‘You’re wrong,’ Paul said. ‘They’re mostly good people, just not that familiar with the outside world. My education started at a mission school.’
‘How did you end up there?’
‘I think my parents must have taken a traditional British approach to their offspring. The first son takes over the estate, the second becomes a soldier , the third a cleric and so on. Being third, they thought they’d start me off in a missionary school to get a good grounding, didn’t work of course.’
‘What happened? I thought that given the boy they’d turn out a priest.’
‘I think you mean, “give me the child for seven years and I will give you the man?” I was never that keen on indoctrination of any colour, always had a bit of a problem taking things at face value. There’s an awful lot of that in Catholicism, it’s probably why I ended up a journalist. Far easer to believe in the promises of priests if you come from a poor and disenchanted background’
‘So the innocent young boy from the colonies turns up in Oxford and all the sweet young things want to mother him. I’m almost jealous,’ Graham said.
‘I didn’t go straight there, I’d already had five years in one of your fine Public Schools, having my head pushed down the lavatory and learning to play British bulldogs. I knew your many and strange ways long before I reached Oxford. Besides, mothering wasn’t what they had in mind, most were just curious to see whether the rumours were true.’
‘Rumours?’
‘About the African anatomy old boy, haven’t you heard?’
‘It makes me sad, all those Carolines and Cynthias falling for a rumour.’ Jonathan said. ‘I bet they never took you to meet mummy and daddy.’
‘It happened … once, frightful little madam as it turned out.’
‘They must have been awfully pleased to see you.’
‘Insufferably polite; anyway, I was only being used. That particular Caroline only had eyes for Jeremy. Bright girl, she used me to show her parents it could be worse.’
‘And what happened to Jeremy?’
‘As it turned out, her parents were correct. Jeremy left her for an Italian Countess with far better prospects, not to mention a small castle and a very nice vineyard.’
‘Upsetting Caroline?’
‘She rapidly got over it and found herself a rich city type … frightfully good friend of mine as it happens.’
‘Pen pals then.’
‘Regular correspondents, he looks after some of my overseas investments.’
The bar door opened and a couple of girls walked in. Jonathan raised a glass to them, and Paul followed his gaze then swiftly turned back. ‘For God’s sake Jonathan, don’t encourage them; I’m not in the mood for mindless banter.’
‘Not a problem, I’ll send a couple of drinks over with orders to leave us be.’
‘Know them well?’ Graham asked.
‘We are but passing acquaintances, but there’s nothing worse than a bar full of thirsty trollops; destroys the atmosphere.’
‘So thirsty trollops aside, when this place does go to the wall who do you think will end up in charge?’ Graham asked Paul.
‘I’d have thought you were better positioned to know that.’
‘Come off it, with the social circles you move in, there must be some idea about who’s going to be taking over.’
‘I’m sorry, but truly, it’s a subject my social circles are keeping tight-lipped about.’
‘So no one’s put you forward as a potential leader?’
‘Not that they’ve let on, and if they did I’d turn it down. Anyway, I thought you were the one with the family connections.’
‘Me, I’m just a local reporter, not an international newshound and playboy like you.’
‘You’re a local reporter with a power hungry brother in law.’
‘Not you as well. You really think James Obuya is heading for the Presidential Palace?’
‘It probably depends on how much backing Ngai gets.’
‘Backing! Who’s going to back him?’
‘Maybe the Soviets, they could do with more influence in these parts.’
‘You’re kidding, surely they can find someone saner than Ngai.’
‘Pragmatism; once the war gets properly started, they’ll be queuing up for crosses and spears. The Soviets will take an interest, the spears will be replaced by Kalashnikovs and The Army of Christ’s Inquisition will become the People’s Popular Front. I’m off tomorrow to try to get an interview with the man, I really just dropped by to tell you I’d be elsewhere for a few days.’
