organised in the French colony to decorate a car for the forthcoming Birth-Control Gala. There was no doubt about it; the Connollys had made the French set.
Ten days later the boots arrived at Debra-Dowa; there were some formalities to be observed but these were rendered simple by the fact that the departments involved were now under the control of the Ministry of Modernisation. Mr. Youkoumian drew up an application to himself from the Ministry of War for the delivery of the boots; he made out a chit from the War Office to Ministry of Supplies; passed it on to the treasury, examined and counter-signed it, drew himself a cheque and in the name of the Customs and Excise Department allowed his own claim to rebate of duty on the importation of articles of ‘national necessity.’ The whole thing took ten minutes. A few hours later a thousand pairs of I79 black boots had been dumped in the square of the Guards barracks where a crowd of soldiers rapidly collected and studied them throughout the entire afternoon with vivid but nervous interest.
That evening there was a special feast in honour of the boots. Cook-pots steaming over the wood fires; hand drums beating; bare feet shuffling un-forgotten tribal rhythms; a thousand darkies crooning and swaying on their haunches, white teeth flashing in the fire light.
They were still at it when Connolly returned from dinner at the French consulate.
“What in hell are the boys making whoopee for to-night? It’s not one of their days, is it?”
“Yes General, very big day,” said the sentry. “Boots day.”
The singing reached Basil as he sat at his writing table at the Ministry, working long after midnight at the penal code.
“What’s going on at the barracks?” he asked his servant.
“Boots.”
“They like em, eh?”
“They like em fine.”
“That’s one in the eye for Connolly,” he said, and next day, meeting the General in the Palace Yard he could not forbear to mention it. “So the boots went down all right with your men after all, Connolly.”
“They went down.”
“No cases of lameness yet I hope?”
The General leant over in his saddle and smiled pleasantly. “No cases of lameness,” he replied. “One or two of belly ache though. I’m just writing a re-port on the matter to the Commissioner of Supplies—that’s our friend Youkoumian, isn’t it? You see my adjutant made rather a silly mistake. He hadn’t had much truck with boots before and the silly fellow thought they were extra rations. My men ate the whole bag of tricks last night.”
Dust in the air; a light wind rattling the leaves in the eucalyptus trees. Prudence sat over the Panorama of Life gazing through the window across the arid legation croquet lawn; dun grass rubbed bare between the hoops, a few sapless stalks in the beds beyond. She drew little arabesques in the corners of the page and thought about love.
It was the dry season before the rains when the cattle on the hills strayed miles from their accustomed pastures and herdsmen came to blows over the brackish dregs of the drinking holes; when, preceded by a scatter of children, lions would sometimes appear, parading the streets of the town in search of water; when Lady Courteney remarked that her herbaceous borders were a positive eyesore.
How out of tune with nature is the spirit of man! wrote Prudence in her sprawling, schoolroom characters. When the earth proclaims its fertility, in running brooks, bursting seed, mating of birds and frisking of lambs then the thoughts of man turn to athletics and horticulture, water colour painting and amateur theatricals. Now in the arid season when nature seems all dead under the cold earth, there is nothing to think about except sex. She bit her pen and read it through, substituting hot soil for cold earth. ‘I am sure I’ve got something wrong in the first part.’ she thought and called to Lady Courteney who, watering-can in hand, was gloomily surveying a withered rose tree. “Mum, how soon after the birds mate are the lambs born?”
“Eggs, dear, not lambs,” said her mother and pottered off towards some azalea roots which were desperately in need of water.
“Damn the panorama of life,” said Prudence, and she began drawing a series of highly-stylised profiles which by an emphasis of the chin and disordering of the hair had ceased during the last six weeks to be portraits of William and had come to represent Basil Seal. “To think that I wanted to be in love so much,” she thought, “that I even prac-tised on William.”
“Luncheon,” said her mother, repassing the win-182 dow. “And I shall be late again. Do go in and be bright to your father.’
But when Lady Courteney joined them in the dining-room she found father, daughter and William sitting in moody silence.
“Tinned asparagus,” said Sir Samson. “And a letter from the Bishop.”
“He’s not coming out to dinner again?”
“No, no, it isn’t as bad as that. But apparently Seth wants to pull down his Cathedral for some reason. What does he expect me to do about it I should like to know? Shocking ugly building any-how. I wish, Prudence and William, you’d take the ponies out this afternoon. They haven’t had any proper exercise for days.”
“Too hot,” said Prudence.
“Too busy,” said William.
“Oh, well,” said Sir Samson Courteney. And later he remarked to his wife: “I say, there isn’t any trouble between those two, is there? They used to be such pals.”
“I’ve been meaning to mention it for some time, Sam, only I was so worried about the antirrhinums. I don’t think Prudence is at all herself. D’you think it’s good for a girl of her age living at this height all the year round? It might be an idea to send her back to England for a few months. Harriet could put her up in Belgrave Place. I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good thing for her to go out in London for a season and meet some people of her own age. What d’you think?”
