The White Father (16 page)

Shrieve was conscious of this look as his hand was gripped and he heard her saying, “At last, Mr Shrieve!” She might have been addressing a tardy delivery boy.

The drawing-room was on the first floor, with windows opening on a balcony above Davies Street. Family portraits and indistinct, heavily framed landscapes, some of which bore the names of famous eighteenth-century English painters, hung round the walls, which were pale green. The room was dominated by two vast sofas, seating four or five medium-sized people and covered in a matching pale green. There was a small bureau covered with papers, and a great many invitation cards stood on the mantel of what looked like an Adam fireplace. Cards, too, were stuck haphazardly into the gilt moulding of the mirror above it.

Withdrawing discreetly towards the fireplace, Edward observed that most of the cards were for charitable balls or ambassadorial extravaganzas. There were also invitations to weddings at St Margaret’s, Westminster, St Mark’s, North Audley Street, and Holy Trinity, Brompton. He had no time for further research, as Lady Georgina came sweeping towards him to ask if he would like a glass of sherry.

Edward declined. To his chagrin, Lady Georgina merely smiled and swept off again without offering him anything else. He and Shrieve had been among the first to arrive. Only Dennis Moreland, a short, fat-cheeked man with thick black hair who
ran a television series and wrote for one of the weeklies, had preceded them, and he was already apologising to Shrieve for having to leave in half an hour. Andrew Osborne, the lobby correspondent of one of the Sundays, arrived shortly
afterwards
. He had an incongruous R.A.F. moustache, one corner of which he pulled incessantly. Another to appear more or less on time was Charles Fraser, the U.N. correspondent of a respectable daily paper, whose coverage of the Suez adventure had pleased liberals almost as much as his unenthusiastic reports of the situations in half a dozen newly independent African countries had annoyed them. He had written, Shrieve considered, intelligently about the colony they were about to discuss: he had missed subtleties, of course, but for a man who had spent only three weeks in the country he was remarkably well informed. Bernard Clavering, the Labour M.P. whose articles on the future of socialism had been, some believed, responsible for one of the many recent dissensions within the party, arrived with Nicholas Sharpe, a journalist who had unsuccessfully stood against a Cabinet Minister at the last election, and a girl who worked on
The
Economist
but whose name Shrieve did not catch.

“I think,” said Mallory, going softly round his guests, “that we may as well start, don’t you? There’s only a couple more to come, and I expect some of us have dinner parties to attend.”

Lady Georgina Mallory withdrew inconspicuously.

When they had arranged themselves on the sofas and chairs, Mallory began by saying that they all knew roughly why they were there, and it wouldn’t take long. Hugh Shrieve would give a brief summary of the position, to make sure everyone was clear about it, and of course he’d be only too pleased to answer any questions. Briefly, the point of the meeting was to decide what were the best ways to bring pressure on the government to take the plight of the Ngulu—he stumbled slightly over the word and smiled charmingly at Shrieve—more seriously than seemed likely. It was agreed that a letter to
The
Times
would be an obvious first step, but it was a question rather of what to do to follow it up. First, though, he would ask
Hugh Shrieve to describe, as briefly as possible, the whole situation.

Alarmed by the three references to brevity—did Mallory mean five minutes or twenty?—and by the unexpected announcement that they were to consider measures to follow the letter up, Shrieve rose self-consciously to his feet and leaned against the mantelpiece. He knew none of those present well, and some not at all. He began hesitantly to speak, repeating almost automatically what he had already said to so many people in London.

While Shrieve spoke, Edward looked round the room. Mallory was sitting in a generous arm-chair between the two huge sofas, emphasising the general air of his presidency. Behind him, at the bureau, sat a young man of twenty-one or -two, rather good-looking, with black hair and long eyelashes over grey eyes. He was writing busily. Edward supposed that he must be Mallory’s secretary.

After Shrieve had finished, there were a few questions. The girl from
The
Economist
wanted to know what business interests were involved in the Ngulu territory.

“None,” said Shrieve. “It’s a sort of reserve, you see. And it’s not good for anything very much except gentle farming. Which is why the Luagabu want it.”

