Lyrics Alley

IV

Usually, after a massage, he slept deeply, but tonight he was restless. It had been years since Waheeba massaged his back — he couldn’t remember the last time, but it must have been before his second marriage. She was good at it, heavy-handed but effective. She might even have bruised him, and he would feel sore tomorrow, but after that the benefits of her treatment would be felt, significant and lasting. He shifted his weight and tried to find a more comfortable position. The room was airy because the windowpanes and shutters to the terrace were wide open. Without a full moon, the starlight was soft and untroubling and there was no reason for him not to sleep. He was not in pain; neither was he hungry or thirsty, nor was he lonely. His elder sons were spending the night in his room. Nassir, after his journey from Medani, was lying on his back, his hands folded on his belly, snoring loudly. Nur, on an extra angharaib, was lying on his side, the sheet as was his habit, pulled over his face. Mahmoud felt a surge of simultaneous fondness and grudge towards them. He was pleased that they were near him, but at the same time he envied how deeply they were sleeping. What were they dreaming of? He was not really interested, nor would he understand their generation’s concerns. His children were an extension of him and he had hopes and plans for them, which he expected them to obey, but his core, his inner depth, was independent of them.

This sleeplessness, he realised, getting out of bed and walking out onto the terrace, was a good sign, a sign that his illness was coming to an end. Perhaps in a day or two he could go back to work. He had been going over things with Idris, but not everything could be done from home. It would be good to be back in the office again. the office. This word meant a great deal to him. He was not a merchant in the Souq Al-Arabi, as his grandfather had been. He was not the head of an agency, as his father had been. He was the director of Abuzeid Trading, a private limited liability company, one of the leading firms in the Sudanese private sector. There were British companies, of course — Gellaty and Hankey, Sear and Colley, Mitchell Cotts and Sudan Mercantile; there were the fabulous long-established Syrian-Christian families the Haggars and the Bittars but he, Sayyid Mahmoud Abuzeid, was indigenous. Let no one call him an immigrant! The immigrants came fifty-five years ago with the Anglo-Egyptian force, sent to avenge Gordon’s death and recover the Sudan. Those newcomers were adventurers and opportunists who knew that the defeat of the Mahdiyyah and the new British administration would herald an era of prosperity. Instead, Mahmoud Abuzeid’s grandfather had come in the early 1800s, fleeing conscription in the Egyptian army.

The Abuzeids had risen by a combination of financial sharpness and the drive to modernise. Unlike the Mahdi and the Mirghani family firms, who were supported by the British in order to distract them from politics and play them one against the other, the Abuzeids were independent. Mahmoud was proud of that. And he wanted to do more. He wanted to steer his family firm through the uncertainties of self-determination and stake a place in the new, independent country, whenever and whatever form this independence took. This was why he loved his office. The other burgeoning family businesses did not put so much emphasis on form. He, though, had an office, just like a British company, with secretaries, filing cabinets, qualified accountants, telegram operators, and everything was written down, filed in order. He needed to get back to work. A number of important meetings had been postponed because of his illness and too many things were now on hold.

Walking on the terrace tired him and he sat back on one of the large metal chairs that made up the outdoor seating arrangement. The cushions were soft and cool underneath him, but by now he was bored with comfort. He wanted to be strong and energetic again. The doctor had assured him of a slow but complete recovery and Mahmoud wanted to forget these past days. He had not only been physically ill, but frightened, too, chastened in some way. Good health was a blessing, anything else a constraint. Being bedridden had made him feel morbid. Was he meant to think that death was around the corner? Should he start to put his affairs in order? He had seen the concern in his family’s eyes. His death would affect their lives. Nabilah and the children would return to Cairo — she would have no place here, he was sure, but Farouk and Ferial would be deprived of their country and their Sudanese family. It was an unhappy thought, and though he trusted that Idris would not deprive them of their inheritance, his young, half-Sudanese family, would bear the brunt of being orphaned more than their elder brothers, Nassir and Nur. He listened to the breeze from the Nile and the sounds that came from the fields on the riverbank. A donkey brayed and pigeons cooed, even though dawn was a long way off.

