Short of Glory (8 page)

‘So why did you marry him?’

‘It seemed a good idea at the time. Isn’t that what they all say, the married ladies you ask? I had a boring job and I was sharing a flat with three other girls in Paddington and he
was in the glamorous Foreign Office and made a fuss of me. Adventure, travel, all this, you know. Why haven’t you married?’

Patrick was still feeling pleased with himself. ‘How d’you know I haven’t?’

‘Come off it.’

‘Too young.’

‘So’s everyone when they marry.’

‘I’ve never been in love.’

She laughed, took a cigarette from the packet on her lap and pushed in the dashboard lighter. ‘D’you think you ever will be?’

Patrick had always assumed that love and marriage would come to him as they came to others, separately or together but inevitably and in an apparently indefinite future, like his death.
‘Why not?’

‘I don’t think you will. I don’t think you care enough. You seem remote, you keep yourself back from everything. You probably don’t care about anyone else or anything
else and never have. You might do it out of boredom or for money, I suppose.’

He was surprised. He thought of himself not only as approximately normal but also as what was normally called ‘nice’, more or less. Her accusation suggested coldness and detachment,
qualities which he did not greatly like in others. The dashboard lighter popped out. He took it and she held his hand during the lighting, without taking her eyes off the road.

‘Watch out tonight for Pat Eliot, the military attaché’s wife,’ she said, exhaling smoke. ‘She might not be there but if she is she’ll be drunk and after
anything in trousers. There’s nothing personal in it so don’t get conceited. She grabs anything new.’

‘Is the party going to be awful?’

‘Anything to do with the Longhursts is awful. Actually he’s okay when you get him alone. She’s a pain. Don’t repeat that to Clifford. He thinks it’s all good
experience for you. I suppose it is in a way. Gives you a taste of what you’re in for.’

Clifford was angry because they were late and insisted on driving. The younger of the two girls was coughing again but Sarah knew what to do about it. To her husband’s further annoyance,
Sandy said she would go and see anyway, and go to the loo as well.

Clifford turned the car round and sat with the engine running. Patrick was about to get into the back. ‘No need,’ said Clifford. ‘I’d rather have her in the back when
I’m in a hurry.’

‘I suppose it’s safer.’

‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so.’ Clifford opened the window and sat with his elbow on the door, drumming his fingers against it. ‘You mustn’t think tonight is going to be
typical. For one thing, there’s some sort of entertainment and for another there’ll be Lower Africans as well as dips – diplomats, that it. Businessmen mainly, more commercial
section contacts than chancery but it doesn’t hurt once in a while. We don’t see as much of the Lower Africans as we should, really. So damn busy. Now you’re here, though,
I’ll be able to get some systematic entertainment going. HE will be there for a part of the time – quite improperly since there’s no one else of his equivalent seniority and most
ambassadors would never come to a thing like this. Sir Wilfrid’s very keen on doing his bit with his staff, you see, and when he heard about this he just invited himself. Feather in
Philip’s cap, of course, but don’t read too much into it. At least the presence of HE will give things a focus. Social occasions need a focal point, don’t you think?’

‘They need some point.’

‘Precisely. Exactly what I think.’

Clifford gave a prolonged blast on the horn that brought Sarah to the door but no Sandy. Sarah had to be waved back. Sandy made a brief appearance, then retreated to get some more cigarettes.
When she reappeared Patrick again offered to get into the back.

‘Don’t. I’d rather go there.’ She got in clumsily and slammed the door.

Clifford glanced at her in the driving mirror. ‘Darling, what did I tell you last time about that door?’

‘What you always tell me.’

Clifford drove fast and no one spoke. Once, when Patrick turned to look at a group of blacks who were sitting huddled in wraps beneath a street lamp arguing, he noticed Sandy sitting very still
and staring straight ahead. She looked small, crumpled and unhappy. She clutched the packet of cigarettes in her lap but did not smoke. He wondered if she felt ill. She did not appear to notice his
looking at her.

Philip’s house was an extensive bungalow spread like a small motel along grass terraces. His wife, Claire, was short and chunky with small hard brown eyes like buttons. She greeted
everyone with a determined smile.

