People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  For the past four nights Michael had waited for his mother to come and kiss him goodnight, as she usually did, but she hadn’t come. Lying awake, waiting, he had heard disturbing noises coming from his parents’ bedroom. Groans and grunts, bedsprings squeaking, and the drawn-out animal moaning of his father. He could not imagine what was happening on the other side of the wall. All he did know was that his mother had changed, that the warmth and tenderness he had enjoyed all his life had suddenly gone. Michael blamed his father. But he was too scared of him to go to his mother’s rescue, listening helplessly whenever his father started yelling at her or when the noises started up in the bedroom next to his. Michael had learned very quickly that when his father became angry, he spared himself no energy when it came to punishment.

  Never had Michael’s mother raised a hand to him. If punishment were called for, she would find other ways, like banning him from the Zulu compound for two days, always careful to explain the reason and that she still loved him. His father was different. A quick, vicious cuff at the back of the head which put tears of pain into Michael’s eyes and left him with a headache. Twice in the past four days, his father had taken off his belt and whipped Michael around the legs. The sheer brute force of his father’s left arm left Michael in fear and trepidation of what it would be like once his injured right arm recovered. The pain of those whippings stayed with him. He was only just recovering from the first when it happened for the second time. All Michael had done had been to ask if he could leave the table. His father had looked at his plate and snapped, ‘Finish your food.’

  Michael couldn’t. His parents had been having an argument, or rather, his father had been picking on his mother, which upset Michael to the point where food stuck in his throat. ‘I’m not hungry, sir.’

  ‘Don’t backchat me, young man. Finish your bloody food.’

  Michael had tried to eat but knew he would be sick. So he just sat there, pushing food around on the plate until his father jumped up, grabbed an arm and hustled him into his bedroom. When Michael realised his father was removing his belt, he had been paralysed with fear. But, as he advanced, face contorted with rage, Michael burst out hysterically, ‘I’ll eat it, I’ll eat it. Sorry, sir. I’ll eat it.’

  It fell on deaf ears and Michael had crawled onto his bed, sobbing tears of pain and rage, legs on fire. In the morning, this morning, his mother had found the bruises. She had kissed him gently, a look of great sorrow in her eyes, and whispered, ‘Oh, my son, my poor baby. I’m so sorry.’

  Michael considered the prospect of running away. Where would he go? Anywhere. Anywhere to get away from his father. His mother said he had changed. Certainly he was nothing like the father she had told him about, the loving picture she had painted for Michael.

  The door to his parents’ bedroom opened and his mother came out onto the verandah, her face blotchy from crying. Michael leapt up and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head into her, heart breaking for the sorrow they both felt. She held him and stroked his hair. ‘Let’s sit down,’ she said finally. ‘There are some things we have to talk about.’

  They sat, side by side, outside Michael’s room. ‘Daddy doesn’t mean to be angry,’ she began. ‘He was a prisoner-of-war. Do you remember what I told you about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael said promptly. ‘It means the Germans captured him.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘They didn’t treat him very well. He’s still trying to get better. It may take a long time but, you’ll see, he will be fine. He really does love you.’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Michael burst out.

  ‘Sssh! He’s your father. Try to understand, he’s been through a very bad time.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Michael said rebelliously. ‘I hate him.’

  His mother was silent for a moment and Michael thought he’d gone too far. Finally she spoke again. ‘I wish you could remember him before the war, darling. He was so different then.’ Her voice was sad, as though she didn’t quite believe her own words.

  ‘Did he hit me before he went away?’

  ‘No, darling. He loved you.’

  Her voice gave her away. Michael knew suddenly that his father had never liked him, even back then. ‘Why does he always hit me?’ he asked, his voice not quite steady.

  His mother looked down at his legs and tears filled her eyes. ‘I won’t let him do that to you ever again.’

  But Michael wondered how she could stop him.

  That night, Joe King ignored both his son and wife. He was more than a little drunk on whisky and the look of reproach on Claire’s face was enough to drive him back to the decanter for more. At least the kid ate his food. After dinner, Michael had said goodnight and gone to his room. He left the door open and so was able to hear every sound from the dining room. If he thought his world had already been turned upside-down, his father’s almost shouted words now brought Michael out in a sweat of dread.

  Joe topped up his glass.

  ‘Do you have to drink so much?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Why, Joe?’

  He looked at her. In the soft lamplight, her hair was a pale halo. Large eyes, like those of a trusting dog, gazed at him reproachfully. ‘What does she want from me?’ Joe wondered, irritated by Claire’s questioning. He was in a vicious circle. The more Claire queried his actions, the more he wanted to upset her. Joe was too angry with his own life to realise that he was taking it out on Claire. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ he said, slurring his words a little, ‘I’m in pain.’ It was a lie, and he knew it. True, his arm throbbed occasionally, but not all the time.

