Short of Glory (33 page)

Clifford put his hands behind his back again. ‘You might have said something instead of waiting for me to go ahead. Nearly made a fool of myself.’

Meanwhile a pale, podgy man with sparse carroty hair and a shiny blue suit stood by the door trying to get his lighter to work. He had sandy eyebrows, a mobile fleshy face and a jowl that looked
about two decades more developed than Clifford’s. He had to make way for the Swiss and his escort. Sir Wilfrid shook his hand.

Mrs Collier stood by her husband clutching a bulky red handbag. She gazed through oversize glasses at the third group of people, who were sitting down with two swarthy men. Her small mouth was
tightly shut. She was short and round and wore a dress that made her look like a tea-cosy. Next to her was the private secretary, a pale neat young man with short brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses
and a slim black briefcase like that carried by the Swiss.

The minister looked displeased. He stared after the departing banker, now escorted by a shoal of minor officials, then turned back to Sir Wilfrid. ‘You knew I was coming, didn’t
you?’ he asked crossly. He was still trying to get his lighter to work.

‘Yes, minister, that’s why we’re here.’

‘Who was that bloke?’

Sir Wilfrid looked at Clifford, who said, ‘A Swiss banker, minister.’

A stab of flame from the lighter caused everyone to draw back. The minister adjusted it and lit his cigarette.

‘A Swiss baker? What’s a Swiss baker doing in the VIP lounge?’

‘Banker,’ said Sir Wilfrid.

‘I told you to get that thing seen to before we left,’ said Mrs Collier.

‘I didn’t have a chance, did I? All that rushing about.’ He shook the lighter a couple of times.

‘Should’ve got it done before we came. I told you.’

Sir Wilfrid stooped to the level of the minister. ‘The car is waiting. Would you and Mrs Collier prefer to freshen up here or at the residence?’

‘At the what?’

‘At my house.’

The minister turned to his wife. ‘Want to have breakfast here or at the house?’

‘Oh, at the house. We might get a decent cup of tea there, I hope.’ She turned to Sir Wilfrid. ‘Let that muck they gave us on the plane settle first.’

‘This is going to be a bad trip,’ Anthony, the private secretary, said to Patrick as they followed the group. ‘Your boss and mine crossed swords in London.’

‘About the Common Market?’

‘Very likely. Anything foreign is likely. He hates it. Hates travelling, too. He looks upon trips as fault-finding missions. The first thing he disliked was the plane. He particularly
hates travelling with his good lady. Her whole life is a fault-finding mission.’

The main hall was crowded and sunny. Automatic glass doors led to the parking area reserved for diplomatic and official cars. Before they reached them Patrick heard a woman’s voice call
his name. He knew it but could not place it. There was no one he recognised. A couple of yards ahead the minister and Sir Wilfrid came abruptly to a stop. There was a scuffle and then a woman
wearing jeans and jumper and holding a weighty rucksack in both hands stumbled between them. She let go of the rucksack with one hand and waved at Patrick. The rucksack knocked against her knees
and then against Mrs Collier’s, who grabbed Clifford for support.

‘Patrick!’ squealed Rachel. ‘Fantastic! How did you know?’

She brushed her long hair aside and hugged and kissed him with a fervour quite foreign to their friendship. Her rucksack rolled on to Anthony’s feet. The whole party stopped and
stared.

‘God, I thought I was going to have to get a taxi to your place and I thought it’s bound to be miles and I stupidly haven’t got any Lower African money and I could imagine this
really awful scene, you know.’ She held his jacket sleeve as if to make sure he didn’t escape. ‘I didn’t send a telegram because it was all sort of last minute but I did
ring twice but there was no answer. It’s fantastic that you’re actually here – how did you know? D’you have contacts with the airline or what? Did Maurice ring you and tell
you?’

Patrick smiled and glanced at the others. ‘No, neither. I was here meeting someone else.’

Clifford frowned and tried to get Mrs Collier to move on but she stood staring through her thick glasses at Rachel.

‘So it’s just coincidence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fantastic.’ Rachel looked about. ‘Who are you meeting?’

The minister and Sir Wilfrid moved away. Anthony disentangled his feet from the rucksack straps and stepped gingerly round. Clifford put his hand on Mrs Collier’s arm and nudged her
forward.

