The Governor's Lady (11 page)

Mr. Ngono gave a deep sigh of contentment. He had got it out. He had triumphed. He had shown where, on his side of Amimbo, the social graces really lay.

Towards evening, the lighting which had been playing over the Alouma Hills all day had become incessant.

The peaks and the under-surface of the huge clouds were continuously illuminated. And, in the flickering blue-white dazzle, jagged diamond-coloured shafts, branching out at times into the pattern of inverted ferns, tore downwards, making the surrounding brightness look like night.

Within Amimbo itself, odd bye-products of the seasonal discharge had already begun to manifest themselves. Sub-power stations and transformers suddenly went down. Telephones stopped. The weather-vane on St. Stephen's Cathedral flickered fitfully for a few seconds with St. Elmo's Fire. And the Radio Station closed its service, crackles and all, until the storm was over.

Because it was Tuesday, Harold was staffless. It was Amimbo's big evening, Tuesday. The Y.M.C.A. showed—free for allcomers—films, in colour, of the Lake District, Shakespeare's England and the Yarmouth herring fleet; the R.C.s had their instruction classes; the Non-Coms were teaching First Aid and the Bible; and one of Mr. Ngono's business enterprises was devoting itself to a Western Style Dance Contest, with all pleasures.

Tuesday was Harold's night for the Milner Club. But tonight it was not the same Milner Club. On one side, Mr. Frith was midway through his nightly run of whiskies; two bridge fours had been arranged; and the congenial Chairman of a coffee syndicate was heavily impressing an exhausted-looking stranger.

But on the other, the serving side, things were different. The three boys, spruce and immaculate as ever, were not merely staring vacantly into space; they were waiting for something. Waiting, and listening. Every time the remote barrage of thunder intensified, they nodded
secretly to themselves and exchanged glances, the whites of their eyes glinting. They had ceased altogether to be Club servants. They had reverted to pure Mimbo. They were praying.

‘Think it'll rain tonight, boy?' Harold asked.

The barman detached himself from another, more private world and jerked himself back into business.

‘Your usual, yassah. Your usual.'

‘I'm all right,' Harold pointed to his glass as he said it. ‘I asked if it was going to rain.'

The barman did not reply immediately. And with good reason. Last year, after all the right signs, nothing at all had happened. Not a single drop. The crops had perished, and womenfolk and young children had died. The barman did not doubt that foolish, ill-considered talk had been responsible. It was playing with providence even to refer to the rains at all.

He deftly turned the conversation into less dangerous channels.

‘Yassah,' he said. ‘Tonight, sah, on the menu there is roast lamb, sah, or mudfish. With compote of fresh fruits and ice-cream.' He was taking no chances, and went on hurriedly. ‘The roast lamb is with potatoes and mint-sauce, sah, or red-currant jelly. And the mudfish, sah, has a thick white sauce. The ice-cream is vanilla with nuts on top.'

In the headlights of the car, the bungalow looked lonely, deserted and inhospitable.

‘I'll have one more drink,' he told himself. ‘One more drink, and then turn in. If the storm breaks, I'll probably sleep through it.'

As he slid out of the passenger seat, an African raindrop the size of a small grape, hit him on his forehead and burst there. An instant later, the sodden, uneasy sky had released itself, and the rains, the unpredictable, the long-awaited, the much prayed-for rains, had come at last. Big, swollen drops hit bare scaly leaves, and buried themselves in the loose soil below. The drops came down joined on to one another; the rain was now hosepipe and bath-water stuff. At his feet, patches of open ground became ponds, lakes, rivers.

He ran towards the bungalow, shielding his face with his hands. The weight of the water was pressing down onto his shoulders. When he opened the front door, a screen of brown spray bounced up from the step into the empty hallway.

The electric-light switch on the wall simply clicked up and down; somewhere on its way from the sub-station the supply had been cut off.

He started to strip off his jacket, his tie, his shirt. The rain, hammering on the iron roof, made a noise like trains passing. Inside, it was all very close, and stifling and familiar. He was conscious of the hot, inhabited smell of the bungalow; the characteristic odours of the woodwork, the flowers on the table, the bowl of fruit that the boy had forgotten to put away in the ice-box, even the cigarettes left open on the bookcase.

