To Cut a Long Story Short

Other Blighters’ Efforts

It all began innocently enough, when Henry Pascoe, the First Secretary at the British High Commission on Aranga, took a call from Bill Paterson, the manager of Barclays Bank. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and Henry rather hoped that Bill was calling to suggest a round of golf on Saturday morning, or perhaps with an invitation to join him and his wife Sue for lunch on Sunday. But the moment he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he knew the call was of an official nature.

‘When you come to check the High Commission’s account on Monday, you’ll find you’ve been credited with a larger sum than usual.’

‘Any particular reason?’ responded Henry, in his most formal tone.

‘Quite simple really, old chap,’ replied the bank manager. ‘The exchange rate moved in your favour overnight. Always does when there’s a rumour of a coup,’ he added matter-of-factly. ‘Feel free to call me on Monday if you have any queries.’

Henry wondered about asking Bill if he felt like a round of golf tomorrow, but thought better of it.

It was Henry’s first experience of a rumoured coup, and the exchange rate wasn’t the only thing to have a bad weekend. On Friday night the head of state, General Olangi, appeared on television in full-dress uniform to warn the good citizens of Aranga that, due to some unrest among a small group of dissidents in the army, it had proved necessary to impose a curfew on the island which he hoped would not last for more than a few days.

On Saturday morning Henry tuned in to the BBC World Service to find out what was really going on on Aranga. The BBC’s correspondent, Roger Parnell, was always better informed than the local television and radio stations, which were simply bleating out a warning to the island’s citizens every few minutes that they should not stray onto the streets during the day, because if they did, they would be arrested. And if they were foolish enough to do so at night, they would be shot.

That put a stop to any golf on Saturday, or lunch with Bill and Sue on Sunday. Henry spent a quiet weekend reading, bringing himself up to date with unanswered letters from England, clearing the fridge of any surplus food, and finally cleaning those parts of his bachelor apartment that his daily always seemed to miss.

On Monday morning, the head of state still appeared to be safely in his palace. The BBC reported that several young officers had been arrested, and that one or two of them were rumoured to have been executed. General Olangi reappeared on television to announce that the curfew had been lifted.

When Henry arrived at his office later that day, he found that Shirley, his secretary — who had experienced several coups — had already opened his mail and left it on his desk for him to consider. There was one pile marked ‘Urgent, Action Required’, a second, larger pile marked ‘For Your Consideration’, and a third, by far the largest, marked ‘See and Bin’.

The itinerary for the imminent visit of the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs from the UK had been placed on top of the ‘Urgent, Action Required’ pile, although the Minister was only dropping in on St George’s, the capital of Aranga, because it was a convenient refuelling stop on his way back to London following a trip to Jakarta. Few people bothered to visit the tiny protectorate of Aranga unless they were on their way to or from somewhere else.

This particular Minister, Mr Will Whiting, known at the Foreign Office as ‘Witless Will’, was, The Times assured its readers, to be replaced in the next reshuffle by someone who could do joined-up writing. However, thought Henry, as Whiting was staying at the High Commissioner’s residence overnight, this would be his one opportunity to get a decision out of the Minister on the swimming pool project. Henry was keen to start work on the new pool that was so badly needed by the local children. He had pointed out in a lengthy memo to the Foreign Office that they had been promised the go-ahead when Princess Margaret had visited the island four years earlier and laid the foundation stone, but feared that the project would remain in the Foreign Office’s ‘pending’ file unless he kept continually badgering them about it.

In the second pile of letters was the promised bank statement from Bill Paterson, which confirmed that the High Commission’s external account was 1,123 kora better off than expected because of the coup that had never taken place that weekend. Henry took little interest in the financial affairs of the protectorate, but as First Secretary it was his duty to countersign every cheque on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government.

There was only one other letter of any significance in the ‘For Your Consideration’ pile: an invitation to give a speech replying on behalf of the guests at the annual Rotary Club dinner in November. Every year a senior member of the High Commission staff was expected to carry out this task. It seemed that it was Henry’s turn. He groaned, but placed a tick on the top right corner of the letter.