Patrick hesitated so as to give them all time to move. ‘Mrs Collier and her husband,’ he said quietly, but not quietly enough because, hearing her name, Mrs Collier stopped and
smiled. She held out her hand.

‘How d’you do. Were you on that flight? Wasn’t it awful? All them children, you could hear them from the first class; just as well we weren’t paying for it ourselves.
Mind you, it’s the parents I blame. There’s no discipline these days. Let them do just what they like. Look at all them football hooligans.’

‘Are you staying with Patrick as well?’ asked Rachel.

Mrs Collier looked at Patrick. ‘I don’t know. Are we?’

‘No, you’re staying with the ambassador,’ said Clifford. ‘They’ve reached the car now. We must join them.’

Rachel turned to him. ‘Are you Mr Collier?’

Mrs Collier laughed loudly and briefly, like a squawking chicken swiftly strangled. ‘Oh, fancy that, that’s quite a compliment, that is. Mr Collier’s twice his age if
he’s a day. Mind you, I sometimes wish anyone else was Mr Collier, especially when we go away. He’s like a bear with a sore head, he really is. I used to think it was the water but now
I think it’s him, you know, it’s what he’s like.’

‘D’you go away a lot?’ asked Rachel.

Mrs Collier had no chance to reply. Clifford took her firmly by the arm, saying, ‘The minister is leaving,’ and walked her off towards the car. He looked crossly over his shoulder
and said sharply, as if to one of his children, ‘Come along, Patrick.’

‘Funny friends you’ve got,’ said Rachel. ‘D’you work with them?’

‘Some of the time,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll explain later. Ring my house and reverse the charges and you’ll find a man called Chatsworth. Tell
him you’re a friend of mine and he’ll come and pick you up in my car. I’ll be back at lunchtime.’

Rachel’s pale face was puzzled. ‘Who is he?’

‘He’s a friend of mine.’

‘What’s his Christian name?’

‘I can’t remember.’ Patrick backed away, seeing that Mrs Collier had been eased into the Rolls and that it was about to leave. ‘Great to see you.’ Rachel stared.
‘I mean it. Explain later.’

He jumped into the car, shutting the door on the flap of his jacket. It was a limousine and so everyone, apart from Simon, the driver, sat in the back. ‘I’m sorry about that. An old
friend. Unexpected meeting.’

The minister ignored him and Sir Wilfrid looked as if he didn’t know what he meant.

‘That’s nice,’ said Mrs Collier.

‘Not a journalist, I hope?’ asked Clifford.

‘No, not quite.’

The minister asked why the Swiss banker was in Lower Africa and whom he was meeting. No one knew. ‘If I’d realised who it was I’d have made myself known to him,’ he
said.

‘I’ll find out, minister,’ Clifford volunteered.

They were overtaken by a bright yellow Datsun with two blacks in it.

‘Who were they?’ asked the minister.

Sir Wilfrid leant anxiously forward. ‘I’m sorry?’

The minister pointed so that his cigarette was nearly touching Simon’s face. ‘There – in that yellow car – who are they? Is it someone important? That’s what
I’m asking.’

Sir Wilfrid looked at all the cars on the motorway. ‘Someone important?’

The minister waved his hand and sprinkled ash. ‘That yellow car is being driven by two black men. Who are they? Does it mean they’re anyone important? That’s what I want to
know.’

Clifford leant forward.
^c
No, minister, it doesn’t.’

‘Blacks are allowed to drive?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘In new cars?’

‘Yes.’

The minister looked disappointed. ‘But do they own it?’

Clifford looked again at the car. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

The minister cheered up. ‘Well, there you are. There’s the rub.’

Sir Wilfrid now understood. He asked Simon who the men were, perhaps thinking that a black man might know other black men. Simon did not know.

‘How many blacks own new cars?’ continued the minister. No one knew. He released the strain on the middle button of his jacket and sat back. ‘Well, that’s significant,
isn’t it? That says something. I thought you diplomats would know all about that sort of thing.’

‘It was a Japanese car,’ said Clifford.

‘So?’

‘The Japanese do a lot of business with Lower Africa.’

The minister snorted. ‘The Japanese do a lot of business with everyone.’

