Short of Glory (21 page)

Her face brightened. She flicked through pictures of pretty white women in exquisite houses. ‘Is my favourite, massa.’

Two assistants loaded the shopping into bags and carried them through the town, up the several escalators and out into the car-park. Patrick paused to look down the well at the game of chess. He
saw Black’s remaining bishop carried off and laid across two pawns so that one of the spectators could use him as a bench.

The assistants loaded the bags into the bakkie. Patrick did not tip them, recalling Sarah’s outrage. ‘Should I have given them money?’ he asked as they drove away.

She looked round at the departing assistants. ‘It depend on you, massa. If they are good boys and they do good job. They are not like this children. But I don’t know them boys.
Zulu.’

‘Not Swahi, like you?’

She shook her head seriously. ‘No, massa, not like me. I don’t know many Zulu.’

At work that week Patrick drafted and redrafted, made and remade transport arrangements, read and reread files. It did not bother him because he could look forward to
Thursday’s lunch with Joanna. There were no cancelling telephone calls and he grew more confident as the day approached. Several times he was called in by Sir Wilfrid to confirm that nothing
more had been heard from the L and F man. He was instructed to check that his bank had sent the money the L and F man had asked for. By Wednesday the ambassador had begun to suspect that the Lower
Africans had got him. He considered telling Patrick to ask for Jim Rissik’s help in finding the man but decided that so drastic a departure from present tactics should await discussion with
the minister. After all, there was still a chance that the chap might turn up. Patrick was relieved. He particularly wanted not to see Jim before Thursday.

He wore his new lightweight suit to work that day with a new and sober tie. He was a little late because he nearly ran out of petrol and had to make a detour. By the time he arrived there was a
palpable atmosphere of alarm and urgency. The ambassador was to be guest of honour at a luncheon given by the Progress Association, a group of leading local businessmen, with a few journalists and
one or two of the more liberally-inclined politicians. The lunch was to be in the Gold Club, the bastion of wealthy English-speaking Lower Africans, and the ambassador was to read a paper prepared
some time before by Philip, subsequently amended by Clifford and called, ‘Lower Africa: Gold and Good Intentions’. Philip was ill, though, and could not be contacted because he was at
the doctor’s. Only an unamended copy of the paper could be found, and this would not do.

Clifford lost his temper with the registry clerks who were trying to help him find the final draft and later slammed the telephone down on Philip’s wife. He could not remember all the
alterations he had made and could not possibly sit down and do them all again in time for the ambassador to have the final draft in his hands at least an hour before the lunch. Then, with an
abruptness and an illogicality that gave grounds for the prevailing suspicion that he was actually unsure about his own drafting, he declared that Patrick should rework the paper and that he would
look it over before it went to the ambassador. Sir Wilfrid, unaware of the drama, was said to be at the pipemaker’s.

When Patrick heard this he at first feared for his own lunch but, realising that his task, however rushed and confused, would have to be over by then, he relaxed. A minute or so after the paper
arrived on his desk, though, he was interrupted by Daphne from the consular department. She looked worried and attempted an unconvincing smile.

‘There’s something rather urgent,’ she said.

‘Really urgent?’

‘Well, yes, but not McGrain.’ She explained that Mr Whelk, as consul, had as one of his responsibilities the duty to visit British subjects in Lower African gaols. The hard-won right
of consular access was something that the authorities accepted fully but it was essential to maintain regular visits within the time-limits agreed because if they were allowed to lapse, if even one
visit were missed, there might be difficulty in re-establishing the routine. The Lower Africans were punctilious and one had to keep up to the mark oneself. Unknown to her, Mr Whelk had some time
ago arranged to visit a prison that morning, the last day in the present period when a visit could be made. The prison had telephoned just an hour previously to confirm. Knowing how important it
was not to miss a visit, she had said that Patrick would come in Mr Whelk’s stead. She hoped that that would be all right. She knew he was busy but there was no alternative.

‘How long does it take to drive to the prison?’