His mind turned to the names and faces of the friends and business acquaintances who had visited him. He challenged himself to remember them all, knowing that he would be able to check the accuracy of his memory by looking at the list Nur had been writing. Some had come more than once, and those who esteemed him most had come immediately on hearing that he was ill. Their concern was gratifying. It filled him with affection for them and a desire to reciprocate. He, too, if Allah continued to give him life, would visit them in sickness, commiserate with them in death and celebrate their happy occasions.

And how had his family responded to his illness? Idris had risen to the occasion and could not be faulted. Nassir, on the other hand, had taken too long to arrive from Medani. People would talk of this — it was embarrassing. The boy resembled him physically, but was lazy and irresponsible, unlike Nur, who looked like his mother and yet held his father’s sense of duty inside him. Mahmoud always compared the brothers and always found Nur to be superior. Even though he was not the eldest, Nur would be the next chairman of the Abuzeid group of companies, the next head of the family. But what to do about Nassir? Years ago, on the night of his wedding to Fatma, Nassir had been too drunk to consummate the marriage. Mahmoud had laughed along with everyone else at the story of the groom, henna on his hands and kohl in his eyes, passing out fully dressed on his marital bed, but Nassir’s drinking was no longer a laughing matter. The reports that reached Mahmoud were damning. Nassir was never at the Medani office before eleven o’clock on any day of the week. It was clerks and employees who were running the Abuzeid Medani office, not the landowner’s son. Cotton was yielding millions these days because the English couldn’t get enough of it now that the war was over, but that was no excuse for Nassir to take things easy. It was the time to be aggressive, to develop and expand. Mahmoud resolved to confront him before his return to Medani, and if he didn’t pull himself together, he would summon him back to Umdurman to keep a close watch over him.

As for Nur, the boy needed to complete his education. This evening’s poetry episode was a phase he would get over. He was brilliant in his studies, outstanding in sports, especially football. An all-rounder, the English headmaster said, and how proud Mahmoud felt that his son was excelling at Victoria College. Every penny spent on the fees was worth this joy. It was especially gratifying to visit him in Alexandria. Mahmoud would park his car and visit the headmaster, Mr Waverley, in his office. With amazement — and a certain degree of alertness needed to follow English — he would listen to his son being praised. Such magical moments, sitting across the desk from the English gentleman who spoke loudly, slowly and clearly. Nur, his son was an all-rounder! After a few minutes — not long, for the English did not like to waste time — Nur would arrive at the office wearing his navy school blazer with the letters V and C embroidered in gold on the pocket, the C underneath the letter V. Nur’s eyes would shine when he saw his father. He would rush forward and bend to kiss his hand before Mahmoud enveloped him in a brief hug. Then, obtaining special permission, Mahmoud would take Nur and his friends out for lunch. How those boys attacked their plates of kebab and kofta! As if they had been starving for weeks. They were not allowed such food in the dorms and they had to bribe the cleaning staff to buy them ful and falafel from outside. Poor boys, forced to eat English food every day: boiled potatoes, roast beef, and more tasteless boiled vegetables. Mahmoud chuckled.

Lulled by these pleasant images, he felt sleepy enough to go back to bed. As he stretched out, a niggling thought imposed itself. Something had happened this evening that he didn’t approve of. Not only Nur’s poem, but something else. What was it? Yes, it was the women, Waheeba and Nabilah. His two wives in the same room! It was a sight he had never seen before and never wished to see again. They belonged to different sides of the saraya, to different sides of him. He was the only one to negotiate between these two worlds, to glide between them, to come back and forth at will. It was his prerogative. This wretched illness had made him passive and given the two women space to bicker and make snide remarks at each other, without any respect for his presence. He remembered Idris’s sneer. But this irritation would drive sleep out of his eyes. He pushed the image of his wives away and made himself ponder more pleasant thoughts. The concern and love in his friends’ eyes, their good wishes and prayers for his recovery. In a few days, he would go back to the office and, after a full morning of work, drive to the site of his new building to see how the work was progressing.

