Four

 

Earnshaw turned up from his holiday a week later, with a hangover and eyes that looked like knot-holes in wood. His hand was unsteady and he was heavily disinterested in anything.

“How’s it go, old lad?” he asked Jimmy as they met by the jetty. “Pardon my high spirits, but I got ever such a jolly mood on just now. I spent the last few days getting meself a beautiful crop of ulcers dodging in and out of bars. My inside’s fizzing like a bottle of pale ale. How’s the Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze? He take my advice?”

“No,” Jimmy said glumly. “In fact, he’s showing his contempt for it by working it off on the boys.”

Earnshaw looked quickly at him, with a bleary eye full of the sad, stale wisdom of the Coast. “What’s the matter, cock? You got saddle sores?”

“He’s down with Sargy Asimani at the moment,” Jimmy said. “He had his room raided again last night. They stole his clothes this time. And they’ve lifted more stuff from the mine stores. I’ve got Asimani to keep quiet for the time being but it can’t go on.” He paused, drew a deep breath and continued. “We had a bloke killed by blasting yesterday. It shouldn’t have happened. It needn’t have happened. But they were thinking too much about Gotto and not enough about their job.”

Earnshaw took off his hat and mopped his face with a dirty handkerchief. “How’s the rice situation?” he asked soberly.

“Lousy. Indian Joe got raided too, last night. They know he’s got rice hidden away somewhere.”

“You know something, son?” Earnshaw said. “Summat’s going to blow up one of these days. I can feel it in me bones. He’s dangerous. I know. I’m dead ’ot on danger.”

“Thank God he’s due to go home soon,” Jimmy said fervently.

Earnshaw squinted up the winding road to the mine and nudged him. “Kid,” he said. “Put on your dancing pumps and report to the ballroom for a waltz. Here comes His Master’s Voice.”

Clerk Smith emerged out of the approaching cloud of dust on his noisy old bicycle and almost fell into Jimmy’s arms.

“What the hell is it this time?” Jimmy demanded angrily.

“Boss. Labourer done get hurt.”

“Another?”

“Yassah. Bryma Komorra. De digger bucket done hit him. Boss Momo send for Ole Doc. He hurt plenty bad.”

They found Romney kneeling on the ground alongside the still dusty form of one of the labourers whose black face was flecked with specks of blood.

“How bad is it, Doc?” Jimmy asked.

“Bad as it can be without being fatal. Fractured skull.”

Romney looked up, his heavy face serious. “How did it happen, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shrugged. “You know as much as I do, Doc. Arguing about Gotto, I suppose, like the last one, and not watching what he was doing.”

He stared at the dusty ground and his eyes found their way to the silent figure of the injured man.

‘What is he, Doc? Temne?”

“Yes, so I’m told.”

Jimmy sighed. “I suppose that means a row in the town,” he said.

 

That night the noise of mourning could be heard continually from the moment the sun set in its thunderous glory. The drums began beating solidly and the mourning party spread a little under the influence of palm wine and native beer and the bottles of gin which Indian Joe had generously provided to assist the wailing, until it began to include people who were in no way related to the injured man – people who merely wanted to get drunk, noisy people and people who wanted to celebrate, and before long they could hear the shrieks of laughter, and the tinkling of the native xylophones chanting their monotonous tune. There were several big fires blazing round Amama Town and, inevitably, Samuel Assissay was doing the round of the parties, breathing fire and slaughter and making the most of the occasion to preach insurrection.

The drumming had reached a breathless pitch that set the whole town throbbing when Jimmy arrived at the Swannacks’, and as he and Stella sat behind the mosquito mesh on the veranda, they could see a steady procession of people moving through the streets. The whole place seemed to be on the move, and the glow of passing lanterns and torches lit up the great leaves of the banana plants by Swannack’s front gate.

Swannack seemed worried and the tufts of hair on his face which seemed to move about like a weather-vane according to his mood seemed limp and dispirited.

“Bad thing, this accident today, son,” he said to Jimmy as he stood by the door, outlined by the fires that were burning down the road. He waved his cigar to shift the flies from round his head. “That’s two in two days. The people are upset. There’s a lot of noise down there.”

Mrs Swannack put her head round the door from the other room where she was conducting in hygiene and mothercraft a class of village women whose high-pitched chatter came through to them in bursts.

“There’s too much laughter in the village, Father,” she said aggressively. “Too much drinking. That poor man’s soul’s only an excuse for licence.”

