Fillets of Plaice, by Gerald Durrell (13 page)

“D.O. come, sah,” he said.

“The District Officer?” I asked in astonishment. “What the hell does he want?”

“No say, sah,” said Pious impassively. “I go open beer?”

“Well, I suppose you'd better,” I said, and as Martin Bugler, the District Officer, arrived at the crest of the hill I pushed the squirrels back into their nestbox full of dried banana leaves and went out of the marquee to greet him.

Martin was a tall, gangling young man with round, almost-black eyes and floppy black hair, a snub nose and a wide and very ingratiating grin. Owing to the length of his arms and legs and his habit of making wild gestures to illustrate when he talked, he was accident prone. But he was, however, a remarkably good D.O. for he loved his job intensely and, what is even more important, he loved the Africans equally intensely and they responded to this.

Now it has become fashionable to run down colonialism, District Officers and their assistants are made out to be monsters of iniquity. Of course there were bad ones but the majority of them were a wonderful set of men who did an exceedingly difficult job under the most trying conditions. Imagine, at the age of twenty-eight being put in charge of an area, say, the size of Wales, populated by an enormous number of Africans and with one assistant to help you. You had to look after their every need, you had to be mother and father to them, and you had to dispense the law. And in many cases the law, being English law, was of such complexity that it defeated even the devious brain of the indigenous population.

On many occasions, on my forays into the forest, I had passed the big mud-brick courtroom with its tin roof and seen Martin — the sweat pouring down him in torrents — trying some case or other, the whole thing being made even more complicated by the fact that villages, sometimes separated only by a few miles, spoke different dialects. Therefore, should there be dissension between two villages, it meant that you had to have two interpreters from the two villages and an interpreter who knew both dialects who could then interpret Martin. As in courts of law anywhere in the world, you knew perfectly well that everybody was lying the hind leg off a donkey, I had the greatest admiration for Martin's patience and solemnity on these occasions. The cases could range from suspected cannibalism, via wife stealing, to simple things like whose cocoa-yam patch was invading whose, inch by subtle inch.

On the many occasions that I had visited West Africa, I had only met one D.O. who was unpleasant.

I was very surprised at Martin's appearance because, at that time in the morning, he should have been up to his eyes in office work. He came down the hillside almost at a run, gesticulating like a windmill and shouting things at me that I could not hear. I waited patiently until he reached the shade of the marquee.

“So you see,” he said, throwing out his arms in a gesture of despair, “I need help.”

I pushed a camp chair forward and pressed him gently into it.

“Now stop carrying on like a mentally defective praying mantis,” I said. “Just shut up for a minute and relax.”

He sat there mopping his brow with a sodden handkerchief.

“Pious!” I shouted.

“Sah,” replied Pious from the kitchen.

“Pass beer for me and the D.O. please.”

“Yes, sah.”

The beer was of a nauseating brand and not really cold because in our rather primitive base camp our only method of refrigeration was to keep the beer in buckets of water which was itself lukewarm. However, in climates like that where you perspire constantly — even when sitting immobile — you need a large liquid intake and for the daytime beer was the best.

Pious gravely poured the beer out into the glasses and Martin picked his up with a shaking hand and took a couple of frenzied gulps.

“Now,” I said, putting on my best soothing-psychiatrist voice, “do you mind repeating, slowly and clearly, what you were shouting as you came down the hill? And, by the way, you shouldn't run about like that at this hour of the day, ‘A' it's bad for your health and ‘B' it doesn't do your public image any good. I thought you'd had a terrible uprising in Mamfe and that you were being pursued by vast quantities of Africans with spears and muzzle-loaders.”

Martin mopped his face and took another gulp of beer.

“It's
worse
than that,” he said, “
much, much worse.
”

“Well,” I said, “softly and calmly tell me what's the matter.”

“It's the District Commissioner,” he said.

“Well, what s the matter with him?” I inquired, “Has he sacked you?”

“That's the point,” said Martin, “he well might. That's wily I want help.”

