by Alan Judd
‘Won’t you want some sleep? You’ve hardly had any.’
‘I can do that too.’
‘Come to dinner. Don’t stand there, you’ll get wet.’
‘I’m getting used to that.’
She drove off, waving twice. He was tired but too exhilarated to be sleepy. He skipped over a puddle, then another that was not in his way, then decided to skip all the puddles between the house and the garage. Whilst doing this he saw a movement from inside the garage, which he had left open. He stopped short, causing one foot to get wet. His first thought was that someone was trying to steal the bakkie and that he had left the truncheon indoors. As he looked he made out a young black standing just inside. He was tall and thin and wore a checked shirt with faded jeans. He held a red plastic sack on his head and shoulders, clutching it beneath his throat. He was very wet. The whites of his eyes showed up in the gloom of the garage. He stared with sullen wariness at Patrick’s approach.
The fact that the boy did not try to run away reminded Patrick of Sarah’s son. ‘Are you Stanley?’ he asked. The boy nodded. Patrick stepped forward and held out his hand. The boy hesitated, then came out of the garage and shook it limply. ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’
‘No.’ Stanley breathed the word, barely moving his lips.
‘She’ll be pleased. She was very worried about you.’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Stanley did not reply. Patrick wondered if Jim had spotted him. ‘Have you been here long?’ Still he did not reply. ‘Have you been walking in the rain all night?’
‘I have been walking.’
‘You must like walking.’ Patrick’s smile was not reciprocated. He thought he must sound like a caricature of some colonial official but could do nothing about it. He also felt awkward because Stanley was considerably taller than him. ‘Your mother was telling me you’ve left your school?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I must be a doctor.’
‘A doctor?’ Patrick did not mean to show surprise. ‘Yes, well, that’s a good idea but it will take many years at school and college. Where would you like to train?’
‘Yes.’
The rain fell softly around them. Patrick was beginning to feel wet. He was aware of speaking loudly with an enforced heartiness. He hated to sound patronising but still could do nothing about it. ‘A good idea, yes. But you must go somewhere to learn. Where would you like to go?’
Stanley lowered his eyes. When he spoke the words tumbled out but he did not look up. ‘I do not know. It is difficult in Lower Africa because there are not many colleges for black people and I must have qualifications which I do not. I must go to a small college first.’
Patrick was encouraged. ‘That might be a good idea. Which one?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you get qualifications if you go back to school where you are?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’
A door opened. They looked round to see Sarah standing in the entrance to her quarters. She was awkwardly putting on her glasses with one hand and with the other clutching her faded blue dressing-gown across her stomach. When she saw Stanley she uttered a cry and let go of her dressing-gown, revealing a pink nightie. She made to step out into the wet, hesitated briefly because she had no slippers on, then stepped out anyway. She ran with her bare feet slapping on the wet concrete, half speaking and half wailing in Swahi. Stanley looked sullen and embarrassed. She held up her arms to embrace him, moaning in a quiet, high voice. When she touched him, though, she changed as if discovering she was deceived into embracing the wrong person. She shook him by the arms and spoke crossly. He bent his head and permitted himself to be pushed, shaken and railed against. He spoke once as she led him away. She replied sharply and he let go of the red plastic that covered his head and shoulders. It fell to the ground where he would have left it had she not spoken sharply again.
As he picked it up she turned to Patrick. ‘Massa, I am very sorry for this. He has been a bad boy and I tell him. I am sorry he wake you.’
‘He didn’t, Sarah, I was awake anyway.’
‘Still I am sorry, massa.’ She spoke to Stanley and he walked slowly across the yard towards her quarters, dragging his plastic sack.
‘It’s good he’s been found,’ said Patrick.
‘Oh yes, I am very pleased.’ She pushed Stanley’s back as he went in through her door. ‘You want early breakfast, massa?’
‘No, no, the usual time.’
She nodded and went inside.
