The White Father (31 page)

“I’m worried about you,” she said. “I don’t think you’re happy.”

“You deserve a medal for perspicacity.”

“You are grumpy tonight. What went on between you two outside? What were you doing, anyway?”

“I was being sick in the gutter. Nothing was going on between us. We didn’t even speak.”

“Have you had a row with her?”

“No. Why should I have had?”

“She looks so sad.”

Edward looked across the room at Jackie, who was standing by the gramophone, looking through the stack of records. She did look rather sad, he thought. He refused to believe, though, that it was his fault.

“It’s time we were going,” said Jane. “Do cheer up, Teddy. You’re going to be a huge success.” She kissed him warmly and got up.

“Thanks,” he said.

He watched her go over to Fearon, feeling there was
something
he ought to be worried about, but unable to think what it was.

“How are you going to get home, Jackie?” said Pete.

“There’s an all-night bus.”

“Can I give you a lift?” said Fearon. “Where are you going?”

“Hampstead.”

“Oh, that’s almost on our way. We’re off to Belsize Park. Come with us.”

“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Jackie.

They moved to the door amid general goodbyes. When they had gone, Pete came up to Edward, put an arm round his shoulder and said, “Buddy, buddy.” Then he began to clear away the plates and glasses. Edward helped him.

While they were washing up Judy said, “That wasn’t a very interesting man your sister brought with her.”

“She only met him tonight,” said Edward.

Judy looked up sharply. “What?”

“My God,” said Edward. He went white. “She only met him tonight and she’s gone home with him.”

“It may be all right,” said Judy. “He may just be giving her another drink.”

“But she’s got nowhere to stay in London. I asked her if she was going home tonight and she said not if she could avoid it. I didn’t realise what she meant.”

“Man, that’s quick work,” said Pete. “I don’t dig her taste, though.”

“She didn’t even seem to like him much,” said Edward. He looked so upset that Judy said in her most practical tone of voice, “Well, she’s gone now. It’s time we all went to bed. It’s been a wearing day.”

“That’s for sure,” said Pete.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Edward.

Judy smiled. “I thought she was very sweet and nice, Edward. It’s probably perfectly innocent. As you said, she didn’t even seem to like him much.”

“She is sweet and nice,” he said. “But she’s not very clever, I’m afraid. And maybe she feels as desperate as me sometimes. I had no idea she behaved like this.”

He hung up the towel and went off to his mattress.

When Pete and Judy were in bed, Judy said, “I hope Edward’s all right.”

“I expect so,” said Pete. “Anyone who plays or does
anything 
interesting is more or less nutty. You have to be nutty to want to play music. He’s a bit mixed up, that’s all. And overexcited. He’s always had his nihilist side.”

“But he’s so bitter.”

“Yeah. Sure. You can hear it in his playing sometimes. Usually when he’s playing very well, too.”

Judy lay on her back, thinking. Pete’s beard began to tickle her shoulder. She turned towards him and held him very close.

“T
HERE
’s not going to be a subcommittee,” said Shrieve.

It was six o’clock on Tuesday evening, and he and Edward were leaning out of the window of Weatherby’s ugly little flat. It had been one of those hot July days when the smell of exhaust fumes and warm tar are suffocating, and the trees seem to droop with fatigue in the parks. From their eyrie they could see tall office-blocks glinting in the sun and a forest of television aerials above a million chimney-pots. It was a little cooler now, and the air was not so choking and thick above the streets.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” said Edward.

“I don’t know. They’re racing through the conference. All anxious to go on holiday, I suppose.”

The conference was no longer front-page news. That evening’s papers had headlined a child murder in Epping, and there were large photographs of a satellite that was to go into orbit next morning from Cape Canaveral.

“Perhaps they can’t find anything to disagree about.”

“There shouldn’t be much. The disagreements were always more likely to be among the African delegates than between them and the British. There was never any very serious trouble in the colony.”

