by Tim Jeal
‘Does she know about Simon?’ Clara whispered to Philemon.
‘Of course. Simon is not just master’s boy. He is the queen’s nephew.’
‘Would anyone dare harm the queen’s nephew?’
‘Very few, Nkosikaas. You need not worry.’
The groans of the man on the veranda could be heard. One of his feet was grotesquely swollen. Sweat stood out on his forehead as repeated spasms racked him. Darker in colour than most of the people around him, he was a Damarara, according to Philemon, so nobody could understand much of what he said. He had been wagon driver to a Dutch trader, who had abandoned him after his foot was crushed in an accident. He had refused an amputation and was not expected to live. A mass of flies covered his bandages and his exposed skin.
Fighting back feelings of nausea, Clara asked Philemon if anybody would fetch some water. A tall, stooping woman, who suffered from a chronic nervous affliction, bustled out, and soon reappeared with a little water in a bowl. Clara moistened her handkerchief and began to dab the man’s forehead and lips. She asked his name.
‘Everyone calls him “Footman”,’ replied Philemon. ‘He knows this name. Even says, “Footman is sick,” in Dutch. “Banja sick” – very sick – he says.’
When she had done all she could for this gaunt, big-boned man, Clara folded the damp handkerchief and gave it to him. Unaccustomed to kindness, he seized her hand and loaded her with thanks – not one word of which was comprehensible to her. As tears seeped from his sunken eyes, a sudden suspicion overcame Clara. She turned to Philemon.
‘Are any of the people at the mission ordinary Venda, or are they all unfortunates and outsiders?’
Philemon frowned. ‘The queen is not unfortunate. We have also the son of a headman. But Nkosikaas is right – most are slaves here, children of widows, or helpless people. Mabo – she brought the water – Mabo fled from the Matabele and came here just bones. But Jesus loves poor outcasts. We must show people that we are generous. Who will understand the love of Jesus if we are not kind to everyone?’
Walking back alone to Robert’s house under a pulsing midday sun, Clara was so shocked by the state of the mission that she no longer knew what to think. How could she ever have imagined that Robert’s tribe had been magically transformed in a few years? But she did not blame her husband for misleading her; she blamed only herself for underestimating his problems.
A great stillness had fallen in the village. Men and women were sleeping face downwards under the eaves. Only the hens and pigeons were active, pecking at morsels in the dust. Yet through the trembling waves of heat, a solitary woman was approaching Clara. A length of cloth, secured above her waist, fell in classical folds to her ankles. She moved with a dancer’s grace, like a reed swaying. Her naked breasts swelled beneath an intricate necklet of woven wire.
Everyone else in the village – men, women, and children – had followed Clara’s movements with their eyes, but not this beauty, who looked only straight ahead. Then, just as she drew level, she turned and stared at Clara with a hatred that the Englishwoman had never before seen on any face.
CHAPTER 7
That evening, a girl arrived from the mission with a boiled fowl and rice for Clara’s supper. Soon afterwards, the boy Matiyo ran in, shouting, ‘Master, master,’ and gesturing to Clara to follow him.
Matiyo strutted ahead of Clara, proud to be guiding the white woman. Thinking only of Robert, Clara was scarcely aware of the evening village scenes: the families eating outside their huts, the men sitting apart under the trees.
Clara felt faint and unsteady. She wished that she could stop and lean against something for a moment. What was happening was wrong. Robert should have come to her, not gone to the mission first. She wanted so badly to let love overwhelm her on seeing him, but how could she be anything but self-conscious in front of so many inquisitive people?
A crowd had gathered by the veranda of the mission, where some sort of altercation was taking place. An albino girl of three or four was surrounded by angry people. A woman wearing nothing but a leather apron was pointing at the child and demanding something from someone whom Clara could not see. Then she heard Robert’s voice, deep and insistent, rejecting whatever the woman was asking – this much she deduced, though understanding not a word of the language. As the dialogue grew more intense, Clara could barely keep from rushing up to her husband. I’ve waited for months, she longed to say. Isn’t it my turn? But she realized that the child was probably in danger.
