Bums on Seats (4 page)

He made a note of his two principal distillations so far: “Complaining is disempowering”; “Democracy can dilute quality of focus.” This was enough information to start writing his article. Time to move on. He shuffled all the papers into a file, put them in the drawer and set off for the bookshop.

CHAPTER 5

The Dragon very sensibly aimed to capture everyone's trade. There was a decent lounge bar for those wanting drinks, bar snacks and chat in civilised surroundings, a restaurant with nice decor and a good menu at affordable prices, a so called sportsman's bar where you could play darts, pinball and a juke box and, across the car park, what had been a function hall and was now a purpose-designed disco. The landlord was taking a fortune. Simon wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd have been much better off if he weren't so bright. No! University life was great most of the time. Permanent pub life must be terrible. They all smoked, drank and worked themselves to an early grave.

Luke was waiting at a corner table in the lounge bar with two pints. “Get this down you, you look knackered.”

“Cheers.” Simon noted his friend's mastery of the vernacular and swilled half the glass down in one go.

Luke, reading his thoughts, said, “I've spent eight years of my life being educated in England. Have you had a good day?”

“Yeah, no lectures, no meetings, no interruptions, and I managed to shift my arse and mark forty assignments. How about you?”

“Excellent, thanks. Mind you, I exist in accordance with my electronic organiser. It's the only way for me. Projects, key dates, things to do, telephone numbers – I enter everything and stick to my schedules.”

Simon, who enjoyed just dealing with life as it occurred, could see him as an efficient cabinet minister in a few years.

“I've been in touch with my uncle. He's very enthusiastic about the possibility of placing Zombekian students at Pucklebridge. Our initial need is to place two hundred honours degree undergraduates a year for three consecutive years, all of them in the Business School. Let's talk about ways and means.”

“For a start, Luke, Pucklebridge requires A levels accumulating to a minimum of fourteen points. They would all need good spoken and written English. And they must all be able to relate to the way commerce and economics actually work.”

“Even before independence, twenty years ago, English was taught as a second language to the educated in Zombek. It's now become the first language for them. When your people left we continued all commerce in English. Our education system produces good English fluency.”

“Great! How about A levels?”

“Like you, Simon, we have GCSEs leading to A levels and our system works. But we only have two teacher training colleges and progress is slow. GCSEs are well established and a high percentage of children achieve them. Mind you, as a large part of Zombek is still based on village life, there is considerable emphasis on pastoral subjects. Keeping people happy on the land's been a successful formula. We subsidise the smallholdings from our mineral income, of course.”

“So, as I asked, how about A levels?”

“Patience, patience! Let me get the glasses refilled.” Luke made for the bar and Simon the loo. He stood at the stall and read some wag's scribble on the wall: ‘Why are you looking up here and pissing on that chap's shoes?', apologised profusely to a large bloke at the next stall, and hurried back to the table.

“Our A levels are meant to correspond with your academic achievement standards. But in some subject areas we have difficulty. It's necessary, Simon, to take a flexible and imaginative view when comparing. Education is not a matter of absolutes, is it? Absolutes are brain fodder for bigots!”

“I've thought about that. We'd have to establish a sort of joint panel of accreditation. The Uni would have to appoint members from Pucklebridge and you would select academically reputable Zombekians.”

“Excellent, I knew you'd take a pragmatic view! For our part we'd be absolutely scrupulous,” he said with no apparent trace of irony. “Perhaps Pucklebridge's Vice-Chancellor would refer such matters to a focus group,” he beamed.

Simon felt a slight sense of having his strings jerked but thought it too improbable. “Then there's the matter of the students' satisfactory progress.”

“How is that decided?”

“Their written course work is sampled and audited, Luke.”

“Who sets it and marks it and who audits?”

“People like me set and mark. Other people like me, from a different faculty, audit.”

“Excellent,” said Luke again. “Are they people you know from other faculties? It's all looking very sensible isn't it?”

