Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  Rachel shook her head. ‘More balls. You’re making it impossible by keeping her in her place. Don’t you see how the system works? Perhaps you can’t when you’re at the top. If you’d seen it from the underneath and inside and suffered in it like Chatsworth you might understand in the way he does.’

  ‘Like Chatsworth?’

  ‘Yes, he’s seen it from the real inside, from in prison. That’s where you really learn about Lower Africa, he was saying.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘What is his first name, by the way? He just introduced himself as Chatsworth.’

  Patrick sat. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘But he’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but no one ever uses his other name.’

  ‘He probably got used to that in prison. I admire people who are prepared to suffer for their beliefs like that, don’t you?’

  ‘Well – yes. I’m not quite sure what his beliefs are, though.’

  She smiled. ‘Shame on you, Patrick. You always were lazy, weren’t you?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes, and now you’re living the life of Riley you don’t take any interest in the other ninety-eight per cent.’

  Lunch was announced. Rachel stubbed out her cigarette, tipping the ash-tray so that some of the ash went on to the carpet. ‘Thank God for that. I’m famished.’

  Chatsworth threw himself with relish into the role of host. He was cheerful, energetic and attentive. He poured the wine with a flourish of the wrist that meant he poured it from over the back of his hand whilst standing to attention and facing the top of the table. He insisted that Rachel should try it first.

  ‘I never drink Lower African wine. I always refuse on principle.’

  ‘Quite right, quite right. But this stuff is different. Grapes crushed by the feet of Deuteronomy’s relatives. Without this there would be nothing for those feet to do. Isn’t that right, Deuteronomy?’

  Deuteronomy’s head appeared in the serving hatch. ‘Massa?’

  Chatsworth bent his head to Rachel’s. ‘There, you see, listening to every word. He’s watching to see if you like it, poor fellow. Be very hurt if you turn it down. It’s the same as turning him down.’

  Rachel sipped her wine, turned towards the hatch and told Deuteronomy it was good.

  Deuteronomy grinned and nodded. ‘Ma’a’am,’ he said, dragging out the word as he did when calling Patrick ‘massa’. He continued to grin and nod until Chatsworth waved him away.

  ‘Did you learn to pour in that extraordinary way in the navy?’ asked Rachel. ‘Something to do with the roll of the ship?’

  ‘No, no. From a barman in Belfast.’

  ‘The navy?’ asked Patrick.

  Chatsworth, unabashed, shook his head. ‘No, not there. Definitely not there.’

  ‘When were you in the navy?’ continued Patrick, ruthlessly.

  ‘Learnt it from a chap called Long John, so called because he had a parrot. One day someone threw a bottle – a full bottle – of Guinness at it and knocked it off his shoulder. Straight off the perch and on to the floor. Stone dead. Long John killed the bloke with a crate of Mackeson. Hell of a mess. He got life for it but he’s probably out now. They get fifty per cent remission in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Were you in prison there as well?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘No, I was helping alcoholics. Lot of work in Belfast.’

  There was scrabbling, grunting and wheezing from behind. Deuteronomy was coming through the serving hatch. He had one leg and one arm through and was holding a plate of roast lamb precariously before him. His small body was bent so much that his head was twisted beneath his extended arm. His teeth were bared in a determined grin.

  Patrick got up and took the plate. ‘Thank you, Deuteronomy. You go back the way you came and we’ll bring the next plate another way.’

  Deuteronomy was too constricted to speak. Still grunting, he began slowly to recede through the hatch. From behind him Sarah said something shrill and angry in Zulu. Patrick feared that Chatsworth would guffaw and was going to tell him not to but there was no need. Chatsworth leant towards Rachel, his hand on her arm, and said quietly, ‘Poor chap’s keen to impress because you’re here. Probably still thinks you might throw his relatives out of work by not drinking.’

