by Alan Judd
The Rolls waited in the queue. It was not air-conditioned and Anthony discreetly lowered the front window. Mrs Collier peered out. ‘I don’t think I like this,’ she said.
Sir Wilfrid craned his neck to see what she was looking at. Clifford leant forward. ‘It’s all right, they’ll let us through. It’s only because of the bomb this morning.’
‘Oh, was that here?’ Mrs Collier turned to her husband. ‘Did you hear what he said? This is where that bomb was.’
The minister sat four-square, his chubby fists on his knees. ‘It’s gone off, hasn’t it? Won’t hurt anyone now.’
Mrs Collier shook her head. ‘That’s all very well but I still don’t like it. All those guns poking at you. Look at them.’
‘They’re not poking at us, are they?’ The minister looked bullishly about. One of the policemen searching the vehicle in front had his carbine pointing carelessly over the top of the Rolls. ‘They’ll be careful once they know who we are. Anyway, if there’s trouble we might be able to help.’
The police captain saluted smartly. He was scrupulously polite. There was no trouble in any area at present and no parts were forbidden to accredited British officials and their guests. However, he advised that they should avoid large groups if they saw any gathering.
They drove slowly through the rows of squat, red-roofed bungalows, past barricaded shops and beer halls and dawdling, indifferent people. Nothing seemed sinister or dangerous. The minister looked at the bare gardens. ‘Why don’t they grow anything?’
Everyone followed his gaze. ‘They don’t seem to go in for gardening,’ Sir Wilfrid said in a puzzled tone. ‘Perhaps it’s not part of the tradition.’
‘Are they starved of water?’
Clifford sat up. ‘Plenty of water, sir, and eventually they’ll all have electricity, too. About forty per cent have it at present. It’s behind schedule partly because the company putting it in had to sign a contract agreeing to use manual labour for digging all the holes and trenches so as to create employment.’
‘More jobs, then?’
Clifford was encouraged. ‘There was also a suggestion that the work should be done with bare hands but it wasn’t adopted.’
‘You can’t have it both ways.’
‘But the company now say they can’t finish the project unless they’re allowed to use machines. They can’t get the labour because the workers don’t like that sort of job.’
‘Do they pay enough? Strikes me that’s the problem.’
There was a pause, the embarrassment of which was felt by all but Clifford, who shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so, minister. Not wholly. The problem is partly that in many African tribes the men think it’s demeaning to do manual work. It’s not part of their tradition. In the rural areas and the homelands you can see brand new roads all hand-built by women.’
‘Go on,’ said Mrs Collier, wonderingly.
‘It’s the duty of a woman, you see, to rear children, to look after the home, to tend crops and to earn money if there’s any to be earned. The duty of a man is to talk and drink.’
Mrs Collier was wide-eyed behind her spectacles. ‘Well I never.’ The minister said nothing.
Sir Wilfrid pressed the tip of one finger against his chin and looked worried. ‘But is it really so, I wonder? It’s certainly not universally the case and I wonder sometimes whether it might not be one of those curious self-validating myths that appear to be true but for reasons quite other than those we commonly assume. For instance—’
Clifford’s face shone with the pleasure of holding forth. ‘It’s just the way they are. Not necessarily worse than us, of course, but different. Just different.’
‘Not worse at all,’ Sir Wilfrid replied emphatically. ‘Perhaps not even very different. After all, many men—’
‘Sounds to me like they’re no better than they should be,’ said Mrs Collier.
The minister looked irritable. ‘That’s no reason for not giving them light bulbs, is it?’
‘No, no, it’s just indicative,’ said Clifford.
‘Indicative of what?’
Sir Wilfrid looked out of the window with an expression of saintly renunciation. Clifford looked at the minister, who looked back. Patrick looked at his shoes.
‘If you ask me they don’t know no better,’ said Mrs Collier.
‘Whose fault is that?’ demanded her husband.
‘If they don’t know no better they don’t expect no different,’ she snapped in a tone of confident finality. There was puzzled silence for the rest of the journey.
