Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  He pointed his finger at Patrick and shouted: ‘Get two cars for everyone in the party – every group, I mean, split them into groups – every car must have a back-up and make sure the drivers know where they’re going. Do it immediately.’

  Jean, the ambassador’s secretary, ran in. ‘We can’t find the official visits file anywhere. Registry say you’ve got it.’

  Clifford put both hands to his head. ‘Of course I haven’t got it. If I had it I wouldn’t want it.’

  Jean stared. ‘But it’s marked out to you. You must have it.’

  Clifford shook his fists and contorted his red face. ‘How can I have it if I haven’t got it? Go and search Philip’s cupboard. Don’t let him go anywhere till it’s found.’ Jean ran out. Clifford turned to Patrick. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Anger in others nearly always made Patrick feel calmer. ‘Where do you want the drivers to go?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Clifford kicked his chair away and almost ran from the office. ‘Follow me!’

  When Patrick caught up with him in reception Clifford explained in short sentences that the minister was now to call on Lower Africa on his way to rather than from the Far East. London believed that this way it would be easier to present the visit as a low-key courtesy call by a junior minister. Informal talks might eventually lead to formal talks at the United Nations. This was the matter of border disputes that Lower Africa had with all her neighbours. There was hope of ‘movement’ since the disputes were thought to be bad for relations generally. More particularly, they made British economic links with Lower Africa embarrassing.

  But now the ambassador had disappeared. He wasn’t at the residence; he wasn’t visiting the MFA, where Jean thought he was supposed to be; he wasn’t at the editorial offices of the main English language newspaper, which was where Philip thought he was supposed to be; neither was he at the Battenburg Dog Show, a function held to raise money for a new black hospital. Clifford was exasperated. It was bad enough with the ambassador around, interfering and whatever, but worse still when he wasn’t at the one time you wanted him.

  They walked quickly along the corridor. ‘Perhaps he’s been kidnapped,’ said Patrick.

  Clifford stared determinedly ahead. ‘This is no time for facetiousness, Stubbs. You’ll find, if you continue in the Service, that some things are important and have to be treated as such. It’s a lesson you’d do well to learn.’

  He turned off abruptly into the unmarked loo. Patrick had assumed they were going to look at a route map for the drivers. Clifford fumbled with his flies. ‘Bloody buttons. Always on at Sandy to put zips in but she doesn’t take a blind bit of notice. Same with everyone else round here. Feel I’m speaking to a brick wall sometimes.’ He became calmer as he talked. ‘We’ll need two official cars to meet him at the airport, two for his visit to the gold mine, two to the MFA, two to the meat-packing station, two to the formal dinners and two for his wife to go to Kuweto if we can arrange it. That’s assuming the programme is accepted and we haven’t heard yet because we haven’t sent it. ’Course, the whole bloody thing might change.’

  Patrick finished first. Clifford continued. Just as talking calmed him, so giving instructions fuelled his imagination. ‘I hope you’ve taken all that on board. You’re going to have your hands full trying to keep all these transport balls in the air. As for your own posture during the visit, I think a low profile would be about right. Hull down but antennae up in case the Lower Africans try to bowl any fast ones, logistically speaking. Also, make sure London don’t slip anything through the net on the run-in. ’Course, Miss Teale thinks all this ought to be in her parish, really, and so it should in a sense but horses for courses. I mean, she’s mad so you’ll just have to have a light touch on the tiller where she’s concerned. Keep her briefed by all means but don’t let her run with the ball. I’ll be long-stop in case there’s real trouble but I don’t want to have to take flak unless I have to. I shouldn’t say this but I must be about due for an award – you know, something in the honours list – and so I don’t want the minister walking into any trip-wires and us all ending up with egg on our faces.’

  ‘Roger,’ said Patrick.

  Clifford changed his mind about the transport arrangements whilst walking back down the corridor. As they were absolutely vital it was better that he should keep a grip on all the reins himself. Patrick should concentrate on liaison with the Lower Africans and with the police about the Whelk business. Sir Wilfrid wanted the minister to discuss that with his opposite number.

