William Boyd: A Good Man in Africa

‘Ah, here you are at last, Morgan,’ she said (as if she were the one who had been kept waiting), sweeping across the room and cautiously lowering herself into a squat armchair. ‘Sherry I think, Arthur,’ she said to Fanshawe, who duly presented everyone with a pale Amontillado.

‘Well,’ Mrs Fanshawe exhaled, raising her glass. She then said something that, to Morgan’s ears, sounded very like Nakanahishana . ‘A Siamese toast,’ she added in condescending explanation.

‘Erm, nakahish… um, cheers,’ Morgan responded, taking a grudging sip at his warm cloying sherry and feeling sweat prickle all over his body. Nobody drank sherry in Africa, he fumed inwardly, and certainly not at this time of day when what your body craved for was something long, clinking with ice and possessing a kick like a mule. Morgan looked at Mrs Fanshawe’s pale knees as she resettled the hem of her Thai silk dress around them. Nobody, he was acutely aware, had so much as breathed the name of Priscilla, so he resolutely took the bull by the horns.

‘Marvellous news about Priscilla and…mmm, very pleased,’ he said feebly, raising his sticky glass to toast the couple for the second time that day.

‘Oh you’ve heard,’ Mrs Fanshawe enthused. ‘I’m so glad. Did Dickie tell you? We’re terribly pleased, aren’t we Arthur? He’s got such good prospects…Dickie, that is.’ It all came out in a rush and was followed by an awkward silence as the implied comparison was swiftly picked up and inwardly digested.

‘Priscilla will be down in a minute,’ Mrs Fanshawe continued, her pale skin refusing to colour. ‘She’ll be glad to see you.’

Sherry made Morgan depressed and this lie deepened the gloom that was settling on him as inevitably as night. He stared morosely at the dragon-patterned rugs on the Fanshawes’ floor as they filled him in on the details of Dickie and Priscilla’s good fortune and the excellent connections of her future in-laws.

‘…and, amazingly, it seems Dickie’s a family friend of the Duchess of Ripon. What do you think of that for a coincidence?’ Morgan looked up sharply. The request would be due soon; he had an infallible ear for topics being bodily dragged in. ‘Which is actually what I wanted to have a chat about, Morgan,’ she said predictably, running her hands beneath her buttocks, smoothing out the silk creases. ‘Have you got a cigarette there, Arthur?’ she asked her husband.

Fanshawe offered her a rosewood box inlaid with a mother-of-pearl Hokusai landscape. She took a cigarette frorn it which she screwed into a holder. Morgan waved the box away when it was presented to him. ‘Given up,’ he said. ‘Mustn’t tempt me, tut-tut.’ Why did he have to sound quite so cretinous? he wondered, as Mrs Fanshawe smiled at him through clenched teeth. She lit her cigarette. I know why she uses a holder, thought Morgan: she likes to bite things. The creases in Mrs Fanshawe’s soft throat disappeared momentarily as she threw her head back to blow smoke at the rotating ceiling fan.

‘Yes,’ she said, as if replying to a question, ‘the Duchess’ll be spending Christmas night here, arriving at some point on Christmas Day. She’s very graciously agreed to officiate at a children’s party in the afternoon at the club.’ She left it like that, vague and up in the air. Oh no, Morgan thought miserably; the games, she wants me to run the games. He set his features in a firm mask. He was going to refuse, he didn’t care how they pressured him, he was not going to spend Christmas trying to organize hordes of screaming brats.

Mrs Fanshawe tipped ash from her cigarette. ‘The Duchess,’ she continued airily, ‘is giving small presents to all the expatriate children, and,’ here she turned and beamed at Morgan, ‘we were hoping to get you in on this.’

Morgan was confused. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

Fanshawe broke in. ‘Christmas spirit, all that.’ Morgan was no wiser, but he felt apprehension hollow his chest.

‘Exactly,’ Mrs Fanshawe crowed as if everything was clear and above board. ‘We thought, didn’t we Arthur? that as we are the Duchess’s hosts it would be fitting if a senior member of the Commission were…were in some way involved with her own very generous act.’

