The Missionary's Wife

by Tim Jeal

  Her heart was still pounding as she flung herself down on the bed. She thought: Now he knows what he’s done. But soon the hateful satisfaction of punishing him began to fade. She had tried for days to remain calm and accepting of her new life, but at the first real test she had lost control of herself.

  As Clara lay in her hot and airless little room, she imagined another unbearable evening, just like this one. Ruth and Robert had been arguing. Later, in the darkness, the distracted woman crept out to the stable to harness the mules and drive off into the moonless bush. And who could blame her? Clara could hear Robert pacing back and forth on the other side of the wall. On and on. Where could Ruth have found peace in a tiny house like this one? And still he paced.

  At dusk, as the calico in the window was beginning to glow pink, Clara found herself thinking of Francis. His smile had been so frank and cheerful. How strange that her earlier prejudice against army officers had blinded her to his decency until they were almost due to part. Now he and Fynn already seemed to belong to some remote period of her life. Her eyes filled as she recalled Francis comforting her by saying that scores of people wanted to start new and more adventurous lives but lacked her courage.

  Suddenly the bedroom door burst open, and Robert was standing in the opening with staring eyes. She feared he was about to weep, but when he spoke, his voice was low and dignified.

  ‘Remember this, Clara: A single soul saved for Christ is a richer prize than the greatest earthly fortune. Paul and Philemon can testify to that. As for my poor mission house … the Son of God was born in a stable.’

  ‘He didn’t choose to live in one later,’ she muttered.

  Robert regarded her with such sadness that she regretted her bitter remark. He said, ‘It’s not easy to build a house or chapel in a place like this. You expect a great deal.’

  ‘Did Ruth expect as much?’

  Ignoring the sting in her words, he said calmly, ‘She came from a large family. Her father was not a wealthy man.’

  ‘You knew my background when you pursued me.’

  He said pleadingly, ‘I loved you, Clara … I still do. Please try to accept the past.’

  ‘Accept it?’ she stammered. ‘What help is that? What help is anything now?’

  She pushed past him and walked out into the evening air. As in a dream, she saw the whimsical arrangement of huts and pathways, so incredibly different from the ordered solidity of Sarston’s streets. The darkening shadows and wisps of smoke spoke of peace and continuity. Did people out there in their huts ever dread to go home? Did they feel as lonely as a stick or stone? Behind her, somebody had lit a lamp in the house. A fan of yellow light glowed on the dusty earth by the, door. She turned and saw Robert looking out and Simon holding the lamp behind him – the man of God and his devoted acolyte. Did they now wish she had never arrived?

  *

  I must calm myself, thought Clara, as they sat down to their meal in the kitchen. Unless I can, I’ll end up running away like Ruth. The strips of mutton Simon was slicing from the chief’s gift sheep smelled excellent. The boy had skilfully flavoured the dish with roasted monkeynuts and herbs, and Robert’s pride in his cooking was understandable. As she ate, Clara felt petty to have wanted Robert to rebuke Simon for his rudeness. It was a small thing, really. As the boy stood watching her, Clara smiled at him.

  ‘What did you hope for when you first worked for Mr Robert?’

  ‘When I came to master, my one wish was for a gun,’ admitted Simon shamefacedly. ‘At last I had saved up money to buy one from a trader. I brought it home. My own gun! It was like a dream. I got up each night to make sure I really owned it. I was always admiring and polishing.’ Wide-eyed wonder gave way to religious awe. ‘But now that I love Jesus, I never think of it.’

  Robert was smiling like a doting parent. It did not seem to cross his mind that Simon might simply be saying this to please him. Earlier in the day, Robert had shown Clara the marks on the kitchen wall that Simon used in order to tell the time by the position of the sun’s shadows. ‘Such ingenuity!’ He had chuckled, adding that one day he might surprise the boy with a watch – a gift that Clara feared might cause envy and resentment in the village. Could the boy consider himself safe from threats simply because he was Robert’s servant? Increasingly she had to wonder about Robert’s judgement. When he wished to describe the terrible difficulties he had faced, he could be coldly analytical about Africans’ motives. By contrast, his view of individuals was often rose-tinted and uncritical.