‘Henry Ngai? Are you mad?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Not at all, he’ll understand the power of the press. We’ve both got the same colour skin, and I won’t forget to mention that we’ve both suffered under the same oppressive colonial power. He’ll get his moment of fame and I’ll get a byline on page three.’
‘He is raving mad you know. He’ll probably think you’re the spawn of Satan,’ Jonathan said. ‘Thinking about it, working for that upmarket rag, you probably are.’
‘The London Times? An upmarket rag? Upmarket certainly, but a rag? Anyway, it’s only a string; if they ever feel the need for a serious journalist, I’ve no doubt they’ll send in a white man.’
‘I was forgetting, you’re the journalist with more strings than a Welsh harp. So how do you intend to find Ngai, anyone in the extended family on social terms with him?’ Graham asked.
‘Certainly not, the wrong tribe don’t you know; however, I have my contacts.’
‘Would that be a taxi driver?’
‘And an excellent source of information, particularly if there’s a large fare involved.’
‘Well, best of luck,’ Jonathan said. ‘Just bear in mind Ngai’s completely insane, so take a straightjacket, and a fortnight’s supply of beer in case the taxi breaks down.’
‘Does Ngai approve of such things?’ Paul asked.
‘Rumour has it he’s a scotch drinker, so better take a bottle of Johnnie Walker with you as well, just in case.’
‘Splendid idea. Well cheerio chaps, got to go, early start and all that.’ He got up and left, his progress hungrily followed by the girls from the other end of the bar.
‘Too enthusiastic for his own good that one.’ Jonathan said. ‘All he needs to do is wait for the revolution, and when they’ve kicked all of us out, take over the newspapers. Another beer, Graham?’
‘My shout. So you’re not the dedicated newshound I thought you were?’
‘My dear boy, of course I am, but nowadays my dedication is to official government handouts and briefings. I’m far too old to go running around the bush; besides, I like to keep near the heart of communications. By the time Paul’s stopped going round in circles, probably with a spear up his arse, I’ll have a couple of thousand words of government sponsored copy on page five and a hero-gram back from London. You know his background don’t you?’
‘His dad’s a tribal chief or something isn’t he?’
‘A little more than that; his family ran half the country before the Brits got here, still do at certain level. Officially he’s a Prince and his Grandfather’s a King.’
‘So Paul’s a nob, and there I was thinking his impersonations of Bertie Wooster were fake.’
‘We’re honoured by his presence. Great Grandfather played his cards rather well when the Brits arrived, and ended up increasing his land and wealth rather than losing it. Paul doesn’t really need to work, I guess that Christian ethic must have got to him; good journalist though. Next time you read one of his pieces, take a look at the structure, it’s always very clear. Facts followed by analysis followed by conclusion. It will be interesting to see whether his family survive independence intact.’
‘I always dreamed of writing for The Times, lucky sod.’
‘There’s no reason you shouldn’t, as you said, he’s only a stringer. Why not send something in with an alias and see if they bite?’
‘A bit unethical and anyway, I don’t
want to tread on his toes.’
‘Unethical dear boy? Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a journalist; besides, he’s far too much of a gentleman to get upset, he’d be more likely to congratulate you. So, what were you doing with Colonel Harding earlier?’
‘How come everyone knows my business?’
‘Small town, dear boy; so what were you doing with him?’
‘My car broke down, he rescued me.’
‘And took you off for a drink at the Racing Club; now why would he want to do that?’
‘He wants me to spy on James Obuya.’
‘Well don’t let Amani find out, or her brother for that matter.’
‘Do you think there’s any truth in those rumours about Harding?’
‘What, picking up thieves and taking them into the bush for summary execution? He’s probably just trying to save the taxpayer money, very community minded is our Colonel.’
‘So you think he does?’
‘Where there’s smoke there’s usually fire, something to remember before consummating your relationship. Seriously though Graham, do be careful.’
‘He seemed very pleasant.’
‘As no doubt Machiavelli was.’
‘He gave me a lecture on power.’
