Bums on Seats (15 page)

“That’s very kind, Catherine. Thank you. I think I would like to take my leave of you now.”

They all shook hands and she went to her room. She felt the need of another shower and stood under the jets for ten minutes, before slipping into a brief robe and sitting on the edge of the bed.

There was a light tap at the door. Blast! The last thing she wanted was more talk or, worse, some stodgy, educational, bedtime reading matter. She opened the door. Captain Mark Kwame stood there. He, too, was obviously lately from the shower. He said nothing, just smiled his big friendly grin. A second later, Veronica controlled her knees and moved aside. He stepped into the room, lifted her under the arms and knees, kicked the door shut, took four strides to the bed and dropped her on it.

He let his bathrobe fall and kicked off his sandals. In the light of the bedside lamp she thought him a beautiful but somehow primitive sight. He was well over six feet and probably around 14 stone. His huge shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and flat stomach. He was very well built. The velvety black skin rippled with his small movements. He rolled her out of her robe and uttered just five words “I come for you, woman!”

Veronica felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She was aroused, but sort of shivery, an amalgam of anticipated excitement and fear of what might be. Then he was upon her. There was no foreplay and he said nothing more.

He raised and lowered backward and forward in a strong slow rhythm. Even though he bore his weight on his elbows, she was still transfixed to the mattress, powerless. He was relentless. She was totally without control. As someone who took charge of everything as a matter of course, she was lost.

He was slow to climax, just kept on and on, pressing her into the bed then lifting. It had a special thrill to it. It was like being raped without being hurt. Without much warning she climaxed and abandoned herself to a wild flurry of kissing and clawing. He slowed briefly then resumed, and then was finished himself.

He still said nothing and rolled off. Released, she turned on her side and instantly slept. He noted the small smile about her mouth, reached to the bedside lamp, and then closed his eyes.

Later, in the quiet dark hours, Veronica dreamt of Dartmoor and one of her lovely weekends. She climbed a steep bit of the moor. The heather was beautiful, the air fresh, the birds sang. Her husband called from higher up. It was a steep climb. The going became very difficult. He called again, then again…

She woke to hear Mark saying, “Wake for me, woman.” He was on her. He was entering her again. She gave him a little kiss and spread herself. This time she managed to move her body in rhythm with him. She clung to him when he lifted and dug her nails in the muscles of his spine. It proved satisfying for them both. They concluded in unison.

Veronica’s bedside alarm went off at 6.30. She could have slept all day. She reached a fumbling hand and stopped the wretched thing. She was on her side. Mark was immediately behind her with his arms around her. They lay there like two spoons pressed together. It was intimate, warm and very tempting. She rejected the thought. Whatever would she look like for the day? But, as she moved, it became very clear that Mark was ready for her. She gave a small sigh of resignation and reached down through her legs. Lovely, lovely, lovely. A few seconds later, the sigh became a purr as they rocked to and fro. Who the hell cares what one looks like!

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

The Range Rover and escort vehicle moved at a steady 60 miles an hour, halfway through its journey to the next college. Mark turned his head briefly and smiled. Veronica grinned in return without speaking. She was nodding off again. Ten minutes after turning off the alarm that morning, she had fallen back to an exhausted sleep.

She was wakened by a rapping on the door. Damn! It was breakfast time. Mark had gone.

“Shan’t be long,” she called. “I’ve overslept.”

Veronica and Agnes Queshi breakfasted alone. No mention was made of the hour. If Agnes noticed the dark rings around her guest’s eyes, she made no mention of that either.

After the meal, Veronica attended the teaching session as arranged. It was impressive. The lecturer was the Maths specialist, Paul Aiddo.

“Who developed differential calculus, then?” he asked the class. “Newton and Leibnitz, independently,” came the answer. “Yes, good. Let’s talk about an application then. If we differentiate displacement, we get velocity, and if we differentiate velocity we get acceleration. How might we use that information?” There followed a lively and informed, interactive session. All ten student teachers present contributed. If Veronica hadn’t been so dog tired, she might have thought that their quality was, if anything, perhaps too good. But she didn’t, which was just as well because the group had been brought together specially for the occasion. They were the best ten Maths graduates of the right age group in Zombek.

