Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

‘High Commissioner in Ghana. People used to speak of him as a future permanent under-secretary. Ever hear why he didn’t get it?’

  ‘He had an affair with the wife of the Home Secretary.’

  Sir Wilfrid shook his head. ‘Legal sex never harms any career except a politician’s. In fact, it can make it. People take notice of you. No, what went wrong with Harry was that he got a bit shirty with the then PUS during a meeting with the Foreign Secretary. Told him he was talking rubbish about the Common Market, which he was, and that the country would suffer if his advice were followed – it was and it did – but that sort of thing just doesn’t do, you see, especially not in front of the minister. The Service hates disagreements. Thirty years of assiduous graft thrown out of the window by five minutes’ plain speaking. The PUS never forgave him. Saw to it that Moscow went to Eric Wilson, who was everybody’s yes-man and as wet as the Spanish armada, and New York to Herbert Simpson who’d been dead on his feet for years. They actually put him in the ground last year but that was a formality. Brain death set in at about the time of Suez. Doesn’t do to disagree with your superiors, you see, as I’ve learnt to my cost. Never say what you think till you’ve thought what you ought to say. It’s the most important thing to remember in this business.’

  For a moment it seemed that Sir Wilfrid would expand upon the lessons of his own career but he turned his fine features towards the sun, closed his eyes and dozed. Patrick read the book he had been given in the Kuweto library. Clifford paced up and down, his hands behind his back.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he asked in an undertone. ‘Never heard of it. The minister’s our only hope.’

  ‘Hope of what?’

  ‘Saving our allowances. We’ve got to get it across to him that if they’re cut by the twenty-seven per cent people are now talking of we’ll all be on the bread line.’ He glanced at the other groups. ‘Laughing stock of Battenburg.’

  The airliner landed and disgorged its load of tired and untidy passengers. A tall silver-haired man carrying a slim black briefcase was ushered into the VIP lounge. Sir Wilfrid, awake now, remained where he was and gazed at the distant hills. Clifford braced his shoulders, put his hands to his sides and stepped briskly forward to the silver-haired man.

  ‘Minister, good morning,’ he said.

  The man looked faintly surprised but shook hands.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said in careful, heavily accented English. ‘Might I have the pleasure of knowing whom I am addressing?’

  Clifford bent over the man’s hand, which he still held. ‘Clifford Steggles, head of chancery. Permit me to introduce the ambassador.’ He turned and, seeing Sir Wilfrid still sprawling in the armchair, called sharply to Patrick, ‘Call Sir Wilfrid, will you?’

  One of the other groups converged suddenly upon Clifford and the silver-haired man. They looked anxiously possessive, fingering their cuffs and ties. The man recognised one of them. There was humourless laughter, explanations, apologies, further explanations. Clifford went red in the face. The man was a leading Swiss banker who handled a great deal of Lower African business, a connection which neither the Swiss nor the Lower Africans were keen to advertise. He was escorted away by worried government officials.

  Clifford put his hands behind his back again. ‘You might have said something instead of waiting for me to go ahead. Nearly made a fool of myself.’

  Meanwhile a pale, podgy man with sparse carroty hair and a shiny blue suit stood by the door trying to get his lighter to work. He had sandy eyebrows, a mobile fleshy face and a jowl that looked about two decades more developed than Clifford’s. He had to make way for the Swiss and his escort. Sir Wilfrid shook his hand.

  Mrs Collier stood by her husband clutching a bulky red handbag. She gazed through oversize glasses at the third group of people, who were sitting down with two swarthy men. Her small mouth was tightly shut. She was short and round and wore a dress that made her look like a tea-cosy. Next to her was the private secretary, a pale neat young man with short brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses and a slim black briefcase like that carried by the Swiss.

  The minister looked displeased. He stared after the departing banker, now escorted by a shoal of minor officials, then turned back to Sir Wilfrid. ‘You knew I was coming, didn’t you?’ he asked crossly. He was still trying to get his lighter to work.