“Yes, well…” For the first time Simon felt confused, a bit out of control. A lifetime of being clever told him he could think through difficulties as they arose. There was a challenge to all this. On the other hand this was big stuff. But then again, he'd always felt he was potentially a big man. He tried to remember who it was who said, ‘It's never too late to become the man you ought to have been!'

“Simon, we don't need to be sorting these things at breakneck speed. My uncle hopes the first students can come next September. That gives us ten months. He tells me that Zombek will have 300 young people from which to choose by May. Pucklebridge already has a complete university administration in place and working. It's just a matter of you and me and perhaps a few others, aligning all this in a way that helps overseas students and the university at one and the same time. I'm sure you'll lead us to some sensible arrangements.”

Simon decided to stop being wimpish. “Let's go for it, then. Education should be for everyone who wants it. I'll do a plan to look at all we need to achieve. You'll handle everything in your country. I may need to visit though, sometime soon. I'll sort procedures to cope here. You'll help me smooth the way when necessary. All this in absolute confidence. Agreed?”

“Agreed with one important addition. We insist on recognising your service to our country. Nobody works properly for nothing. You are in a unique position. Your efforts will be crucial and perhaps arduous. Leave the details to me. Agreed?”

Simon took the proffered hand and tried to stop his trembling from the prospect.

They talked a little longer, and then Luke's mobile phone beeped. He answered the caller in a monosyllabic way for a few seconds, then hung up and announced, “I'm sorry Simon, I have to go. Let's talk again next week,” With that he smiled, got to his feet, shook hands again and left the room.

It was 10.30. Simon was still at 30,000 feet. Going home was unthinkable. On impulse he went to the bar and bought a ticket for the disco. He'd not done such a thing for ages. At the least he could sit with a lager and watch the proceedings.

He passed through the second set of doors, recoiled and collapsed on a friendly chair. The noise was a solid wall of sensation. It came from everywhere and consumed all. The supposed background beat could have kept a whole regiment in step. The front men's guitars and keyboards shrieked and howled in wild competition. The strobe lights reared and dipped, flashed and dimmed, changed colour and de-synchronised. Five hundred gyrating bodies worshipped approval. The heat in the room would have sustained an entire house throughout the month of January. He felt the venue should be renamed “The Black Hole of Calcutta” and wondered what a visitor from Mars might make of these bizarre rituals.

A figure separated from the heaving mass, settled on his lap, wrapped a bare arm around his neck and shouted “Hi Simon” in his ear. It was Josie Manning, the young waitress who fed him bacon butties in the Common Room when lecture mornings were at low ebb.

“Hello Josie, didn't expect to see you here!”

“I'm often here – you're the stranger,” she said, pressing her face against his and speaking up. She wore several studs in each ear, her face seemed speckled with silver paint and she had considerable eye makeup. Perhaps the bare midriff and short skirt were de rigueur in her set. Or perhaps it was a matter of self-preservation in this heat?

“You're not saying much,” she said, this time pressing her face against his other cheek and shouting in the other ear. Simon thought that was sensible, wearing out one's ears at an equal rate.

“How long does all this go on?”

“About another hour. But they'll change to slow music soon. It's a bit quieter then, but you'll still feel the beat through the floor! You can give us a dance then.” She giggled, got to her feet and plunged back into the melée, immediately coupling up with another girl in some complicated gyration.

Simon went to the bar and ordered lager. He saw nobody he knew and nobody he felt like chatting to. He mulled over the arrangements for Luke's compatriots. It was looking good. Everybody gained. The university, Zombek, several hundred of their citizens and, not least, Luke and himself. Two lagers later, Josie came for him. It was amazing he'd actually managed to switch the music off in his head for half an hour. It was as she had forecast. The music was now funereal. The lights muted. The dancers held each other upright in pairs and moved very little.

