7

ON Wednesday afternoon Shrieve came out of the office of Sir Sebastian Filmer with his sense of inadequacy painfully aggravated. The more he talked to people in London, the more he wished he’d stayed with the Ngulu and left the negotiation to someone who could estimate the suave phrases of Whitehall for what they were worth. He wasn’t, he felt, at all the right man to try to apply pressure, even to make his case clearly. The interview with Filmer had been typically unsatisfactory.

Filmer was a tall man with silvery grey hair, the sort of hair which all men in authority in London seemed to display, as Frenchmen display the ribbons of their Légions d’Honneur. Two wings swept with careless elegance above his ears, and the whole coiffeur looked as though it had just come from under the tactful drier of a barber who displayed the royal coat of arms. His clothes were so well bred that they seemed to be holding themselves slightly away from his skin, it being distasteful actually to touch him: a white shirt glowed against the pinkness of his neck, and the black coat and striped trousers were tailored to conceal any hint of paunch. The effect was deliberately subdued and unassuming, one created, Shrieve felt, by a man who assumed and subdued without ever raising his voice. Filmer was like a very expensive car, his power visible only in a vein in his pink neck where it idled inaudibly.

He had been, of course, charming, had enquired about Shrieve’s father as though he was an old friend, had offered a cigarette and not taken one himself when Shrieve refused. Then he had come down to business. The Minister was much concerned with Shrieve’s problem. It was always the policy of Her Majesty’s Government to do everything possible to protect minority interests. There was no intention of modifying this policy. The Minister was taking a most keen interest in the matter, and was determined to ensure that proper safeguards would be arranged.

At the phrase “proper safeguards”, Shrieve had broken in to ask what the Minister had in mind. “Proper safeguards”, he had suggested, were the whole crux of the problem.

Filmer had said that the matter was, of course, still under active consideration. Besides, it would all have to be negotiated at the constitutional conference. It was essential to maintain flexibility.

That was just what he was hoping there wouldn’t be, Shrieve explained. He hoped very much that the Minister would take a definite stand on the matter before the conference began, so that the question of negotiating it need never arise.

These things, Filmer was sure Shrieve understood, didn’t work quite like that. The conference would be a most delicate affair, and no firm positions on matters of detail could be taken beforehand. On a broad basis, however, it was firmly intended to press for “proper safeguards” for the Ngulu. Shrieve would see the need, in dealing with the political leaders of the colony, many of whom were extremists, at least in their public statements, to avoid any unfortunate exacerbation of a delicate situation.

Shrieve quite understood that. But he was afraid that people in Whitehall, and even the political leaders of the colony, extremist or otherwise, would forget that the Ngulu lived in a very distant part of the country which was extremely difficult to reach. He feared, and he had put his fears plainly in his memorandum, that while “proper safeguards” might be most sincerely arranged in London, they would prove ineffective in the bush. The Luagabu, he reminded Sir Sebastian, lived less than half a day’s journey on foot from the Ngulu, while the capital was three days away by jeep.

Filmer quite appreciated that, and this aspect of the question was causing the gravest concern in London. He was sure, however, that a satisfactory arrangement could be worked out.

Shrieve wondered if he might ask what kind of arrangement Filmer had in mind.

Sir Sebastian was not, of course, at liberty to say what discussions had taken place between himself and the Minister on this matter; but he could, completely unofficially, report that the Minister had said that he thought there would be no difficulty in achieving a satisfactory settlement.

Shrieve wondered what sort of satisfaction this would give and to whom. Could Sir Sebastian give him no indication of the sort of thing the Minister would consider satisfactory?

Filmer was afraid he couldn’t, but, again wholly unofficially, he didn’t think there would be any harm in letting Shrieve know that, for instance, there would be provisions in the Treaty of Independence which would guarantee the British supervision of all military training for the next seven years at least. This would involve the continued presence of many British officers and N.C.O.s in the colony. Thus the Army, if it was called upon to come to the aid of the Ngulu, would do so without question.

Though he considered this good news, Shrieve didn’t, he was sorry to say, feel that it affected the original problem he had raised, which was the containment of the Luagabu three days away from the capital.

There would be a further provision, Filmer explained, fearing he had not made himself clear, which would guarantee the same continuity of British personnel in the independent Air Force. Three days by jeep would probably be an hour at most by jet fighter.

Shrieve admitted that this news was encouraging.

Filmer smiled. He looked surreptitiously at his watch and saw that it was time to bring the interview to a close. Shrieve would not, he was sure, forget that the Ngulu would continue, after independence, to enjoy full legal rights, including appeal to the Privy Council. This would prove an indubitable safeguard.

Shrieve was about to say that he didn’t see quite how, when a buzzer (in fact pressed by Filmer’s own foot) rang on the desk.

Filmer apologised for not being able to give Shrieve more time. He could assure him that the matter was being most carefully watched and that everything possible would be done. The Minister had asked him to say that he was most grateful to Shrieve for his memorandum, which he had found most interesting as well as useful. He, the Minister, had confessed to him, Filmer, that had it not been for his, Shrieve’s, memorandum, the seriousness of the Ngulu situation might easily have been underestimated. The Minister wished Filmer to express his warmest thanks to Shrieve.

