Black Mischief

  ‘Sarah, open it at once.’ The rock was withdrawn. ‘How could you be so selfish as to shut it? Supposing I had been pursued.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mildred. Indeed I am, but you were so long and I grew nervous. And, my dear, you have been missing such a lot. All kinds of things have been happening.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know exactly, but look.’

  Indeed, below, the crowds seemed to be in a state of extreme agitation, jostling and swaying without apparent direction around a wedge-shaped phalanx of police who were forcing a way with long bamboo staves; in their centre was an elderly man under arrest.

  ‘Surely, those are clothes of the native priests? What can the old man have been up to?’

  ‘Almost anything. I have never had any belief in the clergy after that curate we liked so much who was Chaplain of the Dumb Chums and spoke so feelingly and then …‘

  ‘Look, here is the procession.’

  Rising strains of the Azanian anthem; the brass band of the Imperial Guards swung into sight, drowning the sounds of conflict. The Azanians loved a band and their Patriarch’s arrest was immediately forgotten. Behind the soldiers drove Viscount and Viscountess Boaz, who had eventually consented to act as patrons. Then, marching four abreast in brand-new pinafores, came the girls of the Amurath Memorial High School, an institution founded by the old Empress to care for the orphans of murdered officials. They bore, somewhat unsteadily, a banner whose construction had occupied the embroidery and dressmaking class for several weeks. It was emblazoned in letters of appliquéd silk with the motto: WOMEN OF TOMORROW DEMAND AN EMPTY CRADLE. Slowly the mites filed by, singing sturdily.

  ‘Very sensible and pretty,’ said Miss Tin. ‘Dear Mildred, what very stale bread you have brought.’

  ‘The olives are excellent.’

  ‘I never liked olives. Good gracious, look at this.’

  The first of the triumphal cars had come into sight. At first an attempt had been made to induce ladies of rank to take part in the tableaux; a few had wavered, but Azanian society still retained certain standards; the peerage were not going to have their wives and daughters exhibiting themselves in aid of charity; the idea had to be dropped and the actresses recruited less ambitiously from the demimonde. This first car, drawn by oxen, represented the place of women in the modern world. Enthroned under a canopy of coloured cotton sat Mlle ‘Fifi’ Fatim Bey; in one hand a hunting-crop to symbolize sport, in the other a newspaper to symbolize learning; round her were grouped a court of Azanian beauties with typewriters, tennis rackets, motor-bicycling goggles, telephones, hitch-hiking outfits and other patents of modernity inspired by the European illustrated papers. An orange-and-green appliquéd standard bore the challenging motto: THROUGH STERILITY TO CULTURE.

  Enthusiastic applause greeted this pretty invention. Another car came into sight down the road, bobbing decoratively above the ‘black pates; other banners.

  Suddenly there was a check in the progress and a new note in the voice of the crowd.

  ‘Has there been an accident? I do hope none of the poor oxen are hurt.’

  The trouble seemed to be coming from the front of the procession, where bodies of men had pushed through from the side streets and were endeavouring to head the procession back. The brass band stopped, faltered and broke off scattering before the assault and feebly defending their heads with trombones and kettle drums.

  ‘Quick, Sarah, your camera. I don’t know what in the world is happening, but I must get a snap of it. Of course the sun would be in the wrong place.’

  ‘Try with the very small stop.’.

  ‘I do pray they come out; I had such bad luck with those very interesting films of Cape Town that the wretched man ruined on the boat. You know it looks like quite a serious riot. Where are the police?’

  The attackers, having swept the band out of the road and underfoot, were making easy work of the High School Orphans; they were serious young men armed with clubs, the athletic group, as the ladies learned later, of Nestorian Catholic Action, muscular Christians who for many weeks now had been impatiently biding their time to have a whack at the modernists and Jews who were behind the new movement.

  Down went the embroidered banner as the girls in their pinafores ran for safety between the legs of the onlookers.

