Authors: Julian Mitchell
He was putting Hepwith’s report on one side (there were three more to go before he made his summary of the night’s work for Mr Brachs) when the blue television beside him suddenly spluttered to life.
“Mr Burgess,” said Mr Brachs.
“Yes, sir,” said the sallow man, sitting to attention.
“Make a note for Jefferson of Brachs Restaurants that the breakdown of expenses for last year isn’t detailed enough. Tell him I want a much fuller account by the end of the week.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Good night, Mr Burgess.”
The screen went dead.
Burgess relaxed and made the note Mr Brachs had ordered. It was always alarming when Mr Brachs wanted him in the middle of the night, it might be anything from immediate dismissal to the Tokyo stock market prices. Mr Brachs was unpredictable. But his night confidential secretary was
handsomely
paid and rather enjoyed being alone at the top of the Building. Alone, that was, except for Mr Brachs. But then, one couldn’t ever get far from Mr Brachs, his name was all over the country. And if you were his night confidential secretary, you knew that his influence was spread even further than his name.
O
N
Wednesday afternoon Shrieve came out of the office of Sir Sebastian Filmer with his sense of inadequacy painfully aggravated. The more he talked to people in London, the more he wished he’d stayed with the Ngulu and left the negotiation to someone who could estimate the suave phrases of Whitehall for what they were worth. He wasn’t, he felt, at all the right man to try to apply pressure, even to make his case clearly. The interview with Filmer had been typically unsatisfactory.
Filmer was a tall man with silvery grey hair, the sort of hair which all men in authority in London seemed to display, as Frenchmen display the ribbons of their Légions d’Honneur. Two wings swept with careless elegance above his ears, and the whole coiffeur looked as though it had just come from under the tactful drier of a barber who displayed the royal coat of arms. His clothes were so well bred that they seemed to be holding themselves slightly away from his skin, it being distasteful actually to touch him: a white shirt glowed against the pinkness of his neck, and the black coat and striped trousers were tailored to conceal any hint of paunch. The effect was deliberately subdued and unassuming, one created, Shrieve felt, by a man who assumed and subdued without ever raising his voice. Filmer was like a very expensive car, his power visible only in a vein in his pink neck where it idled inaudibly.
He had been, of course, charming, had enquired about Shrieve’s father as though he was an old friend, had offered a cigarette and not taken one himself when Shrieve refused. Then he had come down to business. The Minister was much
concerned
with Shrieve’s problem. It was always the policy of Her Majesty’s Government to do everything possible to protect minority interests. There was no intention of modifying this policy. The Minister was taking a most keen interest in the
matter, and was determined to ensure that proper safeguards would be arranged.
At the phrase “proper safeguards”, Shrieve had broken in to ask what the Minister had in mind. “Proper safeguards”, he had suggested, were the whole crux of the problem.
Filmer had said that the matter was, of course, still under active consideration. Besides, it would all have to be negotiated at the constitutional conference. It was essential to maintain flexibility.
That was just what he was hoping there wouldn’t be, Shrieve explained. He hoped very much that the Minister would take a definite stand on the matter before the conference began, so that the question of negotiating it need never arise.
These things, Filmer was sure Shrieve understood, didn’t work quite like that. The conference would be a most delicate affair, and no firm positions on matters of detail could be taken beforehand. On a broad basis, however, it was firmly intended to press for “proper safeguards” for the Ngulu. Shrieve would see the need, in dealing with the political leaders of the colony, many of whom were extremists, at least in their public
statements
, to avoid any unfortunate exacerbation of a delicate situation.
Shrieve quite understood that. But he was afraid that people in Whitehall, and even the political leaders of the colony, extremist or otherwise, would forget that the Ngulu lived in a very distant part of the country which was extremely difficult to reach. He feared, and he had put his fears plainly in his memorandum, that while “proper safeguards” might be most sincerely arranged in London, they would prove ineffective in the bush. The Luagabu, he reminded Sir Sebastian, lived less than half a day’s journey on foot from the Ngulu, while the capital was three days away by jeep.
Filmer quite appreciated that, and this aspect of the question was causing the gravest concern in London. He was sure, however, that a satisfactory arrangement could be worked out.
Shrieve wondered if he might ask what kind of arrangement Filmer had in mind.
Sir Sebastian was not, of course, at liberty to say what discussions had taken place between himself and the Minister on this matter; but he could, completely unofficially, report that the Minister had said that he thought there would be no difficulty in achieving a satisfactory settlement.
