‘Sir,’ said Aidan Purves-Brownrigg, in formal tones, ‘whether the story’s true or not, it’s bound to have tremendous repercussions, all over the territory.’
‘You really think so?’ asked the Governor fretfully. ‘Suppose there’s nothing in it? Suppose it’s just another newspaper story?’
Aidan shook his head, coaxing his way from point to point, feeling like an eddy of tide gently lapping and seeping over a humped patch of sand. ‘True or not, people are going to believe it. To begin with, anyway. That means that we’ve got to be ready for anything.’
‘You really think so?’ repeated the Governor. ‘Shouldn’t we – ah – await developments? See what London has to say, and so forth?’
‘No, sir.’
The Governor sighed. He was not at his best on this hot and humid morning. He felt cornered – cornered by the heat, cornered by his desk, cornered by his Political Secretary. He would have faced anything in the world rather than the story in this morning’s Times of Pharamaul – the story that now lay before him on his desk. It was an absurd story, of course; if there had been anything in it – if Dinamaula had ever had the faintest idea of marrying a white girl – then Andrew Macmillan would have told him about it, long ago … But Aidan Purves-Brownrigg was right in one respect, of course, as he usually was; true or false, the story was sure to attract a certain amount of attention. That could only mean, at the very minimum, more newspapermen, more telegrams from London, more meetings and reports. Really, there was no end to this business.
The Governor sighed again, feeling himself caught at a sad disadvantage. He was aware that he would probably have felt somewhat harassed this morning, in any case; he was feeling excessively guilty about the stamps – the Pharamaul 1/– Mauve block of four – which he had bought after a brief wrestling match with his conscience. He was also feeling some £750 the poorer … Now there was this – and now there was Aidan, advising him (as was his undoubted duty), urging him to action, making the hot day a compulsive cage with only one escape.
‘What do you suggest?’ he asked presently, when he had forced himself to face the next turn of the path.
‘Just a general state of preparedness, sir. First, we want to find out if the story’s true. Andrew is seeing Dinamaula today, as you know. He’ll be telling us all about that. But whatever happens, there’s still the Press. I think they’ll come crowding in … We ought to warn the staff, here and in Gamate, not to say anything that might make matters worse.’
‘We’ve done that before, surely.’
‘It’s time for a reminder, sir.’
‘Yes … Very well.’
‘And you really ought to hold a Press conference, sir. That is, if a lot of reporters turn up.’
At that the Governor started, looking at Aidan with incredulous eyes, like an animal surprised in a thicket which had seemed, until that moment, utterly secure. The words ‘Press conference’ contained for him the elements of everything he most disliked – publicity, awkward questions, the barb of quick thinking, the prospect of embarrassment. He lowered his eyes, looking away, playing elaborately with the ornamental blotter on his desk. Presently he said: ‘I’d like to think about that. I hardly consider the moment is opportune.’
Now it was Aidan’s turn to sigh. He had expected that answer, knowing the man he was dealing with, knowing the way the old gentleman’s mind worked. To the Governor, the Press was always the enemy, the alien intruder, the one factor that a civil servant should never be called upon to grapple with. The prospect of meeting them in the mass must be agony … The Governor might be everything else – an expert administrator, a man of action, a good man with a despatch, a superb man with minute and counter minute, an engaging man at a party. But he was not a Press conference man, and obviously he didn’t intend to become one. Nor could Aidan hope to effect a transformation, now or in the future. Nor (to see it fairly) was there any reason why he should.
‘Very well, sir. Perhaps it will keep. But I think we ought to warn people again, about giving interviews.’
‘No interviews at all, eh?’ said the Governor, relief in his voice, sighting the safe ground ahead.
‘Not exactly, sir. We shouldn’t refuse to see them. That would be worse than anything. But we all ought to tell roughly the same story. If you like, sir,’ said Aidan, rising, ‘I’ll put up a draft.’
‘Yes, do that, there’s a good fellow … Not more than two paragraphs, I think, don’t you?’ The Governor mused, his impulses agreeably channelled at last, his brain meshing gently and smoothly into something he really understood. ‘First, a warning against too much freedom of expression. Then, on the other hand, a reminder that there must be a readiness to meet these people, and to talk fully and frankly about – er – our various problems in this part of the world. I think we should avoid,’ he went on easily, leaning back, looking at the ceiling, welcoming the words as they multiplied readily upon his tongue, ‘–we should avoid laying down any hard and fast rules, where the Press is concerned. After all, you and Andrew Macmillan and the others are hardly children … On the one hand, in view of the publicity that this affair has attracted already, we have to avoid – er – adding fuel to the flames. On the other hand, we have nothing to hide, and we must make that fact plain.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Aidan.
‘It’s really a matter of common sense,’ said the Governor, feeling better already. ‘As regards the marriage, we must wait and see what Andrew has to report. I imagine it will all blow over, in any case. As regards developments in the Territory, and so forth, we must be guided by our general policy. We all know what we’re trying to do here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Aidan.
‘General guidance,’ concluded the Governor. ‘A warning, and also a reminder that we’re living, alas, in the twentieth century. I’ll leave it to you.’
‘I’ll put up a draft, sir,’ repeated Aidan, on a lower note. It would be just another bloody bromide, he thought despairingly, with the second paragraph neatly cancelling out the first, and the bemused recipients left precisely as they were before. But it might do some good, if he could slip a few words by …
‘Might be very valuable training for the staff,’ said the Governor unexpectedly. Free of the threat of a full-dress Press conference, he now saw the whole thing in vaguer, more philosophical terms. ‘Meeting the Press on their own ground. Absolute frankness. Yet reserve as well … Must keep in with the fourth estate, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. We must keep in with them.’
‘But perhaps,’ added the Governor hopefully, ‘no one will be very much interested.’