'The altitude is getting to her,' said Andrew, solicitously kissing her and waving her off into Butler's Hotel, a few steps away.
Sylvia was surprised to hear that 6,000 feet was considered altitude, but did not care: this was her Andrew and now she was going to sit and talk to him, so he said, in that cafe there. And there they went, and held hands, while fizzy drinks arrived and Andrew demanded to know everything about her.
She had opened her mouth to begin, thinking that here was one of the important men in the world, and that surely the little matter of the closing of the hospital at St Luke's could be reversed by a word from him, when a group of very well-dressed people filled the café, and he greeted them and they him and a lot of badinage began about this conference they were all attending here, in Senga. ' It's quite the coolest new place for conferences, but it's not exactly Bermuda,’ someone said.
Sylvia did know that Senga was being touted as just the place for any sort of international get together, and, seeing these bright clever smart people, understood how much she had slid away, in the stark exigencies of Kwadere, from being able to take part in this talk.
Andrew continued to hold her hand, smiled at her often, then said perhaps this was not the place to have a chat. More delegates crowded in, joking at the cafe's smallness, which was somehow being equated with Zimlia's lack of sophistication, and these experts on absolutely everything you can think of, in this particular case, 'The Ethics of International Aid', sounded rather like children comparing the merits of parties their respective parents had recently given. There was so much noise, laughter and enjoyment that Sylvia begged Andrew to be allowed to leave. But he said she must come to the dinner tonight: ' There's the big end of conference dinner, and you must come. '
‘I don't have a dress. '
He gave her a frank once-over, making allowances, and said, ‘But it's not evening dress, you'll do. '
And now she had to find somewhere to spend the night. She had come away without enough money: had come away, she saw now, inefficiently, in an unplanned and foolish way. It was all a bit of a haze: she remembered Father McGuire taking command. Had she been a bit sick, perhaps? Was she now? She didn't feel herself, whatever that meant, for if she was not the Doctor Sylvia everyone knew at her hospital, who was she?
She rang Sister Molly, who was in, and asked to stay the night. Sylvia took a taxi there, was welcomed, and heard a good deal of on the whole good-natured mockery of the conference on the Ethics of International Aid, and all similar conferences.
' They talk,’ said Sister Molly. ' They get paid to travel to some beauty spot and talk nonsense you' d not believe. '
‘I’d hardly call Senga a beauty spot. '
'That is true, but they are off every day to see the lions and the giraffes and the dear little monkeys and I don't think they notice that the land is perishing from the drought. '
Sylvia told Molly about the dinner, said she had only what she had on, heard that it was a pity Molly was at least four sizes larger than Sylvia, who could otherwise borrow her one and only dress but as it was she personally would see to it that the suit was cleaned and ready by six o ' clock. Having forgotten these amenities of real civilisation, Sylvia was perhaps disproportionately moved, and took off her suit, lay down on her little iron bed, just like the one she had at the Mission, and was asleep. Sister Molly stood over her for a while, the green suit folded over her arm, her face shedding beams ofbenevolent enquiry, judicious and experienced: after all, she did spend her life assessing people and situations from one end of Zimlia to the other. She did not like what she saw. Bending closer she checked up on this and that feature, sweaty brow, dry lips, flushed face, and lifted Sylvia's hand to look at the wrist where visibly pounded an intemperate pulse.
When Sylvia woke, her suit, nicely pinned and presented, hung on the door. On the chair was a selection of knickers, and a silk slip. 'I got too fat for these ages ago.' Also some smart shoes. Sylvia washed dust out of her hair, got dressed, put on the shoes, hoping she could still manage heels, and took a taxi to Butler's. She suspected she was feverish, but because it would be so inconvenient to be ill, decided she wasn't.
Outside Butler's the international crowd stood chatting, waving to each other, resuming conversations that might have been interrupted in Bogota or Benares. Andrew was waiting for Sylvia, on the steps. Mona was beside him in a pink floaty dress that made her look like one of the species tulips, jagged petals, that seemed cut out of crystallised light. Sylvia knew Andrew was anxious about how she might look, for if evening dress was not obligatory then none of the women was less smart than Mona. But his smile said, You' re all right, and he took her arm. The three went to the staircase which was grand enough for a film set, though in the best possible taste. It delivered them to a terrace where little flowering trees and a fountain filled the dusk with freshness. Lights from inside picked out a face, the dazzle of a white suit, the flash of a necklace. People greeted Andrew: how popular he was, this handsome and distinguished grey-haired gentleman, who must deserve the glamorous girl with him, since the fait accompli of the marriage proved he did.
