Miller Caldwell: Caught in a Cold War Trap

I guffawed. ‘But I know nothing about business, no idea how to get the groundnuts and have no financial or administrative skills.’ Sweat was beginning to congregate on my brow.

‘I said you would be the manager. Not the General Manager. Igor Utechin is there already, he will show you the ropes. He is expecting you. His English is at times limited. He is from Yekaterinburg. He needs an English speaker and someone who speaks Russian. Are you interested?’

My mind could not work fast enough. ‘I think I can’t answer yet. I’d need to talk to Morag.’

His smile did not disappear. It grew larger. ‘She could do her elective weeks at the Korle Bu Teaching hospital in Accra. We could fly you down each weekend. Now that would help out, not so?’

‘Well maybe. But what if I turn down this very kind opportunity?’ I asked with a lump of fear in my throat.

His smile disappeared. ‘Come, come Robert. We did not fund your education for nothing. It’s time to pay back some, isn’t it?’ he said, his manner both threatening and paternal. ‘Our conditions are good. You’ll have an annual leave of one month. We fly you back home after three years. A salary in cedis, the local currency, and £150 a month put into your account in Scotland.’ His smile seemed sincere, yet his poise unsettled me.

In fact, I felt trapped. I could not see a way out. I had landed myself a job, for which I was thankful, but his tone had changed and for the first time those student cheques came with conditions.

He rose from his seat and went to a locked cabinet. He opened it. Two glasses appeared and then a bottle of vodka. He poured and offered me a drink. The glass was cut crystal. He stood in front of me and clicked my glass. ‘To your decision, by tomorrow.’

‘By tomorrow?’ I said. ‘Then I must be on my way to find a place to stay overnight.’

He shook his head. ‘We have a hotel for you. Send the bill to me.’

I gulped the rest of the vodka down and returned the glass to his desk. I ought to be grateful, but I wondered if I was destined for darker things.

My stay was at the London Chesterfield hotel in Mayfair. After a sumptuous steak meal served with panache. I had an ice cream coated by warm chocolate sauce served over exotic fruit and then a coffee. Throughout this dinner, I tried hard to find the words I needed. Then I returned to my room, sat on the seersucker blue bedspread and telephoned Morag.

‘Hi darling, Robert here.’

‘Hi pet, where?’

‘The Chesterfield hotel in Mayfair.’

‘Mayfair wow. Why?’

‘Well, I was offered a job.’

‘In London?’ she fired back with smoking gun rapidity.

‘London? No…’ I said twirling the telephone cord around my fingers

‘That’s a relief. So where, Glasgow?’ she suggested with a charming lilt in her voice. The line went silent for a moment. The time had come to break the hard news.

‘I’ve been offered the appointment of manager at the Pioneer Groundnut factory in Tamale, northern Ghana.’

‘What?’ she almost screamed. ‘You are joking surely,’ she said in a very slow tortured voice. ‘You’ve no idea what a manager does and in Africa. Good god.’

‘I know but I’ll be shown the ropes. There is a man in overall charge.’ I sensed a frown was appearing on her forehead. ‘And the good news is that you can come out to the teaching hospital in Accra during your elective period. Korle Bu Teaching Hospital, it’s called. That would be good.’

‘Hang on. Groundnut factory in Ghana? I just can’t believe this. Er… so how long would you be in Africa for?’

‘There’s one month’s home leave.’

I untwisted the telephone cord, stood up and gazed unfocussed out of the window.

‘So, if you take this job that means years without you?’

‘I’ll write regularly,’ I pleaded. But the line went dead. I knew she was upset and I ended the call. It would be a long night.

I was back in the Embassy by half past nine the following morning. I must have crossed at least four roads on my way over but I could not remember doing so. My morning walk was accompanied by the sounds of busy traffic but it was muffled. I was engrossed in what I might face that morning.

Comrade Chazov was in a serious mood. He sat crunched up in his swivel chair. He spoke in Russian, of course. He told me a passport for Ghana had been ordered for me. Instinctively, I told him my passport was in Glasgow. He leered at me.

‘Your Russian passport—and you will have diplomatic status, so no need for a British visa.’

That made me a Russian subject. How easily I had slipped into that role, one which was deeply uncomfortable. God, what the hell was happening to me?

‘So, Africa. Are you set to go?’ Comrade Chazov asked, and he sat back to hear my answer. I was slow to reply.

A multitude of questions filled my mind. Yes, what an experience Africa would be and Ghana was a Commonwealth country. I’d be welcomed but as a Russian citizen? Just what was I doing?

‘I… I… I just can’t believe how quickly this is happening. Does this mean I’m no longer British? I asked in a strained voice. ‘How can I explain that to Morag? How will my parents react?’ Comrade Chazov saw the anxiety in my face.

‘Relax, Robert. You will still be Scottish, I mean British. But to get you into Ghana and working with a Russian in Tamale, it makes sense to have a Russian passport, not so?’

I relaxed. I saw the sense in what he said. However, that was just one matter dealt with.

‘Preparation will take a bit of time. You will need yellow fever injections and some anti-malarial pills too, but we will arrange that.’

‘So will I have time to go back to Scotland?’

‘Yes, you can go tomorrow, for a week if you like. Let your family know you have accepted a job to produce groundnut oil. No other details are required.’

‘Then I can get a train back tonight,’ I said feeling I needed time to come to terms with this development.

‘No tomorrow morning. One of our embassy doctors will see you this afternoon and give you your yellow fever injection and some Malarone. You will have to start that course immediately to build up your immunity against malaria,’ said the avuncular Russian

‘Malaria?’

‘Yes, you don’t want to catch that, do you?’

I recalled West Africa is known as the white man’s grave. God, I hoped I would survive and not be that White Man.

‘So, how long will I be there?’

Comrade Chazov sucked an invisible sweet as he contemplated his answer. ‘It may be two, could be a three -year tour, with a break in the middle. That’s common for the white people in West Africa.’

I thought how the last two years of university had flown by. Anyway, it wasn’t a prison sentence; in my mind, it was becoming an opportunity.

‘So tomorrow morning, Glasgow?’

‘Yes of course, but you must return by next Thursday night. Your flight to Accra is on Friday morning.’

‘From Heathrow?’ I asked.

‘Yes Robert, Heathrow,’ he replied. He thought for a moment before asking, ‘One thing I should have asked. Do you have any allergies?’

I didn’t need to think about that. ‘Chocolate, anything with chocolate—it brings me out in hives, horrible hives,’ I said recalling the last time I ate some chocolate, which had been eight years ago. ‘I can’t even take chocolate cake,’ I added for good measure.

‘Interesting, chocolate,’ he said writing as he spoke.

Stations flew by in a blur as the train progressed north. Towns and fields had a regular sequence to follow but my mind lost interest in their sameness, that morning.

Had I not accepted the money in my first year at university I’d be facing a class hoping to learn some French or Spanish. Only senior classes might wish to learn Russian. But I had slipped into an unknown world. Well, unknown except I’d be in Africa in a week in a job for which I had no training or experience—and I knew the separation would strain my relationship with Morag. It was to her I had to make my first visit.