The White Father

by Julian Mitchell

  “Oh, quite, Andrew, quite,” Mallory said. “But that makes my point all the stronger, really, doesn’t it? We don’t want to annoy either our government or their delegation by any assumption that either is not going to do everything within its power. The letter should simply be the expression of anxiety of well-informed people who haven’t heard anything about the Ngulu in all the talk about the future of the colony.”

  “Then say that in the letter,” said Osborne. “At the moment these people don’t seem to have any reason for expressing their anxiety at all.”

  “That’s a good point,” said Mallory. “Half a moment.” He wrote busily on a piece of paper.

  During the pause Dennis Moreland came over to Shrieve nd said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to dash now. Could we meet for a drink or something? Lunch, say? I’d very much like to talk to you about all this. We might run a piece about it.”

  “That would be marvellous,” said Shrieve. “I’m afraid I can’t write anything myself, though—I’m too involved, and one’s not supposed to, anyway.”

  “Oh, of course not, of course not,” said Moreland. “Can we fix a time now?”

  They arranged to meet for lunch at the beginning of the following week.

  Mallory then read the new draft of the letter. Everyone agreed that it sounded very good. No one could possibly take exception to it on any grounds whatever.

  Moreland excused himself to Mallory. As he was leaving, Vivian Warburton arrived. He was the editor of Trend, an illustrated weekly which was widely read in political circles. He apologised for being late, sat down, and was passed the amended draft of the letter. He glanced at it, then smoothed his hair, which Shrieve noticed with a sinking heart was silvery grey with wings above the ears, and blew his nose fussily. Only then did he pay attention to what was going on, looking round the room through thick glasses, staring for several moments at each person.

  Mallory read out a list of possible signatories. They were people distinguished in every field—politicians, generals, bishops, writers, painters, composers, diplomats, civil servants, dons, lawyers, surgeons and businessmen.

  When he had finished, he looked up and said, “That’s what I call my basic list. Obviously we don’t want all of them, even if they would all sign. But they’re all people who have signed in the past and can be relied on to sign again.”

  “Alexander Faversham can’t,” said Andrew Osborne. “He died last week.”

  “Alex is dead?” said Mallory in astonishment. “Good heavens, how can I have missed it?”

  “It’s being announced in tomorrow’s papers. There was something about it in his will.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mallory. For a moment he had thought his system must have broken down. “Well, cross him off, then,” he said jovially.

  “Isn’t there an ex-Colonial Secretary we could muster?” said Charles Fraser. “I know we don’t want any active politicians, but there must be one or two in the Lords who count as non-political.”

  “There’s Jamieson,” said Nicholas Sharpe. “Bernard, do you think you could get him to sign?”

  Clavering said, “I’m seeing him tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I’ll have a go at him.”

  “That would be excellent,” said Mallory. Jamieson had been forced to retire from politics through ill-health.

  For ten minutes they continued to discuss names. Eventually twenty names were agreed, of whom it was hoped about fifteen would sign. You could never tell, Mallory explained, whether you were going to get a signature or not. Some people decided not to sign anything for a few months, though they always signed again later. There had been several multiple-signature letters recently, and two or three might say “No” on the grounds that their names had been too frequently borrowed of late. The twenty included an archbishop, the ex-Colonial Secretary, one Conservative, one Labour and one Liberal peer, a Field-Marshal (“It’s always good to have a Field-Marshal,” said Mallory contentedly), two retired and knighted civil servants, two professors of anthropology (Shrieve’s idea), two Nobel Prize winners and, for spice, an abstract sculptor who had recently been a success at the Venice Biennale.

  The recital of names cheered everyone up, as though something had already been achieved. Mallory turned to Clavering, who seemed rather bored by the proceedings.

  “Bernard, how does the Labour Party stand on this?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t expect it’s even thought about it. We’re for independence, of course, and for minorities. But it’s not likely to come to anything in the house. What do you think, Nicholas?”