There was no question of sleep. He washed and dressed, straightened up the living-room again and tried to get the radio to work. He had some success but it crackled and would not stay tuned for more than a minute or two. He picked up the local early morning news, the main item of which was the ‘good rain’ that had fallen on Battenburg and the high veldt during the night. It had been long awaited and there was hope of more to come. Reservoir levels were still low and grazing was poor. The rain had not reached the northern area where there had been a drought now for eighteen months.
He walked in the dripping garden. Snap sniffed everywhere and rooted amongst the undergrowth. Patrick ended his walk by standing once more by the pool. He did not so much think of the events of the night as permit them to float and settle in his mind like great sea animals which it was wise not to disturb by questions or proddings. The biggest of the animals was Jim Rissik, but he was no longer frightened of him. Now that they had fought there seemed nothing more to be frightened of. He knew him better now and liked him better too; but he was still the biggest animal. Of Joanna he was reluctant to think directly, preferring to keep her for later like the knowledge that he would see her again that night, a warm reassuring certainty, unthreatened by analysis.
The rain had thickened rather than cleared the pool’s murkiness. Deuteronomy called it a ‘bad pool’ and said there was nothing to be done. Patrick would have believed him but for the thought of how it had sparkled under Clifford’s care. The memory of that reminded him of Sandy. She began that morning to seem more attractive to his mind’s eye. It was a disturbing reflection, implying unaccustomed promiscuity. He went back into the house.
During breakfast he asked Sarah about Stanley. She twisted her apron in both hands. ‘He will not say where he had been, massa. Last night he walk all night but he do no good, I am sure of that. I am worried that he is with bad boys in Kuweto. Never was he like this before, not ever, massa. I tell him he must go home, he must go back to school. I will take him to the coach. This morning I will find out when it go. There are two every week to my home.’
When she brought the coffee-pot through she lingered, needlessly adjusting the lid. ‘Massa.’
‘Yes, Sarah?’
‘The black people like me who are in England, do they live in the city or the village?’
‘Mostly in the cities, Sarah. Nearly all.’
‘They are not in the village?’
‘Very few, I think. It’s nearly all white people in the villages.’
‘Oh?’ She opened her eyes wide and stopped fiddling with the lid. ‘Here is different. Here is nearly all black people in the village. Many of them want to come to the city but cannot. Sometimes they are moved from the city back to the village.’
‘In England people like to live in the villages.’
She put down the coffee-pot. ‘In England is different, I think, massa.’
‘Yes, Sarah, I think it is.’
She left the room, nodding seriously.
Before Patrick finished his coffee there was a telephone call from the police headquarters informing him that Mr Chatsworth was awaiting collection. He had not anticipated having to do this himself but there was clearly no alternative. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps the ambassador would suggest Chatsworth should be put up in the residence.
He drove in before the rush-hour. The clouds had cleared and the morning haze th
at normally hovered over Battenburg had either lifted or had not been there that day. The white tower blocks stood out with misleadingly pristine freshness against the blue African sky. There were few whites about but the streets were busy with blacks who had to travel early to work.
Chatsworth was waiting in the entrance to the headquarters. He wore a regimental blazer, cavalry twill trousers and a regimental tie. He had two suitcases. Patrick had to sign for both him and them, undertaking to return all to police custody whenever asked and to report immediately if any went missing. The two passports were withheld.
They shook hands and set out across the car-park with the suitcases – both large and very heavy. ‘What’ve you got in here?’ asked Patrick.
‘Oh, nothing much. Things I might be able to flog, some stuff I’ve bought. Bits and pieces, you know.’
‘Legal stuff?’
‘If it isn’t I’m sure those bastards will have had it.’ He frowned. ‘D’you know what they did? Told me at the prison I couldn’t have breakfast because it was too early and I’d get some here. When we got here they said it was too late. I had half a mind to kick up a stink. I expected you to come for me last night, by the way. I’m famished now. Have you got plenty of scoff at your place?’
‘Lots of food but not much to eat it with.’
