MAMista. Len Deighton

enough money to bring his sister over from Australia, and send his daughter to a good private school.

      His daughter had done a lot to encourage the wonderful reconciliation. With his ex-wife, Lucas found happiness he’d never before known. He did all those things they’d talked about so long ago. They bought an old house and a new car and went to Kashmir on a second honeymoon. It was in the Vale of Kashmir that she died. A motor accident brought seven wonderful months to a ghastly end. He’d never stopped reproaching himself; not only for the accident but also for all those wasted years.

      It was during that first terrible time of grieving that Ralph Lucas was invited to advise the Webley–Hockley Foundation. During almost eighty years of charitable work it had fed the tropical starving, housed the tropical homeless and financed a body of tropical research. The research achievements were outshone by other bodies, such as the Wellcome, but the Webley–Hockley had done more than any other European charity for ‘preventive medicine in tropical regions’.

      Ralph’s invention and the nominal contribution it made to the Foundation’s funds did not make him eligible for full membership of the Board. He was described as its ‘medical adviser’ but he’d been told to speak at parity with the august board. It was a privilege of which he availed himself to the utmost. ‘Find just one,’ he said in response to a careless remark by a board member. ‘Find just one completely healthy native in the whole of Spanish Guiana and then come back and argue.’

      Through the window he could see the afternoon sunlight on the trees of Lincoln’s Inn. London provided the gentlest of climates; it was difficult to recall Vietnam and the sort of tropical jungle of which they spoke. His words had been chosen to annoy. Now he felt the ripple of irritation from everyone round the polished table. It never ceased to amaze Lucas that such eminent men became children at these meetings.

      A socialist peer – iconoclast, guru and TV panel game celebrity – rose to the bait. He tapped his coffee spoon against his cup before heaping two large spoons of Barbados sugar into it. ‘That’s just balls, Lucas old boy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He was a plump fleshy fellow with a plummy voice too deep and considered to be natural. ‘Balls!’ He prided himself that his kind of plain speaking was the hallmark of a great mind. He fixed the chairman with his eyes to demand support.

      ‘Yes,’ said the chairman, although it came out as not much more than a clearing of the throat.

      They all looked at Lucas, who took his time in drinking a little coffee. ‘Filthy coffee,’ he said reasonably. ‘Remarkable china but filthy coffee. Could a complaint about the coffee go into the minutes?’ He turned to his opponent. ‘But I do mind, my dear fellow. I mind very much.’ He fixed his opponent with a hard stare and a blank expression.

      ‘Well,’ said the peer, uncertain how to continue. He made a movement of his hand to encourage the investments man to say something. When investments decided to drink coffee, the peer’s objections shifted: ‘I’d like to know who this anonymous donor is.’

      ‘You saw the letter from the bank,’ said the chairman.

      ‘I mean exactly who it is. Not the name of some bank acting for a client.’ He looked around, but when it seemed that no one had understood, added, ‘Suppose it was some communist organization. The Pentagon or the CIA. Or some big business conglomerate with South American interests.’ It was a list of what most horrified the socialist peer.

      ‘My God,’ said the chairman softly. Lucas looked at him, not sure whether he was being flippant or devout.

      The peer nodded and drank his coffee. He shuddered at the taste of the sugar. He hated the taste of sugar in coffee; especially when he knew it was Barbados sugar.

      The secretary looked up from the rough projections of the accountant and said, ‘Communists, fascists, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh: does it matter? I don’t have to tell you that the fluctuations of both currency and markets have played havoc with our investments. We shall be lucky to end the year with our capital intact.’

      ‘Umm,’ said the peer and wrote on his notepad.

      The lawyer, a bird-like old man with heavily starched collar and regimental tie, felt the reputation of the legal profession was in jeopardy. ‘The donor is anonymous but I would have thought it enough that the letter comes from the most reputable firm of solicitors in England.’

      ‘Really,’ said Lucas. ‘I thought that yours was the most reputable.’

      The lawyer gave him a prim smile to show that he refused to be provoked. ‘What we need to know is how badly the money is needed in Spanish Guiana. That means a reliable on-the-spot report.’ He had suggested this at the very beginning.

      The industrialist polished his glasses and fretted. He had to go home to Birmingham. He put on his glasses and looked at the skeleton clock on the mantelpiece. Three-forty, and they were only halfway through the agenda. His role was to advise the board on technical matters and production, but he couldn’t remember the last time that such a question arose. It wasn’t as if the people on the board were paid a fee. Even the fares were not reimbursed. Sometimes he was ready to believe that paying substantial fees and expenses might provide people who were more competent than these illustrious time-wasters.

      The peer pushed his coffee away and, remembering Lucas’ remark said, ‘Not one healthy native? None of us would last twenty-four hours in the jungle, Colonel, and you know it. Are we healthy?’

      ‘You are talking about adaptation,’ said Lucas.

      ‘I agree with Colonel Lucas,’ said the lawyer. ‘During my time in Malaya I saw young soldiers from industrial cities like Leeds adapt to hellish conditions.’

      The research trustee groaned. There were too many people with war experiences on this damned board. If the lawyer started talking about the way he’d won his Military Cross in ‘the Malayan emergency’ they would never get away. He coughed. ‘Can we get back to the question again …?’

      The peer would not tolerate such interruptions. ‘The real question is: one …’ he raised a finger. ‘… Is this board indifferent to the political implications that might later arise …’

      Lucas did not wait for two. ‘Surely the question is entirely medical …’

      The lawyer held up his gold pencil in a cautionary gesture. It irritated him that Lucas should come here in tweed sports jacket, and canary-coloured sweater, when everyone else wore dark suits. ‘It is not entirely medical. We could lay this board open to charges of financing a highly organized and disciplined army that has the declared aim of overthrowing by force the legal government of Spanish Guiana.’

      There was a shocked silence as they digested this. Then the investments man stopped doodling on his notepad to wave a hand. His voice was toneless and bored. ‘If, on the other hand, we refuse to send medical supplies to these starving people in the south, we could be described as suppressing that popular movement by means of disease.’

      ‘I’m going to ask you to withdraw that,’ said the peer, losing his studied calm. ‘I won’t allow that to go on the minutes of this meeting.’

      Without looking up from his doodling the investment man calmly said, ‘Well, I don’t withdraw it and you can go to hell and take the minutes with you.’

      ‘If the army in the south have money enough for guns and bombs, they have money enough for medical supplies,’ said the man from Birmingham.

      ‘Ten divisions complete with tanks and aircraft,’ said the secretary.

      ‘Who told you that?’ asked Lucas.

      ‘It was a documentary on BBC Television,’ said the secretary.

      ‘What about all the money they are getting from growing drugs?’ said the man from Birmingham.

      ‘I saw the same TV programme,’ said the lawyer. ‘Are you sure that was Spanish Guiana? I thought that was Peru.’

      ‘You can’t believe all that BBC propaganda,’