‘She’s going to marry Charlie,’ said Marina.
‘She can marry him next Thursday, can’t she?’
‘No, because I’m taking them both down in the car to the location, to her father, and …’
Mrs Black said resentfully: ‘She should have asked me herself.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Marina in that high, acid voice, replying not to the words Mrs Black had used, but to what she had meant: ‘It seems to me that if anyone employs a child of fifteen, and under such conditions, the very least one can do is to assume the responsibility for her; and it seems to me quite extraordinary that you never have the slightest idea what she does, where she lives, or even that she is going to get married.’
‘You swallowed the dictionary?’ said Mrs Black, with an ingratiating smile. ‘I’m not saying she shouldn’t get married; she should have got married before, that’s what I’m saying.’
Marina returned to her flat, feeling Mrs Black’s resentful eyes on her back: Who the hell does she think she is, anyway?
When Marina and Philip reached the lorry that afternoon that was waiting outside the gate, Theresa and Charlie were already sitting in the back, carefully balancing the picture on their knees. The two white people got in the front and Marina glanced anxiously through the window and said to Philip: ‘Do drive carefully, dear, Theresa shouldn’t be bumped around.’
‘I’d be doing her a favour if I did bump her,’ said Philip grimly. He was accompanying Marina unwillingly. ‘Well, I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve by it …’ he had said. However, here he was, looking rather cross.
They drove down the tree-lined, shady streets, through the business area that was all concrete and modernity, past the slums where the half-caste people lived, past the factory sites, where smoke poured and hung, past the cemetery where angels and crosses gleamed white through the trees – they drove five miles, which was the distance Theresa had been expected to walk every morning and evening to her work. They turned off the main road into the location, and at once everything was quite different. No tarmac road, no avenues of beautiful trees here. Dust roads, dust paths, led from all directions inwards to the centre, where the housing area was. Dust lay thick and brown on the veld trees, the great blue sky was seen through a rust-coloured haze, dust gritted on the lips and tongue, and at once the lorry began to jolt and bounce. Marina looked back and saw Charlie and Theresa jerking and sliding with the lorry, under the great picture, clinging to each other for support, and laughing because of the joy-ride. It was the first time Theresa had ridden in a white man’s car; and she was waving and calling shrill greetings to the groups of black children who ran after them.
They drove fast, bumping, so as to escape from the rivers of dust that spurted up from the wheels, making a whirling red cloud behind them, from which crowds of loitering Africans ran, cursing and angry. Soon they were in an area that was like a cheap copy of the white man’s town; small houses stood in blocks, intersected by dust streets. They were two-roomed shacks with tin roofs, the sun blistering off them; and Marina said angrily: ‘Isn’t it awful, isn’t it terrible?’
Had she known that these same houses represented years of campaigning by the liberals of the city, against white public opinion, which obstinately held that houses for natives were merely another manifestation of that Fabian spirit from England which was spoiling the fine and uncorrupted savage, she might have been more respectful. Soon they left this new area and were among the sheds and barns that housed dozens of workers each, a state of affairs which caused Marina the acutest indignation. Another glance over her shoulder showed Theresa and Charlie giggling together like a couple of children as they tried to hold the picture still on their knees, for it slid this way and that as if it had a spiteful life of its own. ‘Ask Charlie where we must go,’ said Philip; and Marina tapped on the glass till Charlie turned his head and watched her gestures till he understood and pointed onwards with his thumb. More of these brick shacks, with throngs of Africans at their doors, who watched the car indifferently until they saw it was a Government car, and then their eyes grew wary, suspicious. And now, blocking their way, was a wire fence, and Marina looked back at Charlie for instructions, and he indicated they should stop. Philip pulled the lorry up against the fence and Charlie and Theresa jumped down from the back, came forward, and Charlie said apologetically: ‘Now we must walk, madam.’ The four went through a gap in the fence and saw a slope of soiled and matted grass that ended in a huddle of buildings on the banks of a small river.
Charlie pointed at it, and went ahead with Theresa. He held the picture on his shoulders, walking bent under it. They passed through the grass, which smelled unpleasant and was covered by a haze of flies, and came to another expanse of dust, in which were scattered buildings – no, not buildings, shacks, extraordinary huts thrown together out of every conceivable substance, with walls perhaps of sacking, or of petrol boxes, roofs of beaten tin, or bits of scrap iron.
