Eighty Not Out (31 page)

Roger's cook/steward, a rascally-looking scoundrel if ever there was one, greeted us unsmilingly. I reflected on how fortunate we had been in our house-servants. We sized each other up, and Emmanuel saw a promising victim: my French was inadequate, therefore there would be scope for misunderstanding – genuine or contrived. His main job was to look after the laundry, take it outside to hang limply in the sunless yard, iron and stack it away. Beds were to be made and floors swept, but I made it clear that I would do most of the cooking. That, however, would mean familiarising myself with local stores, the
UN
commissariat, and the market. There was none of the relaxed badinage of Ghanaian communities, and compared to the peoples of East Africa, this lot were inscrutable, even sinister. I had yet to read Joseph Conrad's
Heart of Darkness
, or Graham Greene's
Journey Without Maps
, but they got it right. When we made an excursion to look over the wide expanse of river towards Kinshasa, it was a depressing scene: the river was grey-green and at this point sluggish, though rapids and the Livingstone Falls, further downstream, barred direct access to the open Atlantic. Scarcely any birds populated the marginal undergrowth, in which rusting carcasses of camouflaged military vehicles, tractors, even a few tanks, were scattered. We were all badly bitten by the omnipresent sand-flies. The swimming pool was uninviting, its yellowing tiles cracked, the metal railing rusty, and few other children used it; rotting vegetable matter floated on the surface of the murky water, and snakes, many of them venomous, were common in the surrounding vegetation.

Fergus was not alone in his disillusionment about working under the aegis of the regional office. Virtually all staff, from the lowest general service grade to the assistant directors, were depressed, apprehensive and intimidated under the rule of Dr Quenum. Nepotism was widespread: the director had a dozen children by different wives, and could legitimately claim staff benefits for all of them; any favoured acolyte – they were few and short-lived – would also get away with milking the
UN
to the hilt. Retirement age was a nominal sixty, but many educated Africans did not know their real date of birth, so it was common to see professional staff at a high level continuing in post, and reaping benefits in one form or another. At a ludicrous level, staff were precluded from displaying personal objects such as family photographs on their desks, while the national flag was obligatory; desks should be at right angles to the walls, and only the director could place his diagonally across a corner. My politically incorrect hypothesis is that an errant gene exists in Africa, manifesting itself as megalomania in those who gain power. It equips them with magnetic personality capable of arousing the uncritical masses to support blatantly undemocratic policies under the guise of freeing themselves from the shackles of wicked colonialism. Sierra Leone, Liberia, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Angola, Mozambique, Ethiopia, Somalia, Guinea-Bissau, Nigeria – the list is endless of fragmentation, over the last fifty years, of the existing infrastructure in countries capable of growing sufficient crops to sustain a populace above starvation level. Now global warming, repeated failure of rains, the proliferation of families composed entirely of
AIDS
orphans, added to famine on an explosive scale, compound the misery of vast swathes of the population.

All of our acquaintances were unhappy with their lot – this was a hell-hole in which few flourished. Fergus maintained the pretence of being only a transitory resident, staying in a succession of
pensions
, and buying a bicycle rather than a car. When we left, he moved to share a bungalow with Vernon Bailey, an Australian consultant, with whom he shared many interests, including art and ornithology. Vernon had designed a series of stamps of indigenous birds for the Republic of Congo and was proud of the designs, about which we both had reservations – many looked stiff, and not in the same league as the plates in
Bannerman's Birds of West Africa
. He was a kindly man, who took us on a number of excursions to his hideaway hut deep in the hinterland, and his advice helped to stabilise Fergus at a time when his spirits were at an all-time low.

We had bought an apartment in Divonne-les-Bains, a spa town at the foot of the Jura almost on the Franco-Swiss border. Within a half-hour drive of Geneva airport and the headquarters building, it was to be completed by late 1975, by which time we were convinced that Fergus would have escaped from Brazzaville. I was determined that the transfer should not be further complicated by a frenzied search for suitable accommodation. Property in France, though not constructed to such a high specification as that in Switzerland, was cheaper. Our decision to live in France provoked dire warnings from colleagues who regarded it as unwise and ‘not quite the thing'. Minus points were that vehicles registered in France would not bear
CD
(Corps Diplomatique) plates; that charges and restrictions relating to use of the autoroute would be punitive; and laws relating to snow tyres were complicated and would entail endless expense (the colleagues were right on that one). The Swiss police were not to be trifled with, but were less feared than the French gendarmerie – no less ferocious, but volatile and unpredictable.

