Only when i larf, p.8
Only When I Larf, page 8
‘My darling girl, it would indeed be exactly that, but one man’s surplus my sweet is another man’s treasure.’ He finished his drink and had another. ‘Could you have a word with nunkie?’
‘Well if you are taking him down there today to get a decision, I doubt if I could get it reversed.’
‘Look my love. If you are going to pull some strings, I’ll head him away from that fatal meeting.’
‘I’ll need the names of the people so far involved,’ I said. ‘Uncle won’t do a thing until he’s studied the office politics.’
‘Understood old girl,’ he wrote the names of his contacts on a piece of paper. I selected one of the names, Major General Maurice Symonds-Forstenholme. ‘I know him,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I talk to him instead?’
‘Old Forstenholme?’
‘If it’s the man I’m thinking of, he’s rather taken with me.’
‘Good God, old Forstenholme? Who’d have thought it?’
‘I’ll phone him now if you like,’ I said.
‘What a splendid idea,’ said Geegee. ‘Do you know the number?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘I’ll get the directories to find it. He lives in Surrey somewhere. We’ll take the call upstairs eh?’
‘Don’t get ideas Geegee.’
‘Oh, I say, no.’
He raised his hands and crossed his heart, but he needn’t have done. I know a harmless boob when I see one. I took a red silk square from my bag, and tied it to the strap.
Directory enquiries found the phone number of this General. He was in Surrey as Geegee had said. ‘You’re not putting me on?’ said Geegee. ‘You do really know him?’
‘To tell you a secret,’ I said, ‘we once had a tête-a-tête dinner at the Savoy. I know him rather well.’ Geegee asked the hotel telephonist to get the General. Five minutes later the phone rang. ‘General Forstenholme?’ said Geegee. ‘Just one moment General.’ Geegee gave me the phone. I said. ‘You’ll never guess … it’s Liz Smallwood. You know Admiral Smallwood’s daughter. My uncle is Sir Dudley Cavendish at the Ministry. Ha ha ha. Well, I wasn’t sure you would remember, it’s some time ago. Oh, you are an old flatterer. Terribly well. Yes, he’s well too. Well, I’ve been doing all the yawny usuals; Monte, Perthshire and St Moritz. Well look, Forsty … ah yes, I did remember. Look Forsty, they tell me you are the absolute top level man on this meeting with the African politicians … Yes Magazaria, it’s the funniest name I ever heard of. Well, I think you ought to let them have whatever they want Forsty, I’ve known them all for years and they are terribly nice, terribly reliable … but, Forsty, they are so terribly pro-British and you know how unusual that is nowadays. Yes, pro-British, terribly pro-British. Well, perhaps that’s just their way of talking. I mean it can be frightfully embarrassing telling someone how much you adore them, you must find that … Well that’s the same for them,’ then I said, ‘Just a moment Forsty, I can’t hear you properly, I must turn the radio down.’ I capped the phone and said to Geegee, ‘That’s torn it, he wants to know what my Uncle Dudley, in the Ministry, thinks of Magazaria and the War Minister.’
‘He’s all for it,’ said Geegee. ‘Tell him, he’s all for it, loves it. Just crazy for it.’ I shushed Geegee, and uncapped the phone.
‘Uncle Dudley is madly for it. He thinks he’s really reliable, he thinks …’
Geegee hissed, ‘Mr Ibo Awawa.’
‘Mr Ibo Awawa is the kindest and most reliable man in Africa … yes, well apart from white people, I suppose he meant.’
Geegee was getting anxious.
‘Lowther?’ I said, ‘and he is the man who can say yes or no … and the committee will just accept his recommendation like that? Did I meet him?… Well, there were so many people there, and such a lot of champagne … Yes, yes, I’ll write it down, I’m just getting a pencil, wait a moment.’
Geegee had a pencil to hand so fast that he tore the stitching on his waistcoat pocket. I wrote the name down carefully. ‘Brigadier S. Lowther, D.S.O., M.C.’ I wrote, being unable to think of another name with the initials S.L.