  In the bedroom, Clara was careful to conceal her body when she slipped off her clothes. But when Robert took off his own, his erect penis was jutting eagerly. So soon after the revelations about Ruth, Clara prayed that he was not going to speak to her of a wife’s duty to her husband. To her relief, he put on his nightshirt and then knelt in silent prayer for several minutes. His face was so solemn that Clara braced herself for more unwelcome news.

  At last he murmured, ‘Tomorrow I have to go away for a few days. Food gets very short in the dry season, but happily I can provide meat for the mission with my gun.’ He got into bed beside her, being careful not to touch her legs with his. ‘Perhaps you’ll feel more kindly towards me when I return. Paul and Philemon will be on hand whenever you need them. Hannah will be living in the house.’

  ‘What about Simon?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll need him with me,’ he acknowledged.

  To her surprise, Clara felt no bitterness that he had chosen to leave her behind. They might well benefit from a time apart.

  Clara woke during the night and saw that he was still awake and listening to the night sounds of the village. His face, composed and resolute in the moonlight, bore the expression he wore after he had been praying.

  The sun was shining when she next opened her eyes, and Robert and Simon had already gone out. Clara found herself alone with Hannah, who spoke no English and had not yet been fully trained by Simon. The girl was laying the table as Clara went in to the kitchen. After putting the salt and pepper under the tablecloth, Hannah poured milk into a jug, straining it through a filthy cloth. When Robert returned for breakfast, Clara told him what she had seen.

  Robert smiled tolerantly. ‘Hannah meant no harm. She wouldn’t understand the purpose of filtering. I expect she saw Simon straining the milk and thought it was a magical procedure to ward off witchcraft. Why should a charmed cloth need to be clean? As for the cruets, she probably thinks they have to be on the table to protect the food. Under the cloth or over it makes no difference.’ He touched Clara’s hand reassuringly. ‘Just get Paul to come over here after school, and he can interpret for you. He’ll want to come anyway.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course. He’s in love with Hannah. I only took her on here so he could see more of her. Her parents are very suspicious of Christians.’

  Before Robert went out to load the Cape cart, he held Clara’s hands, and this time she did not pull away. She found it touching that he should want to help Paul and Hannah, and was pleased that he should look upon their love with sympathy. Just as she was beginning to wonder whether she had been too hard on him the night before, he spoiled things by saying earnestly, ‘Please keep a diary, my love. Ruth didn’t, so I had nothing to send to her parents.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed a second time,’ she said sarcastically.

  He wagged a finger at her. ‘You know what I mean.’ But she didn’t know at all. Was he implying that she would be in danger while he was away? Or were they always in danger? He frowned as if another irksome thought was troubling him. ‘I’m embarrassed to ask you this, Clara, but … please don’t give your sanitary towels to Hannah to wash. She might be tempted to sell them to an nganga as a fetish. Also, bury your nail clippings or any trimmed hair. People think they gain magical power over a woman if they get hold of something that was once part of her body.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ she promised, astonished by these grotesque warnings b
ut knowing that they were probably necessary.

  ‘I’ve left a letter on my table,’ he told her quite casually. ‘But please, open it only if I’m not back in two weeks.’

  Her heart thudded. ‘You’re not going to shoot lions?’

  ‘No, no. Just buck and guinea fowl.’ His smile stiffened. ‘You really mustn’t worry. I never do myself. While we’re useful to God, no harm can come to us. It’s as simple as that.’

  Is it really? Clara wanted to ask. What makes you so sure? But with no desire for an argument before his departure, she kept silent and followed him into the lane, where he kissed her on the cheek and blessed her before clambering on to the box of the cart, where Simon was waiting.

  Seeing her husband sitting up there, his profile outlined against the blue sky, Clara was reminded of a statue, so still was he. Robert lifted the reins in his beautiful long-fingered hands, and for a moment he was the man she had loved in England: brave, self-denying, and invincible in his faith.

