Rage

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘If he stays it will kill us.’

  ‘All right,’ Shasa sighed. Garry was right, of course, the man had outlived his usefulness. ‘But I will speak to him personally.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Garry’s spectacles gleamed victoriously.

  ‘Talking about the Silver River Mine, I have arranged for you to begin your stint up there just as soon as you have written your sup.’

  Garry spent more time at Centaine House than in his lecture rooms at business school. As a consequence, he was carrying one subject for his Bachelor’s degree in Commerce. He would write the supplementary examination the following week and Shasa was sending him up to work on the Silver River Mine for a year or two.

  ‘After all, it has taken over from the old H’ani now as the Company flagship. I want you to move more and more into the centre of things.’ He saw the glow of anticipation behind Garry’s spectacles.

  ‘Oh boy, am I looking forward to really starting work, after bashing the books all these dreary years.’

  Michael came bursting breathlessly into the dining-room. ‘Thank goodness, Pater, I thought I had missed you.’

  ‘Slow down, Mickey,’ Shasa cautioned him. ‘You’ll burst a blood vessel. Have some breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not hungry this morning.’ Michael sat down opposite his father. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, open fire, then,’ Shasa invited.

  ‘Not here,’ Michael demurred. ‘I rather hoped we could talk in the gun room,’ and all three of them looked grave. The gun room was only used on the most portentous occasions, and a request for a meeting in the gun room was not to be taken lightly.

  Shasa glanced at his watch. ‘Mickey, Harold Macmillan is addressing both houses—’

  ‘I know, Pater, but this won’t take long. Please, sir.’ The fact that Michael was calling him ‘sir’ underlined the seriousness of the request, but Shasa resented the deliberate timing.

  Whenever Michael wanted to raise a contentious issue, he did so when Shasa’s opportunity to respond was severely curtailed. The lad was as devious as his mother, whose child he indubitably was, spiritually as well as physically.

  ‘Ten minutes, then,’ Shasa agreed reluctantly. ‘Will you excuse us please, Garry?’ Shasa led the way down the passage and locked the gun-room door behind them.

  ‘Very well.’ He took his usual place in front of the fireplace. ‘What is it, my boy?’

  ‘I’ve got a job, Dad.’ Michael was breathless again.

  ‘A job. Yes, I know you have a part-time job as local stringer for the Mail. I enjoyed your report on the polo – in fact you read it to me. Very good it was,’ Shasa grinned, ‘all five lines of it.’

  ‘No, sir, I’ve got a full-time job. I spoke to the editor of the Mail and they have offered me a job as a cub reporter. I start the first of next month.’

  Shasa’s grin faded into a scowl. ‘Damn it, Mickey. You can’t be serious – what about your education? You have two more years to go at university.’

  ‘I am serious, sir. I will get my education on the paper.’

  ‘No,’ Shasa raised his voice. ‘No, I forbid it. I won’t have you leaving university before you are capped.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve made up my mind.’ Michael was pale and trembling, yet he had that obstinate set expression that infuriated Shasa even more than the words – but he controlled himself.

  ‘You know the rules,’ Shasa said. ‘I’ve made them clear to all of you. If you do things my way, there is no limit to the help I will give you. If you go your own way, then you are on your own—’ he took a breath, and then said it, surprised at how painful it was – like Sean.’ God, how he still missed his eldest son.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Michael nodded. ‘I know the rules.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I have to do it, sir. There is nothing else I want to do with my life. I want to learn to write. I don’t want to go against you, Pater, but I simply have to do it.’

  ‘This is your mother’s doing,’ Shasa said coldly. ‘She has put you up to this,’ he accused, and Michael looked sheepish.

  ‘Mater knows about it,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s my decision alone, sir.’

  ‘You understand that you will be forfeiting my support? You’ll not receive another penny from me once you leave this house. You’ll have to live on the salary of a cub reporter.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ Michael nodded.

  ‘All right, then, Michael. Off you go,’ he said, and Michael looked stunned.

  ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Unless you have some other announcement to make.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Michael’s shoulders slumped. ‘Except that I love you very much, Pater, and I appreciate all that you have done for me.’

  ‘You have,’ said Shasa, ‘a most peculiar way of demonstrating that appreciation, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He went to the door.

  He was halfway into the city, racing the Jaguar down the new highway between the university and Groote Schuur, before he recovered from his affront at Michael’s disloyalty, for that is how Shasa saw his son’s decision. Now suddenly he began to think about newspapers again. Publicly he had always disparaged the strange suicidal impulse that gripped so many successful men in their middle years to own their own newspaper. It was notoriously difficult to milk a reasonable profit from a newspaper, but in secret Shasa had felt the sneaking temptation to indulge in the same rich man’s folly.

  ‘Not much profit,’ he mused aloud, ‘but the power! To be able to influence the minds of people!’

  In South Africa the English press was hysterically anti-government, while the Afrikaans press was fawningly and abjectly the slave of the National Party. A thinking man could trust neither.

  ‘What about an English-language paper that was aimed at the business community and politically uncommitted,’ he wondered, as he had before. ‘What if I were to buy one of the smaller weaker papers and build it up? After the Silver River Mine’s next dividend is declared, we are going to be sitting on a pile of money.’ Then he grinned. ‘I must be getting senile, but at least I’ll be able to guarantee a job for my drop-out journalist son!’ And the idea of Michael as editor of a large influential newspaper had an increasing appeal, the longer he thought about it. ‘Still, I wish the little blighter would get himself a decent education first,’ he grumbled, but he had almost forgiven him for his treachery by the time he parked the Jaguar in the parking area reserved for cabinet ministers. ‘Of course, I’ll keep him on a decent allowance,’ he decided. ‘That threat was just a little bluff.’

  A sense of excited expectation gripped the House as Shasa went up the stairs to the front entrance. The lobby was crowded with senators and members of parliament. The knots of dark-suited men formed and dissolved and reformed, in the intricate play of political cross-currents that fascinated Shasa. As an insider he could read the significance of who was talking to whom and why.

  It took him almost twenty minutes to reach the foot of the staircase for as one of the prime actors he was drawn inexorably into the subtle theatre of power and favour. At last he escaped and with only minutes to spare hurried up the stairs and down the passage to his suite.

  Tricia was hovering anxiously. ‘Oh, Mr Courtney, everybody is looking for you. Lord Littleton telephoned and the Prime Minister’s secretary left a message.’ She was reading from her pad as she followed him into the inner office.

  ‘Try to get the PM’s secretary first, then Lord Littleton.’ Shasa sat at his desk, and frowned as he noticed some chalky white specks on his blotter. He brushed them away irritably, and would have given Tricia an order to speak to the cleaners, but she was still reading from her pad and he had less than an hour to tackle the main items on her list before the joint sitting began.

  He dealt with the queries that Verwoerd’s secretary had for him. The answers were in his head and he did not have to refer to anybody in his department – and then Littleton was on the line. He wan
ted to discuss an addition to the agenda for their meeting that afternoon, and once they had agreed that, Shasa asked tactfully, ‘Have you found out anything about the speeches this morning?’

  ‘Afraid not, old man. I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

  As Shasa reached across the desk to replace the receiver, he noticed another white speck of chalk on his blotter that had not been there a minute before; he was about to brush that away also, when he paused and looked up to see where it had come from. This time he scowled as he saw the small hole in his ceiling and the hair-line cracks around it. He pressed the switch on his intercom.

  ‘Tricia, please come in here a moment.’

  When she stood in the doorway, he pointed at the ceiling. ‘What do you make of that ?’

  Tricia looked mystified and came to stand beside his chair. They both peered at the damage.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Tricia looked relieved, ‘but I’m not supposed to tell you.’

  ‘Spit it out, woman!’ Shasa ordered.

  ‘Your wife, Mrs Courtney, said she was planning some renovations to your office as a surprise. I suppose she has asked Maintenance to do the work for her.’