‘The Colonel does nothing without a reason. If it suited him and his vision for this place, he’d hang you out to dry without a second thought.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘He had a bad war, his family were killed in the Blitz and he ended up at Monte Cassino. Most of his division were wiped out, it’s probably where his moral expediency came from.’
*****
Another beer later and the bar had filled. A very different set to the Racing Club, not a Major in sight. Over to one side a group of Whites with rolled up sleeves and braces had taken to entertaining the ever-increasing band of local girls with a series of pornographic songs, accompanied by drinking games.
‘The cream of British youth,’ commented Graham nodding in their direction. ‘Sacrificing the best years of their lives on the altar of colonialism, bringing culture and education to the far flung masses. Wish they’d shut up and go home.’
‘Culture and education? They’re are in advertising. Perhaps that’s where your future lies, Graham, advertising. With your turn of phrase you’d conquer the world.’
‘Bring toothpaste to the disparate corners of the Empire? No thanks mate, Mrs Theakston didn’t bring me into this world to advertise toothpaste.’
‘I thought you didn’t get on with your mother.’
‘I don’t, but that’s not to overlook the joy she brought mankind with my birth.’ He burped, had another swig and stared at the remaining inch of beer in the bottom of his glass.
Jonathan tipped back the remains of his. ‘Probably time for bed, think I’ve had enough for one night and you certainly have.’
‘You see,’ Graham said ignoring him, and dreamily looking into his beer, ‘Sport’s my main love, not toothpaste; sport and Amani.’
Having made to get up, Jonathan sat down again. ’So where is the fragrant Amani tonight?’
‘God knows, I’m surprised she hasn’t turned up yet. Probably with her mother or one of her many sisters. Lovely woman, her mother.’
‘She has a reputation as such; in fact, I bumped into her in this very bar before the war. Well then, look who’s walked in, Rose isn’t it? She of the rear that would put Venus Kallipygos to shame.’
Graham turned to follow Jonathan’s gaze as a tall, elegant, black girl came into the bar. She wore a long, body-hugging dress covered in traditional patterns and colours; making it appear haute couture, rather than thrown together by a local tailor. High heels carried her smoothly across the room, unlike the dangerously unstable feats of balance attempted by the local girls.
‘Hello Graham,’ Rose said, giving him a light peck on the cheek. ‘Are you going to buy me a drink?’
‘Of course I am love, of course I am.’ He counted the handful of coins he had left, and then carefully recounted them just to check he hadn’t missed any.
‘What will you have my dear?’ Jonathan asked, guessing Graham wasn’t likely to get anywhere near the required total.
‘A beer thank you, Jonathan.’
She swung her hips onto the stool by Graham’s and let her hand fall on his leg.
‘So darling, how have you been?’
‘Fine, love,’ he replied, cheering up and putting the coins back in his pocket. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, the usual. Where’s Amani?’
Graham shook his head slowly, ‘No idea, she should be here by now, but I can never remember her shift pattern. Maybe she’ll turn up, maybe she won’t.’
‘That’s too bad, but I’m here for you.’
A warm and happy feeling coursed through Graham’s body. He had always tended to live for the moment and not worry too much about the consequences, particularly after a few beers. This moment was looking exceptionally good.
‘Bless you mate,’ he said to Jonathan as another beer arrived in front of him. He put an arm around Rose’s waist. Jonathan thought about warning him of the error of his ways, but concluded it would be of little use and only ruin the entertainment should Amani walk through the door. Reason enough to hang on for a while longer.
*****
Half an hour later, Graham left the Stardust with a little assistance from Rose and a lot of cheering from the advertising crowd.
‘So where are you taking me?’ He asked, a supporting arm still around her waist.
‘Darling, where do you want to go?’
‘Your place, never know when Amani might turn up at mine. Lovely girl, but prone to acts of violence.’
Rose guided him into the back of a waiting taxi and joined him.
‘New Kongoni, driver.’
‘New Kongoni? I don’t want to go to another bar. You know, I think I might have had a bit too much to drink. Couldn’t we just go back to your place?’