As they turned off the motorway a red bakkie sped the other way. Patrick glimpsed Chatsworth’s fair hair in the cab. The bakkie was travelling very fast.

At the roundabout there was the familiar advertising hoarding showing a giant jar of Marmite with the grinning head of a black man beside it. Mrs Collier nudged her husband. ‘At least
they’ve got Marmite.’

B
ack at the embassy Clifford once again briefed everyone who was to meet the minister on what they were to say and where they were to be. He told
each person individually what everyone else was supposed to be doing ‘in case the pass is sold and you have to come in to the line’. He ordered that visa applicants and British subjects
visiting the consular section were to be kept to a minimum and on no account should they be visible to the minister. The section was to close early.

‘Patrick, I want you to oversee the where and whom of everything,’ he said when they were alone in the corridor. ‘You should be familiar with all the arrangements. Miss Teale
needs a particularly close watch. I’ve told her that she’s to wait in the garage and hold the lift for ten minutes before the minister and party arrive. She’s to telephone me in
my office – I’ve given her the number in writing in case she forgets in the heat of the moment – so that I can be at the lift to meet them when it gets up here. There’s no
need for you. Your job is simply to keep everything else out of sight and tamped down. A general low profile everywhere but for God’s sake keep your eye on the ball. Five minutes before the
visit is due to end Miss Teale will summon the lift again and hold it at this floor so that no one is kept hanging about. D’you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your first task is to ensure that she understands.’

‘You’ve already told her, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but there are times and people with whom one has to make doubly or trebly sure. I trust your girlfriend is now under control.’

It sounded as if Joanna had done something public and extravagant. ‘Under control?’

‘That woman at the airport. No more extraordinary interruptions, I hope?’

‘Oh, no. She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘What was she doing throwing her arms round you in front of everyone?’

‘We’re just friends.’

‘I see.’

Miss Teale was so incensed at having received her instructions five times in two days (twice in writing) that she was friendly to Patrick. She told him that Sandy had rung Clifford in a rage
because Clifford had taken the car when she thought she should have it. She was threatening to walk out. Clifford would have to take the car home during the day if he wanted her still to be there
in the evening. Miss Teale had also heard that Philip had risen from his sick-bed and set out for the embassy so that he could present his brief to the minister in person; but he had been sick in
the car and had returned home.

The minister and Sir Wilfrid were late. Clifford stood by his telephone but twice came in to Patrick to check watches before telling him to ring the residence to see what had happened. It was
gone eleven and Patrick was still delaying ringing when Clifford rushed past the door towards the lifts.

A few moments later there was a sharp click of heels on lino. It was Daphne from the consular section. Her mouth was mobile before she spoke. ‘He’s here.’

‘Yes, I know. Clifford’s run off to greet the lift.’

‘No, not him. McGrain.’ Patrick’s immobility probably made her think that he had forgotten. ‘You know, the DBS you threw out. The one who’s always after
Arthur.’

‘Better keep him out of sight.’ Patrick still did not move.

‘He’s in a bad way again.’

‘At this hour of the morning?’

‘He wants an interview with the minister.’

They went to the consular section. Neither his previous triumph nor his fight with Jim had in any way prepared Patrick for more fights. A brawl in the embassy coinciding with the
minister’s arrival was unthinkable – at least to the Foreign Office mind; it was all too thinkable to Patrick’s.

Daphne’s cheeks wobbled as before. ‘I was sure we wouldn’t get through the visit without something happening. There’s nearly always a DBS waiting round the corner to
sabotage anything important. It was just the same in Tripoli.’

McGrain stood as before at the counter, this time clutching a newspaper. There were no other visitors. A frightened consular girl was trapped behind the counter and a nervous male clerk hovered
by the door. He disappeared when Patrick arrived. Patrick adopted what he hoped was the appearance of calm bureaucratic inexorability. McGrain turned, his blue eyes focusing slowly. His bloated
face had a bluish tinge. He held the rolled newspaper to his fist and stabbed at it with his thick forefinger.

‘I wanna see the minister.’

‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’ Patrick cleared his throat because his voice sounded unnaturally high.

McGrain drove his finger into the paper. ‘It says here he’s coming to the British embassy today.’

‘He won’t be here till four.’ That was when the minister was due to visit the meat-packing station. McGrain might by then be too drunk to return.