Whelk ever use this?’
‘Sometimes he take it to the embassy.’
‘What for?’
‘For the difficult people, he say.’
‘For Miss Teale?’
Sarah shook her white apron as though she were fanning a fire, dabbed at her eyes with a corner of it, then walked away, shaking her head and muttering, ‘Oh, massa, massa.’
It was not difficult to get used to being waited upon. Although his conscience was not seriously troubled, Patrick tried daily to remind himself that he should not be seduced into accepting this as the natural order of things. It was simply that being brought tea in bed in the morning was so natural and pleasant a way to start, or delay starting, the day. Everything else followed from that.
After the locking of the rape-gate, though, tea could no longer be delivered to his bedside since the one key to the gate had naturally to be kept out of reach of it. Sarah woke him by rattling the gate and would leave the tray on the topmost stair. Summoned like a zoo animal by the noise of the bucket banging against its cage, he would creep from his room, unlock the gate and take the tea back to bed. Snap became more friendly and would often venture up the forbidden stairs to beg a biscuit. Sometimes, as a sign of growing affection, he brought with him a dead mouse or vole.
Whilst sipping his tea Patrick would listen on the radio to the Lower African version of the news. Though he had never before lived where there was censorship it was not this that most struck him. More noticeable was the provinciality. This showed itself in a detailed concern for local events and people and in a selective interest in world events. Although they were taken seriously they were reported as though they were happening so far away that they could not possibly affect Lower Africa. This gave the impression that everything important happened somewhere else, a distancing effect heightened by the 1950s BBC tone of the announcements. At the end of the news there was a commentary on some aspect of it. This was never attributed but appeared to be the Lower African Government’s view on how the chosen item should be regarded. Often it was the weather forecast, though, that was most interesting. Here Patrick learned that to be drenched referred not to rain but to sun and that ‘good rain’ falling, itself a newsworthy item, was a matter for prayer, hope and gratitude.
Patrick wanted to ring Joanna but was afraid of appearing too keen, though he sensed that his enthusiasm must be obvious. It was in any case difficult to ring from the embassy because Philip Longhurst never left the office. He was there when Patrick arrived, ate sandwiches for lunch and was there when Patrick left. Barricaded behind files, he never ceased from writing, though something about the angle of Philip’s head, an ostentatious concentration, made Patrick suspect that his every word and movement were observed. Occasional wry comments that Philip made about people who rang confirmed this impression. He did not want to be heard talking to Joanna by anyone who knew Jim.
He finally rang her on the Saturday morning after the move. He had a confused conversation with her maid which began with the maid’s thinking that he was Jim Rissik and ended with her repeating, ‘Madam will come back on Saturday.’
About ten minutes later the telephone rang. He picked it up eagerly but it was a woman asking for Sarah. Sarah spoke for some minutes in Swahi. Her plump face unusually solemn, she then thanked Patrick rather formally and went back to her quarters.
After that he played with Snap, looked at the prices of second hand cars in the local papers and sorted through Arthur Whelk’s books before finally settling down with Clive Barry’s Crumb Borne. Sarah reappeared but did not cheer up. When she served lunch at the head of the polished table he asked her whether all was well.
She nodded solemnly. Thank you, massa, everything is well.’
He did not know whether she took such enquiries as an unpardonable intrusion or whether she regarded them as one of his rights as master. When she brought him his coffee in the sitting-room he asked her again, referring to the telephone call. She stood holding the empty tray before her, her head bowed.
‘You must tell me if there’s anything wrong, Sarah,’ he said.
Her eyes were dull. ‘Massa, my son is a bad boy.’
‘I didn’t know you had a son.’
‘His name is Stanley.’
‘What has he done?’
‘He has gone from home again.’ She paused, assuming Patrick knew she had a home and where it was. He had to ask. ‘In Swahiland. He live with my sisters and my daughters.’
‘Where do you think he’s gone?’
‘Maybe he come here. It is not permitted. He has no permit for here. If the police catch him he will go to prison. He come once before when Mr Whelk was here.’