Clavering wanted to know what steps had been taken so far to approach the African delegates to the conference.

“None that I know of. You see, it would hardly be for me to approach them in the colony—I’m a very minor figure in the Administration. Everyone from the Governor down would have been furious. Of course, the Governor may have been in contact with the political leaders about it—in fact he probably has been. But only to let them know the matter will be on the agenda, I expect. And the Africans aren’t due this end till next Monday.”

“Make a note of that, Clive,” said Mallory to the young man at the bureau. “Does anyone know where they’ll be staying?”

“Claridges,” suggested Dennis Moreland, and giggled.

“We can find out easily enough. Clive—you’ll do that, will you?”

“What are these Africans going to be like?” said Clavering. He was a burly man with glasses, and he kept running his hand over the back of his neck.

“They will be educated,” said Shrieve. “They will also be unreasonable in public. In private they’ll probably be charming. I don’t know any of them very well personally—I’ve always been out in the bush. But those I have met always struck me as able and intelligent, and perfectly aware of the difficulties that will follow independence. They’re very anxious to preserve the dignity of their new sovereignty. Some of them have ambitions to become famous at the U.N.”

“That seems exactly right,” said Charles Fraser. “Bloaku, who will certainly dominate the delegation, though the nominal leader will be Ukurua, of course, is a most sympathetic man. But he leads a fanatical party, which is why his public
statements
have to be intransigent. It’s inevitable, it seems. The violence of feeling that creates an independence party continues after independence has been promised.”

“Any more questions?” said Mallory. “Right. Good. Now, Nicholas Sharpe has kindly drafted the letter to
The
Times
for us. I’ve made one or two very small amendments—simply with an eye to capturing a couple of the more difficult
signatures
. Nicholas accepts them, by the way. I think I might as well read it out and see if there are any comments.”

Shrieve and Edward had seen the letter before the meeting. It expressed anxiety about the future of a backward people in a distant part of a colony about to obtain its independence. The signatories hoped that the Ngulu would not suffer, either directly or indirectly, by the withdrawal of British rule. The letter was so phrased that conservatives would not be offended by any suggestion that independence was to be welcomed, nor liberals by the implication that it was not. It was so innocuous that Edward wondered whether even the most naïve of
newly-independent
African leaders would give it more than two seconds’ attention.

When he had finished reading it, Mallory asked if anyone had any comments.

“It’s a bit mild, isn’t it?” said Dennis Moreland.

“Anyone else think that?” said Mallory.

“Yes, I do,” said Andrew Osborne loudly. He tugged at his moustache. “I think that’s just a lot of hot air, frankly. But if you want all those wet people to sign, then all right.”

“Well, that’s it, really, isn’t it?” said Mallory. He spread his hands as though to say there was no choice. “I’m afraid that if we’re to muster a decent list of names, we can’t be too
outspoken
. And you know it’s not a question of people being wet, Andrew. We can’t expect everyone to know as much as we do about the question. Naturally people don’t want to commit themselves to strong language unless they’re certain of the details. But they are prepared to sign a general statement of principle.”

“Look,” said Osborne roughly. “That’s all very well for something controversial, but this issue is about as controversial as who won the last election.”

Edward looked at him in surprise. The delicate malice of Osborne’s Sunday prose seemed to have no connection with this bluntness and aggression.

“Oh, quite, Andrew, quite,” Mallory said. “But that makes my point all the stronger, really, doesn’t it? We don’t want to annoy either our government or their delegation by any assumption that either is
not
going to do everything within its power. The letter should simply be the expression of anxiety of well-informed people who haven’t heard anything about the Ngulu in all the talk about the future of the colony.”

“Then say that in the letter,” said Osborne. “At the moment these people don’t seem to have any reason for expressing their anxiety at all.”

“That’s a good point,” said Mallory. “Half a moment.” He wrote busily on a piece of paper.

During the pause Dennis Moreland came over to Shrieve nd said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to dash now. Could we meet for a drink or something? Lunch, say? I’d very much like
to talk to you about all this. We might run a piece about it.”

