Smith & Jones by Nicholas Monsarrat

Author:Nicholas Monsarrat
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Smith and Jones
ISBN: 9780755130085
Publisher: House of Stratus
Published: 2012-05-17T16:00:00+00:00

It was the evening before Smith and Jones were due back in the capital. I was at one of the customary ‘National Day’ parties, celebrating yet another escape from the heel of the long-suffering British; this one was a first anniversary, and had been happily linked with a guaranteed British loan of ten million dollars a year for the next eight years. There were the usual toasts, the usual congratulations; the drinks were the same, the loaded buffet tables identical with those of the party the night before and, no doubt, the party the next night. Duty required the four guests from our mission, headed by Ambassador Black, to remain for one hour. It was proving a long sixty minutes.

I was passing the time with a whisky and soda, and watching the Premier go through his customary party act; not for the first time, I reflected that he was really a great loss to the stage.

He went from group to group throughout the long room, shaking hands, slapping backs, drinking toasts, exchanging jokes and twinkling smiles and broad gestures of amity and good fellowship. This was the international glad hand at its most expansive. What always astonished me (I had already watched him on a dozen occasions) was how his personality could react to whatever the current company required. It was true, political, quick-change artistry.

He was a farmer to another farmer – he even looked like one; he was a grave statesman when he was talking to Ambassadors; he was shrewd-eyed when he talked finance, hearty when he talked politics, roguish and bantering when he talked to the press. He could switch anger on, or cold politeness, or warm admiration; he could look relaxed with a drunkard, and positively ascetic with a Papal delegate. It was all as phoney as it could possibly be; but, in the realm of the counterfeit, it was marvellous.

I was watching it, and enjoying it, when presently I became aware that someone standing close beside me was also watching, not the Premier, but myself. I turned my head gradually, to meet his eyes. It was Major Tollman.

He nodded without hesitation, though we had never met, and said: ‘Well, Mr Third Secretary … How are you enjoying yourself?’

His tone and his whole manner were ironic, as if we shared a secret, and we both knew we shared it. Close to, he was more shark-like than ever; the white teeth in the olive face, the white shirt against the dead-black suit, the strong sleek body, the tiny gleaming shoes which were themselves like a tail – all aided the illusion. But tonight he was an affable shark, and I was ready to talk to him on that basis.

This was a man who was probably closer to me – in his thoughts, his professional intentions, his habits of work – than most other men. It suddenly struck me that I would rather be talking to Major Tollman than to Ambassador Black. It also struck me that, with Smith

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