♦
Temple occupied his room at the Norfolk, had a bath and went to sleep for a couple of hours. Later in the evening, feeling much refreshed, he walked through the hotel to the bar. To his surprise the place was crowded with men, spilling out of the room onto the verandah and even down the front steps onto Government Road. They were all dressed, moreover, for the bush, as if they were going on safari. Many wore crossed bandoliers of cartridges, and rifles and shotguns were propped in corners or leaning against the backs of chairs. Temple recognized a group of fellow Americans: Ward from the Afro-American farm enterprise at Voi, Paul Psainey, a millionaire big-game enthusiast and others he knew from the American Industrial Mission. Although the bar was crowded and nearly everyone was drinking heavily, the mood was one of boredom and irritation. Temple joined the group and ordered a whisky and soda. The sight of a new face acted as a catalyst to their flagging spirits and great commiseration was soon being lavished on him over the loss of his farm.
There was no real interest. All these men had streamed into Nairobi at the outbreak of war to volunteer their services in the defence of the country and as reinforcements to the hard pressed battalions of the KAR. Temple found himself something of a celebrity for actually having been a victim of Furor Teutonicus and he was prevailed upon several times to repeat his account of the seizure of his farm and of Wheech-Browning’s heroic stand at Taveta. By unanimous assent it was agreed that Wheech-Browning’s luckless bearer was the first casualty of the war, a war which everyone fervently expressed the hope would last long enough for them to have a squareheads. Temple was encouraged to join two of the volunteer units that had been swiftly formed to defend British East Africa. He could choose between the more prosaic Nairobi Defence Force or the East African Mounted Rifles — an aristocratic and cavalier crowd, requiring the ownership of a horse or polo pony. This particular outfit had claimed most of the Americans as it was a polyglot assembly of nationalities containing also Boers, Swedes and three Italians. Members around the bar that night included a musician, several publicans, an ex-circus clown and a Scottish light-house keeper.
Temple didn’t commit himself as he had no intention of getting involved in the fighting, though he wasn’t averse to being bought drinks as an inducement to join up. The fact was that the initial enthusiasm and war-fever had died away. The military had as yet no use for these volunteer forces and they were being encouraged to return to their farms and jobs. The group in the Norfolk Hotel that night represented a hard core, but one whose resolution was fast on the wane, considering that they’d been idling in Nairobi for two weeks and it was clear that it was unlikely they’d ever be deployed. Learning of the departure of the Indian Expeditionary Force ‘C’ had been the most depressing news and had fully doused their ardour.
For his part Temple spent the next few days in an increasingly frustrating attempt to find someone who would admit he was a ‘problem’. He was, he soon discovered, the only person in the whole of British East Africa who had had his land overrun and occupied. He tried to see the Governor of the colony, the national commander-in-chief, but got no further than the hall of Government House where he was politely but firmly turned away and told to go and see the Land Officer. The Land Officer informed him that it was not a civil but a military matter and that he ought to take up any complaints with the officer commanding the KAR.
“And where is he?” Temple asked.
“Somewhere in Uganda.”
As for the question of reparations, that would have to wait until the war was over, but in the meantime he could file a claim with the Registrar of Documents, Mr Pailthorpe. Mr Pailthorpe, in his turn, said he had received absolutely no official instructions about reparations (“for God’s sake, man, the war’s only been on for a fortnight”) and suggested he consult the Attorney General. Until Mr Pailthorpe had received official notification from the Attorney General’s office nothing further could be done.
Temple decided to let the question of reparations rest for a while. All the government offices he had visited were housed in a terrace of corrugated iron shacks. Over the past three days Temple had been passed from one to another and he had no desire to wait out the duration of the war in a succession of sweltering ante-rooms. In the meantime he planned to visit his insurers and see if he could extract some interim payment for his burnt sisal, his smouldering linseed fields and uprooted trolley lines.
His insurers, the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co., occupied a small office above a butcher’s shop on Sixth Avenue. Temple pushed past several sheep and antelope carcases and entered the dark interior. The close heat, the subdued murmur of sated flies and the rich gamey smell of offal made his stomach heave and saliva squirt into his mouth. He was breathing heavily — inhaling the musty but fresher air on the first floor — when an Indian clerk ushered him into the office of Gulam Hoosam Essanjee Esquire, General Manager of the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co.
Mr Essanjee stood at a single window looking down at the traffic on Sixth Avenue. He was a dapper plump Indian of about Temple’s age with black, well-oiled hair and the straightest, most clearly defined parting Temple had ever seen. He wore a washable rubber collar with his tie and coarse linen suit and was perspiring heavily. He had a very thin, neatly clipped pencil moustache. The room was oppressively hot and unusually dark. So dark that Mr Essanjee had a lit hurricane lamp fizzing quietly on his totally bare desk. The darkness was explained by the fact that the other window in the room was obscured by a thick hand-woven blanket, which was soaking wet and dripping steadily onto a mushy copy of the East African Standard placed beneath it.
Temple sat down heavily, still nauseous from negotiating the charnel house below. “Can’t we open the curtains?” he asked weakly. The stifling atmosphere was worse than the government offices.
“Not a curtain, my dear sir. Mr…?”
“Smith.”
“Mr Smith. Not, I repeat, a curtain.”
Mr Essanjee strode forward and lifted the bottom of the blanket to reveal what looked to Temple like a miniature copy of the paddle wheel of a Mississippi river boat, placed on the ledge of the open window.