A spear-wielding man with cicatrices on his chest began to harangue both Robert and the woman. Meanwhile the blotchy pink-and-white child clung to the leg of the woman, as Robert stood listening to the man with extraordinary calmness.
Paul, the teacher, was standing near Clara. ‘Tell me what’s happening,’ she whispered.
‘The mother – that’s the woman,’ he explained, ‘she says the mission must take her child. Her husband says by tribal custom the child should have been killed as a monster long ago. He says he would have killed her himself if her mother had not begged him to let her grow a little. He only spared his daughter because his wife promised to give her to the white man. Today she comes to give her child to the missionary to rear.’
The mother remained perfectly still while her husband ranted on. She was very solemn, as if she had spent all her emotions and was now resigned to endure the worst. As Robert started to speak again, Clara’s eyes were riveted on him. He was talking and gesticulating exactly like the people around him. She turned to Paul. ‘What is he saying?’
‘Master pretends he is very shocked. He asks the woman, “You don’t like her? Don’t like your own child?” “That’s right,” she says. “I hate her.” Master tells her, “You can’t be the mother, then.” She begs him to take the child from her. “No,” says Master. “You must be patient another year. And you, father, you must let this child go home with her mother. And mother, of course you love her! We can see that! You will nurse the child for me for another twelve moons and then bring her back and I will train her.”’
The mother rose, and the little creature stretched out her arms and was carried away, knowing nothing of the momentous debate.
‘Master is so clever.’ Paul chuckled. ‘The child stays with her mother, and the husband will not kill her.’
As the crowd parted, Clara saw Robert smiling down at a boy who was clasping his hand.
Paul said happily, ‘Simon has come home. Master found him.’
A tightness in her throat made Clara swallow. While she had been thinking negative thoughts about the mission, Robert had been selflessly helping others and putting their concerns before his own. Just then he caught sight of her and waved.
‘Clara, my Clara,’ he called out joyfully as he hurried towards her.
Clara wished that they could be far away from all the curious eyes that were fastened upon them. She moved to kiss her husband on the lips, but he did not bend his head; so their first kiss, which she had imagined as intense and lingering, turned out to be little more than a perfunctory brush against her forehead. To her amazement, she found herself babbling about her journey when all she wanted was to ask why he had not come to her as soon as he reached the village, and why he had gone away in the first place.
On their way to the house, the crowd followed them closely; it included the mission ‘children’ and villagers whose greased bodies glowed warmly in the evening light. A girl whom Clara had not seen before walked just behind Robert, as did the boy called Simon, almost as if impersonating a page and a bridesmaid.
Once home, Simon and the girl went into the kitchen, leaving Clara alone with her husband. Flies buzzed and vibrated, a dying moth flopped around. Clara wanted Robert to hug her tightly and kiss her, but all he did was hold her hands in his. Her fingers looked very pale against his darker skin. The next moment, he sank to his knees. She thought he would beg her forgiveness for having been at the cattle post when she arrived. But instead he cried out, ‘Almig
hty and most merciful God, we thank Thee for this reunion. We beseech Thee to bless us and keep us in health and harmony, serving Thee till our lives end.’
She thought of how he had just saved the albino and of his love for Simon. She saw how thin and exhausted he looked; but she still wished his first private words had been personal rather than religious. Robert rose to his feet and said humbly, ‘I wish I’d been here when you arrived. You see, I had to find Simon. He was in danger.’
‘Was I in danger too?’ she whispered.
‘With Paul and Philemon to care for you?’ He smiled serenely. ‘Nobody could have been safer.’
Relief and gratitude flooded through her. ‘Why was Simon so frightened?’
