People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  Joe King woke up with a terrible hangover and an erection. Opening one eye, he observed daylight. He’d been at the club when? Earlier today or yesterday? He remembered leaving and going . . . oh yes, to see some friends on the pretext of having a Sunday drink with them. Anyway, that’s what he had told his cronies. In truth, he was going to see one of their servants.

  ‘Fool!’ he thought. ‘You’ll get caught one day.’

  Joe had no idea why, but having sex with African women, or with someone else’s wife where the chance they might be caught together was a real possibility, was far more exciting than screwing someone who was free, white and over sixteen. Bringing women back to UBejane was another buzz. Claire might think her distress didn’t show but Joe could see it in her eyes.

  The woman at his side stirred. Joe glanced at her with disinterest but the throbbing of his loins would not be denied. Once spent, he rolled off her and sat on the side of bed. ‘Get dressed and get out,’ he said curtly, bored with her. It had been exciting at first, the illicit intimacy of their coupling the stimulant on which he thrived. But Lena, once the thrill of breaking the law had waned, and in the cold light of whatever time of day it was, had since become as interesting as humping a sack of potatoes.

  It was always like this. Alcohol made the glorious chase appear attractive. Hangovers revealed life’s raw reality. Lena was nothing special, not worth the risk and, not to put too fine a point on it, a drag. What Joe glimpsed through his self-imposed suffering reminded him that she really hadn’t had much choice. Joe vaguely recalled threatening to tell the police that she had no pass. It was a threat which usually worked since, without that all-important document, all Africans would be forcibly returned to his or her government decreed homeland and a lower than subsistence lifestyle.

  The bed heaved as Lena rose and then Joe heard the rustle of her clothes. ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked, timidly.

  ‘No.’

  Her face showed no expression. ‘You no want?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘It’s finished.’

  The woman shrugged and left his room. She had to go along the verandah and past the lounge where Claire might be. Joe smirked. He hoped his bitch of a wife was there. A screen door banged and he heard a man’s voice speaking Zulu. ‘Wait, young woman. Who do you seek?’

  Lena’s soft response was unintelligible to Joe.

  ‘It’s Bessie’s day off,’ the man said.

  Joe wondered who it was. He heard footsteps on the verandah and then the voice again, hard with anger. ‘Why do you put up with this, Mother? I’m going to stop this, once and for all.’

  Michael! Joe scowled. He lurched to his feet, legs pressed against the bed for support as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Then, moving to the dressing table, Joe peered at himself in the mirror, grunted with self-loathing and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Jesus Christ! What a mess!

  He stumbled back to the bed and sat down heavily, head in hands. Oh God! What have I become? This was a familiar scenario, the inevitable alcoholic remorse. It hit him with every hangover. ‘I’ve got to stop drinking,’ Joe groaned into his hands. ‘Get a grip before it’s too late.’ He reached out a trembling hand and fumbled under the bed for the bottle. ‘Just one. Just to get rid of the shakes.’ The spirit warmed his belly and immediately quelled the nausea. ‘That’s better.’ In fact, he felt so much better he drained the bottle. ‘I’ll stop tomorrow. Fresh start. Get up early and see what’s happening on the farm.’ He reached into the bedside cabinet and brought out another bottle. ‘Last day,’ he muttered aloud, removing the top. ‘Might as well enjoy it.’

  Joe King was lost in a vicious circle, though he honestly believed he could break out of it at any time. When drunk, life offered excitement. When sober, it only gave him a headache. Still, he persisted with the fallacy that he was in control, especially after a couple of drinks to quell his shaking hands.

  By the time Joe made it to the shower he was thoroughly plastered and in excellent spirits, singing loudly and off key. Not that it bothered anyone. A storeroom had long ago been converted into an en suite bathroom and Joe’s whisky-enhanced musical talents could be heard only by a handful of chickens in the henhouse.

  The water sobered him slightly. He padded, naked, back into his bedroom. Sunday – the afternoon had that kind of feel to it. In alcoholic limbo, Joe’s mood was hovering between aggression, self-pity and defiance.

  He stood in front of the wardrobe, selected crisp white knee-length shorts, a short-sleeved white shirt, long white socks and brown shoes. The skin showing between socks and shorts bore very few scars from the burning when he’d been shot down, just enough to look interesting. Joe learned long ago that women found battle scars intriguing. Dressed, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror and nodded, satisfied. That would do. He’d just cut along to the club and see what was what. Devlin Rattigan’s wife had given him the eye a couple of times. They were usually in the bar on a Sunday afternoon. She was a bit plump but what the hell. It wasn’t her looks he was after.

  Dressed, he went back to the bathroom and splashed aftershave on his cheeks, though he hadn’t bothered to shave. With a final pull at the whisky bottle, Joe stepped outside.

