Rebecca had wept to hear the sewing machines had been impounded – she had hoped to make a little extra money sewing on hers, but her tears when looking at and touching the books were from joy. She even kissed the books. 'Oh, Sylvia, it was so wonderful you thought of us and brought us the books.'
Sylvia went down to the hospital, where Joshua sat dozing under his tree, as if he had not left it in her absence, and where the little boys clamorously welcomed her, and she attended to her patients, many because of the coughs and colds that come with the sudden changes of temperature at the start of the rains. Then she took the car and went over to the Pynes, who filled a precise place in her life: when she needed information, that is where she went.
The Pynes had bought their farm, after the Second World War, in the Fifties, on that late wave of white immigration. They grew mostly tobacco and had been successful. The house was on a ridge, looking out over to tall tumbling hills that in the dry season were blue with smoke and haze, but now were sharply green – the foliage; and grey – granite boulders. The pillared verandah was wide enough to have parties on, and before Liberation parties had been many, but were few now, with so many of the whites gone. The floor was polished red, and on it were scattered low tables and dogs and some cats. Cedric Pyne sat gulping tea, while he stroked the head of his favourite dog, a ridgeback bitch called Lusaka. Edna Pyne, smart in her slacks and shirt, her skin glistening with sun-creams, sat by the tea tray, her dog, Lusaka's sister Sheba, as close as she could get by her chair. She listened to her husband holding forth about the deficiencies of the black government. Sylvia drank tea and listened too.
If she had had to hear Sister Molly out on the subject of the Pope and his inveterate maleness; had had to listen every day to Father McGuire saying he was an old man and he was no longer up to it, he was going back to Ireland; if she had had to listen to Colin lament his situation with Sophie, now she had to bide her time again before she could introduce her own concerns.
The bones of the situation – the white farmers – were easy to understand. They were the main targets of the blacks' hate, were heaped with abuse every time the Leader opened his mouth, but they earned the foreign currency which kept the country going, mainly to pay the interest on loans insisted on by... in her mind's eye Sylvia saw Andrew, a smiling debonair fellow holding out a large cheque with lines of noughts on it, while accepting with the other hand another cheque with an equal number of noughts. This was the visual shorthand she had devised to explain the machinery of Global Money to Rebecca, who had giggled, sighed and said 'Okay.'
Because of the Leader's socialism, acquired late in life with all the force of a conversion, various policies he believed essential to Marxism had acquired the force of commandments. One was that no worker could be sacked, and that meant that every employer carried a dead weight of workers who, knowing they were safe, drank, did not work, lay about in the sun and stole everything -just like their betters. This was one item on the litany ofcomplaints that Sylvia had heard so often. Another was that they could not buy spare parts for machines which broke down, and it was impossible to buy new machines. Those that were imported went straight to the Ministers and their families. These complaints, the most frequent, were of less importance than the main one, which like so many main, crucial, basic facts, was seldom mentioned simply because it was too obviously important to need saying. Because the white farmers were continually threatened with being thrown out and their farms taken, they had no security, did not know whether to invest or not, lived from one month to the next in doubt. Now Edna Pyne broke in and said she was fed up, she wanted to leave. ‘Let them get on with it and they'll know then just what they've lost when we go. '
This farm, bought as virgin acres without so much as a cleared field on it, let alone this big house, was now equipped with every kind of farm building – barns, sheds, paddocks, wells, boreholes and, a recent development, a large dam. All their capital was in it. They had had none when they came.
Cedric said to his wife in a sharp rebuke that Sylvia had heard before, 'I'm not giving up. They're going to have to come and throw me off.'
Now Edna's plaint began. Since Liberation it had been hard to buy even basics, like decent coffee or a tin of fish. 'They' could not even keep a decent supply of mealiemeal coming for the workers, she had to keep a storeroom filled to the roof with meal for the next time when the labour force came up to beg for food. She was sick of being reviled. They – the Pynes – were paying school fees for twelve black children now, but none of those government black bastards ever gave the farmers credit for anything. They were all hot air and incompetence, they were inefficient and only cared about how much they could grab for themselves, she was fed up with...
