“And what are you going to do about the nurse? It amounts to this: It’s convenient for the Blacks to have her here, so they can go out at night, and so on, so they ask no questions. It’s a damned disgrace, a girl of that age expected to share a room with the men.”
“It’s not right, not right at all,” said the policeman. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Black.” And he took his leave, politely.
That night Marina relieved her feelings by writing a long letter about the incident to a friend of hers in England, full of phrases such as “police state,” “despotism,” and “fascism”; which caused that friend to reply, rather tolerantly, to the effect that she understood these hot climates were rather upsetting and she did so hope Marina was looking after herself, one must have a sense of proportion, after all.
And, in fact, by the morning Marina was wondering why she had allowed herself to be so angry about such an absurd incident. What a country this was! Unless she was very careful she would find herself flying off into hysterical states as easily, for instance, as Mr. Black. If one was going to make a life here, one should adjust oneself . . .
Charlie was grateful and apologetic. He repeated: “Thank you, madam. Thank you.” He brought her a present of some vegetables and said: “You are my father and my mother.” Marina was deeply touched. He rolled up his eyes and made a half-rueful joke: “The police are no good, madam.” She discovered that he had spent the night in a friend’s room some streets away for fear the police might come and take him to prison. For, in Charlie’s mind, the police meant only one thing. Marina tried to explain that one wasn’t put in prison without a trial of some sort; but he merely looked at her doubtfully, as if she were making fun of him. So she left it.
And Theresa? She was still working for the Blacks. A few evenings later, when Marina went to turn off the lights before going to bed, she saw Theresa gliding into Charlie’s room. She said nothing about it: what could one expect?
Charlie had accepted her as an ally. One day, as he served vegetables, reaching behind her ducked head so that they might be presented, correctly, from the left, he remarked: “That Theresa, she very nice, madam.”
“Very nice,” said Marina, uncomfortably helping herself to peas from an acute angle, sideways.
“Theresa says, perhaps madam give her a dress?”
“I’ll see what I can find,” said Marina, after a pause.
“Thank you very much, thank you, madam,” he said. He was grateful; but certainly he had expected just that reply: his thanks were not perfunctory, but he thanked her as one might thank one’s parents, for instance, from whom one expects such goodness, even takes it a little for granted.
Next morning, when Marina and Philip lay as usual, trying to sleep through the cheerful din of cleaning from the next room, which included a shrill and sprightly whistling, there was a loud crash.
“Oh, damn the man,” said Philip, turning over and pulling the clothes over his ears.
“With a bit of luck he’s broken that picture,” said Marina. She put a dressing-gown on, and went next door. On the floor lay fragments of white porcelain—her favourite vase, which she had brought all the way from England. Charlie was standing over it. “Sorry, madam,” he said, cheerfully contrite.
Now that vase had stood on a shelf high above Charlie’s head—to break it at all was something of an acrobatic feat . . . Marina pulled herself together. After all, it was only a vase. But her favourite vase, she had had it ten years: she stood there, tightening her lips over all the angry things she would have liked to say, looking at Charlie, who was carelessly sweeping the pieces together. He glanced up, saw her face, and said hastily, really apologetic: “Sorry madam, very, very sorry, madam.” Then he added reassuringly: “But the picture is all right.” He gazed admiringly up at the highland cattle which he clearly considered the main treasure of the room.
“So it is,” said Marina, suppressing the impulse to say: Charlie, if you break that picture I’ll give you a present. “Oh, well,” she said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Just sweep the pieces up.”
“Yes, missus, thank you,” said Charlie cheerfully; and she left, wondering how she had put herself in a position where it became impossible to be legitimately cross with her own servant. Coming back into that room some time later to ask Charlie why the breakfast was so late, she found him still standing under the picture. “Very nice picture,” he said, reluctantly leaving the room. “Six oxes. Six fine big oxes, in one picture!”
The work in the flat was finished by mid-morning. Marina told Charlie she wanted to bake; he filled the old-fashioned stove with wood for her, heated the oven and went off into the yard, whistling. She stood at the window, mixing her cake, looking out into the yard.
Charlie came out of his room, sat down on a big log under the tree, stretched his legs before him, and propped a small mirror between his knees. He took a large metal comb and began to work on his thick hair, which he endeavoured to make lie flat, white-man’s fashion. He was sitting with his back to the yard.
Soon Theresa came out with a big enamel basin filled with washing. She wore the dress Marina had given her. It was an old black cocktail dress which hung loosely around her calves, and she had tied it at the waist with a big sash of printed cotton. The sophisticated dress, treated thus, hanging full and shapeless, looked grandmotherly and old-fashioned; she looked like an impish child in a matron’s garb. She stood beside the washing-line gazing at Charlie’s back; then slowly she began pegging the clothes, with long intervals to watch him.
It seemed Charlie did not know she was there. Then his pose of concentrated self-worship froze into a long, close inspection in the mirror, which he began to rock gently between his knees so that the sunlight flashed up from it, first into the branches over his head, then over the dust of the yard to the girl’s feet, up her body: the ray of light hovered like a butterfly around her, then settled on her face. She remained still, her eyes shut, with the teasing light flickering on her lids. Then she opened them and exclaimed, indignantly: “Hau!”
