Mr Phiri did not like this woman. First, on principle: she was a white farmer's wife, whom he thought of first of all as one of the females who had taken up guns in the Liberation War and defended homesteads, roads, ammunition points: this district was an area where the war had been fierce. Yes, he could just see her in battledress with a gun, aimed perhaps at him. Yet he had been a boy in the war, safe in Senga: the war had not touched him at all.
She disliked this class of black official, called them little Hitlers, and delighted in repeating every bad thing she heard about them. They treated their black servants like dirt, worse than any white person had ever done, the blacks didn't want to work for other blacks, tried to work for whites. They abused their power, they took bribes, they were – and this was the real sin – incompetent. And this particular man she had disliked from the first glance.
The two people, the over-tense dried-out white woman, the large and confident black man, sat looking at each other, letting their faces speak for them.
' Okay,’ said Mr Phiri at last.
Luckily, in came Cedric. ‘I got a message through just before the bloody thing faded. Mandizi will be along. But he says he's not well today.'
'Mr Mandizi I am sure will be as quick as he can, but we shall have time to see your new dam.'
The two men went out to the lorry, parked under a tree, and neither even looked at the woman. She smiled to herself, the practised bitter twist of the lips of one who feeds on bitterness.
Cedric drove fast, over the rough farm roads, through fields, kopjes, patches of bush. Mr Phiri had scarcely in his life been out of Senga, and like Rose did not know how to interpret what he saw.
‘And what is this growing here?'
'Tobacco. It is what is keeping your economy going.'
‘Ah, so that is the famous tobacco?'
‘You mean you've never seen tobacco growing?'
‘When I go out of Senga inspecting schools I am always in such a hurry, I am a busy man. That is why I am so pleased to have this chance of seeing a real farm, with a white farmer. '
' Some ofyour black farmers are growing good tobacco, didn't you know that?'
Mr Phiri was silent, because they were driving along the base of a tumbling hill and there, in front of them, was a waste land of raw yellow soil in heaps and piles and ridges, and an excavator was labouring away, balancing on improbable slopes and declivities. ' Here we are,’ said Cedric, leaping out, and he went forward without looking to see if the Inspector was following. A black man, the excavator driver's mate, came forward to the farmer and the two stood close together, conferring over a map ofsome kind, on the edge of a hole in the dense yellow soil. Mr Phiri went cautiously forward among the yellow heaps, trying to keep his shoes clean. Dust blew off the tops of the heaps. His good suit was already dusty.
‘Well, that's it. ' Cedric returned.
‘But where is the dam?'
' There. ' Cedric pointed.
'But – when it is finished how big will it be?'
Cedric pointed again. 'There... there... from that line of trees to the kopje, and from there to where we are standing.'
' A big dam, then?'
' It won't be the Kariba. '
' Okay,’ said Mr Phiri. He was disappointed. He had expected to see a lake of sweet brown water, with cows standing in it up to their middles, and over it thorn trees where weaver birds' nests dangled. He could not consciously remember ever seeing this scene, but that is what a dam meant to him. ‘When will it be full?'
' Perhaps you could arrange for some good rain? This is our third season with practically no rain. '
Mr Phiri laughed, but he was feeling like a schoolboy and didn't like it. He could not imagine the sweep ofwater that would be here under the hills.
' If you want to catch Mandizi, we should go back. '
' Okay. ' This was okay in its primal sense: Yes, I agree.
‘I’ll take you back another way,’ said Cedric, though it was against his interests to impress this man who intended to steal his farm. He wanted to share his loving pride in what he had made from the bush. A mile from the house a herd of cattle stood eating dry maize cobs. They had the frantic look of drought-stressed animals. What Mr Phiri saw was cattle, saw mombies, and he longed to own them. His eyes filled with the wonder of these beasts: he did not realise they were in trouble.