  Patrick was summoned by the telephone before he could witness more of Chatsworth’s new image. It was Joanna. Jim had appeared at her bungalow the night before, drunk and maudlin. ‘He kept talking about how when you’ve gone he and I will get back together again. You’re not going, are you?’

  He remembered how he had felt on the day of his arrival that he would not be long in Battenburg. He could recall the very part of the motorway that he and Clifford were at. ‘Not for at least two years, they told me.’

  ‘He seems to think you’re going soon.’

  ‘Maybe he knows something I don’t. But I can’t think what.’

  She sounded flat and unhappy. Her voice, normally quick and provocative, was slow and distant. He told her about the minister’s arrival and about Rachel, then that he had discovered from Miss Teale that he was permitted to bring a guest to the garden party at the residence the following afternoon. ‘If you could come we could go off and have dinner afterwards.’ She agreed with more liveliness but still without great enthusiasm. ‘You sound hesitant.’

  ‘I was thinking about what to wear. How smart is it?’

  Patrick had never been to a garden party. ‘Quite smart, I think.’

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Hats?’

  ‘Possibly not.’

  ‘You haven’t got the faintest idea, have you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She laughed. ‘Will your guest be there – the man who’s staying with you? I’m dying to meet him.’

  ‘He’ll be there if the ambassador invites him.’ He thought it unlikely.

  ‘You sound bored,’ she said, sounding more cheerful herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking.’

  ‘Well, stop it if that’s what it does to you. You sound horrible.’

  ‘It’s the telephone. It emphasises the wrong things. Can I see you tonight?’

  ‘I’m going out to dinner, I told you.’

  ‘I could come round afterwards.’

  ‘It might be late.’

  ‘Now you sound bored.’

  ‘No, I’m not, it’s just that’ – she laughed again – ‘it’s just that I keep thinking it shouldn’t be too easy, you know, as if it’s tempting fate. It’s so stupid because I do keep wanting to see you.’

  ‘I’ll come round, then.’

  ‘Good.’

  Later when he went to find Sarah he saw Rachel talking to Stanley by the garage. Stanley was slim and elegant in a clean white shirt. He clutched a holdall in both arms, nodding and replying briefly to Rachel’s questions. She several times pushed hair back from the side of her face and gesticulated excitedly. Stanley’s self-conscious reticence became more sullen and wary as Patrick approached.

  Rachel turned to him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Stanley? He’s terrific. He’s been to Kuweto, he’s in touch with people, he knows the activists and he wants to stay and get educated and you’re sending him away.’

  Patrick did not want to have to talk about Stanley in his presence. ‘If he doesn’t go back he’ll be arrested.’

  Rachel put her hand on his arm. ‘Look, I want to tape him. He’ll be great on tape. He’ll be able to talk about things that only a black can. It fits my project perfectly. Can’t you hang on?’

  ‘He’ll miss the bus.’

  ‘He can get the next one.’

  ‘That’s next week.’

  ‘But the police aren’t after him now, are they?’

  Patrick recalled what Jim had said. ‘They know about him.’

  ‘Shit. We’ll have to do it somehow. Perhaps I can come up and see you.’ She looked at Stanley. ‘Is that possible?’

  Stanley
shrugged. Sarah’s door was half open and Patrick went over to tell her they were ready. She wore her best grey suit, a red hat and glasses. Rachel said something to Stanley and handed him a note, which he put in the back pocket of his jeans. He glanced at his mother.

  Rachel smiled. ‘Just making sure we keep in touch. Are you going down in your car? Can I come?’

  Patrick was annoyed with her. ‘You can if you like but there are only three seats in the front.’

  She held up her hand and turned away, smiling. ‘All right, don’t worry, I get the message. We’ll still be in touch. Bye, Stanley.’

