3
When the first rain came, a week later, they lay awake listening to it drumming on the iron roof in thankfulness and relief. But the relief was short-lived. Before long they were conscious of the leaks, and that a spreading pool of water had reached the mat on which they were lying. They had to get up, light the paraffin lamp, and arrange the bowl and jug beneath the worst of the drips. It was impossible to sleep after that.
The rain continued heavily all night and most of the next day. By the time it stopped, the whole floor was soaking. Madeleine was out working at the hospital, and Andrew dried up as best he could, taking the opportunity first to scrub the boards again; they had done this on the second day of their tenancy, but he felt it couldn’t be done too often. Fortunately it had been possible to keep the matting and the blankets reasonably dry by stacking them on the table. He managed to get the place into something like order by the time that Madeleine returned. He also had a meal ready for them: cereal and fruit, and weak coffee, with bread and goat cheese to follow.
She looked exhausted, as she always did after the day’s work. She would not say much about what it was like, but it was obvious that it drained her to her last resources of energy. As she came in, she took off her shoes with a small gesture of despair; they were heavily caked with mud, which had also splattered her legs.
‘It’s a quagmire out there,’ she said. ‘How long does the rainy season last?’
‘Three months, I believe. Sit down, and I’ll wash your feet. You’ll feel better then.’
She produced a package from her string-bag. ‘Something from the kitchens.’
It was cooked rice in a plastic bag. Andrew took it and put it with the rest of their provisions, in the net-swathed box he had hung from one of the joists. She sat down, sighing.
‘It’s no cooler, is it? One thinks it will be cooler, with the rain. But it’s just as hot.’
He put the bowl at her feet, and washed her feet and legs gently. Looking up, he said:
‘Did you manage to get to the office?’ She nodded, as though too tired to speak. ‘No letter?’
Bates had agreed to let them use his office as an accommodation address. Madeleine said:
‘Not from Carol. One from David, though.’
She opened her handbag and offered it to him. He gestured with his wet hands, and she held the letter while he read it. It was not very long, and did not say much. He realized things were hard, but they were bound to improve. They were still difficult in London, too. There was nothing he could do to help at the moment; there was a strict embargo on the export of such obvious currency substitutes as diamonds, and in any case they were unobtainable. In that respect all the resources of the Pale had been placed under guard in the silver vaults in Chancery Lane. She was to try to keep cheerful until things got better. He sent his regards to Andy.
‘He doesn’t say anything about coming out here,’ Madeleine said.
‘It sounds as though they’re holding their own. Perhaps it will be we who go back there.’
In a tired voice, she said: ‘The Royal Family have gone to Jamaica. It was on the News today.’
‘For good?’
‘For a prolonged State visit, they said.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean things are finally cracking up in London.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘And he wouldn’t be allowed to say much in advance, would he? All the letters are censored.’
Andrew said: ‘We should have heard from Carol by now.’
She nodded. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’
‘Bates didn’t have any news of a job for me?’
‘No. Not yet.’ She put her hand down and rubbed his head. ‘Don’t fret, darling. There’ll be a letter from Carol tomorrow.’
But the days went by, and there was nothing from Carol. After the second week they ceased hoping, because hope was a distraction from the grim concentration on living and enduring their conditions. Andrew managed to get a job working on building demolition, but lost it after a few days. Madeleine continued to work at the hospital, and from time to time contrived to get scraps of food from the kitchens. They spent as little as they dared, striving to build up a small store of cash; but it mounted pitifully slowly. In the third week, Andrew fell sick with some fever. Madeleine called in a doctor and got one of the mammy women to look after him while she was out at work. With these and medicines their money was gone by the time, four days later, he was able to get up.
He remained very weak for some time after this, and there could be no question of his being able to do any kind of manual labour. He hunted the streets, hoping that something would turn up, a miracle. He could remember, as a boy in his late teens, visiting London and looking for romance with the same hopeless persistence. His mind and body ached for release from this present helplessness.
On the Marina one day he turned towards the sea and thought he saw his sons: two white-skinned schoolboys, of roughly their age and build, stood looking out to sea. He started towards them involuntarily, but checked as he saw they were strangers. Then it occurred to him that even so they might be from the school at Ibadan, that they might know Robin and Jeremy. He crossed the road towards them, forcing a Rolls to swerve slightly. The white chauffeur glanced at him with contempt; the Nigerian businessmen in the back did not look up from their intent discussion.
The boys were also discussing something. He paused, catching the first words, and pretended to look out to sea.
‘Ituno’s jolly nice,’ the smaller boy said. ‘No swank about him at all. And he’s a Chief’s son.’
‘So is Akki,’ the other said. ‘He’s invited me to stay with him in the next hols. They have a terrifically big place up near Ife.’ He gave a small embarrassed laugh. ‘I made a bit of a bloomer about that. I thought they must be Yoruba, since it’s Yoruba country. But they’re Sobo.’
‘It’s a bit difficult, isn’t it? Has he really asked you to stay there?’
