Short of Glory (36 page)

T
he radio news in the morning reported a small explosion in Kuweto. This was the latest indication of unrest in the township following
Chatsworth’s excursion, though there was no proven causal link. Bombs on the railway line, such as this, were a way of registering protest. They carried little risk to the bombers and simply
inconvenienced the thousands of blacks who used the line daily, many of whom would lose pay for not being at work. The track was repaired within two hours.

Patrick had spent that night with Joanna, escaping his responsibilities as host.

‘D’you think they slept together?’ she asked.

‘I could ring and ask.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Chatsworth will tell me, anyway.’

The atmosphere of panic in the embassy that morning indicated that something had already gone wrong. As Patrick reached for the buttons to open the chancery door Clifford opened it and grabbed
him by the arm.

‘Where’s the ambassador?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You haven’t seen him?’

‘No.’

Clifford rushed on. It turned out that the minister and Sir Wilfrid had become separated. The minister was waiting in Sir Wilfrid’s office. The panic was not only because no one knew where
Sir Wilfrid was but also because the minister wanted to change his programme so that he could accompany his wife to Kuweto that morning. On behalf of the British government she was to present an
electric sewing-machine to the cultural centre.

‘I must see those people,’ the minister announced. ‘It’s important that they shouldn’t feel isolated.’

Clifford appeared in the doorway of Patrick’s office and pointed at the telephone. ‘Ring the police!’ he shouted.

Patrick reached for the phone.

‘Get an up-to-date report on the situation. We could be walking into a minefield.’

Patrick realised that he was referring to the bomb in Kuweto. He discovered from the police that following the explosion there had been a security operation involving house-to-house searches.
These had provoked rioting which had been quickly put down. This aspect of the affair had been censored on the news. The police advised that the area was now quiet, and there was no reason why the
minister should not accompany his wife provided the visit was low-key and there was no attempt to publicise it.

He was relieved that he had not had to speak to Jim but a few moments later Jim rang back.

‘Sorry I was out just now. I hear you want to go sightseeing. It should be okay. If there’s trouble it won’t be large-scale and it won’t be anywhere near your little
outpost.’

They made conversation for a while about Whelk and how there was still no news until Patrick suddenly said, ‘Joanna’s okay.’ He regretted it instantly. He did not know why he
had said it.

There was a slight pause. ‘Yes, I saw her this morning. She seemed fine. See you.’

Patrick replaced the receiver slowly. Clifford reappeared in the doorway. ‘What do they say?’

‘They say it’s okay.’

‘Damn. Have you seen the ambassador?’

‘No.’

‘Damn.’

A little later Patrick overheard the minister talking in the corridor. ‘Bombs or no bombs, these people need assistance and it’s my job to see they get it. We’ll go without the
ambassador if he’s not here. I don’t see it makes any difference.’

He rang Sarah to say he wouldn’t be back for lunch. The phone was answered by Rachel. ‘Can’t I come to Kuweto with you?’

‘No, it’s only the official party.’

‘Look, I really want to go there. Can’t you fix it, say I’m your secretary or something? It’ll be great for my project if I can go back with tapes from the heart of
Kuweto.’

‘Can’t be done.’

‘God, you’re a stick-in-the-mud, Patrick. You weren’t always like this, were you? Perhaps you were. Look, how about you taking my tape-recorder and switching it on if
there’s anything interesting? It would fit in your briefcase or whatever you have.’

‘I won’t be carrying one. Anyway, we won’t be talking to people in the way you want. It’s an official visit to present a sewing-machine.’

‘That sounds pathetic.’ She paused and made the silence sulky. ‘I suppose I’ll have to look round Battenburg instead.’

‘Good idea.’

‘I can’t because you’ve got the car.’

‘Get a taxi in with Chatsworth. He’ll show you round.’

‘That sounds expensive.’

‘He’s got plenty of money. Mine, actually.’

‘It might be traumatic for him, going back and seeing that police headquarters where they tortured him.’

‘He’ll live.’

‘God, Patrick, you’re so bloody callous.’ She put down the phone.

The ambassador wandered past. ‘Seen the minister?’

‘He was in your office, sir. Clifford was talking to him.’

Sir Wilfrid made his habitual gesture of running his hand through his hair. ‘All the way to the barbers and they were closed. Moved to the other side of the railway lines or somewhere.
I’ll have to find a new one.’

