The World in Winter Page 9
‘But it hasn’t been cashed. Does that make a difference?’
‘I don’t think so. But we’d better go and find out.’
The clerk at the Foreign counter was a tall refined-looking Negro. He listened patiently to Andrew, and directed them to the Assistant Manager’s office. This was along a corridor and opened out of a small waiting room. There were magazines and newspapers strewn on a table by the wall, from the bulky latest issue of Drum to the flimsy single page of the London news sheet, dated about a week earlier. A chocolate-coloured girl in a white pleated dress, wearing upward-curving diamanté spectacles, took them through to the inner office.
The Assistant Manager was a squat fat man with kinky grey-white hair. He rested his elbows on the desk and held his hands up with palms facing outwards; the palms were exceptionally pale, almost white.
‘Well now,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you, Ma’am? And you, Boss?’
The vocatives were sardonically stressed; he sat behind his pale hands, smiling.
Andrew said: ‘Your clerk directed us here. Mrs Cartwell has had a remittance sent from London.’
The Negro nodded. ‘This here is Mrs Cartwell?’
‘Yes,’ Madeleine said. ‘I’m Mrs Cartwell. I have my passport with me.’
‘And you – Mr Cartwell?’
‘No. My name’s Leedon.’
He shook his head very slowly. ‘White folks have their own ways of living.’ He looked at Madeleine. ‘White but comely. You know the Song of Solomon, Mrs Cartwell? Welcome to Lagos. No reason why you shouldn’t be happy here.’
Andrew said shortly: ‘Thanks for the good wishes. Now perhaps you could arrange to pay Mrs Cartwell the money due to her.’
‘You came in yesterday?’ the Assistant Manager asked. ‘How was London, Mr Leedon? I hear it’s cold up there.’ His face split in a toothy smile. ‘Mighty cold, I hear.’
‘We’re here to do business,’ Andrew said. ‘We haven’t the time to stay chatting.’
‘You’ve got more time than you think. I reckon you’ve got a lot of time.’
‘That’s for us to decide.’
There was a pause before he replied. ‘I’ll tell you something about myself, Mr Leedon. I’m Bantu. I was born in a tin shack in Jo’burg.’
‘Some other time. Not now.’
‘I got away from that country. I went to London. I studied at London University. I didn’t get my degree, Mr Leedon – that’s why I’m just a bank clerk. Still, I had sense enough not to go back to the Union. I came here instead. I live in a house an Englishman used to live in, quite close to the golf course. I play golf, Boss.’
Andrew said: ‘Is this necessary? I take it you don’t like South Africa. But you got an education in London, and you came then to a black country which the British made independent. As you say, you’re doing all right.’
The smile was renewed, even more widely. ‘I’m glad you spoke like that. I must confess I was hoping to provoke you into putting me in my place, Boss. Or should I say, into trying?’
‘I’m not trying to put you into any place. We came here simply for Mrs Cartwell to draw the money due to her.’
‘When I was little, I went to the Mission school. One thing they taught me was that you don’t have to expect justice in this world. Justice comes later on, in Heaven. I’m not so sure about Heaven now, but they were certainly right about justice on earth. It may be that you will find being white a disadvantage here in Africa. That’s not the way things ought to happen. But I hope you’re going to be philosophical about it, Boss. What can’t be cured must be endured. They taught me that slogan in the Mission school, too. That’s a really good motto to have, Boss. Very consoling when you hit hard times.’
Madeleine said: ‘If you’ll forgive me – the heat, after London … Could we …?’
There was an electric fan on his desk. He stretched a hand out and switched it on. It moved round and round like a blindly questing face, whining at a low pitch.
‘Anything to keep you happy, Ma’am. I guess you’re more sensitive than we black folks.’
Andrew said: ‘We realize our position as guests of your country. We don’t want to be difficult. But I think we’ve had enough of this. If you aren’t prepared to deal with Mrs Cartwell’s remittance now, without delay, we shall have to look elsewhere. Is the Manager available?’
The hands closed gently, showing black knuckles. He leaned his face on these and looked at Andrew.
