The Governor's Lady (10 page)

‘Just look at the mess he's made of it,' she said. ‘He's spilt his drink all over it. I shan't lend you any more books, Mr. Stebbs, if that's the way you treat them.'

The last time he had seen Lady Anne had been in the Cathedral. She had looked a sick woman. But a change had come over her. Her tiredness, her air of having had all life somehow drained out of her, had entirely vanished. Even her paleness now merely served to set off those shining eyes of hers.

‘You're going to offer us a drink, aren't you?' she was saying. ‘It's not too early, is it? Just one drink. To show us that we're both forgiven. And then we'll leave you in peace again.'

‘Forgiven?' Harold asked.

Lady Anne put her finger to her lips.

‘Drinks first,' she said.

‘A soft one for me, please,' Miss Prosser told him. ‘A lemon or an orange. Or a tonic. I don't mind if it's just plain soda.'

But Lady Anne seemed rather amused.

‘He's got plenty to drink in the bungalow,' she said. ‘I know he has.
He's got gin, and he's got whisky. And he's probably got brandy too, if you asked him. I'm going to have whisky. Just straight with a lump of ice.'

It was lime juice that he poured for Miss Prosser.

‘And now what's all this about?' Harold said as he brought the glasses over. ‘Why have I got to forgive anybody?'

Lady Anne looked across at Miss Prosser.

‘Shall we tell him, Sybil?' she asked. ‘I can't believe it, but I really think he doesn't know.'

‘Delicious,' Miss Prosser replied, holding up her lime juice. ‘So cooling.'

‘I will tell him,' Lady Anne went on. ‘It's not fair on him, otherwise.' She turned to Harold as she was speaking. ‘For getting you into all that trouble,' she explained.

‘But I haven't been in any trouble,' Harold told her.

Lady Anne smiled.

‘That's what you say,' she said. ‘But we know better, don't we, Sybil? Sir Gardnor was furious. Simply furious. And it's all our fault. We didn't put your name down on the pad when you came to tea with us. So no one knew where you were. That's why they couldn't find you.'

Harold shrugged his shoulders.

‘I seem to have been forgiven.'

‘I did my best,' Lady Anne replied.

‘But we didn't come over just to apologise, you know,' she said. ‘Or, at least, I didn't. I came to say thank you.'

‘“Thank you” for what?'

‘For trying to protect me,' she told him. ‘It was darling of you. But you didn't have to. Really, you didn't. We can take care of ourselves, can't we, Sybil?'

Harold was aware that Miss Prosser was sitting forward in her chair, her lime juice clutched up close against her bosom. She said nothing. Lady Anne herself was leaning back, smiling at him.

‘I shan't forget it,' she said. ‘About saying that I was just walking past the bungalow, or something. Because I wasn't, was I? I came in here. I had to. I couldn't help myself. And I told him so. I think I told him why.' She passed her hand across her forehead. ‘I think I did. But I'm not sure. I can't remember.'

‘Does it matter?'

She was still smiling at him.

‘Only that he knows that you weren't telling him the truth about me,' she said. ‘And he's wondering what's behind it all. I suppose it's only natural'

It was generally agreed that the Governor's luncheon party for Mr. Talefwa was no more than a modified success; throughout the whole ninety minutes of it, Sir Gardnor glowed rather than actually shone.

Not that it was Sir Gardnor's fault; or anybody else's for that matter. It was purely meteorological. After the almost incandescent heat of the past month, the rains were now approaching.

In consequence, the whole climate of Amimbo was in decline. Hour by hour, it deteriorated. With the thermometer remaining in the upper nineties, the humidity slowly crept up until it was now running level. Everything became saturated, sodden. Metal objects like brass doorhandles and nickel-plated taps were perpetually misted over, bearing upon themselves an invisible, residual film. Prickly heat became endemic, and everyone White by birth began scratching.

As for the Mimbo, they went their own dark, secret ways, more subdued, more morose and more enigmatic than usual. Even on large public projects, the local labour force dwindled away to practically nothing; and crimes of inexplicable violence abruptly rocketed upwards.

Meanwhile, the whole landscape of the Colony had undergone a profound change. In the meaningless, blue African sky, clouds appeared from nowhere; and, even between the clouds, the blue faded. It was no longer purely savage. And already, in the distance, the big stuff had began massing. Over the Alouma Hills, huge mountain ranges of steel-coloured cumulus were now piling up; and, at sunset, everything turned crimson.

