Bray asked everywhere about Edward Shinza; certainly he was not in evidence at any official occasion. Bray felt he must be somewhere about; it was difficult to imagine this time without him. It was his as much as Mweta’s. But no one seemed to have seen him, or to know whether he was, or had been, in the capital. There were other faces from the past; William Clough, the Governor, lifting his bristly eyebrows in exaggerated greeting at Mweta’s banquet, the way he used to do on the tennis court in Dar-es-Salaam. “James, you must come and say hello to Dorothy before we leave. I daren’t say dine — we’re homeless, you know—”
“Uncle Willie’s Independence Joke,” Vivien said. “Produces a hearty, man-of-the-world laugh from Africans.”
“The kind of laugh they’ve picked up from people like Uncle Willie,” said Neil.
Still, the Cloughs pursued Bray through Vivien. “Aunt Dorothy says her secretary’s been trying to get hold of you. They want you for drinks on Monday. I’d go if I were you, or she’ll tell everyone in London you were buttering up to the Africans and didn’t want to see them.” He laughed. “No, it’s true. She says that about me, to my mother. And she knows quite well that we’d never see each other in London either.”
The Cloughs had moved into the British Consulate for the last week or two before their departure, a large, glassy, contemporary house placed to show off the umbrella thorn-trees of the site, just as in an architect’s scale model. The consul and his wife had been swept into some back room by the presence of aides, secretaries, and the necessity to keep their cats out of the way of Lady Dorothy’s dog. There was some sort of scuffle when Bray arrived — he saw the consul’s wife, whom he had met briefly, disappearing upstairs with her head bent consolingly to a Siamese. Flower arrangements were placed everywhere, as if there were illness in the house.
“Well, the job is done, one asks nothing more but to fold one’s tents….. He’s a good chap, if they’ll let him alone, he’s learnt a lot, and one’s done what one could … if he keeps his head, and that one can’t be sure of, not even with him, mmh? Not even with him.” An elderly servant came in with a silver tray of glasses and bottles, and Clough interrupted himself to say with the sweet forbearance of one who does not spare himself, encouraging where others would give way to exasperation, “It would be so nice if we could have a few slices of lemon … and more ice? — Yes, all I’ve said to Mweta, again and again — make your own pace. Make your own pace and stick to it. He knows his own mind but he’s not an intransigent fellow at all — well, of course, you know. Some time ago — a word in your ear, I said, you’d be unwise to lose Brigadier Radcliffe. Well, they’ve been clamouring away, of course, but he’s refused to touch the army. Oh, I think I can say we’ve come out of it quite good friends.” It was a modest disclaimer, with the effect of assuming in common the ease with Africans that he believed Bray to have. He looked pleasantly into the martini jug and put it down again patiently. The elderly servant who brought ice and lemon had the nicks at the outer corner of the eyes that Northern Gala people wore. “That’s perfect. Thank you so much.”
Bray greeted the servant in Gala with the respectful form of address for elders and the man dumped the impersonality of a servant as if it had been the tray in his hands and grinned warmly, showing some pigmentation abnormality in a pink inner lip spotted like a Dalmatian. The ex-Governor looked on, smiling. The servant bowed confusedly at him, walking backwards, in the tribal way before rank, and then recovering himself and leaving the room with an anonymous lope.
“I’ll pour Dorothy’s martini as well, maybe that’ll bring her. If only one could be transported on a magic carpet … anyway, we shall have three months in London now, with perhaps a week or two in Ireland. What’ve you been doing all these years in your ivory tower in Wiltshire? Were you a golfer, I can’t quite remember …?”
“It was tennis … and afterwards we took the girls for beer to the old Dar-es-Salaam hotel with the German eagle?”
Dorothy Clough came in and Clough cried out, “Does it fit? Come and have a drink with James—”
“My dear James— it must be a hundred years—”
“We’ve had a crate made to transport Fritzi, and she’s been trying it on him.”
“My niece Vivien found a carpenter. She has the most extraordinary contacts, that girl. It’s very useful!”
William Clough took a pecking sip at his martini. He said with gallant good humour, “Reposting was child’s play compared with this. One has had to learn how to camp out … I’m sure it’s terribly good, keeps the mind flexible.”
“Denis thinks your angle lamp’s been left at Government House, did he tell you?” Dorothy Clough sat forward in her chair, as if she had alighted only for a moment.
“For heaven’s sake, let them have it, it’s someone else’s turn to burn the midnight oil there, now — wha’d’you say, James …”
Roly Dando asked with grudging interest about the visit. “He’s never been sent anywhere where there was anything left to do,” he said. “Clough only goes in for the last year, after self-government’s been granted and the date for independence’s been given. An early date.”
Bray was slightly embarrassed by gossip, when quite sober, and said hesitantly, smiling, “The impression was that he and his wife were slipping away quietly after the field of battle.”
“Since he arrived eighteen months ago there’s been damn all for him to do except go fishing up at Rinsala.”
At the Pettigrews’ house that night, Dando’s voice came from the group round someone basting a sheep on the home-made spit: “… damn all except go fishing with his secretary acting ghillie….” Rebecca Edwards had just told Neil Bayley that Felix Pasilis, the Pettigrews’ Greek friend, was furious with her because she’d forgotten some essential herb that he wanted for his sheep— “If I were Felix I’d make you go back home and get it, my girl,” Neil said, and the look of inattentive exhaustion on her rather heavy young face moved Bray in fellow-feeling to distract attention from her, saying, “My God, I’m afraid I behaved like a child at Cloughs’! I showed off by making a point of speaking to the servant in Gala.” Neil and Rebecca Edwards laughed. “Poor Uncle Willie.” “He was quite a nice young man in Dar-es-Salaam. He took Swahili lessons conscientiously and he certainly spoke it better than I did.” They laughed at him again.
Everyone was gathering round for servings from the roast sheep, and the fair stocky man from the airport signalled a greeting with a piece of meat in his fingers. “Wentz, Hjalmar Wentz, we met on the plane.”