University of Montana ScholarWorks at University of Montana Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers Graduate School 1970 Kuwassi Palaver Peter Corley-Smith The University of Montana Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd Let us know how access to this document benefits ou.y Recommended Citation Corley-Smith, Peter, "Kuwassi Palaver" (1970). Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers. 2800. https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd/2800 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Graduate School at ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact [email protected]. "The Kuwassi Palaver" by Peter Corley-Smith B.A. University of Victoria, 1968 Presented in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts University of Montana 1970 Approved by; Chairman, Board of Elxaminers DeaK!^ Graduate^School 70 Date UMI Number: EP35147 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction Is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. UMI Oiseartation PubSlfthing UMI EP35147 Published by ProQuest LLC (2012). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code uesf ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106- 1346 CHAPTER 1 The first three months of the year 1947 were the coldest in living memory. The snow persisted for so long people began to talk of a change in climate, a return to the good old days of jingling sleighs and whole oxen roasted on the ice covering the Thames. They chattered brightly about the prolonged cold spell and when, as so often happened, the electricity failed or the coal ran out they sought to recapture the sense of duty and shared discomfort which had made life tolerable during the war. Anson Payne made some attempts to fall in with this mood, but failed to find any consolation in the knowledge that other people were as uncomfortable as he was. The grimy blanket of snow which covered the ground for so long merely added to his gloom. The cold stung, sharp as his anxiety. He felt isolated from the hopes and ambitions surrounding him as he stepped cautiously down to the curb, his breath rising in a cloud. The bus skidded briefly before pulling away to leave an uninter­ rupted view of the vacant, bomb-damaged lot across the road. Like the ruins of an Inca city, the shattered masonry had long since disappeared into a Jungle of weeds. And now a fifty foot advertisement had taken the place of the building so that Jane Russell's vast bosom dominated the scene. The Outlaw. Anson reflected wryly, had a large and splendid range to roam. Digging his hands a little more deeply into his pockets, he turned to walk slowly towards his destination. He was on his way to a job interview, his resentment at the prospect growing stronger each step he took. The war had exposed him to too many interviews; he had come to dread the ritual of question and answer upon which so much could depend. And today a great deal depended on it. He had squandered his gratuity down to the last few quid. All he had left was the battered old Hillman which might bring in enough to see him through another month. His friends all seemed to have relatives to whom they could turn—elderly, influential relatives who coiild "have a word with somebody." But Anson was only on the fringe of influence. He could harvest any amount of advice but no concrete assistance. He was learning how carefully people dispense their store of patronage. 2 He paused to blow his nose, then turned into the bleak financial canyon known as Teal Street. In the fading afternoon it looked inexpressibly dreary; so ^eary that Anson felt a spark of optimism. If he did manage to land the job, it might turn out to be a bit of all right, he reflected hope­ fully, conjuring up a Somerset Maughanish vision of the tropics. Grimy brick walls on either side of him changed for a moment to green luxurious foliage with exotic birds darting in and out. In the dazzling sunshine, happy smiling natives stood aside respectfully as he passed, a lean bronzed figure in khaki shorts and bush shirt. He was just trying to decide what he should be wearing on his head when he arrived at his destination and the vision faded abruptly. Pushing through a massive swing door, he found himself in a lobby so dark he could barely read the directory on the wall. The offices of the Kuwassi Mining Company were on the third floor- After glancing at the lift, which was padlocked, Anson climbed slowly up. the stone stairs. At the third floor he paused a moment before the frosted glass door to smooth his hair and straighten his tie. Above the faint rumble of traffic from the streets he could hear a typewriter clacking slowly, but there was no response to his knock. He hesitated, seized by a surprisingly strong impulse to turn round and walk out of the building. He could easily come back another day; write and ask for another interview. But what the hell for? he thought, irritated by his own cowardice. He turned the knob and walked in. The room was a small one, crammed with filing cabinets and dark-brown office furniture. A clerk and a typist were the only two persons in sight, both wearing overcoats. The typist sat behind a wooden counter by the door and took not the slightest notice of him. A yoiing, untidy looking girl with a bad complexion and a discontented pout on her lips, she sat huddled over the typewriter, picking out keys with dogged concentration. The clerk looked up as Anson entered, and Anson looked back expectantly. "Doris," the clerk said patiently, "attend to the gentleman." Doris raised her eyes at last, one finger poised over the keyboard like a hovering sparrow-hawk. "Gtood afternoon," said Anson. "I have an appointment to see Mr. Dawson." "I don*t think 'e's in," Doris replied, glancing hopefully at the typewriter. "•Strewth," the clerk sighed. "Go'n see, girl. An* if 'e isn't, see 3 old Carter." The girl stood up reluctantly, lifted the flap of the counter and disappeared through the door without asking Anson his name. "Take a seat," the clerk invited. "Silly little cow wouldn't think of offering you one. The girl oo's supposed to be here is off sick wiv the 'flu. Everyone's sick," he added complacently, gesturing to the empty desks. "Thanks," said Anson, removing a packet of wrapped stationary from the single wooden chair by the counter and sitting down. He contemplated his shoes for a moment, wondering if he could risk a quick cigarette. But there were no ashtrays in sight and he decided against it. Mr. Dawson him­ self might come out, and then there would be the difficulty of trying to get rid of it before they shook hands. **You 'ere for a job?" the clerk asked. •n'hat's right." "Going out to the Coast, eh?" "Yes, if they'll have me." The clerk blew thoughtfully on his mittened fingers. "Often thought of 'aving a bash meself. But I dunno—all them smelly wogs. Don't reckon the ball and chain'd buy it." Anson sndled to himself at the thought of this seedy individual upholding the white man's prestige among the heathen. "No," he agreed. "I don't suppose it's everyone's cup of tea. May not like it myself—but I thought I'd try it for a year." The clerk nodded, his lips pursed judiciously, and Anson looked up at the faded photograph of a mine headgear on the wall. Just what were the wogs going to be like, he wondered uneasily. The only contact he could recall had been with the West-Indian Negro in the next bed to his at I.T.W., and Anson had always felt thoroughly uncomfortable with him. One minute he had seemed embarrassingly obsequious, the next insufferably arrogant; but Anson hsid never been quite sure how much of this was due to his own prejudices. What would it be like to be surrounded by Negroes, never sure whether you were sorry for them, or whether you despised them? He looked up as Doris reappeared through the door. "Mr. Dawson's not in," she informed Anson triumphantly. "But Mr. Carter'11 see you in Mr. Dawson's office." She moved behind the counter and lowered the flap. "You are Mr. Painter, aren't chew?" she added, as she sat down in front of the typewriter again. 4 "Payne," said Anson, rising and looking at the door. "For Christ's sake!" the clerk muttered. "'Ere, come on, I'll show you." The room to which he led Anson was even gloomier than the one they had just left, a sombre relic of Victorian executive luxury. But Anson was too disconcerted by the appearance of Mr. Carter to notice this. For Mr. Carter was an elderly facsimile of the clerk.