Josie was tall, slimmish and athletic. He thought she might be nearly eighteen, but who's counting? He joined in the spirit of things, held her close and shuffled. “You're a good dancer, Simon, ever so light on your feet,” the voice said directly into his ear.

“Kind of you to look after an old man, Josie,” he replied banging his teeth on her ear studs.

She chuckled, gave him a little kiss and said, “Go on, my Dad's older than you!” He wasn't sure what to make of that, but she just leaned on him a bit more and they shuffled on for ten minutes.

“I'll get a taxi from here.”

“There's no need, my Dad's lent me his precious old Volvo, now I've passed my test. I'll drop you off.”

“Thanks, if you're sure. Your Dad's a hero.”

Ten minutes later they set off at a sedately old Volvo pace, just like a niece taking a favourite uncle out for a Sunday afternoon drive. The genteel excursion didn't last; when they reached the university, instead of passing as he expected, she indicated and turned. “I've forgotten something,” she smiled.

He was taken aback. “You'll never get in!”

She reached out of the window and punched the security code into the box. The barrier rose and she moved smartly off. Immediately next to the buildings was a row of lights; otherwise, all was deep shadow. What had possessed the girl? This was not the side of the Uni where she worked. She swung for the furthest corner of the car park. He got an inkling. Yes! now he understood. One of his private fantasies was about to be fulfilled. He was going to be seduced. Yippee! He was more right than he knew. He wouldn't be laughing in another ten minutes.

The engine was silenced, lights doused. A hundred black windows frowned on the campus car park. Ten thousand fallen leaves skittered and rattled around the four hundred and ninety- nine empty parking spaces. Josie thoughtfully unclipped his seat belt for him. Just as she would for her uncle, if she'd had one.

“I always liked you, Simon. You treat me as an equal. Not like some of those snobbish gits in the Common Room.” He was about to tell her, quite truthfully, that he was fond of her with her cheery manner and ready smile, but he never had a chance. In keeping with her age and personality, she was active and enthusiastic and very direct. He was literally overpowered.

They kissed and cuddled where they sat. It was intense but brief. She clambered to his side of the car. He unclipped her bra and stroked the lovely body. The effect was electric. Thirty seconds later, with no assistance whatever on his part, he was sitting on the old leather seat in just a tee shirt. She was naked. “Would it be a turn-on if I fastened you up in the seat belts, Simon?”

He was going to gasp a ‘No' but took too long to draw breath. She tugged a couple of yards of belt from his doorpost, wrapped it around his left biceps and clipped the buckle home across him. This was followed by a fierce, breath-depriving, kiss before she reached the drivers-side seatbelt wrapped it around his other arm, fed it through the other belt and pushed the buckle into the other clip. He silently prayed ‘Please God don't let there be a fire.'

The leather seat sighed as the athletic knees rubbed along it, first forward, then back. The knees moved quickly, then not at all, then gently again. A hand reached for the control that altered the rake of the seat. It was a very knowing hand; it could assess the precise angle for the most satisfying contact.

“Josie.” His endearment was devoured by hungry lips. Speech became redundant, the tongue more intrusive. He fought for breath. He'd heard that people sometimes deprived each other of oxygen at crucial moments to heighten sensation. He had an inclination of how it felt. He wondered whether he would escape with his life. In his mind's eye he heard the Coroner's Clerk pronounce a verdict of “Death by Intercourse”!

Her hands gripped the seat-top for purchase; her knees began the final, frenzied gyration. He wondered whether she'd been to some sex clinic and been kitted up to manage a sort of turbo mode. It was incredible. The paroxysm started at the tips of his toes. His eardrums threatened to explode to the rhythm of an abused heart. His face was enveloped by heaving breasts. There was definitely no breathing now. What a way to go! There was no control either, thrust and counter-thrust were urgently fierce. His world exploded! She made a wild, wailing shriek. The tortured Volvo seat snapped clean off its fixings!