‘Africans often are.’ His voice was warmly reassuring. ‘Their minds are plagued by ignorance and superstition.’ And then, at last, he drew her to his chest, his deep, rich voice resonating in her own body. ‘How strange everything must seem to you, my dearest. We all have to strive to be especially patient here.’ He looked into her eyes as if dazed by what he saw. ‘If you only knew, Clara, how I’ve longed for this day, how impatient I’ve been, how much I’ve missed you. When Philemon told me just now that you’d been alone in Belingwe, I couldn’t believe it. My own dear wife had been friendless in such a place? It was unthinkable. If the faintest rumour of John Duke’s death had ever reached me, I’d have come for you at once.’ She shut her eyes and let herself rest passively in the circle of his arms. His breath was warm on her cheek.
Even in the twilight, Clara could tell that Robert had changed. His cheeks were hollower, his eyes deeper-set. He wore an old city shirt without a collar and stained moleskin trousers. His big leather belt emphasized how thin he had become, but his eyes shone as steadily as before. A lock of iron-grey hair fell over his face as he bent towards her. And this time his kiss was as tender as she had hoped. He had once said, ‘When we kiss, our souls are open to each other,’ and she prayed that he still believed it. She could feel the throbbing of his heart as he pressed against her. His lips set a delicious apprehension fluttering under her skin.
*
There was an old copper-framed mirror in the bedroom, and as Clara brushed her long black hair, she gazed into its spotted depths and saw a face that scared her: pale and haggard, with eyes dazed by desire. She wanted Robert so badly that all the questions she had meant to ask might never have existed. She undressed quickly, not wishing him to see the insect bites on her legs or to be found struggling with buttons when he came in. Then she lay waiting. A great hollowness occupied the centre of her being, a void of desiring tenderness that longed to be filled.
Robert entered, stripped to the waist, the grey and white hairs on his chest still damp from washing. He brought warm water with him and shaved, peering into the same mirror. She liked the idea of his face replacing hers in those speckled depths, like one fish gliding after another in a pond. But when he got into bed she saw that he was not aroused. Her heart contracted. She thought: He no longer cares for me as he did in England. Just to look at me made him tremble then.
She wanted to press against him and yet was afraid to do so in case he would think her unladylike, indelicate. Their lovemaking, she had always half feared, would remain a sacrament to him only for as long as she appeared angelic. He lay beside her without moving, and at first Clara feared everything had changed. Yet when he finally turned to her, it was with a sharp moan of desire. When she felt his penis throb against her thigh and his arms tighten around her, she knew such wild relief that nothing afterwards could quite compare with it.
Later, Robert knelt on the earth floor and thanked God for his wife’s homecoming.
*
Robert had already got up by the time Clara woke the following morning. She dressed and went into the kitchen, where Simon was taking a freshly baked loaf from the oven. He placed it on a wire tray to cool and lifted a blackened coffeepot from the stove. The boy looked very smart in a crisp white shirt and neatly pressed shorts.
‘Where is master?’ she asked, a little disappointed that Robert had not waited to take breakfast with her.
‘At the mission, missus. In early morning, sick people come to see him. You will have coffee? I cook an egg for you?’
‘Bread and jam will be enough, thank you. And coffee.’
She smiled appreciatively, although the boy’s domestic competence slightly unnerved her. Before arriving at Mponda’s kraal, Clara had missed Robert so much that she had barely thought about what she would do with her time. Simply being with her husband would be enough to make her happy. They would walk together under shady fruit trees; they would read aloud to each other; she would make curtains, embroider cushions, and beautify the house. But there was neither garden nor orchard to walk in, and the bush was overgrown and dusty. Nor could sewing be expected to occupy her for long. A nurse would at once feel useful, but she herself had never learned anything in the medical line.
Simon said in his sweet, soft voice, ‘I have made fig jam. You will eat, missus?’
‘Yes, please.’
Though she smiled at the boy, she feared that if she started to make jam, he would not be pleased. What I must do, thought Clara, is learn the language as quickly as possible, so I can work in the school.
She asked casually, ‘Did the first Mrs Haslam teach the mission children?’
‘Yes, missus. I was six years old when Mrs Ruth taught me my letters.’
‘Was she liked by the children?’
‘Oh, yes, missus. All us boys and girls loved her.’
