Bums on Seats Page 2

  CHAPTER 2

  1990

  Sally walked through the park to work. The autumn morning had that bright yellow softness which illuminates the spirit. The cool air, as yet unsullied by the day’s frenzy, lightened the heart. The first leaves had changed from tired green to deep gold. England’s spring is renowned, but its autumn surely runs a close second. Sally, at one with the world, made her way through the gates, sprinted across the narrow street and pushed the glass doors. David, sitting in her visitors’ chair, radiated a similar sense of wellbeing.

  “Morning Sally. Another beautiful day,” enthused David, her boss. “Great to be alive! Have you matched up our diaries? What am I supposed to be doing?”

  “Good morning, David. Wonderful, isn’t it? Yes, it’s all done. You’re meeting Alex Jones here at ten-thirty and then lunching with Maria Ainsworth from the FT. She’ll collect you at twelve-thirty. Where would you like to be taken?”

  “Simpsons in the Strand. I can’t resist their roast beef. There’s nothing like it!”

  “I assume you’ll be late back?” She knew him well.

  “Most probably, Sally.”

  During the first two years of their work relationship he’d tried, often, to get Sally from lunch table to bedroom. She’d accepted his compliments, avoided his blandishments, diverted his overtures and, yet, still managed not to fall out. He eventually came to terms with his lack of success. The result was the best PA one could wish for. She was efficient, trustworthy and intelligent. Her good looks and personable manner were bonuses deployed on his behalf. She was popular and effective with key career contacts. If he’d got her to bed, much of this might have been lost. He shrugged mentally. Every downside had an upside! Today he’d succeed with Maria Ainsworth. He had before. She was an easy lay.

  “Sally, I may not be back at all this afternoon. I’ve arranged to go to my son’s school to discuss his progress. It could be some time. If anyone calls, put them off until tomorrow. If there is a real crisis, call me on my mobile. OK?”

  “Understood, David.”

  “How are we doing for next month’s Agents’ Conference, Sally?”

  “I’ve booked the hotel, organised the travel and the programme is being designed. You want it to be informative, interesting and participative, so there’ll be quite a bit of brainstorming. Have you prepared your keynote speech?”

  “I’ll draft it this weekend. Did I tell you I’ve asked the Pro Vice-Chancellor of Stainsmere University to talk about his marketing exploits in the USA? Before moving into education he was Marketing Director for Amlan International. He’s a brilliant presenter. He’ll keep any audience awake!”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “We did our Doctorates together and kept in touch ever since. He’s keen to make Stainsmere a model higher education location. He’s certainly got ability and his industrial experience is a bonus. You’ll find him interesting. Anything else, Sally?”

  *************

  The Regal Hotel is one of those splendid Victorian creations still to be found in our Spa towns. It’s like a miniature St. Pancras Station plonked down in 15 acres of gardens. All red brick and substantial respectability set in England’s green and pleasant land.

  Sally gave herself a last check-over in the mirror, picked up the sparkly evening purse and set off along the wide corridor to the lift. She’d arranged a private reception for 35 worldwide agents. A low hubbub emerged from the Ardney Room, confirming that most were already present. She slowed down, took a breath, set a smile and wafted into the room. Well, sometimes a girl’s just got to make an entrance! Sally was always observed making an entrance and many eyes in the room rolled up and down. How many undressed her in their head is anyone’s guess.

  There were lots of suits and just a few dresses. David stood against the bar with a stranger. “Sally, this is my friend Stu.” They shook hands in the very English, formal way.

  “Hello Stuart, nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to your presentation.”

  “Hello, Sally, I hope I can please you.” He was taken aback, but strove to hide it. David had spoken of her in terms of ability and efficiency. But there’d been no hint of the other delightful attributes. He tried to pay attention to David, while savouring this vision in the black shift dress and chunky costume jewellery. She was tall, slim and blonde. A hint of something exotic wafted across the space between them. She had a beautiful smile. A negative thought intruded. No doubt she had a man at home waiting. He resolved to find out from David.

