People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  Once home, the branch would be placed in the cattle enclosure, eaten, and thus Moses’ spirit would forever reside in the kraal matriarch’s hut where regular offerings of food and praise would be presented to him. In return, his spirit was expected to act as guardian angel, along with all the others who had predeceased Moses, thereby ensuring good health and prosperity.

  It was knowledge like this, and his acceptance of such things, that bonded Michael to the Zulus, broadening his mind far beyond most boys of his age.

  FIVE

  Nine weeks after his father’s return and two weeks before Christmas, Michael celebrated his eighth birthday. Bessie had been busy in the kitchen for days preparing cakes and biscuits and homemade sweets for the event. All Michael’s cousins were invited, all his friends from school, and Dyson, who had readily forgiven Michael for their fight.

  Joe King marked the occasion by getting roaring drunk and frightening some of the children so badly that Claire moved the party outside into the garden and put Bessie in charge of keeping her husband inside. It hadn’t been difficult. Bessie simply plied Joe with more whisky until he passed out.

  Joe’s drinking had rapidly escalated into a real problem. Despite pleas from Claire that he see a doctor and try to get help, Joe steadfastly refused to accept that he needed it. The slightest upset in his day, of which there were many since he was argumentative and aggressive most of the time, sent Joe to the bar. In sober moments, he would cringe with embarrassment at some of the things he remembered doing or saying. Then he would reach for the bottle for ‘a hair of the dog’. He believed he could stop any time he wanted but was never inclined to try.

  Increasingly, Joe spent more time in town than on the farm. His absences were a relief to everyone. At home, if sober enough to eat, he usually had food sent to his room. He rarely spoke to Claire or Michael, and on those occasions when he did, he was invariably too drunk to make any sense. However, his presence was still very much felt, mainly because he was so unpredictable. Irrational temper tantrums were terrible displays of accusations and threats. Though physical violence was seldom evident, Michael gave his father a wide berth and Claire kept a small pistol in the drawer of her desk. There was no doubt in her mind that she would use it if necessary.

  Michael’s cousins knew that their uncle Joe was often drunk and difficult. Dyson too was aware of the problems within Michael’s home. His school friends had no idea. If Michael didn’t like his father before his eighth birthday, the sight of him swaying, yelling incoherent nonsense, and the looks of disbelief, disgust and even fear on the faces of his party guests left him in no doubt. He detested his father.

  It was the same for Claire. The realisation that her husband had changed; that he was probably never going to be much use on the farm again; that their marriage was, to all intents and purposes, over; and that she was stuck with a drunken, loutish bully for the rest of her life was hard enough. But on Michael’s special day, when she had implored Joe to stay sober and then watched him, at nine in the morning, deliberately head for the whisky bottle and get inebriated, any residual feelings she might have had for her husband died. She hated him.

  Which made the suspicion that she was pregnant that much harder to accept.

  Claire needed to tell someone and decided to confide in her sister-in-law Peg that she was five weeks overdue.

  ‘Oh, my dear, how do you feel about it?’ Peg, like all of them, was appalled by the changes in Joe.

  Claire smiled at one of the children, separated two others who were having an ownership struggle over one of Michael’s presents, shooed the German shepherds away from the food table, and said softly, ‘Terrible. It’s the last thing I need.’

  ‘Does Joe know?’

  ‘No. I’m not certain myself yet. It might just be stress or something, the last few weeks haven’t exactly been fun.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What can I do? Have it, I suppose. Poor little mite. What kind of a family is this to come into?’

  Peg placed a hand on Claire’s arm in sympathy. ‘Bridget and I often wonder if Noel and Bob had come home . . . Well, what they’d be like. Other men are back and they’re just the same as when they went away, or at least, they seem to be. It’s just the King family. Look at Anna. Colin never speaks to her, never speaks to anyone. Just sits in his wheelchair all day staring into space. And you? My poor darling Claire, look what you’ve got back.’ She sighed. ‘It’s this family, Claire. The war brought out the worst in both Colin and Joe, they weren’t like this before. Dear God, it must have been terrible.’

