Lesson from Mr Punch , livre ebook

Whitefox Publishing - Colin Tucker

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

163 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Life, love and politics: an idealistic British colonial officer's journey of self-discovery in 1930s Dar-es-Salaam. Walter Barnes, a naive junior customs officer from Bristol, is plunged into the heady, politically-charged atmosphere of colonial life in Dar-es-Salaam. Out of his depth, he attempts to deal with murder, sex, race and corruption.

Sujets

Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	Whitefox Publishing
Date de parution	15 octobre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781913532314
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Colin Tucker was born in Dar-es-Salaam, the setting for this novel, and came to England when he was ten. After his Diploma in Drama from Manchester University, he worked in the theatre, becoming interested in scriptwriting theory when reading plays for the Royal Court and National Theatre. He joined the BBC TV Drama Department as a script editor on Play For Today and worked with writers as diverse as Arnold Wesker, Trevor Griffiths, Jim Allen, Ted Whitehead and Jack Rosenthal. He began to see the serial form as the most appropriate for television and served as a producer on episodes of the original Poldark .
Colin produced over ninety hours of TV drama including multi-award-winners Portrait Of A Marriage and Amongst Women . He then ran workshops across Europe in writing for film, taught screenwriting at the Munich Film School and film in general at the London Film School.
He took an MA in Architecture at London Metropolitan University and an MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway College, during which he started this novel.
Colin is survived by Sarah his wife of 52 years, his three daughters, four granddaughters and four grandsons.

