Every window blazed with light and the uniformed footmen wei meeting the guests as they alighted from their limousines an ushering them up the broad front steps to join the reception line i the entrance lobby. Prime Minister Verwoerd and his wife Betsi were at the head of the line, but Tara was more interested in thei guest.
She was surprised by Macmillan's height, almost as tall as Ver woerd, and by the close resemblance he bore to all the cartoons she had seen of him. The tufts of hair above his ears, the horsy teeth an› the scrubby mustache. His handshake was firm and dry and hi, voice as he greeted her was soft and plummy, and then she and Shasa had passed on into the main drawing-room where the other dinner guests were assembling.
There was Lord Littleton coming to her, still wearing the genteelly shabby dinner jacket, the watered silk of: the lapels tinged with the verdigris of age, but his smile was alight with genuine pleasure.
'Well, my dear, your presence makes the evening an occasion for me!" He kissed Tara's cheek and then turned to Shasa. 'Must tell you of our recent travels across Africa - fascinating,' and th three of them were chatting animatedly.
Tara's forebodings were for the moment forgotten, as she exclaimed, 'Now, Milord, you cannot hold up the Congo as being typical of emerging Africa. Left to his own devices, Patrice Lumumba would be an example of what a black leader--' 'Lumumba is a rogue, and a convicted felon. Now Tshombe--' Shasa interrupted her and Tara rounded on him, 'Tshombe is a stooge and a Quisling, a puppet of Belgian colonialism." 'At least he isn't eating the opposition like Lumumba's lads are,' Littleton interjected mildly, and Tara turned back to him with the battle light in her eyes.
'That isn't worthy of somebody--' she broke off with an effort.
Her orders were to avoid radical arguments and to maintain her role as a dutiful establishment wife.
'Oh, it's so boring,' she said. 'Let's talk about the London theatre.
What is on at the moment?" 'Well, just before I left I saw The Caretaker, Pinter's new piece,' Littleton accepted the diversion, and Shasa glanced across the room.
Manfred De La Rey was watching him with those intense pale eyes, and as he caught Shasa's eye he inclined his head sharply.
'Excuse me a moment,' Shasa murmured, but Littleton and Tara were so occupied with each other that they barely noticed him move away and join Manfred and his statuesque German wife.
Manfred always seemed ill at ease in tails, and the starched wing collar of his dress shirt bit into his thick neck and left a vivid red mark on the skin.
'So, my friend,' he teased Shasa. 'The dagoes from South America thrashed you at your horse games, hey?" Shasa's smile slipped a fraction. 'Eight to six is hardly a massacre,' he protested, but Manfred was not interested in his defence.
He took Shasa's arm and leaned closer to him, still smiling jovially as he said, 'There is some nasty work going on." 'Ah!" Shasa smiled easily and nodded encouragement.
'Macmillan has refused to show Doctor Henk a copy of the speech he is going to deliver tomorrow." 'Ah!" This time Shasa had difficulty in maintaining the smile. If this was a fact, then the British prime minister was guilty of a flagrant breach of etiquette. It was common courtesy for him to allow Verwoerd to study his text so as to be able to prepare a reply.
'It's going to be an important speech,' Manfred went on.
'Yes,' Shasa agreed. 'Maud returned to London to consult with him and help him draw it up, they must have been polishing it up since then." Sir John Maud was the British high commissioner to South Africa.
For him to be summoned to London underlined the gravity of the situation.
'You are friendly with Littleton,' Manfred said quietly. 'See if you can get anything out of him, even a hint as to what Macmillan is going to do." 'I doubt he knows much,' Shasa was still smiling for the benefit of anybody watching them. 'But I'll let you know if I can find out anything." The dinner was served on the magnificent East India Company service, but was the usual bland and tepid offering of the civil service chefs whom Shasa was certain had served their apprenticeship on the railways. The white wines were sweet and insipid, but the red was a 1951 Weltevreden Cabernet Sauvignon. Shasa had influenced the choice by making a gift of his own cru for the banquet, and he judged it the equal of all but the very best Bordeaux. It was a pity that the white was so woefully bad. There was no reason for it, they had the climate and the soil. Weltevreden had always concentrated on the red but he made a resolution to improve his own production of whites, even if it meant bringing in another wine-master from Germany or France and buying another vineyard on the Stellenbosch side of the peninsula.
The speeches were mercifully short and inconsequential, a brief welcome from Verwoerd and a short appreciation from Macmillan, and the conversation at Shasa's end of the table never rose above such earth-shaking subjects as their recent defeat by the Argentinians on the polo field, Denis Compton's batting form and Stirling Moss' latest victory in the Mille Miglia. But as soon as the banquet ended Shasa sought out Littleton who was still with Tara, drawing out the pleasure of her company to the last.
'Looking forward to tomorrow,' he told Littleton casually. 'I hear your Super Mac is going to give us some fireworks." 'Wherever did you hear that?" Littleton asked, but Shasa saw the sudden shift of his gaze and the guarded expression that froze his smile.
'Can we have a word?" Shasa asked quietly, and apologized to Tara.
'Excuse me, my dear." He took Littleton's elbow and chatting amicably steered him through the glass doors on to the paved stoep under the trellised vines.
'What is going on, Peter?" He lowered his voice. 'Isn't there anything you can, tell me?" Their relationship was intimate and of long standing; such a direct appeal could not be ignored.
'I will be frank with you, Shasa,' Littleton said. 'Mac has something up his sleeve. I don't know what it is, but he is planning on creating a sensation. The press at home have been put on the alert.
It's going to be a major policy statement, that is my best guess." 'Will it alter things between us - preferential trade, for instance?" Shasa demanded.
'Trade?" Littleton chuckled. 'Of course not, nothing alters trade.
More than that I can't tell you. We will all have to wait for tomorrow." Neither Tara nor Shasa spoke on the drive back to W.eltevreden until the Rolls passed beneath the Anreith gateway and then Tara asked, her voice strained and jerky, 'What time is Macmillan making his speech tomorrow?" 'The special session will begin at eleven o'clock,' Shasa replied,' but he was still thinking of what Littleton had told him.
'I wanted to be in the visitors' gallery. I asked Tricia to get me a ticket." 'Oh, the session isn't being held in the chamber - not enough seating. It will be in the dining-room and I don't think they will allow visitors --' he broke off and stared at her. In the reflected light of the headlamps she had gone deathly pale. 'What is it, Tara?" 'The dining-room,' she breathed. 'Are you sure?" 'Of course I am. Is something wrong, my dear?" 'Yes - no! Nothing is wrong. Just a little heartburn, the dinner--' 'Pretty awful,' he agreed, and returned his attention to the road.
'The dining-room,' she thought, in near panic. 'I have to warn Moses. I have to warn him it cannot be tomorrow - all his arrangements will have been made for the escape. I have to let him know." Shasa dropped her at the front doors of the chiteau and took the Rolls down to the garages. When he came back, she was in the blue drawing-room and the servants, who had as usual waited up for their return, were serving hot chocolate and biscuits. Shasa's valet helped him change into a maroon velvet smoking-jacket, and the housemaids hovered anxiously until Shasa dismissed them.