The White Father (34 page)

“Who’s putting up the money?” said Edward. “If it’s that bloody Mr Brachs, I’ll scream.”

“You know that little place in Frith Street? The
Dreadnought
? It used to be the Macaroon, only it folded. Then the man who took it over and called it the Dreadnought tried to
run it as a folk-song place, but it didn’t catch on. He’s prepared to give us a couple of months from September the first. We have to leave the place as it is, of course, and it’s not ideal. But he’ll pay the rent and run the coffee and drinks side of it, if we’ll advertise and handle the club end. I’m not sure quite how it’s going to work out, and we haven’t actually settled any details yet, but I think it’ll be O.K. The trouble is, I don’t suppose people will join for only two months. But at least, even if we fold after October, we’ll have had a place to appear every night, to get ourselves known. And we can have guest nights, with Americans dropping in after concerts or
something
. We’ve got to
make
it work.”

“And what do you want me to do?” said Edward. “Just play the piano for you?”

“That’s all. But if you want to do more, you certainly can. You can help get things organised. Our end of it’s going to have to be run on a shoestring. I’ve only got a couple of hundred quid, and that’s got to last the whole two months.”

“It sounds great, Pete,” said Edward. “I mean, great for you. But I’m not sure whether it’s so great for me. I’m not even sure if I want to go on being a musician—I’m not good enough. You’d have to find a better pianist in time, anyway.”

“O.K., so you’re not the world’s greatest pianist. But you know my style, you fit in well with Greg. You can enjoy yourself with us for a while. What else have you got in mind?”

“I haven’t got anything in mind. You know my mind—it’s always empty. But I don’t think I can face tinkling away much longer, knowing I’m no good. I want to do something more purposeful, something I can do well. I’d like to feel I was at the centre of something, not just fiddling about on the edge. It’s different for you, you’re a good trumpeter, you could be very good if you stuck to it. You have an instinct for the original phrase—I haven’t. I’m all head, I have to read a thing before I can hear it properly.”

“Look, forget all that,” said Pete. “I’m not asking you to join me for life. I’m asking you to help me get off the ground, that’s all. If you want to go out into the big wide world and
punch the Prime Minister on the nose, that’s fine by me. Not that I see you in politics, honestly.”

“I didn’t say anything about politics.”

“Whatever it is, you’re going to have to find out how to do it first, aren’t you? You can afford to hang around for another couple of months, and you know it. It’s what you’ve always claimed you wanted to do.”

“Not any more.”

“Listen, Edward, how old are we all? We’re young enough to fool around without hurting ourselves. You don’t want to lock yourself up in a career, you know you don’t. It’s the one thing you’ve always dreaded. It’s what we all dread. And we’re not scared for nothing. We know what we do like, we stick with it, we keep our eyes and our ears open, we walk warily, we’re cats. All the kids are like that nowadays. There’s nothing special about us, except we’re bright, we’ve got good
educations
, for what they’re worth. And we’re much luckier than most, we can afford to go on doing what we like for a while. Think of all the kids who leave school and have to dive straight into the nearest factory or office. They get a decent whack of pay every Friday, sure. But they can’t be as free as we are.”

“It’s what we do with our freedom,” said Edward.

“Oh, pay no attention to him, Edward,” said Judy. “If I’ve heard him once, I’ve heard him a hundred times about this. Excuse me while I make some tea.”

“I’ve always reckoned,” said Pete, “that if our music’s any good, it’s because we somehow catch all the longings and ambitions of the kids who aren’t so lucky. Good jazz is pretty rare. But when you hear it, that’s what it does—it gets you where it hurts most. Not in the heart or the stomach or the crutch, but in the imagination. It gets in there and it stirs up all the dormant stuff the kids have had to suppress because they have to work, they have to eat. All popular music does it in one way or another, from Elvis Presley to Cannonball
Adderley
. Styles, intelligences, sophistications, they all have their different kinds of music. My kind—our kind—appeals to the
thoughtful, it gets right under their skulls and sets free all sorts of feelings and longings and dreams. You can call it
entertainment
, but it’s necessary entertainment.”

“It sounds a bit like therapy,” said Edward.

