“But you can have a simply splendid dinner here,” said Mary. “What an absolutely marvellous setting. I only wish we had some candelabras.”
I was just about to suggest that she did not complicate the issue when Robin unexpectedly said, “I have four.”
We all looked at him in complete astonishment.
“Well, they’re not silver or anything as posh as that,” he said, “but they are rather nice brass ones that I bought up in Kano. They need a bit of polishing, but I think they’d look pretty good.”
“Oh splendid,” said Mary, her eyes shining. “Dinner by candlelight. He couldn’t resist that.”
“If an honest Irish Catholic is allowed to get a word in edgeways with a lot of jabbering heathens,” said McGrade, “could I ask you all a question?”
We all looked at him expectantly.
“Where are we going to get the candles?”
“Dear, yes, I didn’t think of that,” said Mary. “You can’t very well have candelabras without candles.”
“I don’t know why it is that people always tend to underestimate my intelligence,” said Robin. “I bought the candelabras because I liked them and I intended to use them. The house I’m occupying at the moment doesn’t lend itself to such medieval splendour but I did, however, take the precaution of importing a considerable quantity of candles which have been steadily melting away in a cupboard since I was moved to Mamfe. If they have not congealed into a solid mass, we might be able to salvage one or two. However, leave that part of the thing to me.”
Knowing Robin as we did, we knew that the candles would not be a horrid sticky mess as he implied, for I was sure he would have checked on them four times a day.
“Well now, Mary,” I said, “will you do the flower arrangements?”
“Flower arrangements?” said Martin, startled.
“But of course,” I said, “a few bunches of begonias or something hung around the place always tart it up a bit.”
“Well, it’s rather difficult,” said Mary, “at the moment; There’s not really much in bloom. There’s hibiscus, of course...”
“Holy Mary,” said McGrade, “we’re surrounded by bloody hibiscus all the time. That’s not a flower arrangement. That’s just bringing the bloody jungle into the house.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got a hunter who’s extremely good at climbing trees, and as well as bringing me some animals the other day he brought me a rather beautiful orchid which he’d got from the top of a tree. I’ll contact him and get him to go out into the forest and see what orchids and other things he can get. And then, Mary dear, you do the flower arrangements.”
“Oh, I love arranging flowers,” said Mary, “and if they are orchids it will be absolutely marvellous.”
Martin scribbled frantically on his pad.
“Now,” I said to him, “what have we got organised so far?”
“Well,” he said, “we’ve checked on the beds and furniture, we’ve got the staff under control, we’ve organised the breakfast. Mary is organising the picnic lunch and the flower arrangements and that’s really as far as we’ve got.”
“Drinks,” I said.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Robin. “Being in charge of the only emporium that supplies you with the stuff I know that Martin is a complete dipsomaniac and I could tell you almost down to the last bottle how much he’s got here.”
He glanced down into his empty glass pensively.
“Parsimoniousness is a thing that I could never suffer gladly,” he added.
“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up,” said Martin. “If you want another drink, call Amos.”
“Hush, children,” I said, “let’s go back onto the veranda and, raising our voices above the mating cries of the hippos, let us discuss the most important thing.”
We trooped back onto the veranda, refilled our glasses and sat for a brief moment listening to the lovely sounds of the African forest at night. Fireflies as green as emeralds were flashing past us, cicadas and crickets were playing complicated Bach melodies, and occasionally there would be a belch, a grunt or a roar from the hippos at the bottom of the gorge.
“If I’ve understood your devious, heathen, Protestant mind correctly,” said McGrade, draining his glass and putting it on the table in the obvious expectation that somebody would refill it for him, “I take it that what you consider to be the most important thing is the dinner in the evening.”
“Yes,” said Martin and I simultaneously.
In an outpost as remote as Mamfe when anybody as exalted as the D.C. came, it was automatic that all the white residents were invited to dinner.
“This is where I thought Mary would come into her own,” I said.
“Oh yes,” said Mary, “now here I can be of some help. Do you think four or five courses?”
“Holy Mary,” said McGrade, “with that indolent Protestant in charge of the stores, how the hell do you think we are going to get enough for five courses?”
“Leaving aside the rather offensive Catholic attack upon me,” said Robin, “I must admit that as the river is at its lowest ebb and the boat hasn’t managed to get through, I am rather short of supplies. However, if McGrade is going to come to this dinner, I suggest we simply give him a plate of boiled sweet potatoes, which is, I believe, the diet on which most Irish Catholics are reared.”
“Are you suggesting, then, that I am obese?” said McGrade.
“No, just obscene,” said Robin.
I banged my bottle on the table. “I call the convention to order,” I said. “We do not at this juncture want to discuss the physical attributes or failings of anyone. We are discussing a menu.”
“Well,” said Mary, “I think we ought to start with an entry.”
“In France,” said Robin, “they generally describe it as an entrée, which can be taken both ways, if you see what I mean.”
“No, no,” said Mary, “what I mean is that we ought to start off with something succulent to... to titillate the palate.”
“Dear God,” said McGrade, “I’ve been here now three years and I haven’t had anything titillated, least of all my palate.”
“But if you’re going to have candelabras and things,” said Mary, “you’ve got to have the food to go with it.”
“Love of my life,” said McGrade, “I agree with you entirely. But as there isn’t the food here, I don’t see really how you can go about producing five courses when that inefficient bastard from the United Africa Company has got his boat grounded and has probably only got a couple of tins of baked beans.”
I could see that the situation was getting out of hand so I banged again with my bottle. There was another chorus of “Yes, sah” from the kitchen and more beer was produced.
“Let’s settle on three courses,” I said, “and let’s make them as simple as possible.”
“Well, the first one,” said Mary excitedly, “could be a soufflé.”
“Jesus can’t do soufflés,” said Martin.”
“Who?” said Mary, astonished.
“Jesus, my cook,” Martin explained.
“I never knew that your cook was called Jesus,” said McGrade. “Why didn’t you let the world know he’d risen again?”
“Well, he’s risen in the most extraordinary shape,” said Robin, “as a nine-foot-six Hausa with heavily indented tribal marks on his cheeks, looking as though he’s ready for the grave, and cooking appallingly.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Martin, “so we can’t have soufflés.”
“Oh,” said Mary, disappointed, “I’d be willing to do them but I don’t suppose I ought to be in the kitchen when the D.C.’s here.”
“Certainly not,” said Martin firmly.
“What about a spot of venison?” said Robin, looking at me interrogatively.
“Although I wish to help Martin,” I said, “I have no intention of killing off any of my baby duiker in order to give the D.C. venison.”
“How about poached eggs on toast?” suggested McGrade, who was now on his fifth bottle of beer and not really concentrating on the important matter at hand.
“I don’t think somehow that that’s really posh enough,” said Mary. “You know, D.C.’s like to be cosseted.”