To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (30 page)

It was to be another twenty minutes of sweating before Bill called back.

‘You made a profit of PS64,312. If every Embassy around the world has carried out the same exercise, the government will be able to cut taxes long before the next election.’

‘Quite right,’ said Henry. ‘By the way, could you convert the surplus into kora, and place it in the Swimming Pool Account? And Bill, I assured the High Commissioner the matter
would never be referred to again.’

‘You have my word on it,’ replied the bank manager.

Henry informed the editor of the
St George’s Echo
that contributions to the swimming pool fund were still pouring in, thanks to the generosity of local businessmen
and many private individuals. In truth the outside donations made up only about half of what had been raised to date.

Within a month of Henry’s second coup, a contractor had been selected from a shortlist of three, and lorries, bulldozers and diggers rolled onto the site. Henry paid a visit every day so
that he could keep an eye on progress. But it wasn’t long before Bill was reminding him that unless more funds were forthcoming, they wouldn’t be able to consider his plan for a high
diving board and changing rooms for up to a hundred children.

The
St George’s Echo
continually reminded their readers of the appeal, but after a year, just about everyone who could afford to give anything had already done so. The trickle of
donations had dried up almost entirely, and the income raised from bring-and-buy sales, raffles and coffee mornings was becoming negligible.

Henry began to fear that he would be sent to his next posting long before the project was completed, and that once he left the island Bill and his committee would lose interest and the job might
never be finished.

Henry and Bill visited the site the following day, and stared down into a fifty-by-twenty-metre hole in the ground, surrounded by heavy equipment that had been idle for days and would soon have
to be transferred to another site.

‘It will take a miracle to raise enough funds to finish the project, unless the government finally keeps its promise,’ the First Secretary remarked.

‘And we haven’t been helped by the kora remaining so stable for the past six months,’ added Bill.

Henry began to despair.

At the morning briefing with the High Commissioner the following Monday, Sir David told Henry that he had some good news.

‘Don’t tell me. HMG has finally kept its promise, and …’

‘No, nothing as startling as that,’ said Sir David, laughing. ‘But you are on the list for promotion next year, and will probably be given a High Commission of your own.’
He paused. ‘One or two good appointments are coming up, I’m told, so keep your fingers crossed. And by the way, when Carol and I go back to England for our annual leave tomorrow, try to
keep Aranga off the front pages - that is, if you want to get Bermuda rather than the Ascension Islands.’

Henry returned to his office and began to go through the morning post with his secretary. In the ‘Urgent, Action Required’ pile was an invitation to accompany General Olangi back to
his place of birth. This was an annual ritual the President carried out to demonstrate to his people that he hadn’t forgotten his roots. The High Commissioner would usually have accompanied
him, but as he would be back in England at the time, the First Secretary was expected to represent him. Henry wondered if Sir David had organised it that way.

From the ‘For Your Consideration’ pile, Henry had to decide between accompanying a group of businessmen on a banana fact-finding tour around the island, or addressing St
George’s Political Society on the future of the euro. He placed a tick on the businessmen’s letter and wrote a note suggesting to the Political Society that the Controller was better
placed than he to talk about the euro.

He then moved on to the ‘See and Bin’ pile. A letter from Mrs Davidson, donating twenty-five kora to the swimming pool fund; an invitation to the church bazaar on Friday; and a
reminder that it was Bill’s fiftieth birthday on Saturday.

‘Anything else?’ asked Henry.

‘Just a note from the High Commissioner’s office with a suggestion for your trek up into the hills with the President: take a case of fresh water, some anti-malaria pills and a
mobile phone. Otherwise you could become dehydrated, break out in a fever and be out of contact all at the same time.’

Henry laughed. ‘Yes, yes and yes,’ he said, as the phone on his desk rang.

It was Bill, who warned him that the bank could no longer honour cheques drawn on the Swimming Pool Account, as there hadn’t been any substantial deposits for over a month.

‘I don’t need reminding,’ said Henry, staring down at Mrs Davidson’s cheque for twenty-five kora.

‘I’m afraid the contractors have left the site, as we’re unable to cover their next stage payment. What’s more, your quarterly payment of PS1.25 million won’t
be yielding any surplus while the President looks so healthy.’

‘Happy fiftieth on Saturday, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Don’t remind me,’ the bank manager replied. ‘But now you mention it, I hope you’ll be able to join Sue and me for a little celebration that evening.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Henry. ‘Nothing will stop me.’

That evening, Henry began taking his malaria tablets each night before going to bed. On Thursday, he picked up a crate of fresh water from the local supermarket. On Friday
morning his secretary handed him a mobile phone just before he was due to leave. She even checked that he knew how to operate it.

