William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Yes, sah. I go bring them all.’

♦

‘Yes, sah. Mrs Fanshawe, Mr Dalmire and Miss Fanshawe also.’

Morgan looked towards the house. The downstairs rooms seemed crowded with people. A little victory celebration, Adekunle had said.

‘Are there many people here?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Peter said. ‘Plenty plenty, sah.’

Morgan edged his way through the crowded sitting room towards the bar. The atmosphere was hot and frenetic and there was a mood of euphoria in the air rather like a New Year party. He kept his head down. He didn’t want to see anyone, he was only here because Adekunle had ordered him to attend. He fought his way to the bar.

‘Large whisky please. And soda.’

‘Hello you’ he heard, and looked round. It was Priscilla. ‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘What’s happened to your face? And your hair?’

‘Christmas pud,’ he explained. ‘Too much brandy. Never realized the stuff was so combustible.’ He thought she looked breathtakingly desirable, from the neck down: tanned and glowing with health in a creamy scoop-necked dress.

‘So that’s why we haven’t seen you,’ she said, popping an olive into her mouth. ‘I think Daddy’s been trying to get hold of you for days.’

‘Really?’ Morgan said, touching his elastoplast eyebrow with one hand and trying to control the featherlight cilia of his quiff with the other. ‘I’ve been convalescing,’ he added in explanation. He changed the subject. ‘I thought you and Dickie were going on holiday after Christmas. Skiing, wasn’t it?’

‘We are,’ she said. ‘In fact we shall have to be off soon as we’re driving down overnight to the capital. Plane leaves at some ungodly hour in the morning. Peter’s taking us in the big car. Oh look, there’s Dickie.’

Dalmire approached looking young and clean-cut in a white dinner jacket. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘The prodigal returns. What on earth have you been doing to your face?’ He bent over and whispered in Morgan’s ear. ‘Arthur wants to see you, Morgan. I think he’s in a bit of a bate.’

‘What about?’ Morgan asked.

‘Innocence mainly, I think.’

‘That’s all taken care of now.’

‘And something to do with the Duchess too.’

‘Oh Christ. I suppose I’d better get it over with. Where is he?’

‘Over on the other side of the room. Under that mask thing on the wall.’

Morgan began to ease and weave his way through the packed bodies across the room in the direction Dalmire had indicated. He was halfway there, wedged between an enormous Kinjanjan lady and a gesticulating KNP official when he felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Denzil Jones.

‘Hello, Denzil. Some other time. I’ve got to see Arthur.’

‘Just a word, Morgan,’ Jones wriggled himself closer. He looked downcast and serious. Perspiration gleamed on his blue jowls. He shot a nervous glance around the room. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked, shoving a piece of paper into Morgan’s hand. It was a bill from the Ademola clinic for Hazel’s treatment which it clearly specified along with the penicillin dosage.

‘Doesn’t mean anything to me,’ Morgan said innocently. ‘Have you been overcharged?’ He cursed under his breath: he’d given Hazel money to pay that bill.

‘It’s not bloody true, man!’Jones yelped. ‘It’s not your idea of a joke, is it? Because if it is, it’s not very funny. Not funny at all.’ He looked miserable. ‘Geraldine went mad. She refused to come here tonight.’

‘Sorry, Denzil. Probably some of the buggers at the club.’ He patted Jones’s shoulder. ‘Gheer up, old son.’ He’d always wanted to say that to Jones. He pushed his way on through the crowd.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ he said. Fanshawe was in full regalia: bum-freezer DJ, cummerbund, medal ribbons.

‘Morgan! Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded. ‘And what in God’s name have you done to your face?’

‘A slight accident. I’ve been, ah, convalescing. Needed a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Oh marvellous,’ Fanshawe said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Marvellous. And what about Innocence eh? Just leave her to rot.’

‘I got her back, didn’t I?’ Morgan said petulantly. He explained the new arrangements he’d made and Fanshawe seemed to calm down somewhat. ‘All the servants came back on time, I assume?’ Morgan said. ‘Did the function go all right?’

Fanshawe put his hands on his hips. ‘Good question. It did actually. But why weren’t you there?’

‘I wasn’t well, I told you. Listen Arthur…’

‘You were missed you know,’ Fanshawe said. ‘Particularly by the Duchess. For some reason she kept asking where you were. Got in a very bad mood when you never appeared.’

Fanshawe thought some more about this. ‘Curious woman…very pleasant though, mind you. Seemed especially put out by your absence.’ He looked suspiciously at Morgan. ‘Make any sense?’

‘Beats me,’ Morgan said. ‘Look, Arthur, I want to talk to you about something important.’

‘Still,’ Fanshawe said, completely ignoring him and clapping him on the shoulder, ‘water under the bridge and all that.’ He gestured at the party. ‘All’s well et cetera.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Kingpin looks like paying off. Lucky for all of us.’

‘That’s actually what I want to talk about, Arthur, I…’

‘ Good grief .’ It was Chloe Fanshawe, brushing aside a couple of guests to intrude upon their dialogue. ‘What’s happened to your face? Your hair?’ She was wearing a shocking pink dress encrusted with silvery threadwork and had a triple rope of pearls around the soft folds of her neck. She must have re-dyed her hair, Morgan thought, its blackness was so dense, giving her skin the edible texture and whiteness of marshrnallow.

‘My Christmas present,’ Morgan improvised. ‘Cigarette lighter. Turned the flame adjuster the wrong way. Lit a cigarette and whoomph.’

‘Dear me. Shame…Arthur, come along. I want you to meet…’

Morgan clawed his way back to the bar. Obviously he wasn’t going to be able to break the news of his resignation to Fanshawe tonight. He replenished his drink. He noticed Dalmire and Priscilla chatting cosily and the old envy returned to him for a minute. He turned away and saw Georg Muller and his daughter Liesl coming over. Morgan raised his hand in salutation. He knew her well, she came out every year for Xmas.

‘I want to give you a kiss,’ Liesl said flirtatiously, ‘But I don’t want to cause you pain.’

‘Haha,’ Morgan said. He was getting tired of explaining about his face.

‘What happened?’ Muller asked, looking as smart as he ever did in a rumpled green safari suit.

‘Well there was this baby trapped in a burning house and…oh never mind. How are you, Liesl? You look fit.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. On her high heels she was at least three inches taller than him. ‘I wish I could return the compliment. Kinjanja seems not to be agreeing with you.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Morgan said with feeling.

‘The British are out in force tonight,’ Muller observed wryly. ‘You must all be very pleased about the election.’

Morgan shrugged. ‘It all depends on your point of view.’

Muller laughed. ‘You are a sly fellow, Morgan. I haven’t forgotten the last time we met.’ There was an uncomfortable pause. It suddenly struck Morgan that Muller somehow resented him, thought he’d done something clever and underhand with Adekunle and the KNP.

Liesl broke the ice. ‘The new government has its first crisis anyway. I hear the students have occupied the administration block. The riot squad have been called in again.’

‘I was just talking to the Vice-Chancellor,’ Muller said. ‘It has quite spoiled his Christmas.’