31

It had taken Podmore several attempts and the best part of a long day, by the time he got through to Lazarus Mpofu who had not returned the High Commission calls.

“Impossible. Not enough time, and there is a backlog of special cases,” said Mpofu.

Podmore was in no mood to be told that he would have to be patient.

“Come on, Lazarus. We will choose a 14-year-old street boy, offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I will accompany whoever is chosen to London. This is an exceptional case – as deserving of help as the father who wants to attend his son’s degree ceremony.”

Since the dad in question happened to be Lazarus’s local MP, it was a telling point.

“As I was saying,” Mpofu continued after a pause, “a passport is not possible. But we can issue a travel document to minors – 15 years and younger. It needs the same information, and the usual passport photos of course, valid only for a specified journey, must be surrendered on return, is valid for four weeks, and the bearer must be accompanied by a responsible adult.”

So far so good, thought Podmore, and waited for the catch.

“Who must be approved by the minister, or a designated official.”

Mpofu had indicated that he would be the designated official, and would repay the favour that Podmore would do in dealing promptly with the MP’s application.

“Done,” said Podmore. “I’m sure the visa will come through tomorrow; end of the week at the latest.”

Lazarus chuckled.

“The forms are on their way to you. Return them, and the travel document will be with you twenty-four hours later.”

A more sensitive man would have realised that his welcome at Harrods was less than wholehearted even under the best of circumstances. On this occasion he interrupted what, over the past couple of years, had become something of a ritual: the gathering of a group of regulars at the bar, over coffee or tea or, on an especially hot day, one of the fruit drinks.

Charity would preside, and Mildred would be there to lend a helping hand; Philimon Ogata had started to attend regularly as had Clarence Mudenge; Furniver, of course, turned out, and so did Lucy and Pearson; while Ntoto and Rutere would make themselves useful, and listen to the exchanges across the table, in slack-jawed concentration as they battled the impact of changa or glue. And there would often be various other aid workers, the odd diplomat and the usual run of disaster tourists and celebrities.

This time they had been joined by a middle-aged Brit, a shock of thick fair hair flopping to one side, with a bottom that said more about his mood than his eyes, or any other part of his anatomy for that matter. When he was depressed, the bottom seemed to all but disappear; when he was in a good mood, it was like a dog’s tail, wagging from side to side.

“Hiya,” said Podmore.

“Hiya,” replied Lucy, while the others mumbled their greetings with mixed degrees of enthusiasm.

“Hello, Podsman,” offered Furniver.

“Podmore,” said Podmore.

He outlined the Clarion’s fund-raising plans, and the paper’s intention to fly a street child from Kireba to London, for an appearance on the NoseAid evening.

“Wondered if one of your lot would be interested?” he asked. “I’ll sort out the visa, and the lucky chap will have me as an escort. I’m going back for a spot of home leave anyway.”

Charity shrugged.

“Ask the boys.”

Podmore could not remember the names of the two street children who hung around Harrods.

“Do you want to visit Lon-don?” he asked, enunciating the words slowly and loudly. “Chance to visit Buck-ing-ham Palace for the lucky boy . . .”

Rutere, who had been running his finger around his left nostril, stopped in mid-circuit, and Ntoto, who until then had been examining his feet for jiggers, looked up.

“We are not boys,” said Rutere.

“If you are not boys, then what are you?” said Podmore, speaking normally now.

“We are youths,” said Rutere. “We are not your servants.”

Podmore gave an exasperated sigh.

The cheeky little bugger deserved a clip over the ear-hole.

He looked in vain to Charity for assistance but she was preoccupied in the kitchen.

“How much money?” asked Rutere.

“It will be free,” said Podmore.

Ntoto intervened.

“He is asking how much the man who goes to London will be paid.”

“How much what? Money?”

Rutere exchanged glances with Ntoto.

What else did Podmore think they were referring to?

“How does money come into it?” said the diplomat, clearly shocked.

He turned to Charity, back from the kitchen with corn-bread. As he had expected, she disapproved of the Clarion’s plan.

“Foolish,” she sniffed.

“But if one wants to go, he can go.”

She went to attend to a customer, and Podmore turned to Furniver.

“Why on earth should the boy be paid? The lucky blighter is getting the trip of a lifetime, and you ask what he will be paid,” he said, now looking at Rutere. “Don’t know what things are coming to when street boys expect to be paid for going to Rondon.”

It was said in a jocular tone, but the underlying irritation was clear.

“London,” said Rutere. “It is London.”

Nose-picking little creep, Podmore thought. He said to Furniver:

“The Clarion will cover a return ticket, meals and bed for five days. My problem is that we need to move pretty sharpish, Eddie. We need to apply for a travel document for the boy. Whoever is sent over, I will travel with them,” promised Podmore, “as long as I don’t have to sit next to them.” He laughed.

The duo looked at Podmore through glazed eyes, their pupils dilated, and Rutere deliberately and slowly thrust his forefinger into his right nostril.