Cedric said, ‘I am having to shoot the calves as they are born. ' His voice was harsh. Mr Phiri was shocked, and he stammered out, ‘But, but... yes, I read in the paper... but that is terrible. ' He saw that tears were running down the white man's cheeks. ' It must be terrible, ' he said, sighing, and tactfully tried not to look at Cedric. He was feeling a real warmth for him, but he did not know what he would do if the white man broke down and wept. ' Shooting calves... but is there nothing... nothing...’
'No milk in the udders,' said Cedric. 'And when cows are as thin as that, the calves are poor quality when they are born.'
They were at the house.
Mr Mandizi was just arriving, but Cedric at first thought it was a deputy: the man was half the size he had been.
‘You've lost a lot of weight,’ said Cedric.
‘Yes, that is so. '
He had dropped the mechanic at the Mercedes and now he opened the back door of the car and said to Mr Phiri, ' Get in, please.’And to Cedric in an official voice, 'You should get your radio fixed. I could hardly hear you.'
' That would be the day,’ said Cedric.
‘And now to the school,’ said Mr Phiri, who was in low spirits because of the calves. He did not talk as he was driven to the Mission.
' This is the priest's house. '
‘But I want the headmaster's house. '
' There is no headmaster. I am afraid he is in prison. '
‘But why is there no replacement?'
‘We have asked for a replacement, but you see this is not an attractive posting. They would rather go to a town. Or as near as they can to a town. '
Anger restored Mr Phiri's vitality, and he strode into the little house, followed by his subordinate. No one was about. He clapped his hands and Rebecca appeared. 'Tell the priest I am here.'
' Father McGuire is up at the school. If you walk up that path you will find him.'
‘And why will you not go?'
‘I have something in the oven. And Father McGuire is waiting for you. '
‘And why is he there?'
' He teaches the big children. I think he is teaching many classes, because the headmaster is not here. ' Rebecca turned to go into the kitchen.
‘And where are you going? I have not said you can go. '
Rebecca made a deep, slow curtsy and stood with her hands folded, eyes down.
Mr Phiri glared, did not look at Mr Mandizi, who knew he was being mocked.
'Very well, you can go now.'
'Okay,' said Rebecca.
The two men set off up the dusty path with the sun hitting down hard on their heads and shoulders.
Since eight that morning the many classrooms of this school had been a pandemonium of excited children, waiting for the big man. Their teachers who were after all not so much older than some of them, were as elated. But no car came, there was only the sound of doves, and some cicadas in the clump of trees near the water tank, which was empty. All the children had been thirsty for weeks, and some were hungry and indeed had had nothing to eat but what Father McGuire had given them for breakfast, lumps of the heavy white sweet bread, and reconstituted milk. Nine o ' clock, then ten. Teaching resumed, the din of several hundred voices chanting the repetitions necessary because of no schoolbooks, no exercise books, was audible for half a mile from the school, and only ceased when Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi appeared, hot and sweating.
‘What is this? Where is the teacher?'
' Here,’ said a meek youth, smiling in an agony of apprehension.
‘And what class is this? What is all this noise? I do not remember that oral lessons are
part of our curriculum? Where are the exercise books?'
At this fifty exuberant children chorused, 'Comrade Inspector, Comrade Inspector, we have no exercise books, we have no books, please give us some exercise books. And some pencils, yes, some pencils, do not forget us, Comrade Inspector. '
‘And why do they not have exercise books?’ said Mr Phiri impressively to Mr Mandizi.
‘We send in the requisition forms, but we have not been sent exercise books or textbooks.' It had been three years, but he was nervous of saying so in front of the children, and their teacher.
'And if they are delayed, then hurry them up, in Senga.'
There was no help for it. 'It has been three years since this school received any books or exercise books. '
Mr Phiri stared at him, at the young teacher, at the children.
The young teacher said, ' Comrade Inspector, sir, we do our best, but it is hard without any books. '
The Comrade Inspector felt trapped. He knew that in some schools – well, just a few – there was a shortage of books. The fact was, he rarely went out of the towns, made sure the schools he inspected were urban. There were shortages there, but it was not a terrible thing, was it, for four or five children to share a primer, or to use waste wrapping paper for writing lessons? But no books, nothing at all. Flashpoint: he exploded into rage. ‘And look at your floors. How long since they were swept?'
