The White Father

by Julian Mitchell

  A girl came up to him, smiling brightly. “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Please,” said Shrieve. “I’m looking for Professor Adams. My name is Shrieve.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, Mr Shrieve,” said the girl. “Professor Rich was asking after you only five minutes ago.”

  “Rich? I thought it was Professor Adams I was——”

  “Professor Adams is chairman of the group you’re going to address,” said the girl, still smiling brightly. “Professor Rich was anxious to speak to you, that was all.”

  She led him to a desk in a corner of the room, rummaged in a drawer and produced a badge for his lapel which stated: SHRIEVE.

  “Would you mind wearing this?” she said. “There are so many people here, and no one knows who anyone else is.”

  Shrieve pinned the badge on self-consciously. One or two people were looking at him. The Congress had been going on for a week, and he was a new face. The looks he was getting were hungry, as though the people were ravenous for his information, whatever it might be.

  The girl, still smiling, asked him to follow her, and led him down a corridor and up some stairs. She knocked at a door, opened it and said, “Mr Shrieve, Professor”, then ushered him into the room.

  Professor Adams was a tall man with a slight stoop who had written several eminent books on West African tribes. Shrieve had felt honoured and surprised to be invited by him to speak.

  “How do you do, Mr Shrieve,” said Adams. “It really is most kind of you to have come.”

  “I can’t think how you ever heard of me,” said Shrieve.

  “Oh, it’s not so hard,” said Adams, giving what must have been a long-studied lecturer’s twinkle. “I asked the Colonial Office who was about, and they gave me your name. I’ve always been particularly interested in the Ngulu.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” said Shrieve. “They’re in rather a spot of trouble at the moment, I’m afraid.” He explained about the letter to The Times and the situation which had provoked it, while Adams poured sherry.

  “Oh dear,” he said, when Shrieve had finished, “I do so hate putting my name to things. And there’s a huge statement of principle which I don’t understand at all going round the Congress at this very moment, too. Let me see it, will you?”

  Shrieve handed him the letter. Adams read it through, grunted, and said, “Well, if you think it’ll do any good.” He signed it illegibly. “It can’t do any harm, I suppose. It seems pretty tame.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Shrieve, retrieving the letter.

  “Not at all. I only wish I knew more about your people. I’ve always meant to get down that way, but somehow I always get stuck on the west coast. Your people are rather special, of course, which is why I’m so particularly pleased you could come. Will your paper take long?”

  “I’m afraid not. You asked for something on the Ngulu attitude to death, and they do take death very calmly. I’d be delighted to talk about other things, too, if you’d like it.”

  “Splendid,” said Adams, “really splendid. You see, we’ve been concentrating on very primitive tribes in our study-group, and we’ve had some most interesting papers. What we like to do is to have the paper, then questions—which you can use for answers up to ten or fifteen minutes long, if you wish. The paper is just a starting point for discussion.”

  “I hope I’ll be able to be useful,” said Shrieve. “I’m not a professional anthropologist, you know. I’ve read a lot, of course, but I’m not at all up in the latest stuff, I’m afraid.”

  Adams looked at him with mild surprise. “I expect you have a lot to do, Mr Shrieve. We academics tend to imagine that everyone who lives in the bush shares our specialised interests.”

  He described previous papers at the study-group and the type of discussion Shrieve could expect. As they were about to go down to lunch, he hesitated for a moment, then took Shrieve’s arm and said, “I don’t know how you feel about the politics of the new Africa, Mr Shrieve. But I’d better warn you that the Congress is sponsored by a Foundation that crusades”—he seemed to like the word—“positively crusades against Communism. There are one or two people here who are more interested in keeping the Russians out of Africa than in understanding what’s going on inside it. So be warned.” He put a finger to his lips. “Quite a number of them are ex-Communists themselves, between you and me.”

  Shrieve, who knew nothing of the politics of international conferences on learned matters, shrugged and stayed silent. Come Communism, come capitalism, the Ngulu weren’t going to change.