“Want pay,” said Ntoto.

“Give me present,” Rutere demanded. “Where is my present?”

“Bugger off, you two,” said Furniver.

He apologised to Podmore. “Blighters act up, seem worse than they are. Go on, bugger off you two, haven’t you got work to do?”

The boys reluctantly went into the kitchen, and climbed onto the container roof, where they usually prepared the vegetables.

From that secure vantage point they looked down at Podmore.

“Give us presents,” said Rutere, finger again buried in his left nostril.

Charity emerged from the kitchen with a plate of dough balls, which she plonked down on the table, and looked up.

“Rutere . . .”

“I washed my hands, before touching the vegetables,” he protested, holding them out as if for inspection.

“Don’t be rude to visitor . . .”

It was time to intervene, thought Furniver. He shrugged and looked apologetic. “Boy has a point,” he began, but this comment simply poured fuel on Podmore’s fury.

“Greedy sods. Bloody typical.”

Furniver let Podmore’s wrath run its course.

“If you get the application form, Charity and I will pick one of the boys. Let me have it, asap.”

Why did he bother, Podmore asked himself. One tries to help, and is it appreciated? Is it hell.

“Have a dough ball, Mr Podman,” said Charity.

“Podmore,” said Podmore. “Thanks, but must dash.”

As he made his way back to his car, stepping carefully as he navigated piles of refuse, he was surrounded by a group of Mboya Boys who had appeared from nowhere.

“Give me ngwee.”

“Boss, give me ngwee.”

“Fuck off!” he hissed, trying to ensure that his voice did not carry back to Harrods.

“You are shit,” said a child, who could not have been more than 10 years old.

Podmore brushed away their entreaties.

Safe in the sanctuary of his Range Rover, he turned the ignition key and was about to drive off when he noticed the brown streaks that had appeared on the windscreen.

“Little bastards!”

The awful pong outlasted a cigarette, and Podmore lit a second and sat back in his seat.

“You do so much for these people, and how do they repay you? By shitting on your car!”

Conversation at Harrods resumed. When Mildred returned from her nap, there would be more discussion of the tokolosh. In the meantime, Lucy was on her mobile, negotiating the release of a consignment of cooking oil for delivery to the drought-stricken north-east.

“Our food aid reaches parts of Kuwisha where no-one used to live before independence,” she boasted to whoever it was at the other end. Whatever she had been saying had achieved its purpose, and Lucy finished the call.

“Couldn’t help hearing what you were saying,” said Furniver diffidently. “Perhaps that is why . . .”

Lucy interrupted him. “Absolutely. Were it not for the work of WorldFeed, scores of thousands would have died of hunger.”

Furniver considered pursuing the matter, but decided to move on.

“Did you see this, Lucy,” he asked, nodding at the newspaper. “I know I’m starting to sound like the Oldest Member, but things like this really make you think . . . Did you know that Kuwisha is staging the First Session of the Conference of African Ministers of Culture, and that the outcome will be presented to the Special Session of the Assembly of Heads of State and Government?”

He read on: “ ‘I hope,’ says the African Union Commission chairperson, ‘the conference will take the interface between education and culture seriously and explore the possibility of maximizing the contribution of each to the other.’ What are we expected to make of that?”

“Per diems,” said Lucy, “it’s all about per diems.”

“All I know,” said Furniver, “is that these conferences seem an awful waste of time.”

Lucy sighed with exasperation. Sometimes she wondered whether Furniver lived in the real world – a world in which black market and official exchange rates, expenses, per diems and travel extras provided a significant source of income.

“Waste of time?” Lucy brushed a wisp of her blonde hair aside. “It’s a waste of money, more like. All these delegates will be saving their per diems and fiddling their ex’s. They’re as bad as the hacks,” she said contemptuously. “I remember when Pearson and I were in Zaire a couple of years ago. There was nearly a fight between the Times and the Mail at that rather good restaurant in Kinshasa . . . the one that serves salads made from five varieties of lettuce, all flown in from abroad.” A wistful look came into her eyes. “They were pissed as I recall. Both wanted a seat on the WorldFeed charter to Kigali.”

She snorted. “Neither of them gave a monkey’s about the story. Both rewrote the wires as usual. The truth is they were fighting over the receipt for the ticket.”

Furniver started to look interested.

“You know why, Ed?”

He could guess, but he shook his head.

“They sold their dollars on the black market. Let’s say they got fifty krotniks to the dollar. Official rate was five krotniks. You work it out. You claim your ex’s at the official rate, in the local currency – and you buy the krotniks with which you pay the ex’s at the market rate. Beauty of the scam is that head office in London or New York can hardly complain, can they? Can’t ask their staff to use the market, and then moan about corruption.”

“So the more money you spend on expenses . . .” said Furniver, “. . . the more you make.”

“Precisely,” said Lucy, “precisely.”