  Claire nodded. ‘Joe said something like that when he first came back. But he’s become worse, Peg. Much worse. Sometimes I think it must be my fault. He’d been through hell and somehow I approached him the wrong way. Maybe I expected too much.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I just don’t know. There are times when I wish he were dead.’

  ‘No,’ Peg said softly. ‘Don’t even think that. For all his faults . . .’ she left it hanging.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Claire said quickly. ‘That was thoughtless.’

  Peg smiled. ‘Come on, let’s get these children organised. Anna’s drawn a beautiful donkey. Where’s the blindfold?’

  Claire and Michael spent ten days over the Christmas and New Year period with Claire’s parents in Durban. Joe said he had too much work to do to go away but no-one was fooled. Michael caught his mother deep in conversation with her parents and, judging by his grandparents’ grave expressions, knew she was telling them of her difficulties with Joe.

  On their return to UBejane it came as no surprise when Bessie informed them that, ‘The master has not been here very often.’ Michael could tell by her tone that when his father was at home he had proved to be a bit of a handful, even for the normally imperturbable Bessie.

  Late in February, Claire told Joe and Michael that she was pregnant.

  Joe had stared at her blearily, then asked, ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’

  But Claire was used to dealing with Joe by now. She said calmly, ‘It’s yours,’ and left him to mull it over.

  Joe didn’t take long. He found her in the office. ‘Just keep it quiet, you know I can’t stand their squawking.’ He had winked at Nandi lewdly. ‘You’ll be on your own for a while. Perhaps I’ll come and give you a hand.’

  Claire had seen the stricken look on Nandi’s face. After he’d gone, she said, ‘You’re expecting a baby too, aren’t you?’

  Nandi nodded and smiled.

  ‘When is it due?’

  Nandi had no idea. Women got pregnant and had babies. They didn’t bother themselves too much with the expected date of birth. ‘I do not know exactly, madam.’

  ‘About the same time as me I expect,’ Claire guessed. ‘That means you’ll be off on maternity leave.’

  Nandi looked relieved, especially when Claire added, ‘Don’t worry, Nandi, I’ll see to it that you are not left alone with him.’

  Michael was excited at the prospect of a baby brother or sister and asked all kinds of questions relating to exactly how the baby would get out of his mother’s stomach. Claire told him as much as she thought he should know, never dodging his questions but only elaborating if he insisted.

  In May, Claire had to tell both Joe and Michael that she was expecting twins. It seemed to her that under the circumstances, one baby was punishment enough. But twins? Outwardly calm and unflappable, she went about all her daily business and still found time to prepare the nursery for two babies.

  Unlike Claire and Joe, Nandi and Wilson were delighted that a baby was on the way. ‘It will be a boy,’ Wilson predicted. Nandi knew it was. The sangoma had predicted a second son.

  Dyson and Michael discussed the imminent arrivals with a deal of impractical speculation.

  ‘My mother says we won’t be able to play with them for a long time,’ Michael said.

  ‘My mother says I will have to look after it sometimes,’ Dyson told him.

  ‘How
?’

  ‘I don’t know. Watch it I suppose.’

  ‘Why? What’s it going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How long do you think it will be before we can play with them?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Maybe months.’

  ‘Months! That long?’

  ‘Well, weeks at least.’

  At school, Michael got into a fight with a boy who commented, ‘I saw your mum in town yesterday. She’s going to have a baby, hey? Jeepers, Mike! Your old man’s a drunk. How did he ever get it up?’

  Michael hadn’t minded the comment about his father, though he didn’t really understand it, but he took exception to what he suspected was an implied slur on his mother.

  Mac spent about an hour telling Michael how much Claire would need his help. ‘I’ll not beat around in the bushes, laddie. Your father is useless. It’s up to you.’

