The Governor's Lady (19 page)

Then, not liking the exploring hands any longer, Harold suddenly sat up.

‘I'm fine, sir,' he said. ‘Absolutely fine.'

But it was different when he tried to stand. He struggled up onto his knees, clutched hold of the A.D.C. and sank back again.

‘Keep your head down until you're feeling better,' Sir Gardnor told him. ‘We're in no hurry.' He turned to the A.D.C. ‘You can tell them to keep the meat,' he said. ‘They'll be able to have a feast day. The head's quite useless, of course. I've blown too much of it away.'

When, at last, they got Harold to his feet they had to support him, one on either side, as if he were drunk. And the going wasn't easy. They stumbled over submerged roots, went up to their waists in pot-holes, sank into the underlying slime.

‘I must say I'd have thought the Major would have sent a party out by now,' Sir Gardnor remarked, rather petulantly. ‘Presumably he's posted someone to keep us under observation. Surely, he can see there's something amiss.'

The arrival back at the camp caused more than ordinary consternation. For a start, there was blood on Sir Gardnor's khaki shirt and Old Moses imagined that it was the Governor who had been wounded; gored probably.

‘Doctor
baas
quick,' he began shouting. ‘Doctor
baas
for the Excellency.'

But he need not have bothered: Major Mills had everything in hand. Captain Webber, the Medical Officer—a little late in Sir Gardnor's opinion—had been there to meet them on the foreshore, complete with stretchers, first-aid kit and blankets. Harold, on one of the stretchers, with Captain Webber beside him, was bringing up the rear of the procession. The Governor and the A.D.C. were both stepping it out in front, not even, somewhat to Captain Webber's disappointment, classifiable as walking wounded.

Sir Gardnor looked hard at the A.D.C.

‘I'm going to take a shower,' he said shortly and solemnly, as though it were an important public announcement that he was making. ‘And no doubt you will want to do the same. By all means use mine if yours isn't working. I think'—with a wave of the hand he indicated Harold, lying under the regulations blanket—'we had better leave him to Captain Webber. He's his property, you know.'

With complete disregard for all human feeling, the stretcher-bearers marched straight past the tent that had been set aside for the ladies. It was cooler now, much cooler; and Lady Anne and Sybil Prosser were sitting outside their tent in the comfort of folding canvas chairs with striped canopies. They might have been at Henley. Sybil Prosser was drinking what looked like orange-juice and Lady Anne had a glass of whisky in front of her.

At the sight of Harold, she gave a sudden little cry, and jumped up. Harold saw the glass go over, and Sybil Prosser's hand reach out instinctively to save it.

Lady Anne ran towards the stretcher.

‘What's happened?' she was saying. ‘Is he badly hurt?'

She began pulling at the blanket, dragging it down from underneath his chin to see how much Harold had been injured.

He smiled up at her.

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘I'm all right. It's nothing. As a matter of fact, H.E. saved my life.'

Lady Anne was silent for a moment. Then she burst out laughing.

‘That's funny,' she said. ‘Really funny.'

She turned because Sybil Prosser had caught up with her.

‘He doesn't know quite how funny, does he, Sybil?'

And, having started to laugh, Lady Anne could not stop. Sybil Prosser kept trying to quieten her, making discreet
sssh-ssshing
noises as she did so. But it was no use. She went on laughing.

As the stretcher-bearers moved forward, Harold inclined his head. Lady Anne, with Sybil Prosser's arm round her shoulders, was being led back towards the tent. She was still either laughing or crying. He could not make out which.

Behind them, Harold could see Sir Gardnor. He was standing in the doorway of his own marquee, his eyes shaded against the slanting sun. Throughout, he had been watching the whole scene very closely; it was almost as though he had anticipated that something of the sort might happen.

Then, as soon as Sybil Prosser had got Lady Anne safely back to her tent again, he turned and went inside to take his shower.

At breakfast next day Sir Gardnor was in excellent form.

‘Most extraordinary. Really quite extraordinary, wouldn't you say?' he remarked to Major Mills and Captain Webber as they sat facing him across the trestle-table top, with the coffee-pot and the milk jug and the marmalade jar between them. ‘I'd read about it, naturally. But I'd never actually encountered it at first hand, had you? Simply waiting there to be killed. Like a dummy. “Frozen” is the word you might use.'

