Edge of the Rain

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Edge of the Rain Page 5

by Beverley Harper


  ‘Oh Father, I couldn’t. After all, a man in your position . . .’

  The Reverend kept smiling but Alex thought it looked kind of forced.

  Mum excused herself and went to fuss over the new servant in the kitchen. Pa poured the Reverend a beer.

  ‘How long have you lived here, Danie?’ The Reverend sipped his beer and raised eyebrows in appreciation. ‘Gosh, this is good.’

  ‘Bit different to your beer.’ Pa grinned. ‘Do you really drink it off the shelf?’

  Harry Frith nodded. ‘Bear in mind the shelf is a good bit cooler than here.’

  ‘Still . . .’ Pa could not imagine anything worse.

  ‘Sorry, I interrupted. You were about to tell me how long you’d been here.’

  ‘We came here in 1940.’ Alex heard the tone of his father’s voice. He didn’t know why but Pa always sounded a bit angry whenever he was questioned about his reasons for settling in Bechuanaland.

  Harry Frith whistled. ‘Thirteen years. That’s a long time to live in such an isolated place. What made you choose Shakawe?’

  It was a good question. They were the only farmers in the area and, although he was city born and bred, the Reverend could see that there was very little fodder for the cattle.

  ‘We liked it,’ Pa answered brusquely.

  Alex, sitting on the steps with his back to them, grinned. It was so unlike his father’s usual courteous friendliness it amused him.

  The Reverend blithely carried on. ‘Are you South African?’

  ‘Yes we are.’ Good manners prevented Danie Theron from telling the Reverend to mind his own business.

  ‘So why live here? Couldn’t you farm in South Africa?’ Alex heard slurping as the Reverend Frith sipped his beer. ‘You don’t mind do you? I’m just curious.’

  Pa was silent for so long Alex thought he hadn’t heard the Reverend. Finally, ‘You’re new to this continent, Harry. South Africa is . . . well . . . things happen there. We had to leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  Good! Alex wanted to know why too.

  ‘Go help your mother, son.’

  ‘But Pa—’

  ‘Do it.’

  When Pa spoke like that you did it. Alex went inside, straight out the back door and sat, just around the corner, out of sight. He could hear every word.

  ‘. . . so it’s been forty years in the making. General Louis Botha started it back in 1910. Jan Smuts and James Hertzog kept it alive. The whites wanted it so it became a political issue. A big one. Now Dr Malan has made it official. Mixed marriages are illegal.’

  ‘How does that affect you?’

  Alex heard puzzlement in the Reverend’s voice. He also heard the sadness in his father’s.

  ‘My great-grandmother married a man who had a quarter black in him. It wasn’t something that happened often, even back then, but it did happen occasionally. Apparently it was impossible to tell—my great-grandfather looked like every other white man. But when everyone was classified into a racial group this fact came to light. Our whole family is officially black, even my father who’s as white as you. When Peta fell pregnant we had to leave. Now do you understand?’

  ‘You have an older child?’

  This was news to Alex.

  ‘No.’ Pa sounded sad. ‘Peta miscarried. Even so, we couldn’t go back to South Africa if we wanted to stay together.’

  ‘What would have happened if you’d gone back?’

  ‘I would have gone to prison. Peta might have been imprisoned as well but, even if she wasn’t, she’d have been a social outcast all her life.’

  ‘That’s outrageous.’ Harry Frith was shocked. ‘I’ve heard of apartheid but I had no idea . . .’

  ‘They haven’t finished yet. You wait, they’ll take it all the way, no-one can stop them. They’ve even requested the administration responsibilities of Bechuanaland so they can shunt half the black population into here.’ Pa chuckled suddenly. ‘Britain won’t go for it, luckily. They can see what’s happening.’

  ‘And they call themselves Christians!’

  ‘It’s what they hear at church every Sunday. The blacks are inferior.’ Pa raised his voice. ‘Okay, son, did you get all that?’

  Uh oh! He walked around the side of the house. ‘Sorry, Pa.’

  But his father was smiling. ‘It’s probably time you knew. Just don’t tell your mother. She doesn’t think you’re ready.’

