by Tom Sharpe
‘I want a close watch kept on him all the time,’ he said, ‘and the moment he starts doing anything suspicious like buying a spade let me know.’
‘Why don’t you ask that headshrinker of yours …’ the Sergeant asked, and was startled by the vehemence of Verkramp’s reply. He left the office with the distinct impression that if there was one thing Luitenant Verkramp didn’t want, need or wish for, it was Dr von Blimenstein.
Left to himself Verkramp tried to concentrate his mind on the problem of Kommandant van Heerden by looking through the reports of his movements.
‘Went to Library. Went to police station. Went to Golf Club. Went home.’ The regularity of these innocent activities was disheartening and yet hidden within this routine there lay the secret of the Kommandant’s terrible assurance and awful smile. Even the news that his house was being bugged by Communists had shaken it only momentarily and as far as Verkramp could judge the Kommandant had entirely forgotten the affair. True, he had banned Dr von Blimenstein’s questionnaire but, now that Verkramp had first-hand knowledge of the doctor’s sexual behaviour, he had to admit that it was a wise decision. With what amounted to, literally, hindsight Luitenant Verkramp realized that he had been on the verge of disclosing the sexual habits of every policeman in Piemburg to a woman with vested interests in the subject. He shuddered to think what use she would have put that information to and turned his attention to the question of miscegenating policemen. It was obvious that he would have to tackle that problem without outside help and after trying to remember what Dr von Blimenstein had told him about the technique he went off to the Public Library, partly to see if there were any books there on aversion therapy but also because the Library figured so frequently in Kommandant van Heerden’s itinerary. An hour later, clutching a copy of Fact & Fiction in Psychology by H. J. Eysenck, he returned to the police station satisfied that he had got hold of the definitive work on aversion therapy but still no nearer any understanding of the change that had come over the Kommandant. His enquiries about the Kommandant’s reading habits, unconvincingly prefaced by the remark that he was thinking of buying him a book for Christmas, had elicited no more than that Kommandant van Heerden was fond of romantic novels which wasn’t very helpful.
On the other hand Dr Eysenck was. By skilful use of the index Luitenant Verkramp managed to avoid having to read those portions of the book which taxed his intellectual stamina and instead concentrated on descriptions and cures effected by apomorphine and electric shock treatment. He was particularly interested in the case of the Cross Dressing Truck Driver and the case of the Corseted Engineer both of whom had come to see the error of their ways thanks in the case of the former to injections of apomorphine and of the latter to electric shocks. The treatment seemed quite simple and Verkramp had no doubt that he would be able to administer it if only he was given the opportunity. Certainly there was no difficulty about electric shock machines. Piemburg Police Station was littered with the things and Verkramp felt sure the police surgeon would be able to supply apomorphine. The main obstacle lay in the presence of Kommandant van Heerden, whose opposition to all innovations had proved such a handicap to Luitenant Verkramp in the past. ‘If only the old fool would take a holiday,’ Verkramp thought as he turned to the case of the Impotent Accountant only to learn to his disappointment that the man had been cured without recourse to apomorphine or electric shocks. The Case of the Prams and Handbags was much more interesting.
*
While Verkramp tried to forget Dr von Blimenstein by immersing himself in the study of abnormal psychology, the doctor, unaware of the fatal impact her sexuality had had on Verkramp’s regard for her, tried desperately to remember the full details of their night together. All she could recall was arriving at Casualty Department of Piemburg Hospital classified according to the ambulance driver as an epileptic. When that misunderstanding had been cleared up she had been diagnosed as blind drunk and could vaguely remember having her stomach pumped out before being bundled into a taxi and sent back to Fort Rapier where her appearance had led to an unpleasant interview with the Hospital Principal the following morning. Since then she had telephoned Verkramp several times only to find that his line seemed to be permanently engaged. In the end she gave up and decided that it was unladylike to pursue him. ‘He’ll come back to me in due course,’ she said smugly. ‘He won’t be able to keep away.’ Every night after her bath she admired Verkramp’s teeth marks in the mirror and slept with her torn vermilion panties under the pillow as proof of the Luitenant’s devotion to her. ‘Strong oral needs,’ she thought happily, and her breasts heaved in anticipation.
