Contango (Ill Wind) (35 page)

“Yes, I think that’s rather true. Which reminds me, Elliott,
talking of passion and the lack of it, I had a visit from that fellow
Gathergood the other day. You remember the case?”

“GATHERGOOD? I do seem to have heard of the name,
but—”

“He was the Agent at Cuava and mishandled some native trouble that
cropped up. The Court of Enquiry sat on him pretty heavily.”

“Ah, yes, that was it. And as a result of the Enquiry, we’ve
more or less annexed Cuava, haven’t we?”

“‘Annexed’ is a pre-War word, Elliott. Say rather
we’ve accepted a mandate to look after the place, though it
isn’t, I’m afraid, going to be the brightest jewel in the British
Crown; on the contrary, there’s already a deficit of a hundred thousand
or so in the local budget. We’re building roads and bridges as if the
Pax Britannica were going to last for ever, and the natives are taking all we
give them and hating us for it. Lord knows why we do these things… but I
was mentioning this chap Gathergood. A queer fellow.”

“It seemed to me at the time, I remember, that he’d been
unfortunate rather than blameworthy.”

“That’s more or less what he told me himself. Very chilly,
strong-jawed type—absolutely without emotion—a. Frenchman or an
Italian or a Russian would probably have been in tears or shaking their fists
over the business.”

“Yes, I should have guessed him to be cool-headed. What did you do
for him?”

“What could I? Nothing fails like failure, and there are still a few
messrooms where, if you say ‘Gathergood,’ you’ll get an
immediate explosion. Even a first-rate civil service has to have its
occasional scapegoats—Pontius Pilate, for instance…. D’you
feel equal to a liqueur brandy upstairs, by the way?”

“Thanks, I don’t mind. But I must look in at the Office again
soon. Perhaps Walton will have ’phoned through.”

“What’s your opinion of Walton? Do you think it was a wise
choice to send him out?”

“He’s a sound fellow.”

“But don’t you think a somewhat younger man—?”

Then, for the first time, Elliott’s voice was raised a tone.
“Good God, Petrie, he’s only sixty-four—a man’s not
on the shelf at that age. Why, I’m sixty myself—sixty to-
day.”

Petrie laughed. “Congratulations. I’m glad you mentioned
it.” Then, summoning the waiter, he added: “Wash out that order I
gave, and bring Napoleon brandy—in the big glasses.”

“Extravagance!” said Elliott, smiling.

Towards ten o’clock he walked across Horse Guard’s Parade.
There was a full moon, and all was very still and peaceful; the traffic along
the Mall was only a glittering, murmuring horizon. He noticed a young man
embracing a girl in the shadow between two lamp-posts, and for a moment he
envied them their ecstasy, but more so their ease of mind and unconsciousness
of time. He knew, from such envy, that he was doing what he rarely did: he
was worrying. This Conference business … if it all broke down, nothing very
dreadful was to be expected immediately, or even soon; but years hence,
probably long after he was put to earth, something MIGHT happen… or
mightn’t. Then why bother? One made all these efforts, one ached over
these hopes and anxieties, and all the time one grew older—forty,
fifty, sixty—while the world went on with an apparent heedlessness of
whether one cared about it or not. Life was too short for an ordinary man of
affairs (which was all he reckoned himself) to touch the wheel of destiny
with more than a finger-tip; while even a Napoleon or a Mussolini could get
no more than half a hand-grip—for half a second.

Just as he climbed the steps to enter the Office Jevons ran down almost
into his arms. “Hullo, sir, I ’phoned the club and they told me
you were walking over. I was coming to meet you. There’s just been a
message from Walton….”

“Tell me,” said Elliott, leading him towards the silver
emptiness of the Parade.

“It’s good news, sir. Tribourov’s only slightly
hurt.”

“Oh…. Oh…. Thank God….”

“And apparently he’s using his influence to calm things down.
Walton’s seen him. Walton thinks the situation will be smoothed
over.”

And so on… Elliott was suddenly, in the midst of his relief, aware that
the day had been strenuous, and that he was rather tired. Jevons continued to
talk, but Elliott was only half-listening; he would have to get him to go
over everything again later on—perhaps in the morning. But he felt,
beyond his relief and his tiredness, something more fugitive—a certain
communion of spirit with a man hundreds of miles away whom he had never seen,
and whose language he could not speak—something that made him exclaim,
as he took Devon’s arm: “Tribourov sounds a good
fellow.”

“He’s certainly not monkeying, anyway, sir.”

“Perhaps I shall meet him some day. I hope so. I can’t tell
how you relieved I feel.”

“I know. I could see you were bothered. But you always take things
pretty calmly—more than I often can. I had a terrific wind-up this
afternoon, for instance, when that plane began to come down.”

“Really?”

“I was picturing both our obituaries in the papers—two
columns for you and an inch paragraph for me…. I say, that’s
love’s young dream, if you like, isn’t it—just over
there?”

“Very much so. I noticed them as I came along just now. Charming,
Jevons—quite charming. Laugh if you want, but you’ll feel more
like crying when you’re my age.”

He had been young with Petrie, but Jevons made him feel grandfatherly.
They passed into Birdcage Walk and across Victoria Street to Elliott’s
house. All the way Jevons talked, and Elliott was nearly silent; he felt too
tired to know anything but that his birthday had been, on the whole, a
success. In his arm-chair over a final cigar, after Jevons had said
good-night, he reviewed the hours and how variedly they had
progressed—breakfast at Chilver, the meeting at Sibleys, sandwiches in
mid-air, that winding lane to Upeasy, tea with the P. M., the club dinner,
and now this last good news… so much could happen in a day, and so little
in a lifetime. Sixty years of doing and being, of threading blindly into the
pattern, yet with eyes that never lost their hope of sight. And sometimes, as
just now, one felt a touch in the darkness beyond the everlasting criss-cross
of chance—a touch that, in an earlier and more faithful age, would
have sent one to one’s knees.

Elliott did not kneel. But when he went to bed a little later, he fell
asleep as quickly and as peacefully as a child.