‘About an hour, I believe. Mr Whelk usually spends an hour or so there, sometimes more. It’s a question of seeing that there are no complaints or problems, that’s all. There
usually aren’t.’

Patrick calculated that he could get there and back by lunch-time provided he didn’t do the speech. He picked up the papers. ‘We’ll have to talk to Clifford.’

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

‘I think you’d better.’

Daphne smiled consolingly. ‘I know Mr Steggles can be awkward but he’s no McGrain. I’ll do the talking if it gets difficult.’

Clifford was in his office. ‘You can’t,’ he said before Patrick finished explaining.

‘Someone has to and it has to be this morning.’

‘It’s a question of priorities. You’re always gallivanting around. Daphne can go.’

‘It has to be someone of diplomatic rank,’ said Daphne mildly.

It looked for a moment as if Clifford might offer to go himself but he thought better of it. ‘Look, the ambassador’s paper has to be amended. There’s no question about that.
You’re the only person available with the time to spare, so that’s that. I’m not going to go and tell him he’ll have to speak from a rough draft. For one thing, I’m
going to be there with him and it must sound good.’

Daphne shrugged. ‘Oh, very well then, I’ll go and explain why we’ve jeopardised our consular access.’

He looked as if she had stung him. Her tone was gentle and there was no trace of hostility on her face. He turned bad-temperedly towards Patrick. ‘I wish someone would either bloody well
find Whelk or get the office to send a proper replacement. Don’t think you’re getting away with anything, Stubbs. I want you back here by lunchtime. Someone will have to hold the fort
while we’re away.’

Patrick handed over the draft. ‘You might find there’s not much to alter.’

Clifford glared for a moment before sitting down.

It was an exhilarating drive. The days were getting warmer but this was the first really hot one. The tar glistened, there was a heat haze on the road, the rolling veldt was brown and parched.
The red bonnet of the bakkie was too hot to touch. Around the prison site, though, the land was green and well watered. There were playing-fields, a supermarket, workshops, newly planted trees and
rows of new detached houses, each with rectangular lawn and garage. The perimeter of the prison itself was formed by a high wire fence, some fifty yards inside of which was a high wall. All the
buildings were brisk, clean and new; none, save the watch-towers, was more than single-storey. Despite the impression of openness and space it was a maximum security prison for long-term prisoners.
Because it was near Battenburg it also housed a number of men on remand.

Patrick showed his diplomatic identity card. A warder wearing khaki shirt and shorts and a Sam Browne and holster took him through the wire to the main entrance. The warder’s thick pink
legs bristled with fair hair. He stamped and saluted in the office of the administrative commandant, Major de Beers, a fat jolly balding man with red cheeks and a smile that was cheerful and
complicitous. His small brown eyes shone like his holster.

They shook hands. ‘Very good of you to find time to visit, Mr Stubbs. Mr Whelk was always very regular. That’s how the prisoners like it and that’s how we like it. Has Mr Whelk
gone back or has he moved on to another job? I didn’t know he was leaving.’

‘He’s away at the moment. He’ll probably go to another post when he comes back. I’m just a stand-in.’

Major de Beers smiled. ‘Stand-in or not, you’re very welcome, Mr Stubbs. Please sit down. Coffee?’

Over the coffee and ginger biscuits Major de Beers went through a typed list of a dozen or so prisoners, commenting on their crimes, lengths of sentences and years left to serve. Some he
expanded on, sipping his coffee with his plump little finger tightly curled. The younger and more dangerous of the two psychopaths had been quiet for some time now and was getting on well with his
daily therapy sessions. The other had attacked a warder and had lost some remission but was back in his classes and responding well. The rapist was due for release soon. The homosexual thief had
had to be put in a cell on his own again. The embezzler, a former liberal journalist, had become even more convinced that everyone was against him and was now a fervent evangelist as well. He
refused to work and was unpopular with the other prisoners. He was still refusing to visit the psychiatrist. Major de Beers thought that he should because he was getting worse. He would be grateful
for Patrick’s opinion since it would be necessary to force him. The major regretted that the other embezzler had been moved to another prison; they had been good friends and had had some good
talks together, but it was necessary to move him in the end. There was one other, a remand prisoner called Chatsworth, recently arrived; he had no details to hand but could get them. Patrick said
he would get them himself.