  ‘Damn!’ Shasa didn’t like surprises which interfered with the comfortable tenor of his existence. He liked his office the way it was and he didn’t want anybody, particularly anyone of Tara’s avant-garde taste, interfering with something that worked extremely well as it was.

  ‘I think she is planning to change the curtains also,’ Tricia added innocently. She didn’t like Tara Courtney. She considered her shallow, insincere and scheming. She didn’t approve of her disrespectful attitude to Shasa, and she wasn’t above sowing a few seeds of dissension. If Shasa was free, there was just a chance, a very small and remote chance that he might see her clearly and realize just how much she, Tricia, felt for him, ‘And she was talking about altering the light fittings,’ she added.

  Shasa jumped up from his desk and went to touch his curtains. He and Centaine had studied at least a hundred samples of fabric before choosing this one. Protectively he rearranged the drapes, and then he noticed the second hole in the ceiling and the thin insulated wire that protruded from it. He had difficulty controlling his fury in front of his secretary.

  ‘You get on to Maintenance,’ he instructed. ‘Talk to Odendaal himself, not one of his workmen, and you tell him I want to know exactly what is going on. Tell him whatever it is, it’s damned shoddy workmanship and that there is plaster all over my desk.’

  ‘I’ll do that this morning,’ Tricia promised, and then, placatingly, ‘It’s ten minutes to, Mr Courtney – you don’t want to be late.’

  Manfred De La Rey was just leaving his own office as Shasa came down the passage, and they fell in side by side.

  ‘Have you found out anything?’

  ‘No – have you?’

  Manfred shook his head. ‘It’s too late anyway – nothing we can do now.’

  Shasa saw Blaine Malcomess at the door of the dining-room and went to greet him. They filed into the panelled dining-room together.

  ‘How is Mater?’

  ‘Centaine is fine – looking forward to seeing you for dinner tomorrow evening.’ Centaine was holding a dinner party in Littleton’s honour out at Rhodes Hill. ‘I left her giving the chef a nervous breakdown.’ They laughed together and then found their seats in the front row of chairs. As a minister and Deputy Leader of the Opposition, they both warranted reserved seats.

  Shasa swivelled in his seat and looked to the back of the large hall where the press cameras had been set up. He picked out Kitty Godolphin, looking tiny and girlish beside her camera crew, and she winked at him mischievously. Then the two Prime Ministers were taking their places at the top table and Shasa leaned across to Manfred De La Rey and murmured, ‘I hope this isn’t all a hoo-ha over nothing – and that Supermac has really got something of interest to tell us.’

  Manfred shrugged. ‘Let’s hope it isn’t too exciting either,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s safer to be bored—’ but he broke off as the Speaker of the House called for silence and rose to introduce the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and the packed room, filled with the most powerful men in the land, settled into attentive and expectant silence.

  Even when Macmillan, tall and urbane and strangely benign in expression, rose to his feet, Shasa had no sense of being at the anvil while history was being forged and he crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his chin in the attitude of listening and concentration in which he followed all debate and argument.

  Macmillan spoke in an unemotional voice, but with weight and lucidity, and his text had all the indications of having been carefully prepared, meticulously polished and rehearsed.

  ‘The most striking of all the impressions I have formed since I left London a month ago,’ he said, ‘is the strength of this African national consciousness. In different places it may take different forms, but it is happening everywhere. The wind of change is blowing through the continent. Whether we like it or not, this growth of national consciousness is a political fact. We must all accept it as a fact. Our national policies must take account of it.’

  Shasa sat up straight and unfolded his arms, and around him there was a similar stirring of incredulity. It was only then that Shasa realized with a clairvoyant flash that the world he knew had altered its shape, that in the fabric of life that had held together their diverse nation for almost three hundred years, the first rent had been torn by a few simple words, a rent that could never be repaired. While he attempted to grasp the full extent of the damage, Macmillan was going on in those plummy measured tones.

  ‘Of course, you understand this as well as anyone. You are sprung from Europe, the home of nationalism.’ Cunningly, Macmillan was including them in his new sweeping view of Africa. ‘Indeed, in the history of our times yours will be recorded as the first of the African nationalisms.’