  One thing Joe knew for certain was that the life he’d had before the war was not the life he wanted now. Yet he could do nothing else, nor could he think of anything he might do. Except when it suited him to bring it up, Joe was no longer dwelling on the three years of prison camp. He tended to compare his life now with the heady days in London before he’d been shot down. The prospect of spending the rest of his life on this boring farm with his boring wife filled him with dread. It was this that caused him more anguish than his useless arm, that made him such a bastard to his wife. Yes, Joe admitted to himself that he was being a bastard. Perhaps it was this that drove him into the arms of alcoholic stupor every day? Joe knew he drank too much. He would not, however, accept that he had a problem, not even when his drinking made him hurt his wife in ways he had never done before.

  Only a couple of days ago he had suggested they buy out one of his brother’s farms. Thank God Claire said they couldn’t afford it. A few days home and he already knew there was no way he could spend the rest of his life here. He wanted to sell UBejane and head for Durban. He’d give Claire a fair share and tell her there was no place in his life for her or the kid. She could divorce him or she needn’t bother – she probably wouldn’t, divorce was a disgraceful word to his wife.

  He had loved Claire once. He had cherished her and held her in the highest regard. Now it seemed that he was going out of his way to debase her. That she bore his attentions with quiet dignity, with understanding murmurings and with professions of love only made him worse. Did he want to break her? Did he want to use her as a whore? No. He only wanted to prove that he could. And Joe King didn’t know why.

  She was still watching him, wary and hurt. ‘For God’s sake, Claire, say something.’

  She shook her head. ‘I always say the wrong thing.’

  Joe gave a cynical laugh. ‘It’s a gift you seem to have.’

  Claire changed the subject. ‘Raj spoke to me this morning. There are some blocks ready for burning.’

  Once again, her words prompted an irrational outburst. ‘Keep off my back, Claire, I’m warning you. I’ll decide when and if we fire the cane. You’re getting too damned big for your boots.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Joe snapped. He poured more whisky, slopping liquid over the side of the g
lass. He didn’t notice. ‘We’re seeing the lawyer on Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh! Why?’

  ‘Remember I put the farm in your name in case I didn’t come back? The way you’re bloody acting anyone would think it really belongs to you. Well it doesn’t and now I’m taking it back. I’m in charge here and if you don’t like it you can piss off and take that brat with you.’

  ‘Joe!’ She was shocked. But she was also getting angry. ‘I think you’ll find you need my signature.’

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ Claire said calmly, ‘I’m not signing.’

  ‘You’ll do as I bloody-well tell you.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. I can cut you off without a penny.’

  ‘No you can’t, Joe.’

  He knew she was right and the knowledge annoyed him. Although he was drunk, Joe was not so inebriated that he was prepared to alienate his wife completely. She could cut him off without a penny. ‘Give me time, Claire. That’s all I ask. I know it’s difficult for you but it’s hard for me too. We can come through this together. Maybe you’re right. We’ll leave the farm in your name for now.’ He gave an unsteady laugh. ‘I must say, my darling, you’ve surprised me. I didn’t expect you to cope quite as well as you have.’

  The stubborn look was leaving her face. He had her. Joe winced suddenly and gave a groan. Instantly, Claire was full of concern. ‘Is it your arm?’

  ‘Yes.’ He grimaced with feigned agony. ‘It hits me out of the blue.’

  ‘I’ll get you some aspirin.’

  Joe wrapped his left arm around his right and hugged it to his body. ‘Nothing helps. Don’t worry, it’ll go away in a little while.’

  ‘Can I get you anything? I feel so helpless. What can I do?’

  ‘You mean that?’ Without being aware of it, his expression had changed to one of anticipation.

  ‘Of course,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘You can help take my mind off it. Come to bed, my darling. I need you so much. Come and show me how much you love me.’

  The look of dread that passed over Claire’s face was immensely satisfying.

  A little while later the noises started coming from his parents’ bedroom but, for once, Michael barely heard them. His father didn’t like him, it was confirmed. That was okay, Michael didn’t like him either. But what did he mean about taking the farm back? Would he throw Michael and his mother out? Where would they go? UBejane was the only home he’d ever known. The great unknown world, something that usually seemed so exciting, now became threatening. Michael had not been fooled by his father’s backdown. It worried Michael that his mother had been taken in by it. He was frightened because he knew, with no doubt in his mind, that if his father felt like it, he would indeed throw them out. It was the only thing about his father that was predictable.

  Wilson and Nandi were both trying to stay calm in a situation that appeared to have no real solution. Wilson acknowledged that his wife had good reasons for wanting to stay at UBejane. The money she earned was good and her work for the Bantu Purity League was important. He could see all that. Neither was he committed to the idea of returning home. In fact, he was more inclined to head for Empangeni, or even down to Durban, where he knew he could find work. Wilson’s main problem was that his wife was prepared to defy him. So he was deliberately testing her obedience and, in all matters but that one, had no cause for complaint.

  For her part, Nandi was well aware of what Wilson was up to. What she didn’t know was how far he was prepared to push her in order to keep his masculine pride intact. He had always been very fair but she knew his patience was being sorely tried.