At nine o’clock, Henry left his office and drove his Mini to the Victoria Barracks, having promised that he’d check in with his secretary the moment they arrived at General
Olangi’s village. He parked his car in the compound, and was escorted to a waiting Mercedes near the back of the motorcade that was flying the Union Jack. At 9.30, the President emerged from
the palace and walked over to the open-topped Rolls-Royce at the front of the motorcade. Henry couldn’t help thinking that he had never seen the General looking healthier.

An honour guard sprang to attention and presented arms as the motorcade swept out of the compound. As they drove slowly through St George’s, the streets were lined with children waving
flags, who had been given the day off school so they could cheer their leader as he set off on the long journey to his birthplace.

Henry settled back for the five-hour drive up into the hills, dozing off from time to time, but was rudely woken whenever they passed through a village, where the ritual cheering children would
be paraded to greet their President.

At midday, the motorcade came to a halt in a small village high in the hills where the locals had prepared lunch for their honoured guest. An hour later they moved on. Henry feared that the
tribesmen had probably sacrificed the best part of their winter stores to fill the stomachs of the scores of soldiers and officials who were accompanying the President on his pilgrimage.

When the motorcade set off again, Henry fell into a deep sleep and began dreaming about Bermuda, where, he was confident, there would be no need to build a swimming pool.

He woke with a start. He thought he’d heard a shot. Had it taken place in his dream? He looked up to see his driver jumping out of the car and fleeing into the dense jungle. Henry calmly
opened the back door, stepped out of the limousine, and, seeing a commotion taking place in front of him, decided to go and investigate. He had walked only a few paces when he came across the
massive figure of the President, lying motionless at the side of the road in a pool of blood, surrounded by soldiers. They suddenly turned and, seeing the High Commissioner’s representative,
raised their rifles.

‘Shoulder arms!’ said a sharp voice. ‘Try to remember that we are not savages.’ A smartly dressed army captain stepped forward and saluted. ‘I am sorry for any
inconvenience you have suffered, First Secretary,’ he said, in a clipped Sandhurst voice, ‘but be assured that we wish you no harm.’

Henry didn’t comment, but continued to stare down at the dead President.

‘As you can see, Mr Pascoe, the late President has met with a tragic accident,’ continued the captain. ‘We will remain with him until he has been buried with full honours in
the village where he was born. I’m sure that is what he would have wished.’

Henry looked down at the prostrate body, and doubted it.

‘May I suggest, Mr Pascoe, that you return to the capital immediately and inform your masters of what has happened.’

Henry remained silent.

‘You may also wish to tell them that the new President is Colonel Narango.’

Henry still didn’t voice an opinion. He realised that his first duty was to get a message through to the Foreign Office as quickly as possible. He nodded in the direction of the captain
and began walking slowly back to his driverless car.

He slipped in behind the wheel, relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. He switched on the engine, turned the car around and began the long journey back down the winding
track to the capital. It would be nightfall before he reached St George’s.

After he had covered a couple of miles and was certain that no one was following him, he brought the car to a halt by the side of the road, took out his mobile phone and dialled his office
number.

His secretary picked up the phone.

‘It’s Henry.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad you phoned,’ Shirley said. ‘So much has happened this afternoon. But first, Mrs Davidson has just called to say that it looks as if the church bazaar
might raise as much as two hundred kora, and would it be possible for you to drop in on your way back so they can present you with the cheque? And by the way,’ Shirley added before Henry
could speak, ‘we’ve all heard the news.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was calling about,’ said Henry. ‘We must contact the Foreign Office immediately.’

‘I already have,’ said Shirley.

‘What did you tell them?’

‘That you were with the President, carrying out official duties, and would be in touch with them just as soon as you returned, High Commissioner.’

‘High Commissioner?’ said Henry.

‘Yes, it’s official. I assumed that’s what you were calling about. Your new appointment. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ said Henry casually, not even asking where he’d been appointed to. ‘Any other news?’

‘No, not much else happening this end. It’s a typically quiet Friday afternoon. In fact, I was wondering if I could go home a little early this evening. You see, I promised to drop
in and help Sue Paterson prepare for her husband’s fiftieth.’

‘Yes, why not,’ said Henry, trying to remain calm. ‘And do let Mrs Davidson know that I’ll make every effort to call in at the bazaar. Two hundred kora should make all
the difference.’

‘By the way,’ Shirley asked, ‘how’s the President getting on?’

‘He’s just about to take part in an earth-moving ceremony,’ said Henry, ‘so I’d better leave you.’

Henry touched the red button, then immediately dialled another number.

‘Bill Paterson speaking.’

‘Bill, it’s Henry. Have you exchanged our quarterly cheque yet?’