Jonathan Coe - Number 11

‘This is … beautiful,’ said Rachel, more or less lost for words. ‘Where are Mr and Mrs Gunn?’

‘Sir Gilbert and her ladyship are on safari,’ said the butler. ‘The children as well. They will be back at six o’clock in time for dinner. They said, Relax, Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rachel. ‘I will.’

‘I’ll bring some food,’ said the butler. ‘You want wine, champagne?’

‘Just water, please,’ said Rachel. ‘A bottle of cold water.’

‘You have water,’ said the butler, opening the door of the minibar. ‘But I will bring some more.’

Before he left, Rachel wondered whether she was supposed to tip him — she had absolutely no idea of the protocol at places like this — but realized in any case that she had no local currency. She had not paid for anything so far — not the connecting flight from Johannesburg to the Skukuza aerodrome, nor the chauffered Land Rover which had brought her to the camp — nor did she have any means of doing so, apart from a Visa card with a credit limit which would probably not cover the half of it. Besides, she already felt uncomfortable, being waited on by this courteous, statuesque black man, and thought that the offer of a tip might be patronizing. It was just one of the many confusing aspects of the ridiculous situation in which she found herself.

The butler spared her any further embarrassment by leaving wordlessly. Rachel unpacked her things and then took the first of many showers (it was midday, and outrageously hot). After which, she sat on the decking, drinking her water and looking once again through the blue plastic folder with the Albion Tutorials logo, and beneath it their enigmatic strapline: ‘Delivering British Educational Solutions to International Clients’.

It didn’t, of course, answer any of the questions that were pulsing through her head. Why had she been brought here at such short notice? How long would she be staying? What were her duties supposed to be? Mr Campion (Bill, as he’d kept telling her to call him) hadn’t been able to enlighten her much.

‘Don’t be freaked out about it,’ he’d said. ‘These people have a lot of money. To you, it may seem like a big deal that they’re flying you all the way out there. But to them, it really isn’t. You’re going there to do some work with Lucas, Sir Gilbert’s son from his first marriage. For some reason Sir Gilbert took a dislike to the last tutor and hasn’t renewed his contract. He says you don’t need to take out any books or anything like that. I think he has something in mind that’s a bit … more general. He has two daughters, as well — twins — by his current marriage, to the second Lady Gunn, who I believe used to be a fashion model, and is originally from Kazakhstan. I don’t think you’ll be having much to do with them on this trip. Just relax and enjoy it. It’s not everyone who gets to go on a luxury safari without paying!’

‘Relax and enjoy it.’ That had been the advice, but Rachel was finding it impossible to follow. She spent the afternoon lying on her bed, regretting the fact that there was no cell phone coverage in the Kruger national park, and wondering if her grandfather’s test results had come through yet.

*

Shortly after six o’clock, the stillness of the camp was broken by the arrival of a jeep, carrying three African guides and a family of five. The guides were in good spirits as they helped the family down the high step from the vehicle to ground level. There were two pretty young girls of about eight or nine, and a tall, handsome, but slightly pale and dreamy-looking boy in his late teens. Sir Gilbert Gunn was in his mid-fifties, grey-haired and serious: Rachel recognized him from the picture on his Wikipedia page. The elegant blonde accompanying him, some twenty years his junior, was presumably his second wife, Madiana. ‘Don’t appear too shy or backward,’ Mr Campion had said, ‘they won’t appreciate it. They only like strong people.’ So she bounded down the steps from her tent and held out her hand in greeting.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Rachel. From Albion Tutors. Thank you for bringing me here.’

The guides dispersed, looking tired but still cheerful. Sir Gilbert, his wife and their children did not, on the other hand, seem especially invigorated by their day’s activities.

‘Not at all. Thank you for coming,’ said Sir Gilbert, giving her hand the briefest of shakes. ‘Excuse me while I go and freshen up.’

‘Was the safari good?’ Rachel asked.

‘There were no lions,’ said Madiana, brushing past her, and addressing the remark more to her husband than to anybody else. ‘For the third time, no lions.’

‘You can’t just lay lions on on tap, you know,’ said Sir Gilbert, heading for his tent without looking back. ‘We saw bloody rhinos and elephants, for God’s sake. What more do you want?’

‘They want lions, obviously,’ said Lucas, the teenager, in a weary voice as he made for a different tent. Madiana and the two girls — who looked hot and disgruntled — trudged towards a third tent, the one nearest the swimming pool: this meant, Rachel realized, that Sir Gilbert’s family and entourage accounted for four out of the six tents in camp. She later found out that the other two were empty, and that he had actually booked the entire camp for the week.

‘Come and see me in fifteen minutes,’ he called back to her. ‘We’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you what I want.’

‘Fine,’ said Rachel, and returned briefly to her own quarters.

Dusk was falling as she made her way to Sir Gilbert’s tent fifteen minutes later. A slow, magnificent sunset was in progress, with a shimmering ochre sun casting valedictory rays through the canopy of trees, while the cicadas sang and the night birds began their early chorus. Sir Gilbert was drinking a gin and tonic at his table and seemed to be enjoying the sunset, although, as Rachel was to learn over the next few months, he was not much given to revealing his emotions.

‘Not a bad spot,’ was all he said to her.

‘It’s amazing,’ said Rachel.

‘Been here before?’

‘No. This is very much a first, for me.’

‘Wouldn’t have been my first choice,’ he said. ‘But the kids wanted to see some animals and, you know … They take priority.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So,’ he said, after summoning the butler and ordering a glass of white wine for Rachel, ‘about my son. When he’s not at school he mostly lives with his mother, so I don’t take much responsibility for how he’s turned out.’

‘Which school does he go to?’ Rachel asked.

‘Eton. Just starting his last year there, which means he’s got university interviews coming up in a few months. He’s aiming for maths at Oxford. You were at Oxford, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t go to public school?’

‘No.’

‘Good. That’s what they told me. Well, the crux of the matter is this. Because of the cock-eyed ideology which permeates education in Britain at the moment, Oxford colleges are under a lot of pressure to favour state-educated pupils like yourself. I believe it’s called “inclusivity”. Or “anti-elitism”. Whatever you call it, the upshot is that boys like Lucas, who’s never seen the inside of a state school in his life, have to try extra hard to make the right impression. His mother’s spoiled him. I don’t believe I’ve spoiled him, but I’ve certainly spent a lot of money on him over the last seventeen years, which I think is only natural when it comes to your own offspring. Not surprisingly, he’s turned out cocky, arrogant and with a sense of entitlement you can spot from ten miles away. None of which would have been a problem, in the past, but nowadays, as I said, this sort of thing apparently puts people’s backs up at our great centres of learning. So what we’ve got to do is try to knock some of it out of him. Do you follow?’