Short of Glory (17 page)

Clifford fumed. ‘As if I didn’t have enough on my bloody plate without having to play the ambassador’s wife. If I’d known it was going to be such a shambles I’d
have got Sandy to come along and do something. As it is, she’s at the bloody hairdresser’s.’

Organising food, drink, tables and servants prevented Patrick from getting to the telephone. At first he felt a malicious pleasure in Clifford’s exasperation. ‘There’s no
meat,’ he said, after talking again to the cook.

Clifford put his hand to his head. ‘What do you mean, no meat?’

‘No meat to eat.’

‘Has he ordered any?’

‘The cook thinks not.’

‘Oh, Christ All-bloody-mighty.’ Clifford put both his hands to his head and turned away. When he turned back his arms hung limply by his side and there was the same hopeless
expression on his face as on the servants’. ‘You know what the sodding problem is, don’t you?’ he asked quietly. ‘He works off last year’s diary. He won’t
throw it away because there are so many things in it he always wants to remember and never does. Jesus. It’s all very well being eccentric and brilliant and all the rest of it but if you
don’t know what sodding day it is it makes you bloody impossible to work for. I mean, I am the head of chancery.’ He prodded his chest with his finger and wrinkled his brow in plaintive
appeal. ‘This is an important embassy. I have a lot of responsibility. I shouldn’t be my ambassador’s surrogate wife. He could have got his secretary to do this, or contractors,
anyone. Trouble is, he doesn’t think about practical arrangements. Always with his head in the clouds worrying about policy or principles. It’s all very well for him.’ He sat
heavily at the table. ‘There’s no time to cook any meat. Just have to serve them with chopped-up potatoes and salad, I suppose.’

Insensitive and pompous as Clifford usually was, he seemed at this moment an honest trier, unfairly let down. Patrick even forgot for a while about Joanna. ‘Why don’t I take your car
and go to the hypermarket and buy up all the cold meat that’s ready to eat?’

Clifford’s expression was hopeful but wary. ‘That sounds like a good idea. At least, I can’t see anything obviously wrong with it, can you? But it seems too simple to
work.’

‘It does seem rather simple, yes.’ They both thought, then reminded each other that there were such things as cold hams that needed only to be carved.

Clifford held out his car keys. ‘Buy as many as you can find. I’ll ring the embassy and get all available women out here. Thank God there aren’t many people coming.’

It worked in the end. Female help arrived, the food was simple but plentiful and wine did the rest. Those who knew Sir Wilfrid well were pleasantly surprised to find anything. Clifford received
a fair amount of jocular credit. There were not too many guests, and ambassadors, fortunately, were thin on the ground. The Dutch ambassador had died of a heart attack some time before and had not
yet been replaced. The French ambassador had been recalled because he had gone on safari with his Spanish mistress during the visit of his own foreign minister. The Italian ambassador was at the
coast visiting Mafia relatives. The Greek was said to be in Kenya with the French ambassador’s wife.

Sir Wilfrid talked to everyone. He had bursts of energy, towards the end of each of which he became abstracted and would suddenly remove himself, only to reappear ten minutes later fully
charged. Patrick began to wonder whether he was an alcoholic.

‘D’you know what he’s doing?’ asked Clifford in a low voice as they squeezed past each other in a crowded doorway. ‘I caught him at it accidentally on the way to
the loo. He’s got a telly in the study and he’s watching cricket. England v. Australia, highlights from yesterday at Lord’s. Crafty old bugger.’

Because there was no disaster Clifford’s manner with Patrick was now friendly and conspiratorial. His eyes brimmed with alcohol and good nature as he introduced him to a Danish first
secretary and a German counsellor – ‘bit senior for you, but never mind’. The Dane talked about how a doctor visiting a hospital in a black township outside Battenburg had found
it so ill-equipped that some patients had to sleep on the floor with newspapers as sheets. There were rumours of sinister medical experiments.

‘At least there are hospitals, unlike in the rest of Africa,’ said the German in careful but faultless English. He swallowed his ham, drank more wine and changed the subject to the
topic of the day. This was the story that the body of the Dutch ambassador, a very large man, had been too big even for the outsize coffin and there had been some unseemly compression of the
corpse. Someone said that one of the crew of the plane that took it back had talked of amputation but this the German did not believe. He laughed heartily and took more ham. The Dane looked serious
and shook his head.