Silas Lowther is Silas’s real name. At least I think it is. Whatever alias he used, it had to have the initials S.L. because Silas had so many shirts, hair brushes, suitcases, studs and handkerchiefs bearing that monogram.
To the phone I said, ‘Well, couldn’t I have his private address? I don’t want to phone the Ministry. They keep you waiting hours at the switchboard. 25 Baker Place Mews East, London, W.1. No phone, well, that’s all right, I’ll get the phone number from directories, that’s how I got your number, Forsty darling. No, now it’s written down in my address book. Of course I will, how can you say such a thing? Well, I don’t call that old, not old in your ways. In your ways you are very, very, young. Oh. Of course and so must you. Goodbye Forsty, you’ve been a darling. Goodbye.’ I hung up, just as General Forstenholme had done after the first few incomprehensible sentences. A hoaxer, he’d called me.
‘And this chap is the fellow, eh?’ said Geegee.
‘He’s your man,’ I said, giving Geegee the slip of paper with our mews flat address. ‘What he decides goes?’
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘So now you can buy me a large meal. I want to meet Mr Ibo Awawa, the War Minister, and hear everything I can about Magazaria.’
‘You’ll hear that,’ said Geegee. ‘But it’s pretty dull stuff.’
‘Not to me it isn’t,’ I said.
We had dinner in the main dining room; Geegee, Awawa and myself. A strange trio: Geegee, tall, thin and awkward and, like so many Englishmen of his type, perpetually embarrassed in the presence of a woman. Awawa on the other hand, in spite of his peasant origins, or maybe because of them, completely at ease from the moment he appeared. He was a gay old buffer. A big bull of a man, thick set shoulders and large muscular hands all of which made him pretty sexually attractive as far as I was concerned, although perhaps I’d be reluctant to admit it to Silas. His skin was as black as coal, looking even darker because of his grey moustache. He had a large mouth and he smiled often.
I’d have thought Geegee would have acted the part of the host, ordering the wines and that sort of thing, but not at all. Awawa wasn’t a man who let others make decisions, if he could help it. ‘Don’t have the sole,’ Awawa told me. ‘I had it for lunch. It’s frozen, and the Mornay sauce is floury.’
‘What shall I have then?’
‘You are offended.’
‘Not in the least, what shall I have?’
‘First; the lobster. I saw the crates marked, “Live Lobsters” so they will be fresh, not frozen. After that take a steak, the waiter told me that it’s local meat, and they hang it for a week. It will be superb.’
‘I can’t bear the idea of live lobsters being crammed up inside those crates,’ I said. ‘It gives me the creeps. I’d sooner have a frozen lobster than a tortured one.’
‘You must not be squeamish, said Awawa. ‘In my country they do worse things than that to men.’
‘Why don’t you stop them?’ I said.
‘Perhaps one day I shall,’ said Awawa. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Geegee’s face twitch. Or was it the smallest possible shake of the head.
‘You can’t blame us any longer, Mr Awawa,’ I said. ‘You are running your own country now aren’t you?’
‘Running it,’ said Awawa and for a moment he did not answer. ‘If we had our own natural resources and were financially solvent, then we would be running it, but that I’m afraid, is not the case.
‘My people are ignorant. They want education, but also they want consumer goods of the sort they see in Hollywood films. They want refrigerators and motor cars and large houses. It’s difficult to explain to them that it is better – at this stage – to be poor but educated.’
‘Is it better?’
‘It is,’ said Awawa. ‘But, I made my money out of selling worldly goods, so I am rather suspect when I tell my people to not covet them.’ He smiled as though that closed the subject. The waiter arrived. Awawa and Geegee ordered lobster and steak, and I ordered foie gras and steak. ‘And don’t say foie gras isn’t cruel,’ said Awawa.
‘Is it?’ I said. Men always love to explain things, so I give them every chance I can.
‘I’d better not tell you,’ said Awawa, ‘until after the meal.’
‘Very well. Tell me about your worldly goods.’ He hesitated at first, but it was not difficult to get him talking.