  They went to lunch in the College Hall. Shrieve was placed between Adams and the Professor Rich who wanted to speak to him. He was an American from Stanford who knew, Shrieve quickly discovered, an enormous amount about the Luagabu. Opposite was Miss Younger, the well-known authority on Brunei. Shrieve felt awed to be surrounded by so many people whose names he knew and whose books he had, or should have, read. To his astonishment he found they were all interested in him, and he was soon explaining, as was becoming automatic for him on making a new acquaintance, why he was in England. The plight of the Ngulu was actively debated. The other professor whose signature Shrieve hoped for was sitting only a few places down and signed the letter at the table, saying, “We could get the whole Congress to sign, if you like.” The meal wasn’t very good, but it passed quickly and agreeably.

  Afterwards, in the Common Room, Shrieve was closely questioned by Rich and a German called Schwerdt. Then Adams took him off to give his paper. The lecture-room held forty or more people, and Shrieve saw Edward sitting at the back with a girl. He smiled at him, remembering he was going to be there but too flustered to recall why. Adams made a brief announcement, there was a polite ripple of applause, and then Shrieve found himself reading what had seemed, when he wrote it, rather a good and scholarly little paper, but which now sounded amateurish and inadequate. His delivery got worse as the paper went on, but he was listened to with attention, and as soon as he’d finished he was bombarded with questions on every aspect of Ngulu life. He answered these with more confidence, becoming, after half an hour, positively fluent.

  Then a man of about fifty, with a mournful, hangdog look, began asking a long question which was really more of a statement. Adams leaned over and whispered, “Politics coming up.”

  The man spoke for two or three minutes, making listless gestures with one hand, smoothing a lock of dark hair with the other. He gave a general picture of the political situation in Shrieve’s colony which Shrieve considered quite accurate, but lacking in charity towards both the British and the politicians who would succeed them. Finally came the question: did Mr Shrieve agree with what he had said?

  “I’m only a District Officer,” Shrieve said, “looking after a backward tribe in the bush. What goes on in the capital doesn’t concern the Ngulu much—except where it affects their security, of course. What you say about the colony sounds factually correct to me, but I wouldn’t agree with your conclusions or judgements. The British haven’t neglected political education, as you seem to suggest. I think it’s fair to say that we haven’t made a big enough effort to spread education generally, but where we have built and staffed schools the standard is quite high. I don’t really understand what you mean by political education, to be honest. In the high schools they’re taught the rudiments of the British constitution and so on. What did you have in mind, exactly?”

  “I think,” said a voice, “that Mr Tufnell is worried about the spread of Communism among the Ngulu.”

  There were groans and laughter.

  “I am concerned,” said Tufnell in his mournful voice, “with what’s going to happen after independence, Mr Shrieve. From the public statements of Bloaku, who’ll be prime minister as I understand it, the main political party will be committed to the doctrines of Mao Tse Tung.”

  “I’m not up in the politics of the capital,” said Shrieve. “As I’m sure you can see, the public statements of Bloaku ar
e completely irrelevant to the Ngulu for the most part. If there’s going to be a battle for the minds of the new nations, it won’t extend to them. Our doctrinal concepts are meaningless to them. You could say, I suppose, that their present life is one of protected and artificial primitive communism—they’re voluntarily collectivised, as it were, and they always have been. But any advanced ideas are infinitely far beyond them.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Tufnell. “But to get back to what I said. Bloaku has talked of accepting aid from Czechoslovakia. Russian technicians and Chinese so-called advisers will be in the country the day after independence.”

  “Perhaps. But so will British ones. We aren’t just walking out, you know, leaving everything behind in chaos. Besides, I don’t think you quite understand how the politics of independence work. Bloaku and a hundred others have been screaming hate and horror against the British for several years now, but what they say in public has awfully little to do with how they’ll actually behave once they’re in power. They’ll use the cold war for their own purposes, of course: anyone who’s prepared to give them anything at all will be rapturously welcomed. But you shouldn’t confuse that welcome with subservience.”

