People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  As they stood in each other’s arms, Nandi’s memories of him came flooding back: the feel of his hard body against her, his strong arms around her, his hands gentle on her, the smell of him. A shudder ran through her. It was unusual for Zulus to display such affection but, oh it felt good to be with him like this.

  Eventually he eased her away from him. ‘Where is my son?’

  She had felt his need of her but it would be immodest to mention it. ‘You did not see a fine boy on your way?’

  ‘No.’

  Nandi smiled. ‘He waits for his friend, the son of the white nkosi.’

  Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘My son is friends with the izilwane?’

  Nandi pushed him playfully. He had referred to the white man in the old way, as a wild beast. ‘He will not be home for a few hours,’ she told him coyly, encouraged by the fact that he did not seem to be angry with her.

  ‘Come, wife,’ Wilson said, smiling broadly, unable to resist the urge to make love to her any longer. ‘Come show your husband how much you have missed him.’

  Dyson Mpande had a new strategy. He had ambushed Michael for four consecutive days at the place where the road ran between the large rocks, alternating between the right- and left-hand boulders. Yesterday, he had taken care to let Michael see him and had been easily overpowered. Michael commented afterwards, ‘You grow lazy. A leopard never returns to the same spot twice.’

  Dyson had looked suitably shamed and responded, ‘You will not see me tomorrow.’

  Michael hadn’t seen him but then, he hadn’t really been looking for him. The problem of his father was weighing heavily on his mind and he wasn’t concentrating on their game as much as usual. Even if he had been, he would hardly have expected that Dyson would be on the same rock as yesterday. Dyson dropped silently and Michael had gone sprawling.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Michael protested, scrambling up and dusting himself off as best he could.

  ‘War is not fair,’ Dyson told him, laughing with glee. ‘And the leopard is wily.’

  A horse snorting a little distance off galvanised Michael into action. ‘Quick, hide.’ He pulled Dyson off the road and the two boys crouched in the dry gully. Joe King rode past, his horse kept at a fast walk. They waited in the gully until they could no longer hear its hooves on the hard track.

  ‘Why do you hide from your father?’ Dyson asked, straightening up and staring after the horse and its rider.

  Michael scowled. ‘Don’t like him.’

  Dyson was scandalised. ‘He’s your father.’

  ‘Shaka didn’t like his father either,’ Michael retorted, stung by the implied criticism.

  ‘You are wrong. Shaka’s father didn’t like him.’

  ‘Same difference. My father doesn’t like me.’

  Dyson considered this. ‘Perhaps you will be a great warrior like Shaka.’

  Michael knew his Zulu history almost as well as Dyson. He was angry with himself for letting Dyson outsmart him, confused by his feelings towards his father and generally out of sorts about life, otherwise what happened next would never have occurred. Michael started it. ‘At least my mother did not blame the itshaka for her fat stomach. At least I am not named after a beetle. My name means “Who is like the Lord?” I will be a great king, not just a warrior.’

  ‘Shaka was a king. He was the first king. All the Zulus took their name from his clan.’ Dyson was getting angry too. It was not like Michael to pick a fight.

  ‘Heaven,’ Michael scoffed the name of an early Qwabe prince. Translated into English the word Zulu means ‘heaven’ and it was after this prince that the Zulus were named. ‘What a stupid name for a man who called his clan after himself.’ Then he added insult to injury. ‘You who came from a dog’s penis.’ It was an old expression sometimes levelled at members of the Zulu clan before Shaka’s day, and it was deeply offensive, as Michael well knew, although he wasn’t sure he understood exactly what it meant.

  Dyson pushed Michael. Michael swung at Dyson. Suddenly they were fighting in deadly earnest. Neither of them heard Joe King returning. The first Michael knew was a stinging blow to the side of his head. ‘Get home, boy. Wait for me in your room. ‘Joe turned to Dyson.’ Get out of here, you little bastard, before you feel my boot up your arse.’

  Dyson turned and fled. Michael, his face dirty, bloody and streaked with tears of rage, bent to gather up his school bag. Without looking at his father, he set off towards the house. By the time he’d reached the fork Dyson had disappeared and he had calmed down somewhat. He regretted taunting his friend and, at the first opportunity, he would apologise. It was hardly Dyson’s fault that since the arrival of his father four days earlier Michael’s life had been turned upside-down.

