Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  He was woken by the sound of the rape-gate being closed with accidental force, followed by excited whispering and laughing. He had left it open for Rachel and Chatsworth. They could not lock it because he had the key. He heard them go down the corridor, presumably to the same bed, and considered getting up to lock the gate. But Joanna snuggled closer, muttering something, and he stayed where he was.

  He was next woken by the sound of the gate opening. The clock showed two in the morning and he lay tense and still, straining to listen. Hearing nothing, he disengaged himself, got up, wrapped a towel round his hips and cautiously opened the bedroom door. The rape-gate was half open, the shadow of its bars thrown across the landing carpet by the downstairs light. He slipped through and went softly down the stairs.

  Chatsworth, also clad in a towel, sat on a chair in the kitchen. His elbow was on the table and his head was in his hand, as in a rough imitation of Rodin’s Thinker. The fridge door was open and a half-finished glass of milk was on the table before him.

  He looked up when Patrick entered. ‘It must be the beer. It’s the only thing I can think of.’

  ‘It’s made you ill?’

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  It was some seconds before Patrick understood. ‘You mean you can’t do it?’

  Chatsworth shook his head. ‘After all that build-up. She was practically frantic.’

  ‘D’you think the milk will help?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s refreshing. Does you good when you’re tired. At least it’s not beer. I blame the minister, of course, but that doesn’t cut much ice with Rachel.’

  Patrick tried not to smile. ‘It happened to me once.’

  Chatsworth stared. ‘Good. I’ll tell her that. She’ll feel much better.’

  ‘You’ll probably be all right if you go and have a sleep. Have another go afterwards.’

  ‘Don’t s’pose she’ll have me back in the bed. Not that it would be worth it anyway. Never is. Our bodies are simply programmed to want to keep on doing it, whether we like it or not, that’s all. But now that I want to do it, my body doesn’t. Typical.’

  There was not much else to say and so Patrick turned to go. ‘Don’t worry about locking the rape-gate. Just push it to.’

  Chatsworth lifted his chin from his hand for the first time. ‘If that was meant to be funny, it was pretty poor taste.’

  When Patrick got to the top of the stairs he noticed that Sarah’s light was still on. She was alone, still in her church uniform, and sat staring at something out of sight, or at nothing. As he watched she got up wearily and walked to the window. Her movements were slow and her features heavy. She looked up but did not see him. She pulled the curtains together with a weighty finality.

  19

  The minister left the following day. ‘An example of how low-key political contacts can be constructive,’ Clifford read aloud from one of the papers. ‘Both governments now understand each other better and the minister’s disaster-averting diplomacy in Kuweto has shown how dialogue, patience and human contact can help in even the most difficult circumstances.’ He folded the paper and dropped it on the desk. ‘Nice that someone appreciates our efforts. Too much to expect of old Formerly, of course.’

  Though still not well, Philip went to the airport rather than Patrick. ‘You don’t mind if I see him off?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Patrick truthfully.

  ‘It’s just that after all that work I’d like to see something of the man.’ He smiled. ‘Not that I expect great enlightenment.’

  Patrick’s baggage had arrived the previous afternoon, as Sir Wilfrid had predicted. The garage was now nearly filled with boxes and crates, none of which he at first recognised as his own. After rooting about with Chatsworth, Sarah and Deuteronomy, to the accompaniment of frustrated barking from Snap who was locked in the house, three battered boxes were dragged out and identified as his. Sarah unpacked them with growing disappointment.

  ‘Massa, is this all your things?’

  Patrick capitulated immediately. ‘We’ll buy some more, Sarah.’

  ‘I make a list?’

  ‘Yes, please, make a long list.’

  A couple of large boxes were claimed by Rachel as the teaching materials that she and Maurice had asked Patrick to include in his baggage. She had them pushed to one side. ‘Lucky I was here when they arrived. Saves you having to find the schools they’re going to. I’ll get them to pick them up. Don’t bother opening them now.’ She was cheerful and business-like. Her manner towards Chatsworth was friendly though slightly offhand. He was helpful, solicitous and subdued.

