The Governor's Lady

by Norman Collins

  ‘Not that a human life can be dismissed just like that,’ he went on, with a wave of the hand. ‘After all, it is Divine Service, and it is a Funeral Oration. It’s not exactly in the nature of a testimonial, is it Mr. Stebbs?’

  This time, Harold knew enough not to answer; Mr. Frith could have saved himself the little damping down motions that he was making with his hands.

  ‘But I didn’t bring you here to discuss sermons, Mr. Stebbs,’ the Governor told him. T brought you here to congratulate you. And you, Mr. Frith, for finding him. The statistical pages are excellent. Quite excellent.’ He paused. ‘They’ll all have to be done again, of course. But no matter.’

  ‘Done again?’

  ‘That surprises you, Mr. Stebbs? You’re entirely blameless, I assure you. It’s simply that I have decided to redraft the Budget. There will be an entirely new Budget along entirely new lines.’

  Mr. Frith gave a sudden, little jump.

  ‘Does Financial Secretary…’ he began.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sir Gardnor replied. ‘He knows. I’ve just told him. I’ve asked him to come over, in fact. It seems he’s short-handed. Is he, Mr. Frith?’

  ‘Two down in establishment, sir,’ Mr. Frith told him, ‘and one on extended sick leave. Financial Secretary is due to go away himself, sir, at the end of the month.’

  ‘Then that may have to be postponed, mayn’t it, Mr. Frith?’ Sir Gardnor continued. He was at his blandest and most smiling by now. ‘A new budget will naturally mean more work for all of us, won’t it? And that is where our friend Mr. Stebbs can be of such assistance.’

  He was speaking in the encouraging manner of a School Visitor at a prize-giving.

  ‘And you can assist me, too, Mr. Frith,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could put Mr. Stebb’s on Financial Secretary’s strength. That would strengthen it, wouldn’t it?’ Sir Gardnor poured himself another drink while he was speaking, and smiled at Harold. ‘I don’t doubt that between us we can produce a Budget, do you Mr. Stebbs?’

  The A.D.C. had come back into the room, followed by a servant carrying Sir Gardnor’s white suit on a hanger. But Sir Gardnor seemed oblivious to him.

  ‘In primitive societies, it is only a system of indirect taxation that ever produces any revenue,’ he was saying. ‘And that means that rich and poor alike pay the same taxes. It’s really most inequitable and I intend to tackle it. You are an economist are you not, Mr. Stebbs?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m a mathematician.’

  Sir Gardnor, however, was in no mood to be put off.

  ‘Then you are exactly what is needed aren’t you?’ he replied. ‘It’s mostly figures when you come down to it, isn’t it, Mr. Stebbs? Budgets are simply figures—with some imagination and a little commonsense. You must forgive me for a moment while I change.’ He was over at the door by now. ‘Don’t go,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Please don’t go. There is one other matter.’

  Mr. Frith caught Harold’s eye.

  ‘You’d have been better off with your ticket,’ he said. ‘There’ll be all hell to pay if he starts monkeying about with the taxes.’

  Harold shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t mind having a bash at it,’ he said. ‘It’s more or less my line of country.’

  ‘And it’s mine when the trouble starts,’ Mr. Frith replied. ‘Things are comparatively quiet at the moment.’

  Sir Gardnor re-emerged while he was still dressing. The servant followed close behind him trying hard to slip the Governor’s white jacket properly into place. But the man’s presence annoyed Sir Gardnor. He motioned him away.

  ‘I understand, Mr. Stebbs, that you’ve seen Lady Anne,’ he said. ‘When was it? Last Thursday, I believe. Tell me frankly how did you think she was looking?’

  Harold was conscious that Sir Gardnor’s curiously pale blue eyes were fixed on him as he waited for the answer. There was no trace at the moment of that famous, all-embracing smile.

  Harold did not reply immediately.

  ‘I thought she looked rather pale, sir,’ he said at length.

  ‘I’m afraid she does,’ Sir Gardnor replied. ‘It’s the climate, you know. It’s not kind to women. It doesn’t suit them.’ Sir Gardnor paused. ‘But you wouldn’t see the difference, of course. You hadn’t met Lady Anne before had you?’ he asked.