  Michael nodded, though he wasn’t sure what Mac was talking about. What was up to him? He knew nothing about babies.

  Mac went on. ‘Aye. It’s a fine kettle full o’ fish. You get yourself away with Raj now. You’ve much to learn.’ As Michael left the workshop in search of the Indian, Mac added under his breath, ‘You poor wee bugger.’

  Nandi gave birth to a strapping baby boy at three o’clock on a cool August morning. It was an easy birth and the child was healthy. As was traditional, Nandi gave the baby the first of perhaps half-a-dozen pet names he would collect during his life. She called him Phalo. And, as was expected, the name had significance to an important event taking place at the time of his birth. Ancient Zulu custom regarded the birth of twins as ominous and the father was expected to kill one of them. But, late in the eighteenth century, history recorded that the then chief of the Zulu clan, a man called Jama, had refused to do this when his wife gave birth to twin girls. It was whispered among the clan that evil spirits were at work and had caused the death of Jama’s son a year earlier, a boy called Phalo, by mysterious and supernatural means. In that Claire was expecting twins any day, the name Phalo was considered to be of monumental significance.

  Wilson, as was the custom, gave the child his official name. He decided to call him Mapitha, after one of Mpande’s key advisers, then added, ‘He will be known as Jackson.’ It was a practice now adopted by most Africans – to give a tribal name but also a Christian name, one usually taken from the Old Testament.

  Nandi was happy with her husband’s decision. ‘Jackson,’ she said softly, brushing the baby’s downy head with her fingers. ‘Come, Dyson,’ she added. ‘Come and meet your brother Jackson.’

  Feeling proud, happy and anxious all at once, Dyson stared down at the helpless little baby and revised his earlier speculation about how long it would be before they could play together.

  ‘Leave your mother to rest,’ Wilson Mpande told his firstborn son.

  Wilson had slotted into farm life with ease. He was a natural leader and the other Zulus accepted his authority. The bull that had killed Moses was found to have a large tumour in one leg, cutting off circulation. Moses should have seen it. Joe should have seen it. Someone should have seen it. When the pain must have been unbearable, Moses was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wilson, who knew cattle, made a practice of inspecting each and every beast on UBejane at least once a month.

  Inkatha, as Wilson quickly discovered, while being on the lips of many as a voice which should be heard again, was an issue to which most were reluctant to commit. Except for an enlightened few who could see the way South Africa was heading, there appeared to be a certain lassitude among the Zulus for taking any action at all. Jan Smuts’ United Party, while pandering to the white population, at least lent an ear to problems facing South Africa’s other races. Elections were two years away. The people Wilson spoke to were inclined to adopt a ‘wait and see’ policy.

  Life on UBejane was pretty good. Wilson was working with cattle, which he loved. Adequate food and lodging were provided and the wages he was paid, combined with Nandi’s, allowed him to buy more beasts for his own kraal, which his father happily cared for. Dyson was, at last, going to school. Because of Michael’s teachings, he quickly caught up and passed others of the same age. Wilson found himself easily slipping into the same ‘wait and see’ mode and was content to do so. With the arrival of a second son, he felt a certain smugness about his life.

  Claire went into labour three days after Nandi. Her waters broke at ten in the morning and Mac drove her to Empangeni. Joe was drunk. Leaving her at the hospital in the hands of starched efficiency, Mac drove on to Michael’s school to collect him, where he told a rather astonished teacher in his own inimitable brusque way, ‘The wee laddie needs to understand what he is responsible for.’ She let Michael go, having convinced herself that Mac must have meant something else.

  Michael and Mac paced outside the labour ward for six hours before a nurse popped her head around the door. ‘It’s a girl.’ An hour later she was back. ‘Another girl.’

  All three were well and Michael was allowed five minutes with his mother. ‘Do you want me to tell him?’ he asked, not comfortable with the word father.

  ‘If he’s sober,’ Claire said wearily. ‘Otherwise, keep out of his way.’

