Wilson winced inside at the word ‘kaffir’ as he caught a whiff of whisky turned sour in the man’s stomach. All he said, however, was, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Empangeni. You?’
Wilson nodded. ‘Same.’
‘You live there?’
‘No. I am two days’ walk towards the mountains from there.’
Joe whistled. ‘Long way to go, man.’
Wilson looked at him. ‘You are South African?’ he asked, surprised.
Joe indicated his uniform. ‘I joined the RAF so I could fly.’
‘You could have flown with the South Africans.’
Joe nodded. ‘I know. But not like I could fly with the British.’
Wilson shrugged. Aeroplanes were a mystery to him and he’d prefer it if they stayed that way. He was intensely suspicious of them.
‘What are the ribbons for?’ Joe asked suddenly, unable to curb his curiosity any longer.
There was something like aggression in the white man’s voice. Wilson ignored it. ‘I saved a captain’s life.’
‘A white man?’
Wilson pulled a wry face. ‘It was war. He was fighting on my side. If there’s one thing Zulus understand, it’s the rules of war. I suppose you think it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Not a lot.’ Joe regarded the African carefully. He was typically Zulu, yet his manner was not. Yes, the Zulus understood the rules of war and they held a brave enemy in great respect. One only had to look at the respect accorded to the British soldiers at Rorke’s Drift. It was said by the Zulus that many had to be stabbed twice, like a lion needs to be stabbed twice, before they would die. This impressed the Zulus. Fighting was in their blood but that still didn’t explain why this man volunteered. He seemed to be a strange mixture of traditional and modern Zulu. ‘Trust a bloody Zulu,’ Joe thought grudgingly. It both irked and impressed him that in the face of what must be a bewildering transition process, this man accepted his Zulu fighting heritage with the same equanimity as he regarded defending his country. The two, in Joe’s mind, were poles apart.
Wilson wondered what the white man was thinking. He looked at the window and watched his reflection. The man’s face was thin and sour, disappointment etched in the lines around his mouth. There was an air of sad resignation about him. Turning back he said, ‘My name is Wilson Mpande.’
‘Joe King.’ The white man hesitated, then awkwardly put out his left hand. ‘Sorry. Bit of a problem with the other one.’
Wilson grasped his hand, then let it go. ‘Joe King. Are you joking?’
Joe smothered the rush of irritation. All his life he had lived with that pun and it annoyed him. He was surprised, however, that the African’s English was good enough to make the connection. ‘Very funny,’ he said sardonically.
The African thought it was. He grinned slightly, then asked, ‘You were injured?’
‘Trying to escape.’
‘You were captured?’
A flush spread up Joe’s neck. ‘So what?’ he asked belligerently.
Wilson shook his head. ‘Nothing. I just asked. You weren’t the only one.’
‘Twelve times?’ Joe asked bitterly.
Wilson smiled. ‘A man who tries to escape twelve times need have no shame in him.’
‘I am not ashamed,’ Joe said angrily. Wilson’s eyes went blank. A neat trick to which Joe was not blind. He knew it was to hide inner feelings. ‘Shot down a few Germans though.’ Inwardly Joe cringed. The statement had sounded boastful, almost as though he were trying to justify something. Anger stirred against the Zulu. The man had him on the back foot and it irked him.
Wilson’s eyes were still blank as he asked, ‘What do you do in Zululand?’
Joe took the proffered olive branch. ‘Sugar and cattle,’ he answered shortly.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Together?’
Joe knew what he meant. It was an unusual combination. ‘Sugar mainly. I keep the cattle on higher ground.’
Wilson nodded. Sugar was an alien world about which he knew little. Cattle, on the other hand, were almost a religion to him. ‘You are a fortunate man.’
‘So I keep telling myself. And what about you?’
‘I am a Zulu. I live the old way.’
Joe thought he heard defensiveness in the African’s voice. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘I did not say there was.’
Joe shrugged. It was no skin off his nose.