‘I heard all about your arrival,’ she said to Patrick. ‘It must’ve been simply awful and you must be dying for a drink. Did you have one at the Steggles’s? Well,
you must be dehydrated by now. Philip will take you in and see that you get one but mind the altitude till you’re used to it. We must talk later.’

Philip smiled automatically at Patrick, then reached forward to stop a servant who was attempting to relieve Sandy of her handbag. ‘I must introduce you to some people. It’s going to
be rather awkward because with the ambassador coming and no precise equivalent for him we’re going to have to make up in numbers what we lack in rank. We’ll have to provide him with a
series of guests, as it were. That might not leave many for you, I’m afraid – nor for anyone else, of course. Red or white?’

‘Red, please.’

‘I’d advise white. The red’s rather strong and should be treated with care until you’re used to the altitude. Particularly at your first function.’ He beckoned to a
waiter and handed Patrick a glass of white wine.

When Philip turned away Patrick substituted it for a red. Clifford was talking seriously to the commercial officer, nodding thoughtfully without lifting his gaze from the carpet. Sandy was
standing with two other wives who were apparently talking about a third. She still looked subdued.

There were three camps in the room. The British were entrenched before a table and were seemingly so absorbed in each other that they were unaware of anyone else. They talked with the nervous
excitement and boredom that usually afflicts people who have nothing to say but are forced to talk on their feet in a small space, clutching their glasses like tickets.

The foreign diplomats were grouped in a solid defensive position in the far corner, complacent but watchful to see who came in. The Lower Africans, outnumbered but resolute, had formed a laager
in another corner from which they fired mistrustful glances as if expecting a trap. They said little and observed a lot.

Patrick sipped his wine and tried to avoid catching anyone’s eye. When he glanced in the direction of the door he saw Philip enter with the blonde woman he had seen at the airport. She had
her hair pinned up in a bun, showing her face to be sharper than he had remembered it, and she smiled as she said something in reply to Philip. She wore red again – her blouse, this time
– with a high-shouldered black jacket and matching skirt and boots; a Spanish effect. The dark-haired man with her was the one who had met her at the airport. He was stocky, tanned and
fit-looking and wore a brown leather jacket with tight white trousers. He nodded to one or two people in the Lower African laager then looked round the room, calm and unhurried.

Clifford abandoned the commercial officer and made a determined diagonal sortie from the British corner. He obviously knew the couple and began chatting with proud assurance whilst Philip
hesitated uneasily. Everyone’s eyes were on the group since they were in no man’s land, the centre of the room. Philip’s eyes flickered around the other groups seeking a home for
this rogue one.

The wine was already having an effect. Patrick could feel it brimming in his eyes though his head felt clear. He would have to talk to someone soon. Better someone he wanted to talk to. He
crossed no man’s land quite steadily but a little quicker than he intended. Clifford broke off from what he was saying and with ill-concealed irritation performed the introductions.

The man was Jim Rissik of the Lower African Police Force and the woman was Joanna McBride, no explanation. Hands were shaken and there was a polite show of interest in how long Patrick had been
in Lower Africa, where he had been before and how long he expected to remain. Philip went off to greet more newcomers.

Jim Rissik was in charge of that section of the LAPF that dealt with the protection and problems of diplomats. ‘Every now and again someone remembers us and I get invited to a few
functions. At Christmas we give a ball round a pool somewhere but not many of you dips turn up to that.’ He grinned.

They talked about the difficulty of protecting diplomats, of terrorism in other parts of the world, of the line between protection and infringement of liberty. Rissik was robust and foursquare.
He looked Patrick in the eye whilst talking and stood very close as though the better to push his points home. The clipped speech and the thick Lower African accent were harsh on Patrick’s
unaccustomed ear. He thought of Arthur Whelk. He guessed that Rissik must be the man he was to deal with and wondered whether Rissik knew that. Perhaps Rissik already knew of the presence of the L
and F man. He had remarked with a slight smile that in protecting people you got to know a lot about them and that not much escaped the protectors.

‘D’you follow us around all the time then?’ asked Patrick.

Rissik hesitated, still smiling. ‘We look after your physical security for some of the time.’

Patrick smiled back. ‘So we’re safe, are we?’

