This Side Jordan

by Margaret Laurence

  She turned to Johnnie with a sudden vehemence.

  ‘Shall I tell you the chief reason why we can’t go back to England?’ she cried. ‘It’s because Bedford can’t get a job there. He can do a little of everything and not enough of anything. And even if he could get a job, he couldn’t hold it. Do you know the last job he had in England? He was office manager for a tuppenny-ha’penny firm that manufactured glass eyes for teddy bears. I expect that sounds riotously funny to you. And he was sacked – yes, even from that. It was the only job he’d been able to find at home, the only job of any kind. Now do you see?’

  Johnnie nodded wordlessly.

  ‘Sometimes I worry myself sick that he’ll lose this job,’ Helen said. ‘And he mustn’t. He mustn’t! It isn’t all his fault. He did awfully well in the war, you know. He was very well thought of. We hoped those contacts might help, but they didn’t seem to, much. If he’d ever been able to get a really decent post after the war, I think he might have been quite different. But – it hasn’t worked out that way.’

  And Johnnie, listening to her, knew that it could scarcely have worked out any other way. Bedford’s world was dead, and he did not know the language or currency of the new. Nobody wanted gentlemen nowadays. They were like the beautifully carved monstrosities Johnnie used to see when he went to furniture auctions with Janowicz – cheap enough to get, but what could you do with them, who had room for them any more?

  Helen’s mouth twisted.

  ‘It’s all very well to say it mustn’t happen,’ she said, ‘but he will lose this job, Johnnie. He might just have managed to hang onto it, if Africanization hadn’t come along. What’s the point in everyone wondering who’ll be the first to go? They all know perfectly well it’ll be the Cunninghams.’

  She put her hands to her forehead and pressed her fingers against the bone.

  ‘It’s true that I’m afraid of Africa,’ she whispered, ‘but – if we’re sent home, what shall we do? What will become of us?’

  There was nothing he could say to her. If he had known any reassurance, he would have used it on himself.

  The rain had stopped, as suddenly as it began. For the moment, the storm was over. He could go home.

  When Johnnie walked into Mandiram’s it was mid-afternoon. Cora should be finished her shopping by now.

  She was looking at brocades. She smiled at Johnnie and made small winglike gestures with her hands. He explained that James needed the car and driver, and would she mind his driving her home instead.

  ‘Oh – thank you,’ Cora said, as though he had made the request purely out of a desire for her company. ‘I shan’t be long. You won’t mind waiting a moment?’

  She turned again to the clerk, a Hindu youth with a long mournful face and pimply skin. He drew out several bolts of cloth, handling them tenderly, flicking the brocade over his arm to display the material’s radiance, touching here and there. Cora’s hands lingered on one.

  ‘How much?’

  Johnnie was surprised at the intensity of longing in her voice.

  ‘Thirty-eight and six a yard,’ the clerk said nasally. ‘Feel it, madam. Best Indian brocade. All hand-woven.’

  The brocade was scarlet, with small perfectly woven peacocks in turquoise and thread of silver. With her dark hair, Miranda could have worn such a material. But on Cora it would be even worse than the insipid colours she normally wore. She would look like a poorly stuffed antique chair with frail wooden arms and legs.

  She turned to Johnnie.

  ‘Do you like it? I know it’s an extravagance, rather –’

  Johnnie struggled to be tactful.

  ‘It’d make a nice cocktail outfit –’

  Cora seemed to stiffen and draw away.

  ‘Oh no – ’ she stammered, ‘I wouldn’t wear it –’

  She stroked the material.

  ‘I know it wouldn’t be – becoming – on me. I collect these brocades. Sometimes I get remnants and they’re much cheaper. I keep them in a little mahogany box. James had it made for me, just for the purpose. My bits and pieces – that’s what I call them. I just – well – I look at them, you know.’

  She turned once more to the clerk.

  ‘Half a yard, please,’ she said defiantly.

  At the Thayers’ bungalow, Johnnie helped Cora to carry in her parcels.