  “Would you like another drink, Stuart?”

  “Yes, Sally, that would be good. I’ll move on to dry white now. Thanks.”

  Sally, too, had been pleasantly surprised. She’d realised he would be at least ten years older than her. But she’d envisaged, without the slightest evidence, that he might look an archetypal academic … medium height, thinning hair, slightly stooped, with spectacles. The reality was tall, well-built, full head of hair and very fit looking. Probably a squash player or the like, always exercising to keep fit, she thought.

  She put a glass of sauvignon blanc in his hand, smiled and moved off to network among the other guests. From time to time she looked across. He often seemed to be looking in her direction. She wondered if there was anyone special in his life. David might well know. But how to find out without seeming to want to - that would be an interesting challenge!

  The next day, Stuart gave a first-rate presentation. It was lucid, thought provoking and knowledgeable, and delivered with the lightest of touches. Sally joined the enthusiastic applause. David was pleased he didn’t have to follow with a contribution.

  *************

  Two weeks later Sally was on the ’phone. “Stuart, I’ve got the feedback report from the conference. Would you like to meet and discuss it?”

  “That would be very good, Sally. I’m pretty well tied up until Friday. Look, why don’t we make it dinner on Friday. I know a great restaurant not far from your office. What do you think about that?”

  “I like it, Stuart, sounds a great way to deal with it. I won’t be free till seven. Where shall we meet?”

  “I’ll come and sit in your reception area from six-thirty onwards and wait. OK?”

  “Great Stuart, I’ll look forward to seeing you again. In the meantime I’ll email you a copy of the report. OK, ’bye!”

  The meal was a superb procession of delights – fresh lobster, terrine of duckling, ragout of Dublin Bay prawns with monkfish in Pernod, medallions of beef fillet with woodland mushrooms and rich Madeira sauce. He thought it a very civilised way to digest the feedback report! They agreed that he would talk to the entire marketing department on a similar theme.

  Over coffee and brandy their conversation turned to more personal topics. “So, Sally, how does your husband feel about your professional life? Does it conflict with your personal existence?”

  “It did, Stuart, but I’ve recently divorced, so I should really say my ex. I’m a free agent now, so it’s wonderful having an interesting job. I know I’m good at it. I run the whole office. David and I get on well and understand each other. How about you? Does your work disturb your personal life?”

  “Work is my life. My wife died ten years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  He wondered whether to continue. He didn’t talk much about the past, but with this woman it was different. In fact, he wanted to open up. He hadn’t felt like this for an awfully long time.

  “We were in the States, Sally. I was Marketing Director of a large company. One night we were driving through Alabama and were waylaid. We were robbed, then shot and left at the roadside. I came to in hospital. Abigail was dead. It took me years to come to terms with it, but I have. Now I’m grateful for life. We had no children, so I’m on my own. I left America and changed professions. I put all my efforts into trying to make my part of this complicated education system work!”

  “What a terrible trauma, Stuart. You must be remarkable, to
have come through that and rebuilt so successfully. I admire you for it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Sally. Everyone gets their share sooner or later, as you well know.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. The period up to my divorce was something of a setback. As it happens, I’m afraid, that was the second time for me. I married young and we split up nearly twenty years ago. After I got over that, I rebuilt my life and became a model. It was a success for ten years. Then I met the man who became my second husband. After a bit, I packed in modelling and trained for the world of business. We were happy for some time, and then it started to go wrong. But here I am now, like you, happy to be alive and still plugging away! Life goes on, Stuart!”

  Outside the restaurant Stuart suggested they walk off the meal rather than take a taxi. So they did. Later, at her door, he gave her a quick squeeze, kissed her briefly and made off into the night.

  The following Friday they went to a concert at the Albert Hall. This time they taxied home. “Would you like to come in for coffee, Stuart?”