“They always make this noise,” Swannack said patiently. “They’re always looking for an excuse to make a noise. They sure are fast off the mark for a mourning or a celebration.”

Mrs Swannack glared suspiciously at the crowds. “I don’t trust ’em,” she said loudly. “They’re too quick to celebrate these days but they don’t come to church with the same speed.”

“This is only high spirits, Mother,” Swannack said gently. “The Lord will always prevail. If I went out and preached the Word now to them, they’d come, excited as they are.”

“And probably burn the place down, the liquor they’ve been taking.”

As Mrs Swannack went back to her class, muttering rough-handed Old Testament texts, Swannack gave Jimmy his evening tot of gin – what Earnshaw was in the habit of calling “enough to drown a flea” – and settled himself down for a talk.

“Gin warms the soul as much as a good rousing hymn,” he said, “but don’t say I said so or Old Doc would tell me it’s easier to make a convert with it than with prayer.” He looked up at Jimmy. “Son,” he went on seriously, “this afternoon I was approached in the town to denounce your friend Gotto in the pulpit–”

“Mr Swannack,” Jimmy pointed out, “he’s not my friend.”

Swannack waved a hand. “No, I guess not. But this boy who was injured today, he belonged to my flock and I was told I must denounce Gotto as an oppressor of the black races.”

“Sounds a familiar line. Who by?”

“I don’t know, Jimmy. Guy I never saw before. Looked like he came from Freetown. Smart suit. Glasses. Samuel Assissay was with him.”

“I thought he might be.” Jimmy’s brow was wrinkled. “Looks as if the vultures are gathering. What did you say to him?”

Swannack rubbed his nose uneasily. “I figured it wasn’t any of my business, son. I told him so.”

Jimmy lit a cigarette. No, it’s no one’s business, he thought gloomily. Nobody wants Gotto. Not Twigg. Not Romney. Not Earnshaw. Not you. Nobody. That leaves me. Only me. He felt suddenly weary with the weight of his responsibility.

“What did he say?”

“Oh, he made oblique references to other means of getting rid of him.”

“Father,” Mrs Swannack bawled from the other side of the house. “Aren’t you tired of playing gooseberry?”

“Yes, Mother. Coming now.” Swannack turned again to Jimmy. “I figured I’d better pass it on to you, son. Thought you’d like to know.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy said heavily.

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you advise?”

“Well–” Swannack rubbed his nose again – “I guess it’s none of my concern. Gotto belongs to the mine. He isn’t a member of my flock and the chances of me enfolding him into this church are small, I guess, now.”

Jimmy sighed. “Anyway, thanks, Mr Swannack.”

“Sure. Nothing at all. Nothing at all.”

“Father!”

Swannack scowled like a sulky schoolboy and the hairs on his face seemed to revive a little under his annoyance.

“Stella,” he commented as he shuffled out, “your mother has more power in her command than the word of the Lord Himself.”

Stella watched him disappear, flapping his hands in argument as he joined Mrs Swannack round the door, then she began to stare towards Amama Town and the crowds again.

“They look too excited for comfort to me,” she said. “That’s quite a time they’re having down there.”

“I’ve a feeling it’s not the last either,” Jimmy said heavily. “I’ve a nasty suspicion that there’s worse to come.”

“Is it tough, Jimmy?” Stella asked quietly.

Jimmy nodded. “What did I pick myself in on?” he asked. “Who’d have thought when I signed up for this job that I’d find Gotto waiting for me. Hell, I think he hates the very earth of Africa. He hates the trees, the grass, the mountains, the sun, the swamps, and especially the mosquitoes.”

“Hard to please, isn’t he?”

“We haven’t seen him for days. He spends all his time over at King Tim with Sargy Asimani trying to mount a full-scale investigation. Asimani’s bored to tears with him but he’s trying hard to satisfy him without actually picking him a winner.”

“Have they found any loot?”

“No. Nothing. He’s only managed to make a lot more enemies and hear a lot of noisy threats that keep him indoors as soon as the sun goes down. Since Earnshaw wouldn’t lend him a gun, he’s taken to sleeping with the light on. It only serves to make him more tired and irritable. He locks everything up now – everything – and gives himself the heeby-jeebies because he has to unfasten half a dozen locks every time he wants a handkerchief to blow his nose,” Jimmy grinned. “Hell, he’s only to shove his stuff in one of those warped drawers and give it a damn’ good slam. It’d take six strong men to get it out then.”