  Dyson might have raced straight into his hut but was stopped by one of the wives of the induna, the headman in charge of all the Zulus on UBejane. ‘Stay your feet, boy,’ she called sharply. Dyson was so surprised, he stopped in his tracks. True, she was a wife of the most important man in the kraal but she was, after all, only his third wife, and he, Dyson, was a male.

  She smiled to soften her sharp words. ‘Your mother has company,’ she explained. ‘Your father has returned.’

  Dyson was stunned, excited and afraid all at once. He would have a father at last, something he had yearned for ever since he was old enough to realise that he and his mother were different from everyone else. But since Michael’s father had returned, his friend had changed. Perhaps fathers weren’t the best thing in the world after all? Not knowing what to do, Dyson sat just outside the hut, waiting to meet his father. He didn’t have long to wait. Ten minutes later the man who had so impressed him as he passed by his hiding place emerged from within, followed by his mother who was smiling happily.

  ‘Here,’ she said to the man proudly. ‘Here is your son, Dyson.’

  Dyson stood up, not knowing what to expect.

  ‘Dyson!’ It burst from the man happily.

  Dyson felt himself being lifted high into the air. Looking down into the stranger’s face, he saw only love, pride and happiness. ‘My father,’ he said breathlessly, clasped briefly to his father’s chest before being returned to the ground.

  His father dropped to his haunches in front of Dyson. ‘My son, I see you. It has been too long.’

  Dyson scrutinised his father’s face. It was strong and proud. He gave a small sigh of satisfaction. It was all right. His father loved him, he could see it already. Acting uncharacteristically – young Zulu boys did not show any outward affection towards their father, just as their father usually showed none to them – Dyson flung himself into his father’s arms, almost knocking him over. Then, remembering his mother’s teachings, he stood back and said solemnly, ‘Welcome home, Father.’

  Wilson Mpande stood and looked at Nandi. ‘We are a family again. It is all I have thought about for five years.’ His features became stern as he added, ‘But I fear my family is not how I left them. It would seem that my wife takes it upon herself to make my decisions for me.’

  Dyson held his breath. A steely note of authority had crept into his father’s voice. His mother stood, head hanging, saying nothing.

  ‘Come, wife. You had much to say about where you would live to my father. What have you to say to me?’

  Nandi peeped up at him. ‘There are things to discuss,’ she said softly.

  Dyson could sense that his mother was uneasy. He was too young to fully appreciate why but understood her well enough to know that she did not wish to leave UBejane. And he was old enough to know that refusal to comply with his father’s instructions would, in the old days anyway, have resulted in her death. Although those times were long gone, his mother was still running the risk of being cast aside by her husband and, if this was to be then he, Dyson, would be cast aside with her. He waited anxiously to see what his father would do.

  ‘We will discuss these things tonight, wife. You have shamed me with your actions. You have angered my father and wounded my mo
ther. In the village they laugh and whisper behind my back. “How is it,” they ask, “that Wilson Mpande cannot keep his wife at home?” What have you become? Am I to believe that you do not honour my wishes?’

  When she did not respond, Wilson added less sternly, ‘I see what you are doing and I see why it must be done. Do not think I disagree. But if I say we return to the kraal of my father, then you will obey me.’

  ‘There is much work still to be done,’ she protested.

  ‘Then, if necessary, others will do it.’

  Nandi looked back at the ground. She nodded slowly. But Dyson knew, by the set of her shoulders, that she was prepared to argue. Wilson glanced at him and Dyson saw a twinkle in his father’s eyes as he went on, ‘But if I decide that we stay here, wife, then you will do as you are told and you will not argue. That is my final word.’

  Dyson saw the small smile touch his mother’s lips and just as quickly disappear. He had heard the words but was too young to catch the subtlety of them. However, his mother appeared well pleased and he relaxed.

  FOUR

  Joe watched his son walk away and wondered why he had been fighting with the African boy. ‘Just look at the state of him,’ he thought in disgust. Michael was barefoot, his shirt untucked, shorts filthy. ‘He might as well be a bloody African himself.’ As far as Joe was concerned, Michael was too familiar with the farm workers. He needed to distance himself from them. After all, one day they would be taking orders from him. Saturday was a good example. There was his son making decisions about firing one of the cane fields – okay, the lad seemed to know what he was doing – but he treated the blacks and Indians as friends, as they in turn treated him. It wasn’t right. Sighing, he got back onto his horse.

