Jayne returned with two warm bottles of Fanta orange. “All they had,” she explained. “Come on, dear, move up. Make room for little me.”
Dear! Morgan’s spirit finally collapsed. He felt he couldn’t simply tell her to go away, as he himself had so deliberately contrived to deceive her. Perhaps when she found out the truth she’d reject him. But he looked at the tight lips sucking on a straw, the shrewd eyes with their delta of discreet lines, the coruscating talons gripping the Fanta bottle, and he thought, no, Jayne was running out of time, and there wasn’t much hope of that.
At eleven o’clock their plane was called and they assembled at the departure-lounge door. None of the airport buses was functioning and they had to walk across the shimmering apron to the plane. Morgan plodded across the hot tarmac, his eyes on the heels of the couple in front of him. The sun beat down on his exposed head, causing runnels of perspiration to drip from his brow. Jayne’s hand was latched firmly in the crook of his elbow.
They paused at the foot of the steps. Morgan looked up. Stewardesses beamed at the entrance to the plane. He’d never trust those smiles again. He felt he was about to climb the gallows. He looked at Jayne. Her eyes were invisible behind the opaque lenses of her sunglasses. She squeezed his arm and smiled, revealing patches of orange on her teeth that had smudged from her lips.
“Oh, look,” she said, gesturing beyond Morgan’s shoulder. “Must be someone important. Bet he tries to barge the queue.”
Morgan turned and saw an olive-green Mercedes driving across the tarmac from the airport buildings at some speed. A pennant cracked above the radiator grille. The car stopped and a young man got out. He held a piece of paper in his hand. He was tall and sunburnt and wore a well-pressed white tropical suit similar to the one Morgan had on. He was like the Platonic incarnation of everything Morgan had tried to create in his conversations with Jayne. And for Jayne, he was the misty image, the vague ideal of the man she fancied she had met in the airport hotel. They both stared uncomfortably at him for a brief moment, then simultaneously turned away, for his presence made reality a little hard to bear.
The young man walked up the line of waiting passengers.
“Mr. Leafy?” he called in a surprisingly high, piping voice. “Is there a Mr. Morgan Leafy here?”
At first, absurdly, Morgan didn’t react to the sound of his own name. What could this vision want with him? Then he put up his hand like a school-kid who’s been asked to own up.
“Telex,” the young man said, handing Morgan the piece of paper. “I’m from the embassy here,” he added. “Frightfully sorry we didn’t get to you before this. Hope it wasn’t too bad in the hotel …” He went on, but Morgan was reading the telex.
“LEAFY,” he read, “RETURN SOONEST NKONGSAMBA. YOU ARE URGENTLY REQD. RE LIAISING WITH NEW MILITARY GOVT. ALL CLEAR LONDON. CARTWRIGHT.”
Cartwright was the High Commissioner at Nkongsamba. Morgan looked at the young man. He couldn’t speak, his throat was choked with emotion. He handed the Telex to Jayne, She frowned with incomprehension.
“What does this mean?” she asked harshly, the poise cracking for an instant as Morgan stepped out of the queue.
“Duty calls, darling.” There seemed to be waves crashing and surging behind his rib cage. He felt dazed, abstracted from events. He waved his hands about meaninglessly, like a demented conductor. “Absolutely nothing I can do.” He had reached the Mercedes; the young man held the back door open for him. The embarking passengers looked on curiously. He saw the Americans. “Heyl” the woman shouted angrily, “you’re British!” He suppressed a whoop of gleeful laughter. “Sorry, darling,” he called again to Jayne, trying desperately to keep the elation from his voice. “I’ll write soon. I’ll explain everything.” A final shrug of his shoulders and he ducked into the car. It was deliciously cool; the air-conditioning whirred softly.
“I’ll come as far as the airport buildings,” the young man said deferentially. “Then this’ll take you straight back up the road to Nkongsamba if that’s okay with you.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said Morgan, loosening his tie and waving to Jayne as the car moved off. “Oh, yes. That’s absolutely fine.”
Long Story Short
PART ONE
Louella and I stood alone in the darkening garden. There was the first hint of autumn frost in the evening. The soft light from the drawing-room windows set shimmers glowing in her thick auburn hair. Louella hugged herself, crushing her full breasts with her forearms. I felt an almost physical pain of love and desire in my gut.
“I think they’re lovely,” she said, turning to face the house.
“So do I … oh, you mean Ma and Pa?”
“Of course. I’m glad I’ve met them.”
“They like you, too, you know, very much.” I moved beside her and put my arm round her slim waist. I rested my forehead on hers. “I like you too,” I said whimsically. She laughed, showing her pale throat, and we hugged each other. I stared past her at the trees and bushes slowly relinquishing their forms to the night. Then I felt her posture change slightly.
“Well, hello, little brother,” came a deep, sardonic voice. “What have we got here?”
It was Gareth. And somehow I knew everything would be spoilt.
***
Actually it wasn’t Gareth at all. It was Frank. God, I’m tired of this relentless artifice. Let’s start again, shall we?
PART TWO
Louella and William stood alone in the darkening garden. There was the first hint of autumn frost in the evening.… drawing-room windows, yes,… crushing her full breasts, etc.,… almost physical pain and so on.
“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” Louella said. “I mean, he is your brother. If I’m going to be one of the family I might as well meet him.”
“But he’s such a shit. A fat, smarmy shit and a mean little sod to boot. I know you won’t like him. He’s just not our type,” William said petulantly, conscious of the fact that he was only stimulating Louella’s interest.
They heard the sound of a car in the drive. William felt his throat tighten. Louella tried to appear nonchalant — with only partial success.
Frank opened the drawing-room windows and sauntered into the garden to join them. He was wearing a maroon cord suit with unfashionably flared trousers and a yellow nylon shirt. A heavy gold ingot swung at his throat. His once-even features, William noticed, had become thickened and distorted with fat. He was almost completely bald now.
No, it’s no good. It keeps getting in the way, this dreadful compulsion to tell lies. (You write fiction and what are you doing? You’re telling lies, pal, that’s all.) And besides, it’s very unfair to Frank, who was very good-looking, exceptionally well dressed and had as thick and glossy a head of hair as Louella in Part One. Louella — the real Louella — in fact had dyed blond hair, but I’ve always had a hankering for auburn. (Come to that, she doesn’t have full breasts either.)
To get rid of the fiction element, perhaps I should begin by distinguishing myself from the “I” in Part One. I — now — am the author (you know my name — check it out). The “I” in Part One is fictional, not me. Neither is the “William” in Part Two. It’s just a device. No doubt, in any case, you thought to yourself, “hold on a second,” as you read Part Two. “Little bit odd, this,” you probably thought: “Character’s got the same name as the author. Something fishy here.” But you must watch out for that sort of thing; it’s an error readers are prone to fall into. There are a lot of Williams about. Lots. It doesn’t need to be me.