African Stories

by Doris Lessing

  “How old is Theresa?”

  “I don’t know.” This was true, for he did not even know his own age. As for Theresa, he saw the spindly, little-girl body, with the sharp young breasts pushing out the pink stuff of the dress she wore; he saw the new languor of her walk as she passed him. “She is nurse for Mrs. Black,” he said sullenly, meaning: “Ask Mrs. Black. What’s it got to do with me?”

  Marina said: “Very well,” and went out. As she did so she saw Charlie wave to Theresa through the gauze of the porch. Theresa pretended not to see. She was punishing him, because of the vegetable woman.

  In the front room the light was falling full on the highland cattle, so that the glass was a square, blinding glitter. Marina shifted her seat, so that her eyes were no longer troubled by it, and contemplated those odious cattle. Why was it that Charlie, who broke a quite fantastic number of cups, saucers, and vases, never—as Mrs. Skinner said he might—put that vigorously-jerking broom-handle through the glass? But it seemed he liked the picture. Marina had seen him standing in front of it, admiring it. Cattle, Marina knew from Philip, played a part in native tribal life that could only be described as religious—might it be that . . .

  Some letters slapped on to the cement of the verandah, slid over its polished surface, and came to rest in the doorway. Two letters. Marina watched the uniformed postboy cycle slowly down the front of the building, flinging in the letters, eight times, slap, slap, slap, grinning with pleasure at his own skill. There was a shout of rage. One of the women yelled after him: “You lazy black bastard, can’t you even get off your bicycle to deliver the letters?” The postman, without taking any notice, cycled slowly off to the next house.

  This was the hour of heat, when all activity faded into somnolence. The servants were away at the back, eating their midday meal. In the eight flats, separated by the flimsy walls which allowed every sound to be heard, the women reclined, sleeping, or lazily gossiping. Marina could hear Mrs. Pond, three rooms away, saying: “The fuss she made over half a pound of sugar, you would think . . .”

  Marina yawned. What a lazy life this was! She decided, at that moment, that she would put an end to this nonsense of hoping, year after year, for some miracle that would provide her, Marina Giles, with a nice house, a garden, and the other vanishing amenities of life. They would buy one of those suburban houses and she would have a baby. She would have several babies. Why not? Nursemaids cost practically nothing. She would become a domestic creature and learn to discuss servants and children with women like Mrs. Black and Mrs. Skinner. Why not? What had she expected? Ah, what had she not expected! For a moment she allowed herself to dream of that large house, that fine exotic garden, the free and amiable life released from the tensions and pressures of modern existence. She dreamed quite absurdly—but then, if no one dreamed these dreams, no one would emigrate, continents would remain undeveloped, and then what would happen to Charlie, whose salvation was (so the statesmen and newspapers continually proclaimed) contact with Mrs. Pond and Mrs. Skinner—white civilisation, in short.

  But the phrase “white civilisation” was already coming to affect Marina as violently as it affects everyone else in that violent continent. It is a phrase like “white man’s burden,” “way of life” or “colour bar”—all of which are certain to touch off emotions better not classified. Marina was alarmed to find that these phrases were beginning to produce in her a feeling of fatigued distaste. For the liberal, so vociferously disapproving in the first six months, is quite certain to turn his back on the whole affair before the end of a year. Marina would soon be finding herself profoundly bored by politics.

  But at this moment, having taken the momentous decision, she was quite light-hearted. After all, the house next door to this building was an eyesore, with its corrugated iron and brick and wood flung hastily together; and yet it was beautiful, covered with the yellow and purple and crimson creepers. Yes, they would buy a house in the suburbs, shroud it with greenery, and have four children; and Philip would be perfectly happy rushing violently around the country in a permanent state of moral indignation, and thus they would both be usefully occupied.

  Marina reached for the two letters, which still lay just inside the door, where they had been so expertly flung, and opened the first. It was from Mrs. Skinner, written from Cape Town, where she was, rather uneasily, it seemed, on holiday.