  Sarah prodded Stanley and he got in. He sat silently between them throughout the journey, his holdall on his knees. The depot was in a black area and swarmed with people who clambered on to buses, were herded off them, clambered on to others and greeted every new bus jovially. There was a great deal of talk, laughter, shouting and confusion. Sarah argued with Stanley in Swahi as to whether she and Patrick should wait to see him off. He insisted with sudden vehemence that he could put himself on the bus and eventually she agreed. She ran her hand through his hair but he turned angrily away. Patrick never saw Africans kiss.

  As Sarah was getting into the bakkie Patrick shook hands with him again, no less awkwardly than before. ‘Good luck, Stanley.’

  Stanley looked down, presenting his eyelids and his smooth brown forehead.

  ‘How long will the journey take?’ Patrick continued. Stanley mumbled something. ‘Your mother is worried. Telephone the house from your post office when you get there. Reverse the charges. She will be very pleased to hear from you.’

  Stanley’s dark eyes flashed once before he picked up his holdall and turned towards the throng.

  On the way back Sarah sat upright with her handbag on her lap, clasping it tightly in her horny brown hands. ‘He is heavy pull, that one,’ she said. ‘My daughter is difficult because her boyfriend is a bad boy and she want to marry him and I tell her he will be bad husband. These young people do not listen any more. It is not like before. But she is not difficult like Stanley. She is not secret.’

  ‘What about the little one?’ asked Patrick.

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘Oh, the piccaninny, she is too little for big trouble. Perhaps later. But she is not like Stanley.’ She stopped smiling and nodded a couple of times. ‘All his life he has been hard. He is never happy, that one, not once. Everything I do with him is heavy, heavy pull.’

  17

  The radio news in the morning reported a small explosion in Kuweto. This was the latest indication of unrest in the township following Chatsworth’s excursion, though there was no proven causal link. Bombs on the railway line, such as this, were a way of registering protest. They carried little risk to the bombers and simply inconvenienced the thousands of blacks who used the line daily, many of whom would lose pay for not being at work. The track was repaired within two hours.

  Patrick had spent that night with Joanna, escaping his responsibilities as host.

  ‘D’you think they slept together?’ she asked.

  ‘I could ring and ask.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Chatsworth will tell me, anyway.’

  The atmosphere of panic in the embassy that morning indicated that something had already gone wrong. As Patrick reached for the buttons to open the chancery door Clifford opened it and grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘Where’s the ambassador?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him?’

  ‘No.’

  Clifford rushed on. It turned out that the minister and Sir Wilfrid had become separated. The minister was waiting in Sir Wilfrid’s office. The panic was not only because no one knew where Sir Wilfrid was but also because the minister wanted to change his programme so that he could accompany his wife to Kuweto that morning. On behalf of the British government she was to present an electric sewing-machine to the cultural centre.

  ‘I must see those people,’ the minister announced. ‘It’s important that they shouldn’t feel isolated.’

  Clifford appeared in the doorway of Patrick’s office and pointed at the telephone. ‘Ring the police!’ he shouted.

  Patrick reached for the phone.

  ‘Get an up-to-date report on the situation. We could be walking into a minefield.’

  Patrick realised that he was referring to the bomb in Kuweto. He discovered from the police that following the explosion there had been a security operation involving house-to-house searches. These had provoked rioting which had been quickly put down. This aspect of the affair had been censored on the news. The police advised that the area was now quiet, and there was no reason why the minister should not accompany his wife provided the visit was low-key and there was no attempt to publicise it.

  He was relieved that he had not had to speak to Jim but a few moments later Jim rang back.

  ‘Sorry I was out just now. I hear you want to go sightseeing. It should be okay. If there’s trouble it won’t be large-scale and it won’t be anywhere near your little outpost.’

  They made conversation for a while about Whelk and how there was still no news until Patrick suddenly said, ‘Joanna’s okay.’ He regretted it instantly. He did not know why he had said it.

  There was a slight pause. ‘Yes, I saw her this morning. She seemed fine. See you.’

  Patrick replaced the receiver slowly. Clifford reappeared in the doorway. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘They say it’s okay.’

