Short of Glory (18 page)

Sir Wilfrid turned again to Patrick. ‘Look into this, will you? We don’t want to appear profligate when the inspectors arrive. Can’t have them wading through piles of empty
files to get at the full ones. Mention it to Miss Teale and Clifford.’

Harold stepped unsteadily into the lift. The doors closed on him as he was turning. The top few files began to fall.

‘Always important to talk to these chaps,’ continued Sir Wilfrid as they walked towards the car. ‘They appreciate it. Most people ignore them, I’m sorry to say, but when
you’re doing menial jobs like that you feel a little better if people notice you. It’s even more important here than it is in London. We’re representative, remember.’

W
hen driving, Sir Wilfrid’s awareness of other traffic was intermittent, like one whose delirium is interspersed with brief periods of
consciousness and clarity. He talked all the time. Was it true that Patrick’s baggage, so far from having left London, was probably not even loaded? In which case he had a favour to ask.

It was another minute or two before the favour was made known because Sir Wilfrid turned into a one-way street. Once out he explained that Mrs Acupu, a member of the black Kuweto council that
was elected by a tiny proportion of the Kuweto electorate, was on a sponsored tour to Britain. The trip had not gone well. After spending thousands of pounds on getting her there the Office was
messing it up by not getting the little things right. Sir Wilfrid was particularly upset because the trip had been his idea. Of course, she was aiming a bit high in expecting to be met by the Queen
at Heathrow and he had told her so, but the Office might have done a bit better than just sending old Formerly from the department. Apparently they hadn’t hit it off at all. Then
there’d been some sort of row about racism with the chief of the Metropolitan Police and after that the Office arranged for her to stay in a place in Brixton. She hadn’t liked that and
the next morning they’d moved her to some other place in Mayfair. There’d been other things as well but now it seemed that she was overweight. It was all quite ridiculous.

Patrick assumed that Sir Wilfrid meant her baggage, though the description applied equally to her person. He remembered newspaper photographs showing a vast voluble woman with a huge grin. She
was known for taking enthusiastic advantage of government-sponsored visits to Europe and America. This pleased governments because by entertaining her at the expense of their citizens they were
able to persuade themselves that they were doing something for the black people of Lower Africa – at least, to persuade other countries that they were – and it pleased her because she
became well known and therefore apparently important. In fact, it appeared from the Lower African papers that she was better known in Europe and America than amongst her own electorate.

Sir Wilfrid went on to explain that she’d bought a few things in Harrods or somewhere and was a few pounds over. The Office were getting shirty about paying for it. No doubt that Formerly
chap was sticking his oar in but even so it was ridiculous that they should spend all that money then spoil the ship for a hap’orth of tar. It was the little things that people remembered,
not the big things. Those they took for granted.

‘The point is,’ he concluded, ‘it would do a lot for Anglo-black Lower African relations, Patrick, if her excess could be included in your baggage. If you reckon there’ll
be room I’ll send a telegram when we get back.’

‘There’s certainly room.’ Patrick would happily have agreed for the lady herself to be a part of his baggage. His mind was more on whether or not it would be possible to ring
Joanna from Kuweto. Similarly, he might also be able to invent a reason for getting a bus back rather than risk his life again with Sir Wilfrid. But perhaps there weren’t any white buses.

Sir Wilfrid said that despite the million and a half or so people in Kuweto, it was still not marked on some maps. The main road led past army camps well sited to act as a barrier between the
township and the city. After leaving it they drove through an unmanned police checkpoint. Sir Wilfrid missed a bollard by an inch or two. ‘The police sometimes stop you because whites
aren’t allowed in without a special pass, unless they’re on an official tour. We don’t need passes, of course, and there’s never any trouble once they realise who we are. In
fact, they’re very polite. Make an effort because it’s me, I daresay.’

Kuweto was thousands of small bungalows ranged in lines over low hills. Most of the roofs were of red corrugated iron and the buildings appeared to be identical, like so many Monopoly houses.
Each had four rooms with an outside toilet at the back and was set in its own large garden. There were few attempts at cultivation. The predominant colour of the ground at that time of year,
whether garden, road or sidewalk, was reddish-brown.