After the Maths teaching session, Veronica moved on to an English Studies tutorial led by Agnes Queshi. This time, the group was entirely genuine. It was just that the four student teachers had, unknown to her, worked through the exact same groundwork two days earlier. Veronica, who had studied English as a subsidiary to History, joined in here and there. Luckily, she didn’t hit upon any blind spots. Again, she was impressed. An hour and a half later, after a further relationship-developing lunch with the Principal, she was climbing into the Range Rover. Mark loaded her case and the copies of each teaching curriculum. Then they were off; it was 1.30pm.

“We’re just arriving, Veronica.” Mark reached out and squeezed her bare arm. She sat up straight with a start. The escort jeep was turning through a gateway.

“Oh my God, Mark, whatever do I look like?”

“Fine, you look fine!”

“No, really, Mark?”

“Well, at worst, you could say you look pale and interesting,” he grinned. “A Zombekian wouldn’t know the difference between that and normal for you.”

She gave him a quick punch and busied with a hairbrush.

The pattern with the Principal and the evening was similar to the previous days. Mark was nowhere to be seen. She assumed he’d been called to responsibilities elsewhere. In fact he’d driven off to a nearby army base at about 3.30pm and scrounged a bed. He was asleep by 4.00pm and was called, by arrangement, at 8.30pm with a cup of tea. He just had time for a light meal before setting back off to the college for night duty.

After dinner with the Principal, James Abban and two of his teaching colleagues, Veronica received the programme for the following day, excused herself and went to her room. What an exhausting 24 hours. She showered, selected her clothes for tomorrow, then prepared for lovely, restorative sleep.

When knuckles rapped on the door she knew whose they were. Veronica felt no excitement. She’d been just two minutes away from her pillow and sleep. She reluctantly opened the door. The Captain didn’t wait for an invitation and he changed his tactics, too. This time he put his arms around her waist, lifted her off her feet and kissed her in a passionate embrace where they stood. Half in the hallway for all to see, though nobody did. By the time they reached the bed, her tiredness was temporarily forgotten by the thrill and romance of it. Which was what he’d thought might be the case.

The pattern of activity was similar to the previous night; only its mode of execution was different. Instead of being a sort of relentless sex-machine, Mark acted like an ardent lover. Veronica enjoyed the first time. She tried to keep up with the spirit of it, the second time. She didn’t even properly wake up for the pre-breakfast reprise.

How she got through the remainder of the visit to the college, Veronica never knew. Events and personalities blurred together. She tried hard to be professional and to make rational assessments. But really, within herself, she felt like a nodding, smiling head. Just like one of those amusing things that some people put in the rear window of their cars. When it was time to leave, Mark not only loaded her things into the Land Rover, he also had to discreetly help her step up into the vehicle. Veronica fell asleep the instant they started moving. After a short while he made a quiet call on his mobile phone.

“Right, I’ll persuade her. We’ll be there in about 2 hours,” he said, and broke the connection.

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

“Veronica, wake up.” Mark gave her a little shake. She reluctantly opened her eyes. The Range Rover was parked in a lay-by. The escort Jeep and squaddies were 20 yards further up the concrete.

“Where are we, Mark? Why have we stopped?”

“We’re only about ten miles from Kumbi, the capital. You’ve got about one and a half hours before your meeting with a junior Minister from the Ministry of Education, a number of Head Teachers, and Simon McGuire.”

“I feel absolutely drained, Mark. I’ll never manage.” Anyone who knew Veronica at Pucklebridge would have been astounded at the admission. But she felt there was little point of pretence between them. “I don’t know how you keep going, Mark!”

He thought there was every point in pretence, so he didn’t enlighten her. “I thought you looked all in. You’ll obviously want to do well this afternoon, so I have a suggestion. Have you heard of creatine?”

“No, what’s that, Mark?”

“It’s a substance that’s given to athletes to enhance their short-term performance by boosting their energy. It’s not a narcotic, or illegal. Footballers are sometimes given it to help them keep going through a match.”

“And what’s your suggestion, Mark?”

“We’re two miles from my army base. I’m a personal friend of the Medical Officer. He would help at my request.”

“And it’s not narcotic, illegal or habit forming?” questioned Veronica.