When they went into dinner it was a private room, but large enough for the hundred or so guests, and what a delightful room it was, achieving what its designers had intended, that the privileged people who used it would not be able to say whether they were in Benares or Bogota or Senga.
Sylvia knew some faces from this morning in the café, but at others she had to look and look again... yes, Good Lord, there was Geoffrey Bone, as handsome as ever, and beside him the incendiary head, now subdued to a well-brushed russet, of Daniel, his shadow. And there was James Patton. For some people you have to wait decades before understanding what Nature has intended for them all along: in this case he had reached his culmination as man of the people, affable and amiable, comfily rotund, his right hand ever at the ready to reach out and clasp whatever flesh presented itself. There he was, a Member of Parliament in a safe Labour seat, and on this occasion a guest of Caring International, at Geoffrey's invitation. And Jill... yes, Jill, a large woman with a greyish coiffure, senior councillor in a London borough notorious for its mismanagement of funds, though the word corrupt could never, surely, be associated with this solid citizen whose police-bashing, rioting, American-Embassy-storming days were so long behind one could be pretty sure she had forgotten them or was murmuring, Oh, yes, I was a bit of a Red once.
Sylvia had not been put next to Andrew who was at the head of the table, flanked by two important South Americans, but beside Mona, some places away. Sylvia knew she was as invisible as an anonymous little brown bird next to a displaying peacock, for people looked so often at Mona whose name everyone knew if they followed fashion at all. And why was Mona here? She said to Sylvia that she was attending the conference as Andrew's personal assistant, and congratulated Sylvia, giggling, on her new status as Andrew's assistant secretary, which is how she was being described when introduced. Sylvia was able to sit quietly and observe, and imagine how Clever and Zebedee would look in these attractive uniforms, scarlet and white and so striking on the black skins of the smiling waiters. She knew, very well, how these youths had had to work, intrigue, beg for these jobs, and how their parents had sacrificed for them, so they could serve these international stars with food most of them had never heard of until coming to this hotel.
Sylvia was offered the choice ofcrocodile tails, in pink mayonnaise, and palm hearts imported from South East Asia, and all the time her heart was weeping, yes it was, a quiet wailing went on inside her, as she sat there beside Andrew's beautiful bride. It would not last, this marriage, you had only to look how they presented themselves, with the sleek complacency of well-fed cats, to know that she had said yes to Andrew probably for no better reason than she enjoyed saying, 'I have always liked older men,' to annoy younger ones, and he, who had not been married and had had to suffer the usual rumours, although he had been the 'friend' of a dozen well-known women, had finally neede
d to show his colours and make his statement, and he had, for here she was, his child bride.
Sylvia looked around, and despaired, and thought of her hospital, closed while people in the village were ill or had broken limbs or... there were never less than thirty or forty people a day needing help; she thought of the lack of water, the dust, the AIDS, she could not prevent all these stale old thoughts, which have been thought too often, and to no purpose. She imagined Clever and Zebedee's faces, disconsolate because they had dreamed of being doctors... how badly she had managed everything, she must have, for it all to end like this.
Mona was chatting to the man on her left about her poverty-stricken origins in a slum in Quito: she had been noticed by a visiting delate to a conference on the Costumes of the World. She was confiding to him that Zimlia was the pits, she saw too much on the streets to remind her of what she had escaped from. ' Basically, what I like is Manhattan. It has everything, hasn't it? I don't see why anyone should ever leave it. '
Now everyone was talking about the annual conference due soon, with two hundred delegates from all over the world, which would last a week, with a keynote speech on 'The Perspectives and Implications of Poverty'. Where should it be held? The delegate from India, a handsome woman in a scarlet sari, suggested Sri Lanka, though they would have to be careful because of the terrorists, but there was no more beautiful place in the world. Geoffrey Bone said he had spent three nights in Rio for a conference on the World's Threatened Ecostructure, and there was a hotel there... but, said a Japanese gentleman, the last annual conference had been in South America, and there was a fine hotel in Bali, that part of the world should have the honour. Talk about hotels and their attractions went on for most of the meal, and the consensus was it was time they favoured Europe, how about Italy, though probably strict policing would be essential, because they were all of them luscious targets for kidnappers.
