Short of Glory (39 page)

‘What? Oh, he just wanted to talk. He wasn’t horrible or anything. I gave him a cup of coffee and he talked about Belinda. He only stayed about fifteen minutes.’

Patrick did not want to appear jealous and knew he should not go on. ‘Does he often do that?’

‘Well, sometimes, not often. He just drops in.’

There was now a slight defensiveness in her tone which he knew he had provoked. He resolved to show more interest in Belinda in future and changed the subject to Rachel and Chatsworth.

‘D’you think they have?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so because he hasn’t said anything. Shall I ask him?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, go on. No, no, you can’t.’

He put down the phone and walked out on to the veranda. ‘Have you seduced Rachel?’

Chatsworth looked up. ‘Not yet. Don’t want to rush it. The sooner it’s over with the sooner I’ll get bored. Why, have you got a better idea?’

‘No, just wondered.’ He went back to the phone.

Joanna sounded shocked. ‘He actually said that? God, how arrogant. I hope you don’t talk about me like that.’

‘No, no, he doesn’t even know your name. You’ll meet him this afternoon, though.’

‘I’m not sure I want to.’

The conversation ended better than it had begun. He went cheerfully into the kitchen to see why Sarah was troubled. She was sitting on a chair by the oven and was reading slowly from a bible in
her lap, forming the words with her lips but making no sound. The bible reminded Patrick that she had the evening off. She was to go to church and stay all night for a twelve-hour festival of
prayers and hymns. She had been very excited about it.

‘Are you getting ready for tonight?’ he asked.

She put her finger on the page and smiled dolefully. ‘Tonight I have to read out loud in church. It makes me nervous.’

‘Which part do you have to read?’

‘I cannot say in English, massa. The bible is Zulu.’

‘May I have a look? I’ve never seen a Zulu bible.’

She handed it to him. ‘I have a bible in Zulu and Lower African but not in English.’

Patrick turned the pages, able to observe only that the book was well kept and leather-bound. ‘It’s a very nice bible.’

‘Thank you, massa.’

‘Do you have to read about Jesus?’

‘I read about the God who send Jesus to earth for us.’

‘That’s the important bit.’ He smiled. She nodded solemnly as he handed back the book. ‘Read loudly and slowly, Sarah.’

‘Mr Chatsworth tell me to read soft and quick. That is what he would do, he said.’

‘He’d get someone else to read for him.’

She laughed. ‘He is fine man, I think. It is good he is here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Before with one massa there was not enough work. I worry that I do not do enough for you. But now there is plenty. Mr Chatsworth make much work. Also your ladies. They make work, too.
That is good.’ She looked thoughtfully at her new blue slippers. Snap had stolen one the day before and Sarah, outraged, had beaten him with the other.

‘Is your slipper all right?’ asked Patrick.

‘Yes, yes, is all right, thank you, massa.’ She nodded, closed her eyes and made a sound like a hum cut short. ‘But I worry about Stanley.’

‘Why – hasn’t he gone?’

‘Yes, but still I worry.’

‘He hasn’t telephoned?’

‘No.’

He saw again the blacks scattering before the police and the bleeding prisoners being dragged back to the trucks. ‘I’m sure he must be back in Swahiland.’

She nodded obediently. ‘Yes, massa.’

‘Is there anyone you can telephone?’

‘There is only one telephone to the chief of my village but he will not speak to it. Maybe his wife, she will speak.’

‘Ring her. You can use this phone at any time.’ Chatsworth’s abrogation of this privilege to himself made Patrick determined to extend it to more deserving cases.

She brightened. ‘I can ring tomorrow, perhaps.’

‘Ring now.’

‘Tomorrow, massa, definitely.’

He paused as he left the room. ‘Will you wear your special clothes at church?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled. ‘Very smart.’

She laughed. ‘Thank you, massa, thank you very much.’

Staff had to be at the reception before guests. It was held on the residence lawn. Waiters busied themselves around a long drinks table and on a smaller table there were tiny
quantities of food. The blue sky was beginning to cloud over and a cool breeze, more purposeful than playful, fluttered the ladies’ dresses. The minister and his wife were in the house, where
it was thought Sir Wilfrid was, but the minister had twice had to come out looking for him. The embassy staff stood in an uneasy huddle on the lawn, the usual enmities silenced.