Shrieve had found himself looking at, then shaking, a large well-manicured hand. He thanked Filmer for sparing him so much of his time.

Filmer said it had been a pleasure, and he hoped Shrieve would feel that their conversation had been constructive. He had himself found it most instructive.

They took leave of each other with further protestations of a conventional nature, though afterwards Shrieve realised that Filmer had not actually risen from his desk. His handshake, however, had been manly, confidential and firm; it gave the appearance, like his clothes, of having been long and carefully studied.

Outside, it was raining slightly. Shrieve shivered. He decided to walk a little to warm himself. The rain was only a drizzle, and it looked as though it might soon stop.

The trouble with men like Filmer, he decided, heading for St James’s Park, was that they lived in a world where words were primitive signs again. Each adjective had a precise and limited meaning closed to anyone outside the inner circle. Phrases were used ritualistically, with invisible quotation marks round them to show they meant much more or much less than they appeared to mean. Without a long training in the subtleties of intonation one was like a tourist trying to translate with only a pocket dictionary. And then there was the business of how much time anyone was given, and whether he was shown to the door or not—it was all weighed, all significant. How did one discover the key to this symbolic world? He must ring James Weatherby and find out.

Tomorrow, though, would do. First he had better try to puzzle out what Filmer had meant for himself. And besides, there was a lot on this evening. There was a meeting at Patrick Mallory’s, where he had to make a small speech to explain what it was all about. James was supposed to be coming, anyway. The meeting would probably go on till seven-thirty, say—it was called for six, but such gatherings always started slowly, with drinks and gossip and introductions while late arrivals entered with perfunctory apologies and complaints about the traffic. Of course, the traffic in London was terrible. And then, when he would be wholly exhausted, there would be Jumbo Maxwell to bore him till closing time.

The rain suddenly became earnest and he sheltered under a tree with two nursemaids with prams. They made him think of his own childhood, of how little seemed changed for the English middle classes, despite their endless complaints. From what he had read, he had assumed that the nanny was only a cherished memory now, but here were two, in classic grey with hats of nannyish blue. He looked at the babies. One, not more than six months old, lay on its back, gender indeterminable, its blue eyes staring intently from a blotched red face at the toy dangling above it. Its hands waved slowly in tiny white mittens. The other was nearer eighteen months and recognisably female. She sat up, her hair a mass of golden curls, and crooned out at the rain. She leaned forward contentedly against the belt which restrained her, her hands in her lap. A baby’s hands, he thought, were hardly credible in their smallness and softness; they were like exact wax miniatures of adult hands.

He thought of Tom, his half-savage son, of his miniscule fingers fiercely clutching his father’s thumb; babies were surprisingly strong. Poor Tom, thought Shrieve, he had no nanny, no pram, no one to push him about royal parks and shelter him under solemn English trees. He had only his mother, who carried him spreadeagled across her back, as all Ngulu women carried their babies, wrapped in a shawl. It must get very dull for a baby, seeing nothing but the back of his mother’s neck. Tom seemed to enjoy it, though. He was nearly two, and becoming quite a weight for Amy. He was beginning to stagger about on his chumpish little legs, wobbling from support to support, more determined each day. Dayu would stand some distance away and call him: he would look at her suspiciously. She would call again: he would look away. Then he would suddenly push off from whatever he was leaning against and plod unsteadily towards her, all concentration and effort. By the time Shrieve returned, Tom would probably be walking everywhere.

Shrieve smiled to himself, thinking of his family. Kwuri regarded Tom somewhat ambiguously: a boy didn’t, after all, play with babies. But he was intrigued by his brother, and tried sometimes to teach him games that were far too advanced for him. Kwuri could count with stones and tried to teach Tom. Carefully holding up one stone, he would say “One”. Tom would reach for a stone, make an incomprehensible gurgle, then put it in his mouth.

The nursemaids were regarding Shrieve with suspicion. Strange middle-aged men didn’t smile in that fond way while sheltering under trees unless they were up to no good. Shrieve had a sudden longing to write to Amy, to tell her he loved her and the children, to say what he was doing, that he would be home as soon as possible. But Amy couldn’t read, and he could hardly ask Mackenzie to tell her the things he wanted to say. What she would really like would be several affectionate pats on the bottom. The only real link between them was the postcards Shrieve sent every few days, brightly coloured ones of London sights and members of the royal family. Amy was very fond of pictures of the royal family.

The shower pattered to a stop. Sighing, Shrieve went on his way, passing Buckingham Palace, of which he had already sent Amy several cards, and going through Belgravia towards his flat. The traffic was ominously thickening: it must be nearly five o’clock.

Outside the flat he found Edward waiting.

“Sorry I’m late. I got caught by a shower and stood under a tree with some nannies. I didn’t know they still existed.”

“While there’s an England there will be nannies,” said Edward. “But a lot of them are foreign these days.”

“Ah, the new internationalism.”

“About time too,” said Edward. “Keeping Britain great is very dispiriting, like Canute with his waves.”

