Short of Glory (37 page)

Mr Oboe had meanwhile handed a red book to the minister. ‘Please, you must have this book.’

The minister took it warily. ‘Thank you very much.’

Mr Oboe beamed. ‘It is yours.’

‘Yes, thank you very much.’

‘A gift from the British cultural centre.’

The minister glanced at his wife and Anthony as if afraid he might be laughed at. ‘I know, yes, thank you very much.’

Mr Oboe nodded, still beaming. ‘The British are very big in Kuweto.’

Anthony took the book from the minister and held it up to Patrick as they filed out. It was Henry James’s
Portrait of a Lady.
‘He won’t be able to put it down,’
he whispered.

The sewing-machine stood on the table-tennis table. Half a dozen Methodist ladies stood in a line on the far side of the table. They wore black stockings and skirts, red blouses, white hats and
sailor’s collars, the uniform Sarah wore to church. They clapped as the party entered the hall. Mr Oboe introduced the ladies by name and once again everyone shook hands with everyone else.
The ladies smiled, curtsied and gave most of their attention to Sir Wilfrid.

Mr Oboe nodded and smiled. ‘Very good,’ he said. Everyone smiled back. There was a pause, then Mr Oboe took a deep breath and burst into prayer, declaiming, ‘Oh Lord, oh Lord,
oh Lord,’ in a voice that filled the room.

Mrs Collier was shaken but the minister clasped his hands and looked solemn. When the noise of the prayer died down the Methodist ladies sang a hymn. During this the local ambulance driver came
in and sat on the sewing-machine box whilst he ate his sandwiches. He grinned happily and with one hand tapped out the rhythm on the side of the box.

By the end of the hymn Mrs Collier had recovered herself sufficiently to look as though she were in church. There was then another, longer silence. No one was in charge. Clifford looked angry,
the minister purposeful but undecided. Mrs Collier looked at the man eating the sandwiches.

Eventually Sir Wilfrid stepped forward. He thanked Mr Oboe and his family and made flattering remarks about the Methodist ladies. He then indicated the sewing-machine and said that Mrs Collier
had come all the way from London to meet the people of Kuweto and that she, like himself, everyone else there and the people of the United Kingdom who could not be present, was delighted to be
making this gift. All the ladies smiled and there were murmurs of thanks from the two Mrs Oboes who stood, broad and smiling, by the door. Sir Wilfrid concluded with, ‘I am sure Mrs Collier
will now wish to declare this machine open, or launched, or ready for the needle or whatever is appropriate.’ He smiled, inclining his body elegantly. ‘Mrs Collier, would you care to .
. .’

Mrs Collier stared at Sir Wilfrid. Her husband nudged her forward. She stopped by the machine, stared at it, then looked helplessly round. There was another silence. ‘Thank you very
much,’ she said, in a small, high voice.

‘They’re not giving it to you, you’re giving it to them,’ whispered the minister loudly.

Mrs Collier blinked and addressed Clifford. ‘I hope you get a lot of pleasure from it.’

The minister pointed to the heap of green cloth on the table. ‘Feed it in,’ he whispered.

Mrs Collier picked up the cloth. It was unwieldy and began falling off the table. Clifford and Mr Oboe stepped forward. There was confusion as to which was the right end. After two or three
attempts a piece was fed into the machine. Mrs Collier stood back, clutched her handbag and waited.

‘Switch it on, then,’ said the minister, no longer whispering.

Mrs Collier dithered at the back of the machine. Clifford pressed a button, with no result. The minister stepped forward. ‘That’s the stop one. Here, let me.’ He moved them
both aside and pressed another button.

‘I’ll check that it’s switched on, sir,’ said Clifford. He got down on all fours and followed the white flex under the table. It ended in three coloured wires. ‘No
plug,’ he said.

‘Where’s it made?’ asked the minister.

Clifford examined the machine. ‘Britain, sir.’

‘That’s typical, that is,’ said Mrs Collier, rounding on her husband. ‘If it was made in Japan or Hong Kong or one of those places it would have a plug, wouldn’t
it? Bound to.’ She nodded and looked at everyone. ‘It would work then all right, I’m sure it would.’

The minister turned to Sir Wilfrid. ‘Fine advertisement, I must say. What’s the use of me traipsing around the world on behalf of British industry when they can’t even produce
plugs? No wonder no one lets us build their power stations any more. Might as well stay at home.’

