‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Collington.
‘So you didn’t get to London?’
Collington shook his head. ‘That’s why I stopped by, to see if you’d heard from Paul.’
‘Not yet,’ she said.
‘I’ll write tonight,’ determined Collington. ‘I don’t want to be involved in anything that will clash with his visit.’
‘You know the dates.’
‘I thought you might have been planning something separately.’
‘If I had been, I would have told you,’ she said.
He dabbed a handkerchief against his face and slipped out of his jacket.
‘Would you like to change?’ she invited, indicating the cabin and the shower assembly. ‘There are plenty of your costumes there.’
‘No thanks,’ said Collington.
‘Oh,’ she said, making no attempt to disguise her disappointment.
He eased himself on to the sun-bed opposite hers. He was suddenly aware of the difference in his attitudes to Hannah and Ann. With Ann he was constantly alert, trying to anticipate her enthusiasms – to show off, he supposed. With Hannah, there was no strain. If he wanted to, he could stretch out on the sun-bed and lie for thirty minutes without speaking and Hannah would be quite happy without conversation. There couldn’t be that relaxation with Ann.
‘Daddy has told me about himself and Janet Simpson,’ Hannah announced.
‘Told you what?’
‘That he’s seeing her and that they like each other and that they’ve even thought of getting married. It was all rather embarrassing – he made a special trip out here and from the way he behaved you would have thought he’d made her pregnant and was asking my forgiveness.’
Collington smiled at her description. It must have started before Walter Simpson’s death. It was easy to understand how the shares had been secured.
‘I’m giving a dinner party for them. I’d like you to come,’ she said, looking at him intently.
Collington grimaced at the invitation. ‘I’m not sure that would make for an altogether relaxed evening.’
‘But it would be uneven, without a partner for me. And there’s no one else I’d like to come.’
He wanted to be with her, Collington accepted. Just as he wanted to change and stay with her, by the pool. ‘I’d love to,’ he said.
‘Friday then?’ she said at once.
‘So it was all fixed?’
‘All except your coming.’
‘What if I’d said no?’
‘Like I said, it would have been an uneven evening.’
He stood and she shielded her eyes against the sun as she looked up at him. ‘Going already?’ she said, disappointed again.
‘I’ve got a lot to do,’ said Collington, conscious of the emptiness of the excuse as he spoke. Hannah was making it as easy for him as she possibly could, he thought, walking back through the house towards the front door. So why the hell couldn’t he overcome the pride and ask her to take him back? The dinner party would be the occasion, he decided. But what about Ann?
Chapter Thirteen
Collington purposely arrived at Parkstown early so that he would be with Hannah to greet Metzinger and Janet Simpson. Both were aware of the separation, so he accepted that the gesture was meaningless, but he wanted to be a good host with her. He’d try to make her realise it, before the other two arrived. He parked in his accustomed place, but didn’t immediately get out of the car. It was a pretence, he recognised. For what purpose? Social politeness? Or to impress Hannah? To impress Hannah, he decided, honestly. Since when had that been necessary?
She smiled up as he was shown into the small drawing-room and said, ‘You’re early. That was thoughtful.’
She was wearing a flame-coloured dress, backless and open to the thigh, showing the tan she had been cultivating during his visit two days earlier. ‘I’ve made the drinks,’ she said, nodding to the frosted pitcher that stood behind her on the trolley.
‘So you expected me before the others?’
‘Sort of,’ she admitted.
‘You look very lovely,’ he said.
Hannah raised her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. ‘I can’t remember the last time you paid me that sort of compliment.’
‘And I can’t remember the last time you played the coquette,’ he said.
Hannah whirled around to show how the dress flared away, and Collington had a brief glimpse of her body and wondered if that had been her intention. ‘Like it?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
She giggled, unable to stop herself. ‘We’re being a bit gauche, aren’t we?’
‘A little,’ he admitted. He handed her the drink and as she accepted it, their hands touched awkwardly.
‘I wrote to Paul,’ he said.
‘I haven’t had a reply to any of my letters. Perhaps he doesn’t want to come home for the holidays.’
‘We’ll sort it out,’ he said confidently.
The outer door opened and they both turned towards it. Metzinger was framed there and Collington’s first impression was of the man’s embarrassment, which surprised him because he had never once thought of the Afrikaner being ill at ease. Metzinger stood back, ushering Janet Simpson politely ahead of him. Like Metzinger, Janet Simpson had an agelessness about her. She had been much younger than Walter Simpson at the time of their marriage, but Collington guessed she was nearing sixty now. She could have been ten or even fifteen years younger. Only the whiteness of her hair gave any clue. It would have been better if she had dyed it, but she was an unyielding, proper woman and considered hair colouring to be cheap. Her hair was arranged in formal, ridged waves around her oval face, and as she came nearer into the room at a sedate, almost grand pace, Collington saw that there was no make-up, apart from the palest of lipsticks. She wore a severe black dress, high-necked, long-skirted, and with full sleeves. She looked a formidable woman, which she was, and Collington qualified his initial impression. Metzinger was uncomfortable. But it was not because he was introducing a wife they never imagined he would take, rather that he was anxious for things to go right for her. Collington didn’t think the other man should have worried.