“Canute?” said Shrieve. “Yes, perhaps.”

Edward wondered how Shrieve in fact thought about England. Regretfully, probably.

They began to discuss the meeting at Patrick Mallory’s. Edward had brought a notebook, his pen was full of ink; he was ready to be a real secretary or to pass for one, as required.

“I don’t think, quite honestly,” said Shrieve, as they prepared to leave, “that this is going to be the slightest use.”

“But people are always writing to The Times about things like this,” said Edward. “It’s almost obligatory.”

“Precisely. It’s the done thing. And once it’s done, everyone forgets about it, the gesture has been made, concern has been expressed in the appropriate place, and we can all sit back and say with clear consciences that we’ve done what we can. No one’s going to pay any attention whatever.”

“I’m surprised to hear you saying that,” said Edward. “I mean, I’ve been wondering about it all along, but I thought you put quite a lot of stock by this letter.”

“I did to begin with, I suppose. I think I believed in letters to The Times till I started talking to people here. Now I’m not so sure. There are so many letters with eminent signatures. Some people seem to make a profession of signing the damned things. I don’t think a letter will have any effect here. But people who live a long way from home take them seriously, you know. And that goes for African politicians, most certainly. We’re not going to affect anyone in England, but we might conceivably influence some of the delegates to the conference.”

“Hmm,” said Edward. “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

“I hope so,” said Shrieve. He looked gloomy.

Patrick and Lady Georgina Mallory lived in Mayfair. He was a tall, soft-spoken man whose bearing proclaimed his wartime service in the Guards. He had a long nose, slightly crooked from an enthusiastic rugger tackle at Eton, and grey eyes looked amusedly from beneath thin black eyebrows. His wife was almost as tall as her husband, with hair dyed grey to avoid the tiresomeness of ageing before the eyes of her friends. She chain-smoked cheap cigarettes, saying her tastebuds had been ruined for years. She had a hearty manner and a strong handshake, and she could pull herself straight and freeze those to whom she took a dislike with a disdain which her family had spent centuries in cultivating. Since she was tall, she had the air of looking, quite literally, down her nose at people.

Shrieve was conscious of this look as his hand was gripped and he heard her saying, “At last, Mr Shrieve!” She might have been addressing a tardy delivery boy.

The drawing-room was on the first floor, with windows opening on a balcony above Davies Street. Family portraits and indistinct, heavily framed landscapes, some of which bore the names of famous eighteenth-century English painters, hung round the walls, which were pale green. The room was dominated by two vast sofas, seating four or five medium-sized people and covered in a matching pale green. There was a small bureau covered with papers, and a great many invitation cards stood on the mantel of what looked like an Adam fireplace. Cards, too, were stuck haphazardly into the gilt moulding of the mirror above it.

Withdrawing discreetly towards the fireplace, Edward observed that most of the cards were for charitable balls or ambassadorial extravaganzas. There were also invitations to weddings at St Margaret’s, Westminster, St Mark’s, North Audley Street, and Holy Trinity, Brompton. He had no time for further research, as Lady Georgina came sweeping towards him to ask if he would like a glass of sherry.

Edward declined. To his chagrin, Lady Georgina merely smiled and swept off again without offering him anything else. He and Shrieve had been among the first to arrive. Only Dennis Moreland, a short, fat-cheeked man with thick black hair who ran a television series and wrote for one of the weeklies, had preceded them, and he was already apologising to Shrieve for having to leave in half an hour. Andrew Osborne, the lobby correspondent of one of the Sundays, arrived shortly afterwards. He had an incongruous R.A.F. moustache, one corner of which he pulled incessantly. Another to appear more or less on time was Charles Fraser, the U.N. correspondent of a respectable daily paper, whose coverage of the Suez adventure had pleased liberals almost as much as his unenthusiastic reports of the situations in half a dozen newly independent African countries had annoyed them. He had written, Shrieve considered, intelligently about the colony they were about to discuss: he had missed subtleties, of course, but for a man who had spent only three weeks in the country he was remarkably well informed. Bernard Clavering, the Labour M.P. whose articles on the future of socialism had been, some believed, responsible for one of the many recent dissensions within the party, arrived with Nicholas Sharpe, a journalist who had unsuccessfully stood against a Cabinet Minister at the last election, and a girl who worked on The Economist but whose name Shrieve did not catch.

“I think,” said Mallory, going softly round his guests, “that we may as well start, don’t you? There’s only a couple more to come, and I expect some of us have dinner parties to attend.”

Lady Georgina Mallory withdrew inconspicuously.

When they had arranged themselves on the sofas and chairs, Mallory began by saying that they all knew roughly why they were there, and it wouldn’t take long. Hugh Shrieve would give a brief summary of the position, to make sure everyone was clear about it, and of course he’d be only too pleased to answer any questions. Briefly, the point of the meeting was to decide what were the best ways to bring pressure on the government to take the plight of the Ngulu—he stumbled slightly over the word and smiled charmingly at Shrieve—more seriously than seemed likely. It was agreed that a letter to The Times would be an obvious first step, but it was a question rather of what to do to follow it up. First, though, he would ask Hugh Shrieve to describe, as briefly as possible, the whole situation.