  ‘Yes, minister, that’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Who was that bloke?’

  Sir Wilfrid looked at Clifford, who said, ‘A Swiss banker, minister.’

  A stab of flame from the lighter caused everyone to draw back. The minister adjusted it and lit his cigarette.

  ‘A Swiss baker? What’s a Swiss baker doing in the VIP lounge?’

  ‘Banker,’ said Sir Wilfrid.

  ‘I told you to get that thing seen to before we left,’ said Mrs Collier.

  ‘I didn’t have a chance, did I? All that rushing about.’ He shook the lighter a couple of times.

  ‘Should’ve got it done before we came. I told you.’

  Sir Wilfrid stooped to the level of the minister. ‘The car is waiting. Would you and Mrs Collier prefer to freshen up here or at the residence?’

  ‘At the what?’

  ‘At my house.’

  The minister turned to his wife. ‘Want to have breakfast here or at the house?’

  ‘Oh, at the house. We might get a decent cup of tea there, I hope.’ She turned to Sir Wilfrid. ‘Let that muck they gave us on the plane settle first.’

  ‘This is going to be a bad trip,’ Anthony, the private secretary, said to Patrick as they followed the group. ‘Your boss and mine crossed swords in London.’

  ‘About the Common Market?’

  ‘Very likely. Anything foreign is likely. He hates it. Hates travelling, too. He looks upon trips as fault-finding missions. The first thing he disliked was the plane. He particularly hates travelling with his good lady. Her whole life is a fault-finding mission.’

  The main hall was crowded and sunny. Automatic glass doors led to the parking area reserved for diplomatic and official cars. Before they reached them Patrick heard a woman’s voice call his name. He knew it but could not place it. There was no one he recognised. A couple of yards ahead the minister and Sir Wilfrid came abruptly to a stop. There was a scuffle and then a woman wearing jeans and jumper and holding a weighty rucksack in both hands stumbled between them. She let go of the rucksack with one hand and waved at Patrick. The rucksack knocked against her knees and then against Mrs Collier’s, who grabbed Clifford for support.

  ‘Patrick!’ squealed Rachel. ‘Fantastic! How did you know?’

  She brushed her long hair aside and hugged and kissed him with a fervour quite foreign to their friendship. Her rucksack rolled on to Anthony’s feet. The whole party stopped and stared.

  ‘God, I thought I was going to have to get a taxi to your place and I thought it’s bound to be miles and I stupidly haven’t got any Lower African money and I could imagine this really awful scene, you know.’ She held his jacket sleeve as if to make sure he didn’t escape. ‘I didn’t send a telegram because it was all sort of last minute but I did ring twice but there was no answer. It’s fantastic that you’re actually here – how did you know? D’you have contacts with the airline or what? Did Maurice ring you and tell you?’

  Patrick smiled and glanced at the others. ‘No, neither. I was here meeting someone else.’

  Clifford frowned and tried to get Mrs Collier to move on but she stood staring through her thick glasses at Rachel.

  ‘So it’s just coincidence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Rachel looked about. ‘Who are you meeting?’

  The minister and Sir Wilfrid moved away. Anthony disentangled his feet from the rucksack straps and stepped gingerly round. Clifford put his hand on Mrs Collier’s arm and nudged her forward.

  Patrick hesitated so as to give them all time to move. ‘Mrs Collier and her husband,’ he said quietly, but not quietly enough because
, hearing her name, Mrs Collier stopped and smiled. She held out her hand.

  ‘How d’you do. Were you on that flight? Wasn’t it awful? All them children, you could hear them from the first class; just as well we weren’t paying for it ourselves. Mind you, it’s the parents I blame. There’s no discipline these days. Let them do just what they like. Look at all them football hooligans.’

  ‘Are you staying with Patrick as well?’ asked Rachel.

  Mrs Collier looked at Patrick. ‘I don’t know. Are we?’

  ‘No, you’re staying with the ambassador,’ said Clifford. ‘They’ve reached the car now. We must join them.’