CHAPTER 6

1971

Sarah Fairhurst, wife of the British High Commission's Cultural Attaché to Zombek, found pregnancy onerous. It was almost her seventh month. The baby rested in the daytime and spent its nights moving about. How many damn knees and elbows did the child have? The servants were on call and attentive. But a lady must be dignified, not irritable and short-tempered. At 3 am she had another glass of orange juice, lay back and thought stoically of England!

Two hours later a messenger roused the house.The Governor, 59 years old and well liked, had died from a heart attack. Another twenty minutes and her husband, William, was away to the High Commission. When he returned, after 16 hours, he'd been promoted to Assistant Deputy Governor. It was the death knell of their marriage, though neither knew it then.

“Oh, Sarah, this is terrible news. As you know, Chief Matthew Nweewe will be inaugurated President in three months time. I'll now have to take total responsibility for organising the state visit to mark the occasion. One of the Royals is coming as well as the Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary and others.”

“And as you know, I'm due back in England when I'm seven months. The baby comes before anything else.”

“Don't be ridiculous Sarah. Everything's changed. There'll be all sorts of functions leading up to the inauguration. It will be absolutely essential that I have a lady at my side at many of them.”

“Do you know how few hours I sleep! Do you care? Where exactly does the baby come in your list of priorities?”

“Sorry darling, sorry. It's been a very long day.” He saw his mistake and changed from husband to diplomat. “I know you're having bad nights. I think you've been wonderful in the circumstances and you still look so beautiful. I don't know how you do it. I couldn't.”

Sarah relented. “I'm sorry, too. Last night was absolutely bloody awful. Surely one of the High Commission's female staff can stand in and accompany you?”

“Possibly, but it wouldn't be the same. She wouldn't have your poise or experience and you seem popular with Chief Nweewe since our first visit. I'm sure he would be disappointed…”

“Look William, I need proper check-ups and then I'm booked into an English clinic for the birth. My family expect me. It's best for baby and me.”

“There's a first class clinic here in Kumbi. They do births all the time. I'll have a specialist woman doctor flown in when the time's near. If you wanted, we could fly your mother in as well. Don't decide now. Think it over, darling.”

“All right, I'll think about it. For heaven's sake let's go to bed.” Sarah was often alone in bed during the bad nights. William was ambitious, something of a workaholic, and needed his rest. He took to sleeping in the spare room. But this was a night for special effort.

Sarah liked sex. She had no problem having orgasms. But her real pleasure was being stroked, held and kissed all over. Making love was, for Sarah, not a speedy process. William resolved to play his part. “Darling, it worries me to see you without sleep. Would it help if I were always here to talk?”

“That's nice, love, but I toss and turn, and get up and walk around. In the end, it wouldn't help either of us. I think I'm one of those who just has an uncomfortable time childbearing.”

“You're being very brave, darling. The morning sickness was bad enough, but now this…” He leaned across and kissed her. She responded.

“Sarah, I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you. You're everything. There's never been anything else that matters.” She gave a small sigh, reached out and pulled him closer. He kissed her again.

“Oh William, I thought you were tiring of me. You always seem in a rush. It's as if you're body's here but your mind's on other things.”

“No, it's not that at all, my darling. I worry in case what you're going through puts you off me for good.” He gave her a longer kiss. She held his face between her hands.

The endearments and kissing and holding continued awhile. She was much moved. “I've missed you, William. I've felt wretched and lonely by myself most nights.”

“No more, my darling. I've been thoughtless and selfish. I'll be here for you now.” By and by he said, “I love you very, very much, Sarah.” He moved his fingers back and forth across her nipples. “I'm the luckiest man alive…” He lowered his head to her. Sarah slid her hand down his belly…

Twenty minutes later, a beautiful smile on her face, she drifted into perfect sleep. He waited patiently then slipped away to the spare room. The baby was very good, too. It didn't kick once!

