Authors: Alan Judd
‘Is it important to be seen to get on with white people on the make?’
The minister looked bewildered and angry. He glanced round as if for assistance. ‘It is simply a question of representation. No more than that. She represents—’
‘Herself. She’s no more representative of Kuweto than you are. There’s a whole group of them who live off people like you.’
Patrick had never seen her like this. She almost glowed with resolution. He wished only that she could have chosen someone else, such as Clifford. ‘Joanna, this is the minister of state,
Mr Collier. Minister, this is—’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ she interrupted, still without looking at him. ‘You must think I’m very rude. It’s just that a lot of people come to our country and talk to a
few token blacks or coloureds and think they know it all and then tell us how to live when they get safely back to their own countries. They’re not really interested, they don’t really
want to find out anything. They just want to be confirmed in their views so they can look good back home. If you really want to talk to blacks you’d be better off with your servant or your
driver. I bet you don’t even know his name.’
The minister was plainly disconcerted. He had begun to say that he fully understood and sympathised when Chatsworth thrust himself between them with more beer.
Patrick led her away. ‘I don’t suppose that’s done your career much good,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, he’s only the minister.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve seen so many people come here with that sort of attitude, it’s so irritating. They’re just out to do good for themselves and they use us as the
whipping-boys. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were sincere. They’re always so smug and yet if they lived here they’d be just like us. That’s what gets me.’ She smiled.
‘I’m sorry, it must’ve been embarrassing for you.’
He put his hand on her arm. ‘Let’s have dinner. No one will notice if we run away now.’
‘I’ll get my jacket.’
Chatsworth rejoined him. ‘I think the minister’s onside. Seems to approve of me.’
‘I don’t think he approves of me any more.’
‘No. Had to distance myself from you a bit. He was on about your performance in Kuweto this morning. Then said you’d introduced him to some harpy. I didn’t say anything too
bad.’
‘I’ll give you my side of it later.’
‘That’s what I’ve been saying all my life. No one ever wants to hear it, that’s the trouble.’
Patrick thought of his own domestic responsibility. ‘Did you also explain how Rachel came to be here?’
‘No need. I introduced her to the giantess and they went nineteen to the dozen on how injust it all is. Inequality, freedom and all that. I think the minister fancies her. That
helped.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Taking her tights off.’
‘For him?’
‘For me. I asked her.’
‘That’s a little premature, isn’t it?’
‘I just wanted to see if she’d do it when I asked her. I said I wanted her to give them to me.’
‘I never knew you had a nylon fetish.’
Chatsworth glanced over his shoulder. ‘Don’t shout it round the houses. Anyway, I don’t. It’s the exercise of power. Getting her to do something she doesn’t
normally do, just because I ask her. It makes her feel desired and adds excitement for me. You only ever do it with a woman you haven’t had, of course. Just to see. No point if you know she
will.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Rachel would like to be regarded as a sex object.’
Chatsworth shook his head impatiently. ‘Everyone wants to be regarded as a sex object. All the problems start when they think they’re not. Anyway, I’m a hero of the coming
revolution, remember.’
Joanna reappeared. ‘Joanna’s been getting her jacket,’ Patrick said to Chatsworth. ‘Didn’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, suspiciously.
‘Tell you later,’ said Patrick. Chatsworth grinned and looked round for something else to do.
They ate an uninteresting meal in an expensive French restaurant in the city centre. All food in Battenburg tasted very much alike whatever its alleged origin, but there was at least plenty of
it. As it was, Patrick hardly noticed that he was eating and Joanna ate little. He was voluble and self-indulgent; she listened, laughed, sympathised, questioned. She was horrified by his
description of the beating of the helpers in Kuweto, but seemed more so by his account of Chatsworth.
‘But he was so nice,’ she said, pained. ‘Quite charming, really. You make him sound awful.’
‘Can’t he be both?’
‘How long is he staying?’
‘Indefinitely.’
Later she said, ‘I wish you were more often like this. You’re usually so tense and restrained, as if you’re watching me. It’s horrible sometimes.’ She smiled.
‘It’s interesting too.’