“I thought Bloaku had been in prison.”

“He was, yes. It was stupid, really. All these nationalist leaders gain from a few months in prison.”

“What had he done?”

“Oh, the usual things. There was talk of treason. There were riots and so on a few years back. There was a commission of enquiry, you may remember. I dare say there have been so many riots followed by commissions of enquiry that you can’t tell them apart unless you happen to have been involved.”

“What’s Bloaku like?”

“He’s a round dumpy man with glasses. Very quiet and authoritative in private, I’m told. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and those were official occasions when he was on his official behaviour. In public he’s a firebrand, of course. He has a tremendous rhetorical gift—rouses a mob in no time at all. Not that the Luagabu mobs need very much rousing. If a few thousand people gather anywhere, they’re always pretty roused before the speeches even start. But Bloaku’s a master, he can hold them and sway them. A first-class demagogue, you might call him.”

“But we won’t, I take it, see any of that tonight.”

“No. He’ll be very quiet and powerful, I dare say. He’s said to exude power.”

“God, how frightening.”

“No need to be frightened. He was at Cambridge, you know. He’s very intelligent and highly civilised. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“And Ukurua?”

“He’s a jolly man. He always wears dark glasses. It’s a sort of status thing with some of them, though I believe he’s actually got something wrong with his eyes. He makes a lot of jokes, and giggles in a very high voice.”

“Who else will be there?”

“Bandiku, I should think. He’s Bloaku’s cousin and
right-hand
man. He’s very clever, too. Balliol, I believe. He’s a very calculating man, very reserved, rather cold.”

“And I suppose Patrick Mallory’s known them all for years and years.”

“I expect so. Even if he hasn’t, he’ll behave as though he has. He and Ukurua are rather alike, as a matter of fact—they’re both political playboys. A lot of spectacular show, but no real authority. Only I suspect that Ukurua has a good deal more pure fun.”

“You sound gloomy. I thought you’d be pleased about the letter and everything.”

“Oh, I am. I’m a little disillusioned, perhaps, that’s all. It happens to people who’ve been away too long. I’d somehow
imagined I’d find a little more genuine concern in England than there’s been. All sorts of people have been helpful, but I’ve never felt anyone really cared. It’s all been as though this was just another routine matter, to be dealt with in a routine way, its outcome routinely assured. It’s my fault, of course, for being too single-minded. My values have got lopsided.”

“I don’t think so at all. I think it’s marvellous that you’re so determined. No one could possibly doubt that your concern was genuine. It’s obviously passionate.”

“It’s that all right,” said Shrieve. “That’s the trouble. I’m that funny little district officer from that boring colony who’s got that bee in his bonnet about those extraordinary savages.”

“The bee’s out now. It’s buzzing all over London.”

“Let’s just hope it brings back some honey. And talking of buzzing, what’s the news about your record?”

“I don’t buzz,” said Edward, “I sing. I’m going to see them tomorrow to sign the contract. Everyone says it’s a very decent one with no revolting strings attached. At least there are, but they’re less revolting than most, apparently.”

“And less revolting than the songs you’ll be singing, I dare say.”

“At least I don’t go around pretending I’m a giraffe. And it’s better than pottering about, you know, being a pop singer. It’s funny, I used to think that pottering was the ideal life, but now it seems a great bore.”

“I’m glad you’ve discovered that,” said Shrieve. An expensive education, he reflected, could leave a boy terribly ignorant.

“Come on,” said Edward, “we’d better go. You’re one of the chief guests, you mustn’t be late.”

“No. If there’s to be no subcommittee, it means they’ve already come to some decision. So I must do a little discreet investigation while I’m pretending to be polite.”

“I hope Bloaku and Bandiku won’t be offended that you think some of their tribesmen are bloodthirsty bastards who can’t wait to stick their knives into the Ngulu.”

“Oh, they know I think that,” said Shrieve. “And they know I’m right, too. I think we’ll understand each other perfectly.”