There were the usual letters in the ‘See and Bin’ pile — people sending out unnecessary free offers, circulars and invitations to functions no one ever attended. He didn’t even bother to flick through them, but turned his attention back to the ‘Urgent’ pile, and began to check the Minister’s programme.

Henry looked up as his secretary entered the room.

‘Shirley, when am I going to be able to show the Minister the site for the new swimming pool?’ he asked. ‘There’s no sign of it on his itinerary.’

‘I’ve managed to fit in a fifteen-minute visit tomorrow morning, when the Minister will be on his way back to the airport.’

‘Fifteen minutes to discuss something which will affect the lives of ten thousand children,’ said Henry, looking back down at the Minister’s schedule. He turned the page.

‘It’s not even on his official schedule,’ grumbled Henry, looking back up at his secretary.

‘I know,’ said Shirley, ‘but the High Commissioner felt that as the Minister had such a short stopover, he should concentrate on the most important priorities.’

‘Like tea with the High Commissioner’s wife,’ snorted Henry. ‘Just be sure that he sits down to breakfast on time, and that the paragraph I dictated to you on Friday about the future of the swimming pool is included in his speech.’ Henry rose from his desk. ‘I’ve been through the letters and marked them up. I’m just going to pop into town and see what state the swimming pool project is in.’

‘By the way,’ said Shirley, ‘Roger Parnell, the BBC’s correspondent, has just called wanting to know if the Minister will be making any official statement while he’s visiting Aranga.’

‘Phone back and tell him yes, then fax him the Minister’s breakfast speech, highlighting the paragraph on the swimming pool.’

Henry left the office and jumped into his little Austin Mini. The sun was beating down on its roof. Even with both windows open, he was covered in sweat after driving only a few hundred yards from his office. Some of the locals waved at him when they recognised the Mini and the diplomat from England who seemed genuinely to care about their well-being.

He parked the car on the far side of the cathedral, which would have been described as a parish church in England, and walked the three hundred yards to the site designated for the swimming pool. He cursed, as he always did whenever he saw the patch of barren wasteland. The children of Aranga had so few sporting facilities: a brick-hard football pitch, which was transformed into a cricket square on May 1st every year; a town hall which doubled as a basketball court when the local council wasn’t in session; and a tennis court and golf course at the Britannia Club, which the locals were not invited to join, and where the children were never allowed past the front gate — unless it was to sweep the drive. In the Victoria Barracks, less than half a mile away, the army had a gymnasium and half a dozen squash courts, but only officers and their guests were allowed to use them.

Henry decided there and then to make it his mission to see that the swimming pool was completed before the Foreign Office posted him to another country. He would use his speech to the Rotary Club to galvanise the members into action. He must convince them to select the swimming pool project as their Charity of the Year, and would press Bill Paterson into becoming Chairman of the Appeal. After all, as manager of the bank and secretary of the Rotary Club, he was the obvious candidate.

But first there was the Minister’s visit. Henry began to consider the points he would raise with him, remembering that he had only fifteen minutes in which to convince the damn man to press the Foreign Office for more funding.

He turned to leave, and spotted a small boy standing on the edge of the site, trying to read the words chiselled on the foundation stone: ‘St George’s Swimming Pool. This foundation stone was laid by HRH Princess Margaret, September 12th, 1987.’

‘Is this a swimming pool?’ the little boy asked innocently.

Henry repeated those words to himself as he walked back to his car, and made up his mind to include them in his speech to the Rotary Club. He checked his watch, and decided he still had time to drop into the Britannia Club, in the hope that Bill Paterson might be having lunch there. When he walked into the clubhouse, he spotted Bill, seated on his usual stool at the bar, reading an out-of-date copy of the Financial Times.

Bill looked up as Henry approached the bar, ‘I thought you had a visiting Minister to take care of today?’

‘His plane doesn’t land until 3.30,’ Henry said. ‘I dropped by because I wanted to have a word with you.’

‘Need some advice on how you should spend the surplus you made on the exchange rate last Friday?’