  Driving home, Mac offered to put Michael up in his own house until Claire returned. Michael refused. ‘I’m not scared of him. Anyway, Bessie will be there.’

  ‘If you need me, laddie, just yell.’

  Two hours later, Michael dragged himself to Mac’s door, bleeding and sobbing. ‘He was waiting. Asked where Mum was and then just beat me, for nothing.’

  Michael’s savage beating shocked the old Scotsman to his very core. From the looks of it, Joe King had let fly with the buckle end of his belt as well as either a whip or a cane. He had also used his fists. Mac wrapped Michael in a blanket and drove back to the hospital.

  The doctor, deeply shocked by the vicious lacerations and bruising, tended to Michael’s injuries. He took Mac on one side. ‘Look, this is very serious. I don’t want to worry Mrs King right now but her husband must be reported.’

  ‘Dinna worry about that,’ Mac said. ‘He’ll be punished. Can you keep the laddie in for a night? I’ll look after him after that.’

  ‘I’d keep him in anyway. I suspect he’s slightly concussed.’

  ‘Aye,’ Mac muttered to himself as he left the hospital. ‘And he’s not going to be the only one.’

  Mac came from the Clyde shipyards. Reserved and antisocial most of the time, when his blood was up, Mac never shied from a fight. The fact that Joe King was drunk meant nothing. Mac handed out as good, if not better, than Joe had given his son. But Mac was an old man and the exertion took its toll. He said nothing to Michael, hanging stubbornly on to life until Claire returned. The night Michael moved back to the main house, Mac succumbed to a heart attack. He slipped peacefully from sleep to coma and from coma to death, leaving this world as privately as he had lived.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Joe slurred. His face still carried bruises.

  So did Michael’s body and legs. Claire took one look at her son and, weakened as she was, organised for Joe’s belongings to be moved yet again, this time to a room at the end of the verandah which had access to the house only from outside. Joe King had effectively been kicked out of his own house and there was nothing he could do about it. Claire also contacted the police who warned Joe that if he went anywhere near Michael again he would find himself in jail for criminal assault. The threat worked. Drunk or sober, Joe kept well clear of his son after that.

  The babies were called Sally and Tessa. Michael came to the same conclusion as Dyson. It would be a very long time before he could play with them.

  Life settled down. Joe’s absences from the farm became more and more prolonged. A series of women took his attention and he wasn’t fussy about who they were, where they came from or even who they might have been married to. Anyone he could get to listen was up for a long, rambling diatribe about how his wife didn’t u
nderstand him, how the war had ruined his life, how unfair everything was. Nothing was ever Joe’s fault. He could always find an excuse, something to blame, for the way his life had turned out. He had his cronies too. Other men who were drunk by ten each morning for whatever reason they cared to give, if any. Joe had a roof over his head when he felt like going home and money in his pocket. The allowance Claire handed out was enough for booze and she seemed willing enough to keep on paying, as long as he stayed out of her way.

  Occasionally Joe would show his face around the farm. More often than not, the running of UBejane was left to Raj, Wilson, Claire and, with increasing regularity, Michael.

  Michael’s uncle Colin became more morose and less interested in his own farm. He appointed a manager, an Englishman called Peter Dawson, who knew a lot about sugar cane. Although he was of a similar age to Joe, Peter became Michael’s close friend and, at an age when most boys were discarding childhood toys for the mysteries of puberty, Michael and Peter would spend long hours discussing farming techniques. Peter was appalled at the heavy load of responsibility Claire King carried and took it upon himself to assist her whenever possible. He spent almost as much time on UBejane as he did working for Colin at Kingsway.

  He got into the habit of having dinner with them several times a week. Lying in bed at night, listening to the murmur of his mother’s and Peter’s voices, hearing his mother laugh, Michael sometimes reflected that this was how his life should be. The sounds from the lounge were happy ones and filled him with a sense of security.

  Over the next few years, with just the occasional burst of irrational interference by Joe, Michael could almost convince himself that his life was normal.