by John Harris
Jimmy laughed. “Who’s been telling you that rubbish? Personal Clerk Smith?”
Gotto flushed and Jimmy went on mercilessly. “I suppose he’s told you Alf Momo’s fomenting strikes. And Earnshaw ate his grandmother. And I’m Jack the Ripper. He wants kicking out, not promoting.”
The irritation Gotto had caused was still evident when Jimmy saw Stella that evening. But, after the passage of a day and a great deal of searching of his conscience, it was tempered by a genuine worry that they weren’t doing sufficient to help, and a feeling that, since the episode concerning the fishermen, events were moving too fast to be decently controlled.
“But what can I do?” he asked Stella. “He won’t take any damn’ notice of me. All I can do is bite my nails and hope to God another little episode like the row with the King Tim fishermen won’t arise.”
He sat for a while, smoking his cigarette slowly, deep in thought, while Stella watched him, waiting for him to speak again.
“He possesses the pernicious gift,” he went on eventually, “of infuriating you to the point of exasperation and beyond and then, just when you’ve given him up as a bad job, of looking so blasted lonely and unhappy that you start getting agitated about his welfare. He gets me so I’m mad with myself for upsetting him and then I get madder still because I know damn’ well it’s not my fault.”
“Of course it’s not your fault, Jimmy darling. You’ve tried hard enough.”
Jimmy sat up angrily. “I’m sick of suggesting things to amuse him,” he said. “I had another awful row with him this morning over Clerk Smith. When I told him he was no damn’ good, Gotto pointed out that at least he didn’t clear out of the room every time he came in.”
“Oh, Jimmy! Do you?”
“You know jolly well I do. He makes me depressed.”
Stella looked thoughtful. “Poor man,” she said. “Jimmy, if we were back home, we’d get a psychoanalyst to look him over. You any good at psychoanalysis?”
Jimmy grinned and shook his head.
“Pity. Couldn’t you try?”
Jimmy shrugged and grinned again at Stella. “Of course not, child,” he said, suddenly more cheerful. “Only Gotto can be ringmaster to his own soul. You and me – because we’re tougher, or stupider, if you like – we’ve got subconsciouses like performing fleas. They do as they’re told. But not Gotto. Inside him, there’s another little Gotto screeching to get out, like a claustrophobia case locked in a clothes closet. And that Gotto’s afraid and insecure and lonely. You can see people like Gotto every five minutes back home. This place just brings it out more. I’ll wager there are more in America than anywhere else in the world.”
“Why America?”
“Because it’s bigger and faster and slicker, and in big, fast slick places – London’s one – there’s no room for lost people like Gotty.” He paused and looked at her, suddenly serious. Then he studied his feet for a while before he spoke. “You know, Stella, I can see a great danger to you back in the States. You ought to live in England and get away from it.”
“I liked England,” Stella admitted.
Jimmy took her hand. “Listen, Stella darling, I shall be going home when my tour’s over out here. I shall be settling down to growing old and comfortable. Why not grow old and comfortable with me? It’s a nice cosy thought.”
Stella smiled and patted his hand.
“Marry me, Stella.”
“Jimmy, you’re a clown.”
“I’m not clowning now, Stella.”
Stella’s eyes widened as she became aware of his expression. “Jimmy darling, are you getting serious?”
“Yes.” Jimmy looked her squarely in the eye. “I am. I have been for some time.”
Stella stared back at him for a moment, then her eyes fell. “Well, that’s my big moment over,” she said ruefully.
“Big moment? What big moment?”
“Every girl dreams of the day someone’ll ask her to marry him. I was looking forward to orchids and moonlight and all the other things. What I get is a casual ‘Marry me, Stella,’ straight out of the blue, without any warning, without any soft lights or sweet music. Just like that. No romance. No poetry. No ‘I love you’. Nothing.”
Jimmy fiddled with his cigarette awkwardly for a while. “I’m sorry, Stella,” he said. “It slipped out that way. It seemed the natural way to do it. Surely that’s the best way.”
“Couldn’t you have put on a bit more of a show? Got down on your knees or something?”