‘No. I’ll have to have a little more than that if I’m ever going to get this swimming pool project off the ground — or rather, into it.’

Henry left the club twenty minutes later, having extracted a promise from Bill that he would chair the Appeal Committee, open an account at the bank and ask head office in London if they would make the first donation.

On his way to the airport in the High Commissioner’s Rolls-Royce, Henry told Sir David the latest news about the swimming pool project. The High Commissioner smiled and said, ‘Well done, Henry. Now we must hope that you’re as successful with the Minister as you obviously have been with Bill Paterson.’

The two men were standing on the runway of St George’s airport, six feet of red carpet in place, when the Boeing 727 touched down. As it was rare for more than one plane a day to land at St George’s, and there was only one runway, ‘International Airport’ was, in Henry’s opinion, a little bit of a misnomer.

The Minister turned out to be a rather jolly fellow, insisting that everyone should call him Will. He assured Sir David that he had been looking forward with keen anticipation to his visit to St Edward’s.

‘St George’s, Minister,’ the High Commissioner whispered in his ear.

‘Yes, of course, St George’s,’ replied Will, without even blushing.

Once they had arrived at the High Commission, Henry left the Minister to have tea with Sir David and his wife, and returned to his office. After even such a short journey, he was convinced that Witless Will was unlikely to carry much clout back in Whitehall; but that wouldn’t stop him pressing ahead with his case. At least the Minister had read the briefing notes, because he told them how much he was looking forward to seeing the new swimming pool.

‘Not yet started,’ Henry had reminded him.

‘Funny,’ said the Minister. ‘I thought I read somewhere that Princess Margaret had already opened it.’

‘No, she only laid the foundation stone, Minister. But perhaps all that will change once the project receives your blessing.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ promised Will. ‘But you know we’ve been told to make even more cutbacks in overseas funding.’ A sure sign that an election was approaching, thought Henry.

At the cocktail party that evening, Henry was able to say no more than ‘Good evening, Minister,’ as the High Commissioner was determined that Will would be introduced to every one of the assembled guests in under sixty minutes. When the two of them departed to have dinner with General Olangi, Henry went back to his office to check over the speech the Minister would be delivering at breakfast the following morning. He was pleased to see that the paragraph he had written on the swimming pool project remained in the final draft, so at least it would be on the record. He checked the seating plan, making sure that he had been placed next to the editor of the St George’s Echo. That way he could be certain that the paper’s next edition would lead on the British government’s support for the swimming pool appeal.

Henry rose early the following morning, and was among the first to arrive at the High Commissioner’s Residence. He took the opportunity to brief as many of the assembled local businessmen as possible on the importance of the swimming pool project in the eyes of the British government, pointing out that Barclays Bank had agreed to open the fund with a substantial donation.

The Minister arrived for breakfast a few minutes late. ‘A call from London,’ he explained, so they didn’t sit down to eat until 8.15. Henry took his place next to the editor of the local paper and waited impatiently for the Minister to make his speech.

Will rose at 8.47. He spent the first five minutes talking about bananas, and finally went on to say: ‘Let me assure you that Her Majesty’s Government have not forgotten the swimming pool project that was inaugurated by Princess Margaret, and we hope to be able to make an announcement on its progress in the near future. I was delighted to learn from Sir David,’ he looked across at Bill Paterson, who was seated opposite him, ‘that the Rotary Club have taken on the project as their Charity of the Year, and several prominent local businessmen have already generously agreed to support the cause.’ This was followed by a round of applause, instigated by Henry.

Once the Minister had resumed his seat, Henry handed the editor of the local paper an envelope which contained a thousand-word article, along with several pictures of the site. Henry felt confident that it would form the centre-page spread in next week’s St George’s Echo.

Henry checked his watch as the Minister sat down: 8.56. It was going to be close. When Will disappeared up to his room, Henry began pacing up and down the hallway, checking his watch as each minute passed.

The Minister stepped into the waiting Rolls at 9.24 and, turning to Henry, said, ‘I fear I’m going to have to forgo the pleasure of seeing the swimming pool site. However,’ he promised, ‘I’ll be sure to read your report on the plane, and will brief the Foreign Secretary the moment I get back to London.’