  That cleared up the mystery but Alex was disappointed by the ordinariness of it. He had expected something more dramatic. A distant relative back in the olden days with a bit of black blood hardly qualified Alex to be black. He could not understand why his parents made such a fuss about it. He knew nothing about the process of apartheid and all it stood for.

  A few minutes later they were called inside for lunch. His mother had outdone herself. Gleaming glassware, the best china and cutlery and a floral centrepiece which would have been more at home in a church than on the table. She had put out her best china beer mugs. Pa hated them, they made his beer flat, but he said nothing and poured the Reverend and himself another beer.

  Mum waited, hovering over the sumptuous meal like an anxious mother hen, until they were all sitting down. ‘It would be a great honour—’ she said, her eyes shining, ‘—if you would say grace.’

  Alex resigned himself to a long monologue.

  Paulie stole a meatball from the dish near him.

  Mum clasped her hands reverently.

  Pa got that hunted look on his face.

  Michael-John was howling in the kitchen because he could not join them.

  Paulie chewed surreptitiously.

  The Reverend Frith, fresh out from England, cleared his throat.

  ‘Here we go,’ Alex thought.

  ‘God bless this bunch as they munch their lunch.’

  The half-eaten meatball shot out of Paulie’s mouth, hit the table once, bounced in the air and—almost in slow motion, spinning and flicking gravy, and with unerring inevitability as though it had been programmed—landed in the Reverend’s beer mug with a small splash, unnoticed by everyone barring Alex and Paulie.

  ‘Well now.’ Pa was smiling with relief and reaching for a dish. ‘Well now, let’s dig in.’

  Mum was looking at the Reverend in open amazement.

  He saw her look. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Theron. This meal looks wonderful and I’m starving. I couldn’t wait another moment.’

  Alex held his breath as the Reverend picked up his china beer mug and took a sip. He didn’t dare look at Paulie who appeared to be choking.

  The Reverend put down the mug. Pa passed him a dish and he helped himself to potato and onion pie. Pa passed him another dish. Alex stared at the beer mug. It was too far away for him to knock over. He steeled himself and shot a glance at Paulie. Then he wished he hadn’t. His brother’s eyes were brimming with tears in his effort not to laugh out loud. In desperation Alex concentrated on helping himself to food but his stomach began to shake, then his shoulders. His own eyes filled with tears. Paulie was snorting. Alex thought if he coughed it would take away the overwhelming desire to laugh. He opened his mouth to cough. Instead a shouted bark of laughter shot out. Paulie snorted again and some of his food sprang from his nose. A slimy mess of half-chewed meatball and snot. Paulie clapped his hand to his nose, his eyes pleading with Alex for help.

  ‘What on earth is wrong, Paulie?’ his mother asked.

  Paulie was helpless. Choking and laughing he put his head on the table and banged his fist up and down.

  ‘The boy’s choking,’ Pa said, rising quickly. He thumped Paulie on the back.

  Alex couldn’t stand it. In a gargantuan effort not to laugh, he was making the same noise the cat did just before it was sick. He pushed his chair back and fled, out through the lounge, off the verandah, through the gate, out into the bush where he flung himself against a tree and screamed and screamed with laughter.

  No-one came to get him. He knew he was in trouble. He tri
ed five times to return to the house. Each time, just as he reached the verandah, he would get a vision of the meatball in the Reverend’s beer or the look on Paulie’s face and the laughter would well inside him again and he had to get far away and let it out. In the end he gave up on the idea of lunch.

  He was sitting under a tree contemplating the trouble he was in when Paulie found him. ‘Mum told me to leave the table.’

  ‘We’re in trouble.’

  ‘The Reverend nearly choked on the meatball.’

  This set them off again.

  ‘What did Pa say?’ Alex wiped his eyes. His stomach muscles ached from laughing.

  ‘I think he’s going to get his strap.’

  Uh oh.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Paulie complained.

  ‘Well you shouldn’t have stolen the meatball.’

  ‘Some of it’s stuck up my nose.’

  ‘No kidding! You can get rid of it if you kind of sniff hard backwards then spit.’

