Black Mischief (30 page)

Later
Basil went round to see Angela Lyne, and Sonia as she undressed said to Alastair,
‘ D’you know, deep down in my heart I’ve got a tiny fear that Basil is going to
turn serious on us too!’

Evening in Matodi. Two
Arab gentlemen, hand in hand, sauntered by the sea-wall.

Among
the dhows and nondescript craft
in
the harbour lay two smart launches
manned by British and French sailors, for Azania had lately been mandated by
the League of Nations as a joint protectorate.

‘They
are always at work polishing the brass.’

‘It
must be very expensive. And they are building a new customs house.’

‘And a
police station and a fever hospital, a European club.’

‘There
are many new bungalows on the hills.’

‘They
are making a big field to play games in.’

‘Every
week they wash the streets with water. They take the children in the schools
and scratch their arms to rub in poison. It makes them very ill.’

‘They
put a man in prison for overburdening his camel.’

‘There
is a Frenchman in charge at the post office. He is always hot and in a great
hurry.’

‘They
are building a black road through the hills to Debra Dowa. The railway is to be
removed.’

‘Mr
Youkoumian has bought the rails and what was left of the engines. He hopes to
sell them in Eritrea.’

‘Things
were better in the time of Seth. It is no longer a gentleman’s country.’.

The
muezzin in the tower turned north towards Mekka and called azan over the city.
The Arabs paused reverently and stood in silence … God is great … There is
no God but God … Mohammed is the apostle of God …

A
two-seater car whizzed by, driven by Mr Reppington, the district magistrate.
Mrs Reppington sat beside him.

‘The
little bus took that nicely.’

Angelus
from the mission church …
gratia plena; dominus tecum; Benedicta tu in mulieribus
…

The car
left the town and mounted towards the hills. ‘Phew. It’s a relief to get out
into the fresh air.’

‘
Awful road. It ought to be finished by now. I get quite afraid for
her back axle.’

‘I said
we’d drop into the Brethertons for a sundowner.’

‘Bight
you are. Only we can’t stay long. We’re dining with the Lepperidges.’

A mile
above the town they stopped at the second, of six identical bungalows. Each had
a verandah and a garden path; a slotted box on the gate-post for calling cards.
The Brethertons were on the verandah.

‘Cheerio,
Mrs Reppington. Cocktail?’

‘Please.’

‘And
you, Reppington?’

‘Chota
peg.’

Bretherton
was sanitary inspector and consequently of slightly inferior station to
Reppington, but that year he would sit for his Arabic exam; if he brought it
off it would make them level on the salary list.

‘What
sort of day?’

‘Oh,
the usual. Just tooled round condemning native houses. How are things at the
Fort?’

‘Not so
dusty. We settled that case I told you about. You know, the one of the natives
who built a house in a broken lorry in the middle of the road.’

‘Oh,
ah. Who won it?’

‘Oh, we
gave it to the chap in possession on both counts. The Arab who originally owned
the car was suing him. So were the Works Department — wanted to evict him
because he blocked the traffic. They’ll have to make a new road round him now.
They’re pretty fed up, I can tell you. So are the Frenchies.’

‘Good
show.’

‘Yes,
give the natives respect for British justice. Can’t make your Frenchy see that …
Why, it’s later than I thought. We must be pushing along, old girl. You’re not
dining with the Lepperidges by any chance?’

‘No.’

The
Brethertons were not on dining terms with the Lepperidges. He was O.C. of the
native levy, seconded from India and a very considerable man in Matodi. He
always referred to Bretherton as the ‘latrine wallah’.

So the
Reppingtons went to dress in their bungalow (fifth of the row), she in black
lace, he in white mess-jacket. Punctually at 8.1 5 they stepped across to the
Lepperidges’. There were five courses at dinner, mostly from tins, and a glass
dish in the centre of the table held floating flower heads. Mr and Mrs Grainger
were there; Mr Grainger was immigration officer. He said: ‘We’ve had rather a shari
this afternoon about that fellow Connolly. You see, strictly speaking, he can
claim Azanian nationality. He seems to have been quite a big bug under the
Emperor. Ran the army for him. Got made a Duke or something. Last sort of
fellow one wants hanging about.’

‘Quite.’

‘Jungly
Wallah. They say in the old days he had an affair with the wife of the French
Minister. That made the Frenchies anxious to get rid of him.’

‘Quite.
It helps if one can oblige them now and then in small things.’

‘Besides,
you know, he’s married to a wog. Well, I mean to say …’

‘Quite.’

‘But I
think we’re going to get rid of him all right. Deport him D.B.S. He lost all
his money in the revolution.’

‘And
the woman in the case?’

‘Well,
that’s no business of ours once we clear him out of here. They seem struck on
each other all right. He’ll find it pretty awkward. Aren’t many places would
have him. Abyssinia might. It was different when this place was independent.’

‘Quite.’

‘Jolly
good tinned fruit salad, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Lepperidge.’

‘So
glad you like it. I got it from Youkoumian’s.’

‘Useful
little fellow Youkoumian. I use him a lot. He’s getting me boots for the levy.
Came to me himself with the idea. Said they pick up hookworm through going
barefoot.’

‘Good
show.’

‘Quite.’

Night over Matodi. English
and French police patrolling the water-front. Gilbert and Sullivan played by
gramophone in the Portuguese Fort.

Three little maids from school are we,

Pert as a schoolgirl well can be,

Filled to the brim with girlish glee
—

Three little maids from school.

The
melody and the clear voices floated out over the harbour and the water lapping
very gently on the sea-wall. Two British policemen marched abreast through the
involved ways of the native quarter. The dogs had long ago been rounded up and
painlessly put away. The streets were empty save for an occasional muffled
figure slipping by them silently with a lantern. The blank walls of the Arab
tenements gave no sign of life.

On a tree by a river a little tom tit

Sang Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow.

And I said to him ‘Dicky bird, why do you sit

Singing Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow?’

Mr
Youkoumian tactfully ejected his last customer and fastened the shutters of the
café. ‘Very sorry,’ he said. ‘New regulation. No drinking after ten-thirty. I
don’t want no bust—ups.’

‘Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?’ I cried,

‘Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?’

With a shake of his poor little head, he replied,

 
Oh willow, tit-willow,
tit-willow.’

The
song rang clear over the dark city and the soft, barely perceptible lapping of
the water along the sea-wall.

THE END

Stonyhurst
—
Chagford
—
Madresfield

September
1931 —
May
1932