As the car sped past a barren plot of land on the way to the airport, Henry pointed out the site to the Minister. Will glanced out of the window and said, ‘Admirable, worthwhile, important,’ but never once did he commit himself to spending one penny of government money.

‘I’ll do my damnedest to convince the mandarins at the Treasury,’ were his final words as he boarded the plane.

Henry didn’t need to be told that Will’s ‘damnedest’ was unlikely to convince even the most junior civil servant at the Treasury.

A week later, Henry received a fax from the Foreign Office giving details of the changes the Prime Minister had made in his latest reshuffle. Will Whiting had been sacked, to be replaced by someone Henry had never heard of.

Henry was going over his speech to the Rotary Club when the phone rang. It was Bill Paterson.

‘Henry, there are rumours of another coup brewing, so I was thinking of waiting until Friday before changing the High Commission’s pounds into kora.’

‘Happy to take your advice, Bill — the money market is beyond me. By the way, I’m looking forward to this evening, when we finally get a chance to launch the Appeal.’

Henry’s speech was well received by the Rotarians, but when he discovered the size of the donations some of the members had in mind, he feared it could still be years before the project was completed. He couldn’t help remembering that there were only another eighteen months before his next posting was due.

It was in the car on the way home that he recalled Bill’s words at the Britannia Club. An idea began to form in his mind.

Henry had never taken the slightest interest in the quarterly payments that the British government made to the tiny island of Aranga. The Foreign Office allocated £5 million a year from its contingency fund, made up of four payments of £1.25 million, which was automatically converted into the local currency of kora at the current exchange rate. Once Henry had been informed of the rate by Bill Paterson, the Chief Administrator at the High Commission dealt with all the Commission’s payments over the next three months. That was about to change.

Henry lay awake that night, all too aware that he lacked the training and expertise to carry out such a daring project, and that he must pick up the knowledge he required without anyone else becoming aware of what he was up to.

By the time he rose the following morning, a plan was beginning to form in his mind. He started by spending the weekend at the local library, studying old copies of the Financial Times, noting in particular what caused fluctuating exchange rates and whether they followed any pattern.

Over the next three months, at the golf club, cocktail parties in the Britannia Club, and whenever he was with Bill, he gathered more and more information, until finally he was confident that he was ready to make his first move.

When Bill rang on the Monday morning to say that there would be a small surplus of 22,107 kora on the current account because of the rumours of another coup, Henry gave orders to place the money in the Swimming Pool Account.

‘But I usually switch it into the Contingency Fund,’ said Bill.

‘There’s been a new directive from the Foreign Office — K14792,’ said Henry. ‘It says that surpluses can now be used on local projects, if they’ve been approved by the Minister.’

‘But that Minister was sacked,’ the bank manager reminded the First Secretary.

‘That may well be the case, but I’ve been instructed by my masters that the order still applies.’ Directive K14792 did in fact exist, Henry had discovered, although he doubted that when the Foreign Office issued it they had had swimming pools in mind.

‘Fine by me,’ said Bill. ‘Who am I to argue with a Foreign Office directive, especially when all I have to do is move money from one High Commission account to another within the bank?’

The Chief Administrator didn’t comment on any missing money during the following week, as he had received the same number of kora he had originally expected. Henry assumed he’d got away with it.

As there wasn’t another payment due for three months, Henry had ample time to refine his plan. During the next quarter, a few of the local businessmen came up with their donations, but Henry quickly realised that even with this influx of cash, they could only just about afford to start digging. He would have to deliver something a great deal more substantial if he hoped to end up with more than a hole in the ground.

Then an idea came to him in the middle of the night. But for Henry’s personal coup to be effective, he would need to get his timing spot on.

When Roger Parnell, the BBC’s correspondent, made his weekly call to enquire if there was anything he should be covering other than the swimming pool appeal, Henry asked if he could have a word with him off the record.

‘Of course,’ said the correspondent. ‘What do you want to discuss?’

