Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  ‘D’you know what I’d like to do with your baby?’

  Claire smiled for the first time. ‘He is awfully cuddly, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’d like to eat him. They look so succulent when they’re very young. Those lovely plump little limbs and rosy cheeks. Don’t they make your mouth water?’

  Claire glanced at her husband, then back at Chatsworth. ‘I think that’s disgusting.’

  ‘Come on, you must admit they’d be a delicacy if they weren’t human babies. They even smell nice when they’re clean.’

  Sandy giggled and Claire turned away, muttering to her husband. He nodded faintly and, with a smile of goodbye, led his wife back towards the house.

  ‘What else would you like to eat?’ Sandy asked Chatsworth.

  It was Joanna’s gesture rather than her face or her blue dress that caught Patrick’s eye. She had her hair tied back but a stray piece fell forward and, with the habitual movement he had first noticed in the airport lounge, she quickly pushed it into place. He left the others and walked over to her. ‘I’m glad you came.’

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  He touched her hand and felt an answering pressure. The sky had now clouded over completely and the breeze was cooler still but he was sure he was physically warmed by her presence. ‘We must leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘But I’ve only just got here.’

  ‘I know. In fact I can’t leave before the ambassador or the minister. It’s not allowed. But we’ll go as soon as they do.’

  ‘Will I meet your lodger?’

  ‘Yes, and his intended.’ He introduced her. Chatsworth told her she was known as ‘in-due-course’ and then told everyone else why. Joanna laughed, as did Patrick, but he was suddenly aware of her Lower African accent amongst all the English and, tense and defensive, waited to see if Rachel would get at her in some way. But Rachel was pleasant and was in any case more interested in knowing who all the other guests were.

  She turned to Patrick. ‘I’m going to talk to some of them. Don’t introduce me. This is so awful it’s actually quite enjoyable. I’ve had a good day today.’

  ‘What else have you done?’

  ‘I’ve got some super stuff on tape for this trial programme.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘Oh, just background stuff – what you’d expect me to get.’ She smiled and accepted another drink from the servant procured by Chatsworth. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t got a mike down my cleavage.’

  The ambassador beckoned and Clifford left the group, only to return and say gruffly that the ambassador wanted Patrick and Chatsworth. He told Sandy to circulate more.

  The ambassador was still with the minister and his wife, their area of lawn having been purged of guests. The minister was still talking about his meeting in the MFA which had apparently ended with him giving his unsolicited views on Lower Africa’s racial problems.

  ‘They tried to tell me I should go and wash my own back doorstep. Bloody cheek.’ He looked at Sir Wilfrid. ‘Lower Africans are obstinate.’

  Sir Wilfrid nodded gloomily. ‘We’ve worked for years to establish reasonable relations with the possibility of influence. We’re in no position to bully and any other pressure has at best no effect and is at worst counter-productive. It’s a very long job. It requires patience.’

  ‘Maybe, but they appreciate straight talking, these people. They’re like that themselves. They understand it.’ He noticed Chatsworth. ‘Where d’you get that beer?’

  Chatsworth’s expression had the solemnity of an oath. ‘I’ll get you one.’ He walked off and reappeared with another pint. The minister tasted it. They discussed small breweries in the north of England. Chatsworth said that two more pints were on their way.

  The minister wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his chins. ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ said his wife.

  He turned confidentially to Chatsworth. ‘How d’you reckon on handling these Lower Africans?’

  Chatsworth’s manner was serious, determined and crisp. ‘No good messing about.’

  ‘Exactly what I say. You’ve got to put it to them. Make sure everyone knows where they stand.’

  They gazed approvingly at each other. Each drank deeply from his pint. Chatsworth gave an account of his arrest in short, punchy sentences, leaving out the reason for it. Patrick caught his eye and grinned but saw only sincerity and purpose. The other pints arrived.

