And he went to where the lovely Gloria had appeared, in scarlet chiffon and a diamond necklace. Where was the Leader? But it appeared he was not coming, his wife was doing the honours.
Rose quietly left and went to a cafe that was always full of gossip and news. There she reported on the formal reception, on the Leader's absence, on the Mother of the Nation's red chiffon and diamonds, and the Under Minister's remarks about the Kwadere hospital. There was a Nigerian official, a woman, in Senga for the conference on the Wealth of Nations. Told about the spy at Kwadere, this woman said she had heard nothing but spies, spies, since she had arrived in Zimlia, and speaking from her experience in her own country, spies and wars were useful when things weren't going well with an economy. This provoked animated discussion, and soon everyone in the cafe was involved. One man, a journalist, had been arrested as a spy, but let go. Others knew people who were suspected of being agents and... Rose realised that now they would talk about South African agents all evening, and she slipped out and went to a little restaurant around the corner. Two men who had followed her from the cafe, though she had not noticed them, asked if she minded sharing her table: the place was full. Rose was hungry, a bit tight, and she rather liked these two men whom she found impressive in a hard-to-define way. Probably anyone in Zimlia would have seen at a glance that they were secret police, but to use that so useful formula, it has been so long since Britain was invaded that its citizens have a certain innocence. Rose was actually thinking that she must be looking attractive tonight. In most countries in the world, that is to say, those with an energetic secret service, it would have been instantly evident that with such men one should keep one's mouth shut. As for them, they wanted to find out about her; why had she left the cafe so precipitously when they started talking about spies?
'I wonder if you know anything about the mission hospital at Kwadere?’ she chattered. 'I have a cousin working there, a doctor. I've just been speaking to the Under Minister for Health and he told me she is suspected of being a spy. '
The two men exchanged looks. They knew about the doctor at Kwadere, because they had her name on their list. They had not taken it particularly seriously. For one thing, what harm could she possibly do, stuck out there in the sticks? But if the Under Minister himself...
These two had not long been in the Service. They had got jobs because they were relatives of the Minister. They were not from pre-Liberation days. Most new States, even though enjoying a complete change of government, keep the Secret Service of the previous government, partly because they are impressed by the range and extent of the knowledge of these people who have so recently spied on them, and partly because a good few have secrets they do not want revealed. These men still had to make names for themselves, and needed to impress superiors.
'Has Zimlia ever had to expel someone for being an agent?' enquired Rose.
‘Oh, yes, many times.'
This was not true, but it made them feel important, belonging to such stern and efficient service.
‘Oh, really?’ said Rose excitedly, scenting a story.
'One was called Matabele Smith. ' The other amended, ' Mata-bele Bosman Smith. '
One evening, in the cafe Rose had just left, some journalists had joked about the spy rumours, and had invented a spy with a name that embodied as many unpleasant characteristics – to the present government's mind – as they could. (They had vetoed Whitesmith, on the analogy of Blacksmith.) This character was a South African frequently in Zimlia on business, and he had tried to blow up the coal mines at Hwange, Government House, the new sports stadium, and the airport. He had entertained the cafe for a few evenings, but they lost interest. Meanwhile he had reached the police files. In the cafe the name Matabele Bosman Smith became shorthand for the spy mania and the agents who frequented the place were hearing the name but could never actually find out more.
‘And you deported him?’ said Rose.
The two men were silent, exchanged glances again, then one said, ‘Yes, we deported him. ‘And the other, ‘We deported him back to South Africa. '
Next day Rose completed her paragraph about Sylvia with, 'Sylvia Lennox is known to have been a close friend of Matabele Bosman Smith who was deported as a South African spy. '
The general style and attack of this piece was right for the papers she liked to use as a receptacle for her inspirations in Britain, but she decided to show it to Bill Case, and then Frank Diddy. Both men knew the origin of the famous deportee, but did not tell her. They did not like her. She had long ago outstayed her welcome. Besides, they did like the idea of this famous Smith being injected with new life, to provide an evening or two's amusement in the cafe.
The piece was in The Post, which was not likely to notice one inflammatory paragraph among so many. She sent it to World Scandals, and it reached Colin, under the rule that if anything unpleasant is printed about one then it will be sent you by some well-wisher. Colin at once sued the paper for a hefty sum and an apology, but as is the way with such newspapers, the correction was put in tiny print where few people were likely to notice it. Julia was again branded as a Nazi; the suggestion that Sylvia was a spy seemed to Colin too ludicrous to bother with.
Father McGuire saw the paragraph in The Post, but did not show it to Sylvia. It found its way to Mr Mandizi, who put it in the file for St Luke's Mission.
Something happened that Sylvia had been dreading all the years she had been at the Mission. A girl who had acute appendicitis was carried up to her from the village by Clever and Zebedee. Father McGuire had taken the car to visit the Old Mission. Sylvia could not telephone the Pynes; either their telephone or the Mission's was not working. The girl needed an immediate operation. Sylvia had often imagined this emergency or something like it, and had decided that she would not operate. She could not. Simple – and successful – operations, yes, she could get away with that, but a fatality, no, they would be down on her at once.
The two boys in their crisp white shirts (ironed for them by Rebecca), with their perfectly combed hair, their scrubbed and scrubbed again hands, knelt on either side of the girl, inside the thatched shed that was called a hospital ward, and looked at her, their eyes filled with tears and brimming over.
'She's on fire, Sylvia,' said Zebedee. 'Feel her.'
Sylvia said, 'Why didn't she come up to me before? If we had caught this yesterday. Why didn't she? This happens again and again. ' Her voice was tight, and rough, and it was from fear. ‘Do you realise how serious this is?'
‘We told her to come, we did tell her. '
It would not be her fault, if the girl died, but if she, Doctor Sylvia, operated and the girl died then it would be judged her fault. The two young faces, washed with tears, begged her, please, please. The girl was a cousin, and a relative too of Joshua.
‘You know I am not a surgeon. I have told you, Clever, Zebedee, you know what that means. '
‘But you must do it,’ said Clever. ‘Yes, Sylvia, please, please.'
The girl was pulling her knees up to her stomach and groaning.
'Very well, get me the sharpest of our knives. And some hot water. ' She bent so her mouth was at the girl's ear. ' Pray,’ she said. ' Pray to the Virgin. ' She knew the girl was a Catholic: she had seen her at the little church. This immune system was going to need all the help it could get.
The boys brought the instruments. The girl was not on ' the operating table' , because she should not be moved, but under the thatch, near the dust of the floor. Conditions for an operation could not have been worse.