William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Jones grinned conspiratorially. ‘Quiet celebration eh? Great news about Dickie and Pris, what do you say, Morgan? Marvellous.’ He slipped his arm round Morgan’s shoulders. ‘Better not let Arthur catch you though,’ he breathed into Morgan’s ear.

Morgan was about to describe in graphic detail what he would do to Fanshawe with the said gin bottle if the former tried to tick him off about it when he realized that the Deputy High Commissioner was Dalmire’s prospective father-in-law, and so kept it to himself. He contented himself with smiling knowingly and tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. This sent his two companions off into another attack of chuckles.

‘God, aren’t you a fly one though,’ Jones wheezed. ‘Yur, let’s have another round. Boy,’ he called to the barman, ‘same again.’

Morgan looked resentfully at them: Dalmire, in his mid-twenties flushed with drink like any adolescent: Jones, shiny fat face with puffy blue jowls married to a pale sickly wife with two pale sickly kids. It made you think, he said to himself, they certainly sent the dross out here. But then he realized he had included himself in the general condemnation, a thought which depressed him deeply for a moment before his pride told him he was different from the others, special, the exception to the rule. The self-evidence of this evaluation didn’t strike home with the convincing justness he had expected, so he changed the subject.

‘Where’s Priscilla?’ he asked Dalmire. ‘I thought she was coming down to meet you.’

‘She’s off with Geraldine and the kids,’ Dalmire told him. Geraldine was Jones’s wife. ‘Getting some kebabs. You eating here?’ Dalmire asked. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

Jones seconded this suggestion. They both seemed genuine. The thought came to Morgan, as it had done a few times in the past when faced with similar unprompted invitations, that they actually liked him, wanted his company, found him intriguing and amusing. He was always a little nonplussed on these occasions too, sentiments of humble gratitude spontaneously rising up within him. However it annoyed him to feel grateful to people like Dalmire and Jones, it seemed demeaning in a way, so he made a point of ruthlessly expunging such emotions when they occurred.

‘Ah…no thanks,’ he said tapping the side of his nose again, playing out the role of rake, hell-raiser and debauchee they had created for him. ‘Must be going soon. Got a date.’

This initiated a series of throaty laughs, mutual rib-digging and low cries of’Wor-hor-hor.’ Morgan wondered why he did it. His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Priscilla and Geraldine. Geraldine Jones was wearing a green…frock was the only suitable word, that hung limply from her thin shoulders and displayed the top half of her wash-board chest. She had big eyes in a small face, like some potto or lemur, and short indeterminately brown hair.

‘Hello you lot,’ she said with forced cheeriness. ‘Hello Morgan, nice to see you. What’s all this laughter about?’

Morgan knew instantly the kind of response Jones would make to this question and watched with mounting horror as the little Welshman fashioned a crude leer out ofhis plump features, tilted his body forward confidentially and said in his sing-song voice, ‘Ow-er Mor-gan’s got a ro-man-tic ass-ig-na-tion.’

As the red mist of virulent wrath dimmed his view, Morgan felt like plucking the eyes from Jones’s face, stamping his head to a pulp, ramming all types of fiendishly blunt uneven instruments into his various orifices, but instead, by a ruthless act of self-control, he managed a twisted, white-lipped smile, acutely conscious of Priscilla stiffening perceptibly beside him. While his heart sank to his shoes, the mildly comforting thought came to him that this indicated she was not entirely indifferent as to how or with whom he spent his evenings. Nevertheless she moved round to stand by Dalmire, whose eyes were beginning to look distinctly glazed, and gave him a loving little peck on the forehead. Dalmire put his arm round her and patted her haunch. She looked Morgan in the eye: he thought he could read triumph there. Before she could speak Morgan blurted out the first innocuous thing that came into his head.

‘Met Dr Murray’s son tonight. Spit and image of his father.’ He craned his neck as though searching the room for him. As expected this got everybody following suit.

‘I’m sure I saw him out by the barbecue,’ Geraldine remarked. ‘Quiet boy, on his own. Shame.’

‘Marvellous doctor, that Murray,’ Jones affirmed importantly. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done without him, or what would have happened to Gareth and Bronwyn. It’s difficult, this country, for our two.’

Everybody looked serious for a moment, reflecting on this.

‘He could do with a dash of the old milk of human kindness I reckon,’ Morgan commented, inserting the knife half an inch.

Geraldine looked astonished. ‘Oh no, do you think so? I found him ever so nice and helpful.’

‘Depends what’s wrong with you I expect,’ Priscilla interjected. ‘There are so many hypochondriacs out here. I think Murray can spot them a mile off.’ There was more general agreement. Morgan didn’t like the sound of this one bit: what exactly did Priscilla know? he wondered uneasily.

One ofjones’s children ran up. It was the little girl Bronwyn and she was holding a red balloon. ‘Daddy, daddy, look what I’ve got,’ she piped. Jones picked her up and in a mood of bibulous fatherly love nuzzled her neck saying, ‘Oo’s a clever likkle girl en? Eh? Oo’s daddy’s likkle clever girlie? Brrrr,’ and so on until she screamed in panic to be put down. Whereupon everyone except Morgan leaned over her to admire the red balloon, commenting on its rare and exotic beauty and Bronwyn’s Nobel Prize-winning intelligence in acquiring it. Amongst the hullabaloo Morgan noticed Dalmire’s hand slide from Priscilla’s hip round to cup and squeeze her buttock. The green-eyed monster ruled in Morgan’s heart. Its reign, however, was shortly terminated by the arrival of a steward bearing a note. Bronwyn had now been joined by her brother Gareth, also clutching a balloon — only this time a yellow one — and also demanding acclaim and admiration so Morgan had plenty of undisturbed time to accept the note, thank the steward, look puzzled and read it. It said:

‘I am in the small bar. Why don’t you come and join me. Sam Adekunle.’

Morgan thought he was going to be sick, he even felt a bit unsteady on his feet. He thrust the note into his pocket and thought furiously. His deep concentration eventually impinged on the consciousness of the others present and they stopped talking and looked curiously at him.

‘Is everything all right?’ Priscilla asked.

‘Not bad news, is it?’ Jones laughed nervously. ‘Been stood up by the girlfriend?’

Morgan forced a smile. ‘God no.’ He played for time. ‘Worse than that.’ He said the first remotely plausible lie that came into his head. ‘Apparently some British Council poet we’re meant to be putting up has gone and got himself lost. Bloody artist, typical.’ He left it vague. ‘Ah well, duty calls.’ People commiserated, their conversation resumed. Morgan drained the last inch of his whisky, shuddered, and moved round the side of the group to put it on the bar.

He felt Priscilla’s hand on his arm. ‘Everything is all right, isn’t it, Morgan?’ She sounded concerned, and he was touched. He shot a glance at Dalmire, who was chatting to Jones, and looked back at Priscilla, taking in the shiny fringe, the silly nose, the fabulous breasts as if for the first time. Love bloomed like a napalm blast in his heart: a stupid, irrational drink-induced love that had little to do with the emotion spelt with a capital L. He thought: if only he could have her, somehow, before she and Dalmire got married then, well, everything would seem fairer, more even and proper. Her hand was still on his arm, Morgan laid his on top of hers.