Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  The one you’ve just seen. The man with two names.’

  ‘The remand prisoner?’ He knew that his pretended puzzlement would sound affected but pretence was too instinctive a reaction for him to avoid it. ‘He had no complaints.’

  ‘Just as well. He could be in serious trouble.’

  ‘What’s he being charged with?’

  ‘Depends what he’s doing in our country.’ Jim looked up at the prison roof, stretched and yawned.

  Patrick unlocked the bakkie. The handle was hot to touch. He stood back to let the heat out. ‘Looking for work, he said.’

  ‘Looking for Whelk, did you say?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe he’s an accomplice of Whelk’s.’

  ‘In what?’

  Jim looked at him. ‘Perhaps you really don’t know.’

  Patrick said nothing. Jim began slowly grinding a stone into the hard earth with his polished boot. A working party of white prisoners was marched out of the main gate and towards the married quarters. They were bronzed, fit men, all young. Those in the front rank marched with unseeing eyes past the policeman and his friend, their faces closed and brutal.

  ‘What d’you think will happen to him?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Dunno. Depends on the British Embassy. He could be granted bail or surety if you were interested in someone involved with Whelk.’

  ‘Involved in what way?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Jim kicked away the stone he had been burying. ‘If you are interested you’d better move fast. He can only be held until tomorrow without being properly charged and if he’s done under the anti-terrorist laws, as he could well be, that’s it. No bail, no remission, nothing.’

  ‘Is this your opinion?’

  ‘Let’s say I speak with authority.’ He smiled again. ‘I think you and me understand each other well enough, Pat. For all our differences.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘I’ll speak to the ambassador.’

  ‘When I say move fast, I mean fast. Headquarters will need a letter guaranteeing his good conduct by early this afternoon. Otherwise by late afternoon the papers will have gone across to the prosecutor and then we can’t do anything.’

  Patrick thought immediately of his lunch with Joanna. Also, that the ambassador would soon be out. ‘I’ll see him as soon as I get back.’

  ‘Good.’ Jim straightened his uniform. ‘No sign of Stanley, Sarah’s boy?’

  ‘No.’ Patrick decided to proceed with their new-found frankness. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Wondering where he is, that’s all.’

  ‘How d’you know he’s not back home in Swahiland?’

  ‘He left there a while ago.’ Jim got into his car but paused before closing the door. ‘How’s the bakkie?’

  ‘Going well.’

  ‘You’re pleased?’

  ‘I’m pleased.’

  ‘Be nice to her.’ He looked away as he spoke, started the engine and accelerated suddenly, leaving a small cloud of dust where Patrick stood.

  12

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Clifford.

  Patrick didn’t believe him. He knew Clifford was to go to lunch with the ambassador. ‘When?’

  ‘As good as. He’s reading through Philip’s paper – with my revisions. He hasn’t got time for anything else now.’

  ‘He’s still in his office?’

  Clifford stood in the corridor, a file under his arm, barring the way. ‘He’s leaving in two minutes. So am I. You can tell me. Make it brief or let it wait till this afternoon.’

  No explanations to Clifford were brief. Besides, Patrick had been forbidden to discuss the L and F man. ‘It’s about the British prisoners. There’s something urgent.’

  Clifford scoffed and made to move off down the corridor. ‘Well, it can’t be that urgent – they’re hardly going to run away, are they? That can easily wait till this afternoon. Anyway, it’s a consular matter. If they’re being tortured report it on the normal channels. You don’t bother ambassadors with that sort of thing.’

  Patrick stood aside as if he were going to follow but when Clifford turned the corner he slipped up the corridor. In the anteroom Jean paused in her typing. ‘He’s very busy. He’s reading his speech for the Progress Association.’

  ‘I have to see him about the British prisoners.’

  ‘You can’t. He’s reading his speech.’

  Sir Wilfrid appeared in the doorway to his office, holding some loose papers in one hand and untidying his long white hair with the other. He was in his shirtsleeves and one of his braces was half undone. ‘Seen my jacket anywhere, Jean?’ He yawned.