Wilson allowed emotion back into his eyes. ‘It is a way of life that is dying. The white man takes our best land and lets us keep what is left.’ He stared impassively at Joe. ‘Of course, this is generously granted only because the white man has found no use for it. You have your cattle. They grow fat and healthy on the rich grasses you take from us.’
Joe was taken aback by the outburst. He had never really considered that the annexation of Zulu lands was wrong. It had never occurred to him that the Zulus might actually resent it. After all, this was what colonial powers did best. They took land from a bunch of uneducated savages and turned it into neatly divided, profitable farmland which fed a nation and boosted the national economy. What was wrong with that? The Zulus could never have done it. All they were concerned with was owning a few head of cattle, they never thought further than that.
Okay, he was aware that cattle were important to a Zulu. They were a symbol of a man’s wealth, measured as such from the humblest of men right up to the king himself. The cattle kraal was considered a sacred place where only the men were allowed to enter. But Jesus, South Africa was developing fast. If the white man could adapt to change then the bloody Zulus would have to as well. Joe thought it time to teach this arrogant kaffir a lesson. ‘You’ll have to make do with much less if Daniel Malan wins the next election. If you think you’re hard done by now, wait and see what happens then.’
His words struck at the core of Wilson’s anger. ‘The Afrikaners are a minority group. You English speakers will not let their man lead the government.’
If Joe was surprised by the Zulu’s grasp of South African politics, he did not let it show. Instead, he said in a hard voice, ‘You are wrong, my friend. It is true there are more English speakers in South Africa but many of them cannot vote. They cling to their British passports. The Afrikaners may well have the numbers. And there’s something else too. It may be the English who control much of the business in this country but if Nationalist Party policies work for them, they’ll vote for Malan.’
Wilson knew he spoke the truth. The knowledge rankled. ‘And you? You who farm my lands and wear an English uniform? How will you vote, if indeed you can?’
The unexpectedly frank exchange surprised Joe. ‘I keep my British passport,’ he said angrily, ‘for without it I am a man without a country.’
‘You have a country. You have taken it from me. The least you could do is show some faith in it.’
Joe rose stiffly, losing balance and staggering a little as the train rocked – or perhaps it was the whisky. ‘I have faith in only one thing, black man. I did not take your country. You lost it.’ He moved off up the passageway, back to his compartment, before he could see the blank stare of suppressed rage in Wilson Mpande’s eyes.
Wilson had also been surprised by the turn the conversation had taken. In the dark, rocking carriage the gloves had come off. Here, at last, was the undiluted truth. Did it help him to understand how the white man thought? He concluded, sadly, that it did not.
TWO
Michael King waited until the scotch cart gathered speed, dust kicked up by the hooves of the mules, before bending and removing his shoes and socks. He stuffed them into the canvas satchel, liberally covering its contents with soil. Eyes screwed up to cut the glare from the sandy white road, Michael carefully checked the ground for footprints. Moving with the stealth of a leopard, he sneaked up to the curved stone wall to the right of the gate and, standing on tiptoe, peered over it. Satisfied, he moved to the left wall and repeated the exercise. With a gr
unt of serious relief, he flung the satchel over his shoulder, passed through the imposing arch on which was emblazoned the name ‘UBejane Estate’ and started up the burning hot track towards the house. It was a two-kilometre walk.
UBejane was the only home Michael had ever known. He knew it had once been part of a much larger estate owned by his grandfather, that crusty and sharp-tongued patriarch, the memory of whom still filled Michael with awe. When the old man died four years ago Michael had felt relief that he would never again be subjected to the cruel barbs which his grandfather fired at random to anybody and everybody within earshot. On more than one occasion Michael had seen his mother reduced to tears by a calculated criticism or by stinging sarcasm. With three out of four of the old man’s sons away at war, and a fourth, the eldest, trying to come to terms with the loss of both legs, the old man’s funeral was organised by the women of the family. Not one of them had liked their father-in-law sufficiently to even pretend they were sorry he had gone. Claire King had given Michael the choice of whether or not to attend the funeral. Even at four, Michael wanted to see the old man buried and forever out of reach.
