Free A Change of Climate: A Novel by Hilary Mantel

that position.”
    “Other people may have claims,” Ralph said. This was all he could do—raise small objections. He could not imagine himself in five years’ time. He could not imagine what kind of man he might be, or imagine these notional children of his. I might die in Africa, he thought. There are tropical diseases, and all sorts of strange accidents.
    “Well, they may,” said his father. “But I cannot see very clearly who they would be. Your uncle James will be wanting a rest by then, and the children of my colleagues on the committee are pursuing their own paths in life.”
    “It seems to be looking too far ahead,” Ralph said.
    “Oh,” Matthew said, “I thought the millennia were as naught to you. Really, you know, to plan five years or ten years ahead is nothing. All businessmen do it. We do it when we invest money— though you would know nothing of that.”
    “I suppose I wouldn’t.”
    “My object, my plan—and here I may say the other trustees agree with me—is that the Trust should be forever administered from Norfolk, no matter how wide its interests may become. It is local money that has set it up—and we must keep our feet on the ground. So you will want to base yourself here in Norwich, or elsewhere in the county if you prefer. When you return I will buy you a house, because you will make no money while you are out in Africa. That goes without saying.”
    If that is so, Ralph thought, why say it? He said, “Had you any particular house in mind?” But he could not summon the strength of purpose to put venom into his tone.
    “I want the Trust to benefit my own countrymen,” Matthew said, “not just James’s collection of drunks and wastrels. Don’t mistake me—I have respect for James’s work—”
    “Yes, I understand you,” Ralph said. “You don’t have to talk to me as if you were addressing the County Council.”
    He thought, from now on I shall take control, I shall order my own life, just as I like. I am going to Africa because I want to go, because Anna wants it. When I return I shall be my own man.
    He did not feel demeaned when his father wrote out a check for a wedding present and put it into his hand. Payment was due, he reckoned, a tribute from the past to the future.
    Four days before the wedding James telephoned from London to say that there was a spot of trouble, could Ralph possibly get on the train and come right away? He was due to appear in court as a witness, one of his inmates having assaulted a police constable; his assistant appeared to be having a nervous breakdown, and there was no one but Ralph who could be trusted to oversee the hostel for a day.
    Ralph said, “What will you do when I go out to Dar?”
    His uncle said, “That’s another thing—I want to talk to you about that. Don’t hang about—take a taxi from Liverpool Street. St. Walstan will pay.”
    Ralph picked up his coat and hat and strode off to the station. He feared the worst. His uncle was going to tell him that he was needed here, in the East End; that the tropics could wait, and that he and Anna should see about renting some rooms a bus ride from the hostel. He wondered whether he would say yes and supposed he would. Anna would have to unpack her cotton dresses and put them in mothballs, and begin her married life as an East End housewife visiting street markets with a basket over her arm. He rehearsed some inner rebellions: let James sacrifice himself, James is a clergyman, he has no life of his own. He bought a cup of tea in a cafe near Liverpool Street. He thought of going back into the station and taking the next train back to Norwich; or alternatively, the next train to somewhere else.
    It was half past five when James came back from court, and the hostel was almost full that night, so before he had any conversation with his nephew he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and began to help with the day’s last meal. It was stew—it usually was stew of some sort—but