‘There is not much to tell. My parents were the very poorest peasants it’s possible to imagine. When I was thirteen I went to Port Bovi. We were a big family and my father was happy to have one less to feed – or rather not feed. My first job was sweeping the floor in a workshop. British soldiers and civilians worked there repairing telephones, typewriters and that sort of thing. It was the thirties, and the British thought that they would be running my country for ever. So did I.
‘It was a good job, as jobs for thirteen year old negro children in Port Bovi went in the thirties. Some of the Englishmen there were kind and pleasant men. Some of them were victims of the depression that had provided the British Army with a generous supply of manpower. I swept up carefully, for I didn’t want to lose that job. When I saw a piece of metal shining among the dust I picked it out and returned it to the workbench.
‘The next vital stage of my life came when I realised that certain shaped pieces of metal were needed on the bench where the telephones were repaired, and other shapes of metal were needed on the typewriter bench. Not long after that we got a new sweeper, and I was promoted to being a general dogsbody; getting the tea and carrying the crates and occasionally – happy day – handling a screwdriver, and handling a typewriter.
‘I well remember the first day of the war; September the third, nineteen thirty-nine. How we all cheered. The British cheered too, and were happy that we were cheering, but they didn’t know why we were cheering. We hoped that the British would go away to the war and leave us in peace. At first we were disappointed, for even more soldiers came. More civil servants came too. The Americans came and rebuilt the port, so that huge ships could now stop there. All the time more and more ships, more and more men, more and more aeroplanes, more and more offices and forms to fill out, reports to complete and things to order.’
‘More and more typewriters,’ I said.
‘Exactly. And by now I was developing a talent for mending typewriters.’
‘And when the war ended?’
‘You think that there were less typewriters then? No Miss Smallwood, armies sometimes suffer casualties but civil services only expand. By 1947 there were so many typewriters in the country that the British Administration invited tenders for a company to take over the servicing of them. I was a skilled typewriter repairman by that time. I had some headed notepaper printed and, using what was perhaps the best typewriter in the country, I applied for the contract. It was a fine looking letter that I typed. I signed it, Head of Contract Dept. The only other companies applying for the contract were in Britain, my bid was far below theirs. What’s more I offered to buy condemned typewriters, which although no good by European standards, were repairable given the hours I put in on them.’
‘Were the British angry when they found they had given a contract to one of their lowly workers?’
‘Let us say apprehensive, but by that time I spoke good English. I had always got along very well with the people in the workshops, none of whom wanted to set up a typewriter business themselves, so it was all quite acceptable. By the time the British withdrew I was rich. My name was put forward as a possible member of the new government. I’d never had anything to do with politics before, so everyone thought I was on their side; I was accepted. Simple.’
‘So you say,’ I said.
‘Well I have omitted some of the miserable bits,’ he smiled.
‘What sort of miserable bits?’
‘When rich white soldiers without women live among starving families, tragedies occur. Such things have scarred the memories and still they cripple the reason of our men.’
‘These guns you want, are they a part of the miserable bit?’
‘Yes. They are.’
‘Shooting people will make things better?’
‘I doubt it, but then I don’t want to shoot anyone. The guns are merely a token, a weight upon one side of a scales that are already unfairly laden the other way.’
‘Who has his thumb on the scale pan right now?’ I asked.
‘Ah here comes the lobster. It’s cruel to keep it in a crate, you say. Well, you may be right, but I shall enjoy every mouthful. If one of these days I suffer the same fate, I only hope that someone enjoys every mouthful of me. Mayonnaise. Thank you, yes. Mayonnaise will complete the pleasure.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Cheer up, Miss Smallwood. A beautiful girl like you should not look so concerned. Leave the worrying for ugly old men like me. And ugly young men like Mr Grey, eh, Grey?’ He laughed and slapped Geegee’s arm.
‘Goodness,’ said Geegee. ‘Yes indeed.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I told Awawa.
‘What was the question?’ he said.
‘Guns mean war,’ I said. ‘Why must men have wars?’