‘The minister wants to go to Kuweto this morning, sir.’

‘Really? Is it open after the explosion?’

‘Yes.’

‘Damn.’

Later Philip walked into the office. His dark clothes and black hair combined with his pallor to make him look an embodiment of the Reaper in modern dress. He moved slowly and spoke hoarsely.
‘Did the minister get my brief?’

‘Yes, he did.’ Patrick stood in case Philip needed supporting.

‘What did he say?’

‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there. His private secretary was very impressed. He said it was a model of its kind. You all right?’

‘The minister said it was a model?’

Patrick did not disabuse him.

‘Is it true he’s going to Kuweto this morning?’

‘In about five minutes.’

‘Are you going instead of me?’

‘I think so. I’m waiting to hear from Clifford.’

Philip leant against the desk with his fingers outstretched. ‘I’ll go. Where is Clifford?’

‘He’s looking for the ambassador, who’s in his office. Are you sure you’re all right?’

Philip turned and made for the door as if he were about to topple. ‘I’ll be in the loo.’

He was still there fifteen minutes later when the party assembled for the lift. In the meantime his wife had rung to say that she too felt ill and was going to the doctor. She wanted Philip to
go home before she left. Patrick left a note.

Having made a fuss, altered his programme and generally inconvenienced people the minister was in good enough humour to joke with his wife as the Rolls waited in the Battenburg traffic.
‘Ever worked a spinning-jenny before?’

Mrs Collier’s huge eyes blinked at him through her spectacles. ‘It’s not a spinning-jenny, it’s a sewing machine. An electric one. Spinning-jennys went out years
ago.’

‘Same difference. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with a jenny.’

‘I never said there was.’

‘Puts people out of work, though, you’ve got to remember that.’

They passed a number of police and army vehicles on the way to Kuweto but there was no sign of tension until they reached the township itself. The barricade that was normally open was closed and
manned by police armed with carbines. Pedestrians and vehicles were searched, and many of the latter turned back. Anyone without a document of identity was taken to a flat-roofed building at one
side. Such activity seemed incongruous in the friendly warmth of the sun, as if it were not really serious.

The Rolls waited in the queue. It was not air-conditioned and Anthony discreetly lowered the front window. Mrs Collier peered out. ‘I don’t think I like this,’ she said.

Sir Wilfrid craned his neck to see what she was looking at. Clifford leant forward. ‘It’s all right, they’ll let us through. It’s only because of the bomb this
morning.’

‘Oh, was that here?’ Mrs Collier turned to her husband. ‘Did you hear what he said? This is where that bomb was.’

The minister sat four-square, his chubby fists on his knees. ‘It’s gone off, hasn’t it? Won’t hurt anyone now.’

Mrs Collier shook her head. ‘That’s all very well but I still don’t like it. All those guns poking at you. Look at them.’

‘They’re not poking at us, are they?’ The minister looked bullishly about. One of the policemen searching the vehicle in front had his carbine pointing carelessly over the top
of the Rolls. ‘They’ll be careful once they know who we are. Anyway, if there’s trouble we might be able to help.’

The police captain saluted smartly. He was scrupulously polite. There was no trouble in any area at present and no parts were forbidden to accredited British officials and their guests. However,
he advised that they should avoid large groups if they saw any gathering.

They drove slowly through the rows of squat, red-roofed bungalows, past barricaded shops and beer halls and dawdling, indifferent people. Nothing seemed sinister or dangerous. The minister
looked at the bare gardens. ‘Why don’t they grow anything?’

Everyone followed his gaze. ‘They don’t seem to go in for gardening,’ Sir Wilfrid said in a puzzled tone. ‘Perhaps it’s not part of the tradition.’

‘Are they starved of water?’

Clifford sat up. ‘Plenty of water, sir, and eventually they’ll all have electricity, too. About forty per cent have it at present. It’s behind schedule partly because the
company putting it in had to sign a contract agreeing to use manual labour for digging all the holes and trenches so as to create employment.’

‘More jobs, then?’

Clifford was encouraged. ‘There was also a suggestion that the work should be done with bare hands but it wasn’t adopted.’

‘You can’t have it both ways.’

‘But the company now say they can’t finish the project unless they’re allowed to use machines. They can’t get the labour because the workers don’t like that sort of
job.’