Sheep were slaughtered to celebrate his recovery, and an ox, too. Their woolly, matted skins lay in piles on the floor of the hoash and the early-morning air smelt of fresh blood. The poor of Umdurman gathered at the door of the saraya. They were not given raw meat but instead chunks of boiled mutton, the fat soaking the kisra they were placed on. The household sighed with relief. The scorch and burden of ill health had been lifted and a feeling of renewal and purification filled both the hoash and the modern wing of the mansion. After days in bed, Mahmoud Abuzeid re-entered the world and fell in love with it again. The clean morning breeze, the fresh smell of other men’s cologne, the thrust and satisfaction of business accomplished and the anticipation of more success to come. His laugh boomed again. He felt rejuvenated, touched by a miracle. It was good to bellow orders and send his staff scurrying. They had all gone lax while he was recuperating and it was time for them to be on their toes again. Not only in the office, but at home, too. He challenged Nabilah with a seated dinner party for thirty guests; that should keep her occupied and silence her complaints. And it was high time too, to deal with the problem of Nassir.

On his second day back at the office, he passed by Waheeba on his way home. At this time in the afternoon she was under the shade of the veranda having her siesta. His unexpected visit stirred the sleepy hoash. Waheeba’s girls, Batool and the others, rose to greet him with smiles and hugs. They were the daughters of distant relatives sent to Umdurman for schooling and it was their voices that woke Waheeba. She sat up with difficulty, drawing her to be around her and pulling down the edges of her dress. He sat on the angharaib perpendicular to hers while she coughed, wiped her face with her hands and settled herself upright. Her two legs stretched out straight from the bed, the calves pressed hard against the edge. She asked about his health and he asked her about the previous day’s slaughter which had coincided with Nur’s farewell. His friends and other members of the family had come to bid him farewell and today he was on his way to Alexandria, making the journey to Cairo by airplane for the first time instead of by train.

Batool brought him coffee and water.

‘Shall I put sugar for you, Uncle?’ she said, smiling. ‘For Allah’s sake, stay and have lunch with us.’

She was a pretty girl with smooth black skin and perfect teeth. Her father was poor and the girl had attached herself to Waheeba even though she had finished school. She was loyal and hardworking, entertaining and caring. Even though Batool was not his daughter, Mahmoud would spare no expense in getting her married and settled.

Waheeba did not repeat her girl’s invitation. She knew that he would be having lunch and siesta with Nabilah. His days of lunching with her were over. Today, seeing the hoash quiet after what must have been the bustle of the past days, Mahmoud felt a faint pity for his wife. His illness had given her a role to play but now that he was better, she would recede to the background. In his mind, he associated her with decay and ignorance. He would never regret marrying Nabilah. It was not a difficult choice between the stagnant past and the glitter of the future, between crudeness and sophistication.

As if to confirm his thoughts, she asked now, ‘Has Nur arrived safely?’

Stupid woman, ignorant of concepts of distance and time. He chuckled and said, ‘No, Hajjah. It will be still a long time before his trip is over. I will let you know when I have news. the office in Cairo will send me a telegram as soon as Nur arrives.’

‘Why does he have to travel so far away to study? Why couldn’t he attend Comboni College like Nassir did?’ It was a constant refrain.

He took a sip of his coffee.

‘Because Victoria College is superior to any school we have here. It is based on the English public school system. And besides, next year when he finishes, I want him to continue his studies in Cambridge.’

‘Is that in Egypt also?’

He sighed. ‘No. In England.’

‘Even further?’

‘Yes, it is even further and I don’t want any grumbling from you. I have already made a decision.’

She listened to him intently, her eyes never leaving his face. Behind the formality of respect and diffidence, he glimpsed a certain expression. She was looking at him as if he was a precocious child and she was curious to see what he would do or say next. She was only older than him by a few years but in their youth, this age difference had seemed like a decade. He had been shocked when his father ordered him to marry her. Waheeba was a distant relative, the only daughter of an established Umdurman merchant who had become wealthy by trading in Gum Arabic.

Waheeba came into the Abuzeid family with money and business connections. At twenty-one, she was considered a spinster and her family had no hesitation in marrying her off and financing a lavish wedding. Mahmoud, a youth of eighteen, his mind taken up with a fascination for commerce, had hated Waheeba at first sight; hated her because of her dullness and lack of beauty and, most of all, because she was forced on him. Their wedding night was a disaster, a humiliation he had buried deep and did not talk to his friends about. It was almost a miracle that Nassir and Nur were conceived, but their arrival, and the force of the years, eroded his distaste for her, so that on such an afternoon, after he had found fulfilment and success in another marriage, he could share with her the wish that Nur would arrive safely in Alexandria after a good trip. Nassir, though, was the reason he had come to visit her. Nassir, who had not yet returned to Medani.