Sir Wilfrid’s long, lined face was patient and understanding. ‘My sentiments entirely, minister.’

‘There might be another one attached to something else,’ said Clifford. He began moving all the chairs that were lined up against the wall, pushing them aside with a great deal of
noise and bustle.

The ceremony ended with another loud prayer from Mr Oboe. He gave thanks for food, water, the sun, the earth and the English sewing-machine. He prayed for a plug, and smiled. The Methodist
ladies then sang another hymn, possibly the same one as before. They sang it with gusto, and the ambulance driver again tapped out the rhythm.

‘That was embarrassing,’ Clifford said to Patrick as they shuffled out. ‘The plug should have been checked. It is British, after all. Remind me to speak to the commercial
officer.’

Outside, Simon was using a short stick to keep the children off the Rolls. Everyone milled around and all hands were again shaken. Sir Wilfrid was applauded.

Simon took a route that led downhill towards one of the beer halls. The earth was parched and the air dry enough to crack lips but the road outside the beer hall was wet and covered with mud, as
if a pipe had burst or a water-tanker had unloaded in the wrong place. A crowd of twenty or thirty men spilled over the road. They kept moving, shouting, cheering, sometimes jumping aside. As the
Rolls approached it became clear that two of them were fighting. They rolled and splashed in the mud with almost comical desperation.

A small open-backed lorry, packed with people, some clinging to the roof and sides, one on the mudguard, made its way lop-sidedly down the opposite hill. It veered off the road and back again.
Simon braked to avoid the fighters. When he saw the lorry he reacted suddenly and with unnecessary violence. He swung the Rolls hard to the left and then, feeling it lose grip on the muddy road,
hard to the right, accelerating at the same time. The car lurched off the road, scattering the bystanders amidst a shower of mud. The lorry wobbled and continued on its way, its cargo waving and
laughing.

The Rolls came to rest with its front wheels on the road and its rear in the mud. Clifford was flung to the floor with his head between Mrs Collier’s knees, and Mrs Collier and the
minister slid along the rear seat into Sir Wilfrid. Anthony banged his head on the front side window. Patrick fell off the occasional seat.

Clifford picked himself up. Mrs Collier uttered little moans and gasps and tried to replace her glasses which had fallen on to her shoulder. The minister, finding himself in a near embrace with
his wife, hastily detached himself. Sir Wilfrid was powerless to do anything except gaze with mute surprise at his oppressors. Patrick decided it was easier for the time being to stay where he
was.

Some of the crowd moved towards the car, good-naturedly holding up their arms to show how muddy it had made them. Simon abruptly pushed the accelerator right down, the car jumped, then slid
again, and the approaching men were showered with more mud. They dodged, slipped, shouted and banged angrily on the roof. One opened the passenger door, where Anthony sat clutching his head, and
shouted at him. Simon said something shrill in Zulu, jumped out of the car and fled, leaving the engine stalled and his chauffeur’s cap upturned in the mud.

Another man banged on the rear window. The noise inside the car was frighteningly loud. Sir Wilfrid tried to move but couldn’t because Mrs Collier was leaning heavily upon him, clutching
her husband, who winced each time a fist hit roof or window. Clifford was on the floor again trying to get up. Patrick, who had stayed on the floor, rose and tried to open his door. Someone was
pressing against it. He braced himself against the occasional seat and pushed. The man stepped back and Patrick almost fell out.

He looked at the crowd and they at him. Most of the spectators had left the fight and were gathered round the car. One of them wore a jacket with a torn sleeve. He kept waving and shouting
something. Patrick knew that at least some of the words were English but could not understand them. He felt mentally intact but for the memory of words, which appeared to have forsaken him
entirely.

It was probably no more than a second or two before he pointed at the car and said, ‘We’re stuck – can you push?’ He made a pushing motion with his arms, as Sir Wilfrid
had done when they had been stuck before. It had seemed absurd then but now seemed natural. ‘Can you push?’ he repeated, gesturing vigorously.

Several of the faces near him smiled. There was more incomprehensible speech. He smiled back and others grinned and laughed. There was general movement towards the car. The door had been left
open by Simon and so Patrick got in and tried to start the engine. At first nothing happened because the automatic gearbox was still engaged. Patrick disengaged it and the engine started at
once.