  Sir Wilfrid sighed, turned away and gazed at the darkening sky. ‘He has probably put back British-Lower African relations by a good ten years,’ he said quietly to Patrick. ‘He wouldn’t let me come with him to the meeting, an unheard-of procedure. Now I know why. We’ve probably less chance of influencing them than we’ve ever had. Perhaps it’s as well I wasn’t there. Normal diplomatic relations can go on as I wasn’t associated with it.’

  The major event of the party was the arrival of Mrs Hosanna Anna Acupu, the Kuwetan lady councillor whose excess baggage was included with Patrick’s. She was six feet tall and very nearly as wide. Her body was wrapped in a red sari and on her fat black arm, which Patrick judged thicker than his own thigh, she carried a small white leather handbag. She beamed at everyone.

  Following his experience of Kuweto the minister greeted her as one comrade-in-arms to another. Hands were shaken, Mrs Collier was shaken and Mrs Acupu displayed a mouthful of teeth like new tombstones. Sir Wilfrid escorted and introduced her courteously.

  She and Patrick shook hands vigorously. He said how pleased he was to meet her.

  ‘I thank you for your condolences,’ she replied. ‘The plight of the black people is truly bad.’

  ‘Appalling,’ said Chatsworth as a way of getting himself introduced.

  ‘They are trodden beneath by racist Lower Africans,’ continued Mrs Acupu.

  ‘We saw enough of that this morning,’ said the minister. ‘I did what I could but I can’t answer for what happened after I left.’

  Mrs Acupu continued to beam. ‘Your country was very well when I was there and many people are interested in the plight of the black people of Lower Africa but your government is mean. I do not understand them. I do not know why that is.’

  ‘Very often the new immigrants are the worst offenders in Lower Africa, the most repressive and racist,’ Sir Wilfrid put in quickly. ‘There’s a great deal of Italian money here.’

  ‘Much for the Italians but not for the black people.’

  ‘Always the same with Eyeties,’ said the minister.

  Chatsworth gazed at Mrs Acupu with an expression of shocked concern. ‘I am appalled that you should have been treated meanly.’

  ‘So am I,’ said the minister quickly. ‘Make sure we take the details. Someone will look into it.’

  Mrs Acupu bent her head and sighed. ‘When I come to take my baggage—’

  Sir Wilfrid interrupted. ‘Your excess baggage has come with Patrick’s baggage. It’s all here.’

  Mrs Acupu turned to Patrick with a huge grin. ‘You have my baggage?’

  ‘Well, no, not as far as I know. Certainly, it wasn’t there when I left.’

  Sir Wilfrid shook his head. ‘Miss Teale told me it was to be delivered this afternoon. Perhaps she forgot to mention it to you. There’s some problem about your car, though. You’d better speak to her.’

  ‘You have a car?’ Mrs Acupu was delighted. ‘You can deliver my baggage please.’

  Sir Wilfrid said that the embassy would deliver it for her. The Jaguar would be put at her disposal.

  ‘I thank you,’ said Mrs Acupu.

  More drinks were served, with more beer for the minister and Chatsworth. There was some inconclusive talk about sanctions which was brought to an end by Mrs Collier, who had been staring at the pool.

  ‘What makes the water so blue?’ she asked.

  Everyone looked at the pool.

  ‘The colour of the sky,’ said the minister. Everyone looked skywards but the clouds were now inky black
. One or two heavy drops of rain fell.

  ‘Chemicals,’ suggested Sir Wilfrid.

  ‘It is the natural colour of the water,’ concluded Mrs Acupu. Everyone nodded.

  ‘I’m frozen,’ said Mrs Collier.

  The onset of rain was expected but unprepared for. In the absence of a lead from Sir Wilfrid no one liked to suggest moving tables, chairs and people inside. Sir Wilfrid himself could not be relied upon to notice the change in weather. The rain fell suddenly and massively with a fury that was almost personal. Even so there was a moment’s hesitation before the stampede to get into the house under the veranda. It both finished and made the party. People huddled away from the edge of the veranda, laughing and wet, while the rain spattered venomously on to the concrete. Clifford pushed his way here and there trying to organise something. Patrick kept out of his way and sought Joanna, but found the minister. He was in a corner of the veranda, huddled protectively round his beer and unnoticed by the taller people crowded over him. He seemed not to mind.