  The embassy Jaguar arrived with Mrs Acupu. She beamed and then spoke sharply to Sarah and Deuteronomy. She insisted on checking the contents of her boxes. They contained an abundance of brightly-coloured clothes, several dozen pairs of men’s and women’s shoes and several rolls of cloth. Patrick had been told that the kind of shoe worn was an important status symbol amongst blacks and he noticed that most of the shoes were large and ostentatious. The Jaguar would have to make several trips; Deuteronomy was detailed to help.

  ‘Is there much to be made from clothes?’ Chatsworth asked Mrs Acupu. They walked away from the house to continue the conversation. She made expansive gestures and accompanied her words with a number of high-pitched exclamations.

  ‘She’s some sort of racketeer,’ Chatsworth said, when she went. ‘Or her husband is. Whatever it is, it’s pretty good. I’m told Kuweto is run by a lot of gangland bosses and he sounds like one of them. Worth keeping in with her. She thinks I own this place. I didn’t disabuse her but don’t worry, I shall if necessary.’ He looked at Patrick for signs of appreciation.

  ‘What was she talking to you about?’ asked Rachel. She had opened one of her boxes, then closed it again.

  ‘Extortion.’

  ‘God, how awful. Is there much of it?’

  ‘Heaps.’

  Sarah came out to say that there was someone on the telephone for Rachel. Chatsworth looked sadly after her.

  ‘I didn’t realise she was flying back to London this afternoon. Now I’ll never get the chance to redeem myself. She’ll spread it all round London.’

  Patrick tried to look sympathetic. ‘Do you have many friends in common?’

  ‘You never know. Anyway, it’s the thought that’s hurtful.’ He trod on a piece of wrapping paper and turned his foot till the paper was torn. ‘This means I’ll have to continue in the role of victim, playing to her sense of mission and guilt. They all have it, these trendies.’

  Patrick leant against the wall and folded his arms. There were moments of enjoyment in talking to Chatsworth, no matter what else was going on. ‘Tell me, why d’you call her a trendy? Many people might see her as normal and reasonable. I mean, just because she makes a fuss about being anti-racist—’

  Chatsworth shook his head. ‘But that’s not normal. Nearly everyone is racist at heart. We all look down on other races. Every race does that, even if only subconsciously. That’s what’s normal. It’s just that a few people like me admit it and a lot of others like her sense it and don’t.’

  Rachel appeared at the door. ‘I’m going to get a cab into Battenburg and use up the rest of my tape. Be back this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m going into the embassy.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’m not ready yet.’ She disappeared inside.

  ‘Probably thought I might come,’ said Chatsworth gloomily.

  Patrick took her to the airport later that afternoon. He missed her farewell to Chatsworth, who was not much in evidence.

  ‘I’ve arranged for some guys from the school to come and pick up the teaching materials,’ she said. ‘It’s been really sweet of you to put up with me. You’ve been great. Thanks.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘A school in Kuweto. They’ll be up some time, there’s no need for you to do anything. They were really grateful.’


  He asked if Chatsworth had mentioned when he might return to London. He hadn’t.

  ‘He’s a funny guy,’ she continued reflectively. ‘Sometimes I think he’s not what he seems at all but when you’ve been through what he’s been through, in prison and all that, I s’pose it alters you. He’s very sensitive. He goes about things in a funny way, sort of indirectly, and when it comes to—’ She lit a cigarette and opened the window. ‘No, but they did some terrible things to him in prison and it’s left him psychologically scarred. It just comes over him every now and again. He was telling me about it last night.’

  Patrick was slightly tempted to tell her about Chatsworth but there was too much to explain. Anyway, it didn’t seem fair on either of them – although he was a little surprised to find himself applying the concept of fairness as readily to Chatsworth as to others. Perhaps it was more deeply ingrained than he had realised.

