Short of Glory (7 page)

‘Yes, he seems it.’

‘Not that you’ll be seeing much of him. You’ll be working through Philip Longhurst to me. It’s pretty demanding for a first post, quite apart from the complications that
have been foisted upon you. In fact, I’m surprised they sent you. Lots of paper to move, you’ll be up to your ears. The important thing is not to let yourself be distracted by this
other business of yours. London expect a very high level of political reporting from this post as well as a lot of it and if they don’t get it they’ll soon start shouting.’

It was hard to imagine Mr Formerly shouting for anything but Patrick nodded his agreement.

He was to share Philip Longhurst’s office. Philip was a slim, pale, worried-looking man with brown hair. His handshake was limp and brief and the arm so far extended that he appeared to be
trying to dissociate himself from whatever the hand might do. Clifford asked after someone’s health – either Philip’s or his wife’s or both, it was not clear – and
from Philip’s answer it seemed that there was either no improvement or some improvement or that it didn’t matter very much anyway.

Philip looked and sounded clever, and after initial coolness was quietly friendly. They talked about the altitude, Patrick’s journey, how long Philip and his wife had been in Lower Africa,
how they had preferred Vienna, what it was like in the mountains and whether or not there would be cuts in allowances as a result of the forthcoming visit by the inspectors of posts. Philip’s
speech was careful and some words and phrases were spoken as if in inverted commas. This had the effect of distancing him from them, suggesting they were not his first choice and might carry with
them implications for which he would not wish to be held responsible.

‘Your desk,’ he said, looking at the empty one opposite him, ‘carries a heavy work-load, though it has been known to fluctuate.’

‘Heavy to very heavy,’ said Clifford.

Patrick was not sure about paperwork. He had imagined when joining the Foreign Office that there was an activity called diplomacy that was conducted by people talking to each other. This may
have been true for some but there was a depressing amount of paper on Philip’s desk. Patrick felt tired.

‘It’s a matter of identifying priorities,’ Philip continued. ‘You have to know what needs action this day and what to put on the back-burner, as it were. Not everything
demands or can be given immediate attention.’

‘You can’t do it all at once,’ said Clifford. ‘You have to sort it out.’

Miss Teale, the administration officer, was a harassed-looking lady nearing retirement. Her cheeks sagged so much that when she shook her head they wobbled. Her mouth was small and cross.
Patrick later heard stories of her having had affairs with men who had gone on to become senior ambassadors, leaving her behind. She now had the manner of one who considered herself frequently
put-upon.

‘Things were bad enough with Arthur Whelk here. I never thought they could be worse when he isn’t. It’s hopeless trying to administer someone’s accommodation and
possessions without the someone. But it’s even more of a problem with you coming in and using them for however long it’s going to be. As for your own heavy baggage – d’you
know what ship it was on?’

‘The
Limpopo
.’

She looked through the mass of papers on her desk. ‘No record,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘It probably hasn’t been loaded yet.’

‘What about my car?’

‘I’ve heard nothing about any car.’

‘Well, I ordered one in London. It was supposed to be delivered directly to the docks.’

Miss Teale shook her head with her eyes closed. ‘If I haven’t heard about it it can’t be coming.’

‘You’ll need a car to get to work,’ put in Clifford. ‘Don’t know how you’ll manage until it gets here.’

‘Aren’t there any buses?’

They both looked surprised. ‘There are,’ said Miss Teale, ‘but they’re not usually taken by diplomatic grades.’

‘What about trains?’

‘There are no suburban trains. Now, I’ll have to come and do an inventory of your house after you’ve moved in. God knows how I’m going to do it with all Arthur’s
things still there. Not that it’s your house, anyway, so I shouldn’t call it that. You may have to move soon whether or not Arthur returns so I shouldn’t make yourself at home if
I were you.’

‘It’s all wrong for his grade,’ said Clifford. ‘Ridiculous.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to do the inventory before I move in?’ asked Patrick.