  Paulie hawked and spat it on the ground. ‘How many times you reckon Pa’ll hit us?’

  ‘At least ten,’ Alex said morosely.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt as much as the cane.’

  ‘When did you get caned?’

  ‘Just before the holidays. Old Leadbottom at school caught me pissing against the fence.’

  ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘I needed to pee.’

  They rolled on the ground laughing.

  They sat under the tree for two hours. Finally they saw the Reverend come out of the house, get in his Land Rover and, with Pa and Mum standing on the verandah waving, disappear down the road in a cloud of sandy dust.

  ‘Here comes Pa.’ Paulie needn’t have bothered. Alex was watching his father like a hawk. ‘He doesn’t look mad,’ Paulie whispered.

  Pa joined them under the tree. He sat down in his best trousers, not minding the sand. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Sorry, Pa,’ both boys chorused.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Alex didn’t want to get Paulie into any more trouble than he already was.

  ‘Paulie?’

  Paulie looked at the ground and made swirling patterns in the sand with his finger.

  ‘Paulie?’

  ‘I couldn’t help it, Pa. The meatball just sort of came out.’

  Alex tried not to but he was laughing again.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ Pa snapped but his mouth twitched. He ducked his head but his shoulders shook. Pretty soon he was rolling around laughing as hard as his boys. ‘That was one helluva shot, son,’ he managed finally.

  ‘Bet you couldn’t do it if you tried,’ Alex said, delighted.

  ‘If you ever pull a stunt like that again, either of you, I’ll whip your hides. Your mother is very angry.’ But Pa was laughing as he spoke. ‘That poor man nearly choked to death.’

  ‘We weren’t laughing at the Reverend, Pa—honest.’ Alex was worried his father thought they had been cruel.

  Pa put his arm around Alex. ‘I know, son, I understand.’

  With a six-year-old’s directness, Paulie put his finger on it. ‘It was the grace, Pa.’

  Pa gathered Paulie to his side with his other arm. ‘You boys believe in God don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Pa,’ they chorused.

  ‘So does Reverend Frith,’ Pa said. ‘He’s a good man and he believes in the same things as Mum.’

  ‘But Mum talks about God all the time,’ Paulie objected. ‘And she’s not even a Reverend.’

  Pa chuckled.

  ‘We thought the Reverend would say a long Grace like Mum does,’ Alex said. ‘We were sort of waiting for it.’

  ‘Don’t you like saying grace?’

  Alex sensed his father was treading carefully. In all respects but religion, Pa was fair and honest with them. Alex could not understand why, whenever the subject of religion came up, his father seemed to develop double standards. However, he knew better than to challenge his father, especially at the moment. ‘We say short ones at school. The food doesn’t get cold. I don’t mind grace, Pa, but I hate eating cold food.’

  Pa squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.

  ‘Why is Mum like that?’ Alex held his breath. It was the first time he’d dared ask that question. Pa might not tell him the answer.

  Silence stretched across the hot afternoon. Pa appeared deep in thought. Finally, ‘When Mum was your age her parents took her to the Kirk every Sunday. They said grace before every meal. Mum said her prayers every night. She is a very religious person and talking to God gives her comfort. She loves reading the Bible, it makes her feel closer to God. Everyone is different, son. Reverend Frith might not talk about God as much as Mum . . .’ he grinned, ‘. . . and his grace was certainly a surprise, but he is every bit as religious as she is.’

  ‘But why does she have to talk about it all the time?’ Alex persisted. ‘It makes me feel kind of yucky.’

  Pa’s eyebrows went up. ‘Yucky?’ There was an edge to his voice. Alex had gone too far.

  ‘I feel yucky too.’ Paulie had not picked up on Pa’s sudden anger.

  Pa stood suddenly, put his hands on his hips and stared down at his sons. ‘You listen to me, you two. Your mother loves you very much. She would do anything for you. Don’t ever let me hear you say anything like that again. Do you understand?’ He left them without waiting for a response.

  Alex watched his father walk away, mixed emotions running through him; he had angered Pa and that upset him. He loved his father deeply. He sensed that Pa sympathised with his and Paulie’s feelings. But Alex was too young to understand that, despite Pa’s sympathy, he would allow no criticism of his beloved Peta.

