There was for instance the problem of the Colonel’s widow and, while he had every sympathy for her in her present plight, the Kommandant was alive to the possibility that the distressing action he had been forced to take might well have ended the good feeling she had once felt for him. As the convoy approached Piemburg the Kommandant inquired as to her plans.
“Plans?” asked Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon roused from her silent reverie. “I have no plans.”
“You have friends in Umtali,” said the Kommandant hopefully. “They would surely put you up.”
Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon nodded. “I suppose so,” she said.
“Better than a police cell,” said the Kommandant and explained that he ought to hold her as a witness. “Of course if you give me your word not to leave the country…” he added.
That evening the Rolls stopped at the Customs Post at Beit Bridge.
“Anything to declare?” asked the Rhodesian Customs officer.
“Yes,” said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon with feeling. “It’s good to be back with one’s own kith and kin.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Customs Officer Van der Merwe and waved her through. As she drove through the night Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon began to sing to keep herself awake.
“Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never never will be slaves,” she shrieked happily as the car knocked an African cyclist into the ditch. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was too tired to stop. “Teach him to drive without lights,” she thought and put her foot on the accelerator. In the glove compartment a fortune in gold and diamonds rolled unevenly about.
In the week that followed the Kommandant was kept too busy to worry about Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s disappearance. The team of Security men who came down from Pretoria to report on the affair were sent up to Weezen to investigate.
“Try the storekeeper,” the Kommandant suggested. “Very helpful fellow.” The Security men tried the storekeeper and were infuriated by his refusal to speak Afrikaans.
“I’ve seen enough coppers,” he told them, “to last me a lifetime. I’ve ordered one off the premises already and I’m ordering you. This is Little England and you can get the hell out.”
By the time they returned to Pretoria they could find nothing to criticize in the Kommandant’s handling of the affair. The fact that the victims of police action were found on examination to be wearing women’s clothes in the case of the men and a jockstrap in the case of La Marquise added weight to the Kommandant’s claim that the safety of the Republic had been threatened. Even in the Cabinet the Kommandant’s handling of the affair received a friendly reception.
“Nothing like the threat of terrorism to keep the electorate on our side,” said the Minister of Justice. “We could do with an incident like this before every election.”
At Fort Rapier Luitenant Verkramp viewed the outcome of the affair in a different light. Now that the immediate cause of his insanity had been removed, Verkramp had regained sufficient rationality to regard his proposal to Dr von Blimenstein as a temporary aberration.
“I must have been mad,” he told the doctor when she reminded him of their engagement.
Dr von Blimenstein looked at him reproachfully.
“After all I’ve done for you,” she said finally.
“Done for me is about right,” said Verkramp.
“I’d planned such a lovely honeymoon too,” the doctor complained.
“Well I’m not going,” said Verkramp, “I’ve had enough trips to last me a lifetime.”
“Is that your last word?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” said Verkramp.
Dr von Blimenstein left the room and ordered the nurse to put Verkramp under restraint. Ten minutes later Verkramp was in a straitjacket and Dr von Blimenstein was closeted with the Hospital Chaplain.
That afternoon Kommandant van Heerden, visiting Fort Rapier to inquire about Aaron Geisenheimer, found Dr von Blimenstein dressed, rather ostentatiously, he thought, in a picture hat and a shark-skin suit.
“Going somewhere?” he asked. In the rush of events he had forgotten about Verkramp’s impending marriage.
“We’re honeymooning in Muizenberg,” said the doctor.
Kommandant van Heerden sat down suddenly in a chair.
“And Verkramp’s quite well?” he asked.
In the light of the Kommandant’s gallantry at their last meeting Dr von Blimenstein overlooked the imputation.
“A touch of last-minute nerves,” she said, “but I think it’ll go off without a hitch.” She hesitated before continuing, “I know it’s a lot to ask but I wonder if you would be best man?”
