Read Online A Good Man in Africa by William Boyd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Boyd
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Dr. Murray’s son tonight. Spit and image of his father.” He craned his neck as though searching the room for him. As expected this got everybody following suit.
“I’m sure I saw him out by the barbecue,” Geraldine remarked. “Quiet boy, on his own. Shame.”
“Marvellous doctor, that Murray,” Jones affirmed importantly. “I don’t know what we’d have done without him, or what would have happened to Gareth and Bronwyn. It’s difficult, this country, for our two.”
Everybody looked serious for a moment, reflecting on this.
“He could do with a dash of the old milk of human kindness, I reckon,” Morgan commented, inserting the knife half an inch.
Geraldine looked astonished. “Oh no, do you think so? I found him ever so nice and helpful.”
“Depends what’s wrong with you, I expect,” Priscilla interjected. “There are so many hypochondriacs out here. I think Murray can spot them a mile off.” There was more general agreement. Morgan didn’t like the sound of this one bit. What exactly did Priscilla know? he wondered uneasily.
One of Jones’s children ran up. It was the little girl Bronwyn and she was holding a red balloon. “Daddy, Daddy, look what I’ve got,” she piped. Jones picked her up and in a mood of bibulous fatherly love nuzzled her neck saying, “Oo’s a clever likkle girl en? Eh? Oo’s daddy’s likkle clever girlie? Brrrr,” and so on until she screamed in panic to be put down. Whereupon everyone except Morgan leaned over her to admire the red balloon, commenting on its rare and exotic beauty and Bronwyn’s Nobel Prize-winning intelligence in acquiring it. Amongst the hullabaloo Morgan noticed Dalmire’s hand slide from Priscilla’s hip round to cup and squeeze her buttock. The green-eyed monster ruled in Morgan’s heart. Its reign, however, was shortlyterminated by the arrival of a steward bearing a note. Bronwyn had now been joined by her brother Gareth, also clutching a balloon—only this time a yellow one—and also demanding acclaim and admiration so Morgan had plenty of undisturbed time to accept the note, thank the steward, look puzzled and read it. It said:
“I am in the small bar. Why don’t you come and join me. Sam Adekunle.”
Morgan thought he was going to be sick; he even felt a bit unsteady on his feet. He thrust the note into his pocket and thought furiously. His deep concentration eventually impinged on the consciousness of the others present and they stopped talking and looked curiously at him.
“Is everything all right?” Priscilla asked.
“Not bad news, is it?” Jones laughed nervously. “Been stood up by the girlfriend?”
Morgan forced a smile. “God no.” He played for time. “Worse than that.” He said the first remotely plausible lie that came into his head. “Apparently some British Council poet we’re meant to be putting up has gone and got himself lost. Bloody artist, typical.” He left it vague. “Ah well, duty calls.” People commiserated, their conversation resumed. Morgan drained the last inch of his whisky, shuddered, and moved round the side of the group to put it on the bar.
He felt Priscilla’s hand on his arm. “Everything
is
all right, isn’t it, Morgan?” She sounded concerned, and he was touched. He shot a glance at Dalmire, who was chatting to Jones, and looked back at Priscilla, taking in the shiny fringe, the silly nose, the fabulous breasts as if for the first time. Love bloomed like a napalm blast in his heart—a stupid, irrational drink-induced love that had little to do with the emotion spelt with a capital L. He thought: if only he could
have
her, somehow, before she and Dalmire got married, then, well, everything would seem fairer, more even and proper. Her hand was still on his arm; Morgan laid his on top of hers.
“Everything’s fine, Pris,” he said softly, noble in defeat, trying to convey also that she was making a terrible mistake but, ah well, there you go. “Under the
“I’m sure I saw him out by the barbecue,” Geraldine remarked. “Quiet boy, on his own. Shame.”
“Marvellous doctor, that Murray,” Jones affirmed importantly. “I don’t know what we’d have done without him, or what would have happened to Gareth and Bronwyn. It’s difficult, this country, for our two.”
Everybody looked serious for a moment, reflecting on this.
“He could do with a dash of the old milk of human kindness, I reckon,” Morgan commented, inserting the knife half an inch.
Geraldine looked astonished. “Oh no, do you think so? I found him ever so nice and helpful.”
“Depends what’s wrong with you, I expect,” Priscilla interjected. “There are so many hypochondriacs out here. I think Murray can spot them a mile off.” There was more general agreement. Morgan didn’t like the sound of this one bit. What exactly did Priscilla know? he wondered uneasily.
One of Jones’s children ran up. It was the little girl Bronwyn and she was holding a red balloon. “Daddy, Daddy, look what I’ve got,” she piped. Jones picked her up and in a mood of bibulous fatherly love nuzzled her neck saying, “Oo’s a clever likkle girl en? Eh? Oo’s daddy’s likkle clever girlie? Brrrr,” and so on until she screamed in panic to be put down. Whereupon everyone except Morgan leaned over her to admire the red balloon, commenting on its rare and exotic beauty and Bronwyn’s Nobel Prize-winning intelligence in acquiring it. Amongst the hullabaloo Morgan noticed Dalmire’s hand slide from Priscilla’s hip round to cup and squeeze her buttock. The green-eyed monster ruled in Morgan’s heart. Its reign, however, was shortlyterminated by the arrival of a steward bearing a note. Bronwyn had now been joined by her brother Gareth, also clutching a balloon—only this time a yellow one—and also demanding acclaim and admiration so Morgan had plenty of undisturbed time to accept the note, thank the steward, look puzzled and read it. It said:
“I am in the small bar. Why don’t you come and join me. Sam Adekunle.”
Morgan thought he was going to be sick; he even felt a bit unsteady on his feet. He thrust the note into his pocket and thought furiously. His deep concentration eventually impinged on the consciousness of the others present and they stopped talking and looked curiously at him.
“Is everything all right?” Priscilla asked.
“Not bad news, is it?” Jones laughed nervously. “Been stood up by the girlfriend?”
Morgan forced a smile. “God no.” He played for time. “Worse than that.” He said the first remotely plausible lie that came into his head. “Apparently some British Council poet we’re meant to be putting up has gone and got himself lost. Bloody artist, typical.” He left it vague. “Ah well, duty calls.” People commiserated, their conversation resumed. Morgan drained the last inch of his whisky, shuddered, and moved round the side of the group to put it on the bar.
He felt Priscilla’s hand on his arm. “Everything
is
all right, isn’t it, Morgan?” She sounded concerned, and he was touched. He shot a glance at Dalmire, who was chatting to Jones, and looked back at Priscilla, taking in the shiny fringe, the silly nose, the fabulous breasts as if for the first time. Love bloomed like a napalm blast in his heart—a stupid, irrational drink-induced love that had little to do with the emotion spelt with a capital L. He thought: if only he could
have
her, somehow, before she and Dalmire got married, then, well, everything would seem fairer, more even and proper. Her hand was still on his arm; Morgan laid his on top of hers.
“Everything’s fine, Pris,” he said softly, noble in defeat, trying to convey also that she was making a terrible mistake but, ah well, there you go. “Under the
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