A servant summoned Patrick to the telephone, saying that the embassy wanted him. When he reached it whoever it was had hung up. He assumed it was Joanna again and rang to see if there was a
message. The girl in reception said it was the other girl, now gone off, who had been trying to get him. A man had come to see him, she did not know who but he was very insistent, the other girl
had said. He said it was urgent. Patrick thought of McGrain and said he would come in, in case the man returned. He was grateful even for this excuse to leave the lunch, having discovered he had
left Joanna’s number at the embassy.

On the way out he met Sandy. ‘It hasn’t finished already, has it?’ she asked, touching her neat hair. She wore a blue trouser-suit which made her look older and less
feminine.

‘No, I’m leaving early. They’re all enjoying themselves.’

‘Has Clifford noticed I’m not there?’

‘I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything. He seems fairly pleased with life.’

Thank God for that. How’ve you been able to skive off already?’

‘I’ve got to see someone in the embassy.’ He told her about McGrain. As he spoke he was aware of himself trying to charm. It was not so much that she appealed to him now as
that she had before; also, he was carried along by the momentum of his own speech.

She laughed. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘You can’t. You’re late now. You’ll be later still. I can take the official car.’

She opened her bag and took out the keys. ‘No, I’ll run you in. It won’t take long and if they haven’t noticed yet it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I never see you these
days. Come on.’

She drove jerkily when sober. ‘Why don’t you come to see me?’

He tried to respond playfully. ‘Should I?’

‘How’s your lady-love?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play the innocent, it doesn’t work with me.’

‘I’m seeing her for the first time tonight.’

‘I thought you were a quicker worker than that.’

‘I thought you were.’

‘Shows us both how wrong we can be, doesn’t it? Light me a fag.’

He took one from her packet, lit it and puffed at it himself a couple of times. She took it in her lips without touching his hand.

‘What about Jim?’ she asked.

‘He knows I’m seeing her.’

‘Does he mind?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He must do. We’re not all like you.’

‘Wouldn’t I mind, then?’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t know. P’raps you would. It’s hard to imagine.’

As she left the motorway she swore at another driver who cut in front of her. Patrick decided he was attracted to her again because she was paying him attention.

‘I don’t know Joanna very well,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what she wants. I mean, she’s got her kid and she’s got her man. Maybe she wants something
else. She seems very nice.’

‘Yes.’

She laughed. ‘God, you’re passionate.’

She asked about Sarah, Snap, Deuteronomy and the house before dropping him near the embassy in a no-stopping area, causing traffic to pile up behind. He got out quickly. She pouted coquettishly.
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to kiss you goodbye. You don’t have to run.’

The caller was not McGrain. He was described as young, presentable and English. He had asked first for the ambassador, then for Patrick. He had said something about being on to something and
needing more money. He had left no name but would call again some time.

Patrick did not want to encourage speculation. ‘Perhaps it was someone I knew at university. Messing about, you know.’

‘He was very serious,’ the receptionist said. ‘Perhaps he was a DBS, I don’t know. He didn’t seem very distressed. I’ll call you the moment he comes in again,
if he does, but he said he was going away tonight.’ She giggled. ‘You could throw him out, like you did with that other one. I’d love to see it.’

His office was empty of Philip for once. He rang Joanna but she was out, the maid didn’t know for how long. He said he would ring back.

Sir Wilfrid returned from the lunch before anyone else. Patrick followed him into his office and began to tell him about the L and F man’s visit but realised that the radio was not on. He
stopped. ‘England are seventy-four for six,’ Sir Wilfrid said abruptly. Patrick continued his story in a whisper but Sir Wilfrid was not pleased. He interrupted sharply.
‘Don’t murmur, Patrick, it’s a very bad habit. People normally acquire it after they’ve been around the office for a few years. It’s useful then but I’m
distressed to find it in one so young. Now start again and speak properly.’

