Authors: Alan Judd
‘I’ll wait here till he comes then.’ McGrain settled solidly against the counter.
‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’
‘I’ll wait here till you’re open.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Who says I can’t?’
Patrick’s armour of bureaucratic implacability felt thin. ‘The rules.’
McGrain shook his head. He seemed to have difficulty bringing his words out. ‘Ah’m a British subject. I wanna see my minister.’
‘Come back later.’ For a few moments McGrain’s eyes became lugubrious and thoughtful. Patrick felt more confident and became more conciliatory. ‘If you have a message for
him I’ll do my best to pass it on.’ McGrain nodded and said nothing. Patrick put his hand on his shoulder and stepped towards the door. McGrain turned unsteadily and lumbered off.
‘I wanna tell him about Arthur Whelk,’ he said. ‘I wanna tell him Whelk owes me.’
‘What does he owe you?’
‘He owes me my cut.’
‘Well, I daresay he’ll pay it.’ They negotiated the double doors after McGrain had lurched against the closed one. He smelt of whisky. ‘What exactly does he owe
you?’
‘It’s not right for diplomats to owe. It’s takin’ advantage.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘He must come here sometimes? He must come to work?’
‘He doesn’t work here at the moment.’
‘He’s not done a bunk, has he?’ McGrain turned his face towards Patrick. He looked angry.
‘No, no,’ said Patrick hastily. ‘He’s just not here.’
‘Where is he, then?’
McGrain was now more perplexed than angry. There was a note of helplessness in his tone. Patrick found himself wanting to be helpful. ‘Look, I don’t know where he is. I’m
sorry. If I could help you I would. But if you have a complaint about him or anything that you want passed on to anyone tell me and I’ll do my best. The problem is that until you tell me what
he owes you and why I’m even more in the dark than you are.’
McGrain allowed himself to be led along. Patrick felt like a boy holding a bull’s tail. Clifford was at the lifts. He looked directly at Patrick but did not appear to notice McGrain.
‘I don’t understand what’s going on down there. Miss Teale rang over five minutes ago and they’re still not here. Hope to God they’re not stuck.’ He pointed
to the indicator board. ‘She’s supposed to have summoned number four but it’s been in the sub-basement now for ages. It got up to ground once before going down again, then up to
seven, then all the way back down one at a time and that’s where it’s stayed. I should’ve supervised this myself. You can never trust other people.’ He looked at his watch,
smoothed his thinning hair and looked at McGrain, looked away and looked again. Apprehension and incredulity smuggled for mastery in his expression.
Patrick smiled more confidently than he felt. ‘This is Mr McGrain. He’s just on his way.’
Number two lift arrived. The minister was flanked by Sir Wilfrid and Anthony. McGrain stretched his hand as if to hold open the door and the minister shook it. Sir Wilfrid and Anthony stepped
out as Clifford stepped forward to intervene. McGrain said something and the minister said he was very pleased to meet him. Clifford raised his arm and took another step forward, addressing the
minister. McGrain, perhaps thinking he was being shown into the lift, advanced right into it and blocked all view of the minister. The door closed and the lift descended.
For a moment no one moved. Patrick felt the delicious sense of irresponsibility that sometimes accompanies complete loss of control. He imagined how he would describe it to Joanna. Sir Wilfrid
looked at where the lift had been. Anthony looked at Clifford and Clifford, his face reddening, turned to Patrick.
‘Now look what you’ve bloody done, Stubbs. You’ve ruined everything.’
Sir Wilfrid raised his eyebrows. ‘Patrick, have I met that man? He looked familiar.’
‘He’s a DBS, sir, called McGrain.’
Sir Wilfrid looked pleased. ‘A DBS? What did he want?’
‘He wanted to see the minister.’
Clifford pointed at the lift doors. ‘Well, he’s seen him now, hasn’t he? He’s probably throttling him.’
Anthony smiled thinly. ‘Now there are two DBSs.’
Another lift came. ‘Perhaps you’d better go and find them, Clifford,’ said Sir Wilfrid.
Clifford was alarmed. ‘Me?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Anthony.
By the time the doors closed the indicator showed that the minister’s lift had reached the basement. Clifford’s dithered between the fourth, third and second floors as if reluctant
to go right down and see.