Alarmed by the three references to brevity—did Mallory mean five minutes or twenty?—and by the unexpected announcement that they were to consider measures to follow the letter up, Shrieve rose self-consciously to his feet and leaned against the mantelpiece. He knew none of those present well, and some not at all. He began hesitantly to speak, repeating almost automatically what he had already said to so many people in London.

While Shrieve spoke, Edward looked round the room. Mallory was sitting in a generous arm-chair between the two huge sofas, emphasising the general air of his presidency. Behind him, at the bureau, sat a young man of twenty-one or -two, rather good-looking, with black hair and long eyelashes over grey eyes. He was writing busily. Edward supposed that he must be Mallory’s secretary.

After Shrieve had finished, there were a few questions. The girl from The Economist wanted to know what business interests were involved in the Ngulu territory.

“None,” said Shrieve. “It’s a sort of reserve, you see. And it’s not good for anything very much except gentle farming. Which is why the Luagabu want it.”

Clavering wanted to know what steps had been taken so far to approach the African delegates to the conference.

“None that I know of. You see, it would hardly be for me to approach them in the colony—I’m a very minor figure in the Administration. Everyone from the Governor down would have been furious. Of course, the Governor may have been in contact with the political leaders about it—in fact he probably has been. But only to let them know the matter will be on the agenda, I expect. And the Africans aren’t due this end till next Monday.”

“Make a note of that, Clive,” said Mallory to the young man at the bureau. “Does anyone know where they’ll be staying?”

“Claridges,” suggested Dennis Moreland, and giggled.

“We can find out easily enough. Clive—you’ll do that, will you?”

“What are these Africans going to be like?” said Clavering. He was a burly man with glasses, and he kept running his hand over the back of his neck.

“They will be educated,” said Shrieve. “They will also be unreasonable in public. In private they’ll probably be charming. I don’t know any of them very well personally—I’ve always been out in the bush. But those I have met always struck me as able and intelligent, and perfectly aware of the difficulties that will follow independence. They’re very anxious to preserve the dignity of their new sovereignty. Some of them have ambitions to become famous at the U.N.”

“That seems exactly right,” said Charles Fraser. “Bloaku, who will certainly dominate the delegation, though the nominal leader will be Ukurua, of course, is a most sympathetic man. But he leads a fanatical party, which is why his public statements have to be intransigent. It’s inevitable, it seems. The violence of feeling that creates an independence party continues after independence has been promised.”

“Any more questions?” said Mallory. “Right. Good. Now, Nicholas Sharpe has kindly drafted the letter to The Times for us. I’ve made one or two very small amendments—simply with an eye to capturing a couple of the more difficult signatures. Nicholas accepts them, by the way. I think I might as well read it out and see if there are any comments.”

Shrieve and Edward had seen the letter before the meeting. It expressed anxiety about the future of a backward people in a distant part of a colony about to obtain its independence. The signatories hoped that the Ngulu would not suffer, either directly or indirectly, by the withdrawal of British rule. The letter was so phrased that conservatives would not be offended by any suggestion that independence was to be welcomed, nor liberals by the implication that it was not. It was so innocuous that Edward wondered whether even the most naïve of newly-independent African leaders would give it more than two seconds’ attention.

When he had finished reading it, Mallory asked if anyone had any comments.

“It’s a bit mild, isn’t it?” said Dennis Moreland.

“Anyone else think that?” said Mallory.

“Yes, I do,” said Andrew Osborne loudly. He tugged at his moustache. “I think that’s just a lot of hot air, frankly. But if you want all those wet people to sign, then all right.”

“Well, that’s it, really, isn’t it?” said Mallory. He spread his hands as though to say there was no choice. “I’m afraid that if we’re to muster a decent list of names, we can’t be too outspoken. And you know it’s not a question of people being wet, Andrew. We can’t expect everyone to know as much as we do about the question. Naturally people don’t want to commit themselves to strong language unless they’re certain of the details. But they are prepared to sign a general statement of principle.”

“Look,” said Osborne roughly. “That’s all very well for something controversial, but this issue is about as controversial as who won the last election.”

Edward looked at him in surprise. The delicate malice of Osborne’s Sunday prose seemed to have no connection with this bluntness and aggression.

“Oh, quite, Andrew, quite,” Mallory said. “But that makes my point all the stronger, really, doesn’t it? We don’t want to annoy either our government or their delegation by any assumption that either is not going to do everything within its power. The letter should simply be the expression of anxiety of well-informed people who haven’t heard anything about the Ngulu in all the talk about the future of the colony.”

“Then say that in the letter,” said Osborne. “At the moment these people don’t seem to have any reason for expressing their anxiety at all.”

“That’s a good point,” said Mallory. “Half a moment.” He wrote busily on a piece of paper.

During the pause Dennis Moreland came over to Shrieve nd said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to dash now. Could we meet for a drink or something? Lunch, say? I’d very much like to talk to you about all this. We might run a piece about it.”