Anthony looked at him as if he had trouble focusing. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I am. Are you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t think you are.’

‘You may be right.’ He remained staring at Patrick.

The glass division was lowered and Clifford’s fleshy face was thrust between them. He spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘Do nothing, don’t move. You’ll only make them worse.
Stay as you are. They might lose interest and go away.’

The minister’s face appeared alongside Clifford’s. He breathed rapidly and his eyes bulged. ‘Get the police!’ he hissed to Anthony. Seeing no reaction he turned to
Patrick. ‘Get out and talk to them. Make them stand back. Keep them talking. Tell them I’m from the British government.’

‘It’s all right, they’re helping us.’ Patrick engaged the gears and accelerated slowly, turning the front wheels so that they pointed down the slope. The big car was
light and responded with almost alarming ease. There was pushing and heaving from outside. More black faces appeared at the windows, causing Mrs Collier to whimper. The car edged forward and there
was a great cheer.

At this point Sir Wilfrid opened his door and stepped out. His shirt-tail showed from under his jacket, his hair was ruffled and his tie askew. He stood with one hand in the air, like mad Lear
in a suit. ‘This is the Brit-ish ambass-ad-or. Do you un-der-stand? The Brit-ish am-bass-ador.’ He shouted over the startled faces nearest him as if addressing multitudes ranged over
the hills. He raised his voice still more. ‘We have visit-ed your cultur-al centre. We are visit-ors. We mean no harm. There is a Brit-ish government min-ister—’

Those at the back were still pushing. As the spinning rear wheels reached firm ground near the road the car jerked forward. The open door caught Sir Wilfrid on the shoulder and toppled him
gently into the mud. Patrick braked suddenly, fearing he was about to run over his ambassador.

‘Look out, they’ve got him! They’ve got him!’ Clifford shouted from the back. The minister knelt on the floor, put both hands to his head and bellowed, ‘Police!
Police!’

Patrick put the car into neutral and smiled.

The police came. They were in open lorries and wore riot helmets. The whites had carbines or pistols, truncheons and shields. The blacks had truncheons and shields. They debussed and laid into
the helpers swiftly and precisely. Those with carbines took up positions alongside the road whilst the others ran amongst the fleeing helpers. Some who had seen the lorries approach escaped in time
but others were too late and became embroiled in mud and confusion, stumbling, slipping, sometimes yelping before they were hit. Some ran into the beer hall but most tried to get away between the
bungalows. One of the two who had been fighting sat bemusedly at the roadside, holding his head. He was hit across the shoulders, knocked sideways and dragged by his feet back to one of the
lorries. Others were beaten as they fell. Some howled and some were suddenly silent, blood streaming from wounds to the head and face. As one was dragged unresistingly away his shirt rode up to his
shoulders and his trousers slipped down his thighs.

Two policemen, one white and one black, ran to Sir Wilfrid. He was already on his feet. He held up his arm again. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop all this!’

Clifford got out and held the ambassador by his other arm. Sir Wilfrid took no notice. The minister and Mrs Collier watched the beating and dispersal of the helpers from within the Rolls. Two of
the younger ones stopped at a safe distance, picked up some stones and threw them. A policeman knelt and aimed at them with his carbine.

Putting the Rolls into gear and accelerating were actions performed unthinkingly and completely. They were obvious and once taken seemed inevitable. The car moved sharply on to the road, causing
two policemen to jump aside, and pulled up in front of the kneeling man so that his aim was blocked. It missed the barrel of the carbine only because the policeman lifted it at the last moment. The
stone-throwers ran off.

The young policeman’s face was thin and freckled, pale with anger.

‘I damn near shot you, man!’ he shouted in a Lower African accent. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

Patrick switched off the engine and got out. He felt suddenly weary. ‘I was stopping you shooting.’

‘How did you know I was going to shoot?’ The young policeman came close.

‘I saw you aiming.’

‘How do you know I wasn’t aiming over their heads?’

‘I hope you were.’

The policeman moved closer still. ‘And what is it to you whether I was or wasn’t?’

‘I saw you doing it, that’s what it is to me.’ Patrick stared stonily into the policeman’s hard eyes. He felt both angry and unsure of himself. The policeman raised the
butt of his carbine to waist height.