People walked slowly in all directions. Some stood in groups in the roads, squatted at one side or walked without apparent purpose across large tracts of bare dirt. The few shops were so boarded
and barricaded that it was impossible to tell what they sold. No one took any notice of the two white men in the black Jaguar.

‘Big business is only just discovering the black African market,’ Sir Wilfrid said. ‘A million and a half people here and they’re only now building a supermarket. One of
the two big chains that cater mainly for blacks. Odd. You’d think simple commercial sense would’ve brought them here before. Perhaps the blacks didn’t have enough money to spend.
They’re richer now.’ He pointed at one very large area of wasteland and called it a park. On the far side was a police station, well fortified and surrounded by a high wire screen.
‘That was put up after the rocket attack last year.’

Beer halls and liquor stores were almost as heavily fortified. What looked at first like exceptionally grim barracks turned out to be hostels for migrant labourers. Most of these came either
from the neighbouring black African states or from the tribal homelands. They were single men and travelled into Battenburg each day by train. Protection rackets were operated on the trains, and
gangs competed for the pickings when the workers arrived at Kuweto station on pay-nights. Most of the drunkenness, tribal rivalries and fights occurred in the hostels.

The town rambled incoherently over the hills with no definable centre unless it was that the centre was elsewhere, in Battenburg. It was neither sinister nor hostile, simply indifferent and
scruffy. Abandoned cars and other twisted and broken metal objects lay here and there, pushed away from the houses as a dog will scuff away the old newspapers amongst which it sleeps.

The British cultural centre was a library attached to a room about the size of a village hall which contained a table tennis table. Next to it was a small bungalow occupied by the curator, Mr
Oboe. He was a plump, jovial black man who smiled all the time he was speaking but composed his face into an expression of exaggerated seriousness, almost of mourning, whenever anyone else
spoke.

‘The British are very big in Kuweto,’ he told Patrick, grinning hugely as they shook hands.

He would not permit Patrick and Sir Wilfrid to unload the newspapers but summoned instead a gaggle of youthful helpers, many of whom were his offspring. In the enthusiasm and excitement two of
the bundles were dropped in the dirt. Mr Oboe shouted at the culprits in shrill Zulu.

The library was a small room with two electric heaters and a fan, despite what seemed to Patrick a warm day. Half a dozen adolescents sat reading at a table, meek and solemn. Mr Oboe introduced
the two visitors and said that they had brought more newspapers from the embassy. Since no one responded he added, ‘Many, many more,’ and pointed at the bundles being brought in. The
adolescents nodded, smiled and looked embarrassed.

‘Good afternoon to you, good afternoon.’ Sir Wilfrid’s loud greeting reverberated in the small room, startling everyone. He nodded for some seconds after speaking as if his
head had been unbalanced by the effort. One of the boys mouthed ‘Good afternoon’ and looked quickly down at what he was reading. The bundles of newspaper were carried amidst bobbing
black heads and a welter of competing instructions into an adjoining room.

‘We have many papers. Very good,’ said Mr Oboe with a smile. He pointed at the bookshelves around the walls of the room and turned to Patrick. ‘Would you like to see our books?
They are from the embassy and the British Council.’

‘Some jolly good books there,’ Sir Wilfrid said, still speaking as if in a gymnasium.

‘Many jolly good books,’ added Mr Oboe. They all three looked at the shelves and nodded at the unremembered novels, the nearly complete sets of Dickens, Trollope and Shakespeare, the
British Isles tide-table, the English-Hebrew dictionary and the back number of
Field.

Sir Wilfrid walked around the table and peered over the backs of the young readers like a benign school inspector. Patrick did the same. Mr Oboe looked on contentedly.

A tall slim girl was reading calculus. ‘What are you studying?’ asked Patrick.

Her dark eyes were big and trusting. ‘For my examination.’

‘You have to do calculus for your examination?’

‘Yes, for medicine.’

‘You want to be a doctor?’

‘Yes.’

He felt like inexperienced and reluctant royalty. He wished her luck. She smiled shyly, turned over a couple of chapters and began reading in the middle of the page.

‘You are a man of education, Mr Stubbs,’ said Mr Oboe, almost ecstatic. He picked up the nearest book. ‘Please accept this jolly good gift from the British cultural centre, Mr
Stubbs.’