  He could not make any headway with getting closer to Michael. The boy seemed so self-contained, as though he didn’t want a father. He never spoke unless spoken to first and even then his responses were brief, almost to the point of rudeness. If Michael ever looked at Joe there was accusation in his eyes. Most of the time he went out of his way to avoid his father’s company. He wasn’t a bad kid, Joe had to admit. Good-looking, well built, spoke impeccable Zulu. If he’d just show a bit more respect, or even interest. Couldn’t he see that his father was trying to make amends for their unfortunate reunion?

  Joe reached down to the saddle pouch. The hipflask had been full that morning and he gave an irritated grunt when it yielded no more than a sip. He debated whether to go back for a refill but decided against it. Instead, Joe turned his horse past the Indian barracks and dismounted outside the workshop. Claire had been on his back because he had not, as yet, seen Mac. This would kill two birds with one stone.

  He found Mac with his head under the bonnet of Claire’s old Ford.

  ‘Aboot bloody time ye paid your respects,’ the old Scotsman grouched, not looking up.

  Joe smothered an irritable response. The man had been around for as long as he could remember and, if Joe stood in awe of anyone, it was Mac. Besides, Joe knew he’d never find a better handyman anywhere. ‘I’ve been busy,’ he said, as shortly as he dared.

  Mac straightened up, wincing as his back twinged. ‘Aye, that’ll be right.’ He wiped his hands on a filthy rag and stuck out a huge and calloused paw. ‘Welcome back.’

  Joe shook the grease-stained hand. ‘What’s wrong with the car?’

  ‘Nought that can’t be put right.’ Mac jerked his head towards one of the tractors. ‘It’s that bitch needs a bullet.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Joe agreed. ‘So Raj said.’ He walked over to the tractor and kicked one of its heavily lugged tyres. ‘Can you get a few more months out of it?’

  ‘Aye.’ Mac followed him. ‘But that’s aboot all.’ Mac reached into a wooden toolbox and pulled out a bottle. ‘Looks like you could do with a nip,’ he said, unscrewing the cap and passing the whisky to Joe. ‘Hear you’ve taken quite a shine to the stuff.’

  Joe snatched the bottle. ‘Who says?’ he demanded.

  ‘Come on mon, you’ve been foo since you came home.’

  Joe scowled. ‘Doesn’t stop me working.’

  Mac stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overalls and rocked back on his heels. ‘Well now, that’s as may be.’ He was getting impatient. ‘Go on, go on, get it down, mon. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Joe raised the bottle to his lips and took two large gulps before passing it back. ‘You joining me?’

  But Mac put the cap back. ‘I dinna tak a bevy this early.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Mac shot Joe a sharp look. ‘Since you went away. Mrs King has needed steady heads around her. She’s a fine lassie ye ken but it hasn’t been easy. She’ll be relieved tae have ye back.’

  Joe eyed the bottle hopefully but Mac placed it carefully back in the toolbox. ‘So, you ready tae pick up the reins again?’ he asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘I have already,’ Joe said sharply.

  Mac shook his head and returned to the Ford. ‘No that anybody can see,’ he commented quietly.

  Stung, Joe tried to defend himself. ‘I’ve only just got back.’

  ‘Aye,’ Mac agreed, scratching his bristly chin. ‘And just look at the state of you. You’d better pull yourself together or you’ll lose everything that’s decent around here.’ Mac scowled and delivered one of his little pearls of philosophy. ‘When a man is wrapped in self-pity he makes a very small parcel.’ He looked satisfied at his words before adding, ‘You’d do well to remember that. I’m of a mind there’s more of your father in you than is good for you.’ He put his head back under the bonnet and his voice floated out to Joe. ‘Your wife’s a fine young lassie,’ he repeated, ‘but she has need of a good husband. Wake up to yourself, Joey King, afore it’s too late.’