‘He’s available, Boss. To valued clients, whatever colour their skin happens to be. But I’ll deal with the remittance now, if that’s what you want.’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind at all.’ He pulled over a folder and opened it. There was a sheet of paper on top, which he pushed across the desk. ‘There you are, Boss.’
A typewritten note said:
‘Credit to the account of Mrs Madeleine Cartwell the sum of £1,470 (fourteen hundred and seventy pounds sterling) on due presentation of credentials.’
CANCELLED was over-stamped in thick blue letters. A handwritten addition said: ‘Authority withdrawn under Govt Order 327 (S).’
Andrew said: ‘This remittance came through before the decision about European currencies.’
The Assistant Manager nodded. ‘That’s right, Boss.’
‘Then it should be paid.’
‘I don’t think you understand. The credit was in sterling. That currency no longer exists on the continent of Africa.’
‘But it was to be paid in Nigerian money.’
‘The note doesn’t say that. A bank can’t exceed its authority, Boss. Mrs Cartwell might have wanted to collect in some other currency. In Boer money – or maybe cowrie shells.’ He smiled again. ‘Sorry, Boss.’
Andrew stood up. ‘I think we’d better see someone at the Embassy.’
The Assistant Manager nodded cordially. ‘Go right ahead. Outside the door and turn left. Only a couple of blocks along.’
As they came into the street, a dilapidated truck, overladen with women in the blue Yoruba wraps and brightly coloured head-ties, sprayed petrol fumes at them. On the side of the truck, huge yellow capitals said: TRUST IN GOD. The women were chanting some kind of song, audible above the din of traffic. Even so early in the day, it was hot and clammy.
‘What happens now?’ Madeleine asked.
‘The Embassy should be able to help.’
The Embassy foyer was crowded with people: there were perhaps a couple of dozen. They had to wait for some time, before being ushered into the office of a Junior Secretary. He was red-haired and thin-faced, with a small moustache. He had a look that was in general evasive but occasionally, for several seconds at a time, embarrassingly direct; as though he had worked himself up to a staring point. He took a propelling pencil to pieces while Andrew told him what had happened at the bank.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s really hard lines. It’s a bit of a blow altogether. We had no idea they were going to do this, of course.’
Madeleine said: ‘Then there’s no way of getting the money?’
He said unhappily: ‘The money doesn’t exist, Mrs Cartwell. He had no cause to be rude to you, but the legal position is quite clear: the issuing bank in London will already have been notified and the sum credited back to their account.’
Andrew said: ‘So we’re penniless. Is that the position?’
‘Unless you have something you can sell.’
‘Our clothes. Nothing else.’
‘It’s most unfortunate. You’re not alone in this. Though I don’t suppose that is any consolation.’
‘Can the Embassy give us any help?’
His eyes focused on Andrew; they were very light grey and rather small, fringed by silky lashes.
‘I wish we could. But this has hit us, too. To be frank, we shall have to depend on some kind of charity from the Nigerian Government to keep going at all.’
‘Advice then, if you can’t help.’
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br /> ‘You might be able to get into the Army, Mr Leedon, if you have some military background.’
‘To help them prepare for a war of extermination against the whites in South Africa?’
‘One has to be realistic. And fair. There has been considerable provocation, from the point of view of the black Africans as a whole. There’s something of a parallel with the Moors in Spain. And I doubt if you would be required to take part in military operations; you would have a training function solely.’
‘And that should satisfy my misgivings.’
‘Loyalties are not so clear cut. One thing you may care to remember is that Nigeria is inside the Commonwealth, while the Union of South Africa is not.’
‘Is that comment intended seriously?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
He had begun to reassemble the pencil; he took the chromium-plated nose-cone and blew through it. Andrew said:
‘Apart from the Nigerian Army?’
‘The only other jobs would be – menial.’
‘And accommodation? We’re in the Hotel Africa at present.’
‘I think you will find that the hotels will be requiring cash settlements from Europeans as from today. Have you enough to pay your bill to date?’
‘Just about.’
‘That’s a good thing. If you hadn’t, they would probably hold your luggage.’