‘HMG is a little worried that no one has seen General Olangi for several days, and there are rumours that his recent medical check-up has found him to be HIV positive.’

‘Good God,’ said the BBC man. ‘Have you got any proof?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ admitted Henry, ‘although I did overhear his personal doctor being a little indiscreet with the High Commissioner. Other than that, nothing.’

‘Good God,’ the BBC man repeated.

‘This is, of course, strictly off the record. If it were traced back to me, we would never be able to speak again.’

‘I never disclose my sources,’ the correspondent assured him indignantly.

The report that came out on the World Service that evening was vague, and hedged with ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. However, the next day, when Henry visited the golf course, the Britannia Club and the bank, he found the word ‘AIDS’ on everyone’s lips. Even the High Commissioner asked him if he had heard the rumour.

‘Yes, but I don’t believe it,’ said Henry, without blushing.

The kora dropped 4 per cent the following day, and General Olangi had to appear on television to assure his people that the rumours were false, and were being spread by his enemies. All his appearance on television did was to inform anyone who hadn’t already heard them about the rumours, and as the General seemed to have lost some weight, the kora dropped another 2 per cent.

‘You did rather well this month,’ Bill told Henry on Monday. ‘After that false alarm about Olangi’s HIV problem, I was able to switch 118,000 kora into the Swimming Pool Account, which means my committee can go ahead and instruct the architects to draw up some more detailed plans.’

‘Well done,’ said Henry, passing the praise on to Bill for his personal coup. He put the phone down aware that he couldn’t risk repeating the same stunt again.

Despite the architects’ plans being drawn up and a model of the pool placed in the High Commissioner’s office for all to see, another three months went by with only a trickle of small donations coming in from local businessmen.

Henry wouldn’t normally have seen the fax, but he was in the High Commissioner’s office, going over a speech Sir David was due to make to the Banana Growers’ Annual Convention, when it was placed on the desk by the High Commissioner’s secretary.

The High Commissioner frowned and pushed the speech to one side. ‘It hasn’t been a good year for bananas,’ he grunted. The frown remained in place as he read the fax. He passed it across to his First Secretary.

‘If that’s the way of things, I can’t see the Chancellor lasting the day,’ commented Sir David. ‘However, the Foreign Secretary will remain in place, so it’s not our problem.’ He looked up at Henry. ‘Still, perhaps it would be wise if we were not to mention the subject for at least a couple of hours.’

Henry nodded his agreement and left the High Commissioner to continue working on his speech.

The moment he had closed the door of the High Commissioner’s office, he ran along the corridor for the first time in two years. As soon as he was back at his desk, he dialled a number he didn’t need to look up.

‘Bill Paterson speaking.’

‘Bill, how much have we got in the Contingency Fund?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Give me a second and I’ll let you know. Would you like me to call you back?’

‘No, I’ll hold on,’ said Henry. He watched the second hand of the clock on his desk sweep nearly a full circle before the bank manager spoke again.

‘A little over £1 million,’ said Bill. ‘Why did you want to know?’

‘I’ve just been instructed by the Foreign Office to switch all available monies into German marks, Swiss francs and American dollars immediately.’

‘You’d be charged a hefty fee for that,’ said the bank manager, suddenly sounding rather formal. ‘And if the exchange rate were to go against you...’

‘I’m aware of the implications,’ said Henry, ‘but the telegram from London doesn’t leave me with any choice.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Bill. ‘Has this been approved by the High Commissioner?’

‘I’ve just left his office,’ said Henry.

‘Then I’d better get on with it, hadn’t I?’

Henry sat sweating in his air-conditioned office for twenty minutes until Bill called back.

‘We’ve converted the full amount into Swiss francs, German marks and American dollars, as instructed. I’ll send you the details in the morning.’

‘And no copies, please,’ said Henry. ‘The High Commissioner isn’t keen that this should be seen by any of his staff.’

‘I quite understand, old boy,’ said Bill.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer announced the suspension of Britain’s membership of the Exchange Rate Mechanism from the steps of the Treasury in Whitehall at 7.30 p.m., by which time all the banks in St George’s had closed for the day.