  Rachel turned to him. ‘Are you Mr Collier?’

  Mrs Collier laughed loudly and briefly, like a squawking chicken swiftly strangled. ‘Oh, fancy that, that’s quite a compliment, that is. Mr Collier’s twice his age if he’s a day. Mind you, I sometimes wish anyone else was Mr Collier, especially when we go away. He’s like a bear with a sore head, he really is. I used to think it was the water but now I think it’s him, you know, it’s what he’s like.’

  ‘D’you go away a lot?’ asked Rachel.

  Mrs Collier had no chance to reply. Clifford took her firmly by the arm, saying, ‘The minister is leaving,’ and walked her off towards the car. He looked crossly over his shoulder and said sharply, as if to one of his children, ‘Come along, Patrick.’

  ‘Funny friends you’ve got,’ said Rachel. ‘D’you work with them?’

  ‘Some of the time,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll explain later. Ring my house and reverse the charges and you’ll find a man called Chatsworth. Tell him you’re a friend of mine and he’ll come and pick you up in my car. I’ll be back at lunchtime.’

  Rachel’s pale face was puzzled. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘What’s his Christian name?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ Patrick backed away, seeing that Mrs Collier had been eased into the Rolls and that it was about to leave. ‘Great to see you.’ Rachel stared. ‘I mean it. Explain later.’

  He jumped into the car, shutting the door on the flap of his jacket. It was a limousine and so everyone, apart from Simon, the driver, sat in the back. ‘I’m sorry about that. An old friend. Unexpected meeting.’

  The minister ignored him and Sir Wilfrid looked as if he didn’t know what he meant.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Mrs Collier.

  ‘Not a journalist, I hope?’ asked Clifford.

  ‘No, not quite.’

  The minister asked why the Swiss banker was in Lower Africa and whom he was meeting. No one knew. ‘If I’d realised who it was I’d have made myself known to him,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll find out, minister,’ Clifford volunteered.

  They were overtaken by a bright yellow Datsun with two blacks in it.

  ‘Who were they?’ asked the minister.

  Sir Wilfrid leant anxiously forward. ‘I’m sorry?’

  The minister pointed so that his cigarette was nearly touching Simon’s face. ‘There – in that yellow car – who are they? Is it someone important? That’s what I’m asking.’

  Sir Wilfrid looked at all the cars on the motorway. ‘Someone important?’

  The minister waved his hand and sprinkled ash. ‘That yellow car is being driven by two black men. Who are they? Does it mean they’re anyone important? That’s what I want to know.’

  Clifford leant forward. cNo, minister, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Blacks are allowed to drive?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘In new cars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The minister looked disappointed. ‘But do they own it?’

  Clifford looked again at the car. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

  The minister cheered up. ‘Well, there you are. There’s the rub.’

  Sir Wilfrid now understood. He asked Simon who the men were, perhaps thinking that a black man might know other black men. Simon did not know.

  ‘How many blacks own new cars?’ continued the minister. No one knew. He released the strain on the middle button of his jacket and sat back. ‘Well, that’s significant, isn’t it? That says something. I thought you diplomats would know all about that sort of thing.’

  ‘It was a Japanese car,’ said Clifford.

  ‘So?’

  ‘The Japanese do a lot of business with Lower Africa.’

  The minister snorted. ‘The Japanese do a lot of business with everyone.’

  As they turned off the motorway a red bakkie sped the other way. Patrick glimpsed Chatsworth’s fair hair in the cab. The bakkie was travelling very fast.

  At the roundabout there was the familiar advertising hoarding showing a giant jar of Marmite with the grinning head of a black man beside it. Mrs Collier nudged her husband. ‘At least they’ve got Marmite.’

  16

  Back at the embassy Clifford once again briefed everyone who was to meet the minister on what they were to say and where they were to be. He told each person individually what everyone else was supposed to be doing ‘in case the pass is sold and you have to come in to the line’. He ordered that visa applicants and British subjects visiting the consular section were to be kept to a minimum and on no account should they be visible to the minister. The section was to close early.

