A Good Man in Africa Read Online Free PDF Page B

himself.
    “
Go
on,” Priscilla said leaning back, pointing her breasts at him. “You’ll be fantastic.”
    At that moment he would have done anything for her. “All right,” he said, fully aware that he would probably regret this decision for the rest of his life. “Glad to.”
    “Good man,” Fanshawe said, approaching with the sherry decanter. “Top you up, shall I?”
    Priscilla left at the same time as Morgan. She was going down to the club to meet Dalmire after his golf. Morgan walked with her to her car. His depression had deepened; he had a buzzing, incipient headache.
    “By the way,” he said, “I meant to mention it: congratulations. He’s a nice chap, um, Dickie. Lucky man,” he added, with what he hoped was a grin of wry defeat.
    Priscilla gazed dreamily at the Commission. Her eyes swept round to the storm clouds behind which the sun had now sunk,rimming the purple cliffs with burning orange. “Thanks, Morgan,” she said, then: “Look.” She wriggled her hand at him. “Like it?”
    Morgan gingerly took the offered finger and looked at the diamond ring. “Nice,” he said, then added in an American accent, “A lat of racks.”
    “It’s his grandma’s,” Priscilla told him. “He had it sent out in the diplomatic bag when he knew he was going to propose. Isn’t he sweet?”
    “Mmm. Isn’t he,” Morgan agreed, thinking: the conniving, covert little bastard.
    Priscilla took her finger away and polished the stone against her left breast. Morgan felt his tongue swell to block his throat. She seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened between him and her, erased it completely from her memory, like cleaning condensation from a window, everything gone, even that night. He gulped: that night. The night she’d unzipped his fly … best to forget too, he supposed. He looked at her round plump face, her thick dark hair, cut boyishly short with a fringe that seemed to rest on her eyelashes. She was very nearly a pretty girl in a typically unambitious English Home Counties sort of way, but she was prevented from achieving this modest beauty by her nose. It was long and thin and turned up sharply at the end like a ski-jump. Even the most partisan observer, the most besotted lover, would have to admit it was a dominant feature which even overcame, ultimately, the potent distractions of her fabulous body. Morgan remembered an afternoon’s sunbathing with her when his eyes would run irresistibly up her slim legs, past her neat crutch, swoop over those impossible breasts to alight fixedly on that curious nose. She had a flawless complexion, her lips were, unlike her mother’s, generous and soft, her hair was shiny and lustrous. But.…
    Morgan of course didn’t give, or hadn’t given, a fart about her nose, but in a spirit of pure aesthetic objectivity he had to admit it was a prominent landmark. Perhaps after a decade or so across the breakfast table it might have begun to get on his nerves, he said to himself sour-grapily, feeling only marginally compensated.
    They stood silently together for a moment, Morgan looking at a soldier-ant gamely negotiating the interminable mountainrange of the driveway gravel, Priscilla holding up her ring to catch a fleeting shaft of sunlight.
    “Looks like it’s going to be a real storm,” she remarked.
    Morgan couldn’t stand it any longer. “Pris,” he said feelingly, “about that night, about
us
 …”
    She turned on him a smile of uncomprehending candour. “
Do
let’s
not
talk about it, please, Morgan. It’s over now.” She paused. “Dickie’ll be waiting for me down at the club. Can I give you a lift?” She opened the door of her car and got in.
    Morgan crouched down and looked in the window. He put on a serious face. “I know things have been bad lately, Pris, but I can explain. There are,” he smiled faintly, “convincing reasons for everything, believe me.” He thought for a second before deciding to add, “I think we should