Colin had been appealed to by Sylvia to 'do something for Africa' – he saw how he had described this to himself and mocked -himself. 'Africa!' As if he didn't know better. There was that continent down there, imaged in most people's minds by a child holding out a begging bowl. But what Sylvia had said was not Africa, but Zimlia. It was his duty to help with Zimlia. And how often had he joked that Dickens's Mrs Jellaby summed it all up, people fussing over Africa when they might be attending to local needs. Why Africa? Why not Liverpool? The Left in Europe as usual concerning itself with events elsewhere: it had identified itself with the Soviet Union and as a result had done itself in. Now there was Africa, India, China, you name it, but particularly Africa. It was his duty to do something about it. Lies – Sylvia had said. Lies were being told. Well, what's new? What did anyone expect? So Colin muttered and grumbled, a caged bear in rooms that were too small now that the baby was born, a bit drunk, but not much, because he had taken Sylvia's strictures to heart. And what made her think he was equipped to write about Africa? Or that he knew people who would care? He knew no one in that world, newspapers, journals, television; he stuck pretty close to his last, writing his books... but wait, he knew just the person, yes, he did.
During that long time when he had frequented pubs and talked to people on park benches, with the little dog, he had acquired a crony, a boon companion. The Seventies: Fred Cope was spending his young life as was de rigueur then, demonstrating, assaulting policemen, shouting slogans and generally making himself noticed but when with Colin, who despised all that, could be persuaded at least sometimes to criticise it too. Both young men knew that the other was an aspect of himself kept on a leash. After all, if his judgement had not forbidden, Colin's temperament was one to enjoy noisy confrontation. As for Fred Cope, he discovered responsibility and sobriety in the Eighties. He married. He had a house. Ten years before he had mocked Colin for living in Hamp-stead: the word was being used as a pejorative by anyone aspiring to be in tune with the times. The Hampstead socialists, the Hamp-stead novel, Hampstead as a place, these were always good for a sneer, but as soon as they could afford it, these critics bought houses in Hampstead. And so had Fred Cope. He was now the editor of a newspaper, The Monitor, and sometimes the two met for a drink.
Has there ever been a generation that has not watched, amazed – though surely by now it has to be expected? – the roustabouts and delinquents and rebels of their youth becoming mouthpieces of considered judgement? Colin telephoned Fred Cope reminding himself that the possessors of considered judgement often found it hard to remember past follies. The two met in a pub, on a Sunday, and Colin plunged in. 'I have a sister – well, a kind of sister, who is working in Zimlia, and she came to see me to say we are all talking nonsense about dear Comrade President Matthew: he's really a bit of a crook.'
'Aren't they all?' murmured Fred Cope, back in his former role of practised sceptic about any kind of authority, but added, ' Surely he is one of the good ones?'
‘I’m in a false position,’ said Colin. ' This is the voice of Colin, but they are the words of Sylvia. She came to see me. She was in a state. I think it might be worth your while to...get a second opinion.'
The editor smiled. ' The trouble is, it doesn't do to judge them by our standards. Their difficulties are immense. And it'sa completely different culture. '
‘Why doesn't it do? That's surely patronising. And haven't we had our bellies full of not judging others by our standards?'
' Yeeeees,’ said the editor. ‘I see your point. Well, I'll look into it. '
Having got over what both felt as an awkwardness, they tried to regain the glorious irresponsibility of their earlier times, when Colin's views had been such that he had scarcely dared voice them outside the safety of his home, and Fred's young life now seemed to him like a prolonged festival of licence and anarchy. But it was no good. Fred was expecting a second baby. Colin as usual was thinking only of the novel he was writing. He knew he probably ought to be doing more about Sylvia, but when has being in the middle of a novel not been the best of excuses? Besides, he always felt guilty about her and did not understand why he did. He had forgotten how much he had resented her coming to Julia's house, and how he had railed at his mother. He looked back on that time with pride now: he and Sophie, both, and anyone else who had come and gone then, might talk affectionately about what fun it had all been. But he did know he had always envied his brother's ease with Sylvia. Now he found her religion and what he saw as her neurotic need for self-sacrifice irritating. And this last visit of hers which had ended in his scooping her up to sit on his knee – what embarrassment for both of them! And yet he was fond of her, yes he was, and he had been bound to do something about Africa and he had done it.