“I don't see how I can help,” I said, “I don't know the District Commissioner or, as far as I am aware, any of his relatives, so I can't put in a good word for you. Why, what heinous crime have you committed?”

“I suppose I had better begin at the beginning,” said Martin.

“It's always a good place to start,” I said.

He mopped his face again, took another sustaining gulp of beer and glanced round furtively to make sure that we weren't overheard.

“Well,” he said, “you probably haven't noticed; I'm quite good at my job, but unfortunately when it comes to entertaining and things like that I always seem to manage to do the wrong things. When I had just been promoted to D.O. — that was in Umfala — the first thing that happened was that the bloody D.C. came through on a tour of inspection. Well, everything went splendidly. I had my district in apple-pie order and it seemed as though the D.C. was rather pleased with me. He was only staying one night and by evening I really thought that the whole thing had been a success. But it was very unfortunate that the lavatory in my house had ceased to function and I couldn't get it fixed in time so I had had a very comfortable grass shack built well away from the veranda, behind the hibiscus hedge. You know, a hole in the ground and a cross-pole on which you sit. Well, I explained this to the D.C. and it seemed that he quite understood. What I hadn't realised was that my entire African staff were under the impression that I had built it for them and had been using it for several days before the D.C.'s arrival. Just before dinner the D.C. wandered out to the latrine and, apart from the contents which rather put him off, since he was under the impression that it had been done specially for him, he then sat on the cross-pole, which broke.”

It was my turn now to become slightly alarmed.

“God in heaven,” I said, startled, “didn't you check the cross-pole?”

“That's the point,” said Martin. “I'm so bad at that sort of thing.”

“But you might have killed him or, worse still, drowned him,” I said. “I know what our latrine's like here and I certainly wouldn't like to fall into it.”

“I can assure you he didn't enjoy the experience either,” said Martin dismally. “He shouted for help of course and we got him out, but he looked like a sort of er… a sort of er… sort of walking dung heap. It took us hours to wash him down and get his clothes cleaned and pressed in time for his departure the following morning, and I can assure you, my dear boy, we sat down to a very late dinner and he ate very little and the conversation was frigid to an almost polar degree.”

“Hasn't he any spirit of fun?” I inquired.

“He hasn't any spirit of fun about anything,” said Martin vehemently. “And anyway, I don't blame him. Anyone falling into that load of muck couldn't possibly treat it with merriment.”

“I do see your point,” I said. “Have some more beer.”

“The trouble is,” said Martin, “that this was not the first time that I'd made mistakes of that sort. There are several things I did when I was an A.D.O. which I prefer not to tell you about, and that's why it took me so long to work up from being an A.D.O. to a D.O. After this awful lavatory thing my next posting was to Umchichi, and you know what that's like.”

“Dear God,” I said, “I've never been there but I've heard about it.”

Umchichi was the sort of Devil's Island to which all naughty D.O.'s and A.D.O.'s were sent when they were in disgrace. It consisted of a lot of leprous Africans and more mosquitoes than anywhere else on the whole west coast of Africa.

“Fascinating though these revelations are,” I said, “I don't really see what this is all about.”

“But that's what I was telling you as I was coming down the hill?” explained Martin. “He's coming through on a tour of inspection. He arrives in three days' time so I must have your help.”

“Martin,” I said, “much as I love you, I am not a social hostess.”

“No, no, old boy, I know,” he said, “but if you could just back me up a bit.”

This
cri de coeur
was impossible to refuse. All the white population of Mamfe and ninety-nine per cent of the African population loved Martin dearly.

“I must give this some thought,” I said.

We sat in silence while Martin twitched and perspired.

Presently I shouted, “Pious, pass more beer for the D.O. please.”

When the beer had been served I leaned forward and fixed Martin with a piercing eye.

“This,” I said, “is your only salvation. We have a woman in our midst.”

“A woman?” said Martin, puzzled, “What woman?”