  There were the things he overheard Pa saying to the Reverend Frith. Alex knew there was more to it. It was all mixed up with being punished and being coloured and not getting rain and Mum crying all the time.

  ‘Well I do feel yucky,’ Paulie said rebelliously.

  ‘So do I,’ Alex agreed, his three extra years giving him wisdom Paulie did not yet possess. ‘But I don’t think we’d better say it again.’

  The boys rose and returned slowly to the house. They would receive a lecture from Mum who would go out of her way to make them both feel guilty. And then, to punish them, she would extend the ritual half-hour Bible reading to a full hour. But Alex did not mind. He would do anything to get back into Pa’s good books.

  FIVE

  There was nothing secret about Annie Carter’s predilection for rugby heroes. She liked to fuck them. Simple as that. The only thing was, she got no pleasure from the act.

  Pocket money had been wagered. The boy who got Annie to react would collect the pot. Adjudicators hid around the river bend—insurance against any temptation to exaggerate.

  A week before leaving school behind him forever, Alex became a rugby hero by saving the final game in its dying minutes.

  ‘I’ll wait for you outside the showers,’ Annie said. That was her sign.

  With some good-natured ribald remarks and some impractical or downright impossible advice ringing in his ears, Alex tried nonchalance as he sauntered from the shower block.

  He was sixteen and fully matured. His voice had broken two years earlier and his body was hard and muscular. He’d started shaving seriously six months ago. He was tall, six foot two, and his silvery curls had darkened and hardened to a honey shade which he kept clipped short. He abused the top and sides with a stiff brush, forcing it flat, but at the back where it sat on his neck, his hair curled in tight ringlets. Girls found him attractive and his open good looks and friendly manner made him popular with his peers. His experience with girls, however, was sadly lacking. Until today.

  She was waiting for him. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  She took his arm. ‘Great game.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You were great.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Her long dark red hair tickled his arm. The pressure of her fingers felt
hot on his skin. ‘Where are we going?’ He knew where—she took all of them to the same spot—he was just making conversation.

  ‘The river.’

  The Tati River ran through Francistown, splitting it in two. Mainly nothing more than a dry river course, over the years its sandy bed and grassy banks had witnessed the deflowering of half the teenage population of Francistown, all of whom were certain no-one else went there. She led him to her usual place, about a mile from town.

  ‘Here we are. Let’s sit down.’

  Alex sank gratefully to the ground; his legs were threatening to give way. ‘This is a nice place.’ He looked around, his heart racing, trying to think what to say next.

  ‘No-one comes here.’

  ‘You sure?’ He thought about the others, hiding just around the bend.

  She grinned at him. ‘Come here.’ She seemed so composed compared to him.

  He crawled over to her. She ran her fingers over his face, lingering on his lips. He tried to kiss her but she shook her head impatiently and lay back on the grass. ‘Now you can kiss me.’

  He leaned over her and kissed her, his lips pressed firmly together.

  ‘Not like that, open your mouth.’

  He opened his mouth and felt her soft warm tongue licking him. He was as hard as a rock and his breathing was unsteady.

  ‘Do you like me?’

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  She ran her fingers down his chest. ‘Do you want to do it?’

  He nodded again, his heart doing extra big leaps up as far as his throat.

  ‘Well take off your clothes, silly.’

  He was out of his clothes within five seconds. Then an agonising wait while she slowly removed hers. He caught his breath when he saw her naked. Small hillocks of breasts, pink tipped. Dark red thatch between her legs. ‘Come on.’ She lay back, opening her legs.

  With no experience to draw on he nonetheless felt a moment’s disappointment. Perhaps it was instinct but something told him her manner was too clinical. However, he was too excited to dwell on it. He rose above her, guiding his engorged penis into her. For a brief second he panicked. He was too big. She was too small. He’d never get it in. But he slid into her, past the hairy lips, into the soft inner depths. His breathing was ragged, as though he had run a fast 100 yards. His last thought was to wonder why she didn’t feel the same as him. She was lying on her back watching the sky, a small smile on her face.

 

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