‘So long as you’re sensible.’ Rissik took another glass of wine from a passing waiter, making it clear by his posture that he wanted to continue talking. ‘What did people
tell you about us Lower Africans before you came? Did they say we’re a bunch of racists and fascists?’

‘They told me I had to learn to make small talk.’

‘Less dangerous than big talk, eh?’

‘Easier than big talk.’

‘Well, maybe we are a bunch of racists and fascists but you’ll get used to that, I reckon.’

Joanna McBride laughed at something Clifford said. Her lips lingered over the smile some time after the laugh had ceased. Patrick caught her eye fleetingly but she showed no recognition. Sandy
joined them. Jim talked about how unfairly Lower Africa was dealt with in world news. Other countries in the continent escaped criticism because they were black though they were every bit as bad,
often worse. It was because the liberal conscience was unconsciously racist, expecting better of white men than of black. Also it was weak and mistrustful of itself and sought to denigrate its own.
Patrick tried to see a way of swapping partners so that he could talk to Joanna.

‘What annoys us here more than anything is that we get criticised and others don’t,’ continued Jim. ‘Even the liberals get annoyed by that.’ He turned to Sandy.
‘Even your husband and he’s not Lower African.’

Sandy was looking livelier than when in the car. ‘He’s not exactly liberal, either.’

‘Compared with me he is.’ They all laughed. There was an appealing frankness in Rissik that bordered on the brutal. He turned to Clifford. ‘What d’you think of our wines,
Cliff? Better than all that French plonk, eh?’

‘Not bad,’ said Clifford.

‘“Not bad,” he says. Damn good, that’s what they are. Damn good.’ Jim put his hand heavily on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘This one’s plonk, though, so
watch for the kick-back. You’ll be able to take more when you’re used to the altitude. The best wines come from the coast. This doesn’t. I’m going down there this weekend to
stock up with a few crates.’

Patrick had an idea that the coast was a thousand or so miles away. ‘That’s a long way to go for a weekend, isn’t it?’

‘I’m borrowing a plane from a friend. Fly it myself. That’s how we live here. He’s seen nothing yet, has he?’ Clifford made a remark about the economy and the wine
industry which Jim followed up enthusiastically. Joanna listened, saying little. She had grey eyes speckled with green. She watched Jim talk.

Patrick did not like it. He turned to Sandy, who was coquettishly touching the rim of her wine glass with the tip of her tongue. ‘A healthy interest for you if you’re not too
detached to take one,’ she said quietly. ‘At least she’s unmarried, though that wouldn’t bother you either way, would it?’

‘What makes you think I’m interested?’

‘It’s obvious. Everything about you is obvious. D’you really think it isn’t? Don’t worry, I’ll see if I can dispose of your rivals. It’ll give me a
vicarious thrill.’

‘Are they both rivals?’

‘Mine would be if he could, except that he’d be frightened to death, poor thing.’

She turned to Jim and asked him abruptly where he came from. Interrupted in mid-sentence, he told her and she turned to Clifford and asked him if he had not been there. He said he had not, she
said he had and Jim began describing the area for Clifford’s benefit.

Patrick raised his glass to his lips, partly to hide his smile, but managed the matter rather clumsily. When he took his handkerchief from his pocket something fell to the floor and rolled. He
looked for a coin and saw the bullet he had found in his bedroom. It rested against one of Joanna’s black boots. She looked down, then up at him, her eyebrows raised slightly and an amused
questioning light in her grey eyes. No one else had noticed.

He bent and picked up the bullet. The action was enough to remind him that he might be slightly drunk. ‘There is an explanation.’ He did not know what he would offer.

She looked at the bullet as he turned it in his fingers. ‘Don’t some people make beads and necklaces with them?’

‘I don’t know.’ He had been keen to hide the bullet from Sandy but with Joanna he had an impulse to do the opposite, wanting to show off. He held it out. ‘Have
it.’

‘Don’t you want it?’

‘For what?’

‘In connection with your “explanation”.’

‘It’s not mine. Have it.’

‘What do you think I should do with it?’

She had the same clipped speech as Jim but the tone was softer and there was a slight lilt. Patrick had the bullet in the palm of his hand, aware that at any moment the others might see it. He
particularly did not want to explain it to Jim. ‘Keep it for luck.’