In the event, they were all to go to Cape Town, because South Africa's apartheid was just about to disappear, and they wished to show their approval of Mandela.
Coffee was served in an adjacent room, where Andrew made a speech as it were dismissing them all, but saying how much he looked forward to seeing them again next month in New York – a conference; and then Geoffrey, Daniel, Jill and James came to Sylvia to say they had not recognised her, and how lovely it was to see her. The smiling faces told Sylvia how shocked they were at what they saw. ‘You were such a beautiful little thing, ' Jill confided. 'Oh, no, I'm not saying... but I used to think you were like a little fairy. '
‘And look at me now. '
‘And look at me. Well, conferences don't do much for one's figure.'
‘You could try dieting,’ said Geoffrey, who was as thin as ever.
' Or a health farm,’ said James. ‘I go to a health farm every year. I have to. Too many temptations in the House of Commons.' ' Our bourgeois forebears went to Baden Baden or Marienbad
to lose the fat accumulated in a year of over-eating,' said Geoffrey. 'Your forebears,' said James. 'I am the grandson of a grocer.' 'Oh, well done,' said Geoffrey.
‘And my grandfather was a surveyor's clerk,’ said Jill.
‘And mine was a farm labourer in Dorset,’ said James.
' Congratulations,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You win. None of us can compete with that. ‘And off he went, with a wave of his hand to Sylvia, Daniel just behind him.
' He was always such a poseur,’ said Jill.
‘I would have said a pouf,’ said James.
‘Now, now, the least we can expect here is political correctness.'
‘You can expect what you like. As far as I am concerned, political correctness is just another little sample of American imperialism,’ said the man of the people.
' Discuss,’ said Jill.
And, discussing, they went off.
On the steps of Butler's, Rose Trimble agitatedly hovered, in a smart outfit bought in the hope Andrew would invite her to the dinner: but he had not answered her messages.
Jill appeared and ignored Rose, who had described her Council as a disgrace to the principles and ideals of democracy.
‘I was only doing my job,’ said Rose to Jill's back.
Then, cousin James, whose face hardened: ‘What the hell are you doing here? Short of muck in London?’And he pushed her aside.
When Andrew came down the steps with Mona and Sylvia, he at once said, ‘Oh, Rose, how utterly delightful to see you. ' ' Didn't you get my messages?'
‘Did you send me messages?'
' Give me a quote, Andrew. How did the conference go?' ‘I am sure it will all be in the papers tomorrow.'
'And this is Mona Moon – oh, do give me a quote, Mona. How is married life?'
Mona did not reply, and went on with Andrew. Rose did not recognise Sylvia, or rather only much later thought that boring little thing must have been Sylvia.
Abandoned, she said bitterly to the delegates who were streaming past, 'The bloody Lennoxes. They were my family.'
Sylvia was embraced by Andrew, kissed prettily by Mona and put into a taxi: they were off to a party.
Sister Molly's house was dark and locked. Sylvia had to ring and ring again. The snap of locks, the grind of chains, the click of keys, and Molly stood there in a blue baby-doll nightdress, the silver cross sliding over her breasts. ' Sorry, we all have to live in a fortress these days. '
Sylvia went to her room, carefully, as if she might spill about like a jelly. She felt she had eaten too much and knew wine didn't suit her. She was light-headed, and trembled. Sister Molly stood watching as she lowered herself to her bed and flopped.
'Better take that off,' and Molly pulled off an outer layer of linen and shoes and stockings. ' There. I thought so. When did you last have malaria?'
'Oh – a year ago – I think.'
Then you have it now. Lie still. You have the devil of a temperature.'
' It'll go. '
‘Not by itself, it won't. '
And so Sylvia went through her bout of malaria, which was not the bad kind, cerebral, which is so dangerous, but it was bad enough and she shivered and she shook, and swallowed her pills – back to the old-fashioned quinine, since the new ones were not working with her – and when she was finally herself, Sister Molly said, ' That was a go, if you like. But I see you are with us again. '
' Please telephone Father McGuire and tell him. '
‘Who do you take us for? Of course I rang him weeks ago. '
'Weeks?'