Shrieve wondered what sort of satisfaction this would give and to whom. Could Sir Sebastian give him no indication of the sort of thing the Minister would consider satisfactory?
Filmer was afraid he couldn’t, but, again wholly unofficially, he didn’t think there would be any harm in letting Shrieve know that, for instance, there would be provisions in the Treaty of Independence which would guarantee the British supervision of all military training for the next seven years at least. This would involve the continued presence of many British officers and N.C.O.s in the colony. Thus the Army, if it was called upon to come to the aid of the Ngulu, would do so without question.
Though he considered this good news, Shrieve didn’t, he was sorry to say, feel that it affected the original problem he had raised, which was the containment of the Luagabu three days away from the capital.
There would be a further provision, Filmer explained, fearing he had not made himself clear, which would guarantee the same continuity of British personnel in the independent Air Force. Three days by jeep would probably be an hour at most by jet fighter.
Shrieve admitted that this news was encouraging.
Filmer smiled. He looked surreptitiously at his watch and saw that it was time to bring the interview to a close. Shrieve would not, he was sure, forget that the Ngulu would continue, after independence, to enjoy full legal rights, including appeal to the Privy Council. This would prove an indubitable
safeguard
.
Shrieve was about to say that he didn’t see quite how, when a buzzer (in fact pressed by Filmer’s own foot) rang on the desk.
Filmer apologised for not being able to give Shrieve more time. He could assure him that the matter was being most
carefully watched and that everything possible would be done. The Minister had asked him to say that he was most grateful to Shrieve for his memorandum, which he had found most interesting as well as useful. He, the Minister, had confessed to him, Filmer, that had it not been for his, Shrieve’s,
memorandum
, the seriousness of the Ngulu situation might easily have been underestimated. The Minister wished Filmer to express his warmest thanks to Shrieve.
Shrieve had found himself looking at, then shaking, a large well-manicured hand. He thanked Filmer for sparing him so much of his time.
Filmer said it had been a pleasure, and he hoped Shrieve would feel that their conversation had been constructive. He had himself found it most
in
structive.
They took leave of each other with further protestations of a conventional nature, though afterwards Shrieve realised that Filmer had not actually risen from his desk. His handshake, however, had been manly, confidential and firm; it gave the appearance, like his clothes, of having been long and carefully studied.
Outside, it was raining slightly. Shrieve shivered. He decided to walk a little to warm himself. The rain was only a drizzle, and it looked as though it might soon stop.
The trouble with men like Filmer, he decided, heading for St James’s Park, was that they lived in a world where words were primitive signs again. Each adjective had a precise and limited meaning closed to anyone outside the inner circle. Phrases were used ritualistically, with invisible quotation marks round them to show they meant much more or much less than they appeared to mean. Without a long training in the subtleties of intonation one was like a tourist trying to translate with only a pocket dictionary. And then there was the business of how much time anyone was given, and whether he was shown to the door or not—it was all weighed, all significant. How did one discover the key to this symbolic world? He must ring James Weatherby and find out.
Tomorrow, though, would do. First he had better try to
puzzle out what Filmer had meant for himself. And besides, there was a lot on this evening. There was a meeting at Patrick Mallory’s, where he had to make a small speech to explain what it was all about. James was supposed to be coming, anyway. The meeting would probably go on till seven-thirty, say—it was called for six, but such gatherings always started slowly, with drinks and gossip and introductions while late arrivals entered with perfunctory apologies and complaints about the traffic. Of course, the traffic in London was terrible. And then, when he would be wholly exhausted, there would be Jumbo Maxwell to bore him till closing time.
The rain suddenly became earnest and he sheltered under a tree with two nursemaids with prams. They made him think of his own childhood, of how little seemed changed for the English middle classes, despite their endless complaints. From what he had read, he had assumed that the nanny was only a cherished memory now, but here were two, in classic grey with hats of nannyish blue. He looked at the babies. One, not more than six months old, lay on its back, gender indeterminable, its blue eyes staring intently from a blotched red face at the toy dangling above it. Its hands waved slowly in tiny white mittens. The other was nearer eighteen months and
recognisably
female. She sat up, her hair a mass of golden curls, and crooned out at the rain. She leaned forward contentedly against the belt which restrained her, her hands in her lap. A baby’s hands, he thought, were hardly credible in their
smallness
and softness; they were like exact wax miniatures of adult hands.