“That would be marvellous,” said Shrieve. “I’m afraid I can’t write anything myself, though—I’m too involved, and one’s not supposed to, anyway.”

“Oh, of course not, of course not,” said Moreland. “Can we fix a time now?”

They arranged to meet for lunch at the beginning of the following week.

Mallory then read the new draft of the letter. Everyone agreed that it sounded very good. No one could possibly take exception to it on any grounds whatever.

Moreland excused himself to Mallory. As he was leaving, Vivian Warburton arrived. He was the editor of
Trend,
an illustrated weekly which was widely read in political circles. He apologised for being late, sat down, and was passed the amended draft of the letter. He glanced at it, then smoothed his hair, which Shrieve noticed with a sinking heart was silvery grey with wings above the ears, and blew his nose fussily. Only then did he pay attention to what was going on, looking round the room through thick glasses, staring for several moments at each person.

Mallory read out a list of possible signatories. They were people distinguished in every field—politicians, generals, bishops, writers, painters, composers, diplomats, civil servants, dons, lawyers, surgeons and businessmen.

When he had finished, he looked up and said, “That’s what I call my basic list. Obviously we don’t want all of them, even if they would all sign. But they’re all people who
have
signed in the past and can be relied on to sign again.”

“Alexander Faversham can’t,” said Andrew Osborne. “He died last week.”

“Alex is dead?” said Mallory in astonishment. “Good heavens, how can I have missed it?”

“It’s being announced in tomorrow’s papers. There was something about it in his will.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mallory. For a moment he had thought his
system must have broken down. “Well, cross him off, then,” he said jovially.

“Isn’t there an ex-Colonial Secretary we could muster?” said Charles Fraser. “I know we don’t want any active politicians, but there must be one or two in the Lords who count as
non-political
.”

“There’s Jamieson,” said Nicholas Sharpe. “Bernard, do you think you could get him to sign?”

Clavering said, “I’m seeing him tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I’ll have a go at him.”

“That would be excellent,” said Mallory. Jamieson had been forced to retire from politics through ill-health.

For ten minutes they continued to discuss names. Eventually twenty names were agreed, of whom it was hoped about fifteen would sign. You could never tell, Mallory explained, whether you were going to get a signature or not. Some people decided not to sign anything for a few months, though they always signed again later. There had been several multiple-signature letters recently, and two or three might say “No” on the grounds that their names had been too frequently borrowed of late. The twenty included an archbishop, the ex-Colonial Secretary, one Conservative, one Labour and one Liberal peer, a Field-Marshal (“It’s always good to have a Field-Marshal,” said Mallory contentedly), two retired and knighted civil servants, two professors of anthropology (Shrieve’s idea), two Nobel Prize winners and, for spice, an abstract sculptor who had recently been a success at the Venice Biennale.

The recital of names cheered everyone up, as though something had already been achieved. Mallory turned to Clavering, who seemed rather bored by the proceedings.

“Bernard, how does the Labour Party stand on this?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t expect it’s even thought about it. We’re for independence, of course, and for minorities. But it’s not likely to come to anything in the house. What do you think, Nicholas?”

“I agree,” said Sharpe. “Besides, the House rises in the middle of next week.”

“So it does,” said Mallory. “I’d forgotten.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” said Clavering. “I can’t really see how I can help much, though.”

“Oh, but you can,” said Mallory. “Jamieson’s signature alone will be most valuable.”

Clavering shrugged. “Well, I’ll do my best, Patrick. I’m afraid I must slip away now. There seem to be plenty of people here who can advise you how to follow up the letter. I’ll spread the word around, of course, and I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He got up.

“Thanks so much for coming,” said Mallory. “I’ll have a copy of the letter sent round to you tomorrow morning, so that you can show it to Jamieson.”

“Good idea. Do you want him to sign it straight away?”

“Yes, please.
The
Times
likes to see all the signatures, but they don’t, thank God, all have to be on the same piece of paper, or we’d never get anything done at all.”