“Shut up. Now, one more thing. I’m not a Negro from New Orleans who can’t read or write, I’m a highly educated
Englishman
. My kind of music is probably limited by that. But there are lots of people like me around. One of them is you. You can get in there yourself and tap all that imagination that’s locked up in all those skulls. Maybe you can’t do it as well as either of us would like, but you can do it pretty well, man. You’re one of us, one of the cats. It’s just the right word. We walk along on tiptoe, giving nothing away, we’re sort of wary. You’re not going to change just because you’ve been hanging around an old-fashioned civil servant for the last few weeks. He’s an admirable guy, a great guy. But that’s all past, all that service and duty, it’s over. You belong with us. And you can stick by us, stick by your pals, if you want to put it crudely. Sure, you want to do something else in a while. But right now you’ve got nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. You need us and we need you. Don’t do anything foolish. You’re one of the lucky ones, you can spare a few months. So spare them.”

“With cat-like tread,” said Edward. “That’s Gilbert and Sullivan, by the way.”

Pete shrugged, but he looked intently at Edward, as though willing him to stay with the band.

“O.K.,” said Edward. “Fine. Great. So I stick with you for a few months. I get my bearings. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I nurse you along, you nurse me, right? It’s not much of a proposition. I’ve spent my whole life trying to find my bearings. I don’t see why it’s likely I’ll suddenly come across them in the next couple of months.”

“You never can tell.”

“No.” Edward got up and walked restlessly about the room, touching pieces of furniture, blowing dust off the mantelpiece, looking at himself in the mirror. “You know, Pete,” he said at last, “I’ve been thinking a lot, and maybe this is all rubbish,
and maybe it’s because I seem to have been hit by a lot of bad luck—if you can call it that—recently. But I’ve been thinking about jazz, too, and I know what you mean, I know what it’s like when you suddenly feel you’ve got under one of those skulls—you can feel your own skull lifting a few millimetres, and you think that this is what makes life worth living and all the rest of it. But I’ve felt that less and less since I’ve been playing regularly with you here in London. Perhaps it’s just because there’s a professionalism about you and Greg that I’m terribly aware of lacking. Anyway, whatever it is, I’ve been thinking around it, and it seems to me that if we’re to be artists, and there’s no point in being anything else, we’ve got to find an idiom of our own.”

“Right,” said Pete, watching him closely.

“And jazz isn’t a native idiom for us, is it? Like Greg said a few weeks back, we can only imitate the best American examples. Now perhaps you—and now he’s been with you a while, perhaps Greg, too—can create something original out of the American examples. I’ve decided that I can’t, and won’t ever be able to. Yet I want, I terribly want, to feel that business of my skull lifting, and of other people’s skulls lifting, too. So I’ve been wondering about this business of idioms, native idioms. And it doesn’t take more than two seconds to come up with the fact that the native English idioms are all literary, aren’t they?”

“What are you getting at?” said Pete.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I’ve got a strong feeling that England needs its artists more than ever now. It needs someone to write elegies and threnodies and blues. We ought to be writing magnificent funeral orations. I don’t see where jazz fits into them.”

“You want to be a writer now?” said Pete. “Well, go ahead, it’s a great idea.”

“Do you think it is?” said Edward. “I’ve never tried. And besides, no writer’s any good much under forty.”

“That gives you plenty of time to play with me, then.”

“I wasn’t, honestly, really thinking about myself. It was
about the question of medium. I was trying to puzzle out what I felt about my playing.”

“You’re a disconcerting man to have about the house, Edward,” said Pete. He plucked at his beard. “And of course I don’t agree with you about jazz. But I see what you mean about elegies. That’s really a kind of interesting idea.”

“What’s Edward thought up now?” said Judy, coming in with cups and a tea-pot.

“I’m not sure,” said Edward. “I think Pete’s been trying to save me from the ordinary lot of man.”

“I don’t want to see a good cat go into a nice comfortable widow’s home to drink milk from pretty saucers all his life,” said Pete.

“Thanks,” said Edward. “But I expect I’ll end in an office like everyone else.”

“There’s no milk in this widow’s home,” said Judy. “Sorry, I forgot to buy any. You can have a slice of lemon, if you like. Put something on the gramophone, Pete. Something soothing. I’ve simply got to have my piece in tomorrow morning, and it’s got to be unbearably clever and arch or the editor will rape me. He has a terrible reputation, you know.”

“What are you writing about?” said Edward.

“The lady motorist. Not the woman motorist or the female motorist, but the lady motorist. I’ve half a mind to recommend a nice line in veils.”

“Why not? They’re bound to come back soon.”