  The main focus of the assault was now the triumphal car immediately in front of the Hotel de l’Empereur Seth. At the first sign of disturbance the members of the tableau had abandoned their poses and huddled together in alarm; now without hesitation they forsook their properties and bundled out of the wagon into the street. The Christian party swarmed on to it and one of them began addressing the crowd. Dame Mildred snapped him happily as he turned in their direction, arms spread, mouth wide open, in all the fervour of democratic leadership.

  Hitherto, except for a few jabs with trumpets and drum-sticks, the attackers had met with no opposition. Now, however, the crowd began to take sides, individual scuffles broke out among them and a party of tribesmen from up-country, happily welcoming this new diversion in a crowded day, began a concerted charge to the triumphal car, round which there was soon raging a contest of I’m-king-of-the-castle game. The Nestorian orator was thrown overboard and a fine savage in lion skins began doing a jig in his place. The patient oxen stood unmoved by the tumult.

  ‘Quick, Sarah, another roll of films. What can the police be thinking of?’

  Then authority asserted itself.

  From the direction of the royal box flashed out a ragged volley of rifle shots. A bullet struck the parapet with a burst of splintered concrete and ricocheted, droning, over the ladies’ heads. Another volley and something slapped on to the iron roof a few yards from where they sat. Half comprehending, Dame Mildred picked up and examined the irregular disc of hot lead. Shrill wails of terror rose from the street below and then a clattering of horses and oxen. Without a word spoken Dame Mildred and Miss Tin rolled to cover.

  The parapet was a low one and the ladies were obliged to lie full length in positions of extreme discomfort. Dame Mildred slid out her arm for a cushion and hastily withdrew it as a third burst of firing broke out as though on purpose to frustrate her action. Presently silence fell, more frightening than the tumult. Dame Mildred spoke in an awed whisper.

  ‘Sarah, that was a bullet.’

  ‘I know. Do be quiet or they’ll start again.’

  For twenty minutes by Miss Tin’s wrist-watch the two ladies lay in the gutter, their faces almost touching the hot, tarnished iron of the roof. Dame Mildred shifted on to her side.

  ‘Oh, what is it, Mildred?’

  ‘Pins and needles in my left leg. I don’t care if I am shot.’ Dim recollections of some scouting game played peaceably in somewhat different circumstances among Girl Guides in the bracken of Epping prompted Dame Mildred to remove her topee and, holding it at arm’s length, expose it over the edge of their rampart. The silence of the stricken field was unbroken. Slowly, with infinite caution, she raised her head.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, take care, Mildred. Snipers.’

  But everything was quiet. At length she .sat up and looked over. From end to end the street was silent and utterly deserted. The strings of flags hung limp in the afternoon heat. The banner of the Amurath High School lay spread across the way, dishevelled and dusty from a thousand footsteps but still flaunting its message bravely to the heavens, WOMEN OF TOMORROW DEMAND AN EMPTY CRADLE. The other banner lay crumpled in the gutter. Only one word was visible in the empty street. STERILITY pleaded in orange-and-green silk to an unseeing people.

  ‘I think it is all over.’

  The ladies sat up and stretched their cramped legs, dusted themselves a little, straightened their hats and breathed deeply of the fresh air. Dame Mildred retrieved her camera and wound on the film. Miss Tin shook out the pillows and looked for food. The olives were dry and dull-skinned, the bread crisp as biscuit and gritted with dust.

  ‘Now what are we goin
g to do? I’m thirsty and I think one of my headaches is coming on.’

  Regular steps of marching troops in the street below.

  ‘Look out. They’re coming again.’

  The two ladies slid back under cover. They heard the grounding of rifle butts, some unintelligible orders, marching steps proceeding down the street. Inch by inch they emerged again.

  ‘Some of them are still there. But I think it’s all right.’

  A picket of Guards squatted round a machine-gun on the pavement opposite.

  ‘I’m going down to find something to drink.’

  They rolled back the stone from the trap-door and descended into the silent hotel. The sightseers had left their bedrooms. There was no one about on either floor.

  ‘I wonder where they keep the Evian.’

  They went into the bar. Alcohol everywhere, but no water. In a corner of the kitchen they found a dozen or so bottles bearing the labels of various mineral waters — Evian, St Galmiet, Vichy, Malvern — all empty. It was Mr Youkoumian’s practice to replenish them, when required, from the foetid well at the back of the house.