  ‘I wonder –’ she hesitated, then rushed on breathlessly, ‘I know you must be in a hurry to get home, but – would you stay for a cup of tea – or a beer?’

  ‘I won’t have tea, thanks – Miranda will be expecting me. But I’d like a beer.’

  She went to summon the steward, and Johnnie looked around. Big faded English roses were profusely printed on the chintz curtains, and the walls were faded rose, hung with innumerable little watercolours of Windsor Castle, the Lake Country, a Kentish oasthouse. The sideboard was crowded with pewter and copper objects – candleholders, mustard pots, beer mugs, snuff jars. A leather band bearing a dozen horse-brasses was tacked on the wall beside the door, and on the other side there hung an enormous copper bed-warmer with a long walnut handle. In one corner stood a grandfather clock, its brass pendulum backed with a panel depicting nymphs and shepherds.

  Cora returned and sat down primly.

  ‘I always like this room,’ Johnnie lied obligingly. ‘It’s so un-African.’

  She began to unfold, like some pale graveyard peony in the charitable sun.

  ‘In the old bungalow, we had such a lot of African things about – ebony heads, fetish figures, goldweights – stuff that James had picked up. I simply put it all away when we moved in here. I sent to Harrods for the curtain material. James wanted mammy-cloth, but I said no, Africa shan’t enter here at all. Just this one small place – I felt I’d earned the right. Of course, James likes Africa.’

  ‘And you don’t.’

  ‘No – ’ even her voice was pastel, ‘no, I don’t.’

  She poured a cup of tea from a china teapot shaped like Ann Hathaway’s cottage.

  ‘Getting this bungalow meant a great deal to me,’ she said. ‘It’s the first one I’ve wanted to fix properly, like a – a real home. The others were far too dilapidated. We’ve lived in so many old bungalows.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘No – you really can’t imagine –’ it seemed unfair that anguish should be condemned to chirp and tweet in that bird-voice, ‘you really can’t, Johnnie. No one can, who hasn’t lived here as long as we have.’

  ‘Oh – well, I suppose that’s right.’

  ‘The first five years I was here,’ Cora said, ‘we lived in a bush station in Ashanti. It was really the jungle, you know, but one never called it that. The whole place seemed to be shut in, enclosed, so hot and dank, as though it were under glass. The first year, I had malaria three times, and James nearly died of typhoid. The nearest doctor was in Kumasi, fifty miles away. That may not sound far, but the roads were only bush tracks. I had to take James by myself, in the truck. We were the only Europeans in the place, you see. None of the African drivers would help me – they were too frightened of catching typhoid, and they were certain he’d die on the way. I suppose they thought his spirit would curse them or something. My steward-boy came along – I told him I’d take James’ whip to him if he didn’t. I would have, too. He was useless, though – quite terrified. He was only a child, really, just thirteen. It took me a day and a night to reach Kumasi. The night was the worst. Of course, I had James’ revolver.’

  Johnnie looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘You drove a truck through that kind of country – by yourself?’

  ‘Well, I had to, you see,’ Cora sounded almost apologetic. ‘There was no one else to do it.’

  All the adjectives of mediocrity applied to Cora. She was faded, pallid, lukewarm. Had it actually happened? He could see from her face that it had. He knew nothing of that Africa, and now it was gone.

  ‘Can you see – a little – why I wanted this bungalow, Johnnie? I waited a l
ong time for it. And for James’ position here, as manager. A very long time.’

  The social position and the big new bungalow – these were her harvest, after a lifetime.

  ‘Do you know,’ Cora said, ‘the Cunninghams actually thought they ought to have this bungalow, when it was built. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Well – ’ Johnnie said awkwardly, ‘I suppose they didn’t realize – and they were thinking of the children –’

  Cora laughed, and Johnnie felt apprehensive.

  ‘Yes, the children. Helen ranted and raved and finally told me I hated children and was doing it out of spite. I didn’t tell her, of course. Why should I?’

  ‘Tell her?’

  ‘Not many people here know,’ Cora said, almost proudly, as though the secret were to her some kind of power. ‘It was two years after I came to this country. I had a bout of malaria, and the baby was born two months premature. It was a perfect little girl. I saw her. She was all formed, very tiny and thin, of course. But she was dead.’