Now he was nearly eight and with memories of his grandfather fading, Michael, if he thought about the old man at all, would concede that he owed his grandfather if not love, then at least gratitude. With the war over, countries were struggling to get back on their feet. At school, Michael was taught about food shortages. It didn’t mean much to him. The vegetable gardens, orchards, henhouse, pig styes and fields were overflowing with an abundance of food which fed not only Michael and his mother but the entire population on UBejane, with enough left over to help those less fortunate in the nearby town of Empangeni. Money was tight, Michael understood that, but his belly was full, he had a roof over his head and he knew he was one of the fortunate.
Walking up the road, Michael’s world turned green. The tall sugar cane on either side closed around him, muting all sounds and forming a mini-climate. The silence was unusual. Normally the smallest breeze would have the dead lower leaves rustling, like small scurrying creatures. The absence of any movement in the air was an eerie sensation. He stepped off the road and up to the plants, searching for a succulent young shoot. When he found one, he snapped it off and, walking up the road, he sucked the sweet juice from it with pleasure. Soon, his chin and hands were sticky with it. His eyes darted from left to right. Today he had to be careful. An attack from the cane fields was long overdue.
Michael sniffed. Summer was coming, he could smell it. Storm clouds were building out towards the sea but, so far, had not delivered any rain. The air was heavy with anticipation. Michael focused his attention on the three-metre strip of grass bordering either side of the track. It was long enough to hide in. He scanned ahead as he walked, looking for telltale signs. There were no workers in these fields, everybody was up at the northern end sowing new plant cane. The fields where Michael walked were nearly ready for burning. He hoped he could see it. Usually, depending on weather conditions, they put the fire in very early in the morning, when he was still asleep. Sometimes, though, they fired the cane at night and, if it wasn’t too late, he was allowed to watch.
The road was dead straight, cut at intervals by crossroads dividing the cane into blocks. It was dry now but there was a strangely sweet smell coming from the cane field. Occasionally, when the road and fields were wet, or the grassy verges were newly cut, the combination of scents was almost overpowering. It was more noticeable since his mother put in the irrigation.
When Claire first talked of watering the cane, Michael had thought she was mad. All the farms in the area relied on the rains and no-one irrigated their fields. She went ahead anyway, and it worked. Tonnages increased and seasonal variations reduced. Once ground moisture could be controlled, Claire went a step further and they were now deliberately burning off the dry trash before cutting mill-ready cane. It was dirty work and the Africans hated it, wearing hessian sacks over their clothes to protect them. Claire persisted. The cane was cleaner with little or no loss of sucrose. At first, other farmers derided Claire King and continued to remove the trash with cane knives in the old manner. But, once they saw her tonnages compared to their own, one by one they followed suit. Michael had overheard one neighbour saying, ‘There’s no doubting it, she’s right. She’s got a good head on her, that woman.’
He reached the first crossroad and turned right. Raj Singh, the tall Sikh farm manager, was pedalling towards him. Michael breathed a sigh of relief. The feeling of imminent attack had been strong today. Seeing Raj coming down the road was comforting. He looked ridiculous perched on the bicycle, turban slightly askew, his white pants and tunic top billowing, and the ends of a broad red sash flying behind him. Hopping one foot on the ground as a brake, he wobbled to a stop beside Michael, his thin brown face with its severely hooked nose wide open with genuine pleasure at the sight of the young boy he loved like his own son.
‘Good afternoon, Master Michael.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Singh.’ Michael adored Raj but he was always careful to observe the proper formalities with him. He had received more than one clip around the ear for not doing so. Not that it hurt physically, the reminders were delivered so they barely skimmed him. But Raj’s approval was important to Michael and the Sikh’s displeasure was something he strove to avoid.