‘So we move out,’ Andrew said. ‘Where?’
‘I wish I could suggest something. I’m afraid rents have been sky-rocketing here lately.’
‘There must be somewhere,’ Madeleine said.
The Junior Secretary sighed. He brought a visiting card out of his desk drawer.
‘There’s this fellow. I don’t much like him, or what I’ve heard of him, but he’s supposed to be knowledgeable. I suppose it would do no harm to go and see him.’
The card said: Alf Bates, Estates & Properties Handled, and gave an address. Andrew put it in his pocket.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Sorry I can’t do more.’ His gaze fixed on Andrew again, unblinking. ‘Let’s hope things pick up.’
2
The address Carol had given him was in the old colonial sector. The house was a low-lying ranch-type brick structure, surrounded by lawns over which hovered a fine mist thrown in the air by sprinklers. It drifted in a slight breeze and wet the petals of the ranks of red roses that lined the drive. As they approached the house, Andrew saw that there was a sun-dial set in the wall over the door. He wondered if the sun-dial in the garden at Dulwich was still coated with ice.
Madeleine, at his side, was silent. She had been opposed at first to the idea of coming to see Carol, and then had wanted him to come on his own. They had tried telephoning but the line appeared to be out of order. In the end, she had agreed to come, on Andrew’s insistence. She was clearly unhappy as she watched him press the door bell.
The door was opened by a very tall, very fair-skinned man in a scarlet uniform with gold piping. He said: ‘Can I help you, sir?’ It sounded like a Scandinavian accent.
Andrew said: ‘I would like to see Mrs Leedon.’
The blond head was shaken slowly. ‘I regret that Mrs Leedon is not in, sir.’
‘When will she be in?’
‘I regret I do not know that, sir.’
‘Can I leave a message?’
‘I doubt if that …’
He broke off as a woman’s voice, with a different, softer accent, called from inside the house:
‘Carl! Who is that calling?’
Half-turning, the butler said: ‘For Mrs Leedon, Ma’am.’
‘Ask them to come in.’
The woman met them in the hall. She was a Negress, of medium height and aged about thirty. She was dressed in European style, wearing a soft red silk dress and gold-embroidered silver slippers. She was not beautiful, but had a grave impressive air.
‘Mr Leedon,’ the butler announced, ‘and Mrs Cartwell.’
Andrew said: ‘I’m sorry if we’re disturbing you. My wife gave me a card with this address. I had no idea anyone else lived here.’
‘That’s perfectly all right, Mr Leedon. I am Maria Arunawa. Mrs Leedon is my husband’s social secretary. She did not mention that?’
‘No.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘She didn’t mention that.’
‘Come in to the sitting room, and have some tea. Or something cooler, if you would prefer it.’
The sitting room had lime-coloured walls and a sage-green fitted carpet, apparently with a thick sponge rubber underlay. Chairs and two couches were covered in white satin, studded with golden buttons. Venetian blinds kept out the sun’s rough glare, and there was the soft whirr of air conditioning.
‘Please sit down,’ their hostess said. ‘Can I help you in some way?’
‘It was my wife I wanted to see,’ Andrew said. He hesitated. ‘Is she expected back soon?’
‘Not soon, I’m afraid.’
Her look was friendly, sympathetic. He told her of their experience at the bank. She shook her head slightly.
‘How dreadful. So many dreadful things are happening. I wish there was something one could do.’
‘My wife and I,’ Andrew said, ‘had agreed to divorce. But I thought she might be in a position to help us out – at least, if she had room, to let us stay with her for a few days while we found something for ourselves.’
‘I wish I could ask you to stay here, Mr Leedon. But my husband makes strict rules. I cannot invite guests to stay without his sanction.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you,’ Andrew said. ‘I suppose my wife is with Mr Arunawa now. In Lagos?’
She smiled. ‘I must correct you. He is Sir Adekema Arunawa. He is anxious that his title should be properly understood. That is another rule.’
‘Lady Arunawa,’ Andrew said, ‘I must apologize.’