Hannah went across the room to greet them. She kissed her father and then Janet Simpson. The woman moved further into the room, extending her hand and making it quite clear from the way she held herself that she didn’t expect any more contact than that. Collington took her hand and said: ‘Hello Janet.’
‘Good evening, James,’ she said. She had a clipped, precise way of speaking, as formal as everything else about her.
Collington looked sideways as Metzinger approached. The man did seem ageless, thought Collington. But more. The word to describe him was indestructible. It was impossible to imagine him suffering any infirmity.
The four stood in a loose circle, hesitating to initiate a conversation. A houseboy intruded with drinks, easing the tension and when he withdrew Hannah said to the other woman, ‘I am delighted to see you both here.’
Janet relaxed slightly, allowing the briefest of smiles. ‘I’m pleased too,’ she said.
She looked at Collington, expecting him to say something, and he groped for the words. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.
‘It’s not quite got that far, yet,’ qualified Metzinger.
‘Were you surprised?’ Janet said to Hannah.
‘Very much,’ said Hannah, matching the directness.
‘I think a lot of people will be.’
‘Is there going to be a formal announcement?’ asked Collington.
‘We haven’t decided yet.’ said Janet.
‘I want Paul to come over to the farm when he gets back, so I can tell him,’ announced Metzinger.
Metzinger had never been a hypocrite, thought Collington fairly. He had resisted his marriage to Hannah before it happened and maintained the opposition afterwards. He had allowed only one relaxation and that was his affection for his grandson. Paul matched it and Collington wondere
d if that was where the boy would prefer to spend his summer vacation, on Metzinger’s farm.
‘We’ll see it happens,’ promised Collington.
The meal was announced and they paired off formally, Janet taking Collington’s arm and Metzinger escorting his daughter. Because there were only four of them, Hannah had ignored the large table which dominated the room, setting instead the smaller, round one which they had installed for overflow guests when they had given large dinners, or for children during equally large lunches.
There hadn’t been either for a long time – not even in the months before their separation. In Collington’s mind the split was fixed as a sudden, abrupt thing, a flurried Saturday afternoon departure with no suitcases and an air of unreality, because of the theatricality of it all. Hannah had expected him to come back and he supposed he had thought he would return. But when the moment had come he hadn’t been able to lift the telephone to apologise, and so a week had passed and the trip to London arrived and the affair with Ann had suddenly seemed something more. Which it hadn’t been, he accepted. He’d used Ann to live out some pulp fiction fantasy, even managing at one stage to convince himself that the separation had all been Hannah’s fault. He had a lot of apologising to do, and apology seemed an insufficient description for it.
Hannah had ordered champagne and Collington realised that she meant him to propose a toast. Hannah then occupied the early conversation, recounting Paul’s various successes at school but omitting the sudden absence of any letters. Janet Simpson talked of a recent visit to CapeTown, which started out casually enough, nothing more than an account of a week’s holiday, but then she grew irritated, complaining of the difficulties not just in Cape Town but throughout the Union, because the proper separation between the people was being relaxed. Collington intercepted Hannah’s warning look and smiled to reassure her that he wasn’t going to involve himself in an argument about apartheid, but the response came from Metzinger on his right.
‘Look what happened in Rhodesia!’ demanded the other man. ‘People create a civilisation where one didn’t exist before, establish a country and a heritage and then get cast aside for their trouble. It’s a warning! A terrible warning.’
Fleetingly Collington considered disputing Metzinger’s interpretation of history and reminding the man of the ancient culture and ruins from which the country had got its new name but Hannah caught his eye again. Instead he said, intending nothing more than gentle mockery, ‘But what happened in Zimbabwe won’t happen here.’
Metzinger turned directly towards the other man, a flush colouring his face, and Collington realised the mistake and prepared for the outburst.
‘No!’ said Metzinger, brittle-voiced. ‘It won’t happen here. It won’t ever happen here and life’s going to be much easier when everyone realises it. The South African map will end up drawn as it was always intended, the Bantu nations separate to the east and South Africa occupying what remains as theirs by God-given right.’
It was fortunate that this came at the end of the meal. Hannah started to lead Janet from the room, leaving Collington and Metzinger with cigars and port.
Collington passed the humidor and the cutter and then the decanter, giving the older man time to recover his composure.
‘I welcomed the chance to meet like this, when Hannah told me you’d be here,’ said Metzinger. His voice was soft, all anger gone.
Collington stared curiously at the other man. ‘Why?’ he said.
‘I wanted to tell you of my appreciation for what you did. I’ve been officially asked to thank you, very sincerely.’
‘You could have told me that at the office,’ said Collington. It sounded rude, which he hadn’t intended.
Metzinger seemed not to notice. He shook his head. ‘Better like this.’
Collington wondered what the government would do about the information. If there were a purpose to be served, Pretoria could cause a lot of problems, in the way they controlled the regular gold releases. ‘Pity we couldn’t have benefited more,’ he said.