In the reflected light, the Government buildings, St. Stephen's Cathedral, the avenues of trees, the flower-beds, the lawns all changed colour, too. Amimbo had become a different Amimbo.

By one o'clock on the day of the luncheon, Sir Gardnor had changed his jacket three times.

It was the Bishop, in particular, who had provoked him, and made him hotter than he need have been. First, his Grace had refused in any circumstances to meet the offensive Mr. Talefwa; then, on second thoughts, he had decided that, if re-invited, he would accept; and now, at the last moment, he had asked if he could sit next to the man. Sir Gardnor told the A.D.C. to re-arrange the table.

The party itself was a small one. In addition to Mr. Talefwa, there was Mr. Ngono from the African side. It had occurred to Sir Gardnor that this would be an opportunity of having Mr. Ngono to the Residency, without actually having to talk to him. Accordingly, he had been placed at the far end, with only the A.D.C. and Native Affairs for company.

Next to Mr. Talefwa was the Bishop. Opposite Mr. Talefwa was Mr. Frith. And next to Mr. Frith was Harold. In the result, it worked out exactly wrong; the Africans were outnumbered by two-and-a-half to one, and the general effect was lop-sided.

In his enthusiasm, it was Mr. Ngono who arrived first. He was a good five minutes early. There was only the A.D.C. to receive him. But between two people of such good manners no problem presented itself.

‘How d'you do? I'm afraid His Excellency is detained for a moment.'

‘No, no. The fault is entirely all mine.'

‘What'll you have?' The A.D.C. asked. He indicated the dumbwaiter beside him. ‘Gin, whisky, sherry?'

‘Oh, you are more than kind. Gin, please,'

‘And tonic?'

‘You are most kind, indeed.'

‘Ice?'

‘With ice it is even better. Damn good, in fact.'

Mr. Ngono smiled inwardly as well as outwardly. Swearing always made him feel better. It served when talking to a white man to remind him that, despite the distance of Continents and oceans, Cambridge was still close at hand, and all Cambridge men were bloody well equal.

‘Cigarette?'

‘My own please. Turkish you understand. They are personally imported for my convenience. You will please try one. Most mild. Most exceptionally mild.'

The A.D.C. excused himself.

‘Don't use them,' he said. ‘Light?'

The next to join them was the Bishop. All the way in the car he had been reproving himself for his earlier lack of charity towards Mr. Talefwa, and he was determined to do everything in his power to make amends. In consequence, he did not even listen to the introduction and immediately began congratulating Mr. Ngono on his outspokenness, his sense of justice and his feeling for the underdog.

It was only the emergence through the inner door of the Governor, followed a moment later by the arrival of Mr. Talefwa himself, that saved Mr. Ngono from having the humiliation of having to explain. As it was, he had merely stood there, glass in hand, smiling politely and waiting for the Bishop to go on.

The Governor immediately made Mr. Talefwa his own especial target. He advanced upon him, smile extended.

‘How good of you to come,' he said. ‘I know how busy your paper must be keeping you. What will you drink? Gin, whisky …'

Mr. Talefwa shook his head.

‘Thank you, sir, no,' he said. ‘I do not drink alcohol. I am a Moslem.' The reply appeared to please Sir Gardnor.

‘I wish we were all as strict,' he said; and, to avoid giving the wrong impression, added: ‘I myself drink nothing during Lent.'

The Bishop caught Sir Gardnor's eye and nodded understandingly. But Mr. Talefwa was still pondering.

‘Christian self-strictness is the greater, sir, I assure you,' he replied at last. ‘Abstinence during your Fasts must be much harder, once there is addiction.'

Sir Gardnor looked across at his A.D.C.

‘Are we all ready?' he asked. ‘Shall we be seated?'

Over luncheon it was the Bishop who set himself out to charm. He mentioned the fact that among his closest friends was one who had in the past been a leader-writer on the
Daily Telegraph
; he recalled a recent, laughable misprint in the
Church Times;
and he confessed that, for him, breakfast was intolerable unless he had a newspaper that he could prop up against the marmalade-jar.

Mr. Talefwa appeared both impressed and surprised.