  He was no longer looking at Harold as he put the question, and his manner was casual and off-hand. But, for the second time, Mr. Frith gave a noticeable jump. His right eyelid began to go tic-tic again.

  Harold’s reply took even longer this time.

  ‘Only once, sir,’ he said. ‘Over by the bungalow.’

  The effect on Sir Gardnor was remarkable. He at once got up and came over.

  ‘But this is excellent news,’ he said. ‘Excellent. It means that Lady Anne’s getting over it.’

  He turned to Mr. Frith.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that at first Lady Anne wouldn’t go near the bungalow, not even when she was with me?’

  Chapter 7

  Trumpet Blast had just undergone a palace revolution.

  There had been an Extraordinary General Meeting, followed by a Stockholders’ Committee; a conspiracy, really. As a result, the Editor had resigned, and his Judas-like General Manager, Mr. Talefwa, had succeeded to the editorial chair, combining with it the posts of Managing Director and Chairman of the Board.

  The question of where the money came from to run the paper was in everybody’s mind. There were some who held that it must be Italian; the more responsible, said German; and a few, looking broodingly into the future, suggested Russian. Locally, the name of Mr. Ngono was whispered; and for forty-eight hours, Mr. Ngono neither confirming nor denying the rumours, accepted drinks and other presents from those wanting the posts of Advertisement Manager, Fashion Editor, Paris Correspondent, Chief Sub. and Circulation Director.

  Mr. Talefwa himself was a rather remarkable young man. For a start, he was still on the right side of thirty; and he was a Ph.D. Not that, with his powers of application, the outcome of his University career had ever been in any doubt. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t play games. He didn’t go to the cinema. He had no girl friends; had no friends of any kind, for that matter.

  Throughout his five years in London he had spent his entire time either listening to lectures or working in his back bed-sitter in Belsize Park. He had been an ideal lodger; quiet, courteous and unexacting. The only trouble had been at week-ends when the landlady, because of his unending studies, found it difficult to get into his room to tidy up.

  The London School of Economics was justly proud of him; would have been delighted to have him on the teaching staff, and had been genuinely sorry when he decided to return to his native Amimbo.

  Now that he had control, the first of Mr. Talefwa’s changes was to re-name the paper Amimbo Mirror. The second was to print the whole of the front page in English. And it was particularly unfortunate that the first issue under his editorship should have been the one to cover the Memorial Service in St. Stephen’s.

  ‘IN HONOUR OF WHAT?’ the headline ran across the whole front page. What made it so maddening, too, was that the editorial that followed repeated almost word for word the Governor’s Re-assembly Speech of six months before to the effect that it was the duty and privilege of the Colonial Service to bring their black brethren through education into political consciousness and ultimately on to self-government. Why then, the article demanded, had only the British been allowed to conduct the Service? Was there no African, after nearly 60 years of white rule, sufficiently educated even to read the Lesson?

  Moreover, if the District Officer deserved a Memorial Service—and the Amimbo Mirror did not seek to question it—when was the Governor planning to hold a Memorial Service for the murdered houseboy? If not, why not? Was all human life sacred? Or only white human life?

  Mr. Talefwa certainly had scored a hit. His assistant reported that, not once but twice, a Government messenger had called
on a bicycle to collect more copies; six on the first occasion, and no fewer than eighteen on his second visit.

  Even casual sales picked up in consequence. Forty-three copies were sold over the counter during the morning rush period. And Mr. Talefwa, with the instinct of a born-journalist, decided to cut tomorrow’s article by three hundred words, leaving space for a s.c. solus ad at the bottom of the final column.

  Altogether, Mr. Talefwa consumed a great deal of Government time. Native Affairs first tried to shrug it off because the article was in English, and then asked that it should be referred back to them because the rest of the paper had an exclusively Mimbo circulation. The Chief of Police was strongly in favour of raiding the Mirror offices, confiscating the press and placing an armed picket at the door to prevent re-entry. The Postmaster General, on the other hand, recommended a more subtle approach: the Obscene Publications Act of 1912 seemed to him to fit it to a tee—and have the additional advantage of leaving politics out of it altogether. Mr. Frith was for ignoring the article. And the Bishop was for demanding full right of reply with equal editorial prominence.

