“Where’ve you been?” Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon asked when his wife arrived home.
“You’ll never believe it but I’ve been talking with a real hairy-back. Not one of your slick ones but the genuine article. Absolutely out of the Ark. You’ll never believe this but he actually kissed my hand when we parted.”
“How disgusting,” said the Colonel, and went off down the garden to look at his azaleas. If there was one thing he detested after white ants and cheeky kaffirs, it was Afrikaners. In the living-room Major Bloxham was reading Country Life.
“I suppose they can’t all be swine,” he said graciously when Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon told him about the Kommandant, “though for the life of me I can’t remember meeting one who wasn’t. I knew a fellow called Botha once in Kenya. Never washed. Does your friend wash?”
Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon snorted and went upstairs for a rest before dinner. Lying there in the still of the late afternoon listening to the gentle swirl of the lawn sprinkler, she felt a vague regret for the life she had once led. Born in Croydon, she had come from Selsdon Road via service in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force to Nairobi where her suburban background had served to earn her a commission and a husband with money. From those carefree days she had gradually descended the dark continent, swept southward on the ebb tide of Empire and acquiring with each new latitude those exquisite pretensions Kommandant van Heerden so much admired. Now she was tired. The affectations which had been so necessary in Nairobi for any sort of social life were wasted in Piemburg, whose atmosphere was by comparison wholly lower-middle-class. She was still depressed when she dressed for dinner that night.
“What’s the use of going on pretending we are what we’re not when no one even cares that we aren’t?” she asked plaintively. Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon looked at her with disapproval.
“Got to keep up a good front,” he barked.
“Stiff upper lip, old girl,” said Major Bloxham, whose grandmother had kept a winkle stand in Brighton. “Can’t let the side down.”
But Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon no longer knew which side she was on. The world to which she had been born was gone and with it the social aspirations that made life bearable. The world she had made by dint of affectation was going. After scolding the Zulu waiter for serving the soup from the wrong side, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon rose from the table and took her coffee into the garden. There, soundlessly pacing the lawn under the lucid night sky, she thought about the Kommandant. “There’s something so real about him,” she murmured to herself. Over their port Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon and the Major were discussing the Battle for Normandy. There was nothing real about them. Even the port was Australian.
In the following days Kommandant van Heerden, oblivious of the interest that was being focused on him both by Luitenant Verkramp and Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, continued his literary pilgrimage with increased fervour. Every morning, closely shadowed by the Security men detailed by Verkramp to watch him, he would visit the Piemburg Library for a fresh volume of Dornford Yates and every evening return to his bugged home to devote himself to its study. When finally he went to bed he would lie in the darkness repeating to himself his adaptation of Coue’s famous formula, “Every day and in every way, I am becoming Berrier and Berrier,” a form of auto-suggestion that had little observable effect on the Kommandant himself but drove the eavesdropping Verkramp frantic.
“What the hell does it all mean?” he asked Sergeant Breitenbach as they listened to the tape-recording of these nocturnal efforts at self-improvement.
“A berry is a sort of fruit,” said the Sergeant without much conviction.
“It’s also something you do when you want to get rid of bodies,” said Verkramp, whose own taste was more funereal, “but why the devil does he repeat it over and over again?”
“Sounds like a sort of prayer,” Sergeant Breitenbach said. “I had an aunt who got religious mania. She used to say her prayers all the time…” but Luitenant Verkramp didn’t want to hear about Sergeant Breitenbach’s aunt.
“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 inquiries 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 known 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 inquired. 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.