William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Well,’ Morgan said, on hearing this, ‘we’d better get you to the Joneses. It seems as though everything went OK.’ He paused. ‘You could stay here if you want. I can go and get the servants…’

‘No,’ Mrs Fanshawe said, re-reading the note. ‘I don’t feel like staying here on my own. But do you think I could clean up a bit at your place first? Perhaps Denzil could come over and collect me.’

‘Sure,’ Morgan said. ‘Fine.’

Pious dropped them at Morgan’s house. Morgan ran in to get the money to pay him off. It was worth every penny. He looked at his watch. Half past eleven. He felt like he’d been on the run for weeks. But, he reasoned with a wry smile, in a way that was true enough. Pious drove off noisily and for a moment or two Morgan stood alone in his driveway, the light rain falling on his head. Small rain, Isaac had called it. For a second he thought he could hear the pop-gun effect of distant shooting. He wondered what was going on: everybody shooting at everybody else tonight. He shivered at the memory. Thunder mumbled and lightning flashed away to the southwest. He smelt the musty attic odour of damp earth and listened to the bats and toads, the creek-creek of the crickets starting up again.

He went back into his house. Mrs Fanshawe stood in the middle of the carpet examining the rents in her dress. She gave a tired laugh when he came in.

‘My God, Morgan,’ she said. ‘What on earth must we look like?’ Morgan smiled. She looked very strange with her small bare feet, her thigh gaping from the slit in the dress, her hair tousled, half her underwear on show; like a survivor from a plane crash. Only the three strings of pearls belonged to the Mrs Fanshawe of earlier in the evening.

‘I feel I should thank you, Morgan,’ she said.

‘What for?’

‘For everything you did tonight. You were splendid.’

Morgan bowed his head. ‘Thanks,’ he said, adding awkwardly, ‘you did all right yourself.’

This mutual congratulation made them feel embarrassed and they both scrutinized the weave of the carpet. Morgan moved to the drinks table.

‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather have a bath first?’

‘Oh a bath I think,’ she said. ‘Lovely.’ Morgan led her up the corridor and into his bedroom. He showed her the bathroom.

‘There are plenty of towels,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we can’t rise to a new dress.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ she reassured him.

He went back into the sitting room and poured himself a whisky. He sat down in an armchair and took a sip. Outside in the dark the rain pattered gently on the leaves of the trees and dripped into the gutters. He felt tired. He knew the recriminations and problems ahead of him: the resignation, Adekunle’s wrath, the exposure of Celia. Her name made his features tighten as he remembered the scene at the house. What the hell, he thought with sudden generosity. She could have her visa: it didn’t matter to him really. She was just desperate, in a jam: he’d have done the same in her circumstances — or worse. He’d see she got one tomorrow.

He got up and poured himself another whisky. He felt let down and demoralized. Everything he’d done had been in vain, he considered. He hadn’t even held on to his job. He heard the creak of the swing door and Mrs Fanshawe came in. She was wearing his blue towelling dressing-gown and was carrying her dress.

‘Have you got a needle and thread?’ she asked innocently. ‘I’ll try and patch up these tears before I call Denzil.’

Morgan rummaged around in a few drawers and found what she wanted. Mrs Fanshawe sat down and began to sew up the dress. Morgan found the domestic scene strangely unsettling. It reminded him uncomfortably of that hot afternoon in her house, fitting the Father Christmas costume, the day he’d…He excused himself saying he was going to have a shower.

In the bathroom he stripped off his clothes and washed his dusty sweaty body clean beneath the cool water. He bent to pick up the soap from the side of the bath and found it wet and slippy. As he worked up a lather he thought it strange to consider that minutes earlier the soap had followed a similar course over Mrs Fanshawe’s considerable frame. He noticed a sprinkle of talcum powder on the bathroom floor, he saw some black hairs stark against the white enamel of the bath. For some reason he felt a little apprehensive, a ball of air seemed to lodge itself in his throat. He and Mrs Fanshawe had been through a lot together tonight, he told himself. They had shared considerable danger, been shot at…

He pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers and padded back through to the sitting room. Mrs Fanshawe sat on the sofa, the repaired dress beside her. Her face looked clean, her black hair was combed back from her white forehead, still slightly damp.

‘Have you phoned Denzil yet?’ Morgan asked, an unfamiliar catch in his voice.

‘No,’ she said deliberately, allowing a silence to fall before adding, ‘I’ve decided I’d rather stay here tonight, if that’s fine with you.’

♦

Oh my God, Morgan thought as he unbuttoned his shirt. No God, no. What was he doing? he asked himself hysterically. What did he think he was playing at? Across on the other side of the bed from him Mrs Fanshawe removed her dressing-gown, her eyes never leaving his face, a strange relaxed smile on her lips. Morgan’s gaze was locked on to hers, and he was only dimly aware of the large white body in its sensible underwear, caught an unfocused glimpse of the white breasts tumbling free of the nylon cuirass that supported them, sensed vaguely the stooping pant-removing gesture that revealed momentarily the patch of dark amidst the creamy plains of her thighs, before she slipped into his bed pulling the sheet up to her neck.

Morgan lowered his trousers. After she’d asked if he’d mind her staying, she had risen to her feet and walked over to him.

‘Let’s have a look at that cut on your forehead,’ she commanded, and obediently he lowered his head so she could examine it better, bringing their faces to within a close six inches of each other. Morgan gulped. Suddenly they were kissing, her thin lips pressed to his, her hands running up and down his back. And now she was lying naked in his bed. He eased off his underpants and slid under the sheet to join her. She pulled him close. Hesitantly he allowed his hand to rest on her side, somewhere safe. Her skin felt unbelievably soft and pampered.

She edged closer. He felt the cushiony weight of her breasts flatten between them. She cupped his face with her hands.

‘Morgan,’ she said. ‘We’ve been through too much tonight not to…not to be with each other now.’

He nodded wordlessly. He felt his fear and surprise slowly yielding to arousal. He trickled his fingers across her wide thighs. He remembered suddenly that Priscilla’s pants lay in the drawer of the bedside table. What a peculiar world it was, he thought helplessly, where this sort of fateful irony could occur.

‘Do you remember that day you came to try on the Santa Claus outfit?’ she asked softly.

He nodded again.

‘I’ve been thinking about you since then,’ she said. ‘A lot.’

Surely, Morgan asked himself indignantly, she didn’t think he let it happen on purpose? She must credit him with a seductive technique marginally more refined than…that? As if to prove his point he nuzzled her breasts, touching his lips to a nipple, while she gave an appreciative sigh into his ear.

The phone rang beside the bed.

Morgan looked up. ‘I’d better answer it,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it in the sitting room. It might be…’ They both knew who it might be. He pulled on his dressing-gown and ran down the corridor.