  Jean got up to search. Clifford reappeared, glaring at Patrick. Sir Wilfrid thought the jacket might just possibly be in the car.

  ‘Patrick will run down and see,’ said Clifford.

  Patrick tapped his breast pocket as if he had papers in it. ‘I’ve got something we should talk about, sir. News.’

  Sir Wilfrid’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’ve got news? How wonderful. Come in, come in.’ He looked around for Jean, not seeing her because she was behind him. ‘Er – yes, worth trying the car, Clifford. Let me know if it’s not there, won’t you?’

  Once in his office Sir Wilfrid closed the door and picked up the radio. He placed it carefully on the desk and switched it on. There was no sound. He switched it off and on again and twiddled the tuning knob, with no result.

  ‘Must be the battery, damn it,’ he whispered. ‘Is it very important? Right, well, whisper.’ He sat on the edge of the desk while Patrick bent to his ear. At the end of the explanation Sir Wilfrid said aloud, ‘They’ve got them both, then? Whelk and this other chap?’ Patrick whispered again. Sir Wilfrid nodded, then resumed his own whisper. ‘So we still don’t know what’s happened to poor Arthur, although this Rissik friend of yours seems to know all about it?’

  ‘I don’t think he does, no, but I’m sure he knows something and he’s very keen to find out more.’

  ‘Told you the police knew more than they were letting on.’

  ‘They think we do.’

  ‘LASS are behind it all, mark my words. They’ll know the minister’s coming and they could be planning to embarrass us.’

  There was a solemn silence. Mention of embarrassment was like mention of plague in a medieval city. ‘What would LASS want with Whelk?’ asked Patrick in an undertone.

  ‘They’d want to find out our secrets.’

  Patrick wasn’t sure there were any. ‘Does he know any secrets?’

  ‘He must know some, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  Sir Wilfrid stood and began pacing the room, his fists pressed down into his pockets. He talked in his normal voice. ‘On the one hand, if this chap spills the beans in court to get himself a lighter sentence there’ll be frightful embarrassment all round. The Lower Africans will get publicly indignant and will laugh like drains in private and we shall look very foolish indeed. On the other hand, if they really are prepared to release him on our surety to see if he leads them to Whelk – well, doesn’t that suit our book too? It seems to me it does. Either he leads us all to Whelk or, more likely, he doesn’t and is quietly deported in the wake of a successful ministerial visit.’ He stood still and nodded to himself. ‘I must say I dislike being bounced into taking action like this without being able to get a view from London but there’s no other way. We’ll accept your friend Rissik’s offer and I’ll look to you to see that the chap behaves himself once he’s out. You know, lives a quiet life, gives them no cause to embarrass us. You’ll have to draft a letter of guarantee now and bring it to me at this lunch for signing. No, better still, come to the lunch yourself and draft it on the spot in the club library, so that I can amend as necessary. Tell Jean to ring them. They’re bound to be able to squeeze in an extra one.’

  Sir Wilfrid picked up his jacket from the floor behind the armchair as Clifford, redder in the face and still cross, came in to say that it was not in the
car. ‘What? Oh, no, it was here all the time. I’ve just found it. Look, Patrick’s coming to lunch with us. Can you get Jean to ring and tell them?’

  Clifford momentarily forgot himself. ‘But he can’t – he’s not invited. It’s heads of mission and – and important people only.’

  ‘Never mind that, he’s invited now. He’s my guest. I can have guests if I want, can’t I?’

  Patrick was determined not to postpone his lunch with Joanna. It was not until one-thirty. If necessary, he would run away, feign the falling sickness or start a fight; get there he would.