“Absolutely not. It’s given to our army footballers and other athletes from time to time. It will just see you through the afternoon. Trust me.”

Fifteen minutes later they halted outside the camp medical block. Mark introduced her to his colleague. A few minutes after that he rolled up her sleeve and injected a standard measure. Her meeting was now 45 minutes away.

“That will keep you going for the immediate future but will progressively wear off. It will have completely worn off in about four hours from now. I hope I have helped you?”

They thanked him and departed.

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

“Hi, Veronica, how did you get on?”

“Oh, it was fine, Simon, everything was fine. The teaching staff are very professional; all subject matter well up to standard. The student teachers are bright and dedicated. I’m impressed.” She felt it reasonable to make such all-embracing statements, despite having much stronger recollections about the first of her two visits. Still, she thought, there couldn’t have been all that much difference could there? And who would know anyway? “How did your programme go, Simon?”

“I visited two sixth form colleges and met lots of final year students. They were a good cross-section of Zombekian A level kids. I’m in no doubt we can do good work with them and that the majority will graduate.”

As Simon’s co-ordinating efforts were going to be crucial to the success of the project there had been no attempt to misrepresent reality. Consequently, he now knew that Pucklebridge Business School and the Economics faculty would have to work very hard indeed to steer some of the undergraduates to academic success. Mind you, he thought it was a very worthwhile venture into educational engineering. He would be doing his bit for the third world too.

He was also influenced by an item of personal mail delivered to his hotel that morning. The letter was from a bank in St Helier Jersey. It welcomed him as a customer, thanked him for his initial deposit of £10,000 sterling and looked forward to serving him. Before opening the letter he’d never heard of them.

Simon and Veronica were shown to their seats in the upper cabin of the overnight jumbo to Heathrow. There was an adjacent pair halfway along the aisle. Simon felt relief. As it happened he’d worried needlessly. Their meeting that afternoon had gone well. By its conclusion the Junior Minister had established a joint working party to troubleshoot any problems that might arise in the Pucklebridge-Zombek project. An official Government car had whisked them and their luggage to the airport. There was no sign of Mark Kwame or an army escort vehicle.

As the afternoon wore on, Simon had thought that Veronica seemed to tire somewhat. He wondered if her two-day stint had been too punishing for a European woman new to Zombek and its ways.

Veronica toyed with her dinner on the plane and only drank one glass of champagne. After a brief visit to the loo, she reclined her seat, kissed him briefly on the cheek and settled to sleep in her own corner. She hardly stirred until they started the fifty-mile glide down, after crossing England’s south coast. And so, accreditation of Zombek’s educational standards was confirmed.

CHAPTER 17

“Good morning. Simon McGuire here. May I speak to the Vice-Chancellor please?”

“Would you hold please, Mr. Mcguire?”

“Good morning Simon. Mison here. What may I do for you?”

“I returned an hour ago from Zombek, sir. I thought you should be the first to know that Veronica Hamlyn and I are entirely satisfied with their educational standards. As Academic Registrar she will affirm their accreditation. As your Principal Lecturer on the project, I endorse her findings.”

“Splendid, that’s splendid, Simon. No doubt I shall receive a formal report from Mrs Hamlyn. But it’s good of you to keep me aware at the earliest. You’ve done well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Look, its Friday morning now. No doubt you’ll need to rest up until Monday. These trips are superficially attractive, but one finds them so wearing. I’ll ask Mrs Mison to invite you to dinner in the near future. Then you can tell us the detail of your trip at first hand. We did so enjoy your last visit.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodbye then.”

Mison broke the connection. Simon replaced the handset and settled back, coffee pot to hand, in his recliner. Despite the attractions of the delightful Sally Mison, he might prefer to avoid the dinner invitation. In retrospect, he’d felt part of a plan he didn’t understand on the last occasion at their house. Also, looking back to the recent past, he felt that Veronica Hamlyn had just indulged a personal gratification with him on the Jumbo. These thoughts were a surprise. Like most young men of his generation, Simon had been indoctrinated to believe that men searched for sex. Women, on the other hand, sought romance. And yet again, what about the episode with Josie in the Volvo? That bore out his new thinking. She had been the pro-activator. Perhaps the ‘talking head’ pundits on TV and elsewhere were all speaking cobblers?