Miss Teale turned away. ‘I’ll do it when I can. I haven’t time to go chasing here and there at everybody’s beck and call. You’re only at the residence for a night
or two, aren’t you? Well, then. One thing I shall have to do, though, is to remove the double beds. Single people aren’t entitled to them.’

Patrick was shown round the library, the consular section – where he was to take over an undefined portion of Whelk’s responsibilities – and the registry. He shook hands with
everyone and remembered no names. Clifford looked bored and distracted. Ignoring his earlier promise of a long day ahead, he suggested Patrick should go back to the residence to rest. There was
nothing he could usefully do at the embassy that day so he might as well catch up on his sleep. The only essential fixture was the party Philip was giving that evening – ‘at which your
kind presence is required’. Clifford would call at the residence to take him to it. They parted with mutual relief.

The residence was a 1930s mansion set in acres of garden in the most expensive part of the northern suburbs. Built of red brick, it had castellated wings and a double front door painted white
with gleaming brass fittings. House and gardens were festooned with security lights and devices.

A woman servant led Patrick to the guest wing while a man carried his baggage. The three walked in silence along polished corridors and up and down carpeted stairs. In one hall they met the
ambassador’s new guard dog, a young doberman that ran whining into the garden and hid among the bushes. Patrick was given a twin-bedded room overlooking the swimming-pool and tennis-courts.
Across the corridor was a bathroom in which someone had recently showered, leaving a soggy white towel in the middle of the floor. The woman servant hastily tidied it, explaining that it must have
been left by the other gentleman that morning, the one who had had breakfast with Sir Wilfrid.

It was blissful to be alone at last. He drew the curtains and pottered about in the semi-darkness, unpacking some of the items he did not need and failing to find those he did. He soon gave up
and ran a bath in which he wallowed, dozed and dreamt vividly for a few seconds about vacuum-cleaning a lawn. He dried himself on a fresh towel the size of a blanket.

As he slipped gratefully between the sheets he noticed from the state of the pillow that the other gentleman had also rested there, but he was too tired to mind. Something fell from the bed and
rolled along the floor. It sounded like a coin but he was too tired to look. He was not aware of his head touching the pillow.

A
woman was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the electric light in the hall. She was saying something he could not understand, although
he knew the words. He propped himself up on his elbow and recognised the female servant. He remembered he was in Lower Africa.

‘The lady has come for you.’ She had already repeated the statement twice. He thanked her and she went out, leaving the door ajar.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his bare feet whilst the events of the past twenty-four hours were marshalled by his memory. It was quite dark. No light came through the curtains. It
was evening and he had gone to bed during the day, in the morning. Before lunch, therefore. He could not recall lunch, so it must have been in the morning. He could not think what lady could be
calling for him. Perhaps he had misheard.

Something metallic on the floor gave off a dull brassy gleam in the light that came in from the hall. He picked it up and found it was a bullet, small and solid, cold at first but warmed quickly
by his fingers. He remembered something falling from the bed when he got into it, then that the L and F man had been there before him. He stood the bullet on its base on the bedside table, wrapped
the big white towel around his hips and stepped out into the corridor, blinking.

At the far end stood Sandy, Clifford’s wife. She leant against the wall, her arms folded and a black handbag over her shoulder. She wore a pleated black skirt with a cream blouse and her
short hair shone from recent washing. He remembered that Clifford was supposed to have picked him up to go to the party.

She smiled. ‘You look awful. Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ He heard his voice as if from outside. He was possessed by a feeling of dreamy unreality.

‘How long have you been sleeping?’

‘I don’t know. What time is it?’

‘Gone seven. I’ve come to take you to the Longhursts. Clifford was late back from the embassy. We’ll pick him up on the way. There’s no one here except the
servants.’

‘Right.’ He stood without moving. He had a strange feeling he had forgotten something.

She laughed, looked down, then up, then laughed again. ‘I don’t want to embarrass you.’

‘No.’ There was definitely something.

She looked down again, shaking with laughter. ‘Your towel.’

He was clutching it to his hip but had inadvertently let go of one corner so that only his left thigh was concealed. He looked at himself, as if it were important to know what she could see.
‘Thank you.’ He rearranged the towel.