He was led along cool polished corridors to a visiting room divided by a glass partition from an outer office where there were two more armed warders. The prisoners would arrive at ten-minute
intervals although he could have as long as he liked with each man. Except for the psychopaths and the remand prisoner they would be unescorted. The warders could be summoned by a button on the
underside of the desk.

The prisoners looked like soldiers. They wore olive-green overalls, had short hair and were tanned and fit. They worked in the mornings and in the afternoons took exercise, usually football or
weight-lifting. Most had no complaints about the prison except that they were in it nor about the food except that it was monotonous. Their mail arrived regularly and they wanted to continue
receiving the old British newspapers that Arthur Whelk salvaged from bundles destined for Kuweto. Some had not been in Britain since childhood or infancy. Nearly all were to be deported on release
and all wanted to stay in Lower Africa. Most had kept their British passports in order to avoid conscription.

The unofficial leader was a former corporal of light infantry who had won a Military Medal in Malaya. He spoke of the others more than of himself. They were all well apart from the journalist
who complained continually and made life difficult. It was just as well that the major’s embezzler friend has been transferred recently as there were several who very much wanted to meet him
again. The man spoke quietly, his manner confident, shrewd and reassuring. When he left Patrick felt he had been talking to a doctor.

A tall, blond, powerful man had two of a ten-year sentence to run. He had robbed and beaten people whom his prostitute wife lured back to his flat. He sat leaning forward, his elbows on his
knees, his hands clasped, talking man to man. He had made trouble earlier in his sentence but realised now that it wasn’t worth it; he wanted out. He had no complaints.

The elder of the psychopaths was strongly built and formidable looking. He was calm and rational. He regretted his attack on the warder and would try hard not to do it again; it was simply that
prison got at you every now and again, knowing that year in year out you’d be eating the same food with the same people, hearing the same voices saying the same things and all in the same
place. It was then that the little things got at you. Outside you could always walk away from what made you fed up, here you couldn’t. He would be thirty-eight when he got out.

The man who had raped two black maids was small, courteous and careful, with mild eyes. He had no complaints and planned that when deported to Britain he would go into the hotel trade. The
journalist embezzler complained about the prison administration, the food, the other prisoners, the work and the godless-ness. He was discriminated against because he was British. He would not see
a psychiatrist because there was nothing wrong with him.

The younger psychopath had a fresh complexion, curly brown hair and an attractive, shy smile. He had no comments about prison but spoke of fishing and golf, having come close to winning a
competition in the latter. He was near the start of a long sentence for the attempted murder with a shotgun of a girl bank clerk, whom he had blinded. His own glacial blue eyes were disconcertingly
wide open as though in perpetual surprise. He said he would like to have been a farmer.

The last man was the remand prisoner, Chatsworth, escorted by a warder who remained behind the partition. He was tall, fair and gangling. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped
behind his back and his head nodding like a bird’s. It was a moment before Patrick realised why he was familiar. He was the Army man from his Civil Service Selection Board, the one who had
predicted his own failure and Patrick’s success. The habitual grin that then had made him look slightly mad had been replaced by a thoughtful compression of the lips. On his brow were three
horizontal lines. His eyebrows were raised as in permanent query. He recognised Patrick and advanced with his hand outstretched.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I might ask you the same question.’

‘Bit of a misunderstanding.’

Patrick saw the warder looking on in surprise. ‘Better sit down.’

Chatsworth’s grin returned. ‘You got through, then?’

‘Yes, in the end. I’m third secretary here and temporary part-time consul.’

‘So you’re Stubbs? Well done.’

‘Well, yes. How do you know my name?’

Chatsworth held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, no need to act dumb. They can’t hear from out there. I couldn’t hear what you were saying to the last bloke. I’m
Mackenzie, the one you sent the money to. L and F, remember?’