  The Gold Club was the elder and grander of the two that emulated London clubs. It was an architectural copy of the Reform and its membership was drawn mainly from the English-speaking business community. The rival club dated from the turn of the century when it had been founded by Jews who were forbidden the Gold. Inside brass gleamed and woodwork darkly shone. Black servants, called boys, wore white shirts and long baggy white shorts. They polished, cleaned, fetched, carried and served with slow decorum. Outside an armless and legless black beggar sat in a wheelchair at the bottom of the steps. He had a round wrinkled face and a battered brown trilby so large that it rested on his ears. Another trilby was placed where his lap would have been, upturned to collect coins. Someone said he was put there every day. Patrick wondered who collected the money.

  They were ushered into the bar for drinks. The company, all male, was made up of prominent Lower Africans, a few journalists, a visiting German professsor and a dark-jowled Argentinian general. Drinks were served. Patrick asked a plump lawyer where the library was and received in reply a sermon on the liberalising effect of international trade upon political and legal institutions. Because he had entered with the ambassador people assumed it was important to talk to him and it was not until the arrival of the second glass of chilled white wine that he was able to escape.

  He was still thirsty after his drive from the prison and the sudden intake of alcohol did not help his concentration. After two attempts at the letter he got up and walked around the library. Through the sash windows he could see modern Battenburg, concrete, glass-plated, automated and hurried; within were deep leather armchairs facing the shelves, all the major international newspapers and hundreds of well-kept first editions ranging from Stanley’s account of how he found Livingstone to new novels by little-known authors. The only sound to break the silence was the regular breathing of an elderly sleeper who sat facing the drama section. Outside the armless and legless beggar was propped like an unfinished Guy Fawkes in his chair.

  Patrick’s third attempt produced a document stating that the embassy would take responsiblity for Chatsworth. It did not imply that it had any prior knowledge of him, nor did it say that it had not. He did not see how he could improve it further and so made a fair copy since there was no time to take it back and have it typed.

  He was guided to the private dining room by the swelling noise of male voices and the clatter of cutlery and china. The main course was being cleared away. Sir Wilfrid sat in the middle of the top table with the chairman of the chamber of commerce on the one hand and a leading opposition politician on the other. Clifford sat alone at one end of the table, an empty place beside him. He looked as if he were clinging to an overcrowded life raft, wanting to pull himself farther on but sensing that his best interest was to stay where he was and not be noticed.

  He was gratified to have someone to be angry with. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘In the library drafting something for the ambassador.’

  ‘Your coming has thrown out all the placement. They thought I was bringing you. That’s why I’m stuck down here. Then you don’t even turn up.’ He pushed away his plate and suppressed a belch. ‘I wish to God they’d find Whelk’s body somewhere. He’s causing more trouble missing than when he was here. You’ll have to make do with pudding. They won’t bring the main course again just for you.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve got another lunch in forty minutes.’

  ‘Two in one day? What on earth for?’

  ‘One. I haven’t had this one. Excuse me.’ He walked to the top table and hovered respectfully behind Sir Wilfrid, holding the folded letter. It was some time before he could get himself noticed. Sir Wilfrid was talking rapidly and drinking quantities of claret. He sprawled in his chair. When he noticed Patrick he half turned in his seat. ‘What’s that – ransom demand?’

  Patrick showed him the letter. Sir Wilfrid nodded. ‘Ah, right. Right you are. Leave it with me. Wave you over when I’m ready.’ He put the letter in his pocket.

  Patrick stood for a few moments without moving. He resisted the impulse to snatch back the letter and run off with it only by closing his eyes and imagining himself doing so. He had assumed that the letter would be read immediately but Sir Wilfrid was raising his claret again and saying something to the politician beside him.

  Clifford tucked into apple pie and custard. ‘He didn’t want to be bothered by it now, did he? I could’ve told you that.’

  ‘He’s going to read it as soon as he can.’ Patrick spoke with more determination than confidence.

  ‘More likely he’ll forget about it altogether. I should say goodbye to your next lunch if I were you.’

  Clifford allowed the waiter to fill his glass to the brim and gulped half of it. ‘Wish they’d hurry up with the port.’