  ‘Good man, that Chatsworth,’ he said. ‘He’s gone to get some more and lock the rest away so this mob don’t get at it. I told him he should stay on here for a few more weeks. You never know, he might be able to pull something out of the bag. Strikes me the embassy could do with someone like him around. He’s staying with you, I’m told? Good. Well, give him all the help you can and don’t worry about the cost. We’re paying the firm’s fees. I’ll square it with the Lower Africans. Oh, and by the way.’ He held Patrick by the arm. ‘That fat black woman, the one who’s on the make. What does she do here?’

  ‘She’s a councillor, that’s all I know. Sir Wilfrid knows much more.’

  ‘No matter, no matter. Just humour her. Important we’re seen to get on with her sort.’

  ‘Why?’ Joanna had joined them. She stood with hunched shoulders because of the crush and stared challengingly at the minister. ‘Why is it important to be seen to be getting on with people who are on the make?’

  The minister looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, it’s not the fact that she’s on the make – if she is. I didn’t mean she necessarily is. No, it’s because she’s representative—’

  ‘Black, d’you mean?’ Her voice was sharp and her grey eyes were fixed firmly on the minister. She did not look at Patrick.

  ‘No, no, I mean representative. It doesn’t matter whether she’s black or white.’

  ‘Is it important to be seen to get on with white people on the make?’

  The minister looked bewildered and angry. He glanced round as if for assistance. ‘It is simply a question of representation. No more than that. She represents—’

  ‘Herself. She’s no more representative of Kuweto than you are. There’s a whole group of them who live off people like you.’

  Patrick had never seen her like this. She almost glowed with resolution. He wished only that she could have chosen someone else, such as Clifford. ‘Joanna, this is the minister of state, Mr Collier. Minister, this is—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ she interrupted, still without looking at him. ‘You must think I’m very rude. It’s just that a lot of people come to our country and talk to a few token blacks or coloureds and think they know it all and then tell us how to live when they get safely back to their own countries. They’re not really interested, they don’t really want to find out anything. They just want to be confirmed in their views so they can look good back home. If you really want to talk to blacks you’d be better off with your servant or your driver. I bet you don’t even know his name.’

  The minister was plainly disconcerted. He had begun to say that he fully understood and sympathised when Chatsworth thrust himself between them with more beer.

  Patrick led her away. ‘I don’t suppose that’s done your career much good,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, no, he’s only the minister.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve seen so many people come here with that sort of attitude, it’s so irritating. They’re just out to do good for themselves and they use us as the whipping-boys. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were sincere. They’re always so smug and yet if they lived here they’d be just like us. That’s what gets me.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry, it must’ve been embarrassing for you.’

  He put his hand on her arm. ‘Let’s have dinner. No one will notice if we run away now.’

  ‘I’ll get my jacket.’

  Chatsworth rejoined him. ‘I think the minister’s onside. Seems to approve of me.’

  ‘I don’t think he approves of me any more.’

  ‘No. Had to distance myself from you a bit. He was on about your performance in Kuweto this morning. Then said you’d introduced him to some harpy. I didn’t say anything too bad.’

  ‘I’ll give you my side of it later.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying all my life. No one ever wants to hear it, that’s the trouble.’

  Patrick thought of his own domestic responsibility. ‘Did you also explain how Rachel came to be here?’

  ‘No need. I introduced her to the giantess and they went nineteen to the dozen on how injust it all is. Inequality, freedom and all that. I think the minister fancies her. That helped.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Taking her tights off.’

  ‘For him?’

  ‘For me. I asked her.’

  ‘That’s a little premature, isn’t it?’

  ‘I just wanted to see if she’d do it when I asked her. I said I wanted her to give them to me.’

  ‘I never knew you had a nylon fetish.’