Captain Webber pushed his plate to one side, and leant forward.

‘Paralysed by fear, sir?' he suggested.

Sir Gardnor paused, and regarded Captain Webber for a moment. The impression was distasteful: Sir Gardnor disliked young-looking doctors.

‘I always hesitate,' he said, ‘to impute motives. So far as I could see, he was absolutely calm. Cool and collected throughout, wouldn't you say?' He had shifted round in his seat, and was speaking to the A.D.C. ‘Did you see any signs of panic? I confess, I didn't.'

‘Not a trace, sir,' the A.D.C. replied. ‘He just fired too high.'

‘Well, there you are.' Sir Gardnor allowed himself his expansive smile. This time it was directed straight at Captain Webber. ‘You see how wrong laymen can be. But, as a medical man, you detected it at once. I must confess that I would never have thought of Mr. Stebbs as the panic-stricken type.'

Captain Webber leant forward even further.

‘What I meant, sir,' he said, ‘was that…'

But this time it was Sir Gardnor who interrupted him.

‘You will excuse me, won't you?'

The bearer from Signals had come over to the table, and Sir Gardnor was in touch with Amimbo once more. He read the typed sheets slowly and carefully, his face revealing nothing. Then he folded up the paper and stuffed it under the corner of his plate.

‘It seemed that our native newspaper is angry with me,' he said. ‘It calls me a bloodthirsty Governor because a murderer has been executed. It's not, I must admit, a point of view that I understand. And there have been more outrages. Two, in fact. One native, and one white.' He caught Major Mills's eye. ‘Perhaps I shouldn't have taken you away like this. You'll be needed back there, wouldn't you say? I'm afraid our Acting Chief Secretary must be having a hard time of it.'

Major Mills very nearly made the mistake of replying. But already Sir Gardnor was speaking again.

‘And, I gather, that at home India is still very much in the news,' he said. ‘The press simply won't let things alone. It's poor Eldred. Apparently, he's allowed himself to be interviewed. By the
Morning Post
, too. That must surely be a mistake, mustn't it? I mean one can't exactly canvas for Viceroyship, can one? It's always been the tradition …'

Major Mills glanced down at his watch for a moment. It was a discreet, furtive gesture; but, even so, Sir Gardnor detected it. He broke off in the middle of his sentence.

‘Am I detaining you?' he asked.

Major Mills hurriedly thrust his cuff down over his wrist again.

‘Oh no, sir,' he said. ‘Not at all. It's simply that I was wondering about…'

‘About moving on?'

‘Precisely, sir.' He paused. ‘Before the sun gets too high, you know, sir.'

Sir Gardnor gave his half-smile.

‘I'm ready, Major, whenever you are. We are
all
ready. We don't want to stay here all day, do we? But'—here he turned the same half-smile on Captain Webber—'it's your pigeon, isn't it? I mean we can't get under way until you say its safe for our invalid to travel. He did have rather a shaking-up yesterday, didn't he?'

Captain Webber pushed his chair back.

‘Then if you'll excuse me, sir,' he said.

‘But, of course,' Sir Gardnor told him. ‘You're on duty, aren't you? You have your rounds to make. Tell him I'll come over myself a little later on. I have one or two things to attend to.'

Major Mills and Captain Webber left the tent together. As soon as they
had gone a safe-speaking distance, Captain Webber leant over a little towards his companion.

‘Bit tetchy this morning, isn't he?' he asked. ‘Did I say anything to upset him?'

Major Mills did not answer directly.

‘Got a lot on his mind, remember,' he said. ‘Never really gets away from it, you know. All those radio cables and things.'

They were now twenty-five yards from the tent, and there was no question of their being overheard. Even so, Captain Webber kept his voice discreetly low.

‘Don't think it's anything else, do you?' he suggested. ‘Something a bit nearer home, I mean.'

But he had put his question to the wrong man. Major Mills was a serving officer, and Sir Gardnor was his Commander-in-Chief.