*

Outside Mallory’s house many luxurious cars were parked, their chauffeurs standing beside them, chatting and smoking, or reading papers at the wheel. The windows of the
drawing-room
were open, and the noise of conversation drifted out into the street.

“Ah, Hugh,” said Mallory, “how very opportune. Mr Ukurua was just this moment talking about you.”

“How do you do?” said Shrieve to Ukurua. “I don’t expect you remember me. We met a couple of times in the capital.”

“One of Robbins’s men,” said Ukurua, smiling broadly. He gave a high-pitched giggle. “Oh yes, Mr Shrieve, I remember you well. And how are your poor Ngulu?”

“They’re well, I believe. And not too poor, I hope.”

“I can’t imagine they’ll ever become exactly rich,” said Ukurua. “We were discussing them only yesterday, you know. Someone had the absurd idea that they were all going to be massacred. Absurd!” He whinnied again. “They’re charming people. Like children. No one could possibly want to hurt them.”

Africans hated being called children by Europeans, and Shrieve guessed that it gave Ukurua great pleasure so to refer to the Ngulu. It put him on a mocking plane with the white man. It wasn’t a characteristic that Shrieve liked among the educated Africans, this raising of themselves to the European level in order to sneer at the uneducated and backward, but it was understandable. What was most worrying about it was the uncritical acceptance of the white man’s prejudice.

“They are like children, Mr Ukurua,” said Shrieve, “and like children they need to be watched over and cared for.”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Ukurua carelessly. “They will be, I’m sure. Have you left our country already, Mr Shrieve? Have you fled before independence? That’s not very British.” He giggled.

“No, I’m just on holiday. I hadn’t been back for a long time,
and it looks as though the next few months are going to be very busy. I thought I should take my holiday while I could.”

“What a coincidence that it should be during the time of the constitutional conference,” said Ukurua. He smiled still, but nothing of his eyes could be seen behind his dark glasses.

“Not wholly a coincidence,” said Shrieve easily. “I wanted to hold a watching brief for the Ngulu, to see that they didn’t get forgotten in the general celebration.”

“Celebration?” said Ukurua. “Ah, that won’t be for a while yet. But your people will be safe.” He emphasised the word “your”. “As far as I remember it was agreed that they should be allowed to continue their existence in the peace and quiet they now so gratefully enjoy.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Shrieve.

“And that talk of massacre, Mr Shrieve …” Ukurua did not finish the sentence, contenting himself with an expressive shrug. “Of course, the people get excited sometimes. I can’t guarantee that firearms will not be let off. But I am sure they will only be let off in joy, and at the sky.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

“You need have no qualms,” said Ukurua. He waved suddenly to someone over Shrieve’s head and called, “I’m here, darling.”

A short Luagabu woman in European dress came smiling up. Her hair had been straightened, and she had two very gold front teeth.

“This is Mrs Bloaku,” said Ukurua, giggling. “
Unfortunately
my own wife was unable to come with me. Such a pity. This is Mr Shrieve, darling, who looks after the Ngulu. He thinks we Luagabu are all terrible cannibals and are going to gobble his poor little Ngulu up.”

Mrs Bloaku laughed, her shoulders shaking. Shrieve joined politely in the laughter.

“Really, Mr Shrieve,” she said in a voice without any trace of African accent, “if you live with the Ngulu all the time, you must have caught their neuroses. Poor things, they are very sweet, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they’re charming,” said Ukurua. “I don’t remember the full details, Mr Shrieve, but I seem to recall that we are going to put them under the care of the Anthropology Department of the university.”

“Oh?” said Shrieve, trying not to show too much interest. The university had been in existence for seven years, and its recent graduates would be the basis of the new administration. The Anthropological Department was very small—one lecturer and half a dozen students. Perhaps one of these would succeed him. He had given an annual lecture there on the Ngulu, and his descriptions had always brought laughter.