  Chatsworth glanced over his shoulder. ‘Don’t shout it round the houses. Anyway, I don’t. It’s the exercise of power. Getting her to do something she doesn’t normally do, just because I ask her. It makes her feel desired and adds excitement for me. You only ever do it with a woman you haven’t had, of course. Just to see. No point if you know she will.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought Rachel would like to be regarded as a sex object.’

  Chatsworth shook his head impatiently. ‘Everyone wants to be regarded as a sex object. All the problems start when they think they’re not. Anyway, I’m a hero of the coming revolution, remember.’

  Joanna reappeared. ‘Joanna’s been getting her jacket,’ Patrick said to Chatsworth. ‘Didn’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Tell you later,’ said Patrick. Chatsworth grinned and looked round for something else to do.

  They ate an uninteresting meal in an expensive French restaurant in the city centre. All food in Battenburg tasted very much alike whatever its alleged origin, but there was at least plenty of it. As it was, Patrick hardly noticed that he was eating and Joanna ate little. He was voluble and self-indulgent; she listened, laughed, sympathised, questioned. She was horrified by his description of the beating of the helpers in Kuweto, but seemed more so by his account of Chatsworth.

  ‘But he was so nice,’ she said, pained. ‘Quite charming, really. You make him sound awful.’

  ‘Can’t he be both?’

  ‘How long is he staying?’

  ‘Indefinitely.’

  Later she said, ‘I wish you were more often like this. You’re usually so tense and restrained, as if you’re watching me. It’s horrible sometimes.’ She smiled. ‘It’s interesting too.’

  They decided they should go to the coast together for a few days. She had some friends there with whom they could stay and she could leave Belinda with other friends. Jim had a part-share in a plane that went there and back nearly every week. They could go down in that free.

  ‘Wouldn’t he mind?’

  ‘No. If he did he’d say. He’s very straight, you know, Jim. And he likes you.’

  A thunderstorm broke as they came out of the restaurant. They ran to the car through pelting rain. The thunder rolled back and forth amongst the tower blocks and sheet-lightning rent the night. Water ran down the gutters of
the hill so deeply that it covered the exhaust pipes of cars. The bakkie was high enough to escape trouble but even so it was difficult to reach because of the surge of foaming brown water.

  Patrick drove slowly, the rain bouncing on the bonnet. They were in a white area, allegedly the most violent in Battenburg, and to Patrick the lightning, the hammering rain and the overflowing gutters were symbolic of a Battenburg that had finally burst apart. He felt heavy with foreboding but not of anything he could express. Joanna was cheerful and positive, enjoying the storm, but he was quiet. Once, as he nosed the bakkie across a junction where the robots had failed, they saw a motorbike on its side, the front wheel still spinning, and in the road a shoe. Two cars were slewed across the pavement and people were just getting out. Patrick considered stopping but decided there were enough people around to help. Farther on, outside a hotel notorious for its stabbings, there was an ambulance and three police cars. His sense of foreboding increased.

  When they got back the light was on in Sarah’s quarters. She was in her room with two women with whom she usually went to church. They were sitting and talking, all in their church uniforms. Sarah made to get up but Patrick prevented her. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I thought you’d gone to church and I wondered why the light was on.’

  ‘No, massa, it is raining so we are not going.’

  ‘You don’t go in the rain?’

  She shook her head. ‘The rain makes much mud. It is not good.’

  ‘Is the church outside then?’

  ‘No, but the way there is muddy. Also, there are bad boys near that church and it is easy to get lost.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift.’ He regretted it as he spoke because they would not all fit into the cab and because Joanna was upstairs.

  The three women conferred in Zulu, then Sarah shook her head again and smiled awkwardly. ‘Thank you, massa, but we do not go. It is not good in the rain.’

  He could not prevent them all from standing and thanking him again.

  Before they slept Joanna described the house on the coast where they could stay. It would do him good to get away, she said. Also, they had never seen each other outside Battenburg and Battenburg was a strange place; it made people tense, distorted them; the rest of Lower Africa was not like that. There was a public holiday that weekend. It would be a good time to get away.