“That would be marvellous,” said Shrieve. “I’m afraid I can’t write anything myself, though—I’m too involved, and one’s not supposed to, anyway.”

“Oh, of course not, of course not,” said Moreland. “Can we fix a time now?”

They arranged to meet for lunch at the beginning of the following week.

Mallory then read the new draft of the letter. Everyone agreed that it sounded very good. No one could possibly take exception to it on any grounds whatever.

Moreland excused himself to Mallory. As he was leaving, Vivian Warburton arrived. He was the editor of Trend, an illustrated weekly which was widely read in political circles. He apologised for being late, sat down, and was passed the amended draft of the letter. He glanced at it, then smoothed his hair, which Shrieve noticed with a sinking heart was silvery grey with wings above the ears, and blew his nose fussily. Only then did he pay attention to what was going on, looking round the room through thick glasses, staring for several moments at each person.

Mallory read out a list of possible signatories. They were people distinguished in every field—politicians, generals, bishops, writers, painters, composers, diplomats, civil servants, dons, lawyers, surgeons and businessmen.

When he had finished, he looked up and said, “That’s what I call my basic list. Obviously we don’t want all of them, even if they would all sign. But they’re all people who have signed in the past and can be relied on to sign again.”

“Alexander Faversham can’t,” said Andrew Osborne. “He died last week.”

“Alex is dead?” said Mallory in astonishment. “Good heavens, how can I have missed it?”

“It’s being announced in tomorrow’s papers. There was something about it in his will.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mallory. For a moment he had thought his system must have broken down. “Well, cross him off, then,” he said jovially.

“Isn’t there an ex-Colonial Secretary we could muster?” said Charles Fraser. “I know we don’t want any active politicians, but there must be one or two in the Lords who count as non-political.”

“There’s Jamieson,” said Nicholas Sharpe. “Bernard, do you think you could get him to sign?”

Clavering said, “I’m seeing him tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I’ll have a go at him.”

“That would be excellent,” said Mallory. Jamieson had been forced to retire from politics through ill-health.

For ten minutes they continued to discuss names. Eventually twenty names were agreed, of whom it was hoped about fifteen would sign. You could never tell, Mallory explained, whether you were going to get a signature or not. Some people decided not to sign anything for a few months, though they always signed again later. There had been several multiple-signature letters recently, and two or three might say “No” on the grounds that their names had been too frequently borrowed of late. The twenty included an archbishop, the ex-Colonial Secretary, one Conservative, one Labour and one Liberal peer, a Field-Marshal (“It’s always good to have a Field-Marshal,” said Mallory contentedly), two retired and knighted civil servants, two professors of anthropology (Shrieve’s idea), two Nobel Prize winners and, for spice, an abstract sculptor who had recently been a success at the Venice Biennale.

The recital of names cheered everyone up, as though something had already been achieved. Mallory turned to Clavering, who seemed rather bored by the proceedings.

“Bernard, how does the Labour Party stand on this?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t expect it’s even thought about it. We’re for independence, of course, and for minorities. But it’s not likely to come to anything in the house. What do you think, Nicholas?”

“I agree,” said Sharpe. “Besides, the House rises in the middle of next week.”

“So it does,” said Mallory. “I’d forgotten.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” said Clavering. “I can’t really see how I can help much, though.”

“Oh, but you can,” said Mallory. “Jamieson’s signature alone will be most valuable.”

Clavering shrugged. “Well, I’ll do my best, Patrick. I’m afraid I must slip away now. There seem to be plenty of people here who can advise you how to follow up the letter. I’ll spread the word around, of course, and I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He got up.

“Thanks so much for coming,” said Mallory. “I’ll have a copy of the letter sent round to you tomorrow morning, so that you can show it to Jamieson.”

“Good idea. Do you want him to sign it straight away?”

“Yes, please. The Times likes to see all the signatures, but they don’t, thank God, all have to be on the same piece of paper, or we’d never get anything done at all.”

“Right. Goodbye,” said Clavering. He shook hands with Shrieve and went out. Everyone shifted slightly on the sofa on which he’d been sitting. Shrieve, Edward noticed, was twisting his fingers and looking out at the evening sky. The clouds had gone, and it was a soft rinsed blue.

They began to discuss what could be done to keep the Ngulu before the public after the letter had appeared. Osborne and Fraser said that both their papers would be covering the conference fairly fully, and they would make sure that the Ngulu were not forgotten. Nicholas Sharpe wondered if Shrieve had any photographs of the Ngulu that could be offered to the papers. Shrieve said he was sorry, he hadn’t. Sharpe said it didn’t matter, they could probably be got from the Africa Bureau. The discussion looked like ending very quickly, the amount of agreement being almost too great for usefulness, when Vivian Warburton broke in.

“Why don’t you write for us?” he said to Shrieve. “We could make a really big thing of it, if you like.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shrieve.