  ‘Any more happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to say at present. You didn’t by any chance order anyone to take Arthur’s furniture away?’

  ‘No. Why, has someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they left yours?’

  ‘I haven’t any.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. Have you told Sir Wilfrid?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I should, if I were you.’

  ‘Thanks, I shall.’ Patrick returned to his and Philip’s office. Philip had just called for twenty-three files, cancelled a dinner with the American first secretary and made arrangements to work during the weekend. The commercial officer’s wife later told everyone that Philip’s wife had told her in confidence that she and Philip would sleep in separate rooms until after the birth of the ministerial brief he was writing.

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked Patrick. He was determined not to give up his dinner with Joanna that night but confident that Philip would refuse the offer.

  A guarded, awkward expression grew slowly in Philip’s eyes. He looked at his files. ‘Jolly kind of you to offer but I think I’ll have to cope myself. It’s really second secretary stuff, you see. Many thanks all the same. Much appreciated.’

  ‘Well, let me know if there is.’

  Patrick’s telephone rang. It was a woman asking for Clifford. It was a moment before he and Sandy recognised each other. ‘Hang on,’ he said, immediately self-conscious because of Philip’s presence. ‘They’ve given you the wrong number. I’ll get you transferred.’

  Her voice sounded unnaturally close. ‘Don’t bother. Just tell him I rang. He was trying to get me when I was out. Can’t think why. Probably some great panic about his shoe-laces.’

  ‘It was his buttons he was complaining about just now.’

  She laughed. ‘Was he now? Very uninhibited for him. He must be in a real flap about something. Wouldn’t normally mention that department. How’s your love-life?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Mine’s a graveyard.’

  Patrick pressed the phone hard to his ear, hoping that Philip couldn’t hear. ‘Perhaps you should do something about the buttons, then.’

  ‘I might as well sew them up for good for all the difference that would make.’

  Patrick wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Why don’t you come up and see me some time?’ she continued, in an American accent.

  ‘Well, I’d like to but—’

  ‘But you’re busy? Typical. You’re getting like the others already. I’ll have to come and see you, then.’

  He tried to sound encouraging but she cut him short. ‘Don’t worry, love, I was only joking. Tell him I rang. Be nice to her. Bye.’

  Sir Wilfrid strolled past the door. Patrick followed him to his office, for once unguarded by Jean because she was elsewhere searching. Sir Wilfrid threw his jacket on to the armchair, stretched his arms above his head and then rubbed his hair vigorously with both hands. He did not seem surprised to see Patrick. ‘Ever played golf?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You should, you know. Very relaxing. Restores perspective. Took a round off the American ambassador this morning. Very good. Winning is good for you, too, now and again.’ He stopped rubbing his hair and put his hands in his pockets. ‘Now, what’ve you got for me? Some new horror, I suppose?’

  Patrick described the removal of Whelk’s possessions and the release of Cha
tsworth. Sir Wilfrid was pleased by what he took to be signs of Lower African complicity. He put the radio on the desk and switched on the pop music just as Jean put her head round the door. She started to speak but he turned up the music and waved her away. He and Patrick took up their usual positions and he shouted into Patrick’s ear. ‘Thing to do is to let Chatsworth sniff around by himself – see if he can flush out anything. If they try to stop him it’s a sign we’re getting warm and we can brief the minister to raise it with them. The minister’s very keen, as you know, and now the Lower Africans are in it with us we don’t need to worry about their making a scandal of it. Also, it could be useful for the minister – stick to beat them with.’

  Patrick doubted that it was safe to let Chatsworth do what he liked. ‘We’re responsible, sir. Me particularly. I signed for him. And you did say we mustn’t risk anything that could upset relations during the visit.’