‘And what happens when it rains?’ said Marina, as they wound in and out of these dwellings, among scratching chickens and snarling native mongrels. She found herself profoundly dispirited, as if something inside her said: What’s the use? For this area, officially, did not exist. The law was that all the workers, the servants, should live inside the location, or in one of the smaller townships. But there was never enough room. People overflowed into such makeshift villages everywhere, but as they were not supposed to be there the police might at any moment swoop down and arrest them. Admittedly the police did not often swoop, as the white man must have servants, the servants must live somewhere – and so it all went on, year after year. The Government, from time to time, planned a new housing estate. On paper, all round the white man’s city, were fine new townships for the blacks. One had even been built, and to this critical visitors (usually those Fabians from overseas) were taken, and came away impressed. They never saw these slums. And so all the time, every day, the black people came from their reserves, their kraals, drawn to the white man’s city, to the glitter of money, cinemas, fine clothes; they came in their thousands, no one knew how many, making their own life, as they could, in such hovels. It was all hopeless, as long as Mrs Black, Mr Black, Mrs Pond were the voters with the power; as long as the experts and administrators such as Philip had to work behind Mrs Pond’s back – for nothing is more remarkable than that democratic phenomenon, so clearly shown in this continent, where members of Parliament, civil servants (experts, in short) spend half their time and energy earnestly exhorting Mrs Pond: For heaven’s sake have some sense before it is too late; if you don’t let us use enough money to house and feed these people, they’ll rise and cut your throats. To which reasonable plea for self-preservation, Mrs Pond merely turns a sullen and angry stare, muttering: They’re getting out of hand, that’s what it is, they’re getting spoilt.
In a mood of grim despair, Marina found herself standing with Philip in front of a small shack that consisted of sheets of corrugated iron laid loosely together, resting in the dust, like a child’s card castle. It was bound at the corners with string, and big stones held the sheet of iron that served as roof from flying away in the first gust of wind.
‘Here, madam,’ said Charlie. He thrust Theresa forward. She went shyly to the dark oblong that was the door, leaned inwards, and spoke some words in her own language. After a moment an old man stooped his way out. He was perhaps not so old – impossible to say. He was lean and tall, with a lined and angry face, and eyes that lifted under heavy lids to peer at Marina and Philip. Towards Charlie he directed a long, deadly stare, then turned away. He wore a pair of old khaki trousers, an old, filthy singlet that left his long, sinewed arms bare: all the bones and muscles of his neck and shoulders showed taut and knotted under the skin.
Theresa, smiling bashfully, indicated Philip and Marina; the old man offered some words of greeting but he was angry, he did not want to see them, so the two white people fell back a little.
Charlie now came forward with the picture and leaned it gently against the iron of the shack in a way which said: ‘Here you are, and that’s all you are going to get from me.’ In these surroundings those fierce Scottish cattle seemed to shrink a little. The picture that had dominated a room with its expanse of shining glass, its heavy carved frame, seemed not so enormous now. The cattle seemed even rather absurd, shaggy creatures standing in their wet sunset, glaring with a false challenge at the group of people. The old man looked at the picture, and then said something angry to Theresa. She seemed afraid, and came forward, unknotting a piece of cloth that had lain in the folds at her waist. She handed over some small change – about three shillings in all. The old man took the money, shaking it contemptuously in his hand before he slid it into his pocket. Then he spat, showing contempt. Again he spoke to Theresa, in short angry sentences, and at the end he flung out his arm, as if throwing something away; and she began to cry and shrank back to Charlie. Charlie laid his hand on her shoulder and pressed it; then left her standing alone and went forward to his father-in-law. He smiled, spoke persuasively, indicated Philip and Marina. The old man listened without speaking, his eyes lowered. Those eyes slid sideways to the big picture, a gleam came into them; Charlie fell silent and they all looked at the picture.