Mr Oboe greeted them at the door of the cultural centre. He was accompanied by both his wives and six or seven of his children, the latter ranging from languid adolescents down to a baby not yet old enough to crawl. Some of the younger ones were playing in the dirt when the Rolls drew up and it was their clamour that brought out the others. The mothers scolded the dirty ones and Mr Oboe deftly and discreetly cuffed one of them before advancing towards the car, his arms outstretched. He wore a double-breasted pin-striped suit with wide lapels and baggy trousers that were too long. There was some confusion as the party tried to debus without treading on their hosts. The children, knowing they were to greet someone but not whom, made for Sir Wilfrid as the tallest figure. Their father compounded the error by shaking Sir Wilfrid’s hand with elaborate formality. Grinning with pleasure, he said, ‘Sir Wilfrid, I and my family greet you.’
Sir Wilfrid thanked him and looked vainly for the minister, who was hidden behind one of the Mrs Oboes.
‘You and your family are extremely welcome,’ continued Mr Oboe, still holding Sir Wilfrid’s hand.
Clifford stepped forward. ‘The minister is here,’ he said to Mr Oboe, indicating no one. Mr Oboe smiled again and shook Clifford’s hand. Clifford tried hard to assert priorities but eventually the whole party had to shake hands with the entire family before Mr Oboe and the minister finally met. Mr Oboe then led the minister by the hand into the library.
They crowded into the little room. The young readers who were there were hustled out by Mr Oboe, who then opened the door of the side room so that the minister could see all the old British newspapers stacked to the ceiling. Each of the party in turn squeezed into the doorway to look at them.
Sir Wilfrid described the function of the library. Mr Oboe again took the minister’s hand and smiled slyly. ‘Minister, I must give you a book.’
The minister shook his head so that his jowl quivered. ‘No, no. No need for that. I’ve got lots, thanks very much.’
Mr Oboe squeezed the minister’s hand. ‘You can have another one.’
Anthony leant forward. ‘This may be a presentation copy, minister.’
Mrs Collier turned to Sir Wilfrid, who had stopped speaking in order to permit his interruptors to be heard. ‘I’ve got an aunt at home who loves reading, you know. Real bookworm, she is.’ Sir Wilfrid raised his eyebrows and looked politely interested. Mrs Collier nodded firmly, as if she’d been contradicted. ‘Oh, yes she does, you know. Simply loves it. Won’t go anywhere without a book. She even reads at the tea-table, but I think that’s going a bit far, myself.’
Mr Oboe had meanwhile handed a red book to the minister. ‘Please, you must have this book.’
The minister took it warily. ‘Thank you very much.’
Mr Oboe beamed. ‘It is yours.’
‘Yes, thank you very much.’
‘A gift from the British cultural centre.’
The minister glanced at his wife and Anthony as if afraid he might be laughed at. ‘I know, yes, thank you very much.’
Mr Oboe nodded, still beaming. ‘The British are very big in Kuweto.’
Anthony took the book from the minister and held it up to Patrick as they filed out. It was Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady. ‘He won’t be able to put it down,’ he whispered.
The sewing-machine stood on the table-tennis table. Half a dozen Methodist ladies stood in a line on the far side of the table. They wore black
stockings and skirts, red blouses, white hats and sailor’s collars, the uniform Sarah wore to church. They clapped as the party entered the hall. Mr Oboe introduced the ladies by name and once again everyone shook hands with everyone else. The ladies smiled, curtsied and gave most of their attention to Sir Wilfrid.
Mr Oboe nodded and smiled. ‘Very good,’ he said. Everyone smiled back. There was a pause, then Mr Oboe took a deep breath and burst into prayer, declaiming, ‘Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord,’ in a voice that filled the room.
Mrs Collier was shaken but the minister clasped his hands and looked solemn. When the noise of the prayer died down the Methodist ladies sang a hymn. During this the local ambulance driver came in and sat on the sewing-machine box whilst he ate his sandwiches. He grinned happily and with one hand tapped out the rhythm on the side of the box.
By the end of the hymn Mrs Collier had recovered herself sufficiently to look as though she were in church. There was then another, longer silence. No one was in charge. Clifford looked angry, the minister purposeful but undecided. Mrs Collier looked at the man eating the sandwiches.