  Sir Wilfried nodded impatiently. ‘I know that, I know that. You don’t have to tell me what I said. But they’re in it with us now, like it or not, and as long as he just sniffs around and doesn’t do anything stupid nobody can complain. He struck me as a sensible sort of chap. Wouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Well, he did get himself locked up, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that too. But that can happen to anyone in this country.’

  ‘Does he have to stay in my house?’

  ‘Why not? You must have room, haven’t you?’ Sir Wilfrid switched off the radio. Patrick realised it was a mistake to put the question so directly. Sir Wilfrid’s point was unanswerable. Patrick changed the subject to the ministerial visit, saying it had been brought forward. Sir Wilfrid shrugged. ‘Oh, well, sooner over. Ever met him? Wretched little man. Blows with the wind. I was hoping he’d stay long enough for us to take him up north and show him the drought. Cattle and people dying all over the place. He ought to see it. I want to propose that we donate a water pump from official funds, you see, and the embassy budget is exhausted. After all, the French and Germans are building a dam, so we should be seen to do something. Clifford knows about the visit, does he? Good. Hope he’s had the sense to get on to the MFA himself.’

  Patrick left the room as Clifford rushed in to announce the news. Through the closing door Patrick heard Sir Wilfrid say, ‘I know that, I know that. Why are you carrying all those newspapers?’

  Jean gave him a hostile glance. ‘What do you two do in there – kiss each other?’

  Patrick smiled and raised his eyebrows. She went on with her typing.

  The avenue to Patrick’s house appeared to have been subjected to one of Battenburg’s freak storms of small circumference but great intensity. Yet he noticed that although the road was wet the trees were dry; then that the road was wet only as far as his house; Water bubbled up from beneath his garden wall and surged across the grass verge before streaming down the road.

  He left the bakkie in front of the garage and ran towards the house. The front door was open and there was a dead rat on the hall floor. From the veranda he saw that the bottom third of the garden, all that was below the pool, was flooded. The pool itself was two-thirds empty, the pump motor was running and there was dark green water gushing from the large pipe that led from the pump. The flower beds were flooded out of sight and there was an ominous swirling where the water ran away beneath the wall. He ran down the lawn towards the pump. The grass that looked dry was wet. He slipped as he turned and for an instant saw his feet in the air before he landed on his back and skidded into the slush. He felt like remaining on his back and howling his rage but after a few seconds of silent fury he got to his feet and stood in three or four inches of water to turn off the pump. He was wearing his nearly-new dark suit, having got the new lightweight one wet in the roof restaurant the day before.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  The cheery voice came from the compost heap at the top of the garden. Chatsworth leant on a garden fork. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he wore a pair of corduroys that looked familiar. Next to him Deuteronomy leant on a broomstick. On the wall behind stood a number of beer-cans. Snap was energetically digging into the heap, ignoring Deuteronomy. Deuteronomy grinned and waved his hand as if Patrick were far away.

  ‘What d’you think I did it for? It’s flooded all over the bloody road.’ It was a pleasure to give vent to anger by shouting but it meant that he became more aware of it and so was in fact less angry.

  Chatsworth was unabashed. ‘Doesn’t matter, it’ll drain away.’

  ‘It’s undermined the bloody wall and washed out all the bulbs and plants.’ Patrick was not sure what was in the flowerbeds but knew that Deuteronomy spent some time there. ‘The wall will collapse now.’

  ‘Well, it’s not yours, is it? PSA, you said. Public property, therefore everyone’s, therefore no one’s.’ Chatsworth pointed his fork at the pool. ‘Someone had to drain that malarial mess. Look at all the green gunge it’s left on the sides. Bloody disgrace, letting it get like that.’

  It was true that the sides of the wall were horribly stained and that the remaining water looked evil. There was no doubt that he would have to get the contractors in now. His anger subsided rapidly into resignation.

  There was a bark from Snap. Chatsworth hit at something with his fork. Deuteronomy yelped, jumped and disappeared behind the heap. Snap emerged amidst a great flurry of leaves shaking a small object.