Henry contacted Bill the moment the markets opened the following morning, and instructed him to convert the francs, marks and dollars back into sterling as quickly as possible, and let him know the outcome.

It was to be another twenty minutes of sweating before Bill called back.

‘You made a profit of £64,312. If every Embassy around the world has carried out the same exercise, the government will be able to cut taxes long before the next election.’

‘Quite right,’ said Henry. ‘By the way, could you convert the surplus into kora, and place it in the Swimming Pool Account? And Bill, I assured the High Commissioner the matter would never be referred to again.’

‘You have my word on it,’ replied the bank manager.

Henry informed the editor of the St George’s Echo that contributions to the swimming pool fund were still pouring in, thanks to the generosity of local businessmen and many private individuals. In truth the outside donations made up only about half of what had been raised to date.

Within a month of Henry’s second coup, a contractor had been selected from a shortlist of three, and lorries, bulldozers and diggers rolled onto the site. Henry paid a visit every day so that he could keep an eye on progress. But it wasn’t long before Bill was reminding him that unless more funds were forthcoming, they wouldn’t be able to consider his plan for a high diving board and changing rooms for up to a hundred children.

The St George’s Echo continually reminded their readers of the appeal, but after a year, just about everyone who could afford to give anything had already done so. The trickle of donations had dried up almost entirely, and the income raised from bring-and-buy sales, raffles and coffee mornings was becoming negligible.

Henry began to fear that he would be sent to his next posting long before the project was completed, and that once he left the island Bill and his committee would lose interest and the job might never be finished.

Henry and Bill visited the site the following day, and stared down into a fifty-by-twenty-metre hole in the ground, surrounded by heavy equipment that had been idle for days and would soon have to be transferred to another site.

‘It will take a miracle to raise enough funds to finish the project, unless the government finally keeps its promise,’ the First Secretary remarked.

‘And we haven’t been helped by the kora remaining so stable for the past six months,’ added Bill.

Henry began to despair.

At the morning briefing with the High Commissioner the following Monday, Sir David told Henry that he had some good news.

‘Don’t tell me. HMG has finally kept its promise, and...’

‘No, nothing as startling as that,’ said Sir David, laughing. ‘But you are on the list for promotion next year, and will probably be given a High Commission of your own.’ He paused. ‘One or two good appointments are coming up, I’m told, so keep your fingers crossed. And by the way, when Carol and I go back to England for our annual leave tomorrow, try to keep Aranga off the front pages — that is, if you want to get Bermuda rather than the Ascension Islands.’

Henry returned to his office and began to go through the morning post with his secretary. In the ‘Urgent, Action Required’ pile was an invitation to accompany General Olangi back to his place of birth. This was an annual ritual the President carried out to demonstrate to his people that he hadn’t forgotten his roots. The High Commissioner would usually have accompanied him, but as he would be back in England at the time, the First Secretary was expected to represent him. Henry wondered if Sir David had organised it that way.

From the ‘For Your Consideration’ pile, Henry had to decide between accompanying a group of businessmen on a banana fact-finding tour around the island, or addressing St George’s Political Society on the future of the euro. He placed a tick on the businessmen’s letter and wrote a note suggesting to the Political Society that the Controller was better placed than he to talk about the euro.

He then moved on to the ‘See and Bin’ pile. A letter from Mrs Davidson, donating twenty-five kora to the swimming pool fund; an invitation to the church bazaar on Friday; and a reminder that it was Bill’s fiftieth birthday on Saturday.

‘Anything else?’ asked Henry.

‘Just a note from the High Commissioner’s office with a suggestion for your trek up into the hills with the President: take a case of fresh water, some anti-malaria pills and a mobile phone. Otherwise you could become dehydrated, break out in a fever and be out of contact all at the same time.’

Henry laughed. ‘Yes, yes and yes,’ he said, as the phone on his desk rang.

It was Bill, who warned him that the bank could no longer honour cheques drawn on the Swimming Pool Account, as there hadn’t been any substantial deposits for over a month.