*
Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was too much of a lady to have any doubts about the propriety of pursuing her acquaintance with Kommandant van Heerden. Every afternoon the vintage Rolls would steal down the drive of the golf course and Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon would play a round of very good golf until the Kommandant arrived. Then she would save him the embarrassment of displaying his ineptness with a golf club by engaging him in conversation.
‘You must think I’m absolutely frightful,’ she murmured one afternoon as they sat on the verandah.
The Kommandant said he didn’t think anything of the sort.
‘I suppose it’s because I’ve had so little experience of the real world,’ she continued, ‘that I find it so fascinating to meet a man with so much je ne sais quoi.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said the Kommandant modestly. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon wagged a gloved finger at him.
‘And witty too,’ she said though the Kommandant couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. ‘One somehow never expects a man in a position of responsibility to have a sense of humour and being the Kommandant of Police in a town the size of Piemburg must be an awesome responsibility. There must be nights when you simply can’t get to sleep for worry.’
The Kommandant could think of several nights recently when he couldn’t sleep but he wasn’t prepared to admit it.
‘When I go to bed,’ he said, ‘I go to sleep. I don’t worry.’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon looked at him with admiration.
‘How I envy you,’ she said. ‘I suffer terribly from insomnia. I lie awake thinking about how things have changed in my lifetime and remembering the good old days in Kenya before those awful Mau-Mau came along and spoilt everything. Now look what a horrible mess the blacks have made of the country. Why they’ve even stopped the races at Thomson’s Falls.’ She sighed and the Kommandant commiserated with her.
‘You should try reading in bed,’ he suggested. ‘Some people find that helps.’
‘But what?’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon asked in a tone which suggested she had read everything there was to read.
‘Dornford Yates,’ said the Kommandant promptly and was delighted to find Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon staring at him in astonishment. It was precisely the effect he had hoped for.
‘You too?’ she gasped. ‘Are you a fan?’
The Kommandant nodded.
‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon continued breathlessly, ‘Isn’t he absolutely brilliant? My husband and I are devoted to him. Absolutely devoted. That’s one of the reasons we went to live in Umtali. Just to be near him. Just to breathe the same air he breathed and to know that we were living in the same town as the great man. It was a wonderful experience. Really wonderful.’ She paused in her recital of the literary amenities of Umtali long enough for the Kommandant to say that he was surprised Dornford Yates had lived in Rhodesia. ‘I’ve always pictured him in England,’ he said, conveniently forgetting that always in this case meant a week.
‘He came out during the war,’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon explained, ‘and then went back to the house at Eaux Bonnes in the Pyrenees afterwards, the House That Berry Built you know but the French were so horrid and everything so terribly changed that he couldn’t stand it and settled in Umtali till his death.’
The Kommandant said he was sorry he had died and that he would like to have know
n him.
‘It was a great privilege,’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon agreed sadly. ‘A very great privilege to know a man who has enriched the English language.’ She paused in memory for a moment before continuing. ‘How extraordinary that you should find him so wonderful. I mean I don’t want to … well … I always thought he appealed only to the English and to find a true Afrikaner who likes him …’ she trailed off, evidently afraid of offending him. Kommandant van Heerden assured her that Dornford Yates was the sort of Englishman Afrikaners most admired.
‘Really,’ said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, ‘you do amaze me. He’d have loved to hear you say that. He had such a loathing for foreigners himself.’
‘I can understand that too,’ said the Kommandant. ‘They’re not very nice people.’
By the time they parted Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon had said that the Kommandant must meet her husband and the Kommandant had said he would be honoured to.
‘You must come and stay at White Ladies,’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon said as the Kommandant opened the door of the Rolls for her.
‘Which white lady’s?’ the Kommandant enquired. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon reached out a gloved hand and tweaked his ear.