Kommandant van Heerden tried to think what to say. The thought that he would be in any way instrumental in joining the author of so many of his misfortunes to a woman as totally unloveable as Dr von Blimenstein had its appealing side. The thought of the doctor as Mrs Verkramp had nothing to recommend it.
“I suppose Verkramp has given up all idea of returning to his post?” he inquired hopefully. Dr von Blimenstein was pleased to reassure him.
“You’ve nothing to worry about,” she said. “Balthazar will be on duty just as soon as we get the honeymoon over.”
“I see,” said the Kommandant, rising. “In that case I think I had better see him now.”
“He’s in Hypnotherapy,” said the doctor as the Kommandant went out into the corridor. “Tell him I won’t be long.”
The Kommandant went down the passage and asked a nurse the way. At Hypnotherapy the nurse opened the door and smiled.
“Here’s your best man,” she said and ushered the Kommandant into the ward where Verkramp was sitting up in bed surrounded by an inferno of chrysanthemums.
“You too?” Verkramp groaned as the Kommandant entered and sat down on a chair by the bed.
“Just popped in to see if there was anything you needed,” said the Kommandant. “I had no idea you were getting married.”
“I’m not getting married,” said Verkramp, “I’m being married.”
“I see they’ve given you a clean straitjacket for the occasion,” said the Kommandant anxious to keep off controversial topics.
“Won’t be needing that in a minute,” said the nurse. “Will we?” She picked up a hypodermic and pulling back the bedclothes rolled Verkramp on to his stomach.
“I don’t want …” shouted Verkramp but the nurse had already plunged the needle into his backside. By the time she withdrew it the Kommandant was feeling distinctly agitated while Verkramp had relapsed into an unusual torpor.
“There we are,” said the nurse propping him up again and unfastening his straitjacket. “No need for this horrid old thing now, is there?”
“I do,” said Verkramp.
The nurse smiled at the Kommandant and left the room.
“Listen,” said the Kommandant, appalled at what he had just witnessed, “is it true that you don’t want to marry this woman?”
“I do,” said Verkramp. The Kommandant, who had been on the brink of assuring him that there was no need for him to go through with the marriage looked nonplussed.
“But I thought you said you didn’t,” he said.
“I do,” said Verkramp.
“There’s still a chance to change your mind,” said the Kommandant.
“I do,” said Verkramp.
“Well I’m damned,” muttered the Kommandant. “You certainly change your mind quickly.”
“I do,” said Verkramp. At that moment the nurse returned with the ring.
“Does he often go into this ‘I do’ routine?” the Kommandant asked as he slipped the ring into his pocket.
“It’s a new treatment that Dr von Blimenstein has developed,” the nurse told him. “It’s called
CIRS
.”
“I should think it must be,” said the Kommandant.
“Chemically Induced Repetitive Syndrome,” the nurse explained.
“I do,” said Verkramp.
“Good God,” said the Kommandant suddenly realizing the full implications of the treatment. If Dr von Blimenstein could get Verkramp unwillingly to the altar by chemically induced hypnosis and get him saying “I do” all the way there, she could do anything. Kommandant van Heerden visualized the outcome. Hundreds of innocent and respectable citizens could be induced to confess to sabotage, membership of the Communist party, training in guerrilla warfare and any crime you cared to name. Worse still, Dr von Blimenstein was not the sort of woman to hesitate when it came to advancing her husband’s career by such dubious methods. The Kommandant was just considering this new threat to his position as Chief of Police when the bride arrived with the hospital Chaplain and a bevy of patients who had been raked in as bridesmaids. A tape recorder struck up the wedding march and the Kommandant slipping the ring into Verkramp’s hand left the room. He had no intention of being best man at a wedding that marked the end of his own career. He went out on to the parade ground and wandered miserably among the inmates cursing the irony of fate that had saved him from the consequences of Verkramp’s deliberate attempts to oust him only to destroy him now. It would have been better to have let Verkramp take the rap for the activities of his secret agents than to have allowed him to marry Dr von Blimenstein. The Kommandant was just wondering if there was anything he could do even at this late hour when he became aware of a disturbance outside Hypnotherapy. Dr von Blimenstein was being escorted, weeping, from the makeshift chapel.