Eventually Sir Wilfrid stepped forward. He thanked Mr Oboe and his family and made flattering remarks about the Methodist ladies. He then indicated the sewing-machine and said that Mrs Collier had come all the way from London to meet the people of Kuweto and that she, like himself, everyone else there and the people of the United Kingdom who could not be present, was delighted to be making this gift. All the ladies smiled and there were murmurs of thanks from the two Mrs Oboes who stood, broad and smiling, by the door. Sir Wilfrid concluded with, ‘I am sure Mrs Collier will now wish to declare this machine open, or launched, or ready for the needle or whatever is appropriate.’ He smiled, inclining his body elegantly. ‘Mrs Collier, would you care to . . .’
Mrs Collier stared at Sir Wilfrid. Her husband nudged her forward. She stopped by the machine, stared at it, then looked helplessly round. There was another silence. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, in a small, high voice.
‘They’re not giving it to you, you’re giving it to them,’ whispered the minister loudly.
Mrs Collier blinked and addressed Clifford. ‘I hope you get a lot of pleasure from it.’
The minister pointed to the heap of green cloth on the table. ‘Feed it in,’ he whispered.
Mrs Collier picked up the cloth. It was unwieldy and began falling off the table. Clifford and Mr Oboe stepped forward. There was confusion as to which was the right end. After two or three attempts a piece was fed into the machine. Mrs Collier stood back, clutched her handbag and waited.
‘Switch it on, then,’ said the minister, no longer whispering.
Mrs Collier dithered at the back of the machine. Clifford pressed a button, with no result. The minister stepped forward. ‘That’s the stop one. Here, let me.’ He moved them both aside and pressed another button.
‘I’ll check that it’s switched on, sir,’ said Clifford. He got down on all fours and followed the white flex under the table. It ended in three coloured wires. ‘No plug,’ he said.
‘Where’s it made?’ asked the minister.
Clifford examined the machine. ‘Britain, sir.’
‘That’s typical, that is,’ said Mrs Collier, rounding on her husband. ‘If it was made in Japan or Hong Kong or one of those places it would have a plug, wouldn’t it? Bound to.’ She nodded and looked at everyone. ‘It would work then all right, I’m sure it would.’
The minister turned to Sir Wilfrid. ‘Fine advertisement, I must say. What’s the use of me traipsing around the world on behalf of British industry when they can’t even produce plugs? No wonder no one lets us build their power stations any more. Might as well stay at home.’
Sir Wilfrid’s long, lined face was patient and understanding. ‘My sentiments entirely, minister.’
‘There might be another one attached to something else,’ said Clifford. He began moving all the chairs that were lined up against the wall, pushing them aside with a great deal of noise and bustle.
The ceremony ended with another loud prayer from Mr Oboe. He gave thanks for food, water, the sun, the earth and the English sewing-machine. He prayed for a plug, and smiled. The Methodist ladies then sang another hymn, possibly the same one as before. They sang it with gusto, and the ambulance driver again tapped out the rhythm.
‘That was embarrassing,’ Clifford said to Patrick as they shuffled out. ‘The plug should have been checked. It is British, after all. Remind me to speak to the commercial officer.’
Outside, Simon was using a short stick to keep the children off the Rolls. Everyone milled around and all hands were again shaken. Sir Wilfrid was applauded.
Simon took a route that led downhill towards one of the beer halls. The earth was parched and the air dry enough to crack lips but the road outside the beer hall was wet and covered with mud, as if a pipe had burst or a water-tanker had unloaded in the wrong place. A crowd of twenty or thirty men spilled over the road. They kept moving, shouting, cheering, sometimes jumping aside. As the Rolls approached it became clear that two of them were fighting. They rolled and splashed in the mud with almost comical desperation.
A small open-backed lorry, packed with people, some clinging to the roof and sides, one on the mudguard, made its way lop-sidedly down the opposite hill. It veered off the road and back again. Simon braked to avoid the fighters. When he saw the lorry he reacted suddenly and with unnecessary violence. He swung the Rolls hard to the left and then, feeling it lose grip on the muddy road, hard to the right, accelerating at the same time. The car lurched off the road, scattering the bystanders amidst a shower of mud. The lorry wobbled and continued on its way, its cargo waving and laughing.
