The White Father (17 page)

“Right. Goodbye,” said Clavering. He shook hands with Shrieve and went out. Everyone shifted slightly on the sofa on which he’d been sitting. Shrieve, Edward noticed, was twisting his fingers and looking out at the evening sky. The clouds had gone, and it was a soft rinsed blue.

They began to discuss what could be done to keep the Ngulu before the public after the letter had appeared. Osborne and Fraser said that both their papers would be covering the conference fairly fully, and they would make sure that the Ngulu were not forgotten. Nicholas Sharpe wondered if Shrieve had any photographs of the Ngulu that could be offered to the papers. Shrieve said he was sorry, he hadn’t. Sharpe said it didn’t matter, they could probably be got from the Africa Bureau. The discussion looked like ending very quickly, the amount of agreement being almost too great for usefulness, when Vivian Warburton broke in.

“Why don’t you write for us?” he said to Shrieve. “We could make a really big thing of it, if you like.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shrieve.

“Oh, I know all about that.” Warburton took off his glasses
and polished them furiously. “But for God’s sake, man, think of the future. In less than a year you’re going to be out of a job, aren’t you? What difference will the few remaining months make? When you can probably do more good for your Ngulu by writing about them here and now?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shrieve again. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

“Look,” said Warburton, putting his glasses back on again and peering blindly at Shrieve, whose own gaze was at its intensest, “you need publicity, don’t you? That’s why we’re all here. You need publicity, big publicity where it counts. My paper is read by half a million of the best educated men and women in the country. Including the whole of Whitehall and every M.P. down to the last Tory backwoodsman and the last Trade Unionist stooge. I know what I’m talking about. If you write me a three thousand word article, you’ll reach all the people that matter.”

Edward wondered why Warburton wanted to splash the Ngulu for his half-million readers.
Trend
was modelled distantly on one of the American imitations of
Time,
but it had one or two long serious features as well as its rather flamboyant pictorial section. It was chiefly read for its political columnist, Cato, whose information was almost as startling as his ferocity. The appearance of an article by Shrieve might easily cause a stir. But whether it would stir the people who mattered was doubtful. Once the House had risen the silly season for the newspapers would begin. Anyone who could find anything at all to write about in late July or August was sure to attract more attention than in May or October. He was likely, however, to be quickly forgotten once there was serious news again.

Shrieve looked steadily at Warburton and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”

Warburton threw up his hands in disgust, then began to polish his glasses again. The meeting broke up. Nicholas Sharpe was laughing at something Mallory’s secretary said, while the girl from
The
Economist,
who had contributed little,
talked earnestly to Charles Fraser. After he had shaken hands with everyone, Shrieve came over to Edward and said, “Well, it wasn’t too hopeless, was it, after all?”

“At least the Ngulu will be in all the papers.”

“If only they could read.”

Mallory came up with his secretary and said, “Clive here has got the letter and we’ll have it roneoed for you tomorrow morning. Now the question is, how are we going to deliver it? We don’t want to waste any time, do we? The thing is, though I’m only too happy to act as a sort of General Delivery Office, I’m going to be away for a few days, and there’s an awful lot to be cleared up before I go on holiday. So I wonder if you could take on some of the simply beastly work, Hugh?”

“Of course. What do you mean?”

“Well, now, let’s look at the list. I’ll write to some of these people personally, of course. In fact, I tell you what—I’ll write a brief letter and have that roneoed, too. I think I know everyone except Jamieson, and Clavering’s seeing to him. I’ll post the letters to those who don’t live in London, unless any of you are seeing any of these people soon?”

“I’m going to Oxford in a couple of days,” said Shrieve.

“So am I,” said Edward. “My viva,” he explained.

“Oh, of course. Those two anthropologists will be at the study-group I’m going to address.”

“Both? Excellent. That just leaves the London contingent—most of them, in fact. You may think this funny, but I think it’s always best to deliver these things by hand.”

“I can do that,” said Edward.

“Splendid. You know, people do like the personal touch, even something as small as hand-delivery. Now, if you come round about—oh, will eleven be all right, Clive?—yes, say eleven, we’ll have everything ready.”

“O.K.,” said Edward. He thought the fuss extraordinary.