  “I agree,” said Sharpe. “Besides, the House rises in the middle of next week.”

  “So it does,” said Mallory. “I’d forgotten.”

  “I’ll do anything you want,” said Clavering. “I can’t really see how I can help much, though.”

  “Oh, but you can,” said Mallory. “Jamieson’s signature alone will be most valuable.”

  Clavering shrugged. “Well, I’ll do my best, Patrick. I’m afraid I must slip away now. There seem to be plenty of people here who can advise you how to follow up the letter. I’ll spread the word around, of course, and I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He got up.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” said Mallory. “I’ll have a copy of the letter sent round to you tomorrow morning, so that you can show it to Jamieson.”

  “Good idea. Do you want him to sign it straight away?”

  “Yes, please. The Times likes to see all the signatures, but they don’t, thank God, all have to be on the same piece of paper, or we’d never get anything done at all.”

  “Right. Goodbye,” said Clavering. He shook hands with Shrieve and went out. Everyone shifted slightly on the sofa on which he’d been sitting. Shrieve, Edward noticed, was twisting his fingers and looking out at the evening sky. The clouds had gone, and it was a soft rinsed blue.

  They began to discuss what could be done to keep the Ngulu before the public after the letter had appeared. Osborne and Fraser said that both their papers would be covering the conference fairly fully, and they would make sure that the Ngulu were not forgotten. Nicholas Sharpe wondered if Shrieve had any photographs of the Ngulu that could be offered to the papers. Shrieve said he was sorry, he hadn’t. Sharpe said it didn’t matter, they could probably be got from the Africa Bureau. The discussion looked like ending very quickly, the amount of agreement being almost too great for usefulness, when Vivian Warburton broke in.

  “Why don’t you write for us?” he said to Shrieve. “We could make a really big thing of it, if you like.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shrieve.

  “Oh, I know all about that.” Warburton took off his glasses and polished them furiously. “But for God’s sake, man, think of the future. In less than a year you’re going to be out of a job, aren’t you? What difference will the few remaining months make? When you can probably do more good for your Ngulu by writing about them here and now?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shrieve again. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

  “Look,” said Warburton, putting his glasses back on again and peering blindly at Shrieve, whose own gaze was at its intensest, “you need publicity, don’t you? That’s why we’re all here. You need publicity, big publicity where it counts. My paper is read by half a million of the best educated men and women in the country. Including the whole of Whitehall and every M.P. down to the last Tory backwoodsman and the last Trade Unionist stooge. I know what I’m talking about. If you write me a three thousand word article, you’ll reach all the people that matter.”

  Edward wondered why Warburton wanted to splash the Ngulu for his half-million readers. Trend was modelled distantly on one of the American imitations of Time, but it had one or two long serious features as well as its rather flamboyant pictorial section. It was chiefly read for its political columnist, Cato, whose information was almost as startling as his ferocity. The appearance of an article by Shrieve might ea
sily cause a stir. But whether it would stir the people who mattered was doubtful. Once the House had risen the silly season for the newspapers would begin. Anyone who could find anything at all to write about in late July or August was sure to attract more attention than in May or October. He was likely, however, to be quickly forgotten once there was serious news again.

  Shrieve looked steadily at Warburton and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”

  Warburton threw up his hands in disgust, then began to polish his glasses again. The meeting broke up. Nicholas Sharpe was laughing at something Mallory’s secretary said, while the girl from The Economist, who had contributed little, talked earnestly to Charles Fraser. After he had shaken hands with everyone, Shrieve came over to Edward and said, “Well, it wasn’t too hopeless, was it, after all?”

  “At least the Ngulu will be in all the papers.”

  “If only they could read.”

  Mallory came up with his secretary and said, “Clive here has got the letter and we’ll have it roneoed for you tomorrow morning. Now the question is, how are we going to deliver it? We don’t want to waste any time, do we? The thing is, though I’m only too happy to act as a sort of General Delivery Office, I’m going to be away for a few days, and there’s an awful lot to be cleared up before I go on holiday. So I wonder if you could take on some of the simply beastly work, Hugh?”