‘I think there could be a way that we might,’ declared Metzinger.
Collington concentrated on the man, aware that this was not a casual, after dinner conversation. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘The Sasol plant damage is very extensive: it will be at least a year before oil production is resumed.’
SAGOMI controlled five coal mines and Collington had already assessed the implications of the damage. ‘It’ll probably be the only division in which we don’t declare a profit this year,’ he accepted. ‘But we could absorb the losses easily enough. I’m going to propose at the next board meeting that we make a planned reduction of output and stockpile. When Sasolberg and Secuna resume, we’ll be ready with the supplies.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the company difficulties,’ said Metzinger. He was talking quietly, still staring intently at the glowing tip of his cigar. ‘I was thinking of the country.’
‘It’s an inconvenience, probably a severe one. But nothing that can’t be overcome,’ disputed Collington. ‘It’s no secret that South Africa has got huge reserves in storage. I’ve heard periods of up to twelve months suggested. And they’ve bought successfully on the spot market for years.’
‘But oil – at least, an unhindered, guaranteed supply – is the one natural resource this country hasn’t got,’ said Metzinger distantly.
‘It’s a problem that’s always existed.’
‘But one that’s being discussed again, because of what happened at the Sasol plants. And because of your discovery of the gold-for-wheat arrangement. There’s an attractive simplicity, pledging two commodities against each other.’
‘It’s common enough,’ said Collington. ‘And it must have occurred to the government a hundred times to make a gold-for-oil offer …’ He hesitated, not wanting to arouse the other man’s anger again. Knowing there was no way he could make the point without taking the risk, he said, ‘The Middle East have got the oil and they don’t want to sell it to us. Publicly, at least. I’m damned sure they know it comes here unofficially.’
Metzinger slapped his hand against the table and for a moment Collington imagined the anger of which he had been afraid. Then he saw that Metzinger was smiling and realised he was trying to emphasise his argument. ‘Exactly!’ Metzinger said. ‘They won’t do it publicly but don’t care what comes in the back door. Why can’t we regularise that?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We’re a multi-national,’ said Metzinger, splaying his hand between them and ticking the points off against his fingers. ‘Among the biggest, with separate, self-contained divisions, not just here in Africa but in Europe and America.’
Collington nodded, encouraging the man to go on. ‘We’ve got the structure and the expertise to trade, country to country. The Middle East won’t deal directly with South Africa. But what if a proposal could be put forward, removing that problem?’
‘For them to supply a company registered and operating from England or America, you mean?’
‘Just that,’ said Metzinger, slapping the table again. ‘England is an oil producer now, just like America. There wouldn’t be anything suspicious in our forming independent, self-contained companies there.’
‘It doesn’t work, on two levels,’ refused Collington. ‘The shell companies would still be traceable to SAGOMI, and we’re headquartered here, in South Africa. So the link is too obvious. But even more than that, to make the deal work we’d have to pledge gold in return for oil. And we can’t sell gold. Only the government can do that.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Metzinger, shaking his head.
Collington realised the other man was patronising him.
‘You’re talking about rules,’ said Metzinger. ‘I’ve never known you to be particularly observant of them in the past.’
‘In the past we’ve never considered anything of this magnitude,’ Collington argued back. ‘And I’m not just talking about rules. I’m
talking about the law. No deal, no matter how big, would justify our risking the whole structure of SAGOMI by doing something openly criminal.’
‘It wouldn’t be open. And there would only be a prosecution if the government saw fit to bring one.’
Collington smiled. ‘And you’re telling me they wouldn’t.’
‘I’m suggesting that the gratitude for ensuring a guaranteed supply of oil would match the effort involved.’
‘How detailed have your talks been?’ pressed Collington.
‘Not at all,’ said Metzinger unhelpfully. ‘I’m reflecting attitudes and impressions. No one is committing themselves at this stage.’
‘I would be, on behalf of the company,’ pointed out Collington.
‘You’ve done that before, with as much uncertainty.’
Collington shook his head. ‘That was years ago,’ he said. ‘We’re consolidated now, with a world-wide reputation. And even then I was negotiating for the company, not a government.’
‘It’s still the company,’ insisted Metzinger. ‘How would you assess a profit margin if we were allowed exclusive import and distribution rights throughout the country, with government tax aid for tanker and refinery construction.’
‘Spectacular,’ answered Collington at once. ‘But I couldn’t consider it without some sort of support. I couldn’t risk SAGOMI without a government guarantee, no matter how unofficial.’
‘We won’t get it,’ said Metzinger. ‘It would have to come the other way. I’d need to go back with a firm proposal, supported by guarantees from an oil producer, before they would declare themselves.’
‘That’s not the way to do business. And you know it,’ said Collington.
‘It was once. It was the way the reputation of the company was established.’
‘Times have changed,’ said Collington, deciding the cliché was appropriate.
‘Perhaps you have, too,’ said Metzinger.
Collington smiled at Metzinger’s attempt to goad him. ‘Perhaps I have,’ he said, refusing to respond. A company could not fail to make a staggering success with the operating concessions at which
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