The old man began to speak, in a different voice, sad, and hopeless. He was telling how he had wooed his second wife, Theresa’s mother. He spoke of the long courting, according to the old customs, how, with many gifts and courtesies between the clans, the marriage had been agreed on, how the cattle had been chosen, ten great cattle, heavy with good grazing; he told how he had driven them to Theresa’s mother’s family, carefully across the country, so that they might not be tired and thinned by the journey. As he spoke to the two young people he was reminding them, and himself, of that time when every action had its ritual, its meaning; he was asking them to contrast their graceless behaviour with the dignity of his own marriages, symbolized by the cattle, which were not to be thought of in terms of money, of simply buying a woman – not at all. They meant so much: a sign of good feeling, a token of union between the clans, an earnest that the woman would be looked after, an acknowledgement that she was someone very precious, whose departure would impoverish her family – the cattle were all these things, and many more. The old man looked at Charlie and Theresa and seemed to say: ‘And what about you? What are you in comparison to what we were then?’ Finally he spat again, lifted the picture and went into the dark of his hut. They could see him looking at the picture. He liked it: yes, he was pleased, in his way. But soon he left it leaning against the iron and returned to his former pose – he drew a blanket over his head and shoulders and squatted down inside the door, looking out, but not as if he still saw them or intended to make any further sign towards them.
The four were left standing there, in the dust, looking at each other.
Marina was feeling very foolish. Was that all? And Philip answered by saying brusquely, but uncomfortably: ‘Well, there’s your wedding for you.’
Theresa and Charlie had linked fingers and were together looking rather awkwardly at the white people. It was an awkward moment indeed – this was the end of it, the two were married, and it was Marina who had arranged the thing. What now?
But there was a more immediate problem. It was still early in the afternoon, the sun slanted overhead, with hours of light in it still, and presumably the newly-married couple would want to be together? Marina said: ‘Do you want to come back with us in the lorry, or would you rather come later?’
Charlie and Theresa spoke together in their own language, then Charlie said apologetically: ‘Thank you, madam, we stay.’
‘With Theresa’s father?’
Charlie said: ‘He won’t have Theresa now. He says Theresa can go away. He not want Theresa.’
Philip said: ‘Don’t worry, Marina, he’ll take her back, he’ll take her money all right.’ He laughed, and Marina was angry with him for laughing.
‘He very cross, madam,’ said Charlie. He even laughed himself, but in a rather anxious way.
The old man still sat quite motionless, looking past them. There were flies at the corners of his eyes; he did not lift his hand to brush them off.
‘Well …’ said Marina. ‘We can give you a lift back if you like.’ But it was clear that Theresa was afraid of going back now; Mrs Black might assume her afternoon off was over and make her work.
Charlie and Theresa smiled again and said: ‘Good-bye. Thank you, madam. Thank you, baas.’ They went slowly off across the dusty earth, between the hovels, towards the river, where a group of tall brick huts stood like outsize sentry-boxes. There, though neither Marina nor Philip knew it, was sold illicit liquor; there they would find a tinny gramophone playing dance music from America; there would be singing, dancing, a good time. This was the place the police came first if they were in search of criminals. Marina thought the couple were going down to the river, and she said sentimentally: ‘Well, they have this afternoon together, that’s something.’
‘Yes,’ said Philip dryly. The two were angry with each other, they did not know why. They walked in silence back to the lorry and drove home, making polite, clear sentences about indifferent topics.
Next day everything was as usual. Theresa back at work with Mrs Black, Charlie whistling cheerfully in their own flat.
Almost immediately Marina bought a house that seemed passable, about seven miles from the centre of town, in a new suburb. Mrs Skinner would not be returning for two weeks yet, but it was more convenient for them to move into the new home at once. The problem was Charlie. What would he do during that time? He said he was going home to visit his family. He had heard that his first wife had a new baby and he wanted to see it.
‘Then I’ll pay you your wages now,’ said Marina. She paid him, with ten shillings over. It was an uncomfortable moment. This man had been working for them for over two months, intimately, in their home, they had influenced each other’s lives – and now he was off, he disappeared, the thing was finished. ‘Perhaps you’ll come back and work for me when you come back from your family?’ said Marina.