“Oh, I know all about that.” Warburton took off his glasses and polished them furiously. “But for God’s sake, man, think of the future. In less than a year you’re going to be out of a job, aren’t you? What difference will the few remaining months make? When you can probably do more good for your Ngulu by writing about them here and now?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shrieve again. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

“Look,” said Warburton, putting his glasses back on again and peering blindly at Shrieve, whose own gaze was at its intensest, “you need publicity, don’t you? That’s why we’re all here. You need publicity, big publicity where it counts. My paper is read by half a million of the best educated men and women in the country. Including the whole of Whitehall and every M.P. down to the last Tory backwoodsman and the last Trade Unionist stooge. I know what I’m talking about. If you write me a three thousand word article, you’ll reach all the people that matter.”

Edward wondered why Warburton wanted to splash the Ngulu for his half-million readers. Trend was modelled distantly on one of the American imitations of Time, but it had one or two long serious features as well as its rather flamboyant pictorial section. It was chiefly read for its political columnist, Cato, whose information was almost as startling as his ferocity. The appearance of an article by Shrieve might easily cause a stir. But whether it would stir the people who mattered was doubtful. Once the House had risen the silly season for the newspapers would begin. Anyone who could find anything at all to write about in late July or August was sure to attract more attention than in May or October. He was likely, however, to be quickly forgotten once there was serious news again.

Shrieve looked steadily at Warburton and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”

Warburton threw up his hands in disgust, then began to polish his glasses again. The meeting broke up. Nicholas Sharpe was laughing at something Mallory’s secretary said, while the girl from The Economist, who had contributed little, talked earnestly to Charles Fraser. After he had shaken hands with everyone, Shrieve came over to Edward and said, “Well, it wasn’t too hopeless, was it, after all?”

“At least the Ngulu will be in all the papers.”

“If only they could read.”

Mallory came up with his secretary and said, “Clive here has got the letter and we’ll have it roneoed for you tomorrow morning. Now the question is, how are we going to deliver it? We don’t want to waste any time, do we? The thing is, though I’m only too happy to act as a sort of General Delivery Office, I’m going to be away for a few days, and there’s an awful lot to be cleared up before I go on holiday. So I wonder if you could take on some of the simply beastly work, Hugh?”

“Of course. What do you mean?”

“Well, now, let’s look at the list. I’ll write to some of these people personally, of course. In fact, I tell you what—I’ll write a brief letter and have that roneoed, too. I think I know everyone except Jamieson, and Clavering’s seeing to him. I’ll post the letters to those who don’t live in London, unless any of you are seeing any of these people soon?”

“I’m going to Oxford in a couple of days,” said Shrieve.

“So am I,” said Edward. “My viva,” he explained.

“Oh, of course. Those two anthropologists will be at the study-group I’m going to address.”

“Both? Excellent. That just leaves the London contingent—most of them, in fact. You may think this funny, but I think it’s always best to deliver these things by hand.”

“I can do that,” said Edward.

“Splendid. You know, people do like the personal touch, even something as small as hand-delivery. Now, if you come round about—oh, will eleven be all right, Clive?—yes, say eleven, we’ll have everything ready.”

“O.K.,” said Edward. He thought the fuss extraordinary.

“Good. All fixed, then? Right. See you tomorrow. I think it all went very well, don’t you, Hugh?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Good. I think we want to try and get that letter in today week, don’t you? So the African chappies will hardly have had time to turn around before they find a letter about themselves in The Times. We’ll give the signatories till the midday post on Tuesday. I’ll arrange with The Times people about getting it in the day we want. They’re always very helpful.”

“I can’t begin to thank you,” said Shrieve. “I really am most grateful. I hope something comes of it.”

“Sure to, sure to,” said Mallory, as though everything he managed always succeeded. “And those journalists will all do their best for you, too.”

They said goodbye, and the demure young man called Clive smiled at Edward and said, “See you tomorrow.”

As they left, Edward said to Shrieve, “I see what you mean about Mallory liking to delegate things. What on earth do you suppose that silent young man did all evening?”

“I expect he was there for decoration,” said Shrieve. “Patrick Mallory’s always been supposed to be a bit that way.”

“Really? One wouldn’t have thought it.”

“It’s probably only gossip,” said Shrieve. “I’d forgotten about your viva.”

“Friday morning. But sometimes they go on for hours. I really ought to be rereading all my notes and everything, but I simply can’t face them. I’m trusting to luck and native wit.”

“I’m giving my talk after lunch that day. All I get is the lunch. And my fare, of course.”

“I don’t even get my fare,” said Edward. “Can I come and listen? Unless the examiners still require me, of course.” He grinned, but felt suddenly rather nervous about it.

“Do,” said Shrieve. “I’ve got to meet Jumbo Maxwell after dinner, damn it. Come and have a quick meal with me, unless you’ve got something on.”

“Nothing,” said Edward. “I’m playing with some people in Camden Town at half past nine, that’s all. Do you know how to get there?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Shrieve. He hailed a taxi. “But you can get to most places from Piccadilly, which is where I’ve got to be. Do you mind eating in the Brachs Restaurant? It’s just round the corner from where I’m going.”

“Not at all. I usually go downstairs.”

“I’m too tired to serve myself,” said Shrieve. He sat back in the taxi. Edward thought he looked exhausted. “Oh, I’d better tell you what happened this afternoon with Filmer.”