  As for the Governor, his attitude was entirely different. And, at the 11 o’clock Council, he made himself embarrassingly plain. He was looking hard at Mr. Frith as he said it.

  ‘But how can we ignore it, Acting Chief Secretary?’ he asked. ‘Even if we decide to close our eyes to it, it is there for others to see. And it is not Mr. Talefwa who is condemning us. We are condemning ourselves. This apparently talented young man has been so grossly neglected by us’ The ‘us’ was so heavily accentuated that it obviously meant ‘you’. ‘He is entirely ignorant of our purpose. Indeed, he has wholly misconstrued it. Perhaps Native Affairs could tell us how long he has been here.’

  Head of Native Affairs, glanced hurriedly down at his papers. With commendable forethought he had picked them up from Immigration Control on the way over.

  ‘Approximately six months, Excellency,’ he said. ‘As a returning national, he came in on an A.N.3.’

  But the Governor was not listening.

  ‘Six months,’ he said, ‘six wasted months. By our neglect a potential friend has been converted into an enemy; possibly a very dangerous enemy.’

  The Governor paused: it was a long pause. He intended to keep the Council in uneasy suspense.

  ‘I myself,’ he announced at last, ‘will see him personally. Not immediately, of course: that would indicate concern. And not indefinitely postponed: that would be misinterpreted as disinterest.’

  He turned to his left for a moment revealing his magnificent profile to the whole table.

  ‘Council Secretary,’ he said, ‘would you remind my A.D.C. that I shall be inviting Mr. Talefwa to luncheon. In a fortnight’s time. The Thursday, of course. We will decide later about numbers.’

  It had come; the letter in the handwriting that didn’t look as though it had been handwritten. And, along with Miss Prosser’s polite little note, was the promised copy of The Green Hat.

  So far he had not had time to open it. The Financial Secretary had been keeping him busy. Harold was at his desk at 8.30 every morning while it was still cool enough to think properly; and, in the evenings, he brought a briefcase full of work back with him so that he could get on with it again out there on the verandah after the breeze had come up.

  Not that the Financial Secretary was grateful. On the contrary, he resented Harold intensely. Up to his arrival, he had dealt direct with the Governor on everything; persuading Sir Gardnor that this or that wouldn’t work, or might have undesirable side-effects, or ought to be investigated before a decision was taken, or should be held in abeyance until after the next lot of estimates. In the result, over the years, he had frustrated as many new proposals as anyone in the whole of Central Africa, and was held in some awe in consequence.

  That was why it was so deeply irritating to have this new young man suddenly thrust upon him. Moreoever, Harold appeared to have the Governor’s entire confidence. And more than confidence: even a growing intimacy. H.E. kept sending for him all the time.

  In the end, Mr. McDonald decided that he would tackle the Governor in person. It was the Constitutional point that he wanted to emphasize: the importance in Colonial administration of an unbroken line of communication and command going direct without intervention between the Governor and his Ministers.

  But perhaps he put it badly. Or Sir Gardnor’s mind may have been occupied with other matters. Whichever way round it was, the Governor entirely misunderstood.

  The smile he gave was one of his bigger ones.

  ‘Please don’t thank me, Financial Secretary,’ he said. ‘Don’t think of it. If you must thank anyone, thank our Acting Chief Secretary. He arranged it all. You ought to be away on leave by now. It’s overdue, you know. Considerably overdue, isn’t it? That’s why I’m so delighted to think that you’ve got all the extra help we can spare. We don’t want our Financial Secretary cracking up on us, do we? Not with all this extra work on hand.’

  It was Saturday, and Harold was glad of it.

  After a full week in the Treasury Office, it was rather pleasant to put his feet up in the quiet of the bungalow, with the fan mounted on the ledge over his head and a large gin-and-tonic on the side-table.

  As African days go, it had all been agreeable enough in a blind, purposeless, time-consuming kind of way. Now, with nothing else better to do, he had picked up The Green Hat, and had begun to read. From five thousand miles away, the other world of Mayfair and the Ritz seemed strange and rather improbable; what made it seem stranger still was the fact that he had never known it even when he was at home.

