by Peter Rimmer
From the moment he landed in England, the face of every young girl was searched for the face of the lady he had run from soon after leaving school. One wore a striped top, black and white, as she had done and his stomach lurched until she turned her face to look at him.
“What are you staring at?” she snapped.
“My apologies,” mumbled Will.
“So you should.”
Carrying the same two bags he had carried to Africa, Will found the Tube train to Waterloo and began the journey southwest. It would be strange not finding Granda at the station to run him back to Langton Manor. The mood of false hope that had built up on the boat had evaporated. There would be one last pilgrimage to Dancing Ledge and he would leave it at that.
The train clickety-clacked through the suburbs of London and into the country. Will found the countryside so green after the African bush. He had telegraphed the family his time of arrival, not willing to phone his mother after so many years. Better they meet face-to-face and hopefully save the awkwardness; when it came to letter writing Will Langton was one of the worst.
Randolph, his oldest, dependable brother, met him at the station with the family car but did not recognise the bronzed, big-shouldered, well-thighed man in shorts who stepped off the train.
“The violet eyes yes but the rest of you doesn’t make sense. Didn’t they call you the runt at Stanmore?”
“How are you all, Randolph? It’s been a long time.”
“Fine. Anna’s fine… Oh, Jo’s down for the weekend which is rare for our sister. Considers we live off the sweat of our labourers and stole the land from their forefathers. Never stops talking politics. How is Hilary?”
“Working himself into an early grave, literally.”
“Is it worth it?”
“For Hilary or the Barotse?”
“Both.”
“If you ask my personal opinion I think they are both doing each other more harm than good. Dad and Mother?”
“Dad still has nightmares about the bombing but otherwise they are well. Mother keeps pestering Anna to have a baby but however hard we try it doesn’t work. The doctors say it probably won’t but don’t tell Mother. Twenty grandchildren would not be enough for her. Jo’s going to be a spinster all her life, never has a boyfriend. Byron plays a wide field, so it’s up to you, younger brother… Put those bags in the boot and I’ll show you what we’ve been doing on the farm. One thing, don’t mention colonialism to Josephine or she will blast you out of the house. Anything that smacks of superiority is anathema to our sister. It’s been a good summer so far for the crops. You going to stay in England?”
“No, Randolph, I’m not. If I did, they’d probably want me in the army. You remember, I ducked out of national service.”
“I was the only one to be caught.”
“I’ve some ideas for photographic safaris. Want to talk to the travel agents. Brought over a crate of ivory to sell. Better to shoot the animals with cameras. You know, some of the clients don’t bother to take the tusks back. Just a photograph with a hero sitting on the dead elephant is enough. Four of those elephants we had to shoot ourselves to protect the customer. There are two ways an elephant flaps his ears. One is to cool his blood down in the heat and another, very destructive way is when he’s going to charge. Only then do I use the Sako .458 Swedish rifle. One of the best.”
“I’ll take your word for it… Oh, just be warned. Jo brought a man down with her this time.”
“That should please Mother.”
“Not really. He’s black. From your part of the world, actually. Paul Mwansa. Comes from Lusaka.”
“What’s he doing in England?”
“Demanding his country back.”
Josephine Langton had not improved her looks with age or make-up and her clothes would have been better off left on the sheep. Her redeeming feature, the violet eyes, with the birthmark below, were her only good feature. They were fixed accusingly on Will.
“This is my friend, Paul Mwansa,” she said, introducing him to her brother.
Will put out his hand. “Randolph said you’re from Lusaka. I speak a little Lozi but no Bemba, I’m afraid.”
“Paul thinks the white man should get out of Africa.”
“If you want my opinion, which for what it’s worth agrees with Hilary’s, Africa would have been a better place without the white man in the first place.”
“So you agree with decolonisation with full compensation?” said Paul Mwansa.
“I don’t think you will be able to compensate us for roads, railways, bridges, the Kariba Dam and a nucleus First World infrastructure. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have built it on your own, with or without your own money… Will you excuse me a moment while I go and find my mother and father? I haven’t seen them for four years. If you want to talk colonial politics, talk to my sister. She’s much better qualified. And Jo, I want to hear all about the labour movement, what you have achieved and what you hope to achieve.”
“I’m a communist now.”
“From what I read, which is quite a lot in the bush, there is no difference between social democracy and communism. Maybe you can tell me but not until I have seen our parents.”
Randolph took up the conversation in the silence. “Mother’s in the kitchen garden at the back or she would have heard the car. Dad’s looking at a sick cow. He’s been there most of the morning.”
Mother and son looked at each other for a long time, smiling, and then they embraced.
“Your father’s down at the cowshed.”
“How’s the sick cow?”