‘Naughty,’ she said delightfully, ‘naughty, witty man,’ and drove off leaving the Kommandant wondering what he had said to merit the charming rebuke.
*
‘You’ve done what?’ Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon asked apoplectically when she told him that she had invited the Kommandant to stay. ‘At White Ladies? A bloody Boer? I won’t hear of it. My God, you’ll be asking Indians or niggers next. I don’t care what you say, I’m not having the swine in my house.’
Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon turned to Major Bloxham. ‘You explain, Boy, he’ll listen to you,’ and took herself to her room with a migraine.
Major Bloxham found the Colonel among his azaleas and was disheartened by his florid complexion.
‘You ought to take it easy, old chap,’ he said. ‘Blood pressure and all that.’
‘What do you expect when that damned woman tells me she’s invited some blue-based baboon to come and stay at White Ladies?’ the Colonel snarled, gesticulating horridly with his pruning shears.
‘A bit much,’ said the Major placatorily.
‘A bit? It’s a damned sight too much if you ask me. Not that anyone does round here. Sponging swine,’ and he disappeared into a bush leaving the Major rather hurt by the ambiguity of the remark.
‘Seems he’s a fan of the Master,’ said the Major addressing himself to a large blossom.
‘Hm,’ snorted the Colonel who had transferred his attentions to a rhododendron, ‘I’ve heard that tale before. Says that to get his foot in the door and before you know what’s happened the whole damned club is full of ‘em.’
Major Bloxham said there was something to be said for that point of view but that the Kommandant sounded quite genuine. The Colonel disagreed.
‘Used to wave a white flag and shoot our officers down,’ he shouted. ‘Can’t trust a Boer further than you can see him.’
‘But …’ said the Major trying to keep track of the Colonel’s physical whereabouts while staying with his train of thought.
‘But me no buts,’ shouted the Colonel from a hydrangea. ‘The man’s a scoundrel. Got coloured blood too. All Afrikaners have a touch of the tar. A known fact. Not having a nigger in my house.’ His voice distant in the shrubbery rumbled on to the insistent click of the secateurs and Major Bloxham turned back towards the house. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, her migraine quite recovered, was drinking a sundowner on the stoep.
‘Intransigent, my dear,’ said the Major treading warily past the chihuahua that lay at her feet. ‘Utterly intransigent.’ Proud of his use of such a diplomatically polysyllabic communiqué the Major poured himself a double whisky. It was going to be a long hard evening.
‘Cub hunting season,’ said the Colonel over avocado pears at dinner. ‘Look forward to that.’
‘Fox in good form?’ asked the Major.
‘Harbinger’s been keeping him in trim,’ said the Colonel, ‘been taking him for a ten-mile trot every morning. Good man, Harbinger, knows his job.’
‘Damn fine whipper-in,’ said the Major, ‘Harbinger.’
At the far end of the polished mahogany table Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon gouged her avocado resentfully.
‘Harbinger’s a convict,’ she said presently. ‘You got him from the prison at Weezen.’
‘Poacher turned gamekeeper,’ said the Colonel, who disliked his wife’s new habit of intruding a sense of reality into his world of reassuring artifice. ‘Make the best sort, you know. Good with dogs too.’
‘Hounds,’ said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon reprovingly. ‘Hounds, dear, never dogs.’
Opposite her the Colonel turned a deeper shade of puce.
‘After all,’ continued Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon before the Colonel could think of a suitable reply, ‘if we are going to pretend we’re county and that we’ve ridden to hounds for countless generations, we might as well do it properly.’
Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon regarded his wife venomously. ‘You forget yourself, my dear,’ he said at last.
‘How right you are,’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon answered, ‘I have forgotten myself. I think we all have.’ She rose from the table and left the room.
‘Extraordinary behaviour,’ said the Colonel. ‘Can’t think what’s come over the woman. Used to be perfectly normal.’
‘Perhaps it’s the heat,’ suggested the Major.
‘Heat?’ said the Colonel.
