Short of Glory (42 page)

Patrick leant against the wall and folded his arms. There were moments of enjoyment in talking to Chatsworth, no matter what else was going on. ‘Tell me, why d’you call her a trendy?
Many people might see her as normal and reasonable. I mean, just because she makes a fuss about being anti-racist—’

Chatsworth shook his head. ‘But that’s not normal. Nearly everyone is racist at heart. We all look down on other races. Every race does that, even if only subconsciously.
That’s what’s normal. It’s just that a few people like me admit it and a lot of others like her sense it and don’t.’

Rachel appeared at the door. ‘I’m going to get a cab into Battenburg and use up the rest of my tape. Be back this afternoon.’

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m going into the embassy.’

‘No, it’s all right. I’m not ready yet.’ She disappeared inside.

‘Probably thought I might come,’ said Chatsworth gloomily.

Patrick took her to the airport later that afternoon. He missed her farewell to Chatsworth, who was not much in evidence.

‘I’ve arranged for some guys from the school to come and pick up the teaching materials,’ she said. ‘It’s been really sweet of you to put up with me. You’ve
been great. Thanks.’

‘Which school?’

‘A school in Kuweto. They’ll be up some time, there’s no need for you to do anything. They were really grateful.’

He asked if Chatsworth had mentioned when he might return to London. He hadn’t.

‘He’s a funny guy,’ she continued reflectively. ‘Sometimes I think he’s not what he seems at all but when you’ve been through what he’s been through, in
prison and all that, I s’pose it alters you. He’s very sensitive. He goes about things in a funny way, sort of indirectly, and when it comes to—’ She lit a cigarette and
opened the window. ‘No, but they did some terrible things to him in prison and it’s left him psychologically scarred. It just comes over him every now and again. He was telling me about
it last night.’

Patrick was slightly tempted to tell her about Chatsworth but there was too much to explain. Anyway, it didn’t seem fair on either of them – although he was a little surprised to
find himself applying the concept of fairness as readily to Chatsworth as to others. Perhaps it was more deeply ingrained than he had realised.

He accompanied her through immigration, as his diplomatic status permitted, and she enthused about how her recordings would help on her course. Her contemporaries would have recorded the
socially deprived in the inner cities or at best immigrant communities but she had real stuff from real people in Kuweto. It might be good enough to turn into an actual programme instead of just a
mock-up. Daddy would throw a fit if he knew what he’d coughed up the air-fare for.

When she’d gone he rang Joanna from an airport call box. If he had waited until he had got back to the embassy he would have had to ring in the presence of Philip.

‘You must be telepathic,’ she said. ‘I’ve just rung you.’ He did not believe he was telepathic. ‘Why?’ Beauty had been caught gambling again. She had
gone off to the park with some other women and the police had arrested them. Joanna heard the wailing and went out and pleaded with the policemen, eventually bursting into tears. ‘I felt
awful because it was partly deliberate, you know, but not completely. I mean, it was also because Jim had been round again and I was a bit upset and it was just one thing on top of another. It
wasn’t just because of Beauty. I know I’d be lost without her and it was horrible seeing her being taken away though she deserves it, the little monkey. If I’ve told her once
I’ve told her a hundred times but all the same I’d hate to think of her in prison.’ She laughed. ‘You know, I cried my eyes out, all over his uniform, and all the time I
knew I could’ve stopped if I’d wanted. Wasn’t that awful? And both the policemen got so embarrassed they let all the women go. They shouted, “Run! Vamoose!” and you
should’ve seen them scamper off.’ She laughed again.

She wanted to talk. He asked questions and she went on for some time. Eventually he asked what had happened with Jim.

‘Oh, nothing happened. He just talked, you know. He told me he’s arranged everything with the plane for the weekend.’

‘Are you sure he doesn’t mind?’

‘No, he doesn’t, really. He likes helping people, anyone, even you and me.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that I do get a bit upset when he comes round because –
well, not because he’s awkward or anything but he’s very vulnerable, you know, much more than he might seem. I mean, I know he’s unhappy but he doesn’t complain about it and
that makes it worse in a way. He still keeps saying how much he likes you and he still keeps calling you the “temporary boyfriend”. You’re sure you’re not going
away?’