Simon’s teeth shone brightly in his black face. His voice was low and guttural in a pleasing way, and his English was excellent. But was he telling the truth, or what he imagined she would like to hear? If Ruth had been stern and unsympathetic, Clara doubted whether he would tell her.
She said lightly, ‘Why did they like her, Simon?’
Mrs Ruth was kind and laughed with us. We all cried for long time when she died.’
Clara frowned. Perhaps Robert’s memories of Ruth would make him reluctant to see anyone else following in her footsteps. As in other matters, she would have to feel her way before making a move.
Simon cut a slice of bread and placed a jar of his homemade jam beside her plate. What wonderful composure, thought Clara. His unobtrusive movements would have done credit to an experienced waiter. It was puzzling that such a self-possessed boy should have been terrified in this very house only two nights earlier. Could it just have been superstition and ignorance, as Robert had suggested?
As Simon was pouring coffee into her cup, Clara murmured, ‘Why were you so scared the first time I saw you?’
Simon jerked away the pot, splashing coffee on to his shorts. ‘I did not know you would be here, missus.’
‘Why had you run away from the village in the first place?’
‘I was afraid of a sorcerer.’ He dabbed at himself with a cloth.
‘Are you still afraid, Simon?’
‘No, missus.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Lord Jesus will protect me.’
‘Why didn’t you trust Lord Jesus before you ran away?’ Simon avoided her eyes. ‘Well?’ she insisted.
His eyes remained lowered. ‘I do not know, missus.’
Clara said softly, ‘Surely you know why you feel safer now.’
‘Master has told me he will ask Chief Mponda to protect me.’ The boy was still uneasy. ‘Master said I must not worry you, missus.’
‘You haven’t worried me,’ lied Clara, dismayed that Robert had warned Simon against being open with her. Unless he could share his problems with her, how would she be able to help him?
When Robert returned an hour later, he smiled delightedly to see his wife relaxing in his small sitting room. She was surprised that he had not asked what she thought of her new home. He must surely be anxious, in case she was disappointed.
‘My brave girl,’ he murmured at last, as if making excuses for a favourite daughte
r. ‘How could you know that women who go out at night are considered witches? I hear you kicked over one of their fertility horns.’
His amusement shocked her. ‘Is it funny to be thought a witch?’
‘They’ll think you’re magical whatever you do. White women are rarer than eclipses and more frightening. Primitive minds have no sense of logical causation. Any unusual event – even the death of a cow – can explain illness or misfortune. The Venda see omens everywhere. Your arrival was bound to bother them.’
‘You should have been here to warn me. Will they harm me, Robert? One woman looked as if she wanted to kill me.’
‘I expect she’d quarrelled with her husband.’ He was smiling again, and now she was annoyed by it. ‘White people’s spirits are considered terribly dangerous. Only a madman would risk freeing one by killing its owner.’
‘If everything’s so safe and amusing,’ she burst out, ‘what was Simon scared of?’
‘Magic, my dear.’ Suddenly he looked sad and weary.
‘Isn’t the boy supposed to be a Christian?’ she asked.
‘He is a Christian, but before his baptism, his life was dominated by magic. Don’t be angry, Clara. I can’t help the way Africans think. They’d deny that grass is green before doubting the reality of magic. Simon believes in Jesus, but his pagan past still tugs at him.’ Robert got up from the table. ‘Come with me for a moment.’
Clara let herself be led to a hut less than twenty paces from the house. A man was lying prostrate under the eaves. He was covered by a blanket and lay very still.
Robert said under his breath, ‘His name is Kefasi Chimutsa, and he’s been ill for a week. This morning, his wife called in the nganga – that’s the local priest and healer. Afterwards, she swore to me in all seriousness that the nganga had just removed three hundred beetles from her husband’s brain. She’d seen them fly away – every one. She said they’d been placed in Kefasi’s head by a woman who lives six miles away and never leaves her home. I could argue with Kefasi’s wife till doomsday, but I’d still fail to shake her belief in this diagnosis.’