I was very surprised at Martin’s appearance because, at that time in the morning, he should have been up to his eyes in office work. He came down the hillside almost at a run, gesticulating like a windmill and shouting things at me that I could not hear. I waited patiently until he reached the shade of the marquee.
“So you see,” he said, throwing out his arms in a gesture of despair, “I need help.”
I pushed a camp chair forward and pressed him gently into it.
“Now stop carrying on like a mentally defective praying mantis,” I said. “Just shut up for a minute and relax.”
He sat there mopping his brow with a sodden handkerchief.
“Pious!” I shouted.
“Sah,” replied Pious from the kitchen.
“Pass beer for me and the D.O. please.”
“Yes, sah.”
The beer was of a nauseating brand and not really cold because in our rather primitive base camp our only method of refrigeration was to keep the beer in buckets of water which was itself lukewarm. However, in climates like that where you perspire constantly — even when sitting immobile — you need a large liquid intake and for the daytime beer was the best.
Pious gravely poured the beer out into the glasses and Martin picked his up with a shaking hand and took a couple of frenzied gulps.
“Now,” I said, putting on my best soothing-psychiatrist voice, “do you mind repeating, slowly and clearly, what you were shouting as you came down the hill? And, by the way, you shouldn’t run about like that at this hour of the day, ‘A’ it’s bad for your health and ‘B’ it doesn’t do your public image any good. I thought you’d had a terrible uprising in Mamfe and that you were being pursued by vast quantities of Africans with spears and muzzle-loaders.”
Martin mopped his face and took another gulp of beer.
“It’s worse than that,” he said, “much, much worse. ”
“Well,” I said, “softly and calmly tell me what’s the matter.”
“It’s the District Commissioner,” he said.
“Well, what s the matter with him?” I inquired, “Has he sacked you?”
“That’s the point,” said Martin, “he well might. That’s why I want help.”
“I don’t see how I can help,” I said, “I don’t know the District Commissioner or, as far as I am aware, any of his relatives, so I can’t put in a good word for you. Why, what heinous crime have you committed?”
“I suppose I had better begin at the beginning,” said Martin.
“It’s always a good place to start,” I said.
He mopped his face again, took another sustaining gulp of beer and glanced round furtively to make sure that we weren’t overheard.
“Well,” he said, “you probably haven’t noticed; I’m quite good at my job, but unfortunately when it comes to entertaining and things like that I always seem to manage to do the wrong things. When I had just been promoted to D.O. — that was in Umfala — the first thing that happened was that the bloody D.C. came through on a tour of inspection. Well, everything went splendidly. I had my district in apple-pie order and it seemed as though the D.C. was rather pleased with me. He was only staying one night and by evening I really thought that the whole thing had been a success. But it was very unfortunate that the lavatory in my house had ceased to function and I couldn’t get it fixed in time so I had had a very comfortable grass shack built well away from the veranda, behind the hibiscus hedge. You know, a hole in the ground and a cross-pole on which you sit. Well, I explained this to the D.C. and it seemed that he quite understood. What I hadn’t realised was that my entire African staff were under the impression that I had built it for them and had been using it for several days before the D.C.’s arrival. Just before dinner the D.C. wandered out to the latrine and, apart from the contents which rather put him off, since he was under the impression that it had been done specially for him, he then sat on the cross-pole, which broke.”
It was my turn now to become slightly alarmed.
“God in heaven,” I said, startled, “didn’t you check the cross-pole?”
“That’s the point,” said Martin. “I’m so bad at that sort of thing.”
“But you might have killed him or, worse still, drowned him,” I said. “I know what our latrine’s like here and I certainly wouldn’t like to fall into it.”
“I can assure you he didn’t enjoy the experience either,” said Martin dismally. “He shouted for help of course and we got him out, but he looked like a sort of er... a sort of er... sort of walking dung heap. It took us hours to wash him down and get his clothes cleaned and pressed in time for his departure the following morning, and I can assure you, my dear boy, we sat down to a very late dinner and he ate very little and the conversation was frigid to an almost polar degree.”
“Hasn’t he any spirit of fun?” I inquired.
“He hasn’t any spirit of fun about anything,” said Martin vehemently. “And anyway, I don’t blame him. Anyone falling into that load of muck couldn’t possibly treat it with merriment.”
“I do see your point,” I said. “Have some more beer.”
“The trouble is,” said Martin, “that this was not the first time that I’d made mistakes of that sort. There are several things I did when I was an A.D.O. which I prefer not to tell you about, and that’s why it took me so long to work up from being an A.D.O. to a D.O. After this awful lavatory thing my next posting was to Umchichi, and you know what that’s like.”
“Dear God,” I said, “I’ve never been there but I’ve heard about it.”
Umchichi was the sort of Devil’s Island to which all naughty D.O.’s and A.D.O.’s were sent when they were in disgrace. It consisted of a lot of leprous Africans and more mosquitoes than anywhere else on the whole west coast of Africa.
“Fascinating though these revelations are,” I said, “I don’t really see what this is all about.”
“But that’s what I was telling you as I was coming down the hill?” explained Martin. “He’s coming through on a tour of inspection. He arrives in three days’ time so I must have your help.”
“Martin,” I said, “much as I love you, I am not a social hostess.”
“No, no, old boy, I know,” he said, “but if you could just back me up a bit.”
This cri de coeur was impossible to refuse. All the white population of Mamfe and ninety-nine per cent of the African population loved Martin dearly.
“I must give this some thought,” I said.
We sat in silence while Martin twitched and perspired.
Presently I shouted, “Pious, pass more beer for the D.O. please.”
When the beer had been served I leaned forward and fixed Martin with a piercing eye.
“This,” I said, “is your only salvation. We have a woman in our midst.”
“A woman?” said Martin, puzzled, “What woman?”
“Mary,” I said, “your A.D.O.’s wife, in case you hadn’t remembered. Now women are good at this sort of thing. We also have McGrade (he was the Public Works Department man in charge of mending bridges, building roads and similar uninteresting things). We have Girton (he was the United Africa Company man, who spent his time selling Manchester cloth to the Africans and beer and tinned goods to the white population). Now, surely between all of us we can get something done.”
“Dear boy,” said Martin solemnly, “I shall be for ever, in your debt. What a brilliant suggestion.”
“Now, the first thing to do,” I said, “is to have a look at your house.”
“But you’ve been there often,” said Martin in surprise. “You’ve been up several times for chop and any number of times for drinks.”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’ve never seen anything other than your main living-room and your veranda.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said. “Yes, of course. Well, you’d better come up and see it now.”
“I’ll bring Pious,” I said, “because I’ll lend you him for the evening. He’s far better than that stupid lout you’ve got and he can really put on Government House type service. That steward of yours is liable to drop the soup in the D.C.’s lap.”