  As the mules began to pull away, she wished that she had never thought him infallibly wise and good. Nobody ought to be placed on a pedestal beyond teasing and contradiction. His parting words had cried out to be challenged. But she had kept quiet to protect the sense of dignity that he found so vital. But what he had just said was untrue. If harm did finally come to him, of course he would not believe that he was no longer serving God’s purpose. Martyrdom was both the ultimate curse and the ultimate mark of God’s favour.

  *

  A grey lizard with a bright-blue head and an orange throat blinked at Clara from the rafters. It was a few hours after Robert’s departure, and already she felt too hot to move. Outside the kitchen door, a chameleon’s mouth opened in an ugly pink gash, and its tongue shot out to trap a fly. In the lane, a goat was shifting its feet in the hot dust.

  I can do nothing. I have nothing I can do, Clara thought. I could write to Father in case I die. But saying what? A few comforting lies? Or the truth? Better a chatty day-by-day account filled with details of pet parrots and monkeys – didn’t resourceful settlers always write home about such jolly creatures? ‘I call them Jack and Jill and they live in a comfortable nest. Such cheery antics all day long and then cuddling up for the night so sweetly.’ And finally a sad denouement: ‘Jack and Jill have been eaten by a leopard.’

  The stifled wail of a baby carried clearly on the still air. The next moment, it might be a beaten dog or a bleating goat. Clara forced herself to get up from the Windsor chair and go into the kitchen. She picked up a knife and cut some slices from the dark-red stands of dried antelope meat hanging from the rafters.

  On her way to the mission with the meat in a cloth, she was made slightly uneasy by the presence of two men with spears, standing across the lane in the shadow of a hut, but the feeling faded as she sensed the cheerfulness of people all around her. A mother was shelling a mealie cob on to hot ashes and giving her delighted children the charred popcorns as they burst. Girls sang together while grinding dazzling white meal between stones. A stream of talk, work, and movement flowed on every side of her.

  Out of the sunlight, she stood blinking in the gloom of the mission’s long room. The boy with ulcers was sitting on the floor in a corner, looking frightened and unhappy. Mission children, like Matiyo, were nowhere to be seen. Clara sought out Philemon.

  ‘Why is that poor child being neglected?’

  Philemon regarded her like a grave old stalk. ‘I have today bandaged his leg with my hands, Nkosikaas. Master bandaged yesterday.’

  ‘Why is he alone?’

  ‘His mother is a bad woman.’

  Clara folded her arms. ‘Did he choose his mother, Philemon? Please tell the others to be kind to him. What is his name?’

  ‘Homani, Nkosikaas.’

  Clara asked for milk to be brought and then approached the child. Holding out the cup, with a smile on her face, she spoke his name. Homani cringed from her at first but, when she least expected it, scuttled rapidly towards her like a crab.

  Philemon noticed Clara’s dismay. ‘His legs are too weak to carry him, Nkosikaas.’

  Unable to remember the words for ‘get better’, Clara offered the cup in silence. The child snatched at it, spilling some and drinking the rest in a few noisy gulps. It was the same story when she held out the strips of meat.

  ‘All hungry children grab at food when they first come,’ soothed Philemon.

  Like starving animals, thought Clara, watching Homani cram the meat into his mouth. His face was wizened and looked incredibly old, with its hollow eyes and prominent cheekbones.

  ‘He must put on weight,’ she said. ‘I mean to come back every day to see him.’

  Leaving the building, she was alarmed to spot the two armed warriors watching for her. ‘Who are they?’ she whispered to Philemon.

  ‘They are Chief Mponda’s bodyguards.’

  ‘Then why aren’t they guarding him?’

  Philemon smiled. ‘The chief has told them to protect you while master is away.’

  ‘Does he suppose I’m in danger?’

  The old African’s brow became deeply furrowed. ‘He wishes to honour you, Nkosikaas.’

  She moved closer and implored, ‘Is my husband really shooting game for us?’