He looked at Stella, his smile dying again. “Stella, these people aren’t hard to please. They’re a good-natured crowd and there’s nothing they like better than to laugh. If only he’d pull their legs a bit. They’d love it.”

“You can’t do that, Jimmy dear, with a temperament like he’s got. Even supposing he tried it, it wouldn’t go down the same way as when you and Earnshaw do it. And, anyway, I suppose he’s not to blame for his temperament. The poor man’s been starved of affection.”

“He’s been starved of something. Brains, I suspect.”

“He’s probably never had much love, Jimmy, from what you say. His mother doesn’t seem to do much except complain. His girlfriend doesn’t come across.”

“Neither does mine.”

Stella ignored him. “In fact,” she said, “nobody seems to like the man.”

“What do you expect? You get nothing out of this life unless you put something into it.”

“He tries hard, Jimmy. Or he did at first.”

Jimmy nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” he said heavily. “You usually are. But there’s nothing I can do. God knows, I’ve tried hard enough. I even persuaded Earnshaw to try, too. You know what happened.”

He looked at Stella. “Stella, what are we going to do with him? You’re wise as well as beautiful. What would you do?”

“Under the circumstances, I know what I’d do. It’s tough on him, but he’s not the only one concerned. I’d let someone know.”

“Oh, Lord, I can’t go telling tales about him. He is supposed to be in charge. He is supposed to be my boss. I’ve got a certain loyalty.”

“Women don’t clutter themselves up with loyalties,” Stella said firmly. “If someone hurts or annoys them, they don’t worry about things like that. It’s amazing how well it works out.”

“It’s an easy thing to say.”

“Jimmy,” Stella said urgently, worried by the nagged look on his face. “Are you sure you’re not making more trouble for yourself by not telling someone?”

“Perhaps I am, but really, Stella, he’s such a pathetic idiot. He’s never cottoned on to the fact that these people are human beings. He regards them rather as a cross between animals and curiosities.”

“Can’t we set Mother on to him? She might be able to tell him a thing or two. She’s been here long enough to know and, when she’s worked up, can she smite the Amalekites? She’s just the person to show him how they tick.”

“Nobody could show him anything about them,” Jimmy said. “All his ideas were preconceived before he left England and he sees no reason to change them now.”

“Mother’s pretty hot all the same, Jimmy, and honest, you do look sore about it all. I don’t like my Jimmy looking as though he ate something that disagreed with him.”

Jimmy looked up. “Your Jimmy,” he snorted. “I like that.”

Stella laughed and, putting her arms round his neck, kissed him quickly and dodged away before he could grab her. “Now, don’t get all worked up. You haven’t got the kind of face that goes with a bad temper.”

She took his hand. “Poor Jimmy,” she said, the teasing note dying out of her voice. “Listen, don’t let’s quarrel with each other. Let’s save our energies for dealing with friend Gotto.”

“Damn Gotto,” Jimmy snorted. “I’m sick of Gotto.”

“Jimmy darling,” Stella said patiently. “That’s no way to deal with him. That’ll get us nowhere. That’s just accepting him and putting up with everything. We’d be much wiser to think up some way of getting rid of him.”

“I’ve thought and thought,” Jimmy said, a driven look in his eyes. “And, short of going to Twigg about him, I can’t get rid of him. All I can do is put up with the fool.”

 

Jimmy drove home in a depressed mood, along the dark road where the palms were lit by the flickering gold of flames. He could hear the steady beat of the drums and see dark figures swaying and singing round the fires.

Gotto’s eyes had a tormented look in them when he arrived.

“This damned drumming,” he said immediately. “They’re all full of palm wine.”

Jimmy laughed. “They’re all right,” he said. “I didn’t notice any blood lust. Only the ordinary kind. I expect there’ll be a few hangovers in the morning, that’s all.”

When he got to bed, he found he was unable to fall asleep for some time and the noise of the drums and the singing from the town didn’t help. The following morning he woke late and when he went out to the station wagon, he saw Indian Joe waiting in the dusty Cadillac behind the bungalow. Zaidee sat at the wheel. While Jimmy was still hesitating, the Syrian heaved himself out of the car and came towards him.

He was smooth and silky and blandly friendly but also obviously angry.