She pushed herself off the wall and after a momentary unsteadiness began to walk towards him. Her step was heavy and uneven. ‘Have a bath. It’ll wake you up. I’ll scrub your
back.’

She did not follow him into the bathroom but walked past the door and along the corridor. Perhaps she had not meant what she said. It was the kind of remark people often made without translating
it into action, whether or not they’d meant it at the time.

He turned on the bath, then searched for the flannel he knew he must have had when he’d had his first bath some hours before. He found it tucked into one of his shoes. The hot water
gushed, filling the room with steam.

Just after he had lowered himself gently into the water Sandy returned with two large gin and tonics. She put one on the soap-rack for him then sat on the stool which she pulled up to the side
of the bath.

‘When did you last wash your hair?’

‘Yesterday, or the day before. I’m not sure. It was in London.’

‘Where’s the shampoo?’

‘I don’t know.’

She found it in a cupboard. ‘Wet your hair.’

‘The water’s too hot.’

‘Then we’ll make it colder.’

She leant across him and turned on the cold tap. She smelt of perfume and drink. Desire and the sense of reality returned together. He wanted to touch her but feared to make her clothes wet. She
briskly washed and massaged his head, then scrubbed his back with a loofah.

‘Would your husband mind?’ he asked, his eyes closed. He enjoyed having his head pushed from side to side.

‘Of course he would.’

‘Did he mind your coming here?’

‘Probably. I didn’t give him time to object. He’s quite jealous.’

‘Already?’

‘Anyway. Not of you particularly. But he’s more jealous than he has reason to be.’ She squeezed the sponge over him once more and then flung it aside. ‘Come
on.’

He dried himself in the bedroom whilst she went off to refill her glass. The bullet was still on the bedside table and he wrapped it in his handkerchief just before she returned. Presumably she
was not to know about the L and F man. She entered the room as if walking on wobbling floorboards, touching the wall with her fingertips. She sat on the bed and watched him dress.

The silence made him awkward.

‘D’you enjoy being a diplomatic wife?’

‘I don’t enjoy being a wife.’

‘You don’t have to be.’

‘True.’

She crossed her legs and leant back on one arm, pressing her glass so hard against her bottom lip that the lip was flattened. ‘You’d better take those off.’

He paused in zipping up the flies on his jeans.

‘Everyone else will be in suits.’

Even now he frequently forgot he was no longer a student. Fortunately he had a suit with him but the search for a tie was fruitless. ‘I know I’ve got one. More than one. I brought
them with me. They must be somewhere.’

‘You’d better borrow one of the ambassador’s. He’ll be there but he never notices.’

She went down the corridor and returned with a blue and white checked tie.

‘That looks odd. It’s like a duster.’

‘It’ll be even more odd if you don’t wear one at all.’

When they were outside she walked towards the Cortina estate with careful deliberation. ‘If the keys aren’t in it I’ve lost them. Clifford’s always telling me not to
leave them in. I hope they are.’

They were. ‘Would you like me to drive?’ he asked as they were about to get in.

‘No. Think I’m drunk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can drive. I do everything better when I’m slightly drunk except walk. Don’t know why, it’s just walking. I even knit better. Not that I do that often, mind
you.’

She drove steadily through the wide avenues. Street lights were few and the headlamps picked out secluded gateways, high walls and the inevitable jacarandas in slow succession. Occasionally
there were blacks walking, or sometimes simply standing.

Either the sense of unreality or the gin had left Patrick lightheaded and confident. ‘Why don’t you leave him if it’s so bad?’

She pouted briefly. ‘The girls, really. I don’t want to bring them up by myself. Also, both families would be horrified. It’s a lot to break up for no obvious reason, nothing
dramatic, you know. And he’s not always that bad. He makes an effort sometimes. It’s just boring.’

‘Is he faithful?’

She smiled as she looked past him at a road junction. ‘Sometimes I think it would do him good to have a fling. But he’s frightened of women, really, and he doesn’t get much
chance, poor thing.’