Short of Glory (40 page)

‘Got any cash for the cab?’ Chatsworth called. ‘I’m right out. Put it on the ledger.’

Heads turned and there was a lull in the chatter. Patrick made his way through the guests, paid the cab and led the pair towards Clifford’s group. He felt safer with people he knew,
however disapproving Clifford might be.

‘Hope you don’t mind my coming along,’ said Rachel to the group at large.

‘’Course they don’t,’ said Chatsworth, grinning. ‘I was invited. You’re my guest.’

Patrick introduced them as friends who were staying with him. Other guests stared. Sandy brightened, Philip smiled wanly, Claire perfunctorily held out her free hand and Clifford indicated to
Patrick to step aside.

‘Was he really invited?’

‘Yes, the ambasssador asked him. He’s to meet the minister.’

‘You shouldn’t take everything the ambassador says literally. Keep them out of sight, save embarrassing everyone else. Why is she dressed like that? Doesn’t she know the
form?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘She knows the form.’ The more he experienced Clifford’s displeasure the less he minded it. They both watched as Chatsworth secured the only visible waiter by
taking his arm as he was serving another group and leading him away. Glasses were replenished and Chatsworth called for beer. The waiter said there was none. Chatsworth said there must be. The
waiter smiled in embarrassment and said there wasn’t. Chatsworth took him by the arm again, saying, ‘Take me to your leader.’ They disappeared into the house.

No one in the group spoke for a few moments. Rachel looked at the guests who were looking at her, then turned to Patrick. ‘God, those frightful hats. Really really awful. Trust you to end
up in this sort of scene.’

‘You’ll find this is standard form in diplomatic circles,’ said Clifford with quiet pomposity.

‘That makes it even worse,’ said Sandy. ‘I agree with Rachel. It’s awful. They all think the sun shines out of their whatsits and they’re all nobodies.’

‘D’you mean to say you really like it?’ Rachel asked Clifford. ‘Is this how you like to live?’

Clifford looked skywards as if assessing various ways to live. ‘It’s a great deal better than some. And it’s a matter of what you’re used to.’

‘Used to it or not it’s absolutely bloody, I think. It’s almost as bad as one of my parents’ garden parties. All champagne and tittle-tattle by the lake.’

‘I could handle the champagne,’ said Sandy.

Philip and Claire looked warily interested. Clifford was clearly waging an inner struggle. ‘Your parents have a lake?’

Rachel gazed at the other guests. ‘What? – oh, yes. Only an artificial one. It’s two hundred years old and it leaks like Patrick’s pool. Bloody nuisance,
actually.’

‘Nothing artificial about this,’ said Chatsworth, returning with a pint of beer. ‘It’s funny, you know, I’ve never been to a place where there’s absolutely no
beer. Just find the right bloke and you can find beer, even if there’s no water. Same all over the Sahara. When I was in Chad people were dropping off like flies for lack of water but even
there I found a crate of Guinness that had come up from Nigeria. Bit sour but that’s how they like it. You always have to ask, though. No one ever offers it to you. Cheers.’

They discussed the geographical regions of Lower Africa. Clifford was didactic about what should and should not be seen. Chatsworth claimed to have been to several of the same places but seemed
to have seen different things. Philip began a remark about the politico-socio-economic structure of extinct nomadic tribes in the west but was unable to finish it because of a coughing fit. Someone
mentioned Sin City, a newly-built gambling centre in Bapuwana. It was famed for relaxations not permitted in Lower Africa. Chatsworth, Rachel and Sandy said they wanted to go there. Claire abruptly
changed the position of the baby in her arms, waking it, and said she thought the place sounded boring. Chatsworth looked at the baby and grinned.

‘D’you know what I’d like to do with your baby?’

Claire smiled for the first time. ‘He is awfully cuddly, isn’t he?’

‘I’d like to eat him. They look so succulent when they’re very young. Those lovely plump little limbs and rosy cheeks. Don’t they make your mouth water?’

Claire glanced at her husband, then back at Chatsworth. ‘I think that’s disgusting.’

‘Come on, you must admit they’d be a delicacy if they weren’t human babies. They even smell nice when they’re clean.’

Sandy giggled and Claire turned away, muttering to her husband. He nodded faintly and, with a smile of goodbye, led his wife back towards the house.