  ‘Patrick, I want you to oversee the where and whom of everything,’ he said when they were alone in the corridor. ‘You should be familiar with all the arrangements. Miss Teale needs a particularly close watch. I’ve told her that she’s to wait in the garage and hold the lift for ten minutes before the minister and party arrive. She’s to telephone me in my office – I’ve given her the number in writing in case she forgets in the heat of the moment – so that I can be at the lift to meet them when it gets up here. There’s no need for you. Your job is simply to keep everything else out of sight and tamped down. A general low profile everywhere but for God’s sake keep your eye on the ball. Five minutes before the visit is due to end Miss Teale will summon the lift again and hold it at this floor so that no one is kept hanging about. D’you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your first task is to ensure that she understands.’

  ‘You’ve already told her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but there are times and people with whom one has to make doubly or trebly sure. I trust your girlfriend is now under control.’

  It sounded as if Joanna had done something public and extravagant. ‘Under control?’

  ‘That woman at the airport. No more extraordinary interruptions, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, no. She’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘What was she doing throwing her arms round you in front of everyone?’

  ‘We’re just friends.’

  ‘I see.’

  Miss Teale was so incensed at having received her instructions five times in two days (twice in writing) that she was friendly to Patrick. She told him that Sandy had rung Clifford in a rage because Clifford had taken the car when she thought she should have it. She was threatening to walk out. Clifford would have to take the car home during the day if he wanted her still to be there in the evening. Miss Teale had also heard that Philip had risen from his sick-bed and set out for the embassy so that he could present his brief to the minister in person; but he had been sick in the car and had returned home.

  The minister and Sir Wilfrid were late. Clifford stood by his telephone but twice came in to Patrick to check watches before telling him to ring the residence to see what had happened. It was gone eleven and Patrick was still delaying ringing when Clifford rushed past the door towards the lifts.

  A few moments later there was a sharp click of heels on lino. It was Daphne from the consular section. Her mouth was mobile before she spoke. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Clifford’s run off to greet the lift.’

  ‘No, not him. McGrain.’ Patrick’s immobility probably made her think that he had forgotten. ‘You know
, the DBS you threw out. The one who’s always after Arthur.’

  ‘Better keep him out of sight.’ Patrick still did not move.

  ‘He’s in a bad way again.’

  ‘At this hour of the morning?’

  ‘He wants an interview with the minister.’

  They went to the consular section. Neither his previous triumph nor his fight with Jim had in any way prepared Patrick for more fights. A brawl in the embassy coinciding with the minister’s arrival was unthinkable – at least to the Foreign Office mind; it was all too thinkable to Patrick’s.

  Daphne’s cheeks wobbled as before. ‘I was sure we wouldn’t get through the visit without something happening. There’s nearly always a DBS waiting round the corner to sabotage anything important. It was just the same in Tripoli.’

  McGrain stood as before at the counter, this time clutching a newspaper. There were no other visitors. A frightened consular girl was trapped behind the counter and a nervous male clerk hovered by the door. He disappeared when Patrick arrived. Patrick adopted what he hoped was the appearance of calm bureaucratic inexorability. McGrain turned, his blue eyes focusing slowly. His bloated face had a bluish tinge. He held the rolled newspaper to his fist and stabbed at it with his thick forefinger.

  ‘I wanna see the minister.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’ Patrick cleared his throat because his voice sounded unnaturally high.

  McGrain drove his finger into the paper. ‘It says here he’s coming to the British embassy today.’

  ‘He won’t be here till four.’ That was when the minister was due to visit the meat-packing station. McGrain might by then be too drunk to return.

  ‘I’ll wait here till he comes then.’ McGrain settled solidly against the counter.

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’

  ‘I’ll wait here till you’re open.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Who says I can’t?’

  Patrick’s armour of bureaucratic implacability felt thin. ‘The rules.’

  McGrain shook his head. He seemed to have difficulty bringing his words out. ‘Ah’m a British subject. I wanna see my minister.’