  I can’t help worrying if everything is all right, and the furniture. Perhaps I ought to have packed away the things, because no stranger understands. I hope Charlie is not getting cheeky, he needs a firm hand, and I forgot to tell you you must deduct one shilling from his wages because he came back late one afternoon, instead of five o’clock as I said, and I had to teach him a lesson.

  Yours truly,

  Emily Skinner

  P.S. I hope the picture is continuing all right.

  The second was from Philip.

  I’m afraid I shan’t be back tomorrow as Smith suggests while we are here we might as well run over to the Nwenze reserve. It’s only just across the river, about seventy miles as the crow flies, but the roads are anybody’s guess, after the wet season. Spent this morning as planned, trying to persuade these blacks it is better to have one fat ox than ten all skin and bone, never seen such erosion in my life, gullies twenty feet deep, and the whole tribe will starve next dry season, but you can talk till you are blue, they won’t kill a beast till they’re forced, and that’s what it will come to, and then imagine the outcry from the people back home . . .

  At this point Marina remarked to herself: Well, well; and continued:

  You can imagine Screech-Jones or one of them shouting in the House: Compulsion of the poor natives. My eye. It’s for their own good. Until all this mystical nonsense about cattle is driven out of their fat heads, we might as well save our breath. You should have seen where I was this morning! To get the reserve back in use, alone, would take the entire vote this year for the whole country, otherwise the whole place will be a desert, it’s all perfectly obvious, but you’ll never get this damned Government to see that in a hundred years, and it’ll be too late in five.

  In haste,

  Phil

  P.S. I do hope everything is all right, dear, I’ll try not to be late.

  That night Marina took her evening meal early so that Charlie might finish the washing-up and get off. She was reading in the front room when she understood that her ear was straining through the noise from the wirelesses all around her for a quite different sort of music. Yes, it was a banjo, and loud singing, coming from the servants’ rooms, and there was a quality in it that was not to be heard from any wireless set. Marina went through the rooms to the kitchen window. The deserted yard, roofed high with moon and stars, was slatted and barred with light from the eight back doors. The windows of the four servants’ rooms gleamed dully; and from the room Charlie shared with February came laughter and singing and the thrumming of the banjo.

  There’s a man who comes to our house,

  When poppa goes away . . .

  Marina smiled. It was a maternal smile. (As Mrs. Pond might remark, in a good mood: They are nothing but children.) She liked to think that these men were having a party. And women too: she could hear shrill female voices. How on earth did they all fit into that tiny room? As she returned through the back porch, she heard a man’s voice shouting: “Shut up there! Shut up, I say!” Mr. Black from his back porch: “Don’t make so much noise.”

  Complete silence. Marina could see Mr. Black’s long, black shadow poised motionless: he was listening. Marina heard him grumble: “Can’t hear yourself think with these bastards . . .” He went back into his front room, and the sound of his heavy feet on the wood floor was absorbed by their wireless playing: I love you, Yes I do, I love you . . . Slam! Mr. Black was in a rage.

  Marina continued to read. It was not long before once more her distracted ear warned her that riotous music had begun again. They were singing: Congo Conga Conga, we do it in the Congo . . . />
  Steps on the verandah, a loud knock, and Mr. Black entered.

  “Mrs. Giles, your boy’s gone haywire. Listen to the din.”

  Marina said politely: “Do sit down, Mr. Black.”

  Mr. Black, who in England (from whence he had come as a child) would have been a lanky, pallid, genteel clerk, was in this country an assistant in a haberdasher’s; but because of his sun-filled and energetic week-ends, he gave the impression, at first glance, of being that burly young Colonial one sees on advertisements for Empire tobacco. He was thin, bony, muscular, sunburnt; he had the free and easy Colonial manner, the back-slapping air that is always just a little too conscious. “Look,” it seems to say, “in this country we are all equal (among the whites, that is—that goes without saying) and I’ll fight the first person who suggests anything to the contrary.” Democracy, as it were, with one eye on the audience. But alas, he was still a clerk, and felt it; and if there was one class of person he detested it was the civil servant; and if there was another, it was the person new from “Home.”

  Here they were, united in one person, Marina Giles, wife of Philip Giles, soil expert for the Department of Lands and Afforestation, Marina, whose mere appearance acutely irritated him, every time he saw her moving delicately through the red dust, in her straw hat, white gloves, and touch-me-not manner.