Patrick was alarmed. ‘No, please, I have many books. Your need must be greater than—’

‘Please, to remember the British cultural centre. The embassy gives us many books and newspapers. This gift is for you.’

Sir Wilfrid nodded enthusiastically. Patrick accepted the 1926 Seeker and Warburg edition of Lion Feuchtwanger’s
Jew Süss.
‘Thank you, I am very honoured.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Oboe, his eyes wide with delight. Everyone smiled.

Four teenage boys played table tennis in the hall. Their movements were quick and graceful, their play inexpert. When the ball bounced on to the floor they turned to pick it up with eyes
resolutely downcast as if determined not to notice the spectators. Mr Oboe explained that when they had more money he would have a stage built at one end of the hall and a volleyball court marked
out at the other.

‘Volleyball, that’s good,’ said the ambassador enthusiastically. ‘They’ll enjoy that. Do you play volleyball, Mr Oboe?’

‘Yes, I play volleyball. I like it.’

‘Good.’ They nodded and grinned at each other.

There was no sign of a telephone. Mr Oboe told Patrick smilingly that there was one, then that it was in the office, then how to get to the office, then that it had broken the day before.

‘D’you know Mrs Acupu?’ Sir Wilfrid asked.

Mr Oboe looked solemn. ‘Mrs Acupu? No, I don’t know her.’

‘The councillor. She comes from Kuweto. Patrick is helping with her luggage.’

‘She come from Kuweto?’

‘Oh yes, yes. She’s a very nice lady.’

Mr Oboe grinned. ‘A nice lady. I like to meet nice ladies. You like nice ladies?’ He laughed.

Sir Wilfrid took refuge in smiles and nods. Mr Oboe, delighted, turned to Patrick. ‘You help with her luggage? When you finish, may I help?’

‘I would like you to,’ said Patrick. Mr Oboe put his hand to his face and giggled. For the rest of the time that they were together he turned to Patrick every so often, nudged him
with his elbow, winked and giggled. The table tennis continued. It was hard to tell whether Sir Wilfrid was absorbed in the play or whether he was day-dreaming. Patrick turned again to Mr Oboe.
‘Do all the people here live in bungalows, apart from those in hostels?’

Mr Oboe looked surprised. ‘Oh yes, very many people live in bungalows.’

‘One family in each?’

‘Yes. Sometimes the family is very big.’ He laughed. ‘But not all are lucky. When the floods come all the people have to leave their houses in that part of Kuweto and they are
put into army barracks, old ones, huts, you know? But it is many years ago and still they are there.’ He continued to smile. ‘And there are many more people who are moved from a town
where the government say black people must not live any more and they come to Kuweto. These people do not want to move because they own the land, it is theirs for more than seventy years, but the
government takes it from them and they are moved in one day only in army lorries. In the morning very early the lorries come suddenly and they take them to hostels where they must stay and where
they own nothing. That was years ago but still the people feel hard about it.’

The ambassador had bent his head and listened. ‘I know, I know, I know,’ he intoned. ‘It is truly, truly terrible. But such injustice must end. It cannot be allowed to
continue.’

‘The people are used to it.’

‘But they don’t like it, surely?’

‘Oh no, sometimes they are very angry.’ Mr Oboe laughed.

‘It must change. It cannot go on like this.’

‘Yes, must change.’

The table tennis ball bounced again on to the floor.

‘D’you think it will change?’ asked Patrick.

Mr Oboe looked puzzled. ‘Will change?’

‘The government and the black people – d’you think it will change?’

‘Will change one day, perhaps.’ He grinned, put his hand to his face and nudged Patrick.

There were effusive farewells from the gaggle of children and several minutes of shaking hands with Mr Oboe. They left by a different route so that Patrick could see more of the township. He saw
the same rows of bungalows with corrugated iron roofs and acres of the same brown land. There was far more space than in European towns. Sir Wilfrid talked about Mr Oboe’s enthusiasm and
helpfulness, how he did much for children and how it was better to do something for only a tiny minority than to do nothing at all.

‘Of course, it can’t go on, people living like this and the rest of us in luxury. It has to change.’