Charlie did not move. He held the mirror sideways on his knees, where he could see Theresa, and pretended to be hard at work on his parting. For a few seconds they remained thus, Charlie staring into the mirror, Theresa watching him reproachfully. Then he put the mirror back into his pocket, stretched his arms back in a magnificent slow yawn, and remained there, rocking back and forth on his log.
Theresa looked at him thoughtfully; and—since now he could not see her—darted over to the hedge, plucked a scarlet hibiscus flower, and returned to the washing-line, where she continued to hang the washing, the flower held lightly between her lips.
Charlie got up, his arms still locked behind his head, and began a sort of shuffle dance in the sunny dust, among the fallen leaves and chips of wood. It was a crisp, bright morning, the sky was as blue and fresh as the sea: this idyllic scene moved Marina deeply, it must be confessed.
Still dancing, Charlie let his arms fall, turned himself round, and his hands began to move in time with his feet. Jerking, lolling, posing, he slowly approached the centre of the yard, apparently oblivious of Theresa’s existence.
There was a shout from the back of the building: “Theresa!” Charlie glanced around, then dived hastily into his room. The girl, left alone, gazed at the dark door into which Charlie had vanished, sighed, and blinked gently at the sunlight. A second shout: “Theresa, are you going to be all day with that washing?”
She tucked the flower among the stiff quills of hair on her head and bent to the basin that stood in the dust. The washing flapped and billowed all around her, so that the small, wiry form appeared to be wrestling with the big, ungainly sheets. Charlie ducked out of his door and ran quickly up the hedge, out of sight of Mrs. Black. He stopped, watching Theresa, who was still fighting with the washing. He whistled, she ignored him. He whistled again, changing key; the long note dissolved into a dance tune, and he sauntered deliberately up the hedge, weight shifting from hip
to hip with each step. It was almost a dance: the buttocks sharply protruding and then withdrawn inwards after the prancing, lifting knees. The girl stood motionless, gazing at him, tantalised. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the building, then ran across the yard to Charlie. The two of them, safe for the moment beside the hedge, looked guiltily for possible spies. They saw Marina behind her curtain—an earnest English face, apparently wrestling with some severe moral problem. But she was a friend. Had she not saved Charlie from the police? Besides, she immediately vanished.
Hidden behind the curtain, Marina saw the couple face each other, smiling. Then the girl tossed her head and turned away. She picked a second flower from the hedge, held it to her lips, and began swinging lightly from the waist, sending Charlie provocative glances over her shoulder that were half disdain and half invitation. To Marina it was as if a mischievous black urchin was playing the part of a coquette; but Charlie was watching with a broad and appreciative smile. He followed her, strolling in an assured and masterful way, as she went into his room. The door closed.
Marina discovered herself to be furious. Really the whole thing was preposterous!
“Philip,” she said energetically that night, “we should do something.”
“What?” asked Philip, practically. Marina could not think of a sensible answer. Philip gave a short lecture on the problems of the indigenous African peoples who were halfway between the tribal society and modern industrialisation. The thing, of course, should be tackled at its root. Since he was a soil expert, the root, to him, was a sensible organisation of the land. (If he had been a churchman, the root would have been a correct attitude to whichever God he happened to represent; if an authority on money, a mere adjustment of currency would have provided the solution—there is very little comfort from experts these days.) To Philip, it was all as clear as daylight. These people had no idea at all how to farm. They must give up this old attitude of theirs, based on the days when a tribe worked out one piece of ground and moved on to the next; they must learn to conserve their soil and, above all, to regard cattle, not as a sort of spiritual currency, but as an organic part of farm-work. (The word organic occurred very frequently in these lectures by Philip.) Once these things were done, everything else would follow . . .
“But in the meantime, Philip, it is quite possible that something may happen to Theresa, and she can’t be more than fifteen, if that . . .”
Philip looked a little dazed as he adjusted himself from the level on which he had been thinking to the level of Theresa: women always think so personally! He said, rather stiffly: “Well, old girl, in periods of transition, what can one expect?”
What one might expect did in fact occur, and quite soon. One of those long ripples of gossip and delighted indignation passed from one end to the other of 138 Cecil John Rhodes Vista. Mrs. Black’s Theresa had got herself into trouble; these girls had no morals; no better than savages; besides, she was a thief. She was wearing clothes that had not been given to her by Mrs. Black. Marina paid a formal visit to Mrs. Black in order to say that she had given Theresa various dresses. The air was not at all cleared. No one cared to what degree Theresa had been corrupted, or by whom. The feeling was: if not Theresa, then someone else. Acts of theft, adultery, and so on were necessary to preserve the proper balance between black and white; the balance was upset, not by Theresa, who played her allotted part, but by Marina, who insisted on introducing these Fabian scruples into a clear-cut situation.