“I’ll do it again if you like.” Jimmy shifted uneasily in his seat.
“No, Jimmy dear.” Stella smiled and touched his cheek. “I’m only tormenting you. It’s just that it came a little unexpectedly. I never realised you felt like that.”
“Perhaps I never made it very clear. Gotto got in the way rather.”
They sat together in silence for a while. Suddenly the easiness that had always been a mark of their companionship had gone and there was some new emotion in its place – something more serious and adult and tender. Jimmy watched her for a moment or two before he spoke, hesitantly: “You haven’t answered yet.”
Stella fingered his hand – shy and a little touched. “I guess I’ll have to think this one over,” she said. “It’s taken my breath away a little.”
“Why? We’ve been seeing each other very nearly every day since we met. It’s like night following day. It’s a perfectly normal step to take.”
“It seems such a big one all the same.”
“Think so? There are plenty of arguments for it. You kiss me as though you mean it. I know I do. And, after all” – Jimmy laughed a little nervously – “it’s nearer to England from here than it is to America. If you ever want to run home to Mother, you won’t have so far to go.”
Stella began to play with the leaves of a geranium on the edge of the veranda alongside her. “Honest, Jimmy dear, do you really and truly mean it?”
“I’ve never been so serious in my life.”
“It’s these warm evenings, Jimmy, and the moon. These African moons are pretty big.”
“I’m too old to get moonstruck, Stella.”
“Then it must be Gotto and all this fuss.”
Jimmy stared at her suspiciously. “You’re putting me off,” he said. “You’re trying to avoid answering me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, what do you say?”
“Jimmy, I can’t.”
“Why not?” Jimmy looked startled and a little hurt, as though her answer was unexpected.
“Now you’re rushing me and I don’t know.”
“You must know.”
Stella turned towards him. “I guess I like you an awful lot, Jimmy dear, but we’ve not known each other very long.”
“Long enough for me to be certain.”
“Oh, Jimmy–”
“You don’t love me.” Jimmy’s voice was suddenly flat.
“Yes – I mean, no. Jimmy, I don’t know what I mean. I can’t say ‘yes’ just like that. Give me time.”
“Time!” Jimmy sounded a little indignant. “I thought you wouldn’t need to debate it with yourself. The way you kissed me, the way we – well, the way we get on together, I thought you’d know. Do you want me to rescue you from a burning building or something before you make up your mind?”
“Jimmy, don’t tease me. Just give me a little time. Just carry on as we were before–”
“You’re asking something, Stella.”
“I mean, just let it lie for a while. That’s all.”
“Let it hatch? Like an egg? That what you mean?”
“Jimmy, don’t be unkind.”
“I’m not being unkind. I feel pretty grim about it. I’ve said I want to marry you. You won’t. That’s why I feel grim. It’s simple enough.” He shrugged. “Strikes me,” he commented glumly, “I’ve been paying too much blasted attention to Gotto and not enough to you. Here I’ve been for weeks gaily telling him how to run his love affairs and
it seems I’ve been neglecting my own. From now on, he can sink or swim. I’m going to concentrate.”
Two
Jimmy’s mind was still in a state of turmoil when Twigg arrived – early the following morning when no one was expecting him. Relations between Jimmy and Gotto had remained strained and Twigg’s appearance threw Jimmy, who was the first to meet him, into a state of panic. He must have set off before daylight for it was not long after breakfast that he bowled down to the bungalow in a cloud of red dust that swept on and past him in diminishing swirls as he halted his jeep.
“Hallo, Agnew,” he said gaily, mopping his face with his purple handkerchief. “How’s it going? Settled down yet? Everybody happy?”
“Oh, yes, we’re fine, sir,” Jimmy said with a sweeping enthusiasm he didn’t feel. He regarded his superior nervously, dreading his reaction to what to him seemed an obviously dissatisfied mine. Gotto’s behaviour had been growing more and more unpredictable for some time.
“Oh, yes,” he repeated automatically, his mind chasing furiously through the events of the last few days. “We’re fine.”
“Good.” Twigg gave him a sidelong inquisitive glance. “How are you getting on with friend Gotto?”