‘I don’t need reminding,’ said Henry, staring down at Mrs Davidson’s cheque for twenty-five kora.

‘I’m afraid the contractors have left the site, as we’re unable to cover their next stage payment. What’s more, your quarterly payment of £1.25 million won’t be yielding any surplus while the President looks so healthy.’

‘Happy fiftieth on Saturday, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Don’t remind me,’ the bank manager replied. ‘But now you mention it, I hope you’ll be able to join Sue and me for a little celebration that evening.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Henry. ‘Nothing will stop me.’

That evening, Henry began taking his malaria tablets each night before going to bed. On Thursday, he picked up a crate of fresh water from the local supermarket. On Friday morning his secretary handed him a mobile phone just before he was due to leave. She even checked that he knew how to operate it.

At nine o’clock, Henry left his office and drove his Mini to the Victoria Barracks, having promised that he’d check in with his secretary the moment they arrived at General Olangi’s village. He parked his car in the compound, and was escorted to a waiting Mercedes near the back of the motorcade that was flying the Union Jack. At 9.30, the President emerged from the palace and walked over to the open-topped Rolls-Royce at the front of the motorcade. Henry couldn’t help thinking that he had never seen the General looking healthier.

An honour guard sprang to attention and presented arms as the motorcade swept out of the compound. As they drove slowly through St George’s, the streets were lined with children waving flags, who had been given the day off school so they could cheer their leader as he set off on the long journey to his birthplace.

Henry settled back for the five-hour drive up into the hills, dozing off from time to time, but was rudely woken whenever they passed through a village, where the ritual cheering children would be paraded to greet their President.

At midday, the motorcade came to a halt in a small village high in the hills where the locals had prepared lunch for their honoured guest. An hour later they moved on. Henry feared that the tribesmen had probably sacrificed the best part of their winter stores to fill the stomachs of the scores of soldiers and officials who were accompanying the President on his pilgrimage.

When the motorcade set off again, Henry fell into a deep sleep and began dreaming about Bermuda, where, he was confident, there would be no need to build a swimming pool.

He woke with a start. He thought he’d heard a shot. Had it taken place in his dream? He looked up to see his driver jumping out of the car and fleeing into the dense jungle. Henry calmly opened the back door, stepped out of the limousine, and, seeing a commotion taking place in front of him, decided to go and investigate. He had walked only a few paces when he came across the massive figure of the President, lying motionless at the side of the road in a pool of blood, surrounded by soldiers. They suddenly turned and, seeing the High Commissioner’s representative, raised their rifles.

‘Shoulder arms!’ said a sharp voice. ‘Try to remember that we are not savages.’ A smartly dressed army captain stepped forward and saluted. ‘I am sorry for any inconvenience you have suffered, First Secretary,’ he said, in a clipped Sandhurst voice, ‘but be assured that we wish you no harm.’

Henry didn’t comment, but continued to stare down at the dead President.

‘As you can see, Mr Pascoe, the late President has met with a tragic accident,’ continued the captain. ‘We will remain with him until he has been buried with full honours in the village where he was born. I’m sure that is what he would have wished.’

Henry looked down at the prostrate body, and doubted it.

‘May I suggest, Mr Pascoe, that you return to the capital immediately and inform your masters of what has happened.’

Henry remained silent.

‘You may also wish to tell them that the new President is Colonel Narango.’

Henry still didn’t voice an opinion. He realised that his first duty was to get a message through to the Foreign Office as quickly as possible. He nodded in the direction of the captain and began walking slowly back to his driverless car.

He slipped in behind the wheel, relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. He switched on the engine, turned the car around and began the long journey back down the winding track to the capital. It would be nightfall before he reached St George’s.

After he had covered a couple of miles and was certain that no one was following him, he brought the car to a halt by the side of the road, took out his mobile phone and dialled his office number.

His secretary picked up the phone.