‘What else would you like to eat?’ Sandy asked Chatsworth.

It was Joanna’s gesture rather than her face or her blue dress that caught Patrick’s eye. She had her hair tied back but a stray piece fell forward and, with the habitual movement he
had first noticed in the airport lounge, she quickly pushed it into place. He left the others and walked over to her. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

He touched her hand and felt an answering pressure. The sky had now clouded over completely and the breeze was cooler still but he was sure he was physically warmed by her presence. ‘We
must leave as soon as possible.’

‘But I’ve only just got here.’

‘I know. In fact I can’t leave before the ambassador or the minister. It’s not allowed. But we’ll go as soon as they do.’

‘Will I meet your lodger?’

‘Yes, and his intended.’ He introduced her. Chatsworth told her she was known as ‘in-due-course’ and then told everyone else why. Joanna laughed, as did Patrick, but he
was suddenly aware of her Lower African accent amongst all the English and, tense and defensive, waited to see if Rachel would get at her in some way. But Rachel was pleasant and was in any case
more interested in knowing who all the other guests were.

She turned to Patrick. ‘I’m going to talk to some of them. Don’t introduce me. This is so awful it’s actually quite enjoyable. I’ve had a good day today.’

‘What else have you done?’

‘I’ve got some super stuff on tape for this trial programme.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Oh, just background stuff – what you’d expect me to get.’ She smiled and accepted another drink from the servant procured by Chatsworth. ‘Don’t worry, I
haven’t got a mike down my cleavage.’

The ambassador beckoned and Clifford left the group, only to return and say gruffly that the ambassador wanted Patrick and Chatsworth. He told Sandy to circulate more.

The ambassador was still with the minister and his wife, their area of lawn having been purged of guests. The minister was still talking about his meeting in the MFA which had apparently ended
with him giving his unsolicited views on Lower Africa’s racial problems.

‘They tried to tell me I should go and wash my own back doorstep. Bloody cheek.’ He looked at Sir Wilfrid. ‘Lower Africans are obstinate.’

Sir Wilfrid nodded gloomily. ‘We’ve worked for years to establish reasonable relations with the possibility of influence. We’re in no position to bully and any other pressure
has at best no effect and is at worst counter-productive. It’s a very long job. It requires patience.’

‘Maybe, but they appreciate straight talking, these people. They’re like that themselves. They understand it.’ He noticed Chatsworth. ‘Where d’you get that
beer?’

Chatsworth’s expression had the solemnity of an oath. ‘I’ll get you one.’ He walked off and reappeared with another pint. The minister tasted it. They discussed small
breweries in the north of England. Chatsworth said that two more pints were on their way.

The minister wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his chins. ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ said his wife.

He turned confidentially to Chatsworth. ‘How d’you reckon on handling these Lower Africans?’

Chatsworth’s manner was serious, determined and crisp. ‘No good messing about.’

‘Exactly what I say. You’ve got to put it to them. Make sure everyone knows where they stand.’

They gazed approvingly at each other. Each drank deeply from his pint. Chatsworth gave an account of his arrest in short, punchy sentences, leaving out the reason for it. Patrick caught his eye
and grinned but saw only sincerity and purpose. The other pints arrived.

Sir Wilfrid sighed, turned away and gazed at the darkening sky. ‘He has probably put back British-Lower African relations by a good ten years,’ he said quietly to Patrick. ‘He
wouldn’t let me come with him to the meeting, an unheard-of procedure. Now I know why. We’ve probably less chance of influencing them than we’ve ever had. Perhaps it’s as
well I wasn’t there. Normal diplomatic relations can go on as I wasn’t associated with it.’

The major event of the party was the arrival of Mrs Hosanna Anna Acupu, the Kuwetan lady councillor whose excess baggage was included with Patrick’s. She was six feet tall and very nearly
as wide. Her body was wrapped in a red sari and on her fat black arm, which Patrick judged thicker than his own thigh, she carried a small white leather handbag. She beamed at everyone.

Following his experience of Kuweto the minister greeted her as one comrade-in-arms to another. Hands were shaken, Mrs Collier was shaken and Mrs Acupu displayed a mouthful of teeth like new
tombstones. Sir Wilfrid escorted and introduced her courteously.

She and Patrick shook hands vigorously. He said how pleased he was to meet her.

‘I thank you for your condolences,’ she replied. ‘The plight of the black people is truly bad.’

