A Good Man in Africa Read Online Free PDF

future in-laws.
    “… and, amazingly, it seems Dickie’s a family friend of the Duchess of Ripon. What do you think of that for a coincidence?” Morgan looked up sharply. The request would be due soon; he had an infallible ear for topics being bodily dragged in. “Which is actually what I wanted to have a chat about, Morgan,”she said predictably, running her hands beneath her buttocks, smoothing out the silk creases. “Have you got a cigarette there, Arthur?” she asked her husband.
    Fanshawe offered her a rosewood box inlaid with a mother-of-pearl Hokusai landscape. She took a cigarette from it which she screwed into a holder. Morgan waved the box away when it was presented to him. “Given up,” he said. “Mustn’t tempt me, tut-tut.” Why did he have to sound quite so cretinous? he wondered, as Mrs. Fanshawe smiled at him through clenched teeth. She lit her cigarette. I know why she uses a holder, thought Morgan—she likes to bite things. The creases in Mrs. Fanshawe’s soft throat disappeared momentarily as she threw her head back to blow smoke at the rotating ceiling fan.
    “Yes,” she said, as if replying to a question, “the Duchess’ll be spending Christmas night here, arriving at some point on Christmas day. She’s very graciously agreed to officiate at a children’s party in the afternoon at the club.” She left it like that, vague and up in the air. Oh no, Morgan thought miserably; the games, she wants me to run the games. He set his features in a firm mask. He was going to refuse, he didn’t care how they pressured him, he was
not
going to spend Christmas trying to organise hordes of screaming brats.
    Mrs. Fanshawe tipped ash from her cigarette. “The Duchess,” she continued airily, “is giving small presents to all the expatriate children, and,” here she turned and beamed at Morgan, “we were hoping to get you in on this.”
    Morgan was confused. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”
    Fanshawe broke in. “Christmas spirit, all that.” Morgan was no wiser, but he felt apprehension hollow his chest.
    “Exactly,” Mrs. Fanshawe crowed as if everything was clear and above-board. “We thought—didn’t we, Arthur?—that as
we
are the Duchess’s hosts it would be fitting if a senior member of the Commission were.… were in some way involved with her own very generous act.”
    Morgan was flustered. “You mean you want me to distribute the presents?”
    “Precisely,” Mrs. Fanshawe said. “We want you to be Father Christmas.”
    Morgan felt the anger and outrage boil up inside him. He gripped the sides of his armchair and tried to control his voice.“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You want me to
dress up
as Father Christmas?” He felt his top lip quiver with fury at the effrontery of their suggestion. Just who the hell did they think he was—court jester?
    “What’s this, Morgan?” came a voice from the stairs. “Are you going to be Father Christmas?” It was Priscilla. She wore white flared slacks and a powder blue T-shirt. Morgan’s jumping heart lifted him to his feet. Priscilla. Those breasts …
    He caught himself. “We-ll,” he said, making the word two syllables, the better to illustrate his reluctant refusal.
    “But that’s
mar
vellous!” Priscilla squealed, sitting herself down on the arm of a sofa. “You’ll make a super Santa. How clever of you, Mummy.”
    Morgan felt even more confused. How could anyone misunderstand such a crude vocal inflection? But at the same time he was pleased—pleased she was pleased.
    “I don’t know,” Morgan continued hesitantly. “I thought Dalm … Dickie would …”
    A peal of laughter greeted this half-suggestion. “Oh, Morgan, don’t be such a silly,” Priscilla exclaimed. “Dickie’s much too thin. Oops …” She pulled down her bottom lip with her forefinger in mock-apology. “Oh God, sorry, Morgan.” Everybody grinned, though, including him. He hated