Mrs. Black was polite, grudging, distrustful. She said: “Well, if you’ve given her the dresses, then it’s all right.” She added: “But it doesn’t alter what she’s done, does it now?” Marina could make no reply. The white women of the building continued to gossip and pass judgment for some days: one must, after all, talk about something. It was odd, however, that Mrs. Black made no move at all to sack Theresa, that immoral person, who continued to look after the children with her usual good-natured efficiency, in order that Mrs. Black might have time to gossip and drink tea.
So Marina, who had already made plans to rescue Theresa when she was flung out of her job, found that no rescue was necessary. From time to time Mrs. Black overflowed into reproaches, and lectures about sin. Theresa wept like the child she was, her fists stuck into her eyes. Five minutes afterwards she was helping Mrs. Black bath the baby, or flirting with Charlie in the yard.
For the principals of this scandal seemed the least concerned about it. The days passed, and at last Marina said to Charlie: “Well and what are you going to do now?”
“Madam?” said Charlie. He really did not know what she meant.
“About Theresa,” said Marina sternly.
“Theresa she going to have a baby,” said Charlie, trying to look penitent, but succeeding only in looking proud.
“It’s all very well,” said Marina. Charlie continued to sweep the verandah, smiling to himself. “But Charlie . . .” began Marina again.
“Madam?” said Charlie, resting on his broom and waiting for her to go on.
“You can’t just let things go on, and what will happen to the child when it is born?”
His face puckered, he sighed, and finally he went on sweeping, rather slower than before.
Suddenly Marina stamped her foot and said: “Charlie, this really won’t do!” She was really furious.
“Madam!” said Charlie reproachfully.
“Everybody has a good time,” said Marina. “You and Theresa enjoy yourselves, all these females have a lovely time, gossiping, and the only thing no one ever thinks about is the baby.” After a pause, when he did not reply, she went on: “I suppose you and Theresa think it’s quite all right for the baby to be born here, and then you two, and the baby, and February, and all the rest of your friends who have nowhere to go, will all live together in that room. It really is shocking, Charlie.”
Charlie shrugged as if to say: “Well, what do you suggest?”
“Can’t Theresa go and live with her father?”
Charlie’s face tightened into a scowl. “Theresa’s father, he no good. Theresa must work, earn money for father.”
“I see.” Charlie waited; he seemed to be waiting for Marina to solve this problem for him; his attitude said: I have unbounded trust and confidence in you.
“Are any of the other men working here married?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Where are their wives?”
“At home.” This meant, in their kraals, in the Native Reserves. But Marina had not meant the properly married wives, who usually stayed with the clan, and were visited by their men perhaps one month in a year, or in two years. She meant women like Theresa, who lived in town.
“Now listen, Charlie. Do be sensible. What happens to girls like Theresa when they have babies. Where do they live?”
He shrugged again, meaning: They live as they can, and is it my fault the white people don’t let us have our families with us when they work? Suddenly he said grudgingly: “The nanny next door, she has her baby, she works.”
“Where is her baby?”
Charlie jerked his head over at the servants’ quarters of the next house.
“Does the baas know she has her baby there?”
He looked away, uncomfortably. “Well, and what happens when the police find out?”
He gave her a look which she understood. “Who is the father of that baby?”
He looked away; there was an uncomfortable silence; and then he quickly began sweeping the verandah again.
“Charlie!” said Marina, outraged. His whole body had become defensive, sullen; his face was angry. She said energetically: “You should marry Theresa. You can’t go on doing this sort of thing.”
“I have a wife in my kraal,” he said.
“Well, there’s nothing to stop you having two wives, is there?”
Charlie pointed out that he had not yet finished paying for his first wife.
Marina thought for a moment. “Theresa’s a Christian, isn’t she? Sh
e was educated at the mission.” Charlie shrugged. “If you marry Theresa Christian-fashion, you needn’t pay lobola, need you?”
Charlie said: “The Christians only like one wife. And Theresa’s father, he wants lobola.”
Marina found herself delighted. At any rate he had tried to marry Theresa, and this was evidence of proper feeling. The fact that whether the position was legalized or not the baby’s future was still uncertain, did not at once strike her. She was carried away by moral approval. “Well, Charlie, that’s much better,” she said warmly.
He gave her a rather puzzled look and shrugged again.
“How much lobola does Theresa’s father want for her?”
“Plenty. He wants ten cattle.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Marina energetically. “Where does he suppose you are going to find cattle, working in town, and where’s he going to keep them?”
This seemed to annoy Charlie. “In my kraal, I have fine cattle,” he pointed out. “I have six fine oxes.” He swept, for a while, in silence. “Theresa’s father, he mad, he mad old man. I tell him I must give three oxes this year for my own wife. Where do I find ten oxes for Theresa?”
It appeared that Charlie, no more than Theresa’s father, found nothing absurd about this desire for cattle on the part of an old man living in the town location. Involuntarily she looked over her shoulder as if Philip might be listening: this conversation would have plunged him into irritated despair. Luckily he was away on one of his trips, and was at this moment almost certain to be exhorting the Africans, in some distant reserve, to abandon this irrational attitude to “fine oxes” which in fact were bound to be nothing but skin and bone, and churning whole tracts of country to dust.
African Stories Page 36