But wait, there was Rupert, who heard him out, and said like Fred Cope that they (meaning Africa, all of it?) shouldn't be judged by our standards. 'But what about the truth?’ said Colin, knowing, from such long and painful experience that truth was always going to be a poor relation. Now, Rupert was not one of Comrade Johnny's spiritual heirs: if he had been, then he might have found aiding and abetting the truth a bit of a clarion call. Although 'the truth' had not yet emerged more than in drips and drops from the Soviet Union, compared to the great dollops of it that would be available in ten years' time; although that great empire still existed (though no one even vaguely on the left would dream of even thinking of describing it as an empire), enough had come out, was coming out, to be a perpetual goad and reminder that truth ought to be on everyone's agenda. But Rupert had never been anything but a good liberal and now he said, ‘Wouldn't you say that telling the truth sometimes does more harm than good?'
‘No, I most certainly would not,’ said Colin.
Then Colin forgot Sylvia's appeal in the business of moving his work down to the basement flat, Meriel having taken herself off. He had to get this new book done: after all, the money Julia had left was not so much that any of them could slack, take things easy.
Fred Cope summoned up from his newspaper's and other archives, articles about Zimlia and concluded that it was true, Zimlia was always being given the benefit of any doubt. One of the experts whose name was often on articles about Zimlia was Rose Trimble. Well, she had never been critical, so who else? The Monitor had a stringer in Senga, and he was invited to write an article, 'Zimlia's first decade'. The article that arrived was more critical than most, while reminding readers that Africa was not to be judged by European standards. Fred Cope sent a copy of this article to Colin. 'I hope this is more on the lines of what you suggest?’And then, a postscript. 'How would you fancy writing a piece about whether Proudhon's ' 'All property is theft' ' has been responsible for the corruption and collapse of modern society? I would be the first to admit that my thoughts on the subject have been prompted by the fact our house has been burgled three times in two years. '
The article in The Monitor was noticed by the editor of a newspaper for whom Rose Trimble had regularly written about Zimlia and Comrade President Matthew, and now she was invited to return to Zimlia and see if what she found there supported the critical article in The Monitor.
Rose was by now a name in the newspaper world. She had owed this to her timely praise for Zimlia but that had been only her start. Everything had gone right for her. She could easily have said, 'God be thanked who has matched me with His hour,' – if she had ever read a line of poetry or could use the word God without a smirk. Living in Julia's house she had felt inferior, but once out of it, it was they who seemed inferior. She was matched with the Eighties. Her qualities were what were needed now, in the time when getting on, getting rich, doing down your fellows, were officially applauded. She was ruthless, she was acquisitive, she was by instinct contemptuous of others. While she kept a connection with the comparatively serious newspaper for which she wrote her pieces on Zimlia, she had found her niche in World Scandals, where her task was to hunt out weaknesses, or rumours, and then hound some victim day and night until
she could triumphantly come up with an expose. The higher this unfortunate was in public life the better. She camped on people's doorsteps, rummaged in rubbish bins, bribed relatives and friends to reveal or invent damaging facts: she was good at this scavenger's work, and she was feared. She was particularly famous for her ' portraits' , bringing journalism to new heights of vindictiveness, and found the work easy because she was genuinely incapable of seeing good in anyone: she knew that the truth about them had to be discreditable, and that it was in the unpleasant that the real essence of a person lies. This kind of jeering, derision, this ridicule, came from her deepest self, and matched a generation of similar people. It was as ifsomething ugly and cruel had been exposed in England, something that had been hidden before, but was now like a beggar pulling aside rags to show ulcers. What had been respected was now scorned; decency, a respect for others, was now ridiculous. The world was being presented to readers through a coarse screen that got rid of anything pleasant or likeable: the tone was set by Rose Trimble and her kind who could never believe that anyone did anything except for self-interest. Rose hated most of all people who read books, or who pretended to – it was only a pretence; loathed the arts, denigrated particularly the theatre – she boasted she had invented the word 'luvvies' for theatre people; and liked violent and cruel films. She met only people like herself, frequenting certain pubs and clubs, and they had no idea that they were a new phenomenon, something that earlier generations would have despised, and dismissed as the gutter press, fit only for the lowest depths of society. But the phrase now seemed to her something vaguely complimentary, a guarantee of bravery in the pursuit of truth. But how could she, or they, know? They scorned history because they had learned none. Only once in her life she had written with approval, admiration, it was about Comrade President Matthew Mungozi, and then, more recently, Comrade Gloria, whom she adored because of her ruthlessness. Only once had her pen not dripped poison. And she read the article by The Monitors stringer with fury, and, too, with something like the beginnings of fear.