Her husband knew she had to have her say out, just as she knew that he did, whenever a fresh face appeared on that verandah, and he sat in silence, looking out over the tobacco fields – in full green – to where the rainy season's clouds were building for what looked would be an afternoon storm.
‘You' re mad, Cedric,’ said his wife direct to him, an evident continuation of many a private altercation. ‘We should cut our losses and go to Australia like the Freemans and the Butlers. '
‘We aren't as young as we were,’ said Cedric. ‘You always forget that. '
But she was going on. ‘And the nonsense we have to put up with. The cook's wife is sick because she has had the evil eye put on her. She's got malaria because she doesn't like taking her pills. I tell them, I keep telling them, if you don't take the malaria pills then you'll get sick. But I'll tell you something. That n'ganga of theirs has got more to say about what goes on in this district than any government official has.'
Sylvia interposed herself into this gushing stream: ' That's what I want to ask you. I need your advice. '
At once two pairs of blue eyes attended to her: giving advice, that was what they knew they were equipped to do. Sylvia outlined the story. 'And so now I am a thief. And what is this spell that was put on the new hospital?'
Edna allowed herself a weak, angry laugh. 'And there it is again. You see? Just stupidity. When the money ran out for the new hospital...’
‘Why did it? Sometimes I hear it was the Swedes, then it was the Germans, who was it?'
‘Who cares? Swedes, Danes, the Yanks, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh – but the money vanished from the bank account in Senga and they pulled out. The World Bank or Global Money or Caring International or somebody, there are hundreds of these do-gooding idiots, they are trying to find new funding but so far no luck. We don't know what is happening. Meanwhile the cases of equipment are just rotting, so the blacks say.'
‘Yes, I've seen them. But why send the equipment before the hospital was even built?'
' Typical,’ said Edna Pyne, with the satisfaction ofbeing proved right, yet again. ' Don't ask why, if it's bloody incompetence then don't even ask. The hospital was supposed to be up and running within six months, well I ask you, what rubbish, well what do you expect from the idiots in Senga? So the local Big Boss, Mr Mandizi as he calls himself, went to the n'ganga and asked him to put it about that he had put a curse on anyone who stole from the cases or even laid a finger on them.'
Cedric Pyne let out a short barking laugh. ' Pretty good, ' he said. ' Come on, Edna, that's pretty clever. '
' If you say so, dear. Well, it worked. But then it seemed you went over and helped yourself. That broke the spell. '
' Half a dozen bedpans. We didn't have even one at our hospital.'
' Half a dozen too many,’ said Cedric.
‘Why didn't anyone tell me? Six women from our village came with me and Rebecca. They just – helped themselves. They didn't tell me anything. '
‘Well, they wouldn't, would they? You' re the Mission, you' re
God the Father and the Church and Father McGuire is on at them for being superstitious. But with you there, they probably thought God's muti was stronger than the medicine man's.'
'Well, it hasn't turned o
ut to be. Because now people are dying and it is because they stole from the cases. So Rebecca says. But it's AIDS.'
'Oh, AIDS.'
‘Why do you say it like that? It's a fact. '
' It's the last bloody straw,’ said Edna Pyne, ' that's why. They come up from the compound and want muti. I tell them there isn't muti for AIDS, and they seem to think I've got muti but won't give it to them. '
'I know the n'ganga,' said Sylvia. 'Sometimes I ask him to help me.'
‘Well,’ said Cedric, ' that's an innocent walking into the lion's den, if you like. '
'Don't touch it — 'said Edna, sounding peevish, at the end of her tether, and intending to sound it.