  “Of course. What do you mean?”

  “Well, now, let’s look at the list. I’ll write to some of these people personally, of course. In fact, I tell you what—I’ll write a brief letter and have that roneoed, too. I think I know everyone except Jamieson, and Clavering’s seeing to him. I’ll post the letters to those who don’t live in London, unless any of you are seeing any of these people soon?”

  “I’m going to Oxford in a couple of days,” said Shrieve.

  “So am I,” said Edward. “My viva,” he explained.

  “Oh, of course. Those two anthropologists will be at the study-group I’m going to address.”

  “Both? Excellent. That just leaves the London contingent—most of them, in fact. You may think this funny, but I think it’s always best to deliver these things by hand.”

  “I can do that,” said Edward.

  “Splendid. You know, people do like the personal touch, even something as small as hand-delivery. Now, if you come round about—oh, will eleven be all right, Clive?—yes, say eleven, we’ll have everything ready.”

  “O.K.,” said Edward. He thought the fuss extraordinary.

  “Good. All fixed, then? Right. See you tomorrow. I think it all went very well, don’t you, Hugh?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “Good. I think we want to try and get that letter in today week, don’t you? So the African chappies will hardly have had time to turn around before they find a letter about themselves in The Times. We’ll give the signatories till the midday post on Tuesday. I’ll arrange with The Times people about getting it in the day we want. They’re always very helpful.”

  “I can’t begin to thank you,” said Shrieve. “I really am most grateful. I hope something comes of it.”

  “Sure to, sure to,” said Mallory, as though everything he managed always succeeded. “And those journalists will all do their best for you, too.”

  They said goodbye, and the demure young man called Clive smiled at Edward and said, “See you tomorrow.”

  As they left, Edward said to Shrieve, “I see what you mean about Mallory liking to delegate things. What on earth do you suppose that silent young man did all evening?”

  “I expect he was there for decoration,” said Shrieve. “Patrick Mallory’s always been supposed to be a bit that way.”

  “Really? One wouldn’t have thought it.”

  “It’s probably only gossip,” said Shrieve. “I’d forgotten about your viva.”

  “Friday morning. But sometimes they go on for hours. I really ought to be rereading all my notes and everything, but I simply can’t face them. I’m trusting to luck and native wit.”

  “I’m giving my talk after lunch that day. All I get is the lunch. And my fare, of course.”

  “I don’t even get my fare,” said Edward. “Can I come and listen? Unless the examiners still require me, of course.” He grinned, but felt suddenly rather nervous about it.

  “Do,” said Shrieve. “I’ve got to meet Jumbo Maxwell after dinner, damn it. Come and have a quick meal with me, unless you’ve got something on.”

  “Nothing,” said Edward. “I’m playing with some people in Camden Town at half past nine, that’s all. Do you know how to get there?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Shrieve. He hailed a taxi. “But you can get to most places from Piccadilly, which is where I’ve got to be. Do you mind eating in the Brachs Restaurant? It’s just round the corner from where I’m going.”

  “Not at all. I usually go downstairs.”

  “I’m too tired to serve myself,” said Shrieve. He sat back in the taxi. Edward thought he looked exhausted. “Oh, I’d better tell you what happened this afternoon with Filmer.”

  He recounted the interview. When he came to the part about the Privy Council, Edward snorted with laughter.

  “Good God,” he said, “what century are we living in? Do they honestly think the Privy Council will scare the Luagabu? They’ll be talking about gunboats next. Poor little old Great Britain.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being British,” Shrieve said. He sounded sad.

  “Of course not. Nothing at all. But I don’t see how the Privy Council can help the Ngulu, frankly.”

  “Nor do I,” said Shrieve. He groaned briefly as the taxi took a corner rather fast. “Nor do I.”