'You've had it bad. Mind you, I'd say it was malaria plus, a bit of a collapse generally. And you're anaemic, for a start. And you have to eat. '
‘What did Father McGuire say?'
‘Oh, don't you worry. Everything's going on as usual. '
In fact, Rebecca had died, and so had her sick boy Tenderai. The two children who stayed alive had been taken away by the sister-in-law whom Rebecca suspected of poisoning her. It was too early to tell Sylvia the bad news.
Sylvia ate, she drank what seemed to be gallons of water, and she went to the bath, where the sweats of the fever were finally swilled away. She was weak but clear-headed. She lay flat on her little iron bed and told herself that the fever had shaken foolishness out of her that she could well do without. One thing was Father McGuire: through difficult times she had been telling herself that Father McGuire was a saint, as if that justified everything, but now she was thinking, Who the hell am I, Sylvia Lennox, to go on and on about who is a saint and who isn't?
She said to Sister Molly, ‘I have understood that I am not a Catholic, not a real one, and I probably never was.'
‘Is that so? So you either are or you aren't. So it is a Protestant you are, after all? Well, I have to confess to you that in my view the good God has better things to do than worry about our little squabbles, but never tell them I said that, in Belfast – I don't want to find myself knee-capped when I go on leave next.'
‘I have been suffering from the sin of pride, I know that. '
&nb
sp; ‘I daresay. Aren't we all? But I'm surprised Kevin never mentioned it if you are. He's a great one for the sin of pride.'
‘I expect he did. '
‘Well, then, and now take it easy. When you are strong enough, give some thought to what you are going to do next. We have suggestions for you. '
And so Sylvia lay and took it in that she was not expected back at the Mission. And what was happening to Clever and Zebedee?
She telephoned. Their voices, so young, desperate: Help me, help us.
'When are you coming? Please come.'
'Soon, as soon as I can.'
'Now Rebecca's not here, things are so hard...'
'What?'
And so she heard the news. And lay on her bed and did not weep, it was too bad for that.
Sylvia lay propped up on her bed, absorbing nourishing potions while Sister Molly, hands on her hips, stood smiling, watching forcibly while Sylvia ate, and all day and as far into the night as was possible for Zimlia's early-rising citizens, came people of the kind Andrew Lennox, or the tourists or visiting relatives or people who under the white government had not been welcome, never met. And Sylvia had not met them either until now.
She was being made to reflect that while places like Kwadere existed in Zimlia, far too many of them, perhaps her experiences had been as narrow in their way as those of people who would not have believed that villages like St Luke's Mission could exist. After all, there were schools that actually taught their pupils, which had at least some exercise books and textbooks, hospitals that had equipment and surgeons and even research laboratories. It was her nature that had seen to it that she was in as poor a place as possible: she understood that as clearly as she did that fretting over her degrees of faith or lack of it was absurd.
On a level far from the embassies or the lounges of Butler's Hotel, or the trade fairs, or the corrupt bosses at the top (referred to by Sister Molly as ' chocolate cake' ) were people who ran organisations with small budgets, sometimes funded by single individuals, who accomplished more with their money than Caring International or Global Money could dream of, and who laboured in difficult places to achieve a library, a shelter for abused women, provision for a small business, or provided small loans of a size that ordinary banks must despise. They were black and they were white, Zimlian citizens or ex-pats, forming a layer of energetic optimism which spread up to embrace minor officials and lower civil servants, for there has never been a country that relied so much on its minor officials, who are competent, not corrupt, and hard-working. Unsung they are, and mostly unnoticed. But anyone who understood, would go for help to some comparatively lowly office run by a man or a woman who, if there were any justice, would be openly running the country, and who in fact were what everything depends on. Sister Molly's house and a dozen like it formed a layer or web of sane people. Politics were not discussed, not because of principle but because of the nature of the people involved: in some countries politics are the enemy of commonsense. If the Comrade Leader was mentioned at all, or his corrupt cronies, it was as one talks about the weather -something that had to be put up with. A great disappointment, the Comrade President, but what's new?
The Sweetest Dream Page 47