  Taken aback at the outburst, Joe waited for Mac to say more but the Scotsman had gone back to his work, dismissing him. Joe left the workshop with Mac’s criticism ringing in his ears. As he rode away he was thinking, ‘Mac’s wrong. I’ll never be like that old bastard. And what’s wrong with a drink now and then? It’s not as if I’m falling down drunk. To hell with him. Who does he think he is talking to me like that? I’ll drink when I bloody-well feel like it. There’s not one of them around here who knows what I went through.’

  Feeling aggrieved, when he returned to the house Joe made straight for the bar, walking quickly past where Claire worked alone in the office. That sassy little Nandi had left for the day, otherwise he might have paid the ladies a visit. She was quite an eyeful, pert little breasts and voluptuous arse straining the tight cotton dresses she wore. It made visiting the office a pleasure. Joe reckoned she’d be up for it too, he just had to get her alone one morning when Claire was in town. Smiling at the thought, he poured himself a straight whisky and tossed half of it down before setting the heavy crystal glass back on the bar.

  ‘Now for you, young man,’ he thought, going to Michael’s room. The boy had defied him and shut his bedroom door. Joe opened it and went in without knocking. ‘I told you to keep the door open.’

  Michael looked up from his homework. ‘Mum always let me shut it.’

  ‘Your mother let you get away with murder. You’ll do as I say from now on, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael mumbled.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Michael stared down at the desk top. He was beginning to hate the man. It seemed that everything he did or said went wrong, that his father went out of his way to find fault. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Joe’s face clouded with anger. The boy was deliberately being cheeky. He crossed to where his son sat and raised a hand. Michael shrank away from him.

  ‘Joe!’ Joe turned. Claire stood in the doorway. ‘Can I see you for a moment?’ Her face was pale but she had fire in her eyes.

  Joe spoke to his son. ‘I’ll be back. In the meantime you might like to spend some time smartening up your manners.’ He left with Claire, leaving the door open.

  Michael crossed quietly to t
he doorway and listened. He had never heard his mother so angry. ‘. . . I will not tolerate you continually hitting and belittling our son. You’re not giving him a chance.’

  His father’s voice was hard. ‘He goes out of his way to get under my skin. He needs a firm hand.’

  ‘A firm hand is one thing, Joe, not physical bashing. I saw bruises on his legs this morning. You can’t do that to him, he’s only young.’

  Michael heard his father bang a whisky glass down. ‘He’s a spoiled brat. You’ve ruined him.’

  ‘He’s a good boy and I haven’t ruined him. Please Joe, if you’d just show him some love . . .’

  ‘Jesus!’ Joe snapped. ‘Love! The kid’s up to his ears in love. He needs a bloody good kick up the arse.’

  ‘No!’ his mother yelled angrily. ‘It’s you who needs that. I’m warning you, Joe . . .’

  The crash of breaking glass startled Michael. Then his father’s voice. ‘Shit! Now look what you’ve made me do. Christ! As if that brat isn’t enough. Bessie!’ he bellowed suddenly. ‘Where the hell is that bloody woman? Bessie . . . oh, there you are. Get this mess cleaned up and bring me another bottle from the storeroom. Come on, girl, come on. Don’t just stand there. Jesus! Do I have to do everything myself?’

  There was silence for perhaps two minutes, broken only by the sound of glass being swept up.

  ‘Joe!’ Michael’s mother’s voice pleaded finally. ‘What’s got into you? You’ve changed so much.’

  ‘Of course I’ve changed. What did you expect? You try prisoner-of-war camp for three years. You try living with constant pain. You’re pushing too hard. Give me time. I’m a bloody human being, not some robot you can turn on and off at will. Oh, for Christ’s sake, Claire, will you stop that pathetic crying. It’s driving me mad.’

  Michael heard his mother run to the master bedroom and shut the door. He ducked back quickly to his desk and waited. Nobody came. Outside, the old Bedford truck roared into life. His father had been particularly critical about its purchase. ‘What was wrong with the horses?’ he had railed more than once at Claire. Michael suspected his objections had less to do with financial considerations and more to do with his injured arm frustrating his attempts to drive the truck. From the harsh revving and crunching of gears, the only person driving it now could be his father. Michael didn’t know what to do. He wanted to go to his mother but he was too scared to leave his room. His father had told him to wait. Eventually, and a little defiantly, he went out on to the verandah and, shooing off one of the dogs, sat in a chair, staring across the garden with unseeing eyes. Everything had changed.