The Golden Child. Penelope Fitzgerald

it for me, Waring thought, before I, a junior executive, become an object of mockery. He took a letter of his own out of his pocket. Looking at the outside did not make it any different. The Whitstable and Protective reminded him that one of their terms had been that he should within six months replace nearly all the slates on the roof and repoint, repair, make good etc., etc., which work had not so far been notified to them as having been done. Waring Smith’s salary was AP3 £2,922–£3,702 pa + £120 fringe, with £261 London Weighting (under review). He knew these figures very well, and repeated them to himself perpetually. They had seemed quite princely, when he got the job.

      Having entrusted all the other letters to the typist, he went to see Sir William.

      In the outer office he found Dousha actually asleep, in a quiet, cream-coloured heap over her desk. By her side was a pile of her work, and on top of that a file which she had evidently just put there. It had a green sticker on it, which Waring knew meant top secret, and the subject was the Garamantian Exhibition.

      Through the glass door he could hear Sir William in the mid-stream of a conversation. Without any thought of concealment, but with very great curiosity, he began to read the file.

      It began with a sheet of thick paper embossed with the address of HM British Embassy in Garamantia, on which was written, in an exquisite script:

	1. The Foreign Secretary
	2. FO Head of African Department
Head of Chancery to	3. The Minister, Department of Education and Science
	4. Director, Institute of Strategic Studies

      We have, of course, not forgotten our Herodotus …

      This was partially covered by an attached note:

      What the hell does the sod think he’s talking about?

      The next minute was typewritten, and read:

      Garamantia has no oil, no natural defences, no army, no education, and no bargaining power. She is, therefore, unworried by representatives of UNESCO, the CBI and commercial diplomats. On the other hand the population, insofar as it is amenable to census, is rising by 2.5% a year. Resources are meagre, and the infrastructure can scarcely be said to be deteriorating as there has never been any. Capital is scarcer than labour, but ‘labour-intensive’ hardly describes the Garamantian working methods. More than half of the perfectly healthy work force sleeps the entire day. The present Government (paramilitary group of the uncles of the reigning monarch, Prince Rasselas, down to enter Gordonstoun in 1980) fears takeover, wishes to put itself under the protection of the Union of Central African Muslim States (relations with USSR friendly) but has been told (as a result of consultation with the East German publicity firm Proklamatius) that the only useful contribution they can make to ingratiate themselves with the Union is to exhibit the Golden Treasure, for the first time in history, in the capitals of the West. Hopefully this is to promote the idea of age-old etc. settled cultural ideals and will to some extent combat the extraordinarily powerful presentation of the Israeli case. Hence Garamantian Treasure to be sent hastewise.

      The next minute, from the Commercial Attaché, read:

      Backing for insurance mounting and transit of the exhibits has been obtained from the Hopeforth-Best International Tobacco Corp. It is agreed that no advertising material shall be displayed or implied, but Hopeforth-Best have given us to understand, in strict confidence, that they feel the association of their product with the much-reverenced Treasure through their widely-used slogan ‘Silence is Golden — Light up a Middle Tar Content’ will prove consumerwise of substantial effect.

      A final note from the Foreign Secretary’s office:

      We must watch these tobacco people, but it is certainly a great coup for our diplomacy that the Treasure, which of course is going to Paris and West Berlin, should come to London first. A compliment to Sir William Simpkin may possibly be intended, but His Excellency will be congratulated.

      Waring shut the file and replaced it by Dousha’s elbow. He stood there, deep in thought, till the door opened and Sir William, with unwonted spryness, looked out.

      ‘Reading the confidential files, are you? Well, why not, why not? The more people know these secrets, the less nuisance they are. I’d read it out at the conference, only I don’t want to upset the Director’s feelings. No, that wouldn’t do.’

      A young journalist, who was on his way out, smiled uncertainly.

      ‘I’d like to thank you for the interview, sir …’

      ‘Mind you file it correctly,’ croaked Sir William suddenly. ‘The function of the Press is to tell the truth — aye, even at the risk of all that a man holds dear. Remember to tell them that a camel always makes a rattling noise in its throat when it’s going to bite; remember to tell them that. There’s many a man who would be living yet, if he’d heeded that advice.’

      ‘Sir William, all that was absolute rubbish,’ said Waring, as the reporter made his escape. ‘Every one of your expeditions was professionally planned and recorded. You’re talking like an old mountebank.’

      ‘I like a joke occasionally,’ Sir William said. ‘In any case, it’s true about the camels. But my jokes — well, I find not a lot of people understand them now. Your Director now, John — he seems to understand them. I was having a joke with him yesterday.’

      ‘Did he laugh?’ asked Waring doubtfully.

      ‘Well, perhaps not very loud. But that’s enough of that. How are things going below? Do you think they really find it was worth coming?’

      Waring described what he had seen, this time to a much more sympathetic listener. Sir William’s whole countenance seemed to change, leaving him very old-looking, pale and serious. He shook his head.

      ‘Have you had a look at these, by the way?’ he asked, pushing forward the bright yellow leaflet.

      ‘Yes, I saw one or two of them down in the main courtyard. I thought perhaps a religious maniac’

      ‘I don’t know why madness should always be put down to religion,’ said Sir William, folding the leaflet up carefully as a useful pipe-lighter. ‘Let us confine ourselves to the good we can do here and now. As it happens, I’ve asked you up here to do a favour for me. I want you to spare an hour or so this evening to take Dousha out to dinner. You can see for yourself how tired she is. She’s had a tiring time lately.’

      ‘I don’t see how I can possibly do that … I’m expected home, I’m afraid … And I’m pretty sure Dousha wouldn’t want to go out with a married man with a mortgage …’

      ‘If you weren’t married, I shouldn’t trust you to take care of my poor Dousha. It’s an expensive business, however — she eats copiously. I don’t want you to face ruin …’

      Sir William took a handful of coins out of the pocket of his coat, a long Norfolk jacket of antique cut, and sorting through some Maria Teresa dollars and Byzantine gold nomismata he produced a quantity of sterling. With difficulty Waring got him to put away the varied hoard, assuring him that it wasn’t like that — Dousha and he would pay for themselves — and found that he had ended by accepting the absurd commission; he would have to go out with Dousha, whom he scarcely knew, and would be obliged to ring up Haggie and make what excuses he could.

      With the handful of money Sir William had taken out of his pocket there was a small clay tablet, which was still lying on the desk. It was a palish red in colour, unbaked and unglazed, and covered with deeply incised characters. Waring felt almost sure that it was from the Exhibition.

      ‘Ought that to be in your pocket, Sir William? Surely it’s from Case VIII?’

      ‘Quite possibly. I asked Jones to fetch it up for me last night.’

      ‘But I thought you didn’t want to see the Treasure again? You said you were too tired.’

      ‘I am tired,’ said Sir William,