William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Morgan had watched him walk away. The black splenetic fury that would normally have erupted had been replaced this time by bleak cynical resignation. The injustice was so towering, so out of proportion that no rage could hope to match it. Fanshawe was scum, he had decided, not worthy even of his most scathing contempt.

He turned away from the window and went back to his desk. There, folded on his chair, were his Santa Claus overalls and a large cotton-wool beard. Beneath the seat were shiny black gumboots. On his desk was a note from Mrs Fanshawe outlining his duties and itinerary.

His stomach rumbled with hunger. He had not returned home but had stayed on at the Commission and moped. Around lunchtime he had telephoned his house and spoken to Bilbow.

‘Shame you’re tied up,’ Bilbow had said. ‘Your boys have given me a great loonch. Whopping roast turkey, all the trimmings.’

Morgan’s saliva glands surged into action, but ‘leave some for me’ was all he said. Bilbow was due to take part in some festival of poetry and dance at the university arts theatre on Boxing Day, co-sponsored by the Kinjanjan Ministry of Culture and the British Council as part of the nationwide Independence anniversary celebrations. Morgan vaguely remembered the letter he had signed several days previously telling him the Commission could provide accommodation. Under the circumstances, he thought, it was scarcely surprising it had slipped his mind. He told Bilbow he could stay on with him if he wanted, and to his relief the poet accepted. Morgan thought it as well to keep him away from the Fanshawes.

He looked at his watch: 3.45. According to the timetable he had to be at the club at 4.00, where a Land-Rover would be waiting, laden with the presents he was to distribute. Weighed down with self-pity he began to change into his Santa outfit. He took off his shirt and trousers and put on the red overalls. Mrs Fanshawe had added gold tinsel trimmings and a hood. He put on the gumboots and hooked the beard over his ears. For a second or two he thought he might pass out. There was no let-up, he bitterly reflected, no relief from the succession of Job-like torments he was inflicted with. He wondered what on earth he looked like and went through to the landing bathroom to find a mirror.

Mrs Bryce had clearly been at work. A scrap of carpet had been laid on the scuffed parquet of the landing and flower-filled vases were placed on every window ledge. Morgan peered into the guest suite. All was clean and fresh in readiness for her Grace. In the bathroom the porcelain gleamed from energetic Vimming; small tablets of soap and neatly folded towels were laid out as if for kit inspection. The only tawdry element was the plastic shower curtain with its’ faded aquatic motifs; obviously Fanshawe’s budget didn’t stretch to replacing that.

Morgan regarded his reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. He did look suitably Christmassy he thought, though the too-short sleeves seemed an absurdly rakish note, his broad shoulders and thick arms making him appear an aggressively youthful and somehow faintly yobbish Santa. He sighed, causing his spade-like beard to flutter: the things he did for his country.

Passing through the hall on the way out to his car he heard the buzz of an incoming call on the untended switchboard. He hesitated for a moment and then decided to answer it.

‘Deputy High Commission.’

‘Morgan?’ It was Celia. His heart sank. She was crying. ‘Thank God it’s you.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, trying to keep the resignation out of his voice.

‘I tried to ring you at home, someone told me you were here.’ She sniffed. ‘I have to see you. It’s urgent. I’m so unhappy, so miserable.’

Join the club, he thought ungraciously. ‘Celia,’ he said in a despairing tone, ‘look, I don’t know. I’ve got a hell of a lot on. Christ, I’m even dressed up as Santa bloody Claus at the moment.’

‘Please,’ she wailed. ‘It’s terribly important. You’ve got to help me.’

No! he screamed inwardly. No. He couldn’t help anybody else, not now, not any more; he was fully employed helping himself. No, no, a thousand times no. But all he said was, ‘I can’t talk now, Celia. Give me a ring tomorrow sometime, OK?’

♦

‘Gareth Jones…There you are, Merry Christmas…Bronwyn Jones. Hello Bronwyn, Merry Christmas…Funsho Akinremi? Merry Christmas Funsho…Trampus McKrindle. Ah, Trampus? Where’s Trampus?…There you are, Merry Christmas…What have we here? I can’t read this…Yes, Yvonne and Tracy Patten. Merry Christmas, girls…’

It took him almost an hour to distribute the presents from the two immense sacks that were sitting in the open back of the Land-Rover. It was parked on the lawn in front of the club. On the grass below the terrace were long tables where the scores of children had eaten their Christmas tea and which were now covered with the incredible detritus all children’s parties seemed to leave behind them. The tables reminded Morgan of unscrubbed surgical trestles from some Crimean War dressing-station, covered in blobs and shreds of multicoloured jelly, flattened cakes, vivid spilt drinks, oozing trifle mush, deliquescent ice-cream. Morgan had called each child out to receive two presents — one donated by their parents expressly for this purpose, the other a tin of sweets ostensibly provided by the Duchess — reading their names out from the cards in a booming ho-ho-ho Santa voice. His cheeks and jaw-bones ached from the effort of smiling. Despite the disguise of his beard he had found it impossible to convey an impression of geniality with a straight face. On the terrace overlooking the children, the parents and other interested onlookers stood clutching drinks. Morgan could see the Joneses and Dalmire and Priscilla. On a low podium to the right of the Land-Rover sat the Duchess of Ripon herself, flanked by the Fanshawes.

After all the presents had been handed out Dalmire strode onto the lawn, clapped his hands for silence and without the least trace of anxiety gave a short speech thanking the Duchess for hosting the party, honouring the Nkongsamba club with her presence and called on everyone to give three cheers.

As the last hurrah died away Morgan clambered down from the back of the Land-Rover, snatched off his beard and made’ for the bar at a brisk trot. He saw Fanshawe, however, imperiously beckon him over to their group. Reluctantly he changed course.

‘This is Mr Leafy, our First Secretary,’ Fanshawe introduced him to the Duchess.

‘You made a splendid Santa, Mr Leafy, I’m most grateful.’ Morgan looked into the hooded, deeply bored eyes of a stumpy middle-aged woman. She had frosted blond-grey hair curling from beneath her straw turban and lumpy unpleasant features that shone with decades of insincerity, arrogance and bad manners. As he shook her damp soft hand he noticed the way the loose flesh on her upper arm jiggled to and fro.

‘Not at all, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘My pleasure entirely.’

Mrs Fanshawe led her off to the official car while Fanshawe lingered behind. He clutched at Morgan’s wrist.

‘Luckily, we’re dining with the Governor tonight,’ he hissed, unyielding still in his displeasure. ‘But what’s happening with Innocence?’

‘Ah, I’m working on that, Arthur.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Ooh, about fifty yards away.’

‘Not in your…?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid the car’s the safest place until I can work out a plan.’

Fanshawe had gone pale again. ‘I’ll never understand you,’ he said hollowly, shaking his head. ‘Never. Just get her back. That’s all. Get her back in place tonight.’ Morgan said nothing, all he could think about was the drink that was waiting for him at the bar.