Well no, actually, we lived in a much smaller place. We used to go up to Gaborone for a bit of excitement.
You poor things, thats all I can say. And you were in Zambia too? Ive been to Lusaka, done a couple of stopovers. Theyre thieves in Lusaka. Theyll take the wheels off your hire-car as soon as look at you. This friend of mine went into a pharmacy for a drop of penicillin, he was planning, you know, on being a bit naughty that night, and he believed in dosing himself first; and he came out, and no bloody wheels.
She smiled. My friend wasnt amused, the steward said.
No, Im sure. It was very trying when they took your wheels off. It was quite common though. You could never plan on being anywhere by a set time.
And there was never any sugar. I take sugar, in coffee.
Its true, there were a lot of shortages.
Ive not been out that way for a while. They tell me its worse now.
Oh, Africas always worse.
Quite the cynic.
No, not really, she said. I think I was just there for too long. I liked it, in a way. At least, Im glad I went there. I wouldnt have missed it.
I expect youll find your Saudi lifestyle very different.
Yes, I expect I will.
He was hovering, waiting to tell her some horror stories. There were always stories out of the Middle East, and no doubt Jeff Pollard would have told her some, if he had not been so anxious to recruit Andrew for his building project. But her tone wrapped up the conversation. Sure on that brandy? the steward said; and moved away. The slightest encouragement, and he would have asked, Do you remember that Helen Smith case?
A dozen people had raised the question, in her two-month stay in England. It was strange how it had stuck in peoples minds, considering how little they usually remembered of what they read in the newspapers: young north-country girl, a nurse, found dead after an all-night party; nurses father, dogged ex-policeman, off out there to get at the truth. And then the inquests, and the coroners reports, and the hints of diplomatic cover-ups and skulduggery in high places; the pleasures of moral censure, the frisson of violent death in faraway places. The press reports had left an image in peoples minds, of lazy, glitzy, transient lives, of hard liquor and easy money, of amoral people turned scared and sour; so now when you were off to Jeddah, people said, Dont fall off any balconies, will you? It became monotonous. And their talk had left an image in her mind, which she did not like but could not now eradicate; the image of the broken body, still in its mortuary drawer.
A part of her, now, thought the persistence of the image sinister; a part of her said, things happen everywhere, and after all, she said, comforting herself, theres only the world. Travel ends and routine begins and old habits which you thought you had left behind in one country catch up with you in the next, and old problems resurface, but if you are lucky you carry as part of your baggage the means of solving those problems and accommodating those habits, and you take with you an open mind, and discretion, and common sense; if you have those with you, you can manage anywhere. I make large claims for myself, she thought. She pushed up the window shade and looked out, into featureless darkness. There was no sensation of movement, no intimation that they were in flight. She closed her eyes. Sleep now, she coaxed herself. Tomorrow I will have people to meet and there will be a good deal to do. How pleased I will be, to do it; and to be there, at last.
It was at the Holiday Inn, Gaborone but in the bar, not in the coffee shop that Andrew had met Jeff Pollard. They had run into him once before, in Lusaka, and not liked him particularly; but now Pollard was offering a job, and Andrew needed one. His contract in Botswana was a month away from its termination date, and they were already packing and selling things off. The U K building trade had slumped into what seemed chronic recession; they didnt know what they were going to do. They didnt want to stay in Botswana, even if there had been the option. With the advent of the black-top road across the South African border, life had changed for the worse, their severe small-town isolation ended, the single street full of new faces. It was true that you could go as far as Johannesburg now without steeling yourself for the journey over dirt roads; it ought to have been an advantage, but in fact it made life too easy. They were a direct connection on the string of dorps that ran across the Transvaal and over the frontier; the day would come soon when they would feel like a suburb.
At this point one morning over breakfast Andrew had said, What about the Middle East?
Oh no, shed said. Id have to go around with a headscarf on all day. I couldnt put up with that.
Fran, he said, we have to make some money. We havent made any here. I thought we would, but its not worked out. We have to get something behind us.
Yes. I suppose so.