‘Yes, quite sure.’ There had never been any suggestion that he should leave, but he still felt dishonest in being so definite. The feeling of transience had not decreased during his
time in Lower Africa.

‘You’re quite, quite sure?’ she asked, perhaps sensing uncertainty in his tone.

‘Quite, quite, quite. I’ll come and see you after work.’

She laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to say. I was thinking I was going to have to say it myself.’

Work on the report of the minister’s visit began immediately. It was an important document and would go out under the ambassador’s signature. Clifford delegated it to Philip.

Philip achieved a major coup by going to the MFA desk officer concerned with British affairs. The man was indiscreet and over lunch gave an oral summary of the Lower African view of the visit.
This was that it was neither successful nor unsuccessful, that the British position on all major issues was as predicted and that the minister, though tactless and ill-informed, had an instinctive
grasp of political realities which the Lower Africans respected.

‘Didn’t they say anything better than that?’ asked Clifford.

Philip looked puzzled. ‘Well, no, but isn’t it important that we know what they really think rather than what they say to the press? I mean, it’s pretty unusual, getting the
other side’s view of a ministerial visit.’ He smiled. ‘In my career it’s unique.’

‘Fact-finding mission, that’s all it was,’ said Clifford. ‘Anyway, we can’t say in writing that the minister’s ill-informed and tactless. Reflects badly on
us. You’ll have to leave that out.’

Patrick saw the draft before it went to Clifford. It was succinct, truthful and detailed, but Clifford was no better pleased. ‘I don’t like all this stuff about our positions being
predictable.’

‘But that’s what they thought,’ said Philip. ‘There were no surprises.’

‘Can’t you say it lived up to expectations?’

‘But that’s not what they meant. It conveys a false impression.’

Clifford frowned. ‘I’m not sure it does, you know, not really. You see, this is as much a report on us as on the minister. Let me have your draft. I’ll do the
necessary.’

The final report was flattering, self-congratulatory and misleading. Sir Wilfrid was surprised that the Lower Africans had been so pleased.

Philip raised his hands in the air. ‘There is corruption amongst honest men. I feel the waters closing over my head.’

‘Is corruption essential?’

‘I’m beginning to think it might be.’

‘Why don’t you leave?’

‘Mortgage, school-fees, allowances. It would be easier for you.’

‘Would you in my position?’

Philip smiled. ‘To be honest, I enjoy being a bureaucrat. I’d just like the chance to be a good one now and again.’

After persuasion from Patrick, Sarah eventually rang her village to hear if Stanley was back, but no one had seen him. She was less worried than he had thought she would be. ‘He will come
back, I think. He always come back.’

Patrick took her shopping farther into town than they normally went. They parked on one side of a main road and shopped in the hypermarket on the other. It was not as good as their usual one.
‘We do another shop for the meat,’ said Sarah. Also, they had to go to a chemist where every fortnight he bought her tablets for high blood pressure. It was, he had discovered, his duty
to pay for his servants’ health care.

Laden with bags, they crossed the road on the way back. It was illegal in Lower Africa to cross against a red signal or to cross in towns at anywhere other than junctions. The busy oneway street
was clear because the traffic was held up by another robot fifty yards to the left. They crossed with half a dozen others, although the robot indicated that pedestrians should wait. At the far side
a policeman stepped out from behind a parked car and stood in front of Sarah.

‘I’m fining you for making an illegal crossing.’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘Let me see your identity card.’

The others who had crossed were white. They glanced at what was happening and walked on. Sarah looked frightened and guilty. The policeman prodded her with his notebook.

Patrick put down his shopping. Sarah was fumbling in her handbag. Her fear and guilt in the face of authority communicated itself and his first instinct was to dissociate himself from her. He
knew he would stay, though, and seeing the policeman prod her awakened in him an anger which he also knew he should not show. ‘Why have you picked on her?’ he asked slowly. ‘We
all crossed, me with her.’