“Nothing wrong with the cows. We had politics for supper and breakfast. Father took sanctuary in the cowshed. I think she brought him down specially to meet you and show you what a naughty boy you are living in Africa instead of working for the cause. It’s all Uncle Cliff’s fault, but what can you do? If only she would find a nice young man and settle down. She never listens to me. Your father has given up… We’ve roast lamb, mint sauce, new potatoes and peas for supper. Your favourite. Just hope Jo lets us eat the food before it all goes cold. Everything’s changed since the war. Come on down to the cowshed and you can tell me and Father what you have been doing for four years. You children never could write letters, even from boarding school where they made you write home once a week.”
That evening before the sun was down behind the big oak, the table was laid outside on the terrace. Red Langton brought forth the leg of lamb on a silver platter that had been in the family for six generations. The smell was delicious. Along the length of the family table were three open bottles of red wine and crystal glasses sparkling in the last of the sun.
As if by a miracle before supper, Will had kept the conversation from being directed back to politics while the men drank a glass of beer and the women a glass of sherry on the lawn under the oak. By the time the lamb had been carried by Red and the wine poured by Randolph, Josephine was no longer going to be gainsaid and came in straight to the point at Will.
“Don’t you think it is totally immoral for one people to rule another as master and servant?”
“Well, yes and no, sis.”
“Don’t evade the question. Nothing could be more simple.”
“There is always someone ruling someone. Surely it’s better to have a good ruler rather than a bad one?”
“Would you have liked to be ruled by the Germans?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then how do you think my friend here likes being ruled by the British and called boy. He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“We didn’t want to be ruled by the Germans because the Nazis were fascists, bad people, but we’ve mostly been ruled by the Germans for over a thousand years. We Anglo-Saxons are from the German tribes who conquered this island. You think we’d better all go back to Saxony and give the island back to the Celts?”
“Colonialism is an affront to the human race.”
“Was the Greek Empire, the Roman? Did we
islanders not benefit from the Roman invasion? Before the Roman’s arrived we didn’t even know how to take a hot bath, let alone build a road and travel in comfort… The tribes that make up the human race have roamed over its surface for tens of thousands of years, fighting, merging, conquering, ruling, being ruled. No one can say where any of us come from. The question we British must ask ourselves is do we rule well, fairly, without corruption? If we do, we are doing our job and should continue to do so. You, Mr Mwansa, should remember why Queen Victoria was asked by your people to give them protection and whether the so-called evil of colonialism will not be supplanted by a real evil of fear, corruption and want. Be careful, maybe, that the freedom you seek is not brought to you by the lies of a few people seeking power for themselves. Maybe, just maybe, communism, your world of socialism, will become a name for the worst form of corrupt government in the history of man… Now, may I eat my roast lamb before it goes cold?”
“You talk utter rubbish,” said Josephine.
“Probably, I’m not even twenty-two. There are far wiser brains than mine, or any of ours for that matter, and they haven’t worked out the answer. Neither, I fear, will we.”
“How can some people be so rich and the masses so poor?” she snapped.
“After the dinner, sis, after my dinner. I came a long way to eat supper with my family and I would like us to enjoy ourselves, not argue with each other.”
The dogs followed Will out of the dell. The new day had come with the rising sun and the call of the birds. The house behind them was asleep as they walked between the hedgerows up to the Downs that swept to the cliffs. Sheep grazed without taking notice. The blue sea came towards them from the folds in the smooth green hills. Will could hear the waves breaking on the rocks with the call of the gulls. His boyhood returned to him as he climbed down to Dancing Ledge and the pool with the dead-eye cave watching behind. Somehow, irrationally, he had thought she would be there by the pool to greet him. The slate-grey rocks were bare. For a brief, short, silent moment he felt her spirit and then it was gone with a bark of a dog.
Checking carefully for summer tourists, he stripped to his underpants and jumped in the pool that had been carved out of the rocks during the war. The balm of time and water washed over him and when he climbed out of the water to let the new sun warm his icy body, the ghost of sadness shifted from his mind.
By the time he went home, hungry for his breakfast, Josephine and the man from Africa had gone off on their way back to London. For a week he enjoyed his family and the only home he had known. Then he too returned to the capital to face the rest of his life.
“A crate of ivory,” said Byron, sitting behind the desk in his office. “That must be quite a lot of ivory.”
“Enough to give me a small nest egg,” said Will watching his brother. “Do I have to pay tax?”
“Maybe not. You live in England. Did you declare the value of the tusks when you left them with customs?”
“There are some skins, too. No. I said I had no idea. They want a bill of sale but when I said the ivory came from my own hunting, they didn’t take much interest.”
“First, we will sell the crate sight unseen to one of my companies who will give you a bill of sale. Then we will market the tusks and skins individually.”
“Half of the real amount goes to Hannes. How do I send it out of England?”
“That too I can arrange.”
“And where do I put the proceeds, Byron?”
“With me of course. You don’t think I’m going to all this trouble for nothing?”
“That I would never have thought.”
“Life has some risks, younger Brother. You can either be conservative and go through the formal channels and end up giving most of your money to the government, or you can take a risk with me. You may or may not make a lot of money. Risk capital is exactly that. I deal in risk capital. If every venture we ever thought of made money we would all be rich.”