‘Then you must be much interested in journalism', he said, with a little bow of his head. He turned towards Sir Gardnor, ‘And you, sir, do you see my paper regularly?' he asked.

Sir Gardnor resented the question: it was altogether too early in the
meal for it. And, in any case, he had himself intended, over coffee, to bring the conversation round to the newspapers in general, and the
Amimbo Mirror
in particular. Now—thanks to the Bishop and all his silly press talk—the initiative had been snatched from him.

‘Not regularly, I am afraid, Mr. Talefwa,' he replied, with one of his warmer smiles. ‘Not regularly. But I understand that you are now printing articles in English. Do your readers appreciate the change?'

Mr. Talefwa shook his head.

‘Most of them cannot read English,' he said. ‘Only a proportion can understand. But it is not for them that the articles appear.'

Sir Gardnor frowned.

‘Not for your readers?' he asked.

‘No,' Mr. Talefwa told him. ‘They are intended for those who cannot read Mimbo. They are addressed, at second-hand of course, to our rulers so that they may know what are the matters that are most troubling the Mimbo mind.'

‘Really,' said Sir Gardnor. ‘How interesting. How very interesting.'

‘Then you have not studied what they say?'

Sir Gardnor looked across the table at Native Affairs.

‘You read Mr. Talefwa's paper, don't you, Mr. Walters?' he asked. ‘The section in English, I mean.'

Mr. Walters coughed discreetly.

‘I read the Mimbo parts, Excellency,' he replied.

Sir Gardnor turned back to Mr. Talefwa. He was beaming again.

‘There you are, Mr. Editor,' he said. ‘You have a regular reader here at this table. And you don't even have to translate for him.'

Mr. Talefwa gave a deep sigh.

‘But the topics are entirely different,' he explained. ‘My Mimbo readers are backward, uneducated and superstitious. For them it is necessary to write of very simple and trivial affairs. The English articles are highly political. They deal with matters of national consequence and controversy. In journalistic terms, they are dynamite.'

‘Indeed?' Sir Gardnor had leant forward, as though anxious not to miss a word. ‘Pray tell me more.'

But Mr. Talefwa was, for the moment, exhausted. He had been ready for an attack on him; a polite reprimand; a sly hint of possible closure; even an official warning from the Governor himself. Like the Bishop, he had wondered whether it was wise to accept at all. And now everyone
was being nice to him; being nice, without caring about .him in the slightest. It reminded him heartbreakingly of the attitude of his widow landlady in Belsize Park.

‘Then you have not considered my solemn warning on famine?' Mr. Talefwa blurted out. ‘It is the writing on the wall, sir. It is nothing less.'

Sir Gardnor addressed Mr. Frith.

‘A famine warning?' he asked. ‘Has this been brought to your notice? It sounds most important. I should like to see it sometime. We certainly need all the advance information we can have, don't we, Mr. Talefwa?'

‘The facts are all there,' Mr. Talefwa answered. ‘The terrible facts.'

Mr. Frith was about to answer, but Sir Gardnor stopped him.

‘You were about to say something, Mr. Stebbs?' he asked.

‘As a matter of fact, sir,' Harold replied, ‘I was wondering where Mr. Talefwa got his facts. They've gone a bit haywire somehow. Too bad in places, and too good in others. They need to be presented differently.'

‘Ah,' it was Sir Gardnor who had uttered. And he paused. ‘There, Mr. Talefwa,' he said, opening the palms of his hands as he was speaking, ‘you see. Even at luncheon we still keep you busy. Fresh information all the time. You and Mr. Stebbs should see more of each other. I'm sure Mr. Stebbs would like to check any figures you care to send him. You would, wouldn't you, Mr. Stebbs?'

Sir Gardnor had glanced at his watch while he was speaking, and Mr. Ngono recognised that, in a moment, he would be too late. Stuck down at the far end of the table, he had been left out of things: had failed entirely to make his personality felt. Everyone would think that Mr. Talefwa was all-important and that he, Mr. Ngono, was nothing.

He tapped with his coffee spoon on the side of the cup.

‘Before we break ourselves up, Excellency, sir,' he said, ‘may I on Mr. Talefwa's behalf and on my own extend our sincerely happy thanks for this most glad occasion. It has all been extremely delightful, not for today's excellent repast alone, but for the opportunities it gives of other intimate follow-ups in the near future. Thank you altogether warmheartedly again, sir.'