The policeman was young, like the one in Kuweto. He had a new and uncertain moustache. ‘This is not your business. If you take my advice you’ll make yourself scarce.’

‘If she’s in trouble, I should be in trouble. I’m her employer and I crossed with her.’

The policeman stepped back as if making room to draw his pistol. ‘Let me see your life certificate.’

Life certificates were a compound and detailed document of identity which the law said all Lower African citizens should carry. They were not yet issued to blacks, who had pass books or identity
cards. Patrick showed his diplomatic identity card. Sarah clutched her handbag in both hands and looked down. Her shopping lay at her feet. Whilst his card was being examined Patrick put his hand
on her shoulder and told her not to worry. She did not look up but remained mute and unmoving, like a rabbit that hopes danger will pass if it only keeps still.

‘Are you a diplomat?’ asked the policeman.

‘Yes.’ Patrick sensed that this was where the battle could be won if he were prepared to stop fighting. The policeman was hesitant, probably did not want trouble and was prevented
only by his pride from walking away from it. If Patrick offered to take Sarah home and see that she didn’t do it again, apologising for himself at the same time, all could still be well. But
the sight of her bowed head hardened the stubbornness within him. ‘You singled out this lady because she’s black. If you arrest her you must arrest me, too.’

The policeman hesitated no longer. ‘I’m taking her to police headquarters. If you want to come you can.’ He pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

‘You’re not going to use those on her?’

‘I use what I like.’ He pulled Sarah’s wrists together and handcuffed them. She still clung to her handbag and did not notice Patrick’s attempt to relieve her of it. His
face as he did so came very close to the policeman’s. He was younger than Patrick and did not look strong. Patrick wanted to hit him. Instead he picked up Sarah’s shopping and walked
alongside them.

The headquarters was a few hundred yards away. The policeman guided her by the arm, forcing her to walk quickly. People who saw them looked hurriedly away, pretending not to notice.
Sarah’s handbag knocked against her knees. Patrick felt angry, ridiculous and impotent. ‘Don’t worry, Sarah, nothing’s going to happen,’ he said, loudly enough for the
policeman to hear. Neither responded.

They went through the entrance he had used when visiting Jim Rissik to a room on the ground floor where four men, three black and one white, sat handcuffed on benches. A group of policemen stood
smoking and talking in the middle of the room, at the far end of which was a reception desk and a door through which prisoners were taken. Several were led back through it and out into the
corridor. All the police were smart and the one guarding the door had his boots and holster polished to a high gloss; the atmosphere, though, was of bureaucratic indifference, impersonal and slow.
Sarah was put on the back bench and Patrick sat next to her. He put down all the shopping which he then had to move to make way for an escorted prisoner.

The young policeman went forward to the reception desk and spoke quietly to the desk officer. They were joined by an older man and all three turned twice to look at Patrick. They seemed unsure
and reluctant. Patrick decided to attempt to gain the initiative. He went to the counter and said that Sarah’s high blood pressure could be worsened by anything such as handcuffs that
restricted her circulation. He did not know if this was true but neither did they and the handcuffs were removed.

No one seemed to know what to do next. ‘If you want to hold me you’d better notify the British ambassador,’ Patrick said.

The senior man shook his head. ‘We’re not holding you, sir. You are free to leave at any time. You came here by your own choice, as I understand.’

‘And what about my servant?’

‘In your case, would it not be more appropriate for us to inform the consul?’ asked the desk officer.

Patrick wondered whether this was an ironic reference to Whelk but there was no trace of irony in the policeman’s tone or expression.

‘The consul is not here. I am the acting consul. Perhaps you’d like to tell Captain Rissik I’m here. He knows me. Tell him who you’ve arrested and tell him that her
employer, who committed the same offence at the same time and in her company, is here too.’

A telephone call was conducted in Lower African and shortly afterwards Jim appeared, his uniform buttoned and gleaming, his belt creaking faintly as he moved. His regular features were set and
serious. He smiled briefly at Sarah, who did not respond, and indicated to Patrick to follow him to a side office. They both remained standing. Jim put his hands in his pockets and faced Patrick
squarely.