Copyright © Colin Tucker 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Colin Tucker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN: 978-1-913532-31-4
Cover design by e-Digital Design
Typeset by Jill Sawyer Phypers
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.
For Sarah
Every empire tells itself and the world that it is unlike other empires, that its mission is not to plunder and control but to educate and liberate.
Edward Said, ‘Blind Imperial Arrogance’, Los Angeles Times , 20.7.2003
Women’s lives – and bodies – have long been one of the key battlegrounds used by the west to stake out its claim to being a superior civilisation and at the same time cast those it wishes to subjugate as barbaric. ‘White man rescuing brown women’ was the thrill of empire, whereby desire for domination could be masked as virtuous duty.
Madeleine Bunting, The Guardian Journal , 22.1.2016
October 1932
Dar-es-Salaam
British Mandated Territory of Tanganyika
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Glossary of Swahili Terms
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
‘Oh, Walter!’ she said, ‘you do love a drama, don’t you?’ She ran a forefinger across the embossed letter heading. ‘But calling it murder, that’s a bit rich. Besides, they’re taking you seriously: official Government House notepaper. Though “you are instructed to attend” doesn’t sound very friendly. I don’t care for “instructed”.’
‘Means nothing – mandarin prose, that’s all.’
Winnie handed the letter back to him.
‘Probably not,’ she said after a pause. ‘But just in case, you will be sensible, won’t you? What’s clear is that one way or another, they’re going to bury the whole business, and if that means seeing the man hanged, they will. You’re required to tick whichever box they choose, that’s all. Witnesses aren’t judges. So don’t object, smile and nod and go along with whatever they want. You will, won’t you?’
They’d arranged to meet in the Botanical Gardens. From somewhere in the direction of the sisal plantations Walter could hear a harsh, monotonous caw, one he’d come to know well – part croak, part retch, the absence of any musicality giving it a curious power, or so it seemed to him. He’d only ever mentioned it to Petrie, who’d not noticed it. Hearing the call now added to his unease. He shifted on the bench and looked up, away from Winnie, and into the branches of the towering iroko that shaded them. It had an appearance of strength but its roots were part exposed.
‘Walter!’ she said, concerned. ‘You will be sensible, won’t you?’
‘’Course I will. You know me, I’m always sensible.’
The bird cawed again.
‘Are you, though? There are times, aren’t there, times when you won’t be told. This isn’t one of them, I hope.’
Typical bloody Winnie. God, she can be annoying.
‘This is all pointless,’ he said. ‘Speculation. Wellesley will know the truth when he hears it.’
He looked out across and beyond the oceans of bougainvillea surrounding them. He could see the tower of the Lutheran church rising clear of the palms that hid so much of the town. The glare of the low afternoon sun forced him first to squint and then to find better protection by looking down at the arid earth beneath them. His boots were scuffed and stained, and needed polishing. Government House in dirty boots? Bad impression.
He stuffed the letter into the back pocket of his shorts and kicked up more dust.
Her voice ran on. ‘You worry me, Walter. The world is a nasty place and these people are where they are because they’re nasty people. They know about things like murder and crime and how to deal with them and you don’t. You’re small fry; you don’t understand the politics of it. You’re not living in some fantasy, I hope
– some dream of how things could be, not how they actually are?’
She was studying him, her sharp eyes scanning him as if for weak points she might exploit, catches she could prise open to discover the inner being, the self he needed to conceal and keep concealed. His head found the sanctuary of his hands, cutting out the intense light and muffling Winnie’s insistent voice.
Nasty people? Jackman certainly, but Wellesley? Seen him in the Club: laughing, affable, courteous, a diplomat by nature – the Governor’s right hand, didn’t Charles call him that? Certainly not the type to collude in a gross perversion of justice. A decent bloke, one who saw the bigger picture, that was Wellesley.
‘Are you? Fantasising? Living in some dream of noble deeds, determined to assert your version of events, ready to sacrifice yourself for the pleasure of feeling morally superior?’
He attempted a laugh and almost succeeded. ‘Morally superior?’ he said. ‘Oh yes, that’s me all right. But what I know isn’t some arguable version of the truth – it is the truth.’
‘Oh, Walter,’ she said, her irritation plain, ‘listen to me – listen! Your truth is beside the point. Promise me, promise me that whatever they want, you’ll agree with it.’
He thought of Rosa, the rise and fall of her bracelets, the cascade of silver shards of light against her skin’s rich dark olive glow, and how he’d treated her. He had to make amends somehow. Anyway, they can’t find him guilty – his is the British Empire and the Empire is the Law and the Law is the Empire. End of discussion.
‘All right, I promise.’
‘Whatever they want? Really, truly?’
He had to force himself to look at her but the lie came easily. ‘Really, truly.’
‘Thank God for that,’ she said, and clapping her hands, jumped to her feet. ‘Come on, lovely boy , you need to smarten up.’
They walked in silence through the Gardens, astonishing in their freshness, bright emerald greens jostling with sparks of gold and opal, and it struck him that these few carefully tended acres were as out of place, as un-African, as he was.
They lingered at the gates, uncertain in each other’s company, but reluctant to cut short their farewells. An elderly shamba boy was whistling in the azalea shrubbery behind them.
Seven months earlier
Oyster Bay
Dar-es-Salaam
British Mandated Territory of Tanganyika
CHAPTER 2
‘Welcome to Dar,’ Meg said. ‘There are treasures to be found here.’ A priestess in white cotton gloves, she removed a shell from the display cabinet and gave it to Walter. ‘One of my favourites. A chiragra spider conch. This one’s female – you can tell by the colour of the aperture; the males are much brighter. Also the male’s shoulder fingers are the same length as its other ones, whereas in the female – look – they’re quite obviously longer. Daggers rather than fingers.’
He tapped the point of the longest dagger. ‘Ouch!’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Don’t tease, they’re sharp enough.’
The shell’s outer carapace was rough and mottled. He turned it over to inspect the smooth inner surface. It glistened with pink and tea-rose and soft shades of tan, while a darker ribbing sprung away from either side of the elongated aperture. The porcelain delicacy of the inner lips captivated him. His thumb tested the texture, feeling the contrast between the rugged outer surface and the smooth folds of the lips. Raising the shell to his mouth, he blew into the narrow aperture but could get no note from it. She smiled and he grinned back.
‘I thought conch shells could be used as trumpets,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, aware of the effect the shell was having. ‘But not that one.’ She watched him intently as he turned the shell over and over in his hands. ‘I find the contrast so extraordinary,’ she said. ‘The six daggers – so aggressive, don’t you think? And then the grace of the inner sanctum they protect.’
The inner sanctum, yes. He looked away. The view of the Indian Ocean from the steel-framed picture window was superb. A lawn stretched from the house towards the cliff edge, ending in a flourish of white trumpet flowers and yellow hibiscus. White horses leapt and foamed some hundred yards offshore, and a solitary dhow tacked away from them towards Msimbazi Bay. Only married men were entitled to houses like this, o