  ‘I must get something to drink or I shall die. I’m going out.’

  ‘Mildred.’

  ‘I don’t care, I am.’

  She strode through the twilit vestibule into the street. The officer in charge of the machine-gun section waved her back. She walked on, making pacific gestures. He spoke to her rapidly and loudly, first in Sakuyu, then in Arabic. Dame Mildred replied in English and French.

  ‘Taisez-vous, officer. Je désire de l’eau. Où peut-on trouver ça, s’il vous plait.’

  The soldier showed her the hotel, then the machine-gun. ‘British subject. Me. British subject. No savvy? Oh, don’t any of you speak a word Of English?’

  The soldiers grinned and nodded, pointing her back to the hotel.

  ‘It’s no good. They won’t let us out. We must wait.’

  ‘Mildred, I’m going to drink wine.’

  ‘Well, let’s take it up to the roof — it seems the only safe place.’

  Armed with a bottle of Mr Youkoumian’s Koniak they strode back up the ladder.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s very strong.’

  ‘I think it may help my headache.’

  The afternoon wore on. The burning sun dipped towards the edge of the mountains. The ladies sipped raw brandy on the iron roof.

  At length there was a fresh movement in the street. An officer on mule-back galloped up, shouting an order to the picket. They dismantled their machine-gun, hoisted it on to their shoulders, fell in, and marched away towards the Palace. Other patrols tramped past the hotel. From their eminence they could see bodies of troops converging from all sides on the Palace square.

  ‘They’re calling in the guard. It must be all right now. But I feel too sleepy to move.’

  Presently, as the soldiers withdrew, little bodies of civilians emerged from hiding. A marauding band of Christians swung confidently into view.

  ‘I believe they’re coming here.’

  Splintering of glass and drunken, boastful laughter came from the bar below. Another party broke in the shutters of the drapers opposite and decked themselves with lengths of bright stuff. But oblivious of the excursions below them, worn out by the heat and anxiety of the day, and slightly drugged by Mr Youkoumian’s spirit, the two ladies slept.

  It was after seven when they awoke. The sun had set and there was a sharp chill in the air. Miss Tin shivered and sneezed.

  ‘My head’s splitting. I’m very hungry again, ‘ she said, ‘and thirstier than ever.’

  The windows were all dark. Blackness encircled them save for a line of light which streamed across the street from the door of the bar and a dull red glow along the rooftops of the South quarter, in which the Indian and Armenian merchants had their warehouses.

  ‘That can’t be sunset at this time. Sarah, I believe the town is on fire.’

  ‘What are we to do? We can’t stay here all night.’

  A sound of tipsy singing rose from below and a small knot of Azanians came into sight, swaying together with arms across each other’s shoulders; two or three of them carried torches and lanterns. A party sallied out from the bar below; there was a confused scuffling. One of the lamps was dropped in a burst of yellow flame. The tussle broke up, leaving a little pool of burning oil in the centre of the road.

  ‘We can’t possibly go down.’

  Two hours dragged by; the red glow behind the rooftops died, revived and died again; once there was a short outbreak of firing some distance away. The beleaguered ladies sat and shuddered in the darkness. Then the lights of a car appeared and stopped outside the hotel. A few topers emerged from the bar and clustered round it. There were some words spoken in Sakuyu and then a clear English drawl rose to them.

  ‘Well, the old girls don’t seem to be here. These chaps say they haven’t seen anyone.’

  And another answered: ‘I dare say they’ve been raped.’

  ‘I hope so. Let’s try the Mission.’

  ‘Stop,’ shrieked Dame Mildred. ‘Hi! Stop.’

  The motor-car door clicked to; the engine started up.

  ‘Stop,’ cried Miss Tin. ‘We’re up here.’

  Then, in a moment of inspiration, untaught in the Girl Guides, Dame Mildred threw down the half-empty bottle of brandy. William’s head popped out of the car window and shouted a few words of easily acquired abuse in Sakuyu; then a pillow followed the bottle on to the roadway.’