‘Don't know what you're talking about,' he replied. ‘Afraid I can't help you.'

And rather than risk getting himself caught up in a conversation that he did not want to pursue, Major Mills made off at right-angles: it was time for his morning conference with O.C. Transport, he explained.

Captain Webber continued his own way alone towards the sick bay. It was early; not yet six o'clock, in fact. And there was still a breeze. Later on, when it was needed, the breeze would die down, leaving the same furious hot stillness everywhere. Already the swampland down below them was steaming.

Captain Webber was a great believer in going round the wards as soon after dawn as possible: it helped to keep the hospital staff on their toes. But he was not to be his patient's first visitor that day. As he drew near, he could hear the sound of voices.

‘But you understand.' It was Lady Anne who was speaking. ‘It's all right for you. You're out there with
him
'—she emphasised the word ever so slightly—'killing things, and I'm left all alone here with Sybil while all those radio messages keep coming through. I just want to know what they say.'

Captain Webber could not hear Harold's reply. From the sound of it, he judged that Harold was still lying down flat in bed. But Lady Anne's response was plain enough.

‘He'd never agree,' she said. ‘He'd think it was just silly and interfering if I asked him. And, in any case, you know I
wouldn't
ask. Major
Mills isn't any use, and Miles is on Gardie's side anyhow. It's got to be the Signals man. He's the only one who can help.'

There was another mutter that probably came from the pillow. What was said was obviously unsatisfactory, because this time Lady Anne's voice was raised again.

‘You don't care,' she said. ‘That's it: you just don't care. Well, if you won't do anything, I won't either. I won't bother to see you again. I only came along for your sake.'

Captain Webber gave a little cough. The voice stopped immediately. A moment later, Lady Anne appeared in the doorway. She looked cool and unconcerned; even rather elegant. Sybil Prosser must have taken care of all the arrangements. Lady Anne's dress was freshly-pressed and her white shoes were spotless.

She seemed pleased to see Captain Webber.

‘Oh come in, doctor,' she said. ‘He's much better. He wants to get up. I was just telling him not to until you'd seen him again. I've sent off the orderly to get him some breakfast.'

Harold was quite well enough to be moved, Captain Webber announced. There were definitely no bones broken; and what he had feared might be a small rupture was simply where the buckle of his belt had been driven into him. If they laid out a mattress in one of the transport trucks, the patient could make the journey quite comfortably, Captain Webber reckoned.

They camped that night in hill country. And it was a different Africa. The fifteen hundred feet that they had climbed had left the stale air of the plains behind them, and they could breathe again. Major Mills made the round of his caravan site rubbing his hands together, and predicting that they would need a blanket on the bed before morning.

The hills, too, had their customary effect. Everyone suddenly became relaxed and peaceful. Up there in all that stillness, senses became keener. Drinks tasted better. The smell of something roasting in one of the field-kitchens was delicious; and the sound of the boys singing as they humped the portables out of the service truck reached them in faint snatches, restful rather than discordant. If they would like some real music later on, Major Mills remarked, he'd brought his gramophone along with him.

As for Harold he was being pampered. Sir Gardnor had insisted that
one of the campbeds should be moved out for him so that he could recline there, Roman fashion, among the others. And Sir Gardnor himself was in the best of high spirits.

‘I take it you know where we are this time, Major?' he was saying. ‘No river off course, or anything like that? We should rendezvous tomorrow. The reports are excellent. My leopard is in fine condition, so I am told. We must arrange an appointment, must we not?'

He turned to Harold.

‘Everything well with you?' he asked. ‘No after effects? Not regretting your decision to come along with us?'

Sir Gardnor was at his most paternal: he wanted everyone around him to be as contented as he was himself. It was only the one empty chair displeased him.

‘Tony,' he said, ‘do go and find that Signals fellow. It's no use fiddling about with the buzzer any longer. It won't work up here: that's pretty obvious. Tomorrow when we skirt that'—he indicated the deep indigo outline of the mountain range to the west of them—'we shall be in touch again. And, in the meantime, we must get along as best we can, mustn't we?' He produced one of his little smiles as he said it. ‘And the rest of the world must learn to get along without us.'