‘For a week. I wrote and told Dad straight away. They have a swimming pool a hundred feet long.’
It was not what was said but the tone of voice that brought things back to him; he remembered school, and the Fives Court, and overhearing two of the small handful of Jewish boys among his fellow pupils. There had been the same fencing unsureness, the glib pretence of acceptance into a society which, they knew at heart, would always deny them. He had been thirteen then, and had known enough to see through the appearance of confidence, but not enough to prevent him despising them.
Andrew looked down at his crumpled suit and worn dusty shoes. They did not appear to have noticed him yet. He turned and walked away.
Madeleine had had another letter from David, as brief and encouraging and uncommunicative as the first. Andrew was not sure whether she had written back or not; she made no mention of it. David, like Carol, seemed very far away – in the physical sense, obviously, but in other ways too. The closeness that had grown between Madeleine and himself was something which Andrew had never experienced before, nor imagined. He would have thought at one time that it would breed resentments, even disgust, but the opposite was true. Each day he looked forward more eagerly to the time when she came back from the hospital and they could be together. He wondered occasionally what would happen when David finally came out; since it seemed unlikely that Carol would sacrifice her present advantages for him. But this was a speculation without anxiety: he had won her now, and was confident he would keep her. Even in the wretchedness of their life, his bitter frustration with his inability to do anything about a situation which increasingly drove her to the limits of physical exhaustion, this was a transforming factor. He would have despaired without it.
The rains continued with only short intervals of respite; there was no let-up at all from the heat. The quarter in which they lived was a quagmire of mud, reeking with the stench of filth and decay, made worse by the dripping dampness. Andrew stayed in the hut much of the time scrubbing the walls and floorboards, trying to
make something of the place. During the brief bursts of sunshine he went out into the streets, to get the air and loiter among the stalls, which opened like caves on to the running wet alleys of the streets.
One afternoon he got as far as the Idumagbo market. He had taken to coming out without shoes or socks, and with his trousers rolled up to his knees; it saved footwear and it was easier to wash his legs clean on returning than it would have been to clean the mud from the shoes. The local blacks, who followed the same practice for the most part, accepted this incuriously, and Andrew had noticed that other whites living in the native quarter were beginning to follow suit. He wandered round the market, looking at the bolts of blue and white cloth, the brightly coloured beads, the chalks and powders on the cosmetic stalls, with no self-consciousness. He was in front of the juju stall, staring at a neatly arranged pyramid of monkey skulls, when he was tapped on the shoulder, and turned round.
The man who had accosted him was a Nigerian, in immaculate white drill; he was about twenty-five, tall, heavy-boned, his skin gleaming with health and assurance.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘May I have your attention a moment or two?’
He spoke good English with a sing-song cadence. Andrew felt himself pricked by flattery; he had been addressed as ‘Sir’, spoken to politely.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘As long as you like.’
‘I represent Nigerian Television. We do a programme of topical interest. It’s called “Every Day”. You may have seen it some time.’
‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘I haven’t seen it.’
‘We’re bringing the cameras into this market today. We want scenes of interest, something to catch the attention of the viewers. In this case … a European – and English? – beside a juju stall – it has flavour, you understand?’
Andrew said: ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘An Englishman,’ he repeated, ‘and one who has – seen better days, shall we say? If you would care to co-operate, sir … merely allow yourself to be photographed – making a purchase, perhaps …’
Andrew shook his head. ‘I can’t afford that.’
‘Well, naturally, we provide the money. And there’s a small payment for appearing, a dash as it were. Usually ten shillings, but to a European … a pound, say?’
‘Thank you,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘And allow us to ask you a few questions, perhaps? Nothing undignified, I assure you, sir.’
Andrew waited while the cameras were brought up. Another African came back with the first, and there was some discussion as to just what he ought to buy from the stall; there was a wide choice with carcases of birds, dried mice and bats, ballooned gizzards and bladders, animals’ intestines and limbs. Finally they settled on a small greenish object.
‘As most suitable for an Englishman in your circumstances, you understand, sir. It is said to bring luck.’
Their faces had a peculiarly bland look which made him suspect that there might be more to it than this – that the purchase was one which might make him, despite the earlier reassurance, seem ridiculous. But they had paid over the pound, and five shillings for the purchase, and that was enough. He did his part for the cameras, noticing at one point that one camera had focused down to his bare feet, and waited patiently for the questioning that followed.
It was done adroitly; his past experience in the field enabled him to realize this. The apparent deference was maintained, but with a mocking edge; a wink over the shoulder to the viewing audience, as it were, inviting them to titter. As one who had organized and edited so many hundreds of similar interviews, Andrew felt a kind of ironic satisfaction at recognizing himself in the position of the victim. He co-operated with grave courtesy. At the point where he was asked what his earlier profession had been, and he told the interviewer, he had the additional satisfaction of seeing him thrown slightly out of gear. He recovered fast, and got in a few barbed remarks on the change of status, but Andrew felt that he had come as well out of the situation as could have been expected.