Meeting a journalist who worked on The Monitor she heard that it was Colin Lennox who had prompted it. And who the hell was Colin to have an opinion about Africa?
She hated Colin. She had always seen novelists and poets as something like counterfeiters, making something out of nothing and getting away with it. She had been too early on the scene for his first novel, but she had rubbished his second and the Lennoxes, and his third had caused her paroxysms of rage. It was about two people, apparently unlike each other, who had for each other a tender and almost freakish love – that it continued at all seemed to both of them a jest of Fate. While involved with other partners, other adventures, they met like conspirators, to share this feeling they had, that they understood each other as no one else ever could. Reviewers on the whole liked it and said it was poetic and evocative. One said it was 'elliptical', a word that goaded Rose to extra frenzy: she had to look it up in the dictionary. She read the novel, or tried to: but really she could not read anything more difficult than a newspaper article. Of course it was about Sophie, that stuck-up bitch. Well, let them both watch out, that's all. Rose had a file on the Lennoxes, all kinds of bits and pieces, some stolen from them long ago, when she went sniffing about the house for what she could find. She planned to 'get them' one day. She would sit leafing through the file, a rather fat woman now, her face permanently set in a malicious smile which, when she knew she had found the word or phrase that could really hurt, became a jeering laugh.
On the plane to Senga she was next to a bulky man who took up too much room. She asked for a change of seat, but the plane was full. He shifted about in his seat in a way that she decided was aggressive and against her, and he gave her sideways looks full of male dishonesty. His arm was on the rest between them, no room for hers. She put her forearm beside his, to claim her rights, but he did not budge, and to keep her arm there meant she had to concentrate, or it would slide off. He did remove it when he demanded from the attendant who was offering drinks a whisky, threw it to the back of his throat at once, asked for another. Rose admired his authoritative handling of the attendant, whose smiles were false, Rose knew. She asked for a whisky and took it in a swallow, not to be outdone, and sat with the glass in her hand, waiting for a refill.
'Bloody skivers,' said this man, whom Rose knew was her enemy as a woman. 'They think they can get away with murder.'
Rose did not know what he was complaining of, and only said, in an all-purpose formula, 'They're all the same.'
'Right on. Nothing to choose between any of them.'
Now Rose saw two black men, who had been at the back of the plane, being waved forward by an attendant through to Club Class – or perhaps even First.
' Look at that! Throwing their weight around, as usual.'
Ideology demanded that Rose should protest, but she refrained: yes, this was one of the unregenerate whites, but there were nine hours ahead of close proximity.
' If they spent less time showing off and more on running the country then that would be something. '
His arm and shoulder now threatened to oppress Rose.
' Excuse me, but these are small seats. ‘And she vigorously shoved him back in his seat with her shoulder. He opened half-shut eyes to stare. ‘You are taking up too much room. '
‘You' re not exactly a lightweight yourself, '-but he withdrew his arm.
Here supper was served, but he waved it away -'I'm spoiled for good grub on my farm. '
She accepted the little tray, and began eating. She was sitting next to a white farmer. No wonder she loathed him. Again she wondered ifshe should insist on changing her seat. No, she would make use of this opportunity and see if she could get an article out of it. He was openly watching her eat. She knew she ate too much and decided to reject the fancy pudding.