  “Very much, Sally.”

  The evening became amorous and concluded in the bedroom. It was OK, but not entirely satisfactory for Sally.

  Over the following months, Sally and Stuart became an item. He found her intelligent, sensitive and good company. She’d obviously seen a great deal of life and learned from it. But there was no evidence of disillusion or bitterness. She found him extremely efficient, responsible and caring. His dry sense of humour was a great bonus. The only area of slight mismatch was in bed. Once he was aroused there could be no waiting. She, on the other hand, needed to savour each stage.

  “It started after the shooting, Sally. When I did get around to sex again with someone, I found that if I delayed, I just couldn’t cope at all. After I split up with her, there was no one for a while. Then, although there have been others occasionally, it’s always been the same. I do try with you, but you’ve seen the result. I find you so attractive and the desire is there but my plumbing needs maintenance. If this was too much of a problem for you, I would understand.”

  “I’m glad you can tell me, Stu. I’ve always been the opposite, even through the trials and tribulations. Mind you, sex isn’t everything! And, on those occasions when it’s important, perhaps practice can make perfect! I’d hate to lose you now, darling.”

  *************

  “Ah, now I’ve got you. Turning off at that last junction was the final clue. You’re taking me back to the Regal Hotel, you romantic old devil!” She leaned across and kissed him.

  “Not so much of the old. You’re right of course, The Regal it is. They’re doing a special weekend with a piano recital this evening. But mostly I hoped we’d celebrate six months of togetherness.”

  At dinner that evening Stuart broke the news. He’d been offered the Vice-Chancellorship of the new University of Pucklebridge. He was of a mind to accept.

  Later, in bed, “Sally darling, would you marry me?” She would be the perfect consort for a Vice-Chancellor, he thought. She had poise and social awareness and would be all the things that a successful man needed of his mate.

  “Oh, Stuart…” she’d been expecting it, but was still thrown off balance. In her heart she didn’t truly love him. Not in the way she’d loved her first husband. But what exactly was love? And how often might one find it? There was much attraction about the proposal – stability, status, affection … “Thank you, darling. I’d love to marry you!”

  A month later they married and moved into the Vice-Chancellor’s residence at Pucklebridge.

  *************

  Stuart felt secure in the knowledge that he would end his working days here in an agreeable and challenging circumstance. Sally looked with hope to a new beginning. She felt she was drawing a line across the past, little knowing that in fact she was, little by little, moving towards the completion of one of life’s ironic circles.

  CHAPTER 3

  1970

  Chief Nweewe, Lion of Lions, Bringer of Fortune, Descendant of Nwabi, stamped back and forth outside his residence. The sun had never been so hot. It had not rained in five months. The crop would fail. The omens were bad. The tall boy, walking two paces behind with a parasol, had to be especially nimble. He must not step so close that he kicked the Chief’s heels and thus receive a cuff about the head. Nor must he walk so far behind that the sun touched the Chief’s head, and thus receive a kick to the bottom. After one hour his head rang and he limped. The Chief was beside himself with rage and anxiety. Mothers kept their children in the huts. There was not a goat, nor a dog, nor even a chicken in sight. This was the day and all knew it.

  By and by the wail of a newborn breached the sullen silence. Nweewe turned, stepped into the full sun, kicked the boy’s bottom twice for good measure and stalked into the building. His fourth wife had given birth to his eighth child.

  The midwives would not meet his gaze and the Chief knew the child, once again, was a female. He turned on heel, outwardly impassive, inwardly in turmoil and set off for the witch doctor’s hut.

  Nweewe was paramount Chief of the Zombek National Council. He led nine other Chiefs. The National Council was an interim arrangement for the transition of power from the British, who had governed Zombek for 150 years, to the Zombekians. All Africa was returning to indigenous control. The British had seen this coming and, with an eye to the future, had arranged for Nweewe and other prominent young men to be educated in England. Thus, at the age of thirty-five, he straddled two distinct cultures. He’d been brought up as a village boy, albeit the son of a Chief. Later he’d been privately tutored, sent to an English prep school and gone on to graduate from a redbrick university.