Sir Wilfrid clasped his hands behind his back. ‘I hope the minister gets lost. He was a perfect brute over breakfast. Kept on about the Lower Africans as if they’re the mongol
hordes. I may have little love for what they stand for but I flatter myself I do have a little understanding. That man knows no more of Africans white or black than how to tell them apart. He
simply wants to curry favour with his own party. If he reappears I shall be in my office.’
Patrick kept his finger on the lift button. An empty one came and went. The minister’s went from the first to the top floor without stopping, then descended to the seventh. It crept up one
floor at a time and opened but was empty. Clifford’s lift appeared, also empty, and the service lift went rapidly upwards with what looked like the face of Miss Teale at the window.
Eventually one came down from the twelfth containing McGrain and the minister. McGrain was bent over the minister in a confiding manner and whispering something about gold mines, tapping his thick
forefinger on the minister’s shoulder. The minister was nodding and interjecting with, ‘Is that true? How much? Foreigners as well?’ On seeing Patrick he put his hand against the
door to stop it closing but did not leave the lift until he had again shaken hands with McGrain. The doors closed and McGrain ascended.
The minister walked briskly with Patrick through reception. ‘Those lifts were all over the shop. If it hadn’t been for that bloke I’d have ended up on the bloody roof. Who is
he?’
‘His name’s McGrain, sir.’
‘Scottish?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He’s a good man. Knows a lot about the gold market here. What’s his job – economics?’
‘He doesn’t actually work here. He’s just visiting.’
‘Visitor, eh? That’s why he’s not as stuck up as everyone else. More natural. How people should be. Man to man. Said someone here owes him money. D’you know anything
about that?’
Patrick’s diplomatic evasiveness deserted him. To explain McGrain meant explaining Whelk, which was what the ambassador wanted to do.
‘Better look into it,’ the minister continued quickly. ‘I said I’d find out about it for him. Tell whoever it is to pay up. Bad enough with the country in debt the way it
is without all you diplomats sponging off the locals.’ His eyes sought out the girls in reception. ‘Are all these local?’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. He wasn’t sure but felt it better to be definite.
The minister grinned for the first time since arriving in Lower Africa. ‘You don’t do yourselves badly.’
Patrick left him with Sir Wilfrid. As he closed the door he heard the beginnings of questions about the market.
In the corridor he met Anthony, who observed, ‘Your head of chancery’s going berserk. Keeps dashing from one lift to the other and changing his mind about which floor he wants.
He’s convinced the minister and the ambassador are stuck somewhere and he’s blaming you. I just changed lifts once and stayed there. Last time I saw him he was having an argument with a
strange woman I thought was the lift attendant, though she seemed to think otherwise. Anyhow, she’s something to do with the lifts and they’re arguing hammer and tongs. I must say, this
promises to be one of the very worst visits.’
Patrick took Anthony into his office and gave him Philip’s weighty brief. Anthony turned the pages slowly. ‘This looks very good. Clear, comprehensive and concise. A model of Office
drafting, I should say.’
‘He put a lot of work into it.’
‘I’m sure he did. This is the Service at its best. Philip will go far.’ He put the document in his black briefcase. ‘The minister won’t read a word of it, of
course. Far too long. He hates reading. I’ll take it back and give it to Formerly.’
‘Will he read it?’
‘Shouldn’t think so but at least he’ll know where to file it. Then it’ll be safe.’
Patrick went home to lunch so that he could take Sarah and Stanley to the bus depot that afternoon. He was glad to have no immediate further part in the visit, especially as
there was now Rachel to cope with. He hoped she wouldn’t want to interview him.
There was a small lorry in the entrance to his drive. Thinking it might be more mysterious removals men he hastily paid the driver, leaving a much larger tip than intended, and ran up the drive.
The garden gate was open and through it he saw a bearded energetic white man in shorts working with two black labourers on the swimming-pool. They had drained it into the sewer, scrubbed it clean
and were now refilling it. Snap was chained to the railings by the house and barked when he saw Patrick.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Patrick.
‘What’s it to do with you?’ The man’s manner was as bristly as his beard. Patrick explained what it had to do with him. The man pointed at the pool as if Patrick had
perpetrated an outrage in it. ‘That there is a rogue pool,’ he said. ‘A rogue pool. We’ll get it right when it’s full but it won’t stay right. No use you
thinking it will. It leaks.’