He recounted the interview. When he came to the part about the Privy Council, Edward snorted with laughter.

“Good God,” he said, “what century are we living in? Do they honestly think the Privy Council will scare the Luagabu? They’ll be talking about gunboats next. Poor little old Great Britain.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being British,” Shrieve said. He sounded sad.

“Of course not. Nothing at all. But I don’t see how the Privy Council can help the Ngulu, frankly.”

“Nor do I,” said Shrieve. He groaned briefly as the taxi took a corner rather fast. “Nor do I.”

The Jupiter was a small pub with cut-glass screens separating the bars and ancient, much-rubbed red plush covering the benches along the walls. The general air of faded splendour altered abruptly as one pushed from the Saloon into the Private Bar, a “snug” which had been “improved” with creaky modern pseudo-leather. The walls were hung with group after group of rugger teams, coats of arms, and snippets of club ties.

Shrieve found Jumbo there, munching greedily from a plate of potato crisps. Jumbo had been, Shrieve remembered, a fat man of thirty or so, with a very large nose. Now he looked the wrong side of forty-five, his fatness had got the better of him, he was gross. His nose had turned an unhealthy purple, mottled with veins like imitation marble, and there were great bags under his eyes. When he stood up to greet Shrieve he revealed a swollen belly, apparently only held against collapse by a thick leather belt. He looked, Shrieve thought, like a seedy, welshing bookmaker.

“Hugh, old boy!” he boomed. “God, but it’s good to see you. My dear fellow.” He shook Shrieve’s hand over-vigorously. His palm felt like a rubber pin-cushion.

“Jumbo,” said Shrieve weakly. “So we meet again.”

“Looking well, looking well,” said Jumbo, regarding him critically, as a coper might look at a horse.

“I couldn’t be better. How have you been keeping?”

Jumbo’s hands dropped to his paunch and rubbed it affectionately. “Been putting on a little bit of weight,” he said. “Sitting behind a desk, that’s what does it.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Oh, a pint, a pint. A pint for old times’ sake, eh? Nothing like beer.”

Shrieve ordered two pints, Jumbo leaning beside him and breathing heavily. His hand strayed towards a saucer of cocktail onions.

“Hugh, old fellow, it’s been too long.”

“It has, Jumbo, you’re right.”

“I’ve said to the others, time and again I’ve said it, ‘Poor old Hugh’, I’ve said, ‘he’s gone native and we’ll never see him again. Poor old Hugh,’ I’ve said, and they’ve all agreed with me. We’ve shaken our heads over you, old boy, really we have. We thought we’d never see you again.”

They took their pints to a table and sank into the red leatherette so far as it would let them.

“What are you up to these days, Jumbo? Selling insurance, isn’t it? Or was that long ago?”

Jumbo looked gravely into his beer and said, “Oh, that was a very long time ago, old boy. No, I gave that up. I didn’t care for that at all, to tell you the truth.”

“I can’t say I’d have liked it much myself.”

“No, it’s not a job for men like us at all, men of initiative and drive. It didn’t suit me a bit.”

“What are you doing now, then?”

“As a matter of fact, old boy, that’s a bit of a ticklish question. You see, I’d been working behind a desk all those years, and I got fed up. It’s a terrible life behind a desk, you know. You just sit there all day and fiddle with bits of paper. Not the life for me at all. But then, one has to do something, eh?”

“Oh, yes. One has to do something.”

“The truth is, my dear old chap,” said Jumbo, “that at this very moment I’m not officially doing anything at all. Officially I’m what’s called unemployed. But I’ve got some irons in the fire. Oh yes, believe me, I’ve got quite a few irons in the fire, and red hot some of them are, too.” He leaned across the table and said confidentially, “I’m starting up a little business of my own. Nothing very big to begin with, mind you, nothing very earth-shaking. But in five years I’ll be riding about in a Rolls-Royce, you see if I won’t.”

“That sounds very exciting. What sort of business is it, then?”

“I’m afraid I’m not really free to say,” said Jumbo easily. “It’s all a bit hush-hush for the nonce. Question of registering a patent, you know. My partner’s got all the rights, we’re all set to go. All we need is a little capital and we’re off. Bingo! Five years and we’re millionaires.”

“Well, the best of luck,” said Shrieve.

“It’s a lovely little thing we’re on to,” said Jumbo, “really a lovely little thing. So simple. That’s why we have to keep it pretty dark, you see. Don’t want anyone barging in ahead of us. And in five years we’ll be selling out at a profit of several thousand per cent, I can promise you.”

“What on earth is it, Jumbo? Something to control the weather?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Something very simple. Little gadgets for the house, you might call them. There won’t be a house without them in five years, you mark my words.”

“If it’s really so good,” said Shrieve, “you shouldn’t have any difficulty raising the capital. People will flock to lend you their money.”

“Ah, it’s not quite like that, old boy, not quite like that. We don’t want anyone else to know about it, that’s our trouble. We want to keep it among friends.”