“Mary,” I said, “your A.D.O.'s wife, in case you hadn't remembered. Now women are good at this sort of thing. We also have McGrade (he was the Public Works Department man in charge of mending bridges, building roads and similar uninteresting things). We have Girton (he was the United Africa Company man, who spent his time selling Manchester cloth to the Africans and beer and tinned goods to the white population). Now, surely between all of us we can get something done.”

“Dear boy,” said Martin solemnly, “I shall be for ever, in your debt. What a brilliant suggestion.”

“Now, the first thing to do,” I said, “is to have a look at your house.”

“But you've been there often,” said Martin in surprise. “You've been up several times for chop and any number of times for drinks.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I've never seen anything other than your main living-room and your veranda.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said. “Yes, of course. Well, you'd better come up and see it now.”

“I'll bring Pious,” I said, “because I'll lend you him for the evening. He's far better than that stupid lout you've got and he can really put on Government House type service. That steward of yours is liable to drop the soup in the D.C.'s lap.”

“Oh, God!” said Martin in an agonised tone of voice, “don't even suggest such a thing.”

So taking Pious with us, we went up to the D.O.'s house, which was perched high on a bluff overlooking the river. It was a very handsome house, with thick walls and huge rooms, for it had been built in the time when the Cameroons had been a German colony. The Germans knew how to build for the heat so what little breeze there was the house received, and the massive walls made its interior as cool as it was possible to be in a place like Mamfe. On the way up the hill I explained to Pious what the problem was.

“Now,” I said, “this is very important and we all go help the D.O. as well as we can.”

“Yes, sah,” said Pious grinning happily, for he always felt I spent far too much time looking after my animals and not nearly enough letting him show off his prowess as a steward.

When we got there I examined the living-room and the veranda with great attention. They were spacious and quite pleasantly furnished by bachelor D.O. standards.

“I think you ought to take that calendar off the wall,” I said to Martin, “for a start.”

“Why?” he said, “I thought she was awfully pretty.”

“Martin,” I said, “if the D.C. sees nude women hanging all over your living-room, he is going to get some very peculiar ideas about you, so take it down.”

Pious, who had been following this with close attention, took down the calendar of a woman in a voluptuous pose who was so obviously a mammal that it almost embarrassed me.

“Now, his bedroom,” I said.

The bedroom, again, was large and contained a big double bed with a mosquito net.

“Pious,” I said, “you go look the bed to make sure itno go break.” Giggling happily to himself, Pious crawled round the bed on hands and knees examining every nut and bolt.

“Now,” I said to Martin, “we'll both bounce up and down on top of it.”

We did and the bed responded well.

“Well, that's alright,” I said. “I don't think there's anything in here that will do him any damage. Now, where are you going to feed him?”

“Feed him?” said Martin, puzzled.

“Yes, feed him,” I said impatiently. “You're going to feed him while he's here, aren't you?”

“Well, on the veranda,” Martin said.

“But haven't you got anything else?” I asked.

“Well, there's the dining-room.”

“Well, if you've got a dining-room for God's sake use it. After all, you want to give him the best treatment possible. Where
is
this dining-room?”

He took me to the living-room, threw open two massive wooden doors and there was a splendid dining-room with a table long enough to seat at least ten people. It was beautifully polished but, naturally, as Martin had never used the dining-room, the whole thing was covered in dust, as were the rather handsome but heavy wooden chairs. From the ceiling, down the whole length of this eight-foot table hung what in India is called a “punka”. It is, in fact, a giant fan. The backbone of this one, as it were, was made out of a long length of bamboo some four or five inches in diameter and from it hung down a long fringe of dried palm fronds some four feet in length. From the centre of the bamboo ran a string through a series of little pulleys across the ceiling and out through a hole in the wall which led to the kitchen quarters. The idea was that you engaged a small boy to pull the string so that the whole fan waved to and fro over the table, thus at least occasionally allowing you a gust of warm air in the midst of your meal.

“But this is absolutely splendid,” I said to Martin. “He'll be most impressed with this.”

“I suppose he might,” said Martin. “I'd never have thought about it. I never use the damn' thing. You see, I would feel so lonely sitting here.”