He seemed to be inviting confidences and it was on the tip of Jimmy’s tongue to tell the truth, but a guilty feeling of plotting treachery behind Gotto’s back led him to put the idea aside. After all, he decided weakly, there was no sense in causing trouble for a man with quite enough on his hands already. He managed, therefore, to conceal the unrest from Twigg, and when he was asked about the fall in output, blamed it on faulty machinery.
Twigg seemed more than relieved not to be informed of friction but his eyebrows rose in surprise and he looked hard and unbelievingly at Jimmy. “H’m,” he said. “Well – how’s the cricket team going?”
Jimmy searched for an excuse. “Well, you see, sir,” he pointed out, “we’ve been so busy getting things going, putting up the huts and all that, we never had the chance. But I think I’ve found a good spot for a pitch. A jolly good spot. We’ll start as soon as we can.”
“Good show.” Twigg was looking round him as he talked. “Look slippy. I’m anxious to arrange a match with you up here. I’ve got a new fast bowler. Bee’s knees, old boy. Laid out one of the foremen yesterday.”
He flicked the dust from his clothes with an elegant finger. “Look, I’ll just slip down to the workings and have a look round. Don’t let me stop you doing whatever it was you were doing. See you at lunch.”
Jimmy watched him with a sense of dread as he drove off but at lunch time when he sat at the table with Jimmy and Gotto, his amiability had not diminished. His questions showed that he had not missed much, however.
“Not got very far with the new level,” he commented. “And that explosive store wants hurrying along a spot. Watch that. By the way, Momo tells me Joe Soloman’s trying to corner all the rice in the place.” He bent his head and tucked heartily into his curried chicken. “Can’t have that, old boy,” he said in mild rebuke to Gotto. “Better go along and see him. Use a bit of a threat if you like.”
Jimmy looked up quickly, anxious to recruit Twigg’s help. “How about you coming along yourself, sir?” he suggested hopefully. “Indian Joe might take more notice of you than us.”
Twigg glanced out of the corner of his eye. Then he waved a hand without raising his head. “Oh, no,” he said casually. “Leave it to you, old boy. Got to get back. You have a go at him. You’ll be all right. Experience for you.”
“Samuel Assissay’s working for him now,” Jimmy pointed out, tossing the ball back again.
Twigg’s horse face lifted curiously at last. “Is he, by God?” He seemed on the point of a decision then he shelved it abruptly. “I thought he was going up-bush to his village. That’s a bad thing.”
“Think you’d better look into it while you’re here, sir?” Jimmy hinted, remembering all that Romney had said.
Twigg flashed him a glance and ducked his head again. “Oh, I don’t know, old boy. Just leave it alone. Just wait and see. I can’t force him out. Mustn’t be accused of harrying the natives. They’re so touchy these days. So long as he’s not on the mine premises and causing any trouble, let someone else worry about him. He’s harmless. Just caught a dose of Sinner’s Misery from Mrs Swannack. That’s all.”
Jimmy subsided with a feeling of disappointment and Twigg turned to Gotto.
“Momo tells me you had a bit of trouble with a few shovel boys,” he said. “And what’s all this about fishermen?”
“The fishermen were trespassing,” Gotto said quickly, his eyes on his plate.
“Can’t do much harm, can they?”
“There are explosives about.”
“They wouldn’t know how to use them, old boy.” Twigg shrugged amiably. “Have it your own way, of course. So long as there’s no trouble. That’s the important thing. And this shovel-boy business? What was that?”
“Only a fight between Temne and Mende,” Gotto said. “They couldn’t agree.”
“I know.” Twigg was busy with his food again. “Got to watch the devils. They’re always squabbling. Mustn’t have too many of one or too many of the other up here. Jarvis always kept a nice balance. Ma-Imi doesn’t matter so much. Nearer Freetown. More sophisticated. Don’t worry about it so much there. But you’re a bit isolated up here and they get jealous so damn’ quickly. Pays to watch that.”
Jimmy saw Gotto flash a quick glance at him, then he lowered his head and stared at his plate again.