  ‘Master did not tell you?’ Philemon’s gentle surprise seemed almost a reproach.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Philemon’s cataract-covered eye was turned in her direction, as if he had no desire to continue their conversation. At last he said, ‘Whatever he told you, that is what he is doing now.’

  As usual, Philemon had avoided telling her what he knew, but there was still one way she could learn what was going on.

  Back in the house, Clara passed the kitchen door. Inside, Hannah was cleaning out a saucepan, using Robert’s hairbrush. With no hope of making herself understood, Clara could only smile and walk on. Soon she stood next to Robert’s writing table and gazed at the letter propped against the inkwell. She felt its thickness as if estimating the number of sheets within. ‘Clara. Only to be opened in the event of my failure to return.’ With a sudden movement, Clara ripped open the envelope. Only fools chose to remain ignorant when they could choose to pick the fruit of knowledge.

  My dearest Clara,

  Since you are reading this, it follows that I have not returned as expected, but this need not mean I am dead. Trust in Him who never fails us. It is quite possible that I am being held against my will.

  Her eye raced on over the paper as her hand groped for the support of the chair behind her.

  Mponda believes his son has bought rifles to use against him. He will not risk being baptized until he is sure that he can defeat Makufa. In my view, the rumour about these guns is being put about to scare the chief. I must either prove that the weapons do not exist or abandon any hope of converting Mponda this year.

  The chief has ordered men to watch over you, but you must not stay at Mponda’s kraal without me. Philemon will take you in the ox wagon to Belingwe. Leave all arrangements to him. Christ be with you till we meet again, be it on this earth or in a better place.

  Ever your loving husband,

  Robert

  After reading the letter, Clara felt both betrayed and humbled. It was horrible to find that she had treated Robert with little sympathy at a time of crisis, and it was monstrous of him to set out on a perilous journey without giving her the opportunity to say a proper farewell. Too dazed to think of her own danger, she gazed ahead of her in blank dismay.

  CHAPTER 9

  Shortly after leaving Clara, Robert collected his Bushman guide, Dau, and soon the Cape cart was clattering past the public meeting place, or khotla, and heading north. About fifty people stood gathered in the shade of the great kachere tree in the centre of the open space. Every month, Mponda came down from his hilltop to arbitrate in disputes and impose fines for a wide variety of crimes, including murder. Robert reined in his mules and cast his eyes heavenwards. This was definitely not wh
at he had wanted. His one longing was to get on as quickly as possible in order to prove that there was no arms cache at Mount Rungai; but since Mponda would already have seen him, it would be impolitic to rush by without a word of greeting.

  The dignity of this small court was always touching: the witnesses standing when addressing their chief, and Mponda himself speaking only when his clerk asked for a verdict. As Robert jumped down from the cart, proceedings were drawing to a close. While he pondered when to approach, Mponda waved away those around him, except for his son Makufa, and beckoned to his missionary. Though alarmed by Makufa’s presence, Robert sat on a stool just vacated by a headman.

  ‘Umfundisi,’ murmured Mponda, ‘my son has asked me how I will justify myself to my father’s spirit if I change the customs of my people.’

  Robert turned towards Makufa, who had risen to his feet and was looking down on him menacingly. The missionary realized that he and Makufa were being invited to compete for Mponda’s belief and trust. Robert said amiably to the chief’s son, ‘If Mponda becomes a Christian, you think that the spirit of Chief Khari, his own father, would curse him. Is that right, Makufa?’

  ‘It is, mfungu.’

  To call him ‘white man’ instead of ‘teacher’, or ‘umfundisi’, was a deliberate insult. Robert could feel the blood mounting to his cheeks. ‘It’s a foolish idea, young man.’

  Makufa thrust out his smooth, well-muscled chest. ‘Why is it foolish, mfungu? Khari would want us to live like our ancestors.’

  Robert smiled stiffly. ‘Are you living like your ancestors, Makufa? You hunt with a rifle, you ride horses and own a gasogene lamp. You covet my ox wagon and Cape cart.’

  Makufa tossed his head contemptuously. ‘Guns and lamps are not customs.’