They decided they should go to the coast together for a few days. She had some friends there with whom they could stay and she could leave Belinda with other friends. Jim had a part-share in a
plane that went there and back nearly every week. They could go down in that free.
‘Wouldn’t he mind?’
‘No. If he did he’d say. He’s very straight, you know, Jim. And he likes you.’
A thunderstorm broke as they came out of the restaurant. They ran to the car through pelting rain. The thunder rolled back and forth amongst the tower blocks and sheet-lightning rent the night.
Water ran down the gutters of the hill so deeply that it covered the exhaust pipes of cars. The bakkie was high enough to escape trouble but even so it was difficult to reach because of the surge
of foaming brown water.
Patrick drove slowly, the rain bouncing on the bonnet. They were in a white area, allegedly the most violent in Battenburg, and to Patrick the lightning, the hammering rain and the overflowing
gutters were symbolic of a Battenburg that had finally burst apart. He felt heavy with foreboding but not of anything he could express. Joanna was cheerful and positive, enjoying the storm, but he
was quiet. Once, as he nosed the bakkie across a junction where the robots had failed, they saw a motorbike on its side, the front wheel still spinning, and in the road a shoe. Two cars were slewed
across the pavement and people were just getting out. Patrick considered stopping but decided there were enough people around to help. Farther on, outside a hotel notorious for its stabbings, there
was an ambulance and three police cars. His sense of foreboding increased.
When they got back the light was on in Sarah’s quarters. She was in her room with two women with whom she usually went to church. They were sitting and talking, all in their church
uniforms. Sarah made to get up but Patrick prevented her. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I thought you’d gone to church and I wondered why the light was on.’
‘No, massa, it is raining so we are not going.’
‘You don’t go in the rain?’
She shook her head. ‘The rain makes much mud. It is not good.’
‘Is the church outside then?’
‘No, but the way there is muddy. Also, there are bad boys near that church and it is easy to get lost.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’ He regretted it as he spoke because they would not all fit into the cab and because Joanna was upstairs.
The three women conferred in Zulu, then Sarah shook her head again and smiled awkwardly. ‘Thank you, massa, but we do not go. It is not good in the rain.’
He could not prevent them all from standing and thanking him again.
Before they slept Joanna described the house on the coast where they could stay. It would do him good to get away, she said. Also, they had never seen each other outside Battenburg and
Battenburg was a strange place; it made people tense, distorted them; the rest of Lower Africa was not like that. There was a public holiday that weekend. It would be a good time to get away.
He was woken by the sound of the rape-gate being closed with accidental force, followed by excited whispering and laughing. He had left it open for Rachel and Chatsworth. They could not lock it
because he had the key. He heard them go down the corridor, presumably to the same bed, and considered getting up to lock the gate. But Joanna snuggled closer, muttering something, and he stayed
where he was.
He was next woken by the sound of the gate opening. The clock showed two in the morning and he lay tense and still, straining to listen. Hearing nothing, he disengaged himself, got up, wrapped a
towel round his hips and cautiously opened the bedroom door. The rape-gate was half open, the shadow of its bars thrown across the landing carpet by the downstairs light. He slipped through and
went softly down the stairs.
Chatsworth, also clad in a towel, sat on a chair in the kitchen. His elbow was on the table and his head was in his hand, as in a rough imitation of Rodin’s Thinker. The fridge door was
open and a half-finished glass of milk was on the table before him.
He looked up when Patrick entered. ‘It must be the beer. It’s the only thing I can think of.’
‘It’s made you ill?’
‘I suppose you could call it that.’
It was some seconds before Patrick understood. ‘You mean you can’t do it?’
Chatsworth shook his head. ‘After all that build-up. She was practically frantic.’
‘D’you think the milk will help?’
‘I don’t know. It’s refreshing. Does you good when you’re tired. At least it’s not beer. I blame the minister, of course, but that doesn’t cut much ice with
Rachel.’
Patrick tried not to smile. ‘It happened to me once.’
Chatsworth stared. ‘Good. I’ll tell her that. She’ll feel much better.’
‘You’ll probably be all right if you go and have a sleep. Have another go afterwards.’