  On route to the witch doctor, Nweewe pondered. His power base was entrenched within tradition and his people. The British would soon be gone from political power. They would try to hang on to economic power, and that would be useful for now. In the meantime his people expected, would demand, a son. His line could be traced back to Nwabi. It must continue. His friend, the witch doctor, was not white-educated. They had grown up together. His father before him had been the witch doctor. But, like many such, he was astute. He understood power and deference and expectations and, certainly, where his own best interests lay. Nweewe resolved to recruit his aid.

  “I come, Ngunda,” said the Chief, stepping into the hut.

  “You bear ill fortune bravely, my friend.” Nweewe wondered how he knew so quickly. He’d only known himself for five minutes. “The village women are not worthy. You honour them and they fail you.”

  “Can a Chief cast his seed wide, Ngunda, to help his people?”

  “A Chief must have his reasons.”

  “Another tribe?”

  “Would be an insult. Besides, the Abiki women look like jungle pigs. And the others are little better!” They roared with laughter at this disrespect for their neighbours. “But a British woman might be different,” he added. “There would be no comfort in it. They have small breasts and hips like men. Still, I could mix you a potion. You wouldn’t keep the memory,” he added helpfully.

  Nweewe had never considered such a thing, not even during the long years in England. English women were, by comparison with Zombekians, bony and aloof, with runny noses half the year.

  “We must think about these matters Ngunda. I shall go now and hold my new child and lovely wife. You are a wise friend.”

  “You will know what to do and I will speak with your grandfather. I’ll take him a goat.” Nweewe’s grandfather had died twenty years ago, but everybody knew Ngunda walked and talked with the spirits of the bygone. Nweewe, despite his education, rolled his eyes before stepping into the sun and returning to his residence.

  A little after sundown, Ngunda left the village. He carried a small animal, a machete and a woven bag. The bag contained a monkey’s skull, some human hair, an old piece of linen stained with menstrual blood, a live tree frog and a plug of locally grown hashish. He set off for the Big Stone.


  At noon three days later a Land Rover, spewing foul fumes and spreading dust, entered the village compound. Children ran alongside as it steered to the lodging house for travellers. Driver and passenger waved at the running tots. Scrawny chickens scratched up minute specks, ignoring the intruders. A flea-ridden dog lurched to its feet and joined the welcoming. The sun, its usual dispassionate self, burned down to maintain a humid 35 degrees Celsius discomfort.

  William Fairhurst, Cultural Attaché from the British High Commission, and his new wife Sarah stepped out. It had been four weary hours from Kumbi, the capital. The bigger children smiled, shouted and humped the baggage up the steps to the veranda. The Fairhursts distributed sweets. They had come prepared. It was the fourth village in seven days.

  Ten minutes later they boiled uncomfortably at the foot of Nweewe’s steps waiting an invitation to enter. The Chief kept them an appropriate few minutes, then sent one of his wives for them.

  “Jambo! Chief Nweewe, the High Commissioner wishes you well.” This was the protocol opening.

  “Greetings William, my people welcome you,” replied the Chief in kind. He had met the attaché on several occasions. “Who is this beautiful lady?” he asked looking at her closely. In reality he thought she had passably big breasts for a British woman, but was a bit scrawny otherwise and probably had a runny nose in the winter.

  “This is Sarah, my new wife, Chief.”

  “Oh,” said Nweewe, “although I have several wives and may take a new one from time to time, I thought you were allowed only one!” He was joking of course.

  “No, no, Chief, I meant we were only married during my recent leave,” he added, playing along with the Chief s joke. “In any case a Chief’s powers are such that one wife could not meet all his wishes!” and was taken aback at the ensuing scowl.