“Not a hope,” said Judy. “Everyone’s so bloody
open-minded
and open-faced and open-handed these days. A nice young girl wouldn’t know what to do with a veil if she saw one.”

“Open-hearted, that’s me,” said Pete. “Come on, Edward, let’s get out of here and let Judy do her scribbling. It brings in more money than I do. Let’s go and look at the
Dreadnought
. It’ll be home from home for the next few months, so we might as well see what we’ve let ourselves in for.”

“O.K.,” said Edward.

T
HE
heat was terrible, and a fly kept settling on Robbins’s free ear as he tried to hear what Mackenzie was saying. It was a bad connection, and sweat was getting into the corners of his eyes.

“What did you say?” he shouted. “I can hardly hear a word.”

“I said there’s something gone wrong with the Ngulu. They seem to be …” His voice disappeared in a maddening crackle “… be right, can it?”

“I can’t hear, Mackenzie, I can’t hear. Say it all again, several times, very slowly. There must be a thunderstorm somewhere. What about the Ngulu? I didn’t catch any of it.”

“What?” said Mackenzie’s voice very faintly. “Hallo? Are you there?”

“Yes,” bellowed Robbins, mopping furiously at himself with a bright red handkerchief. “Yes. Say everything very slowly.”

“The Ngulu are all down with some kind of sickness,” said Mackenzie, his voice briefly clear. “They’re lying about their huts and won’t say a word. I’ve asked the doctor to … not too late because … already.”

“Christ all bloody mighty,” shouted Robbins. “I only hear one word in ten. Say it again from where they’re lying about their huts. Did you say some were dead?”

“Four dead already. The doctor’s arriving tonight. There’s nothing wrong with them that I can see. They just moan and …” His voice vanished into splutterings and a high, gibbering noise.

“Mackenzie? Are you there? Look, this is hopeless. Ring off and try again.”

“What?”

“I said hang up and try and get another line. I’m not getting more than a tenth of what you’re saying.”

“All right.”

Robbins put down the receiver and mopped his face. He wouldn’t be sorry to get out of this bloody colony, and that was the truth. The work piled up and up, and he was exhausted, utterly exhausted. And there were still months to go. At least the conference was almost over, and it seemed to have gone without a hitch. The communiqué was expected next day and the colony’s two newspapers agreed that the conference had been a triumph for responsible statesmanship, which meant some people were happy, anyway.

But, dear God, the Ngulu. And after all the fuss poor Shrieve had made. If something had gone wrong now, it would kill the man.

The telephone rang again.

“Mackenzie here.”

“Ah, that sounds better. Now, what’s the trouble?”

“The Ngulu. I went to see them today on my weekly
checkup
. All the men were lying down in their huts, refusing to speak. The women were weeping and wailing outside. Those that weren’t collapsed about the main street, that is. Three men have died already and one woman. It must be some epidemic—or it could be food-poisoning. I really don’t know.”

“Oh my God. Couldn’t you get anything out of them at all?”

“Only from that woman of Shrieve’s. She’s barricaded herself into the bungalow and won’t let anyone in. But she talked through the door a bit. She said it was ‘the sickness’. I’ve no idea what that means, have you? I asked what sickness, but she just repeated ‘The sickness, the sickness’. The doctor will be there this evening. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the ones I looked at, that’s what’s so peculiar. No spots, no marks of any kind, no sign of vomiting or diarrhoea. Not even a smell of illness. I even looked closely at the corpses—they’ve made no effort to bury them. One of them was beginning to stink, but there was no mark on him at all. Nor on the others. They didn’t even look thin. I hope to Christ this isn’t one
of those awful things where they just wish themselves to death.”

“Christ. Oh Jesus Christ,” said Robbins. “Look, how are things down your way? With the Luagabu? All quiet?”

“Pretty well. They’re still muttering, but nothing very ominous. I can go back to the Ngulu tomorrow.”

“Do that. Send a message back at once to say whether there’ve been any developments. I’ll cable Shrieve immediately. We can get him back here at once, if you think it’s necessary.”

“I’m completely out of my depth,” said Mackenzie. “I don’t understand these people at all. They’re not a bit like the Luagabu. I think perhaps Shrieve ought to be here. Perhaps I could speak to him by phone. He might know what it’s all about.”

“No,” said Robbins. “I’ll order him to come back right away. With any luck he can clear everything up and leave the day after tomorrow, say. He won’t get the cable till tomorrow morning, anyway. I don’t even have a proper address for him, do you? Is he staying with his father?”