' There is so much dust,’ said the teacher in a low shamed voice. ' Dust...’
' Speak up. '
Now the children came in with, ' The dust comes in, and as soon as we sweep it up it comes in again. '
' Stand up when you speak to me. '
Since the officials had arrived without ceremony at the door, the young teacher had not ordered the children to stand, but now there was a great scraping of feet and desks. 'And how is it these children do not know how to greet the representative of the government?'
' Good morning, Comrade Inspector, ' came the much-rehearsed greeting from the children, all still smiling and excited because of this visit which would result in their at last getting exercise books, pencils, and even perhaps a headmaster.
'See to the floor,' said Mr Phiri to the teacher, who was smiling like a beggar refused. ' Mr Phiri, Comrade Inspector Sir...’ he was running after the officials as they made their way to the next classroom. 'What is it?' 'If you could ask the department to send us our supplies of books...’Now he was running beside them like a messenger trying to deliver an urgent despatch, and, all pretence of dignity gone, he was pressing his hands together and weeping, 'Comrade Inspector, it is so hard to teach when you have no...’
But the officials had gone into the next classroom, from whence almost at once came the shouts and imprecations of Mr Phiri's rage. He was there only a minute, went on to the next classroom, again the storm of shouts. The teacher from the first classroom who had been standing listening, giving himself time to recover, now pulled himself together and returned to where his pupils sat waiting, still full of hope. Fifty pairs of eyes shone at him: Oh, give us some good news.
' Okay, ' he said, and their faces lost their shine.
He was trying his hardest not to cry. Tongues clicked in sympathy and there were murmurs of 'Shame'.
‘We shall have a writing lesson. ' He turned to the blackboard and with a fragment of chalk wrote in a clear round child's hand, ' The Comrade Inspector came to our school today. '
‘And now, Mary. ' A large young woman, perhaps sixteen, looking older, came out of the mass of crammed-together desks, took the bit of chalk, and wrote the sentence again. She bobbed a curtsy to him – the teacher had been a member of this class two years before – and returned to her place. They were silent, listening to the shouts coming from a classroom in the next block. The children were all hoping they would be called up to show what they could do on the board. The trouble was the shortage of chalk. The teacher had the fragment, and two whole sticks, which he kept hidden in his pocket, because school cupboards got broken into, even if they were as good as empty. It was out of the question to have all the children up, one after the other to copy the sentence.
The storm of noise that was Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi approaching was just outside the classroom – oh, were they coming back in? at least there was the nice sentence on the blackboard – no, they were striding past. The children rushed to the windows to see their last of the Comrade Inspector. Two backs were disappearing down to the priest's house. Behind them came a third, the dusty black robe of Father McGuire, who was waving and shouting at them to stop.
Silently the children went back to their desks. It was nearly twelve, and time for the lunch break. Not all brought food, but would sit watching their fellows eat a lump of cold porridge or a piece of pumpkin.
The teacher said, 'There will be physical culture after the break.'
A chorus of pleasure. They all loved these exercises that took place in the dusty spaces between buildings. No equipment, no bars, no vaulting horse, or climbing ropes, or mats they could lie on. The teachers took it in turns.
The two men burst into the priest's house, with the priest just behind them.
‘I did not see you at the school,’ said Mr Phiri.
‘I think you did not inspect the third row of classrooms, which is where I was. '
‘I hear you teach at our school. And how is that?'
‘I give remedial lessons. '
‘I did not know that we have remedial lessons. '
‘I teach children who are three or four years behind their proper level, because of the poor state of their school. I call that remedial. And it is voluntary. There is no salary attached. I do not cost the government anything. '
‘And those nuns I saw. Why aren't they teaching?'
'They do not have the qualifications, not even for this school.'