  ‘I believe there’s someone up there. Be an angel and go and see, Percy. I’ll stick in here if there’s going to be any bottle-throwing.’

  The second secretary advanced with caution and had reached only the foot of the stairs when the two ladies greeted him.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come, ‘ said Miss Tin.

  ‘Well,’ he said, a little confused by this sudden cordiality; ‘jolly nice of you to put it like that. All I mean is, we just dropped in to see that you were all right. Minister said we’d better. Not scared or anything, I mean.’

  ‘All right! We’ve had the most terrible day of our lives.’

  ‘Oh I say, not as bad as that, I hope. We heard at the Legation that there’d been some kind of a disturbance. Well, you’ll be right as rain now, you know. Everything pretty quiet except for a few drunks. If there’s anything we can do, just let us know.’

  ‘Young man, do you intend leaving us here all night?’

  ‘Well … I suppose it sounds inhospitable, but there’s nothing else for it. Full up at the Legation, you know. The Bishop arrived unexpectedly and two or three of the commercial fellows took fright and came over for some reason. Jolly awkward … You see how it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Do you realize that the town is on fire?’

  ‘Yes, rare old blaze. We passed quite near it. It looks awfully jolly from the Legation.’

  ‘Young man, Miss Tin and myself are coming with you now.’

  ‘Oh, look here, I say, you know …’

  ‘Sarah, get in the car. I will bring down a few things for the night.’

  The discussion had brought them to the street. William and Anstruther exchanged glances of despair. Sir Samson’s instructions had been: ‘Just see that those tiresome old women are safe, but on no account bring them back here. The place is a bear garden already.’ (This with a scowl towards the Bishop who was very quietly playing Peggity with Prudence in a corner of the drawing-room.)

  Dame Mildred, putting little trust in Miss Tin’s ability to restrain the diplomats from starting without her, took few pains with the packing. In less than a minute she was down again with an armful of night clothes and washing materials. At last, with a squeeze and a grunt, she sank into the back seat.

  ‘Tell me,’ asked William with some admiration, as he turned the car round. ‘Do you always throw bottles at people when you want a lift?’

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Samson Courteney arose next morning in a mood of high displeasure, which be
came the more intense as with every minute of his leisurely toilet he recalled in detail the atrocious disorders of the preceding evening.

  ‘Never known anything like it,’ he reflected on the way to the bathroom. ‘These wretched people don’t seem to realize that a Legation is a place of business. How can I be expected to get through the day’s work, with my whole house overrun with uninvited guests?’

  First there had been the Bishop, who arrived during tea with two breathless curates and an absurd story about another revolution and shooting in the streets. Well, why not? You couldn’t expect the calm of Barchester Towers in a place like Azania. Missionary work was known to involve some physical work. Nincompoops. Sir Samson lashed the bath water in his contempt and vexation. Then, when they were half-way through dinner, who should turn up but the Bank Manager and a scrubby little chap named Jagger. Never heard of him. More wild talk about murder, loot and fire. Dinner started all over again, with the result that the’ duck was ruined. And then the most damnable treachery of all: his wife of all people, infected with the general panic, had begun to ask about Dame Mildred and Miss Tin. Had they gone down to the coast when the other English people left? Should not something be done about them? The Minister pooh-poohed the suggestion for some time, but at length so far yielded to popular appeal as to allow William and Percy to take the car and go out, just to see that the old women had come to no harm. That was the explicit limit of their instructions. And what did they do but bring them along too? Here, in fact, was the entire English population of Debra Dowa taking refuge under his roof. ‘They’ll have to clear out today,’ decided the Minister as he lathered his chin, ‘every man jack of them. It’s an intolerable imposition.’

  Accommodation in the compound had eventually been found for all the new-comers. The Bishop slept in the Legation the curates with the Anstruthers who, in the most sporting manner, moved the children into their own room for the night, Dame Mildred and Miss Tin at the Legges and the Bank Manager and Mr Jagger alone in the bungalow vacated by the Walshes. By the time Sir Samson came down to breakfast, however, they were all together again, chattering uproariously on the croquet lawn.