He thought of Tom, his half-savage son, of his miniscule fingers fiercely clutching his father’s thumb; babies were surprisingly strong. Poor Tom, thought Shrieve, he had no nanny, no pram, no one to push him about royal parks and shelter him under solemn English trees. He had only his mother, who carried him spreadeagled across her back, as all Ngulu women carried their babies, wrapped in a shawl. It must get very dull for a baby, seeing nothing but the back of his mother’s neck. Tom seemed to enjoy it, though. He was nearly
two, and becoming quite a weight for Amy. He was beginning to stagger about on his chumpish little legs, wobbling from support to support, more determined each day. Dayu would stand some distance away and call him: he would look at her suspiciously. She would call again: he would look away. Then he would suddenly push off from whatever he was leaning against and plod unsteadily towards her, all concentration and effort. By the time Shrieve returned, Tom would probably be walking everywhere.
Shrieve smiled to himself, thinking of his family. Kwuri regarded Tom somewhat ambiguously: a boy didn’t, after all, play with babies. But he was intrigued by his brother, and tried sometimes to teach him games that were far too advanced for him. Kwuri could count with stones and tried to teach Tom. Carefully holding up one stone, he would say “One”. Tom would reach for a stone, make an incomprehensible gurgle, then put it in his mouth.
The nursemaids were regarding Shrieve with suspicion. Strange middle-aged men didn’t smile in that fond way while sheltering under trees unless they were up to no good. Shrieve had a sudden longing to write to Amy, to tell her he loved her and the children, to say what he was doing, that he would be home as soon as possible. But Amy couldn’t read, and he could hardly ask Mackenzie to tell her the things he wanted to say. What she would really like would be several affectionate pats on the bottom. The only real link between them was the
postcards
Shrieve sent every few days, brightly coloured ones of London sights and members of the royal family. Amy was very fond of pictures of the royal family.
The shower pattered to a stop. Sighing, Shrieve went on his way, passing Buckingham Palace, of which he had already sent Amy several cards, and going through Belgravia towards his flat. The traffic was ominously thickening: it must be nearly five o’clock.
Outside the flat he found Edward waiting.
“Sorry I’m late. I got caught by a shower and stood under a tree with some nannies. I didn’t know they still existed.”
“While there’s an England there will be nannies,” said Edward. “But a lot of them are foreign these days.”
“Ah, the new internationalism.”
“About time too,” said Edward. “Keeping Britain great is very dispiriting, like Canute with his waves.”
“Canute?” said Shrieve. “Yes, perhaps.”
Edward wondered how Shrieve in fact thought about England. Regretfully, probably.
They began to discuss the meeting at Patrick Mallory’s. Edward had brought a notebook, his pen was full of ink; he was ready to be a real secretary or to pass for one, as required.
“I don’t think, quite honestly,” said Shrieve, as they
prepared
to leave, “that this is going to be the slightest use.”
“But people are always writing to
The
Times
about things like this,” said Edward. “It’s almost obligatory.”
“Precisely. It’s the done thing. And once it’s done, everyone forgets about it, the gesture has been made, concern has been expressed in the appropriate place, and we can all sit back and say with clear consciences that we’ve done what we can. No one’s going to pay any attention whatever.”
“I’m surprised to hear you saying that,” said Edward. “I mean, I’ve been wondering about it all along, but I thought you put quite a lot of stock by this letter.”
“I did to begin with, I suppose. I think I believed in letters to
The
Times
till I started talking to people here. Now I’m not so sure. There are so many letters with eminent signatures. Some people seem to make a profession of signing the damned things. I don’t think a letter will have any effect here. But people who live a long way from home take them seriously, you know. And that goes for African politicians, most
certainly
. We’re not going to affect anyone in England, but we might conceivably influence some of the delegates to the conference.”
“Hmm,” said Edward. “Well, it’s better than nothing.”
“I hope so,” said Shrieve. He looked gloomy.
*
Patrick and Lady Georgina Mallory lived in Mayfair. He
was a tall, soft-spoken man whose bearing proclaimed his wartime service in the Guards. He had a long nose, slightly crooked from an enthusiastic rugger tackle at Eton, and grey eyes looked amusedly from beneath thin black eyebrows. His wife was almost as tall as her husband, with hair dyed grey to avoid the tiresomeness of ageing before the eyes of her friends. She chain-smoked cheap cigarettes, saying her tastebuds had been ruined for years. She had a hearty manner and a strong handshake, and she could pull herself straight and freeze those to whom she took a dislike with a disdain which her family had spent centuries in cultivating. Since she was tall, she had the air of looking, quite literally, down her nose at people.