‘Do they pay enough? Strikes me that’s the problem.’

There was a pause, the embarrassment of which was felt by all but Clifford, who shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so, minister. Not wholly. The problem is partly that in many
African tribes the men think it’s demeaning to do manual work. It’s not part of their tradition. In the rural areas and the homelands you can see brand new roads all hand-built by
women.’

‘Go on,’ said Mrs Collier, wonderingly.

‘It’s the duty of a woman, you see, to rear children, to look after the home, to tend crops and to earn money if there’s any to be earned. The duty of a man is to talk and
drink.’

Mrs Collier was wide-eyed behind her spectacles. ‘Well I never.’ The minister said nothing.

Sir Wilfrid pressed the tip of one finger against his chin and looked worried. ‘But is it really so, I wonder? It’s certainly not universally the case and I wonder sometimes whether
it might not be one of those curious self-validating myths that appear to be true but for reasons quite other than those we commonly assume. For instance—’

Clifford’s face shone with the pleasure of holding forth. ‘It’s just the way they are. Not necessarily worse than us, of course, but different. Just different.’

‘Not worse at all,’ Sir Wilfrid replied emphatically. ‘Perhaps not even very different. After all, many men—’

‘Sounds to me like they’re no better than they should be,’ said Mrs Collier.

The minister looked irritable. ‘That’s no reason for not giving them light bulbs, is it?’

‘No, no, it’s just indicative,’ said Clifford.

‘Indicative of what?’

Sir Wilfrid looked out of the window with an expression of saintly renunciation. Clifford looked at the minister, who looked back. Patrick looked at his shoes.

‘If you ask me they don’t know no better,’ said Mrs Collier.

‘Whose fault is that?’ demanded her husband.

‘If they don’t know no better they don’t expect no different,’ she snapped in a tone of confident finality. There was puzzled silence for the rest of the journey.

Mr Oboe greeted them at the door of the cultural centre. He was accompanied by both his wives and six or seven of his children, the latter ranging from languid adolescents down to a baby not yet
old enough to crawl. Some of the younger ones were playing in the dirt when the Rolls drew up and it was their clamour that brought out the others. The mothers scolded the dirty ones and Mr Oboe
deftly and discreetly cuffed one of them before advancing towards the car, his arms outstretched. He wore a double-breasted pin-striped suit with wide lapels and baggy trousers that were too long.
There was some confusion as the party tried to debus without treading on their hosts. The children, knowing they were to greet someone but not whom, made for Sir Wilfrid as the tallest figure.
Their father compounded the error by shaking Sir Wilfrid’s hand with elaborate formality. Grinning with pleasure, he said, ‘Sir Wilfrid, I and my family greet you.’

Sir Wilfrid thanked him and looked vainly for the minister, who was hidden behind one of the Mrs Oboes.

‘You and your family are extremely welcome,’ continued Mr Oboe, still holding Sir Wilfrid’s hand.

Clifford stepped forward. ‘The minister is here,’ he said to Mr Oboe, indicating no one. Mr Oboe smiled again and shook Clifford’s hand. Clifford tried hard to assert
priorities but eventually the whole party had to shake hands with the entire family before Mr Oboe and the minister finally met. Mr Oboe then led the minister by the hand into the library.

They crowded into the little room. The young readers who were there were hustled out by Mr Oboe, who then opened the door of the side room so that the minister could see all the old British
newspapers stacked to the ceiling. Each of the party in turn squeezed into the doorway to look at them.

Sir Wilfrid described the function of the library. Mr Oboe again took the minister’s hand and smiled slyly. ‘Minister, I must give you a book.’

The minister shook his head so that his jowl quivered. ‘No, no. No need for that. I’ve got lots, thanks very much.’

Mr Oboe squeezed the minister’s hand. ‘You can have another one.’

Anthony leant forward. ‘This may be a presentation copy, minister.’

Mrs Collier turned to Sir Wilfrid, who had stopped speaking in order to permit his interruptors to be heard. ‘I’ve got an aunt at home who loves reading, you know. Real bookworm, she
is.’ Sir Wilfrid raised his eyebrows and looked politely interested. Mrs Collier nodded firmly, as if she’d been contradicted. ‘Oh, yes she does, you know. Simply loves it.
Won’t go anywhere without a book. She even reads at the tea-table, but I think that’s going a bit far, myself.’