see. By now the party had been joined by a woman with blonde baby-hair drawn up on top of her head in thin curls. Like many women, she bore the date of her vintage year in the manner of her make-up: the pencil-line of the Dietrich eyebrows on the bald fine English skin above each blue eye, the well-powdered nose and fuchsia-pink mouth. She wore navy blue with a small diamond brooch somewhere towards one shoulder. Bray was introduced to Mrs. Harrison with the quick, smooth exchange of people who have learned the same basic social conventions in the same decade and country. Mweta and Bray and Joy were gossiping about the Independence celebrations; the children were jumping up round Wilfrid Asoni and Small, reaching for the camera. âWait, wait, Mangalisoâdo you want your picture taken? Not even with Bimbo?â
Mrs. Harrisonâs high clear Englishwomanâs voice sailed in: âChildrenâI wonder whoâs been borrowing my
sécateur?
Do
you
know, Mangaliso? I should think Mangaliso might know, wouldnât you, Telema?â
The children dropped to earth, cut down. They stood there, wriggling, turning their feet on the grass, looking at each other. Under her eyes were made plain the shoes and socks tossed about, the wet patch drying between the little oneâs legs.
âMangaliso!â said Joy.
âI shall give you a pair of
sécateur
for your birthday,â the woman said to the child, âbut you must be sure not to borrow mine. I need my
sécateur,
you know.â
He smiled at her, frowning, pleading to be out of the limelight; he had taken the pruningâshears, but he didnât know what
âsécateurâ
meant.
âThatâs a good boy,â Mrs. Harrison said. âMrs. Mweta, Iâm afraid if you donât go into lunch cookâs soufflé will be a pancake. Heâs in quite a state.â
âOh my goodnessâwhat time is it? We were having a photoâAdamson,we must have lunch.â She was laughing and bustling, confused. The children were sent off, with some difficulty; Mrs. Harrison was standing in the sittingâroom, her eyes taking some sort of private inventory, when the party filed through. Then they had to wait a few minutes for Joy, who had taken the children to their quarters. She came back giggling and apologizing and fell in with Bray. âThey canât understand why we donât eat together any more.â
âWell, canât you, sometimes? When youâre alone.â
âNever alone!â she explained, with a slight lift of the shoulders to indicate Small and Asoni. âEven if thereâre no visitors.â
âYouâre not letting that Mrs. Whatnot run the place?â Bray said accusingly.
She laughed at him. âNo, no, thereâs a cousin of mine from home, and my sister-in-lawâs little sister. Theyâve come to help. You know, during the celebrations there were some days when I never had time to see the children at all.â She had dropped her voice, perhaps because the atmosphere of the cool dining-room, as they entered, was so different from the noisy family party on the terrace. Her large, matronly but still young body took the chair at the foot of the table sub-duedly. Mweta took the head with something like resignation, as if it were the conference table. Behind each person a servant stood. Mweta did not even seem aware of their presence, but Joy would catch the smooth inattention of one or another, now and then, and half-whisper something in the local language. There was smoked salmon. And a cheese soufflé, and cold duck. Mweta, while talking about American foreign policy, carefully removed every vestige of the thin layer of aspic that covered the meat. âI really donât see it matters whether itâs due to having got overinvolved in Vietnam, or whether, as this authority youâve mentioned says, Americaâs reached the end of an outward-looking
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