  She saw his expression.

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ she said quickly. ‘I won’t tell Miranda – I wouldn’t upset her.’

  But Johnnie was not thinking of Miranda. He was wondering how many heat-sodden afternoons Cora spent here, her fingers stroking the silken eternal skin of the brocade.

  ‘It never occurs to Helen –’ Cora said. ‘She just doesn’t see – well, never mind. At least, they’ll be the first to go.’

  It was the first time she had mentioned Africanization. Johnnie looked at her questioningly.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she went on. ‘I haven’t much faith in the Africans’ ability, but really and truly, almost anyone could do Bedford’s job, couldn’t they?’

  ‘What do you think will happen to – to the rest of us?’

  Cora sat perfectly still. Even her hands were quiet, but he saw they were knotted tightly together.

  ‘Oh, Johnnie – ’ she whispered, ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘But you’ve no cause to be –’

  ‘Yes – more than anyone. You’re young enough to start again.’

  ‘But James won’t – there’s no chance – the Firm would never –’

  ‘Once it begins,’ Cora said, ‘where does it stop? They’ll be everywhere, the Africans, everywhere.’

  ‘Is James –?’

  He could not say it, but she understood.

  ‘He says not. He keeps telling me not to worry. Men always say that, don’t they? I suppose it’s their way of fighting a situation they can’t alter. They keep on saying don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s nothing serious, and all the time there’s a sort of brittle irritation in their voices that betrays them. He hardly eats a thing these days, and at night I hear him getting up and trudging all around the bungalow, until I think I’ll go out of my mind. I know I oughtn’t to be talking like this. You won’t say anything, will you? I can’t talk about it to James, of course. He has to keep up the pretence that everything’s all right. But he’s afraid, too. I know he is. What’ll happen to us? Where will we go?’

  ‘You’d have a pension –’

  ‘Do you know what it amounts to? We’d be able to live, but only just. We had hoped to save enough, by the time he retired, to buy a house in Cornwall and have at least – oh, you know, a country girl or someone, to cook and that sort of thing –’

  Her yellow parchment face crumpled.

  ‘I can see myself in some hateful poky little flat,’ she said. ‘Do you know, Johnnie, I haven’t cooked meals in twenty years? It’s funny, isn’t it? The whole thing is really almost funny. What will I do? What will I be able to do?’

  The fall of a dynasty. All at once, he could see her in the hateful flat, too. It would be small, of necessity, and James would clutter it with the ebony heads and the brass figurines she loathed. James, obsessed with Africa’s rejection of him, would prophesy doom: Africans had been fine when they were bushmen but they were ruined now; Africans would never make a go of governing themselves; the Firm’s West African branch would be bankrupt within a decade – mark his words. James would have no one else to talk to, and she would hear it all, day after day, until he or she died.

  She would be tired all the time, for physical work was now completely alien to her. The flat would get drabber as she slowly stopped trying. The tines of the forks would be clotted with egg-yolk she somehow hadn’t been able to wash off. Forgotten dabs of milk pudding would sour in little bowls on shelves. The sinks would be brown as tea. She would wear shapeless cardigans and heavy shoes, and would cry because she could not get the coal fire lighted.

  Cora had waited patiently to reap the harvest of her exile. And now even that meagre fruit seemed likely to be destroyed by a storm she had never foreseen and would never comprehend.

  EIGHT

  Traditionally, Sunday was the time for curry lunch parties. The genuine Coasters’ curry was an imposing meal consisting of curried lamb or veal so peppery that even the most hardened gullet required a frequent antidote of chilled beer, and a conglomeration of side-dishes, each ingredient chopped or grated very finely – groundnuts, coconut, green peppers, bananas, paw-paw, tomatoes, onions, okra, oranges, pineapple, and any other tid-bits that the cook’s imagination might discover. The Cunninghams’ cook was particularly adept at preparing curry, and Helen made full use of his one great talent. On this Sunday, as on so many others, the cars began arriving at the Cunninghams’ about eleven.