“Good. All fixed, then? Right. See you tomorrow. I think it all went very well, don’t you, Hugh?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Good. I think we want to try and get that letter in today
week, don’t you? So the African chappies will hardly have had time to turn around before they find a letter about themselves in
The
Times.
We’ll give the signatories till the midday post on Tuesday. I’ll arrange with
The
Times
people about getting it in the day we want. They’re always very helpful.”

“I can’t begin to thank you,” said Shrieve. “I really am most grateful. I hope something comes of it.”

“Sure to, sure to,” said Mallory, as though everything he managed always succeeded. “And those journalists will all do their best for you, too.”

They said goodbye, and the demure young man called Clive smiled at Edward and said, “See you tomorrow.”

As they left, Edward said to Shrieve, “I see what you mean about Mallory liking to delegate things. What on earth do you suppose that silent young man did all evening?”

“I expect he was there for decoration,” said Shrieve. “Patrick Mallory’s always been supposed to be a bit that way.”

“Really? One wouldn’t have thought it.”

“It’s probably only gossip,” said Shrieve. “I’d forgotten about your viva.”

“Friday morning. But sometimes they go on for hours. I really ought to be rereading all my notes and everything, but I simply can’t face them. I’m trusting to luck and native wit.”

“I’m giving my talk after lunch that day. All I get is the lunch. And my fare, of course.”

“I don’t even get my fare,” said Edward. “Can I come and listen? Unless the examiners still require me, of course.” He grinned, but felt suddenly rather nervous about it.

“Do,” said Shrieve. “I’ve got to meet Jumbo Maxwell after dinner, damn it. Come and have a quick meal with me, unless you’ve got something on.”

“Nothing,” said Edward. “I’m playing with some people in Camden Town at half past nine, that’s all. Do you know how to get there?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Shrieve. He hailed a taxi. “But you can get to most places from Piccadilly, which is where I’ve got
to be. Do you mind eating in the Brachs Restaurant? It’s just round the corner from where I’m going.”

“Not at all. I usually go downstairs.”

“I’m too tired to serve myself,” said Shrieve. He sat back in the taxi. Edward thought he looked exhausted. “Oh, I’d better tell you what happened this afternoon with Filmer.”

He recounted the interview. When he came to the part about the Privy Council, Edward snorted with laughter.

“Good God,” he said, “what century
are
we living in? Do they honestly think the Privy Council will scare the Luagabu? They’ll be talking about gunboats next. Poor little old Great Britain.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being British,” Shrieve said. He sounded sad.

“Of course not. Nothing at all. But I don’t see how the Privy Council can help the Ngulu, frankly.”

“Nor do I,” said Shrieve. He groaned briefly as the taxi took a corner rather fast. “Nor do I.”

*

The Jupiter was a small pub with cut-glass screens separating the bars and ancient, much-rubbed red plush covering the benches along the walls. The general air of faded splendour altered abruptly as one pushed from the Saloon into the Private Bar, a “snug” which had been “improved” with creaky modern pseudo-leather. The walls were hung with group after group of rugger teams, coats of arms, and snippets of club ties.

Shrieve found Jumbo there, munching greedily from a plate of potato crisps. Jumbo had been, Shrieve remembered, a fat man of thirty or so, with a very large nose. Now he looked the wrong side of forty-five, his fatness had got the better of him, he was gross. His nose had turned an unhealthy purple, mottled with veins like imitation marble, and there were great bags under his eyes. When he stood up to greet Shrieve he revealed a swollen belly, apparently only held against collapse by a thick leather belt. He looked, Shrieve thought, like a seedy, welshing bookmaker.

“Hugh, old boy!” he boomed. “God, but it’s good to see
you. My dear fellow.” He shook Shrieve’s hand
over-vigorously
. His palm felt like a rubber pin-cushion.

“Jumbo,” said Shrieve weakly. “So we meet again.”

“Looking well, looking well,” said Jumbo, regarding him critically, as a coper might look at a horse.

“I couldn’t be better. How have you been keeping?”

Jumbo’s hands dropped to his paunch and rubbed it
affectionately
. “Been putting on a little bit of weight,” he said. “Sitting behind a desk, that’s what does it.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Oh, a pint, a pint. A pint for old times’ sake, eh? Nothing like beer.”