“No,” said Mackenzie. “With a chap called Weatherby. Here, I’ll give it you.”

Robbins wrote down the address and said, “Thanks. Can you get a message to me by noon? With the doctor’s
comments
? If he wants any drugs or anything we can ship them out by air tomorrow afternoon.”

“I just hope to heaven it is a real illness, not one of those stone-age things,” said Mackenzie. “They don’t sing each other to death, do they, like the Australian aboriginees?”

“Not that I know of, no. Thanks for ringing. Let’s pray it’s just something they’ve eaten.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” said Mackenzie. “I’ll try and get the corpses buried tomorrow. But you know how it is between the Luagabu and the Ngulu. My men won’t touch a Ngulu corpse or go near one.”

“Then you’ll have to dig the graves with the doctor,” said Robbins. “We can’t have corpses lying about. And the best of luck. Goodbye.”

This was just about the limit, he thought. A mysterious illness. Inexplicable deaths. Jesus Christ. Should he tell Shrieve to come back at once or not? There was no point in bringing him back if it was a false alarm. He’d better wait for the doctor’s report.

Robbins mopped at his face. The best thing would be to arrange a telephone call to Shrieve for a fixed time tomorrow, cabling him now to be ready to receive it. He began to draft the cable, then remembered he didn’t have a phone number for him. He buzzed for his secretary.

“Yes, Mr Robbins?”

“Have we got a London telephone directory in the office?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid we haven’t.”

“Then get on to directory enquiries and find out the number of this address.” He gave her the piece of paper on which he’d scribbled it. “Oh, the name’s Weatherby. James Weatherby.”

“Is that the Mr Weatherby of the Colonial Office, sir?”

“What? Yes, I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought. Of course it is, he and Shrieve are old friends. Odd, though, I thought he lived in the country.”

“We can always reach Mr Weatherby at the Colonial Office, you know, sir.”

“It’s not he that I want. When you’ve found the number, book a call for noon tomorrow, London time. It’s for Mr Shrieve. And for God’s sake get the difference in time the right way round.”

“For Mr Shrieve?” said the girl. “But we have his address, sir, it’s in Surrey.”

“Amanda,” said Robbins, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair, “you are a sweet girl and quite a good secretary, but will you please stop making suggestions. And when you’ve found the number, come and tell me. There will be a cable to send. No, two cables. I’ll send one to Weatherby, too, so we’ll be sure of catching him. It’s nearly knocking off time. If you hurry, you won’t be late.”

The girl simpered and went out. Robbins, who wouldn’t
be knocking off for at least another two hours, took a clean handkerchief from his drawer and mopped his face again. Then he began to write.

*

“I managed to get you one of these things,” said James Weatherby, handing Shrieve a copy of the communiqué which was not officially to be published until midday. “The bits you want are on pages fifteen and sixteen. But the whole thing’s a pretty good document.”

Agitated, Shrieve turned to the pages and read them. It was all in two paragraphs, themselves subsections of some
enormous
paragraph which began several pages back. But they were fine paragraphs, fine pieces of civil servants’ prose, he thought, really, they couldn’t be better. Amid all the talk of provisos and guarantees two things were absolutely clear: first, the Ngulu would be handed over to the administration of the university one year after independence, which meant that Shrieve would have an extra year with them; and second, a special paramilitary police force would be sent to the area one month from the signing of the treaty, to remain there as long as the District Officer or university wished. It was better than he had hoped. His heart beat furiously with pleasure.

“Well, it seems to have been worth it after all,” he said. “God, what a relief. And do you know what really made the difference? Five minutes with Bloaku and Bandiku. Five minutes which I couldn’t have spent with them in the colony without arousing the rage of the Governor and the suspicion of every politician, including Bloaku and Bandiku themselves. But those five minutes did it. Five minutes at a party given by Patrick Mallory.”

“Don’t underestimate the effect this end,” said Weatherby. “I’m pretty sure some genuine guarantee would have been insisted on, you know. Though I must say I think you’ve done better than you had any right to expect.” He coughed and added, “I do hope you didn’t misunderstand my—my—shall we say non-participation? It was a little tricky for me, as I’m sure you realise, once things began to hum. I knew it would
be all right. But I didn’t want anyone to think—you know what I mean.”