  “It seems to me,” said Tufnell, in a tone of resigned triumph, “that you’re a little soft on these people, Mr Shrieve. You talk as though they don’t mean anything they say. But how can you be sure? I’d be inclined to think that if they say they’re going to be semi-Communist they mean it. Do you honestly welcome the emergence of a semi-Communist—and inevitably a fully Communist—régime?”

  The rest of the study-group showed its impatience by engaging in general conversation.

  “I can only say,” said Shrieve, “that I take a different view about how much attention should be paid to the theoretical left-wingery of the future leaders of the country.”

  “I think,” said Adams, “that this is not, perhaps, the time or place for a discussion of post-anti-neo-Stalinism or whatever it is among the leadership of the underdeveloped countries, Mr Tufnell.”

  There was a sigh of relief.

  “Mr Shrieve,” Adams went on, “has come here to talk to us about the Ngulu. Perhaps he will be willing to discuss the politicial situation of the colony as a whole after the meeting.”

  Tufnell looked angry. He pushed his lock of hair back and muttered gloomily to himself as he sat down.

  “Now,” said Adams, “are there any more questions about the Ngulu? If not, I have one myself. I wonder if Mr Shrieve would tell us something about the—the unenforced collectivisation he mentioned.”

  Shrieve described the Ngulu system of communal life, their method of tilling the soil, their attitude towards cattle. His explanation provoked several comparisons with other tribes, and a vigorous discussion followed. He felt somewhat out of it, not being nearly so well informed as his audience, so he sat back and listened. There were, he discovered, interesting similarities between the Ngulu and some Patagonians.

  Edward, listening at the back beside Jackie, found it all fascinating. He wished that Belinda Hayes could have been there to have her enthusiasm for anthropology rekindled.

  Jackie was day-dreaming. She had come out of her viva walking on tip-toe, flushed and excited, full of hope. The examiners had been terribly nice, she said, except for one who had asked her about Disraeli. Now she was gazing blankly out of the window, paying no attention whatever. She had promised to go to the party Edward was playing at that evening. It was being given by one of their Oxford friends to celebrate, he said, his retirement from life; he was about to enter his father’s business.

  The meeting began to break up. There was a round of applause, then Shrieve and Adams stood up while people drifted towards the door. Others went up the lecture-room to talk to Shrieve. Tufnell hung back from this group, staring morosely about him, smoking.

  “Is it all over?” said Jackie.

  “As if you’d even noticed it had begun,” said Edward. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the great man himself.”

  “I was listening. It was only when that man started talking about Russian technicians that I wandered off.”

  “Shh,” said Edward, “he’s right in front of us.”

  Adams fretted quietly behind Shrieve who was being thanked and having his hand shaken. When most of the people had gone, Edward moved up to Shrieve and said, “That was really terribly interesting.”

  “Oh, hello,” said Shrieve. He seemed tired. “Was it all right, do you think? Did I stammer a lot?”

  “Not at all,” said Edward loyally. Shrieve had in fact stammered a bit during his paper. “I’d like you to meet Jackie Harmer. We’ve both been being grilled.”

  “How do you do?” said Shrieve, then pulled himself together and smiled. “How did it go?”

  “A formal second, I’m afraid.” For a moment Edward felt the despondency of the morning. Then he said, “But Jackie’s probably got a first.”

  “Congratulations.” Shrieve thought she was pretty. She was wearing a nuclear disarmament badge, he noticed. He wondered what he should say to Edward to comfort him. He knew that Edward had hoped more than he’d admitted for a first. He was about to say something painfully conventional when Adams plucked at his arm and said, “Time for tea. I expect you need it after all that. A most lively session. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are.”

  Shrieve introduced Edward, saying that he was his assistant in the campaign to save the Ngulu.

  Adams raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t realised there was a real campaign,” he said.

  “I don’t do anything, actually,” said Edward, “except deliver messages. I’m just there in case something ever does need doing.”

