outlets available to the expatriate population of Nkongsamba. It’s no wonder, Morgan thought as he made his way through the parked cars towards the fairy-lit club façade and the jangling sound of pop-music, that we’re such a desperate lot.
He walked into the colonnaded entrance porch of the club house. A large noticeboard was covered with club rules, minutes of meetings and announcements of forthcoming events. His jaundiced eye swiftly surveyed what was on offer: XMAS GALA PARTY, he read, TO BE ATTENDED BY HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF RIPON. He shuddered, wondering what had possessed him to agree to be Father Christmas. Next to that was the golf-club’s GRAND BOXING DAY COMPETITION,
all welcome, prizes for everyone, sign below.
He turned away in despair. Outside the main door was a newsagent’s kiosk that sold European newspapers and magazines. Tucked away amongst the display of heat-blanched copies of
Newsweek, Marie-Claire
and
Bunte
Morgan knew there were a few issues of American sex-magazines. He was surreptitiously leafing through one entitled
Over-40
—it was not a publication for gerontophiles, the number referred not to the models’ age but to their mammary development—when he heard footsteps on the concrete path behind him. Snatching up a copy of
Reader’s Digest
he looked round guiltily and saw Dr. Murray approaching, accompanied by a young boy.
Morgan felt contrasting emotions stampede through his body: hatred, reluctant admiration, fear and embarrassment. He did his utmost to affect nonchalance.
“Evening, Doctor,” he said with wide-eyed jocularity, indicating with one twirling hand the vague source of the pop-music. “Dancing tonight?”
Murray looked at him as if he were slightly mad, but said politely enough, “Not for me, I’m just dropping my son off here.” He introduced Morgan: “This is Mr. Leafy, from theCommission.” The boy seemed about fourteen, tall and slim with a lock of brown hair falling across his forehead. He had a distinct look of his father about him. He said hello as politely, too, but Morgan thought he detected a look of suspicious recognition in his eyes, as if somewhere, in unsavoury circumstances, they had met before.
Murray was about fifty and also was tall and slim. He was wearing baggy dark flannels and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt; indeed, Morgan had never seen him in anything else. Murray had a strong sun-battered face with deep deltas of laugh lines around his eyes and short, wavy, pepper-and-salt hair. His nose seemed a little too small for his face, and his blue eyes sometimes had a humorous glint to them, but more often than not they were probing and unforgiving. Morgan knew the look well.
“You go on in,” Murray told his son. “Phone when you’re ready to come home.”
“OK, Dad,” said the boy looking a bit nervous, and he went into the club. Murray turned to go.
“Holidays?” Morgan asked, desperately keen to keep the conversation going, remembering with real anguish what Adekunle had ordered him to do.
Murray stopped. “Yes. All the family together now; my son arrived about a week ago.”
“Uh-uh,” Morgan said, his head a sudden echoing void. “Yes, I see, must be nice having him out here,” he said fatuously.
The penetrating look had returned to Murray’s eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “No recurrence, everything functioning normally?”
Morgan felt his face going hot. “Oh, yes,” he said hastily, “fine there. Absolutely.” He paused. “Listen,” he said in horribly inept bonhomie, “what about a game of golf? Must have a game sometime.” Why did Murray bring out the arsehole in him? he wondered, appalled at his lack of finesse.
Surprise registered for a moment on Murray’s face. “Well … yes, then. I didn’t know you were a golfer, Mr. Leafy?”
“Morgan, please.” Murray didn’t take up the friendly invitation. “Yes, I’m quite keen,” Morgan lied. “Funny we’ve never met on the
He walked into the colonnaded entrance porch of the club house. A large noticeboard was covered with club rules, minutes of meetings and announcements of forthcoming events. His jaundiced eye swiftly surveyed what was on offer: XMAS GALA PARTY, he read, TO BE ATTENDED BY HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF RIPON. He shuddered, wondering what had possessed him to agree to be Father Christmas. Next to that was the golf-club’s GRAND BOXING DAY COMPETITION,
all welcome, prizes for everyone, sign below.
He turned away in despair. Outside the main door was a newsagent’s kiosk that sold European newspapers and magazines. Tucked away amongst the display of heat-blanched copies of
Newsweek, Marie-Claire
and
Bunte
Morgan knew there were a few issues of American sex-magazines. He was surreptitiously leafing through one entitled
Over-40
—it was not a publication for gerontophiles, the number referred not to the models’ age but to their mammary development—when he heard footsteps on the concrete path behind him. Snatching up a copy of
Reader’s Digest
he looked round guiltily and saw Dr. Murray approaching, accompanied by a young boy.
Morgan felt contrasting emotions stampede through his body: hatred, reluctant admiration, fear and embarrassment. He did his utmost to affect nonchalance.
“Evening, Doctor,” he said with wide-eyed jocularity, indicating with one twirling hand the vague source of the pop-music. “Dancing tonight?”
Murray looked at him as if he were slightly mad, but said politely enough, “Not for me, I’m just dropping my son off here.” He introduced Morgan: “This is Mr. Leafy, from theCommission.” The boy seemed about fourteen, tall and slim with a lock of brown hair falling across his forehead. He had a distinct look of his father about him. He said hello as politely, too, but Morgan thought he detected a look of suspicious recognition in his eyes, as if somewhere, in unsavoury circumstances, they had met before.
Murray was about fifty and also was tall and slim. He was wearing baggy dark flannels and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt; indeed, Morgan had never seen him in anything else. Murray had a strong sun-battered face with deep deltas of laugh lines around his eyes and short, wavy, pepper-and-salt hair. His nose seemed a little too small for his face, and his blue eyes sometimes had a humorous glint to them, but more often than not they were probing and unforgiving. Morgan knew the look well.
“You go on in,” Murray told his son. “Phone when you’re ready to come home.”
“OK, Dad,” said the boy looking a bit nervous, and he went into the club. Murray turned to go.
“Holidays?” Morgan asked, desperately keen to keep the conversation going, remembering with real anguish what Adekunle had ordered him to do.
Murray stopped. “Yes. All the family together now; my son arrived about a week ago.”
“Uh-uh,” Morgan said, his head a sudden echoing void. “Yes, I see, must be nice having him out here,” he said fatuously.
The penetrating look had returned to Murray’s eyes. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “No recurrence, everything functioning normally?”
Morgan felt his face going hot. “Oh, yes,” he said hastily, “fine there. Absolutely.” He paused. “Listen,” he said in horribly inept bonhomie, “what about a game of golf? Must have a game sometime.” Why did Murray bring out the arsehole in him? he wondered, appalled at his lack of finesse.
Surprise registered for a moment on Murray’s face. “Well … yes, then. I didn’t know you were a golfer, Mr. Leafy?”
“Morgan, please.” Murray didn’t take up the friendly invitation. “Yes, I’m quite keen,” Morgan lied. “Funny we’ve never met on the
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