“Darling, it's seven o clock. I've made you fresh juice.” He opened the shutters, helped her up in the bed and plumped the pillows. She reached up and kissed him.

“I've had the most wonderful night's sleep, William.”

“Well, now that we know how to keep the blighter quiet, we can fix that permanently!”

She looked thoughtful. “Has the maid cooked breakfast?”

“About another ten minutes I should think.”

“I'll shower and join you on the verandah.” She hadn't made the effort for weeks.

They breakfasted like new lovers, mostly eating with one hand whilst clasping fingers with the other. The border beneath the balustrade was a mass of colour. Brilliant little birds twittered in the bushes. The sky was clear and the air still cool. William, for the tenth time, reached across and kissed her.

“Duty calls, darling. Sit there; I'll be back.” He left to prepare for the day. Ten minutes later he returned in smart khaki drills, carrying a brief case in one hand and a deep pink bloom in the other. He'd popped out the kitchen door to pick it.

Sarah was quite overcome. It was a return to their honeymoon period. She kissed him. “What is this flower?”

“This is a bird-of-paradise flower. It's a strelitzia. Africa abounds with them. It's named after Charlotte of Mecklenburg- Strelitz (1744–1818), Queen of Great Britain and Ireland. Not a lot of people know that,” he added with a grin. “However, such knowledge is essential for an appointment to serve Her Majesty in the colonies!”

He kissed her goodbye, climbed in the Land Rover, waved and instructed the driver. She sat and pondered. She had everything, a loving husband and a wonderful lifestyle in a beautiful country. Good health and a baby just around the corner. And what was her response? She was going to bugger off to England and leave William to face a crucial career test alone. He'd shown how much he needed her. A servant brought a fresh jug of juice.

Kumbi, the capital, is a four-miles-square modern city. It has a deep-water anchorage, a busy port and a thriving commercial centre. The Anglo-Zombek Corporation occupies the top four floors of a high-rise block. The topmost is furnished in the style of an executive penthouse.

The Chairman of Anglo-Zombek looked at his major shareholder, gave a tight smile, turned in the leather armchair to their visitors and opened the bidding. “We're delighted at the opportunity to continue to serve Zombek. My great-grandfather, who no doubt was good friends with yours, spent half his life opening up this country. Your country! I feel sure he would have expected us to reach mutually beneficial arrangements today.”

Matthew Nweewe, paramount Chief of the Zombek National Council, leader of nine other Chiefs, smiled likewise at his deputy, Chief of his principal rivals, the Abiki tribe. He turned to the Chairman. “We, too, are pleased you wish to continue your association. We await your proposals with interest.”

The British, who had governed Zombek for 150 years, were about to depart.These were times of decolonisation.The country was prosperous. All the systems of a democratic and effective society were in place. Primary systems of healthcare, education, and law and order were operational. What the country would need, however, was a continuing commercial presence and also, help with moving all those institutions of society forward to equal European standards.

The British, who had hoped to stay and share commercial gain, had nevertheless seen this day coming. Since 1950, most of the sons of tribal chiefs had been educated in Britain at the Crown's expense. Their two representatives, present today, had graduated from British universities. Both were in their mid thirties. Both were born to the everyday matters of controlling tribal affairs. In short, they would not be a pushover.

The Chairman reached into the ice bucket and topped up their water glasses. This was going to be a take-your-time day. “I travel this country constantly. I'm proud of what I see. Well-fed children. Smiling women. Every man who wants a job can have one. These are the marks of progress.”

Matthew Nweewe leaned further back in the leather armchair and sipped from the glass. Time was plentiful and on his side. They held most of the cards and the other side would not know of his deficiencies. He started the negotiation. “Your major mineral exploitation leases expire this year. What do you propose should follow?” It was a direct and, in the circumstances, almost a rude question. But it had to be answered.