‘I am reducing his allowance,’ he said to her, ‘until he mends his ways.’

‘But he has his house in Medani to support,’ she protested. ‘And he receives lots of guests. And Fatma will have more children. He said to me—’

Mahmoud didn’t allow her to go further.

‘He has to learn. He is my employee. He works for me, and he is not doing his job. And you know as well as I do how your son is squandering my money!’

She pulled her chin in so that the curves of fat were more pronounced.

‘He is still young. He needs to learn.’

‘No, he is not too young. Don’t defend him. He is the reason I came here today, to tell you that while I am reducing his allowance on one side, I don’t want you giving him money on the other side.’

She shrugged and looked down at her feet.

‘Am I clear in what I am saying? You are not to give Nassir any money, either directly or through his wife or through anyone else. He gets nothing except what I give him and he gets nothing from you. Am I clear?’

Waheeba nodded and said faintly, ‘Fine.’

‘People are beginning to talk,’ he confided in her. ‘It’s shameful. The family’s good name will be affected by Nassir’s delinquency!’ This distressed him to the core. His position in society mattered to him.

Waheeba remained unmoved. She shifted her weight on the angharaib.

‘Allow me just to pay for his daughter’s circumcision. I want to celebrate it in style.’

‘What?’ he bellowed. ‘I will not have such barbarity in this house. I forbid it.’

‘Aji!’ Waheeba slapped her hand on her chest and her voice rose. ‘What kind of talk is this?’

‘It’s modern talk. We need to stop these old customs, which have no basis in our religion and are unhealthy. Besides, it’s against the law.’

‘What law? Are the English going to tell us what to do with this!’ She pointed down to her lap. Batool snickered.

Mahmoud began to regret this turn in the conversation. ‘What do the girl’s parents have to say about this?’

‘Nassir and Fatma are like everyone else. They want to do the right thing by their daughter. You are the only one protesting and I don’t know why. Maybe your Egyptian woman has been putting ideas in your head. Is she not intending to circumcise her daughter, Ferial?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Shame on her. No man will want to marry her when she grows up.’

Dragging Nabilah and Ferial into the conversation was more than he could bear.

‘I will speak to Nassir and Fatma about this,’ he said, and rose to leave.

Idris was the other backward element in his life. When Idris returned from a business trip from Sennar, they had their morning tea together before setting out to meet the new manager of Barclays Bank. Mahmoud looked down and saw that his brother was wearing slippers.

‘On a day like this! Slippers, in front of Mr Harrison?’ Idris smiled broadly.

He slid his right foot out of his markoob and wiggled his toes.

‘Is he going to listen to me or look at my feet?’

Mahmoud sighed. ‘We have to make a good impression.’

‘You think he hasn’t heard about us? Our reputation will have preceded us.’ Idris sucked his tea. He did this with too much noise, the kind of noise the English would not appreciate.

‘We haven’t done business with him yet and I don’t know what he is like.’

But Mahmoud was an optimist. This was a result of his consistent good luck. However, he liked to play safe and be on more or less familiar ground. He was not happy that the previous bank manager had been replaced. Now he would have to start from scratch and win Nigel Harrison’s trust. He would have to persuade him that the Abuzeid brothers were not only honest and with a good credit history, but that this new business venture of cotton ginning was going to bring in profits enough to repay any bank loan.

‘You could have at least worn sandals,’ he murmured. placing his empty glass on the table and standing up to leave.

Unlike Idris, who was in a jellabiya, he was wearing his best suit, purchased from Bond Street, and his Bally shoes. They pinched, and he was slightly hot, but personal comfort must be put aside. This meeting had been first postponed because Mr Harrison had not yet taken up his post, then again because of Mahmoud’s illness and Idris’s trip. Now Mahmoud was eager for it. He had hardly slept the night before, excited and going over the proposed figures in his head. He felt young and vigorous, eager for this new scheme.

In the car, he saw trees being planted in Kitchener Avenue. They would look beautiful, one day, overlooking the Nile. Two Englishmen and an English woman were on horseback, wearing broad-rimmed hats. The sight reminded him of his childhood when all the English rode horses. Now, most of them had cars, yet an eccentric few still preferred their horses. He turned his Daimler into Victoria Street and parked underneath the sign that said Barclays Bank (Dominions, Colonies and Overseas). He switched the ignition off and they got out of the car.