“See Momo,” Twigg advised cheerfully. “He’ll fix it. Momo’s a good man. See what he says.”
“He’s not very helpful,” Gotto mumbled. “He doesn’t like me, I’m afraid.”
“Really? Why ever not?” Twigg’s eyebrows shot up as though he couldn’t believe it possible for anyone to dislike anyone, least of all Gotto, and Jimmy realised with a wretched feeling of frustration that his chief aim in life was to avoid trouble.
“I had to pull him up for telling me my job,” Gotto was saying. “That’s all. The foremen and shift bosses aren’t supposed to tell us how to run the place, are they?”
Twigg looked up momentarily. “Well, no,” he agreed. “That’s quite right. Watch that.” He seemed suddenly anxious to drop the matter.
“After all,” Gotto went on dogmatically. “It’s just something you can’t have. You do trust me, of course? If you don’t, you’d better have me back at Ma-Imi.”
Twigg looked panic-stricken as he replied. “Oh, no, old boy. I trust you all right. That’s why I sent you up here. Thought you were just the man for the job. Keep you busy till you go home. You’ve not long now, have you?”
Jimmy watched them with a sick feeling that he was doomed to spend the rest of his stay in Africa in Amama with only Gotto for a companion. With the amiable, too easygoing Twigg as the one person who could alter the arrangement, he could see no likelihood of either himself or Gotto being removed.
After lunch, Twigg – who seemed glad to escape – disappeared in his car to see Romney and Swannack and made no further reference to the mine until he was ready to leave for Ma-Imi.
“Just keep that old ironstone coming down and you’ll be all right,” he said, pressing the starter. “And get along to see Indian Joe and tell him I’ll put the District Commissioner on his trail if he doesn’t keep off the rice.”
“You could do so much more than we can, sir,” Jimmy shouted as Twigg revved the engine. It was beginning to dawn on him that Twigg was throwing all the awful onus for curbing Gotto entirely on to himself.
Twigg waved again. “Oh, I don’t know, old boy,” he bawled as he let in the clutch. “Leave it to you two. Don’t like to make trouble. Wait and see’s my policy.”
Two hours later, Jimmy accompanied Gotto to see Indian Joe. It required an argument that left him tired, an argument far too long for the heat of the late afternoon. Gotto obviously had no desire to worry about rice and he brought to bea
r every excuse he could think of: he was inclined to leave it until he got an official complaint. If Twigg wanted it doing, he should do his own dirty work. And so long as the Africans worked, he couldn’t see any necessity to worry about it anyway.
“Listen, Gotty,” Jimmy said patiently. “Making a success of this job here in Amama is important to you, isn’t it?”
Gotto stared at him. “Yes,” he said grudgingly. “I suppose it is.”
“Well, if you get the shovel boys and the lorry drivers and the mechanics packing in because they’re hungry, that won’t be very successful, will it? After all, Alf Momo’s worried about it and he ought to know.”
“I’m not used to being told what to do by a wog, even when he’s your pet.” Gotto began to stoop, his head sunk low on his shoulders as though he were in a fight. “I’m in charge, not him.”
“Oh, Lord, man–” Jimmy suddenly lost patience, “let’s stop talking about the Africans as though they were a species of monkey or something. And as for being in charge, it’s probably because Twiggy couldn’t spare anyone else – or because you didn’t play for his blasted cricket team or something. Now let’s go and see Indian Joe.”
Joe Soloman’s home was an overcrowded set of rooms at the back of his store, a makeshift bungalow attached to the main flyblown façade that belonged to the shop. On the iron roof, a couple of vultures hopped about, their scaly claws scraping and clattering on the corrugations.
Jimmy and Gotto were shown to the residential quarter of the building by Samuel Assissay who approached them from behind his counter at the back of the dark stuffy store. His glasses shone with his fervour and the rags Jimmy had seen him wearing on the journey from Ma-Imi had been replaced by neat khaki. Indian Joe was obviously looking after him.
“Oh, my people that dwellest in Zion,” he proclaimed in a cranky chant that was made into music by the resonance of his voice. “Be not afraid of the Assyrian, though he smite thee with the rod–”