She had known he was serious; because he addressed her by her name. It had not escaped her notice that women were always using mens christian names, but that men only did it when there was something in the offing: a rebuke, a plea. Andrew had never been communicative, so it had been necessary to notice these things. He was a silent man, who never asked for anything, or set arrangements in train, or egged life on; instead he waited for what he wanted, with a powerful, active patience which seemed to surround him, like an aura: an aura of forbearance, of self-control. His patience was not like other peoples, a rather feeble virtue, which had, by its nature, to be its own reward; it was a virtue like a strong magnet, which drew solutions to problems. And now drew Jeff Pollard.
Jeff Pollard was a sometime employee of Turadup, William and Schaper, a firm known throughout the construction business as Throwem Up, Billem, and Scarper. Since the European Development Fund had decided to finance the building of the black-top road, he had been in and out of southern Africa, weighing up prospects and buying people drinks. He was a man of thirty-five, unmarried, with a loose and dusty appearance and shifting eyes; he had a grey-white skin, but the back of his neck was at all times mysteriously and painfully sunburned. He had an unsparing fund of anecdote, a knowing, dirty laugh; a British passport, and a vaguely Australian accent. He wore his shirt open, and around his neck on a chain a small block of gold incised with the legend CREDIT SUISSE. When the Shores were leaving Africa there had been a lot of people like Jeff around, doing their recruiting in golf-club bars. They were cowboys, headhunters, entrepreneurs; anywhere they hung their hat was their domicile, for fiscal purposes.
Turadup had got a toe-hold in Zambia before the bottom dropped out of copper, putting up expatriate housing in Kabwe, the mining town that had once been known as Broken Hill; then when Zambia went down the drain they moved south a bit, putting in an unsuccessful tender for work on the new international airport at Gaborone; then picking up work around that city, piping water and building a clinic for a shanty town that had become permanent faute de mieux. They operated over the South African border too, putting up a much-needed casino in a bantustan. But since the early 1970s the Middle East had been what they called their major theatre of operations. It happened that at the time when Andrew Shore was ready to move on, Turadups Saudi Arabian manager, a man called Eric Parsons, was in Johannesburg trawling for expertise; and on that day always described by Andrew as the day I ran slap-bang into Pollard the relevant phone number was handed over, and their future was set in train. Give old Eric a call, Jeff said. You cant lose by it.
Andrew first poured himself a brandy; then he sat for some time, and regarded the phone in their bungalow, like a man in a trance, or a man praying. Then he picked up the receiver; the lines were not down that day, and it was a mere ten minutes before he got an answer from the operator in Gaborone. He told her what he wanted: Johannesburg. There seemed to be a party going on in the background. He could hear women laughing, and what was perhaps crockery being smashed. The operator came back once or twice, bellowing in his ear, but she didnt forget him entirely; in time she came up with what might be her best offer, a line to Mafeking. He took it. A guttural voice answered him in Afrikaans. Seconds later he was speaking to Eric Parsons, at his hotel. It was the Carlton, he noted; Turadup did not penny-pinch.
He did not suggest making the drive to Johannesburg, but waited until Parsons said, Ill come to you then, shall I? He knew how he would employ the time, as he drove to Gaborone to meet Parsons; he pictured himself at the wheel of his truck, the empty road and the low brown hills unwinding before him, while his practised eye was half-alert for cattle and children, and his inner will concentrated, mile after mile, upon making Parsons offer him more money than he had ever dreamed of earning in his life. This, in due course, Parsons did.
The details were fixed up, at the President Hotel this time (there being, in Gaborone, a choice of two) over a tough T-bone steak and a glass of Lion lager. Andrew Shore shook hands with Eric Parsons, the Saudi man; Jeff Pollard, talking, conducted him down from the terrace and out into the street. Across the road, the nations only cinema was showing a double bill: a kung fu drama, and Mary Poppins. Andrew stood in the dusty thoroughfare known as the Mall, gazing into the window of the President Hotels gift shop; crocodile handbags, skin rugs, complete bushmen kits with arrows and ostrich shells, direct from the small factory in Palapye which had recently started turning them out. I can hardly believe Im finished in Africa, he said.
When he arrived home late that afternoon, Frances was on the stoep packing a tea-chest, wrapping up their dinner service in pieces of the Mafeking Mail. Well, did you do it? she said. She straightened up and kissed his cheek.