“Mr Agnew,” he said. “This quarrelling with the fishermen does not become you. Haggling of this kind should be left to poor Syrians like me. We are the arguers on this coast. We are not able to become soldiers. We are too timid. We cannot become administrators. We are not clever enough. We have to be the shopkeepers. So we know how to quarrel. It is not fitting that the engineer of a mine should go in for haggling with the natives.”

“Mr Soloman,” Jimmy said wearily. “How about coming to the point? Is all this because the fishermen have been raiding you?”

The Syrian raised his eyebrows. “How did you guess, Mr Agnew? You have a Syrian’s intuition.”

No, I haven’t, you old devil, Jimmy thought angrily. It’s written all over your face. You’re frightened they’ll come again.

“Mr Soloman,” he said. “I’m busy. If you don’t like it, hadn’t you better go to the District Commissioner?”

Indian Joe threw up his hands in despair. “Mr Agnew, if I go to the District Commissioner, I shall only make trouble – perhaps for Mr Gotto.”

“That’s all right, Mr Soloman. We don’t mind.”

Indian Joe’s face lengthened with surprise then he turned on his beaming smile again. “Ah, no, Mr Agnew. I’ll not worry the District Commissioner. He is a busy man.”

“Are you sure it isn’t because you don’t want him up here finding that rice is short?”

“Mr Agnew, I know nothing of the rice shortage.”

“What was it they were looking for in your store the other night then?”

The Syrian mopped his moist face and stared at Jimmy without blinking. “Mr Agnew, I have no rice. May Allah in his mercy strike me down if I lie. Mr Agnew, I like you. My daughter, Zaidee, like you.” Jimmy glanced at Zaidee’s angry face in the Cadillac and wasn’t so sure. “Very much she like you. We like you to come visiting. To have coffee with us. I would like to be your good friend. My daughter Zaidee would like to be your good friend, your very good friend–”

It was Jimmy’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“–but, Mr Agnew, we cannot be good friends when we quarrel over rice.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to dispense with the friendship for the time being, Mr Soloman,” Jimmy said seriously. “I’ve no control over the fishermen. I’ve no control over Mr Gotto. If you want to do anything about it, the remedy’s in your own hands. Take it to the District Commissioner.”

He turned abruptly on his heel, leaving them staring after him, and drove to the mine with an uneasy mind.

When he got to the office, he found the lorry drivers and the shovel boys standing in a group shouting and arguing and immediately he felt that weight of foreboding like a rock round his neck again.

Momo came towards him, his face serious. “Boss Jimmy,” he said. “Boss Gotto sack twenty-three Temne boys for coming late.”

“Oh, my God!” Jimmy felt a wave of disgusted fury sweep over him. “What’s the trouble this time, Alf?”

“Drinking last night, Boss. Temne boy hurt by digger. You remember? Plenty boys come late. Boss Gotto give ’em all the sack. All Temne.”

Jimmy was conscious of a frustrated, thwarted anger.

“Boss,” Momo continued. “Boys always slow when they drink. Stop their money. But not sack them.” He stared hard and accusingly at Jimmy. “You tell Boss Twigg soon, Boss Jimmy?”

 

At lunch time, Romney and Earnshaw arrived at the bungalow. Romney’s face was dark with anger. Earnshaw wore his usual bored look – as though he were contemplating poaching someone’s pheasants. They found the atmosphere already explosive. The tempestuous argument between Jimmy and Gotto had died down to an incommunicative silence but the air seemed to crackle with fury.

Romney wasted no time with explanations but came immediately to the point.

“What the devil’s this mischief, Gotto?” he asked. “Twenty-three Temne shovel boys. Have you gone off your head?”

Gotto stared back defiantly. “Last time you complained because they were Mende. Now it’s because they’re Temne. Make up your mind.”

“But twenty-three of them, man. Every Mende man in Amama Town’s jeering.”

“They were late,” Gotto retorted. “I set on Mende – I found out they were Mende to please you – I try to oblige. They were there and willing to work. They hadn’t been drinking.”

“No, but they will one of these ’ere nights,” Earnshaw put in heavily. “Then I suppose you’ll sack all the Mende and set on a bunch of Temne again.”

“Good heavens, man,” Romney said. “If you’ve got to sack a few, mix ’em up a bit, can’t you?”

“No, I’m damned if I can.” Gotto was backing away into a corner of the room, the trapped, baited look he wore when confronted with his actions on his face again. “When I celebrate, I still have to be here at the proper time the next day.”

“Celebrate?” Earnshaw gave a sudden harsh cackle of mirthless laughter. “You’ve never celebrated nothing in your life.”