  *

  The Jupiter was a small pub with cut-glass screens separating the bars and ancient, much-rubbed red plush covering the benches along the walls. The general air of faded splendour altered abruptly as one pushed from the Saloon into the Private Bar, a “snug” which had been “improved” with creaky modern pseudo-leather. The walls were hung with group after group of rugger teams, coats of arms, and snippets of club ties.

  Shrieve found Jumbo there, munching greedily from a plate of potato crisps. Jumbo had been, Shrieve remembered, a fat man of thirty or so, with a very large nose. Now he looked the wrong side of forty-five, his fatness had got the better of him, he was gross. His nose had turned an unhealthy purple, mottled with veins like imitation marble, and there were great bags under his eyes. When he stood up to greet Shrieve he revealed a swollen belly, apparently only held against collapse by a thick leather belt. He looked, Shrieve thought, like a seedy, welshing bookmaker.

  “Hugh, old boy!” he boomed. “God, but it’s good to see you. My dear fellow.” He shook Shrieve’s hand over-vigorously. His palm felt like a rubber pin-cushion.

  “Jumbo,” said Shrieve weakly. “So we meet again.”

  “Looking well, looking well,” said Jumbo, regarding him critically, as a coper might look at a horse.

  “I couldn’t be better. How have you been keeping?”

  Jumbo’s hands dropped to his paunch and rubbed it affectionately. “Been putting on a little bit of weight,” he said. “Sitting behind a desk, that’s what does it.”

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Oh, a pint, a pint. A pint for old times’ sake, eh? Nothing like beer.”

  Shrieve ordered two pints, Jumbo leaning beside him and breathing heavily. His hand strayed towards a saucer of cocktail onions.

  “Hugh, old fellow, it’s been too long.”

  “It has, Jumbo, you’re right.”

  “I’ve said to the others, time and again I’ve said it, ‘Poor old Hugh’, I’ve said, ‘he’s gone native and we’ll never see him again. Poor old Hugh,’ I’ve said, and they’ve all agreed with me. We’ve shaken our heads over you, old boy, really we have. We thought we’d never see you again.”

  They took their pints to a table and sank into the red leatherette so far as it would let them.


  “What are you up to these days, Jumbo? Selling insurance, isn’t it? Or was that long ago?”

  Jumbo looked gravely into his beer and said, “Oh, that was a very long time ago, old boy. No, I gave that up. I didn’t care for that at all, to tell you the truth.”

  “I can’t say I’d have liked it much myself.”

  “No, it’s not a job for men like us at all, men of initiative and drive. It didn’t suit me a bit.”

  “What are you doing now, then?”

  “As a matter of fact, old boy, that’s a bit of a ticklish question. You see, I’d been working behind a desk all those years, and I got fed up. It’s a terrible life behind a desk, you know. You just sit there all day and fiddle with bits of paper. Not the life for me at all. But then, one has to do something, eh?”

  “Oh, yes. One has to do something.”

  “The truth is, my dear old chap,” said Jumbo, “that at this very moment I’m not officially doing anything at all. Officially I’m what’s called unemployed. But I’ve got some irons in the fire. Oh yes, believe me, I’ve got quite a few irons in the fire, and red hot some of them are, too.” He leaned across the table and said confidentially, “I’m starting up a little business of my own. Nothing very big to begin with, mind you, nothing very earth-shaking. But in five years I’ll be riding about in a Rolls-Royce, you see if I won’t.”

  “That sounds very exciting. What sort of business is it, then?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not really free to say,” said Jumbo easily. “It’s all a bit hush-hush for the nonce. Question of registering a patent, you know. My partner’s got all the rights, we’re all set to go. All we need is a little capital and we’re off. Bingo! Five years and we’re millionaires.”

  “Well, the best of luck,” said Shrieve.

  “It’s a lovely little thing we’re on to,” said Jumbo, “really a lovely little thing. So simple. That’s why we have to keep it pretty dark, you see. Don’t want anyone barging in ahead of us. And in five years we’ll be selling out at a profit of several thousand per cent, I can promise you.”