‘I thought you were never coming.'

He turned, and she was standing there in the doorway. All that he could see was the pale oval of her face, the whiteness of her dress.

‘Anne,' he said.

It was the first time that he had ever called her by her name.

He let go of the sodden shirt that he was holding, and went over to her. She was already holding out her hands towards him.

‘You can kiss me if you want to,' she told him.

He could feel that she was trembling. But, a moment later, she had pushed him away again.

‘Silly boy,' she said. ‘You don't even know how to kiss. And look at the mess you've made of me. I'm soaking.'

Harold stood there facing her. He was surprised how fast his breathing had become, how he was trembling, too. And, inside his mind, one thought was forming. ‘I must play this cool,' he kept telling himself. ‘I must act experienced. That's it—cool and experienced.'

‘Would you like a drink?' he asked.

‘I got myself one,' she replied. ‘But it's finished.'

‘Then it's time for another.'

He groped his way through into the dining-room and poured out two whiskies. He must have drunk a little more up at the Club than he had realised, because he was clumsy. The soda came shooting up out of the glass into his face. And on his way back he bumped into the furniture.

‘Coming,' he said, and added pointlessly: ‘I can't see a thing.'

‘I'm over here,' she told him.

He tried to kiss her again as he handed the drink to her, but she avoided him.

‘Were you surprised to find me here?'

He kept his voice deliberately low and casual-sounding.

‘Not really.'

‘Pleased?'

‘Very.'

‘And you don't know why I came?'

‘I think I do.'

‘That's where you're wrong,' she said. ‘Utterly, completely wrong.'

She paused.

‘Have you got a cigarette?' she asked.

He managed to light it for her, without revealing how unsteady his hand was.

‘Quite wrong,' she repeated.

‘I don't care so long as you're here,' he told her.

‘And you can't expect me to go back out into that. Not at once, I mean. Now can you?'

Her face was towards the shuttered window as she was speaking.

‘Won't they begin looking for you?'

She turned sharply.

‘Are you afraid?'

‘I only wondered. About Sybil Prosser, for instance.'

‘You don't have to bother about Sybil.' He could tell that she was smiling as she said it. ‘Sybil's asleep. And H.E.'s away up country some-where. Nobody knows I'm over here. Not officially, that is. I just got bored with everything. So I walked across.'

Harold put his glass down with a jolt.

‘Why won't you let me kiss you?' he asked.

‘Because I'm not ready.'

‘And what about me?'

She began stroking his face again.

‘You are funny,' she said. ‘Five minutes ago you didn't even know I'd be here.' Then her voice hardened. ‘But you can't behave like that. It's no use. I'm not made that way.'

She had dropped her hand and moved further away from him.

‘If you're not going to finish your drink, give it to me,' she said.

‘I'll get you another one.'

‘No. I don't like being left in the dark. Besides, you've had enough already. You'll just go offto sleep.'

‘I'm not a bit sleepy.'

She gave a little laugh, and reached out so that she could touch him.

‘But you may have to stay awake for a long, long time. You can't
tell, can you? You can kiss me now, if you like. That's if you really want to,' she said. ‘Only this time you'll have to let me show you how.'

The storm, which all day had been muttering around the outskirts, had now closed in on them. The noise of the thunder rose above the rain; and, through the closed shutters, the lightning flashes lit up the room in streaks and patches of pale, flickering blue.

‘Hold me tighter than that,' she said. ‘Much tighter. I'm terrified of thunder. I always have been. Ever since I was a little girl.' He could feel her trembling again. ‘Hold me as tight as you can,' she said. ‘Show me how tight you can hold me.'

It was the sound of her crying that woke him in the night. He slid his arm under her, and pulled her towards him.

‘What's the matter?' he asked.

‘It's nothing,' she told him. ‘Nothing that you'd ever understand.' She began kissing him. ‘I'm furious with myself for crying. It spoils everything. And it's not your fault, darling. You must know that. You were wonderful. You don't know how wonderful. I should be so grateful.'

‘Grateful?'

