Free Short of Glory by Alan Judd

would go and see anyway, and go to the loo as well.
    Clifford turned the car round and sat with the engine running. Patrick was about to get into the back. ‘No need,’ said Clifford. ‘I’d rather have her in the back when
I’m in a hurry.’
    ‘I suppose it’s safer.’
    ‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so.’ Clifford opened the window and sat with his elbow on the door, drumming his fingers against it. ‘You mustn’t think tonight is going to be
typical. For one thing, there’s some sort of entertainment and for another there’ll be Lower Africans as well as dips – diplomats, that it. Businessmen mainly, more commercial
section contacts than chancery but it doesn’t hurt once in a while. We don’t see as much of the Lower Africans as we should, really. So damn busy. Now you’re here, though,
I’ll be able to get some systematic entertainment going. HE will be there for a part of the time – quite improperly since there’s no one else of his equivalent seniority and most
ambassadors would never come to a thing like this. Sir Wilfrid’s very keen on doing his bit with his staff, you see, and when he heard about this he just invited himself. Feather in
Philip’s cap, of course, but don’t read too much into it. At least the presence of HE will give things a focus. Social occasions need a focal point, don’t you think?’
    ‘They need some point.’
    ‘Precisely. Exactly what I think.’
    Clifford gave a prolonged blast on the horn that brought Sarah to the door but no Sandy. Sarah had to be waved back. Sandy made a brief appearance, then retreated to get some more cigarettes.
When she reappeared Patrick again offered to get into the back.
    ‘Don’t. I’d rather go there.’ She got in clumsily and slammed the door.
    Clifford glanced at her in the driving mirror. ‘Darling, what did I tell you last time about that door?’
    ‘What you always tell me.’
    Clifford drove fast and no one spoke. Once, when Patrick turned to look at a group of blacks who were sitting huddled in wraps beneath a street lamp arguing, he noticed Sandy sitting very still
and staring straight ahead. She looked small, crumpled and unhappy. She clutched the packet of cigarettes in her lap but did not smoke. He wondered if she felt ill. She did not appear to notice his
looking at her.
    Philip’s house was an extensive bungalow spread like a small motel along grass terraces. His wife, Claire, was short and chunky with small hard brown eyes like buttons. She greeted
everyone with a determined smile.
    ‘I heard all about your arrival,’ she said to Patrick. ‘It must’ve been simply awful and you must be dying for a drink. Did you have one at the Steggles’s? Well,
you must be dehydrated by now. Philip will take you in and see that you get one but mind the altitude till you’re used to it. We must talk later.’
    Philip smiled automatically at Patrick, then reached forward to stop a servant who was attempting to relieve Sandy of her handbag. ‘I must introduce you to some people. It’s going to
be rather awkward because with the ambassador coming and no precise equivalent for him we’re going to have to make up in numbers what we lack in rank. We’ll have to provide him with a
series of guests, as it were. That might not leave many for you, I’m afraid – nor for anyone else, of course. Red or white?’
    ‘Red, please.’
    ‘I’d advise white. The red’s rather strong and should be treated with care until you’re used to the altitude. Particularly at your first function.’ He beckoned to a
waiter and handed Patrick a glass of white wine.
    When Philip turned away Patrick substituted it for a red. Clifford was talking seriously to the commercial officer, nodding thoughtfully without lifting his gaze from the carpet. Sandy was
standing with two other wives who were apparently talking about a third. She still looked subdued.
    There were three camps in the room. The British were entrenched before a table