  ‘That’s five this afternoon and one I got with the fork,’ shouted Chatsworth. ‘There’s a nest here, or was. He’s good for a big dog. Small ones are usually better. Ever shot coypu?’

  Patrick trudged up the lawn, his shoes squelching. ‘No.’

  ‘You want to try it. South America’s the best place but Norfolk’s not too bad. They’re nearly the size of him.’ Snap tore at the mangled rat. There were sounds of ripping skin and snapping bone. ‘He does that to the ones that nip him. Hates them. Breaks their necks, crushes their ribs and tears them apart.’ He patted Snap, who glanced up obligingly. The rat’s tail hung from his mouth.

  ‘There’s a dead one in the hall,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Is that what he’s doing with them? I put them in a heap but they kept disappearing. Thought they must be resurrecting themselves or being eaten by the live ones that were brave enough to creep out. They eat each other, you know. We can eat them, too.’

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘I was talking to Sarah about it. Might try one whilst I’m here.’ He frowned at Patrick. ‘Did you know you’ve got wet and filth all up your arse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take a tumble?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Bit early in the day to be that bad. All those allowances, I suppose. If you’re not careful you’ll end up like Deuteronomy.’ He indicated the beer-cans on the wall. ‘Found them inside. Hope it’s all right. Hot work, rattin’. Had to get a few down Deuteronomy before he’d even come into the garden with Snap. Bad relations, I’m told. Okay this afternoon, though. Snap takes no notice of him as long as there are rats around.’

  Deuteronomy crawled round from the other side of the compost heap. He got unsteadily to his feet by starting to crawl up the heap and then straightening himself. There were leaves in his hair and bits and pieces of garden rubbish stuck to his green overalls. He grinned blissfully and took Patrick’s hand in both of his. ‘Mmmm-massa,’ he said, caressing it.

  ‘Hallo, Deuteronomy.’

  ‘Mmmm-massa.’ He bowed over Patrick’s hand as if to kiss it.

  Patrick tried to withdraw but Deuteronomy would not let go. They all three walked towards the house, Deuteronomy still clasping Patrick and gazing admiringly into his face.

  ‘He seems to have taken a shine to you,’ said Chatsworth.

  ‘He’s drunk.’

  ‘That’s when it shows.’

  Patrick freed himself at the kitchen door, leaving Deuteronomy still grinning and bowing.

  There was another dead rat behind
the sofa in the living-room and two more by the rape-gate. For the rest of their time together in the house Chatsworth competed with Snap in what he called ‘kills’. Snap was always ahead but Chatsworth’s score was respectable, achieved with fork, stick, boot, and once a well-aimed wine bottle. He frequently complained that he would do much better if he had his pistol.

  ‘Couldn’t help noticing you had company last night,’ he remarked over tea.

  Patrick’s first thought was of the fight with Jim. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I helped Sarah make the bed. Blonde hair on the pillow.’

  ‘Observant of you.’

  ‘How about an explanation?’

  ‘In due course, maybe.’

  Chatsworth laughed. ‘I like that. “In due course.” Very Foreign Office. I shall take it as a challenge to find out.’

  There was a letter for Patrick on the hall table. He had one every week from his mother in Chislehurst but otherwise letters from England were rare. This was from Rachel. His guilt at not having written to her as promised was replaced by alarm as he read the letter. She wrote on television notepaper in breathless telegraphese to the effect that she’d got a grant to do some research for a documentary and if she added her own money to it she could come out and stay with him – ‘Safer ’cos diplomatic protection’ – and get some material on Lower Africa for the film. The theme was the connection between capitalism and racism. She would not say more in case LASS intercepted his letters but would send a telegram to let him know when she was arriving. It would only be for a few days, anyway. Maurice sent regards.

  He wondered if it would be possible to move in with Joanna.

  ‘Upper middle-class leftie with a conscience as big as her boobs?’ said Chatsworth from behind him.