‘What did Mr Whelk do?’
‘He send him home.’
Patrick imagined himself and Stanley being arrested by Jim Rissik as Joanna arrived for lunch. ‘How old is Stanley?’
‘He is fifteen.’
She was waiting to be told what to do. He tried to think of something useful. ‘Well, let me know if he arrives and we’ll find a way to get him home again,’ he said with an attempt at cheerful confidence.
Her eyes brightened. ‘Yes, massa, thank you, massa. I tell you right away.’ She went out swinging the tray.
The weekend stretched ahead, empty and threatening. There was nothing he had to do and little enough that he could. Without a car he could not explore the city, apart from the area where he lived. Even there he could not, apparently, take Snap for a walk. Snap had neither collar nor lead and so far as Sarah knew had never been for a walk. She was puzzled by the suggestion and did not at first understand what Patrick meant. Snap lived in the house and garden, which he guarded. He knew nothing else; nothing else was necessary. Patrick postponed the walk but resolved to buy collar and lead.
The only thing he wanted to do was ring Joanna again but the farther into the weekend he left it the more likely, he thought, that Jim would be there. However, knowing that he would definitely ring some time gave purpose and tension to the weekend, if not content. During the evening he would write to his mother and the following morning to Rachel and Maurice. He was not used to spending time alone and remembered with something approaching alarm that Sunday was Sarah’s day off.
Dinner was a meal which she had not yet learnt to scale down to the needs of one person. Snap had been trained not to expect food from the table but soon discovered that he could with advantage steal into the dining-room when Patrick was alone. Replete and heavy, as well as a little guilty at the amount he had given Snap, Patrick tried that night to help with the washing-up. He did it really because he wanted to talk rather than because he expected her to let him help, but nevertheless was surprised by the vehemence of her opposition. She was at first uncomprehending, then offended, almost angry, then embarrassed.
‘Please, massa, no, please, no,’ she said, holding up her hands as if to prevent him from hurling himself into the sink. ‘I can do it. I can do all for you. There is little and it is done. Please.’
Patrick desisted and asked instead about Arthur Whelk’s catering arrangements. Looking after Arthur was apparently very much like looking after a family. There were many guests who ate and drank much and played cards. Sometimes they would stay all night. Before Arthur, she had always looked after families. He asked how many children of her own she had.
‘I have three children, a son and two daughters. Also, three who die when they are young.’ She nodded and smiled. The elder girl was twenty and worked in the post office in Swahiland, a good job. There was a young man who wanted to marry her bu
t Sarah did not like him. ‘Many young people are not good now. They want bad things and not work.’ Stanley, the missing son, had just left school and she did not know what to do with him. He was always a worry. The younger daughter was very young.
‘How young?’
She gave an embarrassed smile then suddenly giggled and hid her face in her apron. ‘Massa, I cannot say.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Three years?’
She shook her head.
‘Two?’
She lowered her apron, trying to compose her face. ‘Massa, I am so ashamed by that. I am too old for piccaninny.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I don’t know, massa, I don’t know. My mother tell me but it is so long ago and I forget.’
‘Not too old, anyway.’
‘I was very surprised,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes.
She laid the table for breakfast, refusing without offence this time his half-hearted offer of assistance and talked cheerfully about herself.
She had been born and bred in Swahiland and had spent all of her working life in service. She had worked for one family for twenty years – ‘until the madam kill herself with a gun in the summer house’ – and now went to the weddings of the children she had helped bring up. The same madam, the one who had shot herself, had bought her a plot of land in Swahiland and had paid for the house to be built. That was where her children lived, brought up by aunts and neighbours.
‘Don’t you mind not seeing them?’
‘Twice a year I go home.’
‘Do you mind seeing them so little?’
‘It is normal for us. The women must work and so the children are with the old aunts and the neighbours.’
‘But what do the men do?’
She shrugged and smiled. ‘If they must work they go away to the mines or the city. If they are not away they talk and eat and drink and talk, always they talk. They do not work in the fields like the women. That is not for men.’
‘Do they help bring up the children?’
