William Boyd - A good man in Africa

TO BE PROOFREAD

Title:

A Good Man in Africa

Author:

William Boyd

Year:

1981

Synopsis:

Escapee from suburbia, overweight, oversexedMorgan Leafy isnt overburdened with worldly success. Actually, he is refreshingly free from it. But then, as a representative of Her Britannic Majesty in tropical Kinjanja, it was not very constructive of him to get involved in wholesale bribery. Nor was it exactly oiling his way up the ladder to hunt down the improbably pointed breasts of his boss daughter when officially banned from horizontal delights by a nasty doseFalling back on his deep-laid reserves of misanthropy and guile, Morgan has to fight off the sea of humiliation, betrayal and ju-ju that threatens to wash over him.

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

G ood man, said Dalmire, gratefully accepting the gin Morgan Leafy offered him, Oh good man. He presents his eager male friendship like a gift, thought Morgan; hes like a dog who wants me to throw a stick for him to chase. If he had a tail hed be wagging it.

Morgan smiled and raised his own glass. I hate you, you smug bastard! he screamed inwardly. You shit, you little turd, youve ruined my life! But all he said was, Congratulations. Shes a fabulous girl. Lovely. Lucky chap.

Dalmire rose to his feet and went to the window that looked over the Deputy High Commissions front drive. Heat vibrated up from the parked cars, and a dusty even light lay over the view. It was late afternoon, the temperature was in the low nineties, Christmas was less than a week away.

Morgan watched in disgust as Dalmire tugged and eased his sweaty trouser seat. Oh Priscilla, Priscilla, he asked himself, why him? Why Dalmire? Why not me?

Whens the great day then? he asked, his face all polite curiosity.

Not for a while, Dalmire replied. Old Ma Fanshawe seems set on a spring wedding. Sos Pris. But Im easy. He gestured at the sombre bank of clouds which loomed over the rusty sprawling mass that was the town of Nkongsamba, state capital of the Mid-Western region, Kinjanja, West Africa. Looks like were in for a shower.

Morgan thought about replacing the gin in his filing cabinet, decided against it and poured himself another stiff three-fingers. He waved the green bottle at Dalmire who threw up his hands in mock horror.

Lord no, Morgan, couldnt take another. Better let the sun hit the yard-arm.

Morgan shouted for Kojo, his secretary. The man promptly emerged from the outer office. He was small, neat and dapper with a starched white shirt, tie, blue flannels and black shoes loose on his feet. Every time he was in Kojos presence Morgan felt like a slob.

Ah, Kojo. Tonic, tonic. More tonic, he said, trying to keep himself in check.

Comin, sah. Kojo turned to go.

Hold on. Whats that youve got? Kojo held several looping strands of paper-chain.

Christmas decrations, sah. Foryour office. I thought maybe this year

Morgan rolled his eyes heavenwards. No, he shouted. Never, none of it in here. A merry bloody Christmas Im having, he thought bitterly. Then, aware of the startled look on Dalmires face he said more reasonably, Nevah bring im for hereyou sabi dis ting. I nevah like im for dis place.

Kojo smiled, ignoring the pidgin English. Morgan scrutinized the little mans features for signs of resentment or contempt but found no trace. He felt ashamed of his boorishness: it wasnt Kojos fault that Dalmire and Priscilla were engaged.

Of course not, sah, Kojo said politely. It will be as usual. Tonic comin up. He left.

Good man? Dalmire asked, eyebrows raised.

Yes, he is actually, Morgan said, as though surprised by the thought. You know: bloody efficient. He wished Dalmire would go. The news was too depressing for him to maintain his conviviality for much longer. He cursed himself futilely for not paying more attention to Priscilla these last weeks, but they had been impossible, amongst the worst he had ever experienced in his generally fraught existence in this stinking hot frustrating shit-hole of a country. Dont think about it, he told himself, itll only seem worse. Think about Hazel insteadthe new flat. Go to the barbecue at the club tonight. Do anything other than dwell on golden opportunities missed.