“Your delicacy was admirable,” said Shrieve, smiling. He gave a great sigh, as though weeks of worry were suddenly being expelled.

“What’s this cable all about, then?” said Weatherby. “It must be pretty urgent if Robbins telegraphed me, too, to make sure he reached you.”

“It is odd,” said Shrieve uneasily. “I hope to God the Luagabu haven’t undercut all our efforts and slaughtered the Ngulu while my back was turned.”

“I expect you’d have heard about it if they had,” said Weatherby. “Robbins probably just wants a private word with you about the communiqué. He’ll offer you his congratulations, I dare say.”

“It’s not his usual way of
behaving.”

“Oh, he may have got some news for you, too.”

“What’s the time?”

“Ten-thirty. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Weatherby picked up his phone and ordered two teas. Shrieve heard Big Ben chime the half-hour in the distance.

“It’s a cosy life you people lead,” he said.

“Oh, it’s all right. We work hard, we get our rewards. By the way, you know you collect an O.B.E. when you finally give up and come home? It’s the standard thing. I think they could do a bit more for you dispossessed chaps, actually, but I suppose there’s some small comfort in an O.” Weatherby had received his two years earlier, and was now moving steadily towards his K.

“I’m afraid none of that means very much to me,” said Shrieve. “The Ngulu don’t have anywhere to pin medals, you know.”

“You’d be surprised how many people do care about those things,” said Weatherby. “I suppose it’s the feeling that someone at the top cares. It’s what the Queen’s for, isn’t it?”

“I dare say. All that seems a little irrelevant these days, doesn’t it?”

“Steady, old boy. People like you are supposed to believe she’s what keeps the Commonwealth together.”

“I’d’ve thought,” said Shrieve, “that anyone taking a detached view of the last few years of colonial and
commonwealth
history would have to admit that she wasn’t making a very good job of it, then. The whole thing is blatantly falling apart.”

“But that’s not her fault,” said Weatherby indignantly. “She’s only a figurehead.”

“I’ve never understood why people always say that.
Figureheads
don’t really belong to ships, you know. They’re stuck on afterwards.”

Weatherby looked cross, and Shrieve laughed at him.

Weatherby said, “But surely you’d agree that the symbols, the religious and political symbols, are absolutely vital? And particularly to those who go out and do things a long way from home?”

“Perhaps. They certainly make more of them in the colonies than people do here.”

“Well, what
do
you think keeps people going, then?”

“Oh, the climate. We’re northern, we have to keep busy to keep warm, we regard idleness as immoral. We’re just not temperamentally suited to sitting in the sun and snoozing or chatting like the Ngulu or the Luagabu. And it upsets us to watch them sitting and snoozing. The combination of our own activity and disapproval of others’ idleness produces a kind of moral energy. It’s the same as the missionary spirit.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, look at us, James, sitting here in a large office with a grand fireplace and fancy cornices, working like mad to keep warm.”

“Now you’re getting at the English summer,” said
Weatherby
. “You’ve been away too long, Hugh.”

“No, I was getting at you, really, James.”

A girl came in with their tea.

“Thank you, Jill,” said Weatherby. “Do you take sugar, Hugh? I’m afraid there isn’t any.”

“Standards seem to have declined all round,” said Shrieve.

Weatherby looked at him, puzzled. “I thought you’d be pleased this morning, not querulous.”

“Am I querulous? I’ve been thinking how much England has changed since I was last here. Or perhaps it’s I who’ve changed. I don’t find any energy here any longer, any moral energy, that is. There’s plenty of energy in the pursuit of money still.”

“I know what you mean,” said Weatherby. “Myself, I feel that the country’s relaxing after a couple of centuries of pretty sustained effort. Our turn will come again.”

“Do you ever see young people at all?” said Shrieve. “They have a sort of cult of detachment—moral detachment, moral neutrality. They don’t seem to want to get involved in
anything
. They don’t criticise much, they just don’t seem to believe in anything. And their elders don’t seem to care about important things the way I’ve always cared—had a commitment to certain beliefs, perhaps.”

“I don’t think that’s quite fair, Hugh, but it’s certainly true that there’s a good deal of self-doubt around. Of course we’ve noticed it here especially, handing over millions of square miles of territory, and largely because we appear to have lost faith in ourselves. Or so it’s seemed to me. We’ve had goodness knows how many Ministers and junior ministers, but no one who gave an impression of real confidence in the present.”