‘Maybe this will be the last English manager we will have to plead in front of. Imagine coming to meet a Sudanese like ourselves!’

Idris only grunted in reply. He was negative about Sudanisation and self-government, whereas Mahmoud kept an open mind and a determination to go with the flow. Because of the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium, Sudan was not technically part of the British Empire. The Foreign Office, rather than the Colonial Office, ruled it, which resulted in a more graceful colonial experience and the British officials Mahmoud came into contact with were refined and educated, well-travelled and diplomatic. He knew that when the day came, he would not help but feel sorry to see them leave.

*

Mr Harrison, an Oxford graduate with solid credentials, was tall, with black hair and grey, watchful eyes. He rose from his desk to greet them and spent several minutes, as was the Sudanese custom, exchanging pleasantries in beginner’s Arabic. It always irritated Mahmoud to hear his mother tongue grammatically distorted and heavily accented. There was no need for this, no need for the English to trouble themselves with a foreign language to try and gain favour with the Arabs. Especially when it was so clear who needed whom. Mahmoud was a man who appreciated hierarchy, the order and logic of it, and he had no problem ingratiating himself to this Englishman, young enough to be his son.

‘What do you make of our country, Sir?’ He sat on the edge of his armchair, eager to show off his English. He liked the roll of the words in his mouth, and the weight of the file with the proposal on his lap.

Thankfully, Mr Harrison stopped talking Arabic.

‘It is a fascinating land. From what I have seen so far, it has great potential, and Khartoum is a pleasant city. I’ve been to several functions, social as well as business, and I’m staying at the Grand Hotel until my house is ready.’

‘The best hotel in town,’ Mahmoud murmured. ‘An excellent introduction.’

‘Yes, it is comfortable. I must say I am impressed by the architecture of the city; it is of a very high standard. Yesterday, I attended a session at the Legislative Assembly and that building was interesting too.’

‘They voted to discuss the motion for self-government, I heard.’

‘Yes, then in the middle of the session the electricity supply failed and a dozen flunkies walked in carrying hurricane lamps!’ Mr Harrison smiled, clearly amused and Mahmoud laughed politely.

‘Have you had the opportunity to travel outside Khartoum?’

‘Not yet but it is something I look forward to.’

‘Then you must come to our farm in Gezira and see for yourself the cotton fields!’ Mahmoud raised his arms and turned to look at Idris to include him as a host. Idris nodded and reaffirmed the invitation. Mr Harrison must certainly enjoy their hospitality. He must partake of the celebrated Sudanese breakfast. He must bring his wife — no wife yet? Of course, he was too young for the shackles of matrimony. Laughter, and Mahmoud was liking this young man more and more, his wide-eyed innocence, his cotton suit slightly, only slightly, crumpled and his attractive modesty, because modesty in those with power and position was especially attractive.

Nigel Harrison looked and sounded his age now, his eyes bright with thoughts of leisure activities and a life outside work. ‘I have always wanted to come to the Sudan,’ his voice was more relaxed and confessional. ‘My grandfather was with Lord Kitchener’s army and often told me stories of the campaign. I grew up with a keen interest in the history of Sudan.’

‘Your grandfather would have told you about the invasion, but those days of war are over now, Mr Harrison. We are now in the days of commerce, profitable commerce for you and for us. This country has vast potential but I need not tell you. You know already.’

‘True, true. .’ Mr Harrison faltered slightly. He sat upright in his chair and became businesslike. ‘And what can I do for you today, gentlemen?’

It was the cue they had been waiting for. Out came the proposal, the facts and figures carefully calculated and the large loan they were aspiring to. The cost of setting up the first cotton ginnery in the private sector. Abuzeid cotton would be ginned by the Abuzeids themselves. The proposed location would be Hamad Nall’ah in Sinnar. Yes, the governor of the Blue Nile province, Mr Peterson has welcomed the idea. Mahmoud explained that Idris was the farmer while he was the businessman. Idris was the one who knew just how much more cotton the Gezira fields would be able to yield in the future. The future was promising and their business history was impressive. Two years ago, under the previous Barclays Bank manager they had been granted a loan to acquire the agency for Perkins motors, specifically the pumps for irrigation. The result was that the Abuzeid cotton fields were now irrigated by Abuzeid pumps. They no longer needed to buy or hire pumps from someone else. Idris explained the significant difference the pumps were making, their efficiency in irrigating the fields and how much acquiring the Perkins agency had cut costs. The Abuzeids were able to repay the loan in no time and it was with this confidence that they were now expanding into cotton ginning and asking for another loan.