‘When I have cases our medicine doesn't reach — such as I've got — I ask him to come when Rebecca tells me they think they've got the evil eye put on them. I ask him to tell them they haven't been — cursed, or whatever... I say to him, I don't want to meddle in his medicine. I just wanted his help. Last time he went to each of the people who were lying there — I thought they were going to die. I don't know what he said, but some of them just got up and walked off — they were cured. '
‘And the others?'
'The n'gangas know about AIDS — about Slim. They know more about it than the government people do. He said he couldn't cure AIDS. He said he could treat some of the symptoms, like coughs. Don't you see — I'm glad to use his medicine, I have so little. Half the time I don't even have antibiotics. When I went into the medicine hut this afternoon — I've been in London — there was hardly anything there, most of what I had was stolen. ' She was sounding shrill, then tearful.
The Pynes glanced at each other, and Edna said, 'It's getting on top of you. It's no good taking things to heart.'
'And who's talking?’ said Cedric.
'Fair enough,' said Edna. And to Sylvia. 'I know how it is. You get back from England, and you're on a rush of adrenalin and you just go on, and then – whoomph, you're whacked, and can't move for a couple of days. Now you go and lie down for an hour. I'll ring the Mission and tell them.'
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sylvia, remembering the most important thing she wanted to ask them. At lunch Sylvia had heard that she – Sylvia – was a South African spy.
Weeping, because it seemed she was unable to stop, she told them this, and Edna laughed and said, ' Think nothing of it. Don't waste tears on that. We are supposed to be spies too. Give a dog a bad name and hang it. You can steal farms off South African spies with a good conscience. '
' Don't be silly, Edna,’ said Cedric. 'They don't need that. They can just take them. '
Inside the circle of Edna's strong arm Sylvia was led to a large room at the back of the house, and put on a bed. Edna drew the curtains and left. Over the thin cotton of the curtains cloud movements laid swift shadows, the yellow sunlight of late afternoon came back, then there was sudden darkness, and thunder crashed, and the rain came down on the iron roof in a pandemonium. Sylvia slept. She was woken by a smiling black man with a cup of tea. During the Liberation War the Pynes' trusted cook had shown the guerillas the way into the house, and then had left, to join them. ' He didn't have any alternative but to join them, ' Father McGuire had said. ' He's not a bad sort of man. He's working now for the Finlays over at Koodoo Creek. No, of course they don't know his history, what good would that do?' The priest's comments on passing events were as detached as a historian's, even if his personal grumbles were not. Interesting that: judging by the tones ofa voice, Father McGuire's indigestion was of the same scale of importance as Sister Molly's disapproval of the Pope, the Pynes' complaints about the black government – or Sylvia's tears because her medicine hut was empty.
Sundowners on the verandah: the storm had gone, the bushes and flowers sparkled, the birds were singing their hearts out. Paradise. And if she, Sylvia, had made this farm, built this house, worked so hard, would she not have felt as the Pynes did, for a violent sense of injustice was poisoning them. As the drinks were poured, and titbits thrown to Lusaka and Sheba, while their claws scraped and clacked on the cement, as they jumped up, jaws snapping, and while Sylvia listened, the Pynes talked and talked, obsessed and bitter. Once she had said on this verandah – but she had been a neophyte then – 'But if you, I mean the whites, had educated the blacks, then there wouldn't be all this trouble now, would there? They'd be trained and efficient.'
‘What do you mean? Of course we educated them. '
' There was a ceiling in the Civil Service,’ said Sylvia. ' They couldn't go higher than a pretty low level. '
‘Nonsense. '
‘Not nonsense, ' Cedric had conceded. ‘No, we made mistakes.'