‘Not yet,’ Rose replied. ‘First I want you to meet a friend of mine.’
‘Oh … is she as beautiful as you?’
Rose didn’t answer but let him rest his head against her shoulder. They crossed over the town centre and out to the poorer West Side, the roads barely lit and badly maintained. Shops and bars were brick, but poorly finished, and fronted by boardwalks instead of pavements. It was an area only frequented by Whites during the day, unless they’d rather no one saw them.
‘We’re here darling.’ Rose raised her shoulder and brought him back into consciousness.
He lifted his head with a start and peered out of the taxi window. The New Kongoni, painted on an old metal advertising sign and lit by a forty-watt bulb. He tried all the pockets in his jacket, taking out the handful of coins he’d counted earlier and counted them again. ‘I’m sorry my dear, I don’t seem to have enough change for the taxi.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ Rose replied, opening her handbag. ‘My friend will pay me back. Out you get.’
He left Rose paying the driver and entered the bar. In the dim lighting, an all black, all male clientele went quiet and watched his entry with eyes even less friendly than at the Racing Club. Had he been sober, Graham might have been nervous, but he was having enough of a problem keeping upright to be bothered with fear. He went up to the first table with an amiable grin on his face and an outstretched hand.
‘Graham Theakston, pleased to make your acquaintance brother.’
The object of his attention looked up at him, but didn’t smile back or take his hand then Rose caught up with him. ‘Not here, Graham,’ and guided him to the back of the bar. There, the light was even dimmer and the man sitting behind the table barely visible: dark jacket, black shirt and dark glasses. Why, wondered Graham, would anyone wear dark glasses in a dark room? Daft, still mustn’t judge, probably blind. He looked around hoping to see a dog or a white stick.
‘Please Graham, sit down.’
He obeyed the reques
t and held out his hand. The broad, well-fed man opposite took it.
‘Pleased to meet you brother, Graham Theakston at your service.’
The man took off his dark glasses. ‘You don’t recognise me?’
Graham leant forward for a better look. ‘Bloody hell, James! Sorry mate, didn’t recognise you with the glasses on; thought you must be blind or something.’
‘Thank you, Rose,’ James said, ‘if you could give us a few minutes alone?’ Rose went over to another table, joining two men. All three sat in silence and watched.
‘Look mate, about Rose …’ Graham began, ‘I wasn’t going to do anything.’
‘Don’t worry about Rose, she works for me not my sister. So tell me, what did you want to see me about?’
Graham frowned, trying to remember if he’d said anything about wanting to see James. ‘I wanted to see you? I thought that you …’
‘I have many eyes, Graham.’
Graham leaned forward to take a better look; as far as he could see there were the usual pair, just the two.
‘I believe you wanted to talk to me,’ continued James. ‘That is why I asked you to come here.’
Graham leaned back again, holding onto the edge of the table for support and guidance. ‘Bradley wants me to write a piece about you.’ He searched in his pockets, but didn’t bother to take out the small change he had. ‘Don’t suppose you could stand me a beer could you? I seem to be all out of cash.’
James motioned to one of the men sitting with Rose. ‘Moses, a beer for my friend.’
Moses went over to the bar and took a bottle of warm beer sideways through a protective grill, a thumb over the top to stop it spilling. He brought it over to the table and put it down in front of Graham.
‘Thank you brother,’ Graham said, taking a swig and wiping his mouth.
‘So your boss wants you to write a piece about me, why is that?’
‘I told him … I told him I thought it was time that people got to know you better; all the things you stand for, workers’ rights and stuff. He agreed.’
‘Did he, so this has nothing to do with your meeting with Colonel Harding this morning? Tell me Graham, what were you doing in the Colonel’s car?’
‘Nothing mate, I broke down and he rescued me. There I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, completely knackered after a five mile hike and along comes the Colonel. Bloody car! Amani’s right, the things a complete pile of shite.’