‘Ah, yes. Someone said that before.’
‘There’s a crack in the bottom and it seeps away. That could be your problem. Upsets the chemical balance. That accounts for the disgusting state of it.’
‘Could you repair it?’
The man put his hands on his hips and nodded vigorously. ‘’Course we could, ’course we could, but you don’t want that, do you?’
‘I wasn’t asked.’
The man pointed at the house. ‘There’s a guy in there says you don’t want it repaired. It’s expensive and he says you wouldn’t want to pay for it yourself if the
British government wouldn’t. He says you’d rather top it up with a watering-can every day.’
Miss Teale had told Patrick that his pool allowance was exhausted. He would have to pay for all maintenance himself in future. He nodded. ‘He’s probably right. Was he the man who
sent for you?’
‘The very same, yes. Anything wrong with that?’
Patrick shook his head resignedly. ‘No, nothing wrong with that.’ He took Snap indoors. Chatsworth was sitting on the stairs sharpening a broken spear with a flint.
‘Found it in the back of the garage. Thought I might as well get it in working order. You never know.’
‘I’ve just been talking to the swimming-pool contractors.’
‘Pretty efficient, aren’t they? I rang them as soon as I got back from the airport and they were here inside thirty minutes. Didn’t wait till you got back because the pool was
in such a putrid state and I thought you’d want it cleaned up in time for Rachel to have a swim. She’s upstairs, by the way, sleeping off the effects of British Air. I was right about
her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She will’
‘With you?’
Chatsworth paused in his sharpening. ‘Nothing so odd about that. Others have.’
‘How d’you know she will?’
‘You can always tell. She knows, if she’s honest with herself. No one ever really fools anyone. We always know whether we would or wouldn’t, straightaway.’ He resumed
sharpening. Snap sniffed at something in the cupboard under the stairs. ‘I’ve put her in the room next to mine, by the way. I locked the one next to yours and told her you never let
anyone in there. Anyway, you’ve got “in-due-course”.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’
‘Also, I’ve got Deuteronomy in to help Sarah with the lunch. He couldn’t do much in the garden with those blokes swarming all over it.’
‘Is she pleased about that?’
Chatsworth looked puzzled. ‘Shouldn’t she be?’
Sarah was cooking in the kitchen. Deuteronomy, looking very self-conscious in a white jacket, peeled potatoes. The scar on his face was healing well. He grinned sheepishly on seeing Patrick and
lowered his eyes without looking at Sarah. She greeted Patrick with prim correctness and glanced crossly when Deuteronomy dropped a potato.
Chatsworth slapped him heartily on the back, causing him to drop it again. ‘You’re doing well, Deuteronomy. We’ll make a waiter of you yet.’
Deuteronomy smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, massa, I make a big waiter.’
Sarah rarely used the serving hatch that led from the kitchen to the dining-room but on this occasion Chatsworth had opened it. ‘It will impress the madam,’ he explained to Sarah and
Patrick. He rapidly explained to Deuteronomy how it should be used, illustrating by passing an empty plate through it, walking round to the dining-room to pick it up himself, then passing it back
and returning to pick it up. Deuteronomy nodded continuously and said ‘Yes, massa,’ several times.
Patrick went to the living-room to read the paper alone. He did not object to Chatsworth’s attempts to run the house, provided there was no serious interference with Sarah and Deuteronomy.
The centre of gravity of his life was shifting increasingly towards Joanna and he spent most of the time when he was not with her trying to distil the essence of the times when he was. Her absence
excited in him a hunger which her presence, so far from satisfying, only sharpened. He could not define what it was; she seemed always to suggest something beyond whatever she was doing or saying,
perhaps beyond herself. It was a question of the extent to which that was a quality of hers or of his own imagination.
Chatsworth prepared drinks. ‘You look miserable. You need a drink. I’ll do one for Rachel, help wake her. I’ll take it up, don’t you worry. You could go and see how
they’re getting on with the pool.’
Patrick glanced out of the window. He was not miserable but having been told he looked it irritated him. ‘They can fill it with earth as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Too much “in-due-course”, that’s your trouble. You ought to have a few away fixtures with an alternative. Restores the sense of proportion. You could call her
“now-and-again” if you’re still worried about revealing names.’