Free The Governor's Lady by Norman Collins Page A

Queen Victoria Avenue had been posted by the South Shropshires, already sweating heavily beneath their close-fitting dress uniform; the native militia, carrying a black sash across their white jackets, were stationed at the side roads to cut off cross traffic; and the very go-ahead Bishop of Osimkwa and Amimbo had flown in by light plane the evening before, with his chaplain and his collapsible pastoral staff. All along the route to the Cathedral, there was a brisk trade going on in Union Jacks, small celluloid dolls, Boat Race trophies, models of the Lord Mayor’s coach in gilt, and various kinds of nut-toffees, lemonade-powders and cooked meats.
    St. Stephen’s Cathedral itself was scarcely large enough for the ceremony. But, small as it was, it did at least look English. The Roman Catholic counterpart on the other side of the town, with its copper dome and campanile, suggested something of Italian or even Near Eastern origin, and was generally regarded as looking out of place there.
    Harold’s own card, he found, entitled him to a pew in the eighth row. It was definitely behind the big shots, but appreciably in front of retail commerce, railway employees, postal workers, and other miscellaneous hangers-on.
    As for Mr. Ngono, he was humiliatingly near the rear of the church. He had, however, managed to secure himself an aisle-side seat. In consequence there was rather a lot of waving and flapping of the printed Order of Service as he greeted mourners and friends alike as they passed by him. Harold noticed that Mr. Ngono was in a black tail coat and carrying a black topper and black gloves and was wearing a band of black crepe around his upper left arm. He also had an umbrella. Harold suddenly wondered whether the black tie with his own lounge suit was sufficient.
    Despite the electric fans, the temperature inside the Cathedral was already nearing the eighty-mark, and the verger was going round spraying the banks of fast wilting flowers with a watering-can. Up in the loft, the organist had a glass of water beside him, and kept throwing back the loose sleeves of his surplice so that they should not cling to his wrists.
    The Governor’s instructions for full ceremonial had been carried out to the letter. In front of the high altar stood a symbolic coffin draped in the Union Jack: the real interment had, of course, because of the temperature, taken place at the earliest possible moment up at Omtala. And in front of the empty coffin were arranged a couple of gold arm-chairs, thrones almost, on a square of the distinctive Residency blue carpet. There were two more chairs for the Household; still gold but without arms.
    In that heat, the organ was inevitably a trifle flat. But the organist had grown accustomed to that. Sometimes for a three p.m. Children’s Service he had known the open diapason go down by as much as a semi-tone until it was just an incoherent rumble, and nothing more.
    Today, however, he was too much intent upon keeping watch in his rear mirror to care very deeply. And, a moment later, he saw what he had been waiting for. At exactly eleven o’clock, the figure of Colonel Hudson of the Shropshires appeared in the little oblong of looking-glass. There was a crash of Army boots being brought down onto the hot gravel; arms came up to the Present with a rattle; and the blast of Regimental buglers signalled the arrival of the Governor.
    The congregation rose. The Dean of St. Stephen’s who had been waiting at the top of the steps, descended; the Bishop of Osimkwa and Amimbo, his pastoral staff now assembled to its full height, emerged from behind a pillar; the Governor and the Governor’s lady got into position, with the A.D.C. and the Hon. Sybil Prosser one full pace behind; and the procession moved forward.
    As the Governor went past him, it occurred to Harold that he had never before seen anyone quite so absolutely splendid. And more than splendid: Vice-regal at least.
    Half a head