  Patrick sipped at the wine before him, more for the sake of doing something than because he wanted it. Sir Wilfrid lounged in his chair and talked good-naturedly to the head of the chamber of commerce, swilling the wine in his glass and occasionally emptying it. An attentive waiter saw to it that the glass was never empty for more than a second or two.

  ‘You’re not thinking of getting married, are you?’ asked Clifford. His voice was thick and he leant heavily forward with both elbows on the table.

  Patrick started. ‘Who – me?’

  ‘No need to look as if it’s never occurred to you. It must’ve.’

  ‘Well, yes, but only in principle. Not with anyone in particular.’ He instantly felt guilty about Sandy, almost as much as if he had done something with her.

  ‘Know what my advice would be to anyone who was thinking of getting married?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t.’ Clifford delivered this with emphasis. He held his empty glass by the stem and stared at it.

  Patrick waited for an explanation. ‘You don’t like it?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marriage.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, did I? I never said that. Nothing wrong with Sandy. What’s wrong with Sandy?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with Sandy.’

  ‘What I say, exactly what I say.’ Clifford nodded ponderously. The perspiration showed on his bald patch. ‘It’s marriage that’s wrong. Marriage and kids. Not Sandy. Nothing wrong with her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bloody inspectors don’t help.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cut our allowances, make us diplomatic paupers. Laughing stock of the international community. Not right when you’ve got wife and kids. Can’t hold their heads up in the street.’ He dithered over the choice of white and red port, tried the white, didn’t like it and called back the red. ‘No thought, you see. Same with the minister. London don’t want any briefing papers yet. Don’t want him to come, I reckon. It’s him who’s insisting, or the Prime Minister. They’ll want them in a mad rush in the end. Lot of extra work for all of us, specially you and Philip. Laughing stock again, you see. Work all for nothing. Like today, Philip gets the credit for the paper. I don’t. Same with the minister. Ambassador gets medals. I don’t. Never had a medal. Have you?’ His eyes bulged towards Patrick. ‘No, me neither. Bloody, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody,’ said Patrick. It was already one. He watched bitterly as Sir Wilfrid dawdled over the cheese and chatted to the wine waiter about the white port. Clifford mumbled on for a while before subsiding into gloomy s
ilence. Eventually the head of the chamber of commerce stood and laboriously introduced Sir Wilfrid, listing all his previous postings, referring in passing to his many virtues and to his charming though absent lady wife and emphasising the ambassador’s untiring efforts to improve British-Lower African relations. He ended with a triumphant declaration of the title of Sir Wilfrid’s talk – ‘Gold and Good Intentions’ – and sat down to hearty applause.

  Sir Wilfrid spoke with unhurried ease, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other holding, sometimes waving, the sheaf of papers that comprised his speech. He frequently departed from his text and did not always rejoin it at the right point. No one seemed to notice. There were grunts of approval during pauses and a few ‘hear hears’ during the longer interludes while Sir Wilfrid refreshed himself with more port. Cigar smoke curled overhead. Clifford slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, one hand resting on the table. Patrick watched every minute on Clifford’s watch.

  Owing to his many departures and frequent asides, the nearest that Sir Wilfrid came to sustained argument was a passage which sought to demonstrate that rising economic expectations amongst black miners would lead to rising political expectations, a favourite theme of Philip’s. ‘There is,’ he read, ‘a clear correlation between economic achievement and aspiration on the one hand and political awareness on the other. It is not simply the case that workers in the mines will demand as a matter of course tomorrow what they can only hope for today, but that this very climate of expectation creates’ – he turned the page but digressed again before looking at the next. Smoothing his hair with one hand, he reminded his audience that such general truths sometimes stumbled and broke themselves upon the rocks of contrary particulars; in this case, possibly, upon the expectations of different groups. For instance, the nearest that Lower Africa had come to full-scale civil war in this century had been in the 1920s when white miners had forced the white government to drop its plan to give more rights to black miners. In the end it had taken an artillery bombardment of Battenburg to quell the white uprising. Whatever expectations the blacks had had – if any – must have been altered as a result of this.