“The whole twenty-three of them are up outside Indian Joe’s store now, listening to Samuel Assissay,” Romney pointed out. “He’s letting them have it good and strong about the rice shortage.”

“We didn’t cause it.”

“I know you didn’t. I suppose they do, too, if the truth’s known, but at the moment while they’re angry they put the two together and that fool’s helping them. There’s quite a crowd round and it’s not all Temne. For God’s sake, let’s sort this thing out before there’s any trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“There could be.”

“I’ll warn Sergeant Asimani.”

Earnshaw laughed again, harshly and mirthlessly as before. “If Asimani see any trouble, he’ll lay low, mark my word, old lad. This place’s grown too big for its police force.” He flicked his fag-end out on to the dusty earth with his thumb and blinked at Gotto. “He got too much sense to try and argue with a mob with his few blokes.”

“Mob?” Gotto seemed a little dazed.

“Ain’t you ’eard?” Earnshaw started to scratch himself. “Out here, it’s a mob job or nothing at all. I seen rice riots, mate. Proper caper, they was.”

“Why not take these men on again?” Romney asked. “Before it’s too late. Better still, why not leave the labourers to Alf Momo?”

“I’m having no African running this place. Besides, the law’s on my side.”

Romney drew a deep breath. He was very concerned and had been for some time with Gotto’s activities. But, as he well knew, his concern was largely a selfish one. He was anxious to see the last of Gotto and the villagers contented again, but he knew his wish sprang chiefly from his own desire for peace and comfort.

At the same time, although Gotto was a vain, tiresome, self-dramatising fathead too much alert to suspicion, a man unable to exist alone and dangerous in a place like Amama, Romney knew that no one was more unhappy in Amama than he was and his loyalties were divided between his creature comfort and his humanity.

He gained control of his temper slowly and went on more calmly.

“Look,” he said patiently. “It’s not simply a matter of the law or taking sides. It’s not even a matter of having principles. It’s understanding that’s required. Why not try to understand?” It seemed as though he were trying to force his own understanding and compassion into Gotto.

“You can’t give and take on a matter of the law,” Gotto pointed out with a stiff-necked hostility. “It has to be upheld. I suppose it can be upheld.”

“Sure it can,” Earnshaw said drily. “Only by the time they got the law out here to Amama to uphold itself, it might be too late, mate.”

“There’ll be no trouble,” Gotto insisted. “You can’t let these black devils get away with it or they’ll be running the place before you know where you are.”

He put on his topee with a gesture that ended the argument and stalked out of the door.

Earnshaw pushed his hat back and stared after him.

“Gawd,” he said in wonderment. “Ain’t he a beaut? Ain’t he the solid bar gold? Talk about tell me the old old story. He won’t take a blind bit o’notice. Like water on a duck’s back, it is, and him looking at us like we come to mend the lavatory.”

Jimmy turned to Romney. “Doc,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice. “Why does he do it?”

“Because he’s a misfit, Jimmy.”

“Well, why didn’t someone realise he was a misfit? Why couldn’t he stay at home and leave us alone?”

“He’d be a misfit there, too, I suspect. He’d be a misfit anywhere.”

“Well, look here,” Jimmy said angrily. “I’m getting a bit browned off with him. I don’t care how long he has to go before the end of his tour. I’m all for telling Twigg. He’s had his chance. How about it?”

Romney looked at Earnshaw, who drew a deep breath before he spoke.

“I’ve telled him, old lad,” he said.

“You’ve told him? What did he say?”

Earnshaw grinned sheepishly. “He said, ‘Oh, that’ll be all right, old boy’.” He mimicked Twigg’s high-pitched voice as he spoke.

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. I telled him I thunk Gotto was going to be a proper old nuisance, as nice as I could – let him have it all done up like rabbit stew – on me way up from Freetown yest’y – and that’s what he say.”

“But he must be mad.”

“He ain’t so mad, kid.”

“He’s reacted as you’d expect him to react,” Romney said. “He’s taking the easy way out. He knows he hasn’t long to wait before Gotto goes home. He’s hoping all the time he’ll be able to avoid doing anything.”

Jimmy turned desperately towards him. “Doc,” he said anxiously. “What are the chances of him getting malaria? – a really good dose that would put him out of action for a bit.”

Romney laughed. “Fifty-fifty, Jimmy. But then, it’s also a fifty-fifty chance it might be you instead.”