Charlie was very pleased. ‘Oh, yes, madam,’ he said. ‘Mrs Skinner very bad, she no good, not like you.’ He gave a comical grimace, and laughed.
‘I’ll give you our address.’ Marina wrote it out and saw Charlie fold the piece of paper and place it carefully in an envelope which also held his official pass, a letter from her saying he was travelling to his family, and a further letter, for which he had asked, listing various bits of clothing that Philip had given him, for otherwise, as he explained, the police would catch him and say he had stolen them.
‘Well, good-bye, Charlie,’ said Marina. ‘I do so hope your wife and your new baby are all right.’ She thought of Theresa, but did not mention her; she found herself suffering from a curious disinclination to offer further advice or help. What would happen to Theresa? Would she simply move in with the first man who offered her shelter? Almost Marina shrugged.
‘Good-bye, madam.’ said Charlie. He went off to buy himself a new shirt with the ten shillings, and some sweets for Theresa. He was sad to be leaving Theresa. On the other hand, he was looking forward to seeing his new child and his wife; he expected to be home after about a week’s walking, perhaps sooner if he could get a lift.
But things did not turn out like this.
Mrs Skinner returned before she was expected. She found the flat locked and the key with Mrs Black. Everything was very clean and tidy, but – where was her favourite picture? At first she saw only the lightish square patch on the dimming paint – then she thought of Charlie. Where was he? No sign of him. She came back into the flat and found the letter Marina had left, enclosing eight pounds for the picture ‘which she had unfortunately broken’. The thought came to Mrs Skinner that she would not have got ten shillings for the picture if she had tried to sell it; then the phrase ‘sentimental value’ came to her rescue, and she was
furious. Where was Charlie? For, looking about her, she saw various other articles were missing. Where was her yellow earthen vase? Where was the wooden doorknocker that said Welcome Friend? Where was … she went off to talk to Mrs Black, and quite soon all the women dropped in, and she was told many things about Marina. At last she said: ‘It serves me right for letting to an immigrant. I should have let it to you, dear.’ The dear in question was Mrs Pond. The ladies were again emotionally united: the long hostilities that had led to the flat being let to Marina were forgotten; that they were certain to break out again within a week was not to be admitted in this moment of pure friendship.
Mrs Pond told Mrs Skinner that she had seen the famous picture being loaded on to the lorry. Probably Mrs Giles had sold it – but this thought was checked, for both ladies knew what the picture was worth. No, Marina must have disposed of it in some way connected with her Fabian outlook – what could one expect from these white kaffirs?
Fuming, Mrs Skinner went to find Theresa. She saw Charlie, dressed to kill in his new clothes, who had come to say goodbye to Theresa before setting off on his long walk. She flew out, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him into the flat. ‘Where’s my picture?’ she demanded.
At first Charlie denied all knowledge of the picture. Then he said Marina had given it to him. Mrs Skinner dropped his arm and stared: ‘But it was my picture …’ She reflected rapidly: that eight pounds was going to be very useful; she had returned from her holiday, as people do, rather short of money. She exclaimed instead: ‘What have you done with my yellow vase? Where’s my knocker?’
Charlie said he had not seen them. Finally Mrs Skinner fetched the police. The police found the missing articles in Charlie’s bundle. Normally Mrs Skinner would have cuffed him and fined him five shillings. But there was this business of the picture – she told the police to take him off.
Now, in this city in the heart of what used to be known as the Dark Continent, at any hour of the day, women shopping, typists glancing up from their work out of the window, or the business men passing in their cars, may see (if they choose to look) a file of handcuffed Africans, with two policemen in front and two behind, followed by a straggling group of African women who are accompanying their men to the courts. These are the Africans who have been arrested for visiting without passes, or owning bicycles without lights, or being in possession of clothes or articles without being able to say how they came to own them. These Africans are being marched off to explain themselves to the magistrates. They are given a small fine with the option of prison. They usually choose prison. After all, to pay ten shillings fine when one earns perhaps twenty or thirty a month, is no joke, and it is something to be fed and housed, free, for a fortnight. This is an arrangement satisfactory to everyone concerned, for these prisoners mend roads, cut down grass, plant trees: it is as good as having a pool of free labour.
This Was the Old Chief's Country Page 33