  ‘Damn. Have you seen the ambassador?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Damn.’

  A little later Patrick overheard the minister talking in the corridor. ‘Bombs or no bombs, these people need assistance and it’s my job to see they get it. We’ll go without the ambassador if he’s not here. I don’t see it makes any difference.’

  He rang Sarah to say he wouldn’t be back for lunch. The phone was answered by Rachel. ‘Can’t I come to Kuweto with you?’

  ‘No, it’s only the official party.’

  ‘Look, I really want to go there. Can’t you fix it, say I’m your secretary or something? It’ll be great for my project if I can go back with tapes from the heart of Kuweto.’

  ‘Can’t be done.’

  ‘God, you’re a stick-in-the-mud, Patrick. You weren’t always like this, were you? Perhaps you were. Look, how about you taking my tape-recorder and switching it on if there’s anything interesting? It would fit in your briefcase or whatever you have.’

  ‘I won’t be carrying one. Anyway, we won’t be talking to people in the way you want. It’s an official visit to present a sewing-machine.’

  ‘That sounds pathetic.’ She paused and made the silence sulky. ‘I suppose I’ll have to look round Battenburg instead.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I can’t because you’ve got the car.’

  ‘Get a taxi in with Chatsworth. He’ll show you round.’

  ‘That sounds expensive.’

  ‘He’s got plenty of money. Mine, actually.’

  ‘It might be traumatic for him, going back and seeing that police headquarters where they tortured him.’

  ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘God, Patrick, you’re so bloody callous.’ She put down the phone.

  The ambassador wandered past. ‘Seen the minister?’

  ‘He was in your office, sir. Clifford was talking to him.’

  Sir Wilfrid made his habitual gesture of running his hand through his hair. ‘All the way to the barbers and they were closed. Moved to the other side of the railway lines or somewhere. I’ll have to find a new one.’

  ‘The minister wants to go to Kuweto this morning, sir.’

  ‘Really? Is it open after the explosion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Damn.’

  Later Philip walked into the office. His dark clothes and black hair combined with his pallor to make him look an embodiment of the Reaper in modern dress. He moved slowly and
spoke hoarsely. ‘Did the minister get my brief?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Patrick stood in case Philip needed supporting.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there. His private secretary was very impressed. He said it was a model of its kind. You all right?’

  ‘The minister said it was a model?’

  Patrick did not disabuse him.

  ‘Is it true he’s going to Kuweto this morning?’

  ‘In about five minutes.’

  ‘Are you going instead of me?’

  ‘I think so. I’m waiting to hear from Clifford.’

  Philip leant against the desk with his fingers outstretched. ‘I’ll go. Where is Clifford?’

  ‘He’s looking for the ambassador, who’s in his office. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Philip turned and made for the door as if he were about to topple. ‘I’ll be in the loo.’

  He was still there fifteen minutes later when the party assembled for the lift. In the meantime his wife had rung to say that she too felt ill and was going to the doctor. She wanted Philip to go home before she left. Patrick left a note.

  Having made a fuss, altered his programme and generally inconvenienced people the minister was in good enough humour to joke with his wife as the Rolls waited in the Battenburg traffic. ‘Ever worked a spinning-jenny before?’

  Mrs Collier’s huge eyes blinked at him through her spectacles. ‘It’s not a spinning-jenny, it’s a sewing machine. An electric one. Spinning-jennys went out years ago.’

  ‘Same difference. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with a jenny.’

  ‘I never said there was.’

  ‘Puts people out of work, though, you’ve got to remember that.’

  They passed a number of police and army vehicles on the way to Kuweto but there was no sign of tension until they reached the township itself. The barricade that was normally open was closed and manned by police armed with carbines. Pedestrians and vehicles were searched, and many of the latter turned back. Anyone without a document of identity was taken to a flat-roofed building at one side. Such activity seemed incongruous in the friendly warmth of the sun, as if it were not really serious.