Young though he might be, Nigel Harrison had done his homework and was canny enough to question his clients. ‘There are capitalists in this country, some of them foreign and some of them local, who would be honoured to ally themselves with you. They have the finances you need and you have the base and experience they lack. Why aren’t you allowing them to invest in your projects?’

The reply was confident. ‘We are a family business, Sir. We do not want outsiders to come between us.’

‘This possessiveness might do you harm in the long run.’

Mahmoud smiled. ‘We do not need anyone else, only Barclay’s Bank.’

Harrison responded with a small smile and went on, ‘But given the more than healthy profit of last year’s cotton yield, Sayyid Mahmoud, you cannot have any liquidity problem. Why are you seeking a loan?’

Mahmoud crossed his legs.

‘I have invested my cash in a building, Sir. The very first high rise in Khartoum. It will be a big building on Newbold Street, a building similar to the ones in Cairo.’

Nigel Harrison, like every traveller from Europe, had passed through Cairo on his way to Khartoum and he knew what Mahmoud meant. The brothers started to describe the building and its exact location.

‘Next to Hoash Boulus,’ said Idris.

Mahmoud rebuked him in Arabic, whispering, ‘What would he know about Hoash Boulus!’ Then he turned towards the desk, raised his voice and switched to English. ‘I will take you to see it, Mr Harrison. It will be a fine piece of architecture when it is ready.’

A week later Mahmoud met Nigel Harrison at a reception in the palace. He introduced him to Nabilah, proud that she was next to him in her jewels and cocktail frock, her fair skin radiant in the lamp-lit garden. In his dinner jacket, with a drink in his hand, Mahmoud was satisfied that they made a favourable impression. But it seemed an inappropriate occasion to talk to Mr Harrison about the loan or to ask for a response.

‘Is this a typical palace function, would you say?’ It was Harrison’s first.

Mahmoud was pleased to be asked this question.

‘Everything is exactly the same as in previous occasions. Even the brass brand is as loud as ever.’

Harrison smiled and raised his voice, ‘Perhaps it’s a ploy to hamper any attempts to have a sensible conversation.’

Mahmoud did not understand the word ‘ploy’ and faltered a little. He changed the subject.

‘Unless you have already met them, I will introduce you to my friends from the Chamber of Commerce.’

‘I would appreciate that. I’ve noticed that formal introductions are not the norm here. Everyone of consequence expects to be known, but that can be puzzling for a newcomer.’

Mahmoud found this perspective interesting. It was true, he moved in circles where everyone knew everyone else. When in doubt, he was proud of his instinct to sort out who was influential and who was not. Sometimes he would sit in a gathering perplexed about the identity of another man and yet unable to place him. A whispered query to the most trusted person next to him would suffice, but usually he would have to trust his instinct. A name could be picked up later, but how Mahmoud greeted or treated a stranger could not be postponed and, of course, he had to get it right. Treating a man with less respect than was his due could be disastrous, but also flattering, and raising up a minor could raise eyebrows or even attract ridicule. Because he was, by nature, cautious, and by instinct generous, Mahmoud often erred on this side. Minor officials, irrelevant acquaintances, and struggling merchants would find themselves showered with his cordial attention, only to be cold-shouldered when their true identity was revealed.

Nabilah touched his arm and he leaned closer to listen.

‘There are hardly any senior Egyptian officials. Very different from previous occasions.’

She was right. The government was keeping the Egyptian contingent at a distance. Instead, it was the aspiring Sudanese politicians who were milling close to the Governor-General. None of the conservative tribal sheikhs were here, though. They would shun such a gathering, which included women and alcohol. Here, with the garden lights and the waiters circling with trays of hors d’ oeuvres, was the British and Levantine core of Khartoum: cosmopolitan and opportunistic, confident and only recently vulnerable. Mahmoud spotted a merchant who had expressed interest in leasing office space in the new building. It was too early to come to an agreement, but Mahmoud strode across the lawn to reassure him that the construction work was proceeding according to schedule.