‘The voice of womanhood, and reason raised accusingly against the senseless violence of the male,’ said Awawa. ‘Well we’ve heard that one before Miss Smallwood, but women are less able to cooperate with each other, than men are. Women are less tolerant than men, and women in business more ruthless than men.’
‘That’s just a generalisation,’ I told him. ‘Give me an example.’
‘I can prove my point only in negative terms,’ said Awawa. ‘Isn’t it enough that there is not one company you can think of, that is run entirely by women? When people tell me that I am prejudiced against women, I ask them if they know a woman who had a woman lawyer or a woman architect. At one time I employed both. No, if you want to know who is most intolerant of women’s emancipation, it is women.’
‘You are evading the question again,’ I said. ‘That’s just like a politician, isn’t it Geegee?’
‘Don’t bring me into this old darling,’ said Geegee. ‘I’ve got a vested interest in keeping Mr Awawa on the winning side of his arguments.’
‘Why does there have to be a winning side?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t one argue without being competitive?’
‘My dear girl,’ said Awawa. ‘We live in a competitive society. It’s the very crux of our system. Capitalism produces the best cars and refrigerators …’
‘… and typewriters.’
‘Yes and typewriters, and guns too. Each man competes with his fellow man. You say to a man, “buy this motor car because it goes faster, and will therefore make you more powerful, more important, more virile, more desirable, than the man next door.” And then you also say to him, “But don’t go fast in your car, and if you see the man next door, don’t overtake him to prove that you are more powerful than he is.” Well of course the world becomes neurotic. Two different commands, random punishments for each; that’s how they give monkeys ulcers.’
‘What has that to do with guns?’ I asked him.
‘The logical end-product of competition is physical competition.’ He smiled. ‘For the individual the two purest forms of free enterprise are prostitution (passive form), and robbery with violence (active form).’ He turned to Geegee. ‘What do you say to that, Grey?’ he asked.
‘What me sir? Prostitution every time sir, if you ask me. Sin every time,’ Geegee wasn’t the idiot that he liked to be thought. He’d been listening to Awawa very closely but was determined to be the buffoon.
‘And so Miss Smallwood,’ said Awawa. ‘The apparent outcome of world-wide free enterprise is technology. The obvious outcome of world-wide competition is warfare; ipso facto: technological warfare.’
‘You are a cynical man Mr Awawa,’ I said. ‘So that’s your opinion: war will destroy us?’
‘Perhaps man will reach some sort of political compromise that will modify the undisciplined competitive urges, that at present we are allowing to run riot. Already in Europe there is an attempt to form supra national bodies, the U.N. is not without some brilliant successes. In Africa I look forward to broader and broader political thinking.’
‘Oh come along,’ I protested. ‘Hardly a week goes by, without some new subdivisions in Africa. I see no sign of federation there.’
‘Divide and rule is the philosophy of all the great nations, Miss Smallwood, and their power and influence is immense. None of them would welcome a Federated States of Africa to the political arena.’
‘But you are going to do something about that?’
‘Philosophy, Miss Smallwood, like charity, should begin at home.’
‘Even the philosophy of guns?’
‘Sometimes, Miss Smallwood, although I can see you don’t agree.’
‘I don’t agree. I don’t disagree, luckily I don’t have to make a decision, but it won’t influence my introduction to my Uncle’s friends if that’s what you mean.’
Awawa bowed politely. ‘Your steak is getting cold Miss Smallwood,’ said Awawa. ‘Béarnaise?’ He helped me to a portion. ‘On the steak?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘On the steak.’ It was too late to help the angus.
6
Silas
I was settling down in my room for half an hour with a drink and the business pages of The Times, when Bob came running in to tell me that Liz had displayed the fully operational marker.
‘She’s tied the red scarf on her bag. Do you think she’s on to something?’ he asked.
‘It’s hard to say,’ I told him. ‘She’s been wrong before, more than once, but if you have a signal system, then the other members of the expedition must stick to the procedure.’ I pulled my shoes on.
‘So we’re leaving the hotel?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but wait a few minutes. We mustn’t walk through the bar while she’s there. Being seen, even fleetingly, by a mark has spoiled more operations than any other factor.’