  It was a call from the garden that roused him. And he recognised the voice of Sybil Prosser.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ she asked.

  And a moment later he heard Lady Anne’s voice.

  ‘He’s there all right,’ she was saying. ‘I can see him.’

  Harold put his book down and got up, sending the side table rocking as he did so. The gin-and-tonic slopped over the edge of the glass, and the book was left standing in a pool of it.

  Lady Anne had already opened the mesh-door of the verandah, and stood there facing him.

  ‘Not disturbing you, are we?’ she asked. ‘You weren’t doing anything, I mean?’

  And, before he could answer, she had turned to Miss Prosser.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he sweet?’ she said. ‘He’s reading the book we sent him.’

  Miss Prosser held her hand out.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Stebbs,’ she paused. ‘I hope you’re enjoying it.’

  And, again before he could reply, Lady Anne was speaking.

  ‘Just look at the mess he’s made of it,’ she said. ‘He’s spilt his drink all over it. I shan’t lend you any more books, Mr. Stebbs, if that’s the way you treat them.’

  The last time he had seen Lady Anne had been in the Cathedral. She had looked a sick woman. But a change had come over her. Her tiredness, her air of having had all life somehow drained out of her, had entirely vanished. Even her paleness now merely served to set off those shining eyes of hers.

  ‘You’re going to offer us a drink, aren’t you?’ she was saying. ‘It’s not too early, is it? Just one drink. To show us that we’re both forgiven. And then we’ll leave you in peace again.’

  ‘Forgiven?’ Harold asked.

  Lady Anne put her finger to her lips.

  ‘Drinks first,’ she said.

  ‘A soft one for me, please,’ Miss Prosser told him. ‘A lemon or an orange. Or a tonic. I don’t mind if it’s just plain soda.’

  But Lady Anne seemed rather amused.

  ‘He’s got plenty to drink in the bungalow,’ she said. ‘I know he has. He’s got gin, and he’s got whisky. And he’s probably got brandy too, if you asked him. I’m going to have whisky. Just straight with a lump of ice.’

  It was lime juice that he poured for Miss Prosser.

  ‘And now what’s all this about?’ Harold said as he br
ought the glasses over. ‘Why have I got to forgive anybody?’

  Lady Anne looked across at Miss Prosser.

  ‘Shall we tell him, Sybil?’ she asked. ‘I can’t believe it, but I really think he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Delicious,’ Miss Prosser replied, holding up her lime juice. ‘So cooling.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ Lady Anne went on. ‘It’s not fair on him, otherwise.’ She turned to Harold as she was speaking. ‘For getting you into all that trouble,’ she explained.

  ‘But I haven’t been in any trouble,’ Harold told her.

  Lady Anne smiled.

  ‘That’s what you say,’ she said. ‘But we know better, don’t we, Sybil? Sir Gardnor was furious. Simply furious. And it’s all our fault. We didn’t put your name down on the pad when you came to tea with us. So no one knew where you were. That’s why they couldn’t find you.’

  Harold shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I seem to have been forgiven.’

  ‘I did my best,’ Lady Anne replied.

  ‘But we didn’t come over just to apologise, you know,’ she said. ‘Or, at least, I didn’t. I came to say thank you.’

  ‘“Thank you” for what?’

  ‘For trying to protect me,’ she told him. ‘It was darling of you. But you didn’t have to. Really, you didn’t. We can take care of ourselves, can’t we, Sybil?’

  Harold was aware that Miss Prosser was sitting forward in her chair, her lime juice clutched up close against her bosom. She said nothing. Lady Anne herself was leaning back, smiling at him.

  ‘I shan’t forget it,’ she said. ‘About saying that I was just walking past the bungalow, or something. Because I wasn’t, was I? I came in here. I had to. I couldn’t help myself. And I told him so. I think I told him why.’ She passed her hand across her forehead. ‘I think I did. But I’m not sure. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She was still smiling at him.

  ‘Only that he knows that you weren’t telling him the truth about me,’ she said. ‘And he’s wondering what’s behind it all. I suppose it’s only natural’