‘Appalling,’ said Chatsworth as a way of getting himself introduced.

‘They are trodden beneath by racist Lower Africans,’ continued Mrs Acupu.

‘We saw enough of that this morning,’ said the minister. ‘I did what I could but I can’t answer for what happened after I left.’

Mrs Acupu continued to beam. ‘Your country was very well when I was there and many people are interested in the plight of the black people of Lower Africa but your government is mean. I do
not understand them. I do not know why that is.’

‘Very often the new immigrants are the worst offenders in Lower Africa, the most repressive and racist,’ Sir Wilfrid put in quickly. ‘There’s a great deal of Italian
money here.’

‘Much for the Italians but not for the black people.’

‘Always the same with Eyeties,’ said the minister.

Chatsworth gazed at Mrs Acupu with an expression of shocked concern. ‘I am appalled that you should have been treated meanly.’

‘So am I,’ said the minister quickly. ‘Make sure we take the details. Someone will look into it.’

Mrs Acupu bent her head and sighed. ‘When I come to take my baggage—’

Sir Wilfrid interrupted. ‘Your excess baggage has come with Patrick’s baggage. It’s all here.’

Mrs Acupu turned to Patrick with a huge grin. ‘You have my baggage?’

‘Well, no, not as far as I know. Certainly, it wasn’t there when I left.’

Sir Wilfrid shook his head. ‘Miss Teale told me it was to be delivered this afternoon. Perhaps she forgot to mention it to you. There’s some problem about your car, though.
You’d better speak to her.’

‘You have a car?’ Mrs Acupu was delighted. ‘You can deliver my baggage please.’

Sir Wilfrid said that the embassy would deliver it for her. The Jaguar would be put at her disposal.

‘I thank you,’ said Mrs Acupu.

More drinks were served, with more beer for the minister and Chatsworth. There was some inconclusive talk about sanctions which was brought to an end by Mrs Collier, who had been staring at the
pool.

‘What makes the water so blue?’ she asked.

Everyone looked at the pool.

‘The colour of the sky,’ said the minister. Everyone looked skywards but the clouds were now inky black. One or two heavy drops of rain fell.

‘Chemicals,’ suggested Sir Wilfrid.

‘It is the natural colour of the water,’ concluded Mrs Acupu. Everyone nodded.

‘I’m frozen,’ said Mrs Collier.

The onset of rain was expected but unprepared for. In the absence of a lead from Sir Wilfrid no one liked to suggest moving tables, chairs and people inside. Sir Wilfrid himself could not be
relied upon to notice the change in weather. The rain fell suddenly and massively with a fury that was almost personal. Even so there was a moment’s hesitation before the stampede to get into
the house under the veranda. It both finished and made the party. People huddled away from the edge of the veranda, laughing and wet, while the rain spattered venomously on to the concrete.
Clifford pushed his way here and there trying to organise something. Patrick kept out of his way and sought Joanna, but found the minister. He was in a corner of the veranda, huddled protectively
round his beer and unnoticed by the taller people crowded over him. He seemed not to mind.

‘Good man, that Chatsworth,’ he said. ‘He’s gone to get some more and lock the rest away so this mob don’t get at it. I told him he should stay on here for a few
more weeks. You never know, he might be able to pull something out of the bag. Strikes me the embassy could do with someone like him around. He’s staying with you, I’m told? Good. Well,
give him all the help you can and don’t worry about the cost. We’re paying the firm’s fees. I’ll square it with the Lower Africans. Oh, and by the way.’ He held
Patrick by the arm. ‘That fat black woman, the one who’s on the make. What does she do here?’

‘She’s a councillor, that’s all I know. Sir Wilfrid knows much more.’

‘No matter, no matter. Just humour her. Important we’re seen to get on with her sort.’

‘Why?’ Joanna had joined them. She stood with hunched shoulders because of the crush and stared challengingly at the minister. ‘Why is it important to be seen to be getting on
with people who are on the make?’

The minister looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, it’s not the fact that she’s on the make – if she is. I didn’t mean she necessarily is. No, it’s because she’s
representative—’

‘Black, d’you mean?’ Her voice was sharp and her grey eyes were fixed firmly on the minister. She did not look at Patrick.

‘No, no, I mean representative. It doesn’t matter whether she’s black or white.’