  He accompanied her through immigration, as his diplomatic status permitted, and she enthused about how her recordings would help on her course. Her contemporaries would have recorded the socially deprived in the inner cities or at best immigrant communities but she had real stuff from real people in Kuweto. It might be good enough to turn into an actual programme instead of just a mock-up. Daddy would throw a fit if he knew what he’d coughed up the air-fare for.

  When she’d gone he rang Joanna from an airport call box. If he had waited until he had got back to the embassy he would have had to ring in the presence of Philip.

  ‘You must be telepathic,’ she said. ‘I’ve just rung you.’ He did not believe he was telepathic. ‘Why?’ Beauty had been caught gambling again. She had gone off to the park with some other women and the police had arrested them. Joanna heard the wailing and went out and pleaded with the policemen, eventually bursting into tears. ‘I felt awful because it was partly deliberate, you know, but not completely. I mean, it was also because Jim had been round again and I was a bit upset and it was just one thing on top of another. It wasn’t just because of Beauty. I know I’d be lost without her and it was horrible seeing her being taken away though she deserves it, the little monkey. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a hundred times but all the same I’d hate to think of her in prison.’ She laughed. ‘You know, I cried my eyes out, all over his uniform, and all the time I knew I could’ve stopped if I’d wanted. Wasn’t that awful? And both the policemen got so embarrassed they let all the women go. They shouted, “Run! Vamoose!” and you should’ve seen them scamper off.’ She laughed again.

  She wanted to talk. He asked questions and she went on for some time. Eventually he asked what had happened with Jim.

  ‘Oh, nothing happened. He just talked, you know. He told me he’s arranged everything with the plane for the weekend.’

  ‘Are you sure he doesn’t mind?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, really. He likes helping people, anyone, even you and me.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that I do get a bit upset when he comes round because – well, not because he’s awkward or anything but he’s very vulnerable, you know, much more than he might seem. I mean, I know he’s unhappy but he doesn’t complain about it and that makes it worse in a way. He still keeps saying how much he likes you and he still keeps calling you the “temporary boyfriend”. You’re sure you’re not going away?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’ There had never been any suggestion that he should leave, but he still felt dishonest in being so definite. The feeling of transience had not decreased during his time in Lower Africa.

  ‘You’re quite, quite sure?’ she asked, perhaps sensing uncertainty in his tone.

  ‘Quite, quite, quite. I’ll come and see you after work.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to say. I was thinking I was going to have to say it myself.’

  Work on the report of the minister’s visit began immediately. It was an important document and would go out under the ambassador’s signature. Clifford delegated it to Philip.

  Philip achieved a major coup by going to the MFA desk officer concerned with British affairs. The man was indiscreet and over lunch gave an oral summary of the Lower African view of the visit. This was that it was neither successful nor unsuccessful, that the British position on all major issues was as predicted and that the minister, though tactless and ill-informed, had an instinctive grasp of political realities which the Lower Africans respected.

  ‘Didn’t they say anything better than that?’ asked Clifford.

  Philip looked puzzled. ‘Well, no, but isn’t it important that we know what they really think rather than what they say to the press? I mean, it’s pretty unusual, getting the other side’s view of a ministerial visit.’ He smiled. ‘In my career it’s unique.’

  ‘Fact-finding mission, that’s all it was,’ said Clifford. ‘Anyway, we can’t say in writing that the minister’s ill-informed and tactless. Reflects badly on us. You’ll have to leave that out.’

  Patrick saw the draft before it went to Clifford. It was succinct, truthful and detailed, but Clifford was no better pleased. ‘I don’t like all this stuff about our positions being predictable.’

  ‘But that’s what they thought,’ said Philip. ‘There were no surprises.’

  ‘Can’t you say it lived up to expectations?’

  ‘But that’s not what they meant. It conveys a false impression.’