  Shasa glanced at Verwoerd beside the British Prime Minister and he could see that he was agitated and alarmed. He had been caught unawares by Macmillan’s stratagem of withholding his text from him.

  ‘As a fellow member of the Commonwealth, it is our earnest desire to give South Africa our support and encouragement, but I hope you won’t mind me saying frankly that there are some aspects of your policies which make it impossible for us to do this without being false to our own deep convictions about the political destinies of free men.’

  Macmillan was announcing nothing less than a parting of ways and Shasa was devastated by the idea. He wanted to leap to his feet and shout, ‘But I am British also – you cannot do this to us.’ He looked around him almost pleadingly and saw his own deep distress echoed on the faces of Blaine and most of the other English members of the House.

  Macmillan’s words had devastated them.

  Shasa’s mood persisted over the remainder of that day and the next. The atmosphere at the meetings with Littleton and his advisers was one of mourning, and though Littleton himself was apologetic and conciliatory, they all knew that the damage was real and irreparable. The fact was undeniable. Britain was dropping them. She might go on trading with them, but at arm’s length. Britain had chosen sides.

  Late on the Friday a special session of the House was announced for the following Monday, when Verwoerd would make his accounting to his parliament and his people. They had the weekend to brood over their fate. Macmillan’s speech even cast a shadow over Centaine’s dinner party on the Friday evening, and Centaine took it as a personal insult.

  ‘The man’s timing is atrocious,’ she confided to Shasa. ‘The day before my party! Perfidious Albion!’

  ‘You French have never trusted the British,’ Shasa teased her, his first attempt at humour in forty-eight hours.

  ‘Now I know why,’ Centaine retorted. ‘Look at the man – typically English. He hides expediency in a cloak of high moral indignation. He does what is best for England and makes himself a saint while he does it.’

  It was left for Bl
aine Malcomess to sum up after the women had left the men to their port and cigars in Rhodes Hill’s magnificent dining-room.

  ‘Why are we so incredulous?’ he asked. ‘Why do we feel it so impossible that Britain would reject us, simply because we fought two wars for her?’ He shook his head. ‘No, the caravan moves on and so must we. We must ignore the gloating of the London press, we must ignore their delight in this unprecedented rebuke and repudiation of all of us, the Nationalists and those that strenuously oppose them. From now on we will be increasingly alone, and we must learn to stand on our own feet.’

  Shasa nodded. ‘Macmillan’s speech was a huge political gain for Verwoerd. There is only one way for us to go now. The bridge has been chopped down behind us. No retreat is possible. We have to go along with Verwoerd. South Africa will be a republic before the year is out, mark my words, and after that—’ Shasa drew on his cigar while he considered ‘– and after that only God and the Devil know for certain.’

  ‘At times it seems that God and fate take a direct hand in our petty affairs,’ Tara said softly. ‘But for a tiny detail, the choice of the dining-room rather than the chamber, we might have destroyed the man who had brought us a message of hope.’

  ‘For once it does seem that your Christian God favours us.’ Moses watched her in the driving-mirror as he drove the Chevrolet through the Monday rush-hour traffic. ‘Our timing has been perfect. At the moment when the British Government, supported by the British press and the nation, has recognized our rights, the political destinies of free men, as Macmillan put it, we will deliver our first hard blow for the promised freedom.’

  ‘I am afraid, Moses, afraid for you and for all of us.’

  ‘The time for fear has passed,’ he told her. ‘Now is the time for courage and resolution, for it is not oppression and slavery that breeds revolution. The lesson is clear. Revolution rises out of the promise of better things. For three hundred years we have borne oppression in weary resignation, but now this Englishman has shown us a glimpse of the future and it is golden with promise. He has given our people hope, and after today, after we have struck down the most evil man in Africa’s dark and tormented history, when Verwoerd is dead, the future will at last belong to us.’ He had spoken softly, but with that peculiar intensity that made her blood thrill through her veins and pound in her eardrums. She felt the elation, but also the sorrow and the fear.