She shook her head. ‘Please. The rules are not for me. Unfortunately Sir Adekema is not in Lagos. He left this morning on a business trip to Mombasa. Mrs Leedon went with him, of course.’
‘For how long?’
‘He did not say. There was some talk of a vacation following that. He does not like committing himself on these things. He will probably go to Victoria Falls. It is a place he likes, and Mrs Leedon has not been there yet.’
‘I see. Do you have any way of getting in touch with him?’
‘Not directly. There is nothing which would justify that, from my point of view. But I have the address of his business contact in Mombasa. You could write to your wife there. They would forward it, perhaps.’
‘Thank you. I would like to have that.’
A fluffy blonde girl came in with a trolley which had a silver tea-set on top and an assortment of cakes underneath.
‘Thank you, Molly,’ Lady Arunawa said. ‘You can leave it with me.’
She poured tea into delicate Spode cups and handed them to the others. Then she offered them cakes. Madeleine, with a quick glance at Andrew, took a large one. They had lunched, as an economy measure, off dates and some kind of soft orange drink.
During tea, Lady Arunawa spoke in general regretful terms of the havoc caused by the Fratellini Winter. Her sadness over it was as obvious as her ineffectuality. Andrew was reminded of an aunt of his, a country vicar’s wife, talking about the Arab refugees at tea-time in the rectory, her words punctuated by sounds of cricket from the field outside. He wondered what had become of her.
She left them afterwards to get the address she had promised them. They were alone in the quiet well-proportioned room.
‘Take a good look,’ Andrew said, ‘at the way the rich live. It will have to last us a long time.’
Madeleine got up from her chair, and came swiftly across the room to him. She knelt on the carpet and put her face up to be kissed.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Because it’s true – we shan’t have anything like this, shall we? And because it would be silly to think it doesn’t matter.’
She shook her head, and stood up. ‘Lady Arunawa’s coming back.’
She gave them the address, written on the back of her own card, and they prepared to leave. She said:
‘I’ve been thinking – it’s going to be very hard for you. This is a hard city anyway, and you are white. Have you any money at all?’
‘Just a little,’ Andrew said. He spoke stiffly, ashamed of the urge to beg which suddenly dominated his mind. He did not look at the Negress.
‘I do wish I could help,’ she said. ‘But Sir Adekema keeps very strict control of the household accounts. He does not permit – does not like me to handle money myself.’
‘Thank you for the thought,’ Andrew said. ‘We shall manage all right.’
‘I hardly know how to say it,’ Lady Arunawa said, ‘but if you had thought, perhaps, of picnicking this evening? – restaurant meals are so expensive these days, and generally not good. We have plenty of food in the house – cold meats and such. Would it offend you if I suggested your accepting a packed meal to take with you? I would like to ask you to stay to dinner, but Sir Adekema’s instructions are quite definite there. I may not ask guests even for a meal.’
Andrew was about to decline the offer, but Madeleine spoke first.
‘We should be very grateful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Lady Arunawa smiled. ‘I hoped you would say that. I’ve already asked for the food to be got ready.’
They left the road and walked south along the beach. It was early evening and the sun was flat and red on the horizon, but the fine white sand was still hot when one reached down to touch it. It gave beneath their feet and found its way into their shoes. They took them off, and Andrew pushed them into the top of the carrier bag which contained the food. The sand was warm and yielding to the bare feet.
‘Far enough?’ Andrew asked.
Madeleine nodded. ‘Far enough.’
They had walked about half a mile from the road. A grove of some kind of fir came down to the edge of the beach here, and had cast small cones into a hollow between two dunes of sand. There was no sign of anyone, no sound but that of the long rollers breaking to north and south.
Madeleine took the carrier bag and set out the food; there was even a disposable paper table-cloth to lay things on, and two cardboard plates. There were slices of cold beef and tongue, a cold chicken, potato salad in a plastic bag, oddly shaped tomatoes, a small bottle of black olives and one of some kind of chutney, and sliced white bread wrapped in white muslin. There was a large bottle of lemonade and two small bottles of beer; and two peaches. Tucked in with the bread she found screws of salt and pepper.