  Clifford frowned. ‘I’m not sure it does, you know, not really. You see, this is as much a report on us as on the minister. Let me have your draft. I’ll do the necessary.’

  The final report was flattering, self-congratulatory and misleading. Sir Wilfrid was surprised that the Lower Africans had been so pleased.

  Philip raised his hands in the air. ‘There is corruption amongst honest men. I feel the waters closing over my head.’

  ‘Is corruption essential?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think it might be.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave?’

  ‘Mortgage, school-fees, allowances. It would be easier for you.’

  ‘Would you in my position?’

  Philip smiled. ‘To be honest, I enjoy being a bureaucrat. I’d just like the chance to be a good one now and again.’

  After persuasion from Patrick, Sarah eventually rang her village to hear if Stanley was back, but no one had seen him. She was less worried than he had thought she would be. ‘He will come back, I think. He always come back.’

  Patrick took her shopping farther into town than they normally went. They parked on one side of a main road and shopped in the hypermarket on the other. It was not as good as their usual one. ‘We do another shop for the meat,’ said Sarah. Also, they had to go to a chemist where every fortnight he bought her tablets for high blood pressure. It was, he had discovered, his duty to pay for his servants’ health care.

  Laden with bags, they crossed the road on the way back. It was illegal in Lower Africa to cross against a red signal or to cross in towns at anywhere other than junctions. The busy oneway street was clear because the traffic was held up by another robot fifty yards to the left. They crossed with half a dozen others, although the robot indicated that pedestrians should wait. At the far side a policeman stepped out from behind a parked car and stood in front of Sarah.

  ‘I’m fining you for making an illegal crossing.’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘Let me see your identity card.’

  The others who had crossed were white. They glanced at what was happening and walked on. Sarah looked frightened and guilty. The policeman prodded her with his notebook.

  Patrick put down his shopping. Sarah was fumbling in her handbag. Her fear and guilt in the face of authority communicated itself and his first instinct was to dissociate himself from her. He knew he would stay, though, and seeing the policeman prod her awakened in him an anger which he also knew he should not show. ‘Why have you picked on her?’ he asked slowly. ‘We all crossed, me with her.’

  The policeman was young, like the one in Kuweto. He had a new and unc
ertain moustache. ‘This is not your business. If you take my advice you’ll make yourself scarce.’

  ‘If she’s in trouble, I should be in trouble. I’m her employer and I crossed with her.’

  The policeman stepped back as if making room to draw his pistol. ‘Let me see your life certificate.’

  Life certificates were a compound and detailed document of identity which the law said all Lower African citizens should carry. They were not yet issued to blacks, who had pass books or identity cards. Patrick showed his diplomatic identity card. Sarah clutched her handbag in both hands and looked down. Her shopping lay at her feet. Whilst his card was being examined Patrick put his hand on her shoulder and told her not to worry. She did not look up but remained mute and unmoving, like a rabbit that hopes danger will pass if it only keeps still.

  ‘Are you a diplomat?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Yes.’ Patrick sensed that this was where the battle could be won if he were prepared to stop fighting. The policeman was hesitant, probably did not want trouble and was prevented only by his pride from walking away from it. If Patrick offered to take Sarah home and see that she didn’t do it again, apologising for himself at the same time, all could still be well. But the sight of her bowed head hardened the stubbornness within him. ‘You singled out this lady because she’s black. If you arrest her you must arrest me, too.’

  The policeman hesitated no longer. ‘I’m taking her to police headquarters. If you want to come you can.’ He pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘You’re not going to use those on her?’

  ‘I use what I like.’ He pulled Sarah’s wrists together and handcuffed them. She still clung to her handbag and did not notice Patrick’s attempt to relieve her of it. His face as he did so came very close to the policeman’s. He was younger than Patrick and did not look strong. Patrick wanted to hit him. Instead he picked up Sarah’s shopping and walked alongside them.