Clifford was gloomy. He had tried to discuss the threatened cut in allowances but the minister had not been very understanding. He had not realised that diplomats had such large allowances: how
much were they and what were they for? Clifford had spent an uncomfortable ten minutes explaining that the ambassador had a tax-free entertainment allowance almost as large as his salary, of which
he was obliged neither to spend nor to return a penny; he had finally to confess that his own total income, when his children started school, would be larger than the minister’s. The minister
said that it was not his business to interfere with the work of the inspectors.

Patrick detached himself from the group and wandered off in the direction of the pool. He would have dinner with Joanna that evening and would describe what had happened in Kuweto, the
suddenness of it all, the misunderstanding, the beatings, the realisation that none of it was new and that there was no apparent end. He felt he had to talk to someone about it. Until he did the
memory would remain undigested.

‘This is going to be awful.’ It was Sandy. She walked down the lawn wearing a flimsy pale-green dress, rubbing her bare upper arms with her hands. ‘I’m so cold I’ve
been hiding in the loo. It’s going to be short on booze and food, too. They always are, these big dos. Last Christmas we were limited to a glass and a half of sherry each. Can you believe
it?’ She pouted and put on a cockney accent. ‘There’s bleedin’ Christmas spirit for yer.’

‘You look cold.’

‘So would you be if you were wearing this.’ She flounced her dress with her fingers. ‘Nice, though, isn’t it? Is it see-through?’

‘Not in this light.’

‘It’s meant to be. Clifford was shocked. Tried to stop me wearing it. Not that there’s anything to see, anyway.’

It was always hard to refuse invitations to gallantry. ‘You’ve no need to be so modest.’

‘I don’t mean me, I mean underclothes. I’m not wearing any. Now you’re wondering why I’m telling you this. You always look as though you think I’m trying to
seduce you and you’re about to run a world record mile. How’s Joanna?’

He smiled. ‘She’s very well.’

‘D’you love her?’

He maintained his smile. Sandy’s eyebrows were delicately raised and she gazed evenly at him.

‘Don’t reply,’ she continued. ‘Whatever you said would be less than honest. You can’t help it. I don’t think you know what you feel, if you feel
anything.’

‘How do you know what I feel?’

The sudden hardness of his tone was reflected in her eyes. She was startled and stared as if waiting for more, slightly frightened. When he said nothing her gaze softened. ‘Sorry, love,
have I touched a raw nerve? I shouldn’t keep on about her. It’s only that I’m a bit jealous.’

‘It’s not Joanna.’

‘Who is it, then?’

He looked away, trying to rid himself of the vision of howling blacks being clubbed to silence. ‘It’s what I saw in Kuweto this morning.’

‘This country getting at you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It does now and again. You have to fight back.’

‘That’s all right for those that can.’

‘Same with everything.’ She smiled and flounced her dress again. ‘Anyway, I thought men were supposed to find underclothes more erotic than nakedness? If that’s true I
can’t see why Clifford should get so angry about me not wearing any. Don’t s’pose he knows what’s erotic, that’s the trouble.’

Clifford hurried towards them from the group. Patrick felt a little guilty and almost raised his hand in greeting. Sandy stared at her approaching husband. ‘I knew it wouldn’t be
long. He’s jealous too, you see.’

‘The guests are arriving and the official party will be out soon,’ said Clifford. ‘It’s time you started hosting and circulating, Patrick.’

‘I need to host some gin to circulate my blood before I do anything else,’ said Sandy. ‘Are they serving any?’

‘Yes, yes, of course they are. Patrick, will you help Miss Teale make sure that people get a drink as soon as they come on to the lawn? I’ll look after the ministerial
party.’

‘I can’t see any drinks,’ continued Sandy.

Clifford became less officious and more irritable. ‘Well, go to the table and get some but don’t finish it before anyone else gets any.’

Soon the minister and his wife appeared, Sir Wilfrid following like a thoughtful stork. Clifford hovered round the party, bringing forward various guests to be introduced and then dispatching
them with too little ceremony. Sandy and Mrs Collier stood next to each other, silently. The minister clasped a glass of white wine in his podgy fist and looked belligerent. Patrick talked to an
architect and his wife from Crawley, a maker of scientific instruments and his wife from Wolverhampton and a bank manager and his wife from Ballymoney.