He looked at Dalmire, his subordinate, Secondary Secretary. He thought now that, in fact, he had really disliked him all along. From the day of his arrival. Something about his unreflecting Oxbridge assuredness; something about the way Fanshawe had instantly taken to him. Fanshawe was the Deputy High Commissioner in Nkongsamba, Priscilla was his daughter.

Glad you had a chance to have a chat with Morgan, Dickie, Fanshawe had said to Dalmire. Old Nkongsamba hand is Morgan. Been here, oh, getting on for three years now, isnt that right, Morgan? Part of the furniture almost, eh? Ha Ha. Good man though, Dickie. Finger on the pulse. Got great things planned, havent we Morgan, eh?

Morgan had smiled broadly throughout the whole harangue, a brief but foul chant of rage running through his brain.

He looked at Dalmire now as he stood by the window. He was wearing a white shirt, white shorts, beige knee socks and well-polished, brown brogue shoes. That, Morgan decided, was another thing he despised about him: his affected old-colonial attire. Ghastly wide shorts, billowing Aertex shirts and his college tie, thin and discreetly banded. Morgan himself sported flared, light-coloured flannels, bright shirts and these new wide ties with fist-sized Windsor knots which, so his sister assured him, were the latest fashion back home. But when he met with Fanshawe, Dalmire, and Jones, the Commissions accountant, they made him feel cheap and flashy, like some travelling salesman. Even Jones had taken up shorts since Dalmires arrival. Morgan detested the sight of his fat little Welsh knees peeking out between the hem of his shorts and the top of his socks like two bald, wrinkled babies heads.

Morgan wearily dragged his attention back to Dalmire who was saying something while still dreamily staring out of the window.

the whole fate thing, gosh. Priscilla was just saying how extraordinary it was that my very first posting should be here.

Morgan felt a sudden desire to weep hot tears of frustration. How dare he throw fate in his face? When it could so easily have been him standing there, the new fianc, if Hazel had only keptif Priscilla hadntif Dalmire had never comeif MurrayMurray. He stopped the runaway car at the edge of the cliff. Yes, Murray. Fate had been working overtime.

Dalmire was still talking. Dont you agree, Morgan? Astonishing how these things happen?

Quite, Morgan said, looking intently at the Annigoni reproduction of Her Majesty on his office wall. Absolutely. No question. He sighed quietly. He cast a glance at Dalmire who was shaking his head in wonder at the miraculous nature of things. What was so remarkable about Dalmire? he wondered to himself. Mild, reasonably pleasant features, thick brown hair with a straight well-defined parting, slim, fit-looking build. In strong contrast to himself he had reluctantly to admit, but beyond that nothing but unexceptionable blandness. And, in truth, he had to concede also that Dalmire had always been amicable and subservient; there was no evident cause for the poisonous hate he now nurtured in his breast.

But he knew he hated Dalmire abstractly, sub specie aetemitatis , so to speak. He hated him because his life was so easy and his attitude, far from one of abject and astonished gratefulness that this should be so, seemed rather to indicate that this was as fixed and natural a state of affairs as the planetary orbits going on invisibly above their heads. He wasnt even particularly clever. Checking up his A-level and degree results in his personal file Morgan had been amazed to discover how much worse Dalmire had done than he. And yet, and yet he had gone to Oxford, while Morgan went to some concrete and plate-glass building site in the Midlands. He already owned a housein Brighton, legacy of some distant auntwhile Morgans UK base was his mothers cramped semi-detached. And yet Dalmire had been posted abroad as soon as his training was over while Morgan had sweated three years in an overheated office off Kingsway. Dalmires parents lived in Gloucestershire, his father was a Lieutenant-Colonel. Morgans lived in Feltham, his father had been a catering manager at HeathrowHe could go on and on. It just wasnt fair, he moaned to himself, and now hes got Priscilla too. He wanted something harsh, cruel and inexplicable to happen to Dalmire; something shocking and arbitrary, just to put him in touch with real life again. But no, the final insult from a bourgeois, ex-public school God had allowed Priscilla to be swept off her feet within weeks of Dalmires arrival.