‘The weather.’ Major Bloxham explained hurriedly. ‘Hot weather makes people irritable, don’t you know.’
‘Hot as hell in Nairobi. Never bothered her there. Can’t see why it should give her the habdabs here.’
They finished their meal in silence and the Colonel took his coffee through to his study where he listened to the stock-market report on the radio. Gold shares were up, he noted thankfully. He would ring his broker in the morning and tell him to sell West Driefontein. Then switching the radio off he went to the bookshelf and took down a copy of Berry & Co. and settled down to read it for the eighty-third time. Presently, unable to concentrate, he laid the book aside and went out onto the stoep where Major Bloxham was sitting in the darkness with a glass of whisky looking out at the lights of the city far below.
‘What are you doing, Boy?’ asked the Colonel with something akin to affection in his voice.
‘Trying to remember what winkles taste like,’ said the Major. ‘Such a long time since I had them.’
‘Prefer oysters meself,’ said the Colonel. They sat together in silence for some time. In the distance some Zulus were singing.
‘Bad business,’ the Colonel said, breaking the silence. ‘Can’t have Daphne upset. Can’t have this damned fellow either. Don’t know what to do.’
‘Don’t suppose we can,’ agreed the Major. ‘Pity we can’t put him off somehow.’
‘Put him off?’
‘Tell him we’ve got foot-and-mouth or something,’ said the Major whose career was littered with dubious excuses. Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon considered the idea and rejected it.
‘Wouldn’t wash,’ he said finally.
‘Never do. Boers,’ said the Major.
‘Foot-and-mouth.’
‘Oh.’
There was a long pause while they stared into the night.
‘Bad business,’ said the Colonel in the end and went off to bed. Major Bloxham sat on thinking about shellfish.
In her room Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon lay under one sheet unable to sleep and listened to the Zulus’ singing and the occasional murmur of voices from the stoep with increasing bitterness. ‘They’ll humiliate him if he comes,’ she thought, recalling the miseries of her youth when napkins had been serviettes and lunch dinner. It was the thought of the humiliation she would suffer by proxy as the Kommandant fumbled for the fish fork for the meat course that finally decided Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon. She switched on the light and sat at
her writing table and wrote a note on mauve deckle-edged paper to the Kommandant.
‘You’re going to town, Boy?’ she asked the Major next morning at breakfast. ‘Pop this into the police station will you?’ She slid the envelope across the table to him.
‘Right you are,’ said Major Bloxham. He hadn’t intended going to Piemburg but his position in the household demanded just this sort of sacrifice. ‘Putting him off?’
‘Certainly not,’ Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon said looking coldly at her husband. ‘Compromising. It’s the English art or so I’ve been led to believe. I’ve said we’re full up and …’
‘Damned good show, my dear,’ interrupted the Colonel.
‘And I’ve asked him if he would mind putting up at the hotel instead. He can have lunch and dinner with us and I trust you’ll have the decency to treat him properly if he accepts.’
‘Seems a fair arrangement to me,’ said the Colonel.
‘Very fair,’ the Major agreed.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, ‘in the circumstances. I’ve told him you’ll foot the bill.’
She got up and went into the kitchen to vent her irritation on the black servants.
*
At Piemburg Police Station Kommandant van Heerden was busy making arrangements for his holiday. He had bought a map of the Weezen district, a trout rod and flies, a pair of stout walking boots, a deerstalker hat, a twelve-bore shotgun, some waders, and a pocket book called Etiquette for Everyman. Thus accoutred he felt confident that his stay with the Heathcote-Kilkoons would give him valuable experience in the art of behaving like an English gentleman.
He had even gone to the trouble of buying two pairs of pyjamas and some new socks because his old ones had mended holes in them. Having acquired the outward vestiges of Englishness, the Kommandant had practised saying ‘Frightfully’ and ‘Absolutely’ in what he hoped was an authentic accent. When it was dark he went into his garden with the trout rod and practised casting flies into a bucket of water on the lawn without ever managing to land a fly in the bucket but decapitating several dozen dahlias in the attempt.