  Johnnie stood at the window and watched the nearby bungalow.

  ‘She’s got quite a throng there this morning. Isn’t that Nelson’s car? He’s manager of Coast Chemists. And there’s old Cruikshank – contractor’s agent – got a new Humber, I see.’

  ‘You should have gone,’ Miranda said. ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Johnnie turned from the window.

  ‘I didn’t especially want to go without you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miranda said, ‘but I simply couldn’t. The last time I thought I’d pass out with hunger before they finally served lunch at three-thirty. And then the curry gave me the most awful indigestion. I wish you’d gone, though. You enjoy curry, and Helen’s always so pleased when people do. She hasn’t got another good word to say for Kwaku, but she maintains he makes the best curry in the country. He’s never been known to serve less than fifteen side-dishes, she says.’

  ‘He cheats,’ Johnnie said. ‘He serves everything twice – raw banana and fried banana, and counts it as two.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder how the Cunninghams can afford these curry lunches. Not so much the food, but the drink. It adds up.’

  ‘They can’t afford it,’ Johnnie replied, ‘but their credit’s good. For how much longer, I wouldn’t like to say.’

  Miranda glanced at him sharply.

  ‘You’ve heard more, then? About Africanization?’

  ‘We’ve heard nothing else all week. Bulletins from Head Office nearly every day, telling us what to do and how to do it. The Firm’s very much in earnest. Black men in, white men out – for all the junior posts, anyway. That’s as far as they’ve gone at the moment. But once they get their African sales-managers and confidential secretaries and pattern-researchers, what will they look for next? An African personnel man to replace Bedford, then an African accountant to replace me.’

  ‘What does James say?’

  ‘James isn’t budging an inch. He’s simply ignored instructions. Sooner or later, though, the London office is going to realize that nothing’s been done, and then what?’

  ‘I’ve told you what I think will happen,’ Miranda said promptly, ‘but of course you haven’t paid a blind bit of notice.’

  ‘And what do you think will happen, then?’

  ‘The Firm can’t afford to let everyone go. They need some continuity. But the only Europeans who do stay will be those who show they can work with Africans.’

  ‘Well, that’s just too bad. You don’t know what it’s like, Manda. I’ve tried out
four new clerks in the past fortnight, and not one is any damn good. And that’s simple work. What would it be like in more responsible jobs? Besides, I’m not exactly enthralled by the idea of having African colleagues.’

  ‘That’s what really decides your opinion about Africanization,’ she said angrily.

  After lunch, while Miranda lay down for a rest, Johnnie went out to the garage to tinker with the car. It was not a type of work he enjoyed, but Bedford had emphatically told him that one could not trust African mechanics.

  Whiskey was shutting up the kitchen for the afternoon, and as Johnnie walked past, the old man gave him a hostile glance. He and Whiskey had been on bad terms ever since the loan business.

  As Johnnie had predicted, Whiskey had not used the money for his brother’s court case at all. He had turned up the following week with a girl he called a ‘small wife’. Whiskey and his old wife had no children – a state that was, apparently, considered a disgrace. The old man had finally succumbed and taken another wife, hopefully. African Christians, of course, weren’t meant to practise polygamy, but many still did. Perhaps if they termed the second one ‘small wife’ they felt it scarcely counted. This girl was fourteen, but she was as ripe and developed as necessary.

  Johnnie worked on the car for nearly an hour. The garage door was open, but it was hot and airless inside. Bad as it was, though, it was better than taking the car out onto the drive, where he would have had the sun on his neck the whole time.

  He straightened and reached for a cigarette. It was then that he became aware of the watcher.

  The girl had slipped into the garage so silently he had not heard her. Whiskey and the old woman must be having their afternoon nap, or they would never have allowed her out of their sight. She stood in the doorway, her large dark eyes fixed on him. She wore a length of mammy cloth casually wrapped around her waist, and on top nothing but a shift cut in a deep half-moon at the neck and leaving her round brown breasts partly exposed. She seemed to hover as though prepared every instant to turn and disappear.