Yes, I did it, its all fixed. But we cant go together I have to be in the Kingdom before theyll grant you a visa. When we finish up here Im to fly to Nairobi, and pick up a businessmans entry permit then once Im in, Turadup will fix it for me to stay. Theyre in a hurry.
Why? Has someone quit without notice?
I didnt ask.
I would have asked.
I didnt think of it.
So you wont even be coming to England first?
And stay with your mother?
It looks as if Ill have to.
Well listen, Fran, we wont be apart for long. And by the time you get out to Jeddah, well be fixed up with a house, and everything will be ready for you.
Id rather go with you. But I suppose they have their rules. Oh, look, am I to pack these? She held out a candlestick, one of a pair from a local pottery, rough, heavy, unglazed.
Sure, he said. Souvenir. Take those funny baskets as well, the ones that fall over.
She began to wrap the candlestick, rolling it in her hands. Are you sure that this is the right thing to do? she said. Is this what you want?
Theyre doubling my salary, he said flatly.
What?
You heard.
She turned away and bent over the tea-chest again, cleanly stabbed by avarice, like a peach with a silver knife.
We could be in and out within three years, he said. Your salary is paid in riyals, tax-free. All you need out of it is your day-to-day living expenses and you can bank the rest where you like, in any currency you like. Turadup are offering free housing, a car allowance, paid utilities, yearly leave ticket, school fees though of course
That would be plain greedy, she said, having children so that you could get their school fees paid.
Pollard did say He looked at her in slight anxiety. He said that his only reservation was how youd settle in. As youve been a working woman.
I wont be able to work?
Unlikely, he thinks.
Well, if youre going to earn all that money, Im sure I can occupy myself. After all, its not for ever, is it?
No, its not for ever. We should think of it as a chance for us, to build up some security
Will you pass me those salad bowls?
Andrew was silent. He passed them, one by one. Why, really, should she share his vision of their future? She had come to Africa at her own behest, a single woman, one of the few recruited for her line of work. She had lived alone before they met; for three nights in succession, he had sat by himself, seemingly disconsolate, on a corner stool in the bar of an expatriate club, not even looking her way, but concentrating hard; until she had asked him to go home with her. She had fed her dog, and then cooked eggs for them, and asked him what he wanted out of life. Later, in the sagging double bed with which her government bungalow was furnished, he had lain awake while she slept, wishing furiously for her to act and understand; and although it had taken a little time to work, within a matter of weeks she had turned to him and said, We could get married if thats what you want.
So perhaps, too, he should have wished her into suggesting Saudi Arabia; then she would have known it was her own decision. But from what he had heard it was a part of the world in which womens decisions did not operate. He made a leap of faith: it will be all right, I know it will. Frances, he said, we wont go unless you want to.
She slotted a wrapped teacup into place. I want to.
It had been raining, earlier that day, and there was a heavy, animal scent of drenched earth and crushed flowers. In the kitchen their housemaid, Elizabeth, was washing glasses pointless really as they would soon be crated up and they could hear the separate clink that each one made as she put it down on the draining-board. The dogs and cats were coming in to be fed, wandering to the back door to wait around, like the Victorian poor. I really think we ought, Andrew said.
In point of fact, I dont think weve anywhere else to go. She picked up a broad felt marker and daubed their name on the side of the tea-chest, SHORE, FRAGILE. GABORONE LONDON.
No, Andrew said. No point.
She crossed out LONDON, wrote JEDDAH. Another pang stabbed her, as sharp as the first. She imagined herself already in Saudi, a discreet teetotal housewife, homesick for this place that was not home in another place that was not home. It was almost dark now; the air was cooling, the sun dipping behind the hill. What was Jeff Pollard doing, recruiting you? I thought he was trying to persuade everybody what a grand life it was as a freelance consultant?
Well, it cant be such a grand life, because hes just signed up with Turadup himself. Hes going to manage their Jeddah business; hes had experience out there, of course.
So you mean youll be working with him?
There is that tiny drawback.
I hope we dont end up living near him as well.
They do pay for your housing, so its probably a case of taking what youre given.