  “I say!” he said aggressively, his face flushed, his eyes hot. “I say, what are you going to do about it, because if you don’t, I shall.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Marina precisely; “but I really fail to see why these people should not have a party, if they choose, particularly as it is not yet nine o’clock, and as far as I know there is no law to forbid them.”

  “Law!” said Mr. Black violently. “Party! They’re on our premises, aren’t they? It’s for us to say. Anyway, if I know anything they’re visiting without passes.”

  “I feel you are being unreasonable,” said Marina, with the intention of sounding mildly persuasive; but in fact her voice had lifted to that fatally querulous high note, and her face was as angry and flushed as his.

  “Unreasonable! My kids can’t sleep with that din.”

  “It might help if you turned down your own wireless,” said Marina sarcastically.

  He lifted his fists, clenching them unconsciously. “You people . . .” he began inarticulately. “If you were a man, Mrs. Giles, I tell you straight . . .” He dropped his fists and looked around wildly as Mrs. Pond entered, her face animated with delight in the scene.

  “I see Mr. Black is talking to you about your boy,” she began, sugarily.

  “And your boy too,” said Mr. Black.

  “Oh, if I had a husband,” said Mrs. Pond, putting on an appearance of helpless womanhood, “February would have got what’s coming to him long ago.”

  “For that matter,” said Marina, speaking with difficulty because of her loathing for the whole thing, “I don’t think you really find a husband necessary for this purpose, since it was only yesterday I saw you hitting February yourself . . .”

  “He was cheeky,” began Mrs. Pond indignantly.

  Marina found words had failed her; but none were necessary for Mr. Black had gone striding out through her own bedroom, followed by Mrs. Pond, and she saw the pair of them cross the shadowy yard to Charlie’s room, which was still in darkness, though the music was at a crescendo. As Mr. Black shouted: “Come out of there, you black bastards!” the noise stopped, the door swung in, and half a dozen dark forms ducked under Mr. Black’s extended arm and vanished into the sanitary lane. There was a scuffle, and Mr. Black found himself grasping, at arm’s length, two people—Charlie and his own nursemaid, Theresa. He let the girl go and she ran after the others. He pushed Charlie against the wall. “What do you mean by making all that noise when I told you not to?” he shouted.

  “That’s right, that’s right,” gasped Mrs. Pond from behind him, running this way and that around the pair so as to get a good view.

  Charlie, keeping his elbow lifted to shield his head, said: “I’m sorry, baas, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”

  “Sorry!” Mr. Black, keeping firm grasp of Charlie’s shoulder, lifted his other hand to hit him; Charlie jerked his arm up over his face. Mr. Black’s fist, expecting to encounter a cheek, met instead the rising arm and he was thrown off balance and staggered back. “How dare you hit me,” he shouted furiously, rushing at Charlie; but Charlie had escaped in a bound over the rubbish-cans and away into the lane.

  Mr. Black sent angry shouts after him; then turned and said indignantly to Mrs. Pond: “Did you see that? He hit me!”

  “He’s out of hand,” said Mrs. Pond in a melancholy voice. “What can you expect? He’s been spoilt.”

  They both turned to look accusingly at Marina.

  “As a matter of accuracy,” said Marina breathlessly, “he did not hit you.”

  “What, are you taking that nigger’s side?” demanded Mr. Black. He was completely taken aback. He looked, amazed, at Mrs. Pond, and said: “She’s taking his side!”

  “It’s not a question of sides,” said Marina in that high, precise voice. “I was standing here and saw what happened. You know quite well he did not hit you. He wouldn’t dare.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Black, “that’s what a state things have come to, with the Government spoiling them, they can hit us and get away with it, and if we touch them we get fined.”

  “I don’t know how many times I’ve seen the servants hit since I’ve been here,” said Marina angrily. “If it is the law, it is a remarkably ineffective one.”

  “Well, I’m going to get the police,” shouted Mr. Black, running back to his own flat. “No black bastard is going to hit me and get away with it. Besides, they can all be fined for visiting without passes after nine at night . . .”