Our parting at the end of August was one of the saddest of our life. The demijohn of Chianti I had bought was found to be nearly empty, and Fergus blamed Emmanuel for the excessive inroads. I let that pass, erosion of moral principles having now entered the equation, justifying my silence in the knowledge that, if not responsible for that particular theft, he had been caught out in several other instances. From time to time I would calculate how much my drinking cost, but it was too uncomfortable to face, so I put it to the back of my mind. Nobody yet suspected how excessive my drinking had become, and many regarded me as a tower of strength in the circumstances.

Shortly after we returned to Ireland, I flew with Katharine for her first term at Ackworth School in Pontefract – one reason we had chosen this school was the short flight between Belfast and Leeds. She seemed happy to return to boarding-school rules, and quickly made friends with a girl who had spent some years in the Sudan: her father was a
UN
consultant at the Food and Agriculture Organization based in the south of the country not far from the border with Kenya. Mary and Michael continued at the local primary school, and my mother was relieved to see us again.

Most people, rather than employ decorators, did their own house painting. After a series of lettings, the house needed a facelift, so I began a number of projects, from painting the sitting room ceiling, to hanging wallpaper of a bold ‘contemporary' design on the chimney wall, laying carpet tiles in the bathroom, and painting doors a ‘designer' shade of air-force blue from the architects' range. By this time, in addition to sherry, the drinks cupboard contained red and white Cinzano, Campari, Dubonnet, Bols Advocaat, Cointreau, crème de menthe, green chartreuse, brandy, gin and a selection of malt whiskies. The brandy was for Aunt Rosemary, the chartreuse for the Pharmacist, both infrequent visitors – but it wouldn't do not to have their favourite tipple on hand. San and my mother grew fond of Advocaat, which I argued was good for their health – in the quantities they drank, it probably was.

A number of incidents can, in retrospect, be attributed to drink. Often I started a job on impulse, so rather than wearing overalls, I wore the fashionable flares of the time. It was such a pair of red cotton bell-bottoms that overturned an open can of Dulux, which quickly spread beyond the limits of the newspaper protecting the living-room carpet: no amount of cleaning ever quite removed the stain. Protecting surfaces was not my forte. On one occasion, such was my confidence with a blow-lamp that I decided to strip the bathroom door, but a coil of burning paint fell on the newspaper that was protecting the carpet tiles, and I was choking on black smoke by the time I managed to extinguish the flames with a wet bath-towel, and open the window. While this was going on, my mother was working in her garden, and the children were at school. Another incident, potentially more dangerous, concerned the airing cupboard where bedding was stored. A naked low voltage bulb, which lit the interior, had been left on overnight: in the morning there was a smouldering hole in a duvet that had been in contact with the hot bulb. I did not tell anyone about that.

Basic items of furniture had to be bought for the flat in Divonne, and a local firm found which would be willing to store items in advance of shipping them as part of a container load destined for Italy. The firm I selected was willing, but inexperienced in dealing with shipments to continental Europe; none of them knew a word of French, German or Italian, and all spoke in a broad Belfast accent. I scoured antique shops and auction rooms and at a clearance sale in Hanna & Browne, Belfast's most prestigious furniture shop, I bought some large items. The list of ‘alcoholic' purchases was also growing – most notably, a black-lacquered Edwardian upright piano, which meant the family in which nobody was more than an occasional strummer, now had two pianos. (It went to France, where I sold it to a jazz club.)

In October Michael appeared, wearing a sheepish expression, with a dog he claimed had followed him from the school gates. It had an instantly appealing personality, was neither cowed nor underfed, so I suspected it had a loving owner. It was agreed that it should stay the night, but an effort had to be made to reunite it with its owner. Michael reluctantly agreed that this was only just. He need not have worried because nobody came forward, and we came to the conclusion that Oscar had been dumped at the top of the estate, just off the main Bangor road, by someone who knew he would find a good home. He was of medium size, probably a mix of boxer and foxhound, of high intelligence, and had few faults, apart from a tendency to disappear for long periods in pursuit of some desirable bitch. Michael adored him, as did we all, but his arrival further complicated plans for 1975.