  Nandi was an intelligent woman and, up until four years ago, she had no outlet for her mental capacity. The thought of returning to a traditional rural way of life held no appeal. And therein lay her own personal conflict. At UBejane she was promoting the old ways and yet she was not interested in returning to them herself. She tried to justify it by reasoning that she still kept her own Zulu traditions alive, she simply did so closer to town. But in her heart of hearts Nandi knew that to some extent she sympathised with the very people she was trying to save.

  She could see that the Purity League, despite its best efforts, was running a poor second to the temptations of city life. Zulus, both men and women, were flocking to the larger towns and the cities of Durban and Pietermaritzburg. The floodgates had opened and the voice of the league could barely be heard over the clamour of eager people determined to sample a more modern way of life. If the league could not stop the headlong rush into westernisation then the Zulus needed something else – a voice, a body, to represent them. As far as Nandi was concerned, her husband was the perfect candidate.

  Wilson, disenchanted by the African National Congress, was not so sure. ‘What would I do if we stay? Where would we live?’

  ‘You could get work here. We could live here.’

  ‘Work for the white man! I am a Zulu.’

  ‘Many do.’

  ‘And is this not what you are trying to change?’

  Nandi reached over and lightly scratched her fingernails down Wilson’s arm. ‘We can never go backwards, husband. We can only try to keep our traditions alive.’

  A shudder ran through Wilson at his wife’s gentle touch.

  ‘Our son has no future in the village,’ Nandi continued. ‘That way of life is going.’

  ‘And what is his future in the towns?’ Wilson demanded. ‘I have seen the young people there. They are nothing more than beggars.’

  ‘Not if he is educated.’

  ‘Hau! And who will educate a black boy?’

  ‘There is a mission school in Empangeni. They are building new classrooms. Dyson can start next year, I have his name on the waiting list.’

  ‘Hau! And how will he get to this school?’

  ‘They have a scotch cart to collect the children.’

  ‘White children.’

  ‘There is another for Africans.’

  Round and round they went. For every argument Wilson brought up, Nandi had an answer. For every objection Nandi put forward, Wilson suggested a solution. But while Nandi was committed, Wilson dithered. The thought of returning to their village was certainly appealing. To live the old way, to keep their traditions alive. But was it too selfish? What of others? To be able to help the Zulu, all Zulus, also made sense. Could Wilson make a difference? Nandi seemed to think so.

  ‘You know the ways of the white man,’ she argued. ‘If we do not have a voice, our nation will be finished.’

  ‘We have the Zulu Cultural Society,’ Wilson argued back. ‘I hear what you are up to, wife, but Inkatha is finished.’

  ‘Some whisper that it should be brought back. The time is coming when our people will need help. It is being said that the Afrikaner Malan will not listen to us.’

  Wilson cocked his head to one side. ‘What is this? My wife speaks of matters that should be left to the men.’

  Nandi sat very still. In the darkness of their hut, it was impossible to read Wilson’s expression. Nor could she tell from his voice if he was angry. They had been speaking softly so as not to waken Dyson.

  She heard him sigh. ‘It troubles me greatly. We cannot go back, yet it is what I wish more than anything. I do not like what I see ahead, yet where else can we go? You are right, wife, although it pains me to admit it. There are troubled times ahead.’

  Nandi smiled into the darkness, sensing victory. ‘You would make such a handsome member of Inkatha,’ she said. ‘I would be very proud of you.’

  Wilson, despite his misgivings, chuckled. ‘I would have to wear the white man’s clothing,’ he protested.

  Emboldened by the cover of darkness, Nandi reached under his loin flap. ‘You could dress the Zulu way for me, just for me,’ she whispered, stroking him to hardness.

  ‘Where is your modesty?’ Wilson admonished, giving himself up to the sensations flooding through him. ‘We wil
l discuss this more in the morning. The issue is not settled between us.’

  He came awake slowly, reluctantly, a hangover pounding behind his eyes, last night’s whisky souring his stomach. ‘Jesus!’ Joe groaned to himself, remembering the things he had done to Claire in his anger and drunkenness. How could he face her this morning? How could he avoid it? He couldn’t, so to hell with it. He vaguely recalled that he had fallen into a drunken sleep with the sound of her sobbing in his ears. He’d gone over the top last night. That would call for yet another ridiculous apology. But first, his little mate was stirring. Good little fellow. Now he was functioning that way again his only friend had not let him down once. Joe rolled over, planning to wake his wife, and was surprised to find she wasn’t there. Claire appeared a few seconds later, dressed and ready for work. She would not look at him.

  ‘Come back to bed, Claire. Come and see what I’ve got for you.’ Joe flung the covers down and put a hand around his erection.

  Claire walked to the end of the bed, and raised her eyes to his face. Her expression was grim. ‘You are moving out of this room today.’

  ‘Like hell!’ he said, startled by her tone.

  ‘What’s more,’ she carried on as though he had not spoken, ‘unless you can pull yourself together and start behaving like the man I married, you can forget any kind of intimacy between us. I’ve had enough, Joe.’

  Joe staggered off the bed with difficulty, wincing as his hangover shifted up a gear, and grabbed her arm. ‘What in the hell’s got into you? You’re my wife.’