‘Who is we?’ said Edna. ‘We weren't here then. '
But if mistakes are writ into a landscape, a country, a history, then... A hundred years ago the whites had arrived in a country the size of Spain, with a quarter of a million black people in all that enormous territory. You'd think – the you here is the Eye of History, from the future – that there had been no need to take anyone's land, with so much. But what that Eye, using a commonsensical view, would be discounting were the pomps and greed of Empire. Besides, if the whites wanted land to have and to hold, with tidy fences and clear-cut boundaries, while the blacks' attitude to land was that it was their mother and could not be individually owned, then there was also the question of cheap labour. When the Pynes had come in the Fifties there were still only a million and a half blacks in all this fair land, and not even 200,000 whites. An empty landscape, according to the eyes of overcrowded Europe. When the Pynes had taken on this farm, the national movements of Zimlia had not been born. Innocent, not to say ignorant, souls, they had come from a small country town in Devon, prepared to work hard and prosper.
Now they sat watching the birds swoop from poinsettias sparkling with raindrops to the birdbath, saw the hills standing close because of the clean-washed air, and one of them said that nothing would induce him to leave, and the other that she was fed up with being called a villain, she had had enough.
Sylvia thanked them for their kindness, from the heart, knowing that they thought her an odd little thing with over-sentimental ideas, and she drove herself back through the darkening bush to the Mission. There she again brought up the subject, at supper, of being a South African spy, and Father McGuire said he had been accused of that himself. It had been when he was protesting to Mr Mandizi that the school was a disgrace to a civilised country, where were the textbooks?
'There is a pretty advanced form of paranoia around, my child,' he said. 'It would be a good thing if you were not to fret your brains about it. '
At five next morning, the sun still a small yellow glow behind the gums, Sylvia came out on to the little verandah and saw in the dawn light a tragic figure, hands squeezed together in front of him, his head bent in pain, or in grief... she recognised Aaron. ‘What is the matter? '
‘Oh, Doctor Sylvia. Oh, Doctor Sylvia...’ he came up to her in a sideways dawdle, slowed by conflict: tears ran down his usually cheerful face. ‘I didn't mean it. Oh I am so-so-so-sorry. Forgive me, Miss Sylvia. The devil got into me. I am sure that is the reason I did it. '
' Aaron, I have no idea what you are talking about. '
‘I stole your picture, and that is why Father beat me. '
'Aaron, please…’
He collapsed on to the brick floor of the verandah, put his head against the thin pillar there and sobbed. It was too early for Rebecca to be in the kitchen. Sylvia sat beside the lad, and did not say anything, merely was there. And there a few minutes later Father McGuire found them, coming out to taste the early morning freshness.
‘And now what is this? I told you not to tell Doctor Sylvia. '
‘But I am ashamed. And please tell her to forgive me. '
‘Where have you been these last three days?'
‘I am afraid. I have been hiding in the bush. '
That accounted for his shivering – he was cold because he was hungry: heat was already
emanating from the East.
' Go into the kitchen, make yourself some good strong tea with plenty of milk and sugar and cut yourself some bread and jam.'
‘Yes, Father. I am very sorry, Father. '
Aaron went off, in no hurry for his restoring meal, though he must have been desperate for it: he was looking over his shoulder as he went at Sylvia.
'Well, Father?'
' He stole your little photograph in its pretty silver frame. '
‘But...’
‘And no, Sylvia, you must not now give it to him. It is back on your table. He said he liked the face of the old woman. He wanted to look at it. I think he has no notion of the value of the silver. '
' Then it's over and done with. '
‘But I beat him, and I beat him too hard. There was blood. This old man is not at his wisest and best. ' The sun was up, hot and yellow. A cicada started, then another, and a dove began its plaint. ‘I shall have extra time to do in purgatory. '
‘Have you been taking your vitamin pills?'
' In my defence I must say that these people understand far too well that to spoil the child you must spare the rod. But that's no excuse. And I am supposed to be teaching Aaron to be a man of God. And he cannot be allowed to steal.'
'It's vitamin B you need, Father. For your nerves. I brought you some from London. '
Voices in altercation from the kitchen, Rebecca's, Aaron's. The priest called out, 'Rebecca, Aaron must be fed.' The voices stilled. ' It's getting hot, let'sgoin.' He went in, she followed, and on the table Rebecca was setting down the tray with the early morning tea.
The Sweetest Dream Page 38