Kommandant van Heerden hurried across.
“Something go wrong?” he asked eagerly.
“He said ‘I do’,” the nurse explained. Dr von Blimenstein wept uncontrollably.
“But I thought he was supposed to,” said the Kommandant.
“Not when the Chaplain asked if anyone present knew of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy wedlock,” the nurse explained. A broad smile broke across the Kommandant’s face.
“Oh well,” he said cheerfully, “Verkramp seemed to know his own mind after all,” and slapping the disconsolate doctor on the back with “You can’t win them all”, he went into the ward to congratulate the ex-bridegroom.
With Konstabel Els, his problem was rather different. The telephone call from the taxidermist at the Piemburg Museum verged on the hysterical.
“He wanted me to stuff it,” the taxidermist told the Duty Sergeant.
“What’s wrong with stuffing a fox’s brush?” asked the Sergeant who couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“But I keep telling you it wasn’t a fox’s brush. It was a phallus,” screamed the taxidermist.
“A false what?” the Sergeant asked.
“Not a false anything. A real phallus.”
“You’re not making much sense, you know,” said the Sergeant.
The taxidermist took a deep breath and tried again. In the end the Sergeant put him through to the Kommandant who knew exactly what the man was talking about.
“No need to worry,” he said soothingly, “I’ll take the matter in hand at once.”
The taxidermist looked at the phone with disgust.
“You do that small thing,” he said and put the receiver down thankfully. Kommandant van Heerden sent for Els.
“I thought we’d seen the last of that beastly thing,” he said. Els looked downcast.
“I wanted to keep it as a souvenir,” he explained, “I was thinking of having it mounted.”
“Mounted?” shouted the Kommandant. “You must be out of your mind. Why can’t you give it a rest?”
Els said he would try.
“You’ll do more than that,” the Kommandant told him. “If I catch you flashing the thing again, I’ll book you.”
“What with?” Els asked.
“Indecent Exposure,” snarled the Kommandant. Els went away to get rid of his trophy.
As the weeks passed and Piemburg resumed its slow routine the memory of exploding ostriches and the outbreak of sabotage passed into the safe hands of local legend. Kommandant van Heerden was well content to see it go. Looking back over the events of those days he found himself wondering at the great difference between life and literature. It doesn’t do to read too much, he thought, recalling the fate that literary endeavours had held in store for Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon and the members of the Dornford Yates Club. Instead the Kommandant chose to carry on the traditions of the English gentleman in practice. He added the foxhounds of the Colonel’s pack to the police kennels where they struck up friendly relations with the Dobermann Pinschers and he put Konstabel Els in charge of them. Els, it seemed, had a way with dogs. The Kommandant acquired a horse and ordered a crimson hunting coat from the tailors and twice a week he could be seen riding to hounds in Chaste Valley with Els on a nag and a convict running for his life with a bag of aniseed tied round his middle. Sometimes he even invited Dr von Blimenstein, who was quite fond of riding. It seemed the least he could do for the poor woman now that Verkramp had jilted her and in any case he felt it was wise to keep on the right side of her.
All in all he was well content. Whatever had happened, the Values of Western Civilization were still safe in Piemburg and as
MFHDP
Kommandant van Heerden maintained those traditions which went with the heart of an English gentleman.
Tom Sharpe was born in 1928 and educated at Lancing College and at Pembroke College, Cambridge. He did his National Service in the Marines before going to South Africa in 1951, where he did social work for the Non-European Affairs Department before teaching in Natal. He had a photographic studio in Pietermaritzburg from 1957 until 1961, when he was deported. From 1963 to 1972 he was a lecturer in History at the Cambridge College of Arts and Technology. He is married and lives in Dorset.