‘It’s Henry.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad you phoned,’ Shirley said. ‘So much has happened this afternoon. But first, Mrs Davidson has just called to say that it looks as if the church bazaar might raise as much as two hundred kora, and would it be possible for you to drop in on your way back so they can present you with the cheque? And by the way,’ Shirley added before Henry could speak, ‘we’ve all heard the news.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was calling about,’ said Henry. ‘We must contact the Foreign Office immediately.’

‘I already have,’ said Shirley.

‘What did you tell them?’

‘That you were with the President, carrying out official duties, and would be in touch with them just as soon as you returned, High Commissioner.’

‘High Commissioner?’ said Henry.

‘Yes, it’s official. I assumed that’s what you were calling about. Your new appointment. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ said Henry casually, not even asking where he’d been appointed to. ‘Any other news?’

‘No, not much else happening this end. It’s a typically quiet Friday afternoon. In fact, I was wondering if I could go home a little early this evening. You see, I promised to drop in and help Sue Paterson prepare for her husband’s fiftieth.’

‘Yes, why not,’ said Henry, trying to remain calm. ‘And do let Mrs Davidson know that I’ll make every effort to call in at the bazaar. Two hundred kora should make all the difference.’

‘By the way,’ Shirley asked, ‘how’s the President getting on?’

‘He’s just about to take part in an earth-moving ceremony,’ said Henry, ‘so I’d better leave you.’

Henry touched the red button, then immediately dialled another number.

‘Bill Paterson speaking.’

‘Bill, it’s Henry. Have you exchanged our quarterly cheque yet?’

‘Yes, I did it about an hour ago. I got the best rate I could, but I’m afraid the kora always strengthens whenever the President makes his official trip back to his place of birth.’

Henry avoided adding ‘And death’, simply saying, ‘I want the entire amount converted back into sterling.’

‘I must advise you against that,’ said Bill. ‘The kora has strengthened further in the last hour. And in any case, such an action would have to be sanctioned by the High Commissioner.’

‘The High Commissioner is in Dorset on his annual leave. In his absence, I am the senior diplomat in charge of the mission.’

‘That may well be the case,’ said Bill, ‘but I would still have to make a full report for the High Commissioner’s consideration on his return.’

‘I would expect nothing less of you, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Henry?’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘And while you’re at it, I also require that the kora we are holding in the Contingency Fund be converted into sterling.’

‘I’m not sure...’ began Bill.

‘Mr Paterson, I don’t have to remind you that there are several other banks in St George’s, who for years have made it clear how much they would like to have the British government’s account.’

‘I shall carry out your orders to the letter, First Secretary,’ replied the bank manager, ‘but I wish it to be placed on the record that it is against my better judgement.’

‘Be that as it may, I wish this transaction to be carried out before the close of business today,’ said Henry. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘You most certainly do,’ said Bill.

It took Henry another four hours to reach the capital. As all the streets in St George’s were empty, he assumed that the news of the President’s death must have been announced, and that a curfew was in force. He was stopped at several checkpoints — grateful to have the Union Jack flying from his bonnet — and ordered to proceed to his home immediately. Still, it meant he wouldn’t have to drop into Mrs Davidson’s bazaar and pick up the cheque for two hundred kora.

The moment Henry arrived back home he switched on the television, to see President Narango, in full-dress uniform, addressing his people.

‘Be assured, my friends,’ he was saying, ‘you have nothing to fear. It is my intention to lift the curfew as soon as possible. But until then, please do not stray out onto the streets, as the army has been given orders to shoot on sight.’

Henry opened a tin of baked beans and remained indoors for the entire weekend. He was sorry to miss Bill’s fiftieth, but he felt on balance it was probably for the best.

HRH Princess Anne opened St George’s new swimming pool on her way back from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur. In her speech from the poolside, she said how impressed she was by the high diving board and the modern changing facilities.

She went on to single out the work of the Rotary Club and to congratulate them on the leadership they had shown throughout the campaign, in particular the chairman, Mr Bill Paterson, who had received an OBE for his services in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.

Sadly, Henry Pascoe was not present at the ceremony, as he had recently taken up his post as High Commissioner to the Ascensions — a group of islands which isn’t on the way to anywhere.