  “I find I need the enthusiasm of youth,” said Shrieve, “at my age. I get depressed sometimes, and he cheers me up.”

  “Really?” said Jackie. “You amaze me.”

  “You amaze me a bit, too,” said Edward.

  “Well, come and have tea, all of you,” said Adams. He was trying to avoid Tufnell who was still waiting to force Shrieve to admit that every country in Africa was going to join the Communist bloc at the earliest opportunity.

  They went along to the Common Room, Tufnell trailing behind. Though he looked so depressed, he certainly had determination, as Adams knew all too well. At tea he was likely to be supported by others whose interests weren’t anthropological at all. It was a great nuisance that the Foundation had made the subject of the Congress so wide: if only they’d stuck to scholarship none of the unpleasantness which occasionally arose between delegates need have happened. There was really very little in common between the true researcher and the “political expert” who insisted on putting everything into what he was pleased to call “perspective”. Perspective depended on where you were standing, and “political experts” always seemed to stand with one foot on either side of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. Adams felt very strongly that the cold war had no business in Africa, and if, as he had to admit, it did show its frozen face there from time to time, that had nothing to do with anthropology. Years among West African tribes had cured him of any interest whatever in world affairs.

  They sat down round a low table. Arm-chairs and sofas were as deep as was proper for an academic institution. The tea was served from silver pots, and there were cucumber sandwiches.

  Tufnell had managed to insert himself between Shrieve and Edward, and as soon as they all had their tea he said, “I hope you don’t mind me taking up the point I was making about the infiltration of Marxism-Leninism into Africa. I know it annoys Professor Adams, but it is very important.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Shrieve mildly, “but I’m afraid I don’t know very much about it.”

  “But you’d admit there was infiltration?”

  “I don’t think I know quite what you mean. If you mean there are secret meetings of Communists behind closed doors in the capital, I dare say you’re right. But the Communist party in the colony is almost entirely composed of Europea
ns, you know, and it’s very weak.”

  “But that’s merely a front, of course. That’s a standard piece of tactics. A weak party in the open, while the infiltration takes place secretly in the major political organisations.”

  “You must be better informed than I,” said Shrieve. “I’ve never heard of anything of the sort.”

  “Oh come,” said Tufnell. “During the emergency two years ago there were endless reports of exactly that.”

  “The official inquiry, on the other hand, found them grossly exaggerated.”

  “But for heaven’s sake,” said Tufnell impatiently, “everyone knows that by the time the committee got to work they had all gone underground. Six weeks after the report was published they were all back again.”

  Edward nudged Jackie, and they both sniggered. People like Tufnell considered their generation incurably “soft” on Communism. The C.N.D., it had even been intemperately suggested, was nothing more than a front organisation for a Russian-inspired effort to undermine the defence of the West. Edward, who wasn’t a member of C.N.D., which he regarded as a hopelessly idealistic and impractical organisation, felt as strongly as Jackie, who marched passionately to and from Aldermaston, that peace in their time was not likely to come through the efforts of hard-faced men doing well out of the cold war. The hard-faced men were all over the place, in the government, in the newspapers, on radio and television, thumping out their warnings that nothing the Russians said was ever to be taken at its face value. Some of them, as Adams had suggested to Shrieve, had been Communist party members before the war, and their faces got harder than ever when they were reminded of it. They managed to imply that it was somehow all right: it had been the natural thing for young men of conscience in the thirties to join. Dismayed and disarrayed by political events and clear evidence that the Garden of Eden was unlikely to have been a collective farm, they now felt, and said, that they knew better than anyone else the dangers of the Communist menace. It enraged them to find that people like Edward and Jackie refused to accept that anyone who had been so wrong once was likely to be right now. An eminent Kremlinologist, whose analyses of every minor change in iron curtain governments were on the front page of one of the more serious papers, was known irreverently to Edward’s circle as Lord Haw-Haw. There was a spirit of satire abroad in England which made the hard-faced men profanely cross.