‘Don’t you have gardens in America?’
‘I was referring, Mrs Mason, to the lands south of the Panama Canal.’
Jardine wondered why the laconic American was looking so pointedly at him, so he responded. ‘Don’t you mean the Rio Grande?’
‘I stand corrected.’
‘M?’ Mason said, with a slight lift of the brow.
‘Quite; time for we ladies to withdraw.’
‘What for?’
‘To let the men have their cigars and tell risque stories, Miss Littleton.’
‘I like a cigar, and if there are any filthy stories around, count me in.’
‘Truly,’ Jardine joked, in a reference to the tune played by the British troops who surrendered at Yorktown, ‘the world turned upside down.’
That interjection, by the girl from Boston, put paid to any passing round the port and telling jokes: she stayed put and so did Margery Mason. Peydon told a story of being out on exercises in Egypt and setting up a small supply dump — food, petrol and the like — which the troops slept round.
‘They woke up in the morning to find everything gone, with no one, including the pickets doing two-on-four-off guard duty, hearing a thing.’
Jardine topped that by telling of a time in Iraq when the locals, in the course of one night, dismantled and stole a small steam engine from the inside of a camp with only one guarded main gate and with mobile patrols on the perimeter fence.
‘And they did not drive it out either: the rails went through that main gate, so they must have taken it to bits. When it comes to theft the Arabs are peerless.’
Corrie Littleton was on a mission to persuade her mother to leave Abyssinia. Engaged in writing a treatise on comparative religions, Littleton mere was in the old Ethiopian capital of Gondar, digging around in the archives for connections to Judaism and Christianity. She also knew that in nearby Aksum, the fabled home of the Queen of Sheba, was supposed to reside the Ark of the Covenant. The trouble was, for her daughter, that Ethiopia was, right now, for non-natives, a hard place to get into.
‘If the guineas are going to invade, it’s not a good place for Mother to be.’
‘For “guineas” read “Italians”,’ Alverson explained.
‘Gangsters,’ cried Grace, as though it were an accolade. ‘Little Caesar.’
‘And what, Mr Alverson, are your reasons for being hereabouts?’
‘Chasing stories, Mr Jardine, which is what I do. I wanted to get into Abyssinia without going through the normal channels or to where everyone is being sent.’ Responding to a raised eyebrow, he added, ‘Right now there are correspondents from all over the world sitting in Addis Ababa drinking on their employer’s tab and filing nothing of interest. They ask to go up to the north where the Italians are massed and they are told no; they ask to have a look-see at the borderlands with Italian Somaliland, same answer. So, I decided on a little wandering in the hope of having something to tell my readers back home, but your Limey governor stopped me.’
‘And your newspaper is?’
‘Syndicated, Mr Jardine. I am reporting for half the papers in the States.’
‘Which grants you a rather large budget, I am given to understand,’ Mason remarked.
‘It does, but that has yet to translate into any hard news. The Ethiopians are sitting on everything, because they think if we report on the Italian military we will also report on them.’
‘A reasonable assumption?’ asked Jardine.
‘It is, but they are not really helping their cause. This is David versus Goliath, and the more that is stated the better the chance of some of the Western powers ganging up to stop Mussolini.’
‘You’re in the know, Mr Jardine,’ said Grace. ‘Any chance of that?’
‘I think you overrate my position, Lieutenant.’
‘Just what is your position, Mr Jardine?’ Alverson asked, with his deceptive drawl. There was nothing indolent about his look now.
‘No shop talk, Mr Alverson,’ Mason said quickly. ‘It is a rule we British tend towards imposing on our guests. Time for coffee, I think. Tell me, Miss Littleton, why are you here in our bailiwick if you need to get to Ethiopia to find your mother?’
‘Well, I figure you will be less stuffy than the French.’
‘No problem in that regard,’ boomed Peydon. ‘Damned Frogs, begging your pardon Mrs Mason, and, of course, you, young lady.’
‘They would not let me cross the border,’ she continued in that rather fetching cracked voice, giving the captain a look that wondered what was wrong with the odd damnation. ‘And there is no point, no point at all, in trying to get into Abyssinia through Eritrea.’ She rolled her eyes then. ‘The Italians won’t even take a bribe, my God, so worried are they that little old me might tell the world about their silly dispositions.’
‘And you hope to make your way from here?’
‘I do.’
Mason pulled a face. ‘I think I might have to disappoint you as well. The governor has instructions from Whitehall to keep the border sealed, as, no doubt, Mr Alverson has already informed you. Odd, you two fellow countrymen ending up here at the same time.’
‘Country folk will do, Mr Mason. I am not a man.’
That got a look that rendered the statement questionable. ‘Where will you go now, Mr Alverson?’
It was a delight to Jardine the way the American responded: he very likely had a plan but he was not about to let on. ‘Mr Mason, I will go to Aden, if I go anywhere.’
‘Thank you, Mason, for a splendid evening,’ said the army captain, standing up. ‘But reveille is at six and I have to be sharp eyes or the men won’t polish their boots.’
‘But they are barefoot, Captain Peydon,’ said his hostess, on her face a look that could only be described as gormless.
‘Figure of speech, Mrs M.’
‘Oh!’
It was a signal for the break-up of the evening and, in truth, Jardine was pleased: he had been travelling and was bushed. On top of that, he needed to make a quick trip up the coast to Zeila and have a look before Grace headed that way in his patrol boat. Everyone was on their feet now, saying their goodbyes, not that they were going far, only to one of the other hilltop bungalows. Jardine was therefore a little surprised when Alverson got in between him and the other guests and spoke to him softly.
‘I wonder if we could have a little stroll, clear the head before hitting the sack?’ Jardine picked up immediately it was not so much a request as a requirement, which made him wary. ‘There’s a couple of things I think we could talk about to advantage.’
‘Whose advantage?’
‘Let’s start with mutual.’
‘I’m pretty tired.’
‘If I said “Chaco War”, would that give you a boost?’
‘You coming, Tyler?’ Corrie Littleton called, which had Jardine give him an enquiring look.
‘When she turned up here I offered her a room,’ he said softly, before calling back, ‘I’m going to take some air, honey, and Mr Jardine is going to join me, I hope.’
‘Certainly,’ Jardine responded.
‘Maybe I should join you,’ she said. Alverson swung round slowly; he did not say anything, but whatever he imparted had to be in the look, as her face altered, showing doubt bordering on hurt. ‘Maybe not, I’m worn out.’
Mason touched Jardine’s arm. ‘Before you go to your slumbers, there’s something I need you to do. In my study.’
Jardine nodded, then passing the boys clearing up, he said goodnight to M and went out onto the veranda with Alverson. The night was cool and would get more so as the clear sky sucked the heat up into the atmosphere, but right now it was pleasant. Alverson walked away from the house, taking his time in lighting a cigar so that they were out of earshot before he spoke.
‘First thing I’d like to say, Mr Jardine, is that I am no peace lover, but then nor am I too fond of war, having seen the consequences from time to time.’
‘In Paraguay?’
‘And Bolivia — I covered both sides. I also know that there was a League of Nations arms embargo, though that proved to be pretty porous.’