‘Is that what I said?' she asked. Her voice sounded drowsy now, and she had stopped crying. ‘ Well, if I said it I suppose I must have meant it. Meant every word of it.'

A moment later, he could tell from her breathing that she was asleep again.

He lay there with his arms still around her. He was sober, completely sober by now.

‘She trusts me,' he thought. ‘Oh my God, how she trusts me.'

Next morning, when the boy brought in his tea and opened up the shutters, she had gone. There was only the second pillow beside him to show that she had ever been there.

Outside, the sun was shining. It was usually like that at the beginning of the rains: a real downpour one day, and perfectly fine the next.

Three days later, the Governor's return—already delayed by the rains —was rendered positively ridiculous when he reached Amimbo.

That was because the King Edward VII sewer (no one except the City Surveyor even knew of its magnificent name) first overflowed and then, under increasing pressure of the deluge, burst its concrete piping and completely disintegrated. In consequence, the whole of central Amimbo was awash, and Queen Victoria Avenue was closed to traffic.

The Governor's car and the two escort vehicles had to make the big detour round the stockyards and enter the Residency grounds through the farm gate by the native compound. The last quarter of a mile was covered in total darkness on foot, trudging through the mud under umbrellas, mackintoshes, spare tarpaulins from the estate-car, anything waterproof that could be grabbed hold of.

Not that the return was by any means inauspicious. On the contrary, ever since 4 p.m. the telegrams from London had begun pouring in. They reported that
The Times
and the
Manchester Guardian
had both, and on the same day, carried stories from their diplomatic correspondents, quoting well-informed sources to the effect that Sir Gardnor was to be the next Viceroy.

Travel-stained and aching for a bath as he was, Sir Gardnor found time to read all of them. When he had finished, he turned to the A.D.C.

‘Has Acting Chief Secretary had copies?'

‘Yes, sir. He telephoned about half-an-hour ago. He said he'd be there if you want him.'

‘Want him?' Sir Gardnor asked. ‘I don't see why. There's nothing he can do about it. These things must simply be allowed to take their course.' He paused. ‘After dinner perhaps. We'll see. He's probably anxious. He would be, wouldn't he?'

‘And the other telegrams, sir.'

The A.D.C. had pushed the red box forward as he was speaking, but the Governor ignored it.

‘In the morning,' he said. ‘I've glanced through them. There's nothing there.' He sat back and stared at the ceiling. ‘Give me another whisky, would you. I feel as though I may have a chill coming. It's quite as easy, you know, to catch a chill in a hot climate as in a cold one. One should always be careful. And pass me the text of what the
Manchester Guardian
said. I take it it's in full.'

He was completely unhurried as he sat there sipping at his whisky. He appeared to be sipping at the telegram, too. Then he turned again towards his A.D.C.

‘It's really most remarkable, isn't it? I've never known the
Manchester Guardian
so friendly towards me. They've always seemed hostile before. But they're quite right this time. India does need someone who…'

He broke off, and fixed his tired, pale eyes on the A.D.C.

‘You should have reminded me,' he said. ‘I wanted to see Lady Anne before dinner. It may be that side of the house doesn't even know that I'm back. But it's too late now. I should have been in my bath ten minutes ago. Send a message over to Lady Anne that dinner is put back to 8.30 in the small dining-room. And get hold of Acting Chief Secretary. We can talk over the table. He's bound to be on tenterhooks. I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd found him waiting here. And when do we get the originals—the actual copies of the papers, I mean? There's bound to be further press comment.'

Sir Gardnor did not have so long to wait. The further press comment was all there next morning in the
Amimbo Mirror
. And because Sir Gardnor did not himself read the paper, Mr. Frith paid a special visit to the Residency so that he could show him personally.

By then, the Governor was fully prepared. Native Affairs had already sent through a Minute saying that he was genuinely concerned about the effect upon any of the
Mirror's
African readers who happened to be bilingual; the Chief of Police stated confidently that, given the necessary authority, he and his men could ensure all circulating copies would be immediately impounded and that no further editions would appear until the Order was lifted; and the Postmaster-General still favoured applying the Obscene Publications Act of 1912.