Mr Phiri would have liked to rage and shout – perhaps hit something, or someone – but he felt his head swell and pound: he had been told by his doctor not to get over-excited. He stood, looking at the lunch set out on the table, some slivers of cold meat and some tomatoes. A new loaf emitted delightful odours. He was thinking of sadza. That is what he needed. If he could only get the comforting weight and warmth of a good plate of sadza into his poor stomach, which was churning with a hundred emotions...’Perhaps you would like to share our meal?’ said the priest.
Rebecca entered with a plate of boiled potatoes.
‘Have you cooked sadza?'
‘No, sir, I did not know you were expected for lunch. '
Father McGuire moved swiftly in, with, ' Unfortunately, as we all know, a good sadza takes half an hour to do well, and we would not insult you by giving you inferior sadza. But perhaps some beef? I am sorry to say there is plenty of beef around, with the poor beasts dying from the drought. '
Mr Phiri's stomach which had been relaxing, in the expectation of sadza, now knotted again and he shouted at Mr Mandizi, 'Go and find out if my car is mended.' Mr Mandizi was eyeing the bread, and looked in protest at his chief. He was entitled to his meal. He did not move. ‘And come back and tell me if it is not ready, and I can return with you to your office.'
'I am sure he will have finished by now. He has had a good three hours,’ said Mr Mandizi.
‘And how is it you are defying me, Mr Mandizi? Am I or am I not your chief? And this in addition to the incompetence I have seen today. You are supposed to be keeping an eye on the local schools and reporting deficiencies.' He was shouting, but his voice was strained and weak. He was about to burst into tears from impotence, from anger, and from shame at what he had seen that day. Just in time, Father McGuire saved him, from the same impulse that earlier had made Mr Phiri avert his eyes from Cedric Pyne's tears over his calves. ‘And now, please sit down, Mr Phiri. And I am so happy to have you here because I am an old friend of your father – did you know that? He was my pupil – yes, that chair there and Mr Mandizi...’
'He will do as he is told, and go and find out about m
y car.'
Rebecca, never looking at Mr Phiri, came forward to the table, cut two hefty slices of bread, put meat between them, and offered them to Mr Mandizi, with a little curtsy, which was far from mocking. 'You are not well,' she said to him. 'Yes, I can see you are not well.'
He did not reply, but stood with the sandwich in his hand.
‘And what is wrong with you, Mr Mandizi?’ said Mr Phiri.
Without replying, Mr Mandizi went out to the verandah where Sylvia met him, coming up from the hospital.
She put her hand on his arm, and was talking to him in a low persuasive voice.
From inside the room they heard, ‘Yes, I am sick and my wife is sick too. '
Sylvia, with her arm around Mr Mandizi – he had lost so much weight it was easy – went with him to the car.
Father McGuire was talking, talking, pushing the meat plate towards his guest, the potatoes, the tomatoes. 'Yes, you must fill your plate, you must be so hungry, it has been a long time since breakfast and I too am hungry, and your father – is he well? He was my favourite pupil when I was teaching down at Guti. What a clever boy he was. '
Mr Phiri was sitting with his eyes closed, recovering. When he opened them, opposite him sat a small brown woman. Was she coloured? – no, that was the colour they went when they had too much sun, oh yes, she was the woman just now with Mr Mandizi. She was smiling at Rebecca. Was this smile a comment on him? Rage, which had been leaving him under the influence of the good beef and potatoes, returned, and he said, ‘And are you the woman they tell me has been taking our school equipment for your lessons, so-called lessons?'
Sylvia looked at the priest, who was signalling to her, with a tightening of his lips to say nothing. 'Doctor Lennox has bought exercise books and an atlas with her own money, you need have no concern on that score, and now if you could give me news about your mother – she was my cook for a while, and I can say truly that I envy you with such a cook for a mother. '
‘And what are those lessons you are giving our pupils? Are you a teacher? Do you have a certificate? You are a doctor, not a teacher.'
Again, Father McGuire made it impossible for Sylvia to reply. 'Yes, this is our good doctor, she is a doctor and not a teacher, but there is no need for a teacher's certificate if you are reading to children, if you are teaching them to read. '
The Sweetest Dream Page 44