The Chairman made his opening gambit. “A further forty- year lease. However, this time we should be fifty-fifty providers of capital and recipients of due profits. My Board were for something rather less generous to Zombek, bearing in mind our capital investment in the last decade but I persuaded them that a partnership implied equality. How about that, then!”

Matthew thought it an outstandingly miserable bit of parsimonious cheek but he said, “Let's leave that aside for the moment. There's no hurry. Let's talk about developing the social aspects of my country. What assistance do you have in mind?”

The Chairman had absolutely nothing in mind. But his major shareholder was quicker. “We're glad you raised that. We've given considerable thought to it. We'd strongly recommend you let us help with roads, clean water and healthcare.”

Peter Abiki thought it likely that both improved roads and healthcare would help their British partners towards bigger profits. But instead he said, “What about education?”

“I was coming to that,” said the other man. “What we should do is to help you towards good secondary education. Provide something which would equate to our O Level standard.”

The meeting continued. Each side made negotiating forays and then consolidated. What standard of roads? How many water boreholes? How might clinics be established? Two hours passed at a mutually leisured rate.

“Let's have a bite to eat,” said the Chairman.

*************

Lunch was an hour-long buffet. The Zombekians refused wine and asked for juice.

Two hours into the resumed meeting, the Chairman decided to crank things up a gear. “If we are to put up fifty per cent of all capital, I cannot possibly go beyond a fifty-five per cent of profits to Zombek basis without returning to my Board for instructions.”

Matthew said, “I was not going to be so discourteous as to tell you of this, but we are meeting another prospective bidder shortly. It seems advisable that we make every effort now. But of course, you must decide.”

In the event, after another two hours, they reached agreement in principle at a figure of 60% profits to Zombek. The period of further lease was settled at 25 years. Outline figures and standards were agreed for help with roads, clean water and health. The extent of assistance with improving the standard of education proved an unexpected sticking point. The Zombekians however, were united and obdurate. The impasse was broken by the major shareholder.

He said, “Very well, we've come this far. We will provide major assistance to get you up to the equivalent of our A Levels by at least five years before our lease concludes. We will also help you arrange an agreement with a British university to finish the education of your brightest and best.”

It was this last clause that led, quite unexpectedly, to an incredible series of events more than 20 years later.

*************

Sarah had decided. ‘William, I will stay here with you. I can as easily have the baby in Kumbi as in London. Then I'll be able to help you and we can all be together.”

“Darling, that's wonderful. It makes all the difference in the world to us both. Thank you so much.” He kissed her. “We'll look after each other. Everything will be fine.” He regretted earlier unkind thoughts, resolved to be less selfish and to keep her happy. Lately, as she became bigger, he found her less attractive. Making love became a sexual duty. His work was increasingly engrossing. He could achieve a bright future. He just needed to cope with a pregnant wife for a few more weeks. That night, though, he produced a repeat performance of the previous night. Sarah was ecstatic. She had made the right decision.

The next six weeks were frantic. William mostly worked long hours. As well as the forthcoming inauguration, there were endless legalities and transfer of power issues resulting in local turmoil. When he wasn't working at the office there were functions to attend. Sarah was at his side at least two nights a week. Despite finding it something of a chore, William made special efforts in bed. Sarah was happy but increasingly exhausted. Even so, William urged her presence on social occasions.

Throughout her pregnancy, Sarah was visited by Mamuna, one of the wives of Ngunda, the Nweewe tribal witch doctor. Mamuna was well educated, fun and very supportive. If Sarah was low or had a headache, Mamuna would bring her a herbal remedy. As William's days became longer, Mamuna came more often, brought flowers, and stayed later. She became a good friend. The presidential inauguration was now just a few days away. Coincidentally, so was Sarah's expected confinement.

One morning a few days later, William left the house to drive north for the day. Sarah slept late and awoke in a puddle. Her waters had broken! She called the maid, kept calm and telephoned Mamuna. Before long, she was in the back of an official car with Mamuna, on her way to the clinic. Her contractions were every fifteen minutes.