Patrick described what had happened and Sir Wilfrid said ‘damn’ several times. The L and F man must have been desperate, that was clear; Patrick should not have gone to the lunch,
that too was clear; the L and F man was no doubt chasing up a lead – that was a good thing. A great pity he was missed. He must not be missed again.

The ambassador turned the pages of his desk diary. ‘Difficult with leap years. The days are the same but not the dates. Or the dates but not the days, I’m not sure which. One of them
is always wrong, anyway. Important to get them right. Today is Kuweto day, I think. I’m almost certain. Very important to get that right. Might be useful if you come with me. Show you how the
majority live.’

The embassy maintained a library and community centre which was normally visited once a week by Miss Teale or by Clifford, when he felt it necessary to demonstrate concern. Patrick’s first
thought was that if he went it would be hours before he could ring Joanna again, but Sir Wilfrid regarded the matter as settled.

‘I occasionally go down myself, you see. Take the British newspapers. Good for morale and that sort of thing and keeps me in touch. I’d like more people to go but it’s hard to
interest them. Trouble is, many of those who join foreign offices the world over are unsuited for dealing with foreigners. They dislike them. They don’t like their own countrymen, either. In
fact, they like only other diplomats. The same applies to teachers and policemen. Both professions are filled with people who by temperament and ability should be barred. Also, I make a point of
driving myself when I go there. Means it’s slightly less formal and does no harm to show people we take a serious interest. Some of us, at any rate. Good for the Lower Africans to see
that.’

Patrick later discovered that Sir Wilfrid’s driving himself mortified Simon, his driver, who felt rejected. He lost face in front of his colleagues and sometimes went into a decline for
days.

They took with them three heavy piles of old British newspapers.

‘Only proper news they get,’ explained Sir Wilfrid.

Patrick took two piles and Sir Wilfrid one. When they reached the lift Sir Wilfrid put his down and rummaged through his pockets. ‘Must’ve left my keys in the office. You hang on
here and keep the lift when it comes.’

The next lift was occupied by Clifford and Philip. They got out, discussing a teleletter that had to go to London that afternoon. Clifford stopped on seeing the bundles of newspapers.

‘He’s going himself? Taking you?’ His earlier good mood had gone. ‘It’s not the ambassador’s job to deliver newspapers and there are better things for you to
do than go swanning off all afternoon. He’s not carrying this one himself, is he?’

‘Yes.’

‘He shouldn’t. He’s got his position to think of.’

Clifford’s irritation prevented him from noticing the same in others. ‘I’ve only got two arms,’ said Patrick. ‘I haven’t yet learnt enough of the local
customs to carry things on my head.’

‘It’s a question of status. It will lower his standing in the African eye if he’s seen bearing burdens himself.’

Sir Wilfrid reappeared. ‘Must’ve left them in the car. Really should tie them round my neck. What are you doing with my bundle, Clifford?’

‘I thought I’d carry it down for you, sir.’

‘Really, Clifford, I should have thought that the head of chancery in an important embassy would have had better things to do than lug bundles of old newspapers about the place. Now give
them to me and call the lift.’

Clifford walked away without a word. Philip held the reception door for him and smiled briefly at Patrick. ‘That’s the first we’ve heard of the African eye,’ he
whispered. ‘It could be the next fashion.’

In the basement they nearly collided with one of the African drivers who was waiting to get in the lift. He carried a stack of clip-files in both arms.

‘Good day, Simon,’ said Sir Wilfrid. ‘How are you?’ The driver was just able to nod and grin above the topmost file, which he held in place with his chin. Sir Wilfrid put
down his newspapers. ‘All well, eh? A good load there. You work hard, Simon.’ He spoke slowly and loudly.

The driver maintained his grin and, with teeth clenched said, ‘Not Simon, sir, Harold.’

‘Harold?’

‘Please.’

Sir Wilfrid turned to Patrick as though it were he who had been speaking. ‘Harold, yes, of course. Simon’s the other chap.’ Harold was trying to edge himself into the lift
without spilling the files. ‘Are all those for chancery?’

‘Sir, for the embassy, please.’

‘Yes, yes, I know that. I bet they’re going to the commercial office. Who ordered them?’

‘The embassy, please, sir.’

‘Who told you to bring them?’

‘Simon tell me.’