She mouthed the lines to herself: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, / Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; / And here were forests ancient as the hills…
‘…utterly withered away,’ Sir Stewart raised his voice imperiously. ‘Choked with weeds. Neglect, plain and simple. And beastly stories to cover it up! The Bemba are not lazy—’
‘Isn’t that precisely what they are?’ Lord Vyvant expostulated. ‘Present company excluded, of course.’
‘But no, you are correct, us Bemba, we are lazy, good sirs,’ said Henry Mulenga cheerily. Agnes kept imagining the native butler as a kind of doll, so silly and mechanical was his chatter. ‘You must teach us, please. You must…Iwe!’ he erupted at a server. ‘Are you blind like a bat? You are spilling on my cravat!’
‘Yes,’ Sir Stewart was saying. ‘I suppose the Bemba are like children, easy to please and so open with their emotions. I have always loved to hear them singing as they work. A harmony that matches La Bohème in sophistication. They just need to get beyond this mud-hut mentality.’
‘The native will never change his spots,’ said Lord Vyvant.
‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Lady Vyvant across the table.
‘There is work to be done,’ Sir Stewart conceded. ‘There is much to teach the black man, beyond tossing him in the mines. I always thought it a good exchange: my knowledge for their labour, my protection for their loyalty. A very desirable sort of socialism. Young men like KK, whom I sponsored to study – just like Ronald here – they are ready to take the reins. But…’
‘Who is KK?’ Agnes asked quietly.
‘Kenneth Kaunda,’ Ronald said in one ear.
‘Kubla Khan,’ Miss Higgins whispered in the other.
Agnes stuck her empty fork in her mouth to stifle her giggle. Miss Higgins’s jokes were not original but her tone was irresistible, teetering between irony and sincerity.
‘The enterprise often feels like heartbreak,’ said Sir Stewart. ‘My wife Lorna…’
‘Ah, the infamous Lorna!’ Agnes said under her breath to Miss Higgins, pleased to contribute something to their rebellious little complicity.
‘Which Lorna do you think he means?’ Miss Higgins replied in a droll tone.
‘…brought them lovely sweaters,’ Sir Stewart continued. ‘But the blacks used them as rugs! Lorna wept over that, the poor thing. I often thought about that, long after she was gone.’
Oh! When had Lorna died? Ronald’s distinctive pronunciation of the woman’s name – like ‘loner’ – had made Agnes picture a thin, pale woman. Perhaps she’d fallen ill.
‘No, we have not got any nearer to the right solution of the racial problem. The blacks are still subjected to such indecency. Henry often has to sleep in the car when we travel to Lusaka.’
‘Indeedy!’ said Henry. ‘I have even had better treatment in Piccadirree than in Chinsali!’
‘Hrm yes, Piccadilly, I’m sure,’ Lord Vyvant sneered. ‘So, Sir Stewart, I hear you have been speaking publicly against the colour bar? Are you going native on us, old chap?’
‘No,’ Sir Stewart laughed. ‘I have resigned. I am resigned. I’m an old man now. I have grandchildren. What a joy it is to see them running around Shiwa! Natural hunters. The other day, our grandson Charles told us that he was going to kill all the lions in Africa!’
‘Hear, hear!’ Henry Mulenga gave a chuckle as flat as old tonic.
‘The grandchildren live in a post-racial paradise,’ said Sir Stewart. ‘They are fluent in Bemba. Lorna is so proud of them. She sends her apologies, by the way – she’s in the Copperbelt.’
Agnes frowned and swallowed a lump of meat. ‘But I thought—’
‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Stewart boomed. ‘Shall we retire to the library for port?’
* * *
The segregation of the sexes sent Agnes to the parlour with Miss Higgins and Lady Vyvant. Miss Higgins guided Agnes around the furniture to a sofa, warning her of the cobwebs. They sat down together, wiping the sticky strands from their cheeks, spitting softly. Lady Vyvant stood in the doorway, giving instructions to the server, and Miss Higgins took the opportunity to spill the beans.
‘There are two Lornas,’ she said. ‘Mother and daughter.’
‘Ah! That explains it. I was quite puzzled. And the mother is dead?’
‘Shhhh,’ said Miss Higgins. Lady Vyvant had approached. There was a rustling pause as she sat across from them. Agnes imagined that the other two women were also smiling blankly.
‘I believe you’ve left out a Lorna, Miss Higgins,’ said Lady Vyvant finally, her voice like fingers running through gravel. ‘There are three in total.’
‘Three?’ Agnes asked. She felt Miss Higgins wilt at her side, her gossip having been scooped.
‘When he