“I’m too young to be conservative.”
“Good. Now piss off while I do some work and come back at six o’clock. Tonight is a big night. We will go to the show together and then have some supper. You can stay at the flat. You must have grown six inches since you left England.”
“Seven.”
“I don’t think I could beat you up now if I tried… Oh, do you have suit and tie?”
“Nice flat, Byron.”
“That’s your couch over there… You want a drink?”
“Whisky… I liked the guy downstairs with the top hat. You mind if I have a bath?”
“Have what you like. You staying in England?”
“No. I’ve talked to three travel agents today and they like the concept of my photographic safari and the price. Instead of taking one customer out to slaughter the animals we take six out with cameras. Guns to protect them. Tell them what they are seeing. That sort of thing. Volume rather than one high-priced customer who is often a pain in the neck.”
“People with cameras can be just as much a pain in the neck. Tourism. Going to be the big thing with socialism giving everyone shorter hours. Leisure industries are the growth stock of the future.”
“Don’t you have a date tonight if it’s a big occasion?”
“Not this one.”
“The girl in your office. Wow, you dating her?”
“Do you screw the wives of your customers?”
“No. But probably not for the same reason. None of them have ever looked like that redhead in your office.” They both laughed.
“We’re going to the show and then we are going out to supper at the Café Royal.”
“Byron… Not the redhead?”
“You’ll see.”
“You asked about a suit and tie. I went and bought one this afternoon. The first suit I ever owned. Nearest we get to dressing up in Barotseland is wearing a long pair of trousers… What show are we going to see? One of the musicals, I hope? The billboards are all over for Irma La Douce.”
The taxi dropped them outside the club at eight o’clock and Max met them at the door. By eight-thirty the invited guests were seated at the tables and the waiters were serving French champagne. The club was closed to the public for the Monday night. The members of the press looked bored. A model agency had supplied the waitresses. The band played a medley of music that no one had heard before. A comedian told some jokes but no one laughed.
Max shrugged his shoulders. It was going to be one of those evenings but the price had been right. If young merchant bankers wished to throw away good money, it was none of his business.
Byron sat back and watched them all. The recording manager of EMI looked the most bored of them all. Magazine editors, all of them women, drank their champagne and ate the snacks. The music critic for Melody Maker yawned without putting a hand in front of his face. The comedian went off and nobody clapped. Then all the lights went out. The club was pitch-black for fifteen seconds. The spotlight hit Shelley Lane seated on a high stool, her head bowed down, the microphone hanging by her side. Slowly, she looked up and smiled. The band played softly, the new band, every one of them under long-term contract to Byron Langton. The music swelled and Shelley began to sing, every note as pure as crystal. The power of her voice transcended the band with the opening line of ‘If You Want To Be Mine’. The slit dress fell open as one long leg searched for the floor.
Byron watched the audience as the footlights grew with the swell of the music. Shelley slid effortlessly from the verse to the chorus and powered out the line which gave the song its title: ‘Try a little harder if you want to be mine’. For twenty minutes she sang a medley of eight of her songs, strutting the small stage using every ounce of her sex appeal, ignoring the constant flash of the cameras.
Taking up her first number in a different key she sang the songs again. Without a break, she sang for an hour before sitting back on the high stool and lowering her head.
In the silence, Byron went up onto the small stage and took her hand. T
hey smiled at each other.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Byron, “I want to introduce you to Miss Shelley Lane. Thank you for coming tonight.”
He was the first to clap her and then they clapped and the stamping of feet gave way to a standing ovation.
Shelley held up her arms.
“If someone will give me a glass of champagne, I’ll sing you another song.”
Byron gave her the microphone and a hand from the audience pushed up a glass of wine which she drank in one gulp. Then she sang them ‘This One Is For You’ while Byron went back to his table.
“Who the hell is she?” said Will.
“I told you, Shelley Lane. She’s the lady we dine with tonight.”
Shelley’s entrance to the Café Royal was a sensation. The dress she was wearing was made of synthetic silk and would have easily folded up and fitted into a man’s trouser pocket. The hem finished halfway up her thighs, the slits under her armpits reached the waist-belt, showing she wore no bra. Walking with the power of youth and the knowledge of her success, her long, panther-like strides were followed by every male in the room.
The corner table was immaculately laid for three and in the centre of the middle place setting rested a single orchid, white, flecked with delicate red spots; the small throat was a deep red. The last time Will’s legs felt like this was the first time he had been charged by an elephant.
They had left Max’s club while the confusion was in full flood with every newspaper and magazine looking for an interview. Shelley, having thrown the flimsy dress over her perfect body in her dressing room, had slipped out the back door into the alley where Byron had been waiting with a taxi. The street light showed her perfectly.
“This is my brother, Will. Climb in.”
“Hello, William,” she said putting out her hand. Will was not sure whether to kiss the proffered hand. Awkwardly, he gave it a shake.