He looked for Joanna. Philip and Claire Longhurst appeared on the veranda. Claire held a baby and stared combatively about her. Philip, looking no better than he had that morning, drooped behind
her with the appearance of one who is beginning to realise that perhaps the whole of life will disappoint him. They gazed towards the minister, who now stood apart from the others talking earnestly
to Sir Wilfrid. The two were attended by a servant with a tray of drinks. There was only one other tray circulating and several people looked about with unease that bordered upon desperation.
Several times the servant attempted to offer his drinks elsewhere but each time he was recalled by the minister. Eventually the servant gave up trying to escape and stood respectfully a few yards
away, stepping forward every so often to replace the minister’s empty glass with a full one. Whilst this went on Sir Wilfrid’s gaze passed over Clifford’s watchful head, traversed
Philip and Claire, settled on Patrick a moment, left him and returned with sudden recognition. He beckoned.

He put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘Minister, you know Patrick Stubbs, my third secretary. He’s dealing with the Whelk business at this end, liaising with
the—’

The minister stared at Patrick without shaking hands. ‘’Course I know him, he was at the airport.’

Sir Wilfrid held up his hand. ‘Yes, of course, minister—’

The minister turned to Sir Wilfrid. ‘In fact, he’s the one who nearly ran us all over this afternoon.’

Sir Wilfrid nodded with closed eyes. ‘A moment’s panic, that’s all. He’s new here.’

‘He’s not as new as I am.’ The minister reached for another glass. ‘Anyway, least said, soonest mended. I spoke to my opposite number about Whelk this afternoon. He
didn’t want to know at first, said he’d only heard about it yesterday or some such daft excuse. I put it to him straight: told him we wanted him back or there’d be trouble.’
He suppressed a belch and drank. ‘Anyway, what he said convinced me that whatever has happened to Whelk the Lower Africans aren’t behind it. In fact, they’re as keen to find him
as we are. He came clean with me and said they’d been watching us and the investigator who’s still out here to see if we knew more than we were letting on. That’s why they let the
investigator out of gaol. But now they believe we’re not up to any monkey business they’re prepared to pull out all the stops to help us.’

Sir Wilfrid rubbed his jaw. ‘All the same, I can’t help feeling that at the very least they know more than we do. They’re quite capable of being duplicitous. Why, for instance,
are they so keen to find him?’

The minister shook his head dismissively. ‘No, no, this was straight, man to man. He knew who he was talking to. It was the same when we discussed the border question. I let him have our
position straight from the shoulder. Told him what we’d say at the UN—’

Sir Wilfrid leant forward. ‘Minister, Patrick hasn’t been party to the confidential discussions on the border question and I rather think our UN position—’

The minister held up his hand. ‘And then he said that if we recognise the independent homelands, starting with Bapuwana, they’ll be flexible on the border in return. I told him it
was more than our reputation with the Third World was worth. We’d be the pariahs of the UN, just like they are now.’

Sir Wilfrid gave up trying to interrupt. He nodded. ‘Quite so. In no time at all.’

‘“Why give a damn about the Third World?” he said. “What does their opinion matter? If the boot were on the other foot they’d be kicking us all round the globe.
They wouldn’t give a damn about our opinion.” I told him that wasn’t the point.’

Sir Wilfrid nodded again. ‘Indeed it isn’t. Even if that were true the moral point remains. It’s the moral point that’s crucial.’

‘He may be right, of course, but it’s not only up to us, that’s the trouble. It’s not that simple. We’ve all got to pretend we like the Third World. Myself, I
don’t even like calling them that. It’s all one world, and either you make your way in it or you don’t. It’s not up to me, as I told him.’

Sir Wilfrid looked pained. He asked the minister if he would like to meet Chatsworth and whether the Lower Africans would now agree to Chatsworth’s being quietly put on a plane home.

The minister emptied his glass. ‘They’ll agree, no doubt about that. I’ll thank him for his efforts and send him on his way.’

Patrick was dispatched with instructions to introduce Chatsworth at a convenient time. The smooth lawn seemed springier than hitherto. There were daily flights to London.

Clifford and Sandy talked to Philip and Claire, ignoring the guests. There was no sign of Joanna. Patrick was pretending not to have noticed the architect’s welcoming look when the
familiar knock of a diesel-engined taxi caused him to glance at the entrance. Chatsworth got out, followed by Rachel. She wore yellow jeans and a white T-shirt, through both of which she bulged.
Chatsworth wore flannels and a blazer that Patrick recognised as his.