‘Don’t s’pose she’ll have me back in the bed. Not that it would be worth it anyway. Never is. Our bodies are simply programmed to want to keep on doing it, whether we
like it or not, that’s all. But now that I want to do it, my body doesn’t. Typical.’
There was not much else to say and so Patrick turned to go. ‘Don’t worry about locking the rape-gate. Just push it to.’
Chatsworth lifted his chin from his hand for the first time. ‘If that was meant to be funny, it was pretty poor taste.’
When Patrick got to the top of the stairs he noticed that Sarah’s light was still on. She was alone, still in her church uniform, and sat staring at something out of sight, or at nothing.
As he watched she got up wearily and walked to the window. Her movements were slow and her features heavy. She looked up but did not see him. She pulled the curtains together with a weighty
finality.
T
he minister left the following day. ‘An example of how low-key political contacts can be constructive,’ Clifford read aloud from one
of the papers. ‘Both governments now understand each other better and the minister’s disaster-averting diplomacy in Kuweto has shown how dialogue, patience and human contact can help in
even the most difficult circumstances.’ He folded the paper and dropped it on the desk. ‘Nice that someone appreciates our efforts. Too much to expect of old Formerly, of
course.’
Though still not well, Philip went to the airport rather than Patrick. ‘You don’t mind if I see him off?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Patrick truthfully.
‘It’s just that after all that work I’d like to see something of the man.’ He smiled. ‘Not that I expect great enlightenment.’
Patrick’s baggage had arrived the previous afternoon, as Sir Wilfrid had predicted. The garage was now nearly filled with boxes and crates, none of which he at first recognised as his own.
After rooting about with Chatsworth, Sarah and Deuteronomy, to the accompaniment of frustrated barking from Snap who was locked in the house, three battered boxes were dragged out and identified as
his. Sarah unpacked them with growing disappointment.
‘Massa, is this all your things?’
Patrick capitulated immediately. ‘We’ll buy some more, Sarah.’
‘I make a list?’
‘Yes, please, make a long list.’
A couple of large boxes were claimed by Rachel as the teaching materials that she and Maurice had asked Patrick to include in his baggage. She had them pushed to one side. ‘Lucky I was
here when they arrived. Saves you having to find the schools they’re going to. I’ll get them to pick them up. Don’t bother opening them now.’ She was cheerful and
business-like. Her manner towards Chatsworth was friendly though slightly offhand. He was helpful, solicitous and subdued.
The embassy Jaguar arrived with Mrs Acupu. She beamed and then spoke sharply to Sarah and Deuteronomy. She insisted on checking the contents of her boxes. They contained an abundance of
brightly-coloured clothes, several dozen pairs of men’s and women’s shoes and several rolls of cloth. Patrick had been told that the kind of shoe worn was an important status symbol
amongst blacks and he noticed that most of the shoes were large and ostentatious. The Jaguar would have to make several trips; Deuteronomy was detailed to help.
‘Is there much to be made from clothes?’ Chatsworth asked Mrs Acupu. They walked away from the house to continue the conversation. She made expansive gestures and accompanied her
words with a number of high-pitched exclamations.
‘She’s some sort of racketeer,’ Chatsworth said, when she went. ‘Or her husband is. Whatever it is, it’s pretty good. I’m told Kuweto is run by a lot of
gangland bosses and he sounds like one of them. Worth keeping in with her. She thinks I own this place. I didn’t disabuse her but don’t worry, I shall if necessary.’ He looked at
Patrick for signs of appreciation.
‘What was she talking to you about?’ asked Rachel. She had opened one of her boxes, then closed it again.
‘Extortion.’
‘God, how awful. Is there much of it?’
‘Heaps.’
Sarah came out to say that there was someone on the telephone for Rachel. Chatsworth looked sadly after her.
‘I didn’t realise she was flying back to London this afternoon. Now I’ll never get the chance to redeem myself. She’ll spread it all round London.’
Patrick tried to look sympathetic. ‘Do you have many friends in common?’
‘You never know. Anyway, it’s the thought that’s hurtful.’ He trod on a piece of wrapping paper and turned his foot till the paper was torn. ‘This means I’ll
have to continue in the role of victim, playing to her sense of mission and guilt. They all have it, these trendies.’