“Yes, yes,” said Ukurua, “they will be in the excellent hands of the excellent Dr Isaacs. A member of one minority protecting the interests of another. What could be better?” He whinnied again. Mrs Bloaku laughed too, her big gold ear-rings jingling.

“Dr Isaacs is a very interesting man,” said Shrieve.

“Oh, fascinating,” said Mrs Bloaku. “The last time he came to dinner he told us all about the Samoans. They do get up to the most amusing things in Samoa.”

Ukurua squeezed her arm and said, “All’s fair in love and war, isn’t that so, Mr Shrieve?”

“So they say. I hope, though, that there won’t be any war.”

“It was a manner of speaking only,” said Ukurua.

Mallory joined them, saying, “All’s well, I hear, Hugh. The Ngulu are going to have a whole university department to look after them.”

“Yes. I think it’s probably a very good idea.” Shrieve was thinking hard as he smiled at the various remarks that Mallory exchanged with Ukurua and Mrs Bloaku. It
was
a good idea, and one that had never occurred to him. Isaacs was a good enough man, too. The plan would do nothing, though, to protect the Ngulu in the vital days between now and the university’s take-over. Ukurua’s laughter at the idea of a massacre could be ominous, suggesting that the danger had been dismissed. Bloaku, of course, was the man whose opinion counted: Ukurua probably only presided in a general way. But
he had been so offhand about the idea of danger; it was as though he knew something that Shrieve didn’t.

Looking round the room he recognised only Filmer of the British delegates to the conference whom he knew by sight. Bloaku was talking to Dennis Moreland, whose article had been so disappointing. Andrew Osborne was there, and Bernard Clavering, with Nicholas Sharpe hovering at his elbow. Charles Fraser was arguing with a group of Africans. Lady Georgina towered over Bandiku, smiling enigmatically. Several of the signatories of the letter were there, including the archbishop, but neither of the professors of anthropology. Shrieve wondered whether they had been asked.

He allowed himself to be gently eased out of the group around Ukurua. He made his way slowly over to Filmer, hoping to be able to crack that bland exterior enough to obtain at least a hint of more information, but he was intercepted by Edward, who said, “I don’t know anyone here at all, even by sight. Who are all these people?”

“Oh, room numbers along the corridors of power,” said Shrieve. “I’m trying to reach Filmer, excuse me.”

“Which is he?”

“The one being silvery over by the window. Come with me, I’ll introduce you. He’ll be terribly patronising, I’m afraid.”

“That’ll be nothing new here,” said Edward, following.

“Good evening, Mr Shrieve,” said Filmer, with an air of faint surprise, as though he hadn’t expected to see him there. “You must be feeling very pleased with your lobbying, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard what its outcome has been yet.”

“The university is going to take over your tribe for you,” said Andrew Osborne. “You’ve succeeded in pushing them into the hands of the scholars. Congratulations.”

“They’ll be better there than on the points of assegais,” said Shrieve. “I think it’s probably a very good idea.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the university asked you to stay
on,” said Filmer. “Of course, that’s only a guess, but I can’t see any reason why not, can you?”

“I expect they’ll want to appoint an African,” said Shrieve. “The university turns out a few anthropologists, you know. More each year.”

“Good, good,” said Osborne. “Set a black man to catch a black man. Splendid.” He rubbed his hands together. “A victory for black hands over pieds noirs.”

“Tell me,” said Filmer, “would a black and a pied noir make an octaroon? Or is it a quadroon?”

“Neither,” said Osborne. “A simple half-caste. It’s when you start mixing the half-castes that you get the complications. Ask the South African government, they have a special
department
to tell people whether they’re white or black.”

“A quadroon,” said Edward, who knew it from his studies of jazz musicians, “is the offspring of a white and a mulatto. A mulatto is what you call a half-caste. An octaroon, on the other and third hand, is a mixture of white and quadroon. The thing’s quite simple, really. It depends how far away your last negro grandfather was.”