‘Well, cut off its horns and wipe its arse and I’ll have it as it is.’ He looked at the sky and the tall buildings. Some of the windows dazzled in the early sun. ‘Must say, it’s good to be out. You didn’t do too badly. Chap in Rio took as many days as you took hours. Much worse prison, too. Hope I can do the same for you one day.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Trouble is, I’m skint. Flat broke. I’ll have to sponge off you or the embassy until L and F cough up. I s’pose you’re on allowances? No problem, then. Don’t like doing it, all the same.’ They loaded the suitcases into the bakkie. Chatsworth tapped it approvingly. ‘I like these things. Chap in prison was always on about them. He had four when he was caught – only one with him, of course. He put up a good fight – helicopter chase across the veldt. Why does it have to be bloody Nippon, though? I mean, one look and you can tell it’s a winner. We’d never come up with anything so popular and obvious. I wouldn’t say no to a spin in it one day.’
Patrick wondered which arguments he should use to persuade the ambassador to look after Chatsworth. It would not be easy. However, Chatsworth was too pleased with the world as a whole to notice a lack of response in any part of it.
‘Know what those police sods did?’
‘What?’
‘Pinched my pornography.’
‘It was probably illegal.’
‘That wasn’t why they pinched it. Know where I can get any?’
‘No.’
‘No cutlery, no pornography, you’re in a bad way. Have you got a maid?’
‘Yes, but not for you.’
‘Keeping her for yourself?’
‘She’s not suitable and wouldn’t want to.’
‘Pity. Never mind.’ Chatsworth opened the window and rested his elbow on the door. The wind lifted his hair. ‘You know, I’ve a feeling this place is going to be all right for me from now on. I owe you a debt of gratitude. Don’t forget it.’ He stared at the distant hills. ‘It’s God’s country, seen from the right side of the bars. Why are you holding your head like that?’
‘I’ve got a stiff neck.’
‘Try sleeping without a pillow – or don’t you have one of them either?’
Let loose in the house, Chatsworth went from room to room like an eager dog. He chose as his den the double bedroom at the far end of the upstairs corridor. He found his own way to the kitchen where he was introduced to Sarah after he had already opened the fridge.
He patted his stomach and grinned. ‘The biggest breakfast you can make, Sarah.’
She laughed. ‘I always make big breakfast for Mr Patrick.’
‘Mr Patrick has only one tummy. I have two. A very big breakfast, please.’
She laughed again and waved her hand. ‘Yes, massa, I make you very big breakfast.’ She went into the larder, chuckling and shaking her head.
He ate five eggs, toast, cereal and all the bacon. He had four cups of coffee. Patrick wondered if he could claim an extra allowance for him. When Sarah was out of the room he explained why the house was so bare. Chatsworth then suggested – and, it being his own suggestion, was immediately convinced – that this meant that Whelk was alive and well and had defected to the Lower Africans.
‘What for?’
‘So that he can stay here.’
‘He can do that anyway. He doesn’t need to defect.’
Chatsworth shook his head and swallowed some toast. ‘It’s something like that. Bound to be. I’ll get back on to his trail as soon as I’ve got a base.’
Patrick decided that firmness now would be better than firmness later. Besides, hints and subtleties would probably be as effective against Chatsworth as musketry against a tank. ‘Not if you want to stay free, you won’t. They’ll have you back inside in no time if they think you’re up to anything. The ambassador would be furious and you wouldn’t get out again because he wouldn’t answer for you. In fact, he doesn’t know you are out. Neither does London, come to that.’
Chatsworth compressed his lips and nodded sorrowfully. ‘I know what you mean. Never trust those in authority. They won’t ever take responsibility when something goes wrong. Always ditch you tomorrow because you do today what they begged you to do yesterday. That’s been my lesson. Just the same in the Army. Pity, I thought your ambassador was all right.’ He got up and looked out on to the lawn, his hands behind his back. ‘It’s peace that does it, you know. Too much peace. No one has to struggle, to face up to consequences. Country goes to the dogs. Not enough spunk.’
‘Funnily enough, the ambassador once said something very like that.’