On the way back he bought a little meat, and prepared it for their evening meal. Madeleine, when she came in, sniffed the air and looked at him inquiringly.
‘Meat?’
‘To celebrate my new career on television.’ He saw her eyes widen, and went on quickly before she could come to hope and so to the cruelty of disappointment: ‘I was picked up by a roving camera in the market this afternoon. They gave me dash for co-operating. A pound.’
Madeleine smiled. ‘I’m glad. But oughtn’t we to have saved it?’ She came over to him to be kissed. ‘No, I suppose not. And you need building up still.’
‘We both do.’
‘I wonder if – Carol might see the programme.’
‘I don’t know. I tried not to look too pathetic.’
She pushed him towards a chair. ‘You look pathetic now. I’ll finish things off.’
‘I bought a bar of chocolate as well,’ he said, ‘for a pudding.’
She laughed, but there was strain there. ‘Madly extravagant! It doesn’t matter, anyway. A short life and a rich one.’
It was two days later, an hour or so after Madeleine had gone out to work, that there was a knock at the door. Andrew was engaged in trying to repair the cane chair, patching a hole with raffia.
‘It’s not locked,’ he called. ‘Come in.’
He assumed it was one of the locals, though they usually made a direct assault on the door, only knocking when it was found to be bolted against them. But the door swung open, and he saw that it was a stranger, an African in a figured silk shirt and well-cut fawn slacks. As he came in, Andrew saw reversed calf tan shoes beneath the thick coating of mud. The man was stocky, about middle height, and wore thick black executive-type spectacles. His eyes peered into the hut, looking for Andrew.
‘That’s you, Andrew?’ he said.
When he spoke, Andrew remembered him: the member of the visiting study group he had found looking helpless in the studios, and had taken to dinner at his Club. He remembered also the subsequent letter of thanks, from some address in Africa which at the time had meant nothing to him. He had thought about replying, but finally decided it was not worth it.
‘Yes,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s me. Come in, won’t you? I can’t offer you anything except a chair, I’m afraid. And I’ve got to admit that I can’t remember your name. I’m bad with names.’
‘Abonitu. You said you would call me Abo.’ He smiled. ‘I only found out afterwards it was the Australian slang word for aboriginal.’
‘Now I remember. That was after several whiskies and a bottle of Burgundy.’
‘Claret,’ Abonitu said. ‘A Latour.’
‘You have a good memory,’ Andrew said with admiration. ‘Usually I drank Burgundy.’
‘This one had been recommended. I remember the evening very well. Will you come out for a drink now?’
‘I haven’t been drinking much lately.’
‘Please come. I want to talk to you. We can do it better with drinks beside us.’
Andrew said: ‘Thanks. As long as it’s not too good a place. My appearance isn’t really up to a four-ale bar.’
Abonitu smiled. ‘I shouldn’t worry about that.’
Nothing much was said outside; they walked to the nearest main street and took a taxi to a bar on the Marina. It was new, with small porthole windows, discreet lighting, and thick wall-to-wall carpeting. In the lobby, a young Italian took off their shoes and eased them into blue and gold slippers provided by the house.
‘This place still has Scotch,’ Abonitu said. ‘You will join me?’
Andrew nodded. ‘With pleasure.’
The drinks were brought over to their alcove table. Abonitu raised his.
‘To you, Andrew. To your good fortune.’
‘Yes. And to yours.’
‘Your case is the more urgent, I fancy.’ He smiled. ‘I saw your interview on the rushes.’
‘Yes, I thought that might have s
omething to do with your dropping in.’ He sipped the Scotch, feeling it tingle, familiar and unfamiliar, against his tongue. ‘For which I’m very grateful.’
The smile turned into a laugh. ‘Friend, I could scarcely believe my eyes! To see Andrew Leedon buying a monkey’s penis from a juju stall.’
‘That was it, was it? They told me it was something one bought to bring one luck.’
‘I suppose that is true, in one sense.’ Abonitu’s face relaxed into the somewhat anxious solemnity which was normal to it. ‘You need not worry, Andrew. It will not be screened. I had you cut out altogether.’
Andrew shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have minded. Do I have to give the pound back? I’m afraid it’s mostly spent.’
‘Andrew, it distresses me to find you like this. Believe me, this is so. When I saw your face on the monitor screen … I wished to find you, you understand, and yet the thought embarrassed me – to think that you might be embarrassed. Is this clear to you?’
‘Roughly. You need not have worried, though. Embarrassment only afflicts those who are still managing to keep up appearances.’
‘Such as myself? You are quite right. I think. That evening, when you gave me dinner – it was nothing to you, perhaps, but of great importance to me. To be accepted like that, with no sense of strain, to dine at a Club in Pall Mall … I had read about this kind of life, you understand. It was a wonderful thing, Andrew. I tried to say this when I wrote to you from Africa, but probably I put things badly.’
‘I didn’t reply. I’m sorry.’
‘You were very busy, of course. This matter of appearances: it is true that in one sense I was pleased to see what had happened to you, glad to find you had been brought low. Is this honest enough?’
‘Very honest.’