Raj held a special position on the farm, not only because he was the manager. With Joe away at war, Raj had taken it upon himself to attend to Michael’s farming education, taking him along whenever possible on his daily routine, explaining what he was doing and why, teaching Michael the finer points of sugarcane farming, about which he knew a great deal. While he was doing that, he threw in a few masculine pearls of wisdom for good measure.
‘Never,’ he said emphatically to Michael once, ‘let a woman think she is clever.’
‘Why not?’
Raj had favoured Michael with a pitying look. ‘Because she isn’t.’
‘Some women are clever,’ Michael had objected. ‘Katie Fisher comes top of the class in maths and English.’
‘Pah!’ Raj waved his hand in dismissal. ‘That means she has a good memory.’
Michael rather wished his memory was as good and said so.
Raj had treated him to a skimming cuff and told him, ‘Can she run a farm? No. Can she fight in a war? No. All she can do is have babies.’
Michael thought his mother ran UBejane rather well but, wisely, did not mention it. Instead he asked, ‘Why can’t men have babies?’ He had been glad Raj mentioned babies. He’d watched the cattle, the farm dogs and that horrible old rooster, and his young mind had put two and two together. Even while he was rejecting the idea as disgusting, the subject fascinated him – there was definitely something taboo about it – and he longed to find out more. This had been his opportunity. But Raj’s answer had been disappointing.
‘Men have more important things to do.’
Michael’s mother allowed Raj to run the farm although she did the bookkeeping and took all major policy decisions. They had fought a long and bitter battle over the matter of irrigation. Raj still refused to admit that it had been a good idea even though Claire could see his change of heart. She was pleased that Michael spent time with him. The boy needed adult male company, she knew that. But, after Michael had repeated one or two rather bizarre pieces of information – like the time when he was six and had solemnly informed his mother that he no longer needed toilet paper, he had a perfectly good hand to do the job – she had to explain to Raj with a great deal of diplomacy that his Indian customs were different from her son’s and would he please remember that in future.
Raj had accepted the rebuttal with a stiff and formal bow accompanied by stony and outraged silence. As soon as Claire was out of earshot, he retaliated by telling Michael that his mother was a woman and, as women had no say in important matters, he would continue to teach Michael Indian ways. Michael had grinned at him uncertainly, not sure if Raj was joking about his mother
or not. However, the tall Sikh rarely joked so Michael had to assume he was serious. While he was happy to accept Raj’s advice on most things, on the subject of his mother he made up his mind that the Indian had to be wrong. Claire was the most important person in Michael’s life and he both loved and respected her.
Raj put out a sandalled foot to steady the bicycle. ‘How was school?’
‘Okay.’ Michael waved his hand to the cane field on his right. ‘When will you burn this block?’
‘School,’ Raj insisted sternly.
Michael sighed and told Raj of the day’s lessons. Then he returned to his question. ‘The rains are coming and this field is ready.’
Raj pretended to be surprised. ‘So it is, yes indeed. Goodness. We will make a farmer of you yet, Master Michael.’
Michael would not be put off. ‘When?’
Raj scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘I am not knowing exactly. Tomorrow perhaps.’
Michael’s face fell.
The Sikh smiled. ‘Oh, oh!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now I am understanding. You wish us to wait for you, isn’t it? Perhaps you can tell me when it suits you. Then Raj can decide if we wait.’
Michael held his breath. He’d had many similar conversations with the Indian and found, often to his disappointment, that Raj went ahead and fired the cane when it suited him. Apparently it had something to do with the mill and quotas.
But today was different. Raj finally relented. ‘Do not worry, we will wait for when you are here, Master Michael. It is time for you to understand that the fire is not a game. This time you will be responsible.’
Feeling enormously pleased, Michael nodded solemnly. He had watched many times, even helped, and he knew instinctively how to read the weather, where to put the fire in and how to back burn. But this was the first time Raj had allowed him to take charge. ‘This weekend,’ he decided. ‘Unless it rains.’
People of Heaven Page 4