Morgan was flustered. ‘You mean you want me to distribute the presents?’

‘Precisely,’ Mrs Fanshawe said. ‘We want you to be Father Christmas.’

Morgan felt the anger and outrage boil up inside him. He gripped the sides of his armchair and tried to control his voice. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said slowly. ‘You want me to dress up as Father Christmas?’ He felt his top lip quiver with fury at the effrontery of their suggestion. Just who the hell did they think he was — court jester?

‘What’s this, Morgan?’ came a voice from the stairs. ‘Are you going to be Father Christmas?’ It was Priscilla. She wore white flared slacks and a powder-blue T — shirt. Morgan’s jumping heart lifted him to his feet. Priscilla. Those breasts…

He caught himself. ‘We-11,’ he said, making the word two syllables, the better to illustrate his reluctant refusal.

‘But that’s marvellous!’ Priscilla squealed, sitting herself down on the arm of a sofa. ‘You’ll make a super Santa. How clever of you, Mummy.’

Morgan felt even more confused: how could anyone misunderstand such a crude vocal inflection? But at the same time he was pleased: pleased she was pleased.

‘I don’t know,’ Morgan continued hesitantly, ‘I thought Dalm…Dickie would…’

A peal oflaughter greeted this half-suggestion. ‘Oh Morgan, don’t be such a silly,’ Priscilla exclaimed, ‘Dickie’s much too thin. Oops…’ She pulled down her bottom lip with her forefinger in mock-apology. ‘Oh God, sorry, Morgan.’ Everybody grinned, though, including him. He hated himself.

‘Go on,’ Priscilla said leaning back, pointing her breasts at him. ‘You’ll be fantastic.’

At that moment he would have done anything for her. ‘All right,’ he said, fully aware that he would probably regret this decision for the rest of his life. ‘Glad to.’

‘Good man,’ Fanshawe said, approaching with the sherry decanter. ‘Top you up, shall I?’

♦

Priscilla left at the same time as Morgan. She was going down to the club to meet Dalmire after his golf. Morgan walked with her to her car. His depression had deepened, he had a buzzing, incipient headache.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I meant to mention it: congratulations. He’s a nice chap, um, Dickie. Lucky man,’ he added, with what he hoped was a grin of wry defeat.

Priscilla gazed dreamily at the Commission. Her eyes swept round to the storm clouds behind which the sun had now sunk, rimming the purple cliffs with burning orange. ‘Thanks, Morgan,’ she said, then: ‘Look.’ She wriggled her hand at him. ‘Like it?’

Morgan gingerly took the offered finger and looked at the diamond ring. ‘Nice,’ he said, then added in an American accent, ‘A lat of racks.’

‘It’s his grandma’s’ Priscilla told him. ‘He had it sent out in the diplomatic bag when he knew he was going to propose. Isn’t he sweet?’

‘Mmm. Isn’t he,’ Morgan agreed, thinking: the conniving, covert little bastard.

Priscilla took her finger away and polished the stone against her left breast. Morgan felt his tongue swell to block his throat. She seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened between him and her, erased it completely from her memory, like cleaning condensation from a window, everything gone, even that night. He gulped: that night. The night she’d unzipped his flies…best to forget too, he supposed. He looked at her round plump face, her thick dark hair, cut boyishly short with a fringe that seemed to rest on her eyelashes. She was very nearly a pretty girl in a typically unambitious English Home Counties sort of way, but she was prevented from achieving this modest beauty by her nose. It was long and thin and turned up sharply at the end like a ski-jump. Even the most partisan observer, the most besotted lover, would have to admit it was a dominant feature which even overcame, ultimately, the potent distractions of her fabulous body. Morgan remembered an afternoon’s sunbathing with her when his eyes would run irresistibly up her slim legs, past her neat crutch, swoop over those impossible breasts to alight fixedly on that curious nose. She had a flawless complexion, her lips were, unlike her mother’s, generous and soft, her hair was shiny and lustrous. But…