The Rolls came to rest with its front wheels on the road and its rear in the mud. Clifford was flung to the floor with his head between Mrs Collier’s knees, and Mrs Collier and the minister slid along the rear seat into Sir Wilfrid. Anthony banged his head on the front side window. Patrick fell off the occasional seat.
Clifford picked himself up. Mrs Collier uttered little moans and gasps and tried to replace her glasses which had fallen on to her shoulder. The minister, finding himself in a near embrace with his wife, hastily detached himself. Sir Wilfrid was powerless to do anything except gaze with mute surprise at his oppressors. Patrick decided it was easier for the time being to stay where he was.
Some of the crowd moved towards the car, good-naturedly holding up their arms to show how muddy it had made them. Simon abruptly pushed the accelerator right down, the car jumped, then slid again, and the approaching men were showered with more mud. They dodged, slipped, shouted and banged angrily on the roof. One opened the passenger door, where Anthony sat clutching his head, and shouted at him. Simon said something shrill in Zulu, jumped out of the car and fled, leaving the engine stalled and his chauffeur’s cap upturned in the mud.
Another man banged on the rear window. The noise inside the car was frighteningly loud. Sir Wilfrid tried to move but couldn’t because Mrs Collier was leaning heavily upon him, clutching her husband, who winced each time a fist hit roof or window. Clifford was on the floor again trying to get up. Patrick, who had stayed on the floor, rose and tried to open his door. Someone was pressing against it. He braced himself against the occasional seat and pushed. The man stepped back and Patrick almost fell out.
He looked at the crowd and they at him. Most of the spectators had left the fight and were gathered round the car. One of them wore a jacket with a torn sleeve. He kept waving and shouting something. Patrick knew that at least some of the words were English but could not understand them. He felt mentally intact but for the memory of words, which appeared to have forsaken him entirely.
It was probably no more than a second or two before he pointed at the car and said, ‘We’re stuck – can you push?’ He made a pushing motion with his arms, as Sir Wilfrid had done when they had been stuck before. It had seemed absurd then but now seemed natural. ‘Can you push?’ he repeated,
gesturing vigorously.
Several of the faces near him smiled. There was more incomprehensible speech. He smiled back and others grinned and laughed. There was general movement towards the car. The door had been left open by Simon and so Patrick got in and tried to start the engine. At first nothing happened because the automatic gearbox was still engaged. Patrick disengaged it and the engine started at once.
Anthony looked at him as if he had trouble focusing. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I am. Are you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I don’t think you are.’
‘You may be right.’ He remained staring at Patrick.
The glass division was lowered and Clifford’s fleshy face was thrust between them. He spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘Do nothing, don’t move. You’ll only make them worse. Stay as you are. They might lose interest and go away.’
The minister’s face appeared alongside Clifford’s. He breathed rapidly and his eyes bulged. ‘Get the police!’ he hissed to Anthony. Seeing no reaction he turned to Patrick. ‘Get out and talk to them. Make them stand back. Keep them talking. Tell them I’m from the British government.’
‘It’s all right, they’re helping us.’ Patrick engaged the gears and accelerated slowly, turning the front wheels so that they pointed down the slope. The big car was light and responded with almost alarming ease. There was pushing and heaving from outside. More black faces appeared at the windows, causing Mrs Collier to whimper. The car edged forward and there was a great cheer.
At this point Sir Wilfrid opened his door and stepped out. His shirt-tail showed from under his jacket, his hair was ruffled and his tie askew. He stood with one hand in the air, like mad Lear in a suit. ‘This is the Brit-ish ambass-ad-or. Do you un-der-stand? The Brit-ish am-bass-ador.’ He shouted over the startled faces nearest him as if addressing multitudes ranged over the hills. He raised his voice still more. ‘We have visit-ed your cultur-al centre. We are visit-ors. We mean no harm. There is a Brit-ish government min-ister—’