' Here, I'll have that if you don't want it, ' he said reaching out for the little glass of cream goo. And he had it swallowed in a gulp. ‘Not up to much, ' he said. A boor, as well. ‘I’m used to good grub. My wife's a zinger. And my cook boy's another.'
Cookboy.
'So you' re well served,’ she said, using the political jargon of the moment.
'Pardon?' He knew she was criticising him but not what for. She decided not to bother. 'And what do you do with yourself when you' re at home? And by the way, where is home, are you going back to it or leaving it?'
‘I’m a journalist. '
‘Oh, Christ, that's all I needed. So I suppose you are planning another little article about the joys of black government?'
Her professionalism switched in and she said, ' All right then, you talk. '
And he did. He talked. All around them went on the bustle of the meal service and drinks and duty free, and then the lights were switched off and still he talked. His name was Barry Angle-ton. He had farmed in Zimlia all his life and his father before him. They had just as much right as... and so on. Rose was not listening to his words, because by now she had understood she fancied him, though she most certainly disliked him, and that hot grumbling voice made her feel as if she were being dissolved in warm treacle.
Rose's relations with men had been geared to misfortune, because of the times. She was, of course, a strict feminist. She had married in the late Seventies, a comrade met while demonstrating outside the American Embassy. He agreed to everything she said about feminism, men, the lot of women: he matched her, smiling, with formulations as progressive as hers, but she knew this was merely surface compliance, and that he did not really understand women or his fatal inheritance. She criticised him for everything and he went along with her, agreeing that thousands of years of delinquency could not be put right in a day. ‘I daresay you've got a point there, Rosie, ' he' d say, equably, with a little air of judicious assessment, as she ended a harangue that took in everything from bride-price to female circumcision. And he smiled. He always smiled. His fair, plump eager-to-please face infuriated her. She loathed him while she told herself th
at he was essentially good material. She was confused because, since she disliked almost everything, disliking her husband was not ground enough for self-examination, though she did sometimes wonder if her habit of keeping up irritated admonitions when they were in bed might possibly account for his becoming impotent. But the more he agreed with her, the more he smiled and nodded and took the words out of her mouth, the more she despised him. And when she demanded a divorce, he said, 'Fair enough. You're too good for me, Rosie. I've always said so.'
This man Barry – now that would be a different matter. On the steps outside the airport building she saw him give money to a porter in a way that made her seethe, so commanding and lordly was it. Now, observing her with her big suitcase, looking about her for the car she had ordered, he strode over and said, ‘I’ll drop you in town. ' He heaved his case to stand with hers, and went off to the car park. In a moment a big Buick stood before her, the front door open. She got in. A black man had materialised and put her cases and his into the car. Barry dispensed more money.
‘I ordered a car. '
'Too bad. He'll find someone else.'
On the plane he had ended a perforation with, ‘Why don't you come to the farm and see for yourself?' and she had refused and now she was sorry she had. At this moment he said, ' Come out to the farm and have breakfast. '
Rose was familiar with the approaches to the city of Senga, and thought it a tedious little place and full of self-importance. In fact what she really thought about Zimlia was the opposite of what she wrote about it. Only Comrade President Matthew had justified it, and now...
She hesitated, and said, ‘Why not?'
‘Why not she says, and expects an answer. '
They did not drive through the town but past it and were in the bush in a moment. Not everybody loves Africa, and, having left it, longs only to go back to an eternally smiling and beckoning promise. Rose knew that such people existed: how could she not, when the lovers of the continent are so vociferous, always talking as if their love were proof of an inner virtue? It was too big, for a start. There was a disproportion between the town – which called itself a city – and cultivation, and the wildness. Too much bloody bush and disorderly hills, and always the threat of an untoward dislocation of order. Rose had scarcely been out of the towns except for brief walks in a park. She liked pavements and pubs and town halls with people making speeches in them, and restaurants. Now she told herself it was a good thing that she was actually experiencing a white farm and a white farmer, though she could not of course write down his complaints, which were nearly all about the blacks, and that was simply not on. She could say, truthfully, that she was broadening her mind.
The Sweetest Dream Page 40