Knowing what was coming, Shrieve felt cross. “Well, whatever it is,” he said brusquely, “and you seem to be making an awful mystery of it, I don’t expect it’ll get to my part of the world in a hurry.”

“Yes it will, yes it will,” said Jumbo. “We plan to market it the wide world over.”

Shrieve drank some beer and shuddered. In the far bush, in deserts and on the seas, the exiled Englishman dreamed of the pleasures of draught bitter. But when he got it at last, it always tasted insipid, a flat, watery, filling drink which made him go to the lavatory all the time, where the smell of dripping walls and urine combined with the taste of the beer to produce foul images of unclean vats and mildewed barrels.

“How’s your glass, Jumbo?”

Jumbo swallowed his lees and said, “Ready, aye, ready.” It was his turn to pay, but Shrieve knew from long experience that he wouldn’t. Jumbo had once been described as all froth and no beer.

When he returned with a new pint for Jumbo and a half which was all he could face for himself, he noticed that all the crisps had gone.

“Look, Hugh, old chap,” said Jumbo, “I tell you what. I’ll give you a chance to come in with us, if you like.”

“I don’t have any money,” said Shrieve firmly.

“We don’t need much. Five thousand, and we’re away. The trouble is, my money’s all tied up at the moment—it’s a damned nuisance. A trust, you know. Can’t get my paws on it.”

“It’s often the way.”

“Of course, you’ll want to know more of what it’s all about. I’ll give you a hint. It’s something for the house.”

“You said that before.”

“Oh, did I? Well, my partner—nice chap, name of Chester, Wally Chester—he’s hit on the notion of the century. Every woman in the world spends hours of her life at the sink, agreed? Washing up. It’s washing up all day long. She gets up in the morning, and there are last night’s dishes. She cooks breakfast, and there are a whole lot more. And so it goes on, all day long.”

“If you’ve invented a washing-machine,” said Shrieve, “I’m afraid it’s been done already.”

“No, no,” said Jumbo importantly. “It’s not a washing-machine. Our invention’s going to make the washing-machine obsolete. It’s a kind of plate. I can’t tell you how it works, of course, because that’s a secret. But all you have to do is squirt some stuff over it—one of those spray things, you know—and dip it in hot water, and out it comes clean. Clean as a whistle. You see, washing is abolished.”

“Is it sanitary?”

“Absolutely. The stuff you squirt’s a disinfectant as well as a detergent—a very powerful detergent. Old boy, it’s revolutionary.”

“I see,” said Shrieve. “Can you have a wide variety of these plates? Can you adapt old ones and so on?”

“No, no, of course not. You have to buy new ones. We’ve got a couple of little problems to solve about the colours, it’s true—so far we can only make plain ones. But we’ll sort out the patterns in a month or two, once we’ve got going.”

“What are they made of?”

“A sort of plastic stuff.”

“It sounds revolting.”

“Now steady on, old boy, hold hard. This is going to revolutionise the housewife’s existence.”

“But are the plates hard? Can you break them? Or scratch them?”

“Now look, old chap, you’re a good friend, a very valued friend, and I’ve told you too much already. Wally Chester would be livid if he knew I’d told you so much. So no more questions, if you don’t mind, be a good chap. There are people who’d give their eye-teeth to have a look at our formula. It’s absolutely essential that we keep it all quiet.”

“And you honestly expect me, and other people, to put up money for a lunatic scheme you won’t even give us the details of?”

“Now don’t be unfair,” said Jumbo. His eyes began to take on the reproachful look that Shrieve remembered from so many minor incidents during the war. “I’ve given you a very good idea of what it’s all about. I said to myself when I knew you were coming home, Jumbo, I said, we must wait for Hugh, we must give Hugh a chance to come in with us. He sits there in Africa year after year, he must have quite a lot saved up by now, and he’ll be thrilled, really thrilled, to get a chance like this. He’ll jump at it, I said. I’ve been holding people off, waiting for you, old boy.”

“Hold them off no longer,” said Shrieve. “I don’t know why you waste your time, Jumbo. You know perfectly well that I wouldn’t lend you a half-crown. I might give you a half-crown, but I’d never expect to see it again. You’re a rogue, Jumbo, and you know I know it. I can’t imagine why you think I might be fool enough to think otherwise.”

“Now steady on, old fellow, that’s a hard word you used there, you know.”

“Not hard enough,” said Shrieve cheerfully. “I’m not going to lend you five thousand pounds, Jumbo, so let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“Three thousand,” said Jumbo, leaning across the table, all confidence and secrecy. “How about three thousand, eh?”

“No.”

“A thousand then. A thousand smackers.”

“Jumbo, I said no. Let’s talk about something else.”

“You’re turning down the offer of a lifetime,” said Jumbo. “And you’re letting me down very badly. I swore to Wally Chester that you’d put up the capital for us. I swore on my oath that Hugh Shrieve would back me up to the hilt.”

“Jumbo, I have not let you down. There is no reason in the world why I should ever lend you anything.”

“But we fought together,” said Jumbo, looking shocked. “Surely there can be no better reason than that we were comrades in arms, old boy? We nearly died together.”