That I cannot recall the Christmas period of that year may be due to the fact that Fergus remained in the Congo, and we were both deeply depressed. He was also angry, tired, resentful and lonely: all reasons to seek refuge in a haze of alcohol. But he did not, or only rarely, as when, under cover of darkness, he put sugar in the petrol tank of a particularly unpleasant colleague. He was with us during the school holidays at Easter 1975, when we went to Malin and stayed in a recently restored schoolhouse. I have a picture of Auntie Dodi, Katharine and Oscar sitting on a rock, hair windswept by an arctic gale, which soon afterwards delivered pea-sized hailstones.

In September of that year Mary joined Katharine at Ackworth, while Michael remained at Glencraig until the October half-term when we left Northern Ireland to move to France. Once more we stayed en route at Mill Hill with Sybil and Iain, who fortunately are dog-lovers, because this time we brought Oscar, who, under sedation, had been flown over in a crate. The plan was to cross the channel from Folkestone to Calais where a duty-free Renault awaited collection.

The taxi we hired from Mill Hill to Folkestone broke down on the journey, with the result that we missed the afternoon ferry, and spent a chilly, windy afternoon killing time in steamy cafés, while the channel turned more choppy by the minute. It was late in the evening when we docked, to find the formalities we had dreaded because of Oscar were nonexistent; he went through without arousing any comment, and soon we were outside in the dark, looking for a taxi to take us to the hotel. Next morning we collected the car. For some reason the choice of vehicle had been left to me, and I had discussed our needs with the main Renault dealer in Belfast who was plugging the latest hatchback. I had ordered the de luxe model with bronze metallic paintwork, but what greeted us was a standard model with dreary beige paintwork; worse still, it had a 1.2 diesel engine. Fergus's remarks on seeing it are unprintable, particularly when he heard that he should not exceed 50 kph until it was due for its first service.

It is a very long drive to Divonne, and few details remain on my memory stick apart from Michael insisting on sleeping overnight in the car with Oscar because the
pension
had refused him entry. The nights were getting colder, and we had not calculated that the last lap of the journey through the département de l'Ain would be on Armistice Day. Most of the hotels we passed were
fermé
, and the Auberge du Vieux Bois on the road from Gex to Divonne, where we had hoped to find a room, was shuttered, displaying the notice ‘
Fermeture annuelle
'. We were exhausted, it was late in the day, and for the first time the momentous nature of our decision really struck home. Fortunately the Auberge du Beau Soleil near the
thermes
and casino was open, and M. Buffon, with flat black shiny hair, thin moustache and striped apron, would be delighted to show us a family room on the top floor. Oscar was already in the bar mingling with red-faced
fermiers
, who patted him, agreeing he was a fine
chien de chasse
, while Michael played table football.
Filet de boeuf
and frites were on the menu, followed by fruits, a cheese board and vanilla ice cream. We ordered a carafe of the house red, and Fanta for Michael. Without our asking, a plate of kitchen leftovers and a bowl of water was brought for Oscar, who slept that night on Michael's bed.

We collected keys to the flat from the
notaire
's office before going in search of the concierge. The approach was by an unsurfaced cul de sac off the main road near the cemetery, the bicycle shop and the
église protestante
. The car park, which had been asphalted, was shared with another
bâtiment
, where the concierge lived. M. Rossi emerged from his lair, bald, unsmiling and rotund, and we both found him difficult to understand. He spoke rapidly in an unfamiliar argot – think Marcel Pagnol films and
Jean de Florette
. Neighbours reassured us that even the French found him difficult to understand; he was Italian, and had learned his French in the Pyrenees. He escorted us across the entrance hall on the
rez-de-chaussée
, from which a lift descended to the
sous-sol
, where each apartment had a storage unit, and refuse bins awaited collection by the council lorry. A chute from the kitchens above discharged into a huge container, which it was his duty to wheel out to the roadside. All this we ingested as we passed a wall of metal postboxes, to a flight of marble stairs leading to our
1
^er
étage
flat.