Shrieve ordered two pints, Jumbo leaning beside him and breathing heavily. His hand strayed towards a saucer of cocktail onions.

“Hugh, old fellow, it’s been too long.”

“It has, Jumbo, you’re right.”

“I’ve said to the others, time and again I’ve said it, ‘Poor old Hugh’, I’ve said, ‘he’s gone native and we’ll never see him again. Poor old Hugh,’ I’ve said, and they’ve all agreed with me. We’ve shaken our heads over you, old boy, really we have. We thought we’d never see you again.”

They took their pints to a table and sank into the red leatherette so far as it would let them.

“What are you up to these days, Jumbo? Selling insurance, isn’t it? Or was that long ago?”

Jumbo looked gravely into his beer and said, “Oh, that was a very long time ago, old boy. No, I gave that up. I didn’t care for that at all, to tell you the truth.”

“I can’t say I’d have liked it much myself.”

“No, it’s not a job for men like us at all, men of initiative and drive. It didn’t suit me a bit.”

“What are you doing now, then?”

“As a matter of fact, old boy, that’s a bit of a ticklish question. You see, I’d been working behind a desk all those years, and I got fed up. It’s a terrible life behind a desk, you know. You just sit there all day and fiddle with bits of paper.
Not the life for me at all. But then, one has to do something, eh?”

“Oh, yes. One has to do something.”

“The truth is, my dear old chap,” said Jumbo, “that at this very moment I’m not
officially
doing anything at all.
Officially
I’m what’s called unemployed. But I’ve got some irons in the fire. Oh yes, believe me, I’ve got quite a few irons in the fire, and red hot some of them are, too.” He leaned across the table and said confidentially, “I’m starting up a little business of my own. Nothing very big to begin with, mind you, nothing very earth-shaking. But in five years I’ll be riding about in a
Rolls-Royce
, you see if I won’t.”

“That sounds very exciting. What sort of business is it, then?”

“I’m afraid I’m not really free to say,” said Jumbo easily. “It’s all a bit hush-hush for the nonce. Question of registering a patent, you know. My partner’s got all the rights, we’re all set to go. All we need is a little capital and we’re off. Bingo! Five years and we’re millionaires.”

“Well, the best of luck,” said Shrieve.

“It’s a lovely little thing we’re on to,” said Jumbo, “really a lovely little thing. So simple. That’s why we have to keep it pretty dark, you see. Don’t want anyone barging in ahead of us. And in five years we’ll be selling out at a profit of several thousand per cent, I can promise you.”

“What on earth is it, Jumbo? Something to control the weather?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Something very simple. Little gadgets for the house, you might call them. There won’t be a house without them in five years, you mark my words.”

“If it’s really so good,” said Shrieve, “you shouldn’t have any difficulty raising the capital. People will flock to lend you their money.”

“Ah, it’s not quite like that, old boy, not quite like that. We don’t want anyone else to know about it, that’s our trouble. We want to keep it among friends.”

Knowing what was coming, Shrieve felt cross. “Well,
whatever it is,” he said brusquely, “and you seem to be making an awful mystery of it, I don’t expect it’ll get to my part of the world in a hurry.”

“Yes it will, yes it will,” said Jumbo. “We plan to market it the wide world over.”

Shrieve drank some beer and shuddered. In the far bush, in deserts and on the seas, the exiled Englishman dreamed of the pleasures of draught bitter. But when he got it at last, it always tasted insipid, a flat, watery, filling drink which made him go to the lavatory all the time, where the smell of dripping walls and urine combined with the taste of the beer to produce foul images of unclean vats and mildewed barrels.

“How’s your glass, Jumbo?”

Jumbo swallowed his lees and said, “Ready, aye, ready.” It was his turn to pay, but Shrieve knew from long experience that he wouldn’t. Jumbo had once been described as all froth and no beer.

When he returned with a new pint for Jumbo and a half which was all he could face for himself, he noticed that all the crisps had gone.

“Look, Hugh, old chap,” said Jumbo, “I tell you what. I’ll give you a chance to come in with us, if you like.”

“I don’t have any money,” said Shrieve firmly.