Chatsworth again nodded sorrowfully. He appeared to relish the role of sage. ‘Probably has the right instincts, as I suspected, but won’t act on them. He can’t. He’s a bureaucrat. If he stands out he suffers.’
‘You’ve had a lot of experience of this?’
‘The dead hand of bureaucracy, I know it well. It’s almost impossible now to be a hero. The man of parts cannot get on. He’s not wanted. The trail of the slow-worm, Sir Richard Burton called it.’
‘Was he a hero?’
‘Of course.’
When Patrick finally left for work Chatsworth was squatting on the ground outside Sarah’s quarters whilst she showed him how she prepared her mealie-meal. Patrick realised he had taken no such interest. Deuteronomy arrived and Chatsworth, amidst laughter, demonstrated how Sarah’s large wooden spoon could be used as a reflex-tester.
14
There was almost open warfare at the embassy that morning. A four-day-old copy of The Times was found when it reached registry to have been mutilated by a member of the public who had visited the embassy library. The court and social column was torn and the crossword filled with obscenities.
This brought to a head the lengthy and bitter argument as to whether the British papers should go to the library first before being passed to registry for distribution, or whether they should go to the library last before despatch to Kuweto. It was a question of whether British passport holders who used the library but misused the papers should take precedence over embassy staff. Only the ambassador, who was unaware of the dispute, and Patrick, whom Miss Teale had not put on the distribution list, were neutral.
The registry clerks protested at this latest outrage and Miss Teale triumphantly took the evidence to Clifford. Clifford had been in since eight that morning. In his opinion only intellectual snobs did the crossword and only social snobs read the court and social column. It served both lots right, he said. It so happened that Miss Teale’s birth had featured in the court and social column of an older and better Times and also that Daphne, who was in Clifford’s office, sometimes got fairly near to finishing
the crossword. Both took affront. Clifford shouted at Miss Teale. The commercial officer heard the row and joined the argument. The defence attaché, sensing battle, left his office and sided with the commerical officer.
Clifford slammed a file on to the desk and knocked a cup to the floor. He would hear no more. Everyone was stupid, idle and selfish and Miss Teale was a spinster. They were all to get out of his office and no one was to say any more about the papers until he had discussed the matter with the ambassador. The debaters dispersed to form a mutinous, muttering group in registry.
Philip, though siding in principle with Clifford, remained at his desk rather than joining in. ‘I wish I had time to read newspapers,’ he said with a doleful smile.
Patrick sought refuge in the consular department. He was waiting for a chance to tell the ambassador about Chatsworth and about the disappearance of Whelk’s possessions. There were no DBSs that morning, only a small number of peaceful visa applicants. He began to think about Joanna.
The first sounds of panic in chancery were slamming doors and hurrying feet. Soon voices were audible, particulary Clifford’s. Patrick paid no attention until Daphne came into the office. Her eyes were wide open and her cheeks quivering.
‘Guess what!’ she exclaimed, adding, before Patrick could react, ‘Guess what’s happened to Clifford!’
Patrick imagined an apoplectic seizure, spontaneous combustion or a crippling electric shock from a massive accumulation of static.
‘The minister’s coming next week instead of next month!’ said Daphne. Patrick waited. She realised she would have to explain. ‘Clifford is beside himself and no one knows where Sir Wilfrid is. Nothing’s been prepared. London are calling for a revised programme and they haven’t even had the first one yet. I thought Clifford was going to explode when he heard. Serve him right if he had. It’s a punishment for being so nasty about the papers.’
Clifford did not so much sit or stand in his office as undergo a kind of bureaucratic fission. His desire to be everywhere and do everything was such that he was unable to sit still, did not know where to go, wanted everyone to be available and at the same time to be doing something and wanted above all to reproduce himself a dozen times and perform a dozen different functions. He shouted contradictory and inappropriate instructions: Philip was sent to fetch files, a registry clerk to tell the responsible MFA desk officer of the change of plan, the defence attaché to find the ambassador’s diary and the commercial officer and librarian with two receptionists to search the streets for Sir Wilfrid.