  “Don’t be childish,” said Marina, and went inside her rooms. She was crying with rage. Happening to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed it, she hastily went to splash cold water on her face, for she looked—there was no getting away from it—rather like a particularly genteel school-marm in a temper. When she reached the front room, she found Charlie there throwing terrified glances out into the verandah for fear of Mr. Black or Mrs. Pond.

  “Madam,” he said. “Madam, I didn’t hit him.”

  “No, of course not,” said Marina; and she was astonished to find that she was feeling irritated with him, Charlie. “Really,” she said, “must you make such a noise and cause all this fuss.”

  “But, madam . . .”

  “Oh, all right,” she said crossly. “All right. But you aren’t supposed to . . . who were all those people?”

  “My friends.”

  “Where from?” He was silent. “Did they have passes to be out visiting?” He shifted his eyes uncomfortably. “Well, really,” she said irritably, “if the law is that you must have passes, for heaven’s sake . . .” Charlie’s whole appearance had changed; a moment before he had been a helpless small boy; he had become a sullen young man: this white woman was like all the rest.

  Marina controlled her irritation and said gently: “Listen, Charlie, I don’t agree with the law and all this nonsense about passes, but I can’t change it, and it does seem to me . . .” Once again her irritation rose, once again she suppressed it, and found herself without words. Which was just as well, for Charlie was gazing at her with puzzled suspicion since he saw all white people as a sort of homogeneous mass, a white layer, as it were, spread over the mass of blacks, all concerned in making life as difficult as possible for him and his kind; the idea that a white person might not agree with passes, curfew, and so on was so outrageously new that he could not admit it to his mind at once. Marina said: “Oh, well, Charlie, I know you didn’t mean it, and I think you’d better go quietly to bed and keep out of Mr. Black’s way, if you can.”

  “Yes, madam,” he said submissively. As he went, she asked: “Does Theresa sleep in the same room as Mr. Black’s boy?”

 
He was silent. “Does she sleep in your room perhaps?” And, as the silence persisted: “Do you mean to tell me she sleeps with you and February?” No reply. “But Charlie . . .” She was about to protest again: But Theresa’s nothing but a child; but this did not appear to be an argument which appealed to him.

  There were loud voices outside, and Charlie shrank back: “The police!” he said, terrified.

  “Ridiculous nonsense,” said Marina. But looking out she saw a white policeman; and Charlie fled out through her bedroom and she heard the back door slam. It appeared he had no real confidence in her sympathy.

  The policeman entered, alone. “I understand there’s been a spot of trouble,” he said.

  “Over nothing,” said Marina.

  “A tenant in this building claims he was hit by your servant.”

  “It’s not true. I saw the whole thing.”

  The policeman looked at her doubtfully and said: “Well, that makes things difficult, doesn’t it?” After a moment he said: “Excuse me a moment,” and went out. Marina saw him talking to Mr. Black outside her front steps. Soon the policeman came back. “In view of your attitude the charge has been dropped,” he said.

  “So I should think. I’ve never heard of anything so silly.”

  “Well, Mrs. Giles, there was a row going on, and they all ran away, so they must have had guilty consciences about something, probably no passes. And you know they can’t have women in their rooms.”

  “The woman was Mr. Black’s own nursemaid.”

  “He says the girl is supposed to sleep in the location with her father.”

  “It’s a pity Mr. Black takes so little interest in his servants not to know. She sleeps here. How can a child that age be expected to walk five miles here every morning, to be here at seven, and walk five miles back at seven in the evening?”

  The policeman gave her a look: “Plenty do it,” he said. “It’s not the same for them as it is for us. Besides, it’s the law.”

  “The law!” said Marina bitterly.

  Again the policeman looked uncertain. He was a pleasant young man, he dealt continually with cases of this kind, he always tried to smooth things over, if he could. He decided on his usual course, despite Marina’s hostile manner. “I think the best thing to do,” he said, “is if we leave the whole thing. We’ll never catch them now, anyway—miles away by this time. And Mr. Black has dropped the charge. You have a talk to your boy and tell him to be careful. Otherwise he’ll be getting himself into trouble.”