  Claire, Michael and Gregor were sitting on the verandah. Joe ignored them, making his way to his car with the slow deliberation of one trying to appear sober. Halfway across the lawn he stopped, turned and shouted, ‘If you’ve come home to make trouble you can piss off right now. As of tomorrow, I’m running this farm.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Claire said as Joe drove off. ‘He’s been saying that for years.’

  ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t killed himself,’ Michael remarked. ‘Driving in that condition.’

  ‘He’s got the luck of a pox doctor,’ Gregor said, grinning, knowing his words were daringly close to naughty but not really understanding their meaning.

  ‘Where on earth did you get that expression?’ Claire reacted as he hoped she would.

  ‘Mac.’

  Michael and Claire stared at him, not knowing if they were being wound up.

  Gregor explained. ‘It’s true. Someone called Mac taught it to Raj and he taught it to me.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Claire said quietly. ‘A woman-hating Sikh is bad enough without him quoting dubious Scottish wisdom.’

  ‘Come on, Mother. You know you love it,’ Michael teased.

  ‘What, from an eight-year-old!’ But she was smiling.

  They heard the motorbike before it came into view. ‘That’ll be Sally,’ Claire said.

  ‘Sally!’ Somehow, Michael could not picture gentle Sally on a motorbike.

  ‘It was Colin’s. She’s allowed to ride on the farm roads. She’s very careful, doesn’t speed or try anything foolish.’

  ‘Not like Tessa,’ Gregor put in. ‘She tried to jump it across a corner of the pool. Landed in the deep end. It took four men to get the bike out. Mum won’t let her ride it now.’

  A heavy old BSA 250 came into view. It looked far too big for Sally but she brought it to a careful stop. ‘They said you were home,’ she cried, running up the steps. ‘Gosh, Michael, it’s great to see you.’

  Michael was nearly bowled over. ‘Who are they who seem to know my every move?’

  ‘The servants.’ Sally stepped back and looked up at him. ‘They know everything way before we do. Have I grown? Please say I have.’

  Michael looked her up and down critically while Sally hopped from one foot to the other waiting for his verdict. Finally he grinned. ‘Grown and grown up. My goodness, what a delightful young lady. A pleasure to behold.’

  Sally giggled.

  ‘Got a boyfriend?’

  She flushed. ‘No.’

  ‘Tessa?’

  Sally looked down at her feet. ‘Hundreds.’

  Michael shuddered and did not glance at his mother.

  ‘Is Tess back yet?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Not yet, darling.’

  ‘Fab! That means I get
the bathroom first.’ She rolled her eyes at Michael. ‘You wait and see. Tessa always leaves such a mess.’

  ‘She’d better not leave one for me,’ Michael tried to look serious, ‘or I’ll be using her as a mop.’

  Sally giggled, but there was no mirth in her voice when she said, ‘I don’t think Tessa would like that.’

  It was after dark when Tessa returned. She breezed into the dining room where the rest of them had just finished their usual Sunday curry. ‘Sorry I’m late. Not my fault, Janet’s stupid mother lost the car keys. Had a super weekend and I’ve already eaten. Must finish my homework. Got an English assignment I’d completely forgotten about.’ Her eyes flicked over Michael as she turned to leave.

  ‘Tessa!’ Claire said sharply.

  ‘What?’ Her voice was sullen.

  ‘The very least you could do is greet your brother.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked spitefully. ‘He doesn’t like me any more than I like him.’

  ‘She’s got a point there,’ Michael thought, wondering how Tessa could look so like Sally and yet be so totally different. Their features were the same but Sally still retained the softness of youth. Tessa’s face was hard, angular and much older than her years.

  She tossed her head and left the dining room, still ignoring Michael.

  Claire raised her hands in helpless apology. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s our Tessa,’ Gregor muttered.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Michael found it didn’t. ‘She’ll come round.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Gregor warned darkly.

  Later that night, with everyone else asleep, Claire and Michael sat on the verandah talking quietly and sipping their brandies. ‘I’m so pleased you’re staying, Michael. Raj and Wilson do their best but farming is changing and we can’t afford to fall behind. They’re content to do things the old way.’

  ‘The farm’s looking very good. Do you still get actively involved?’

  ‘Not really. Sometimes I must but you can imagine how Raj feels about that. I worry about him. He’s getting on a bit and it shows. I’ve told him to let Balram do more but you know how he is – won’t take orders from a woman. Balram is virtually running the sugar side but Raj just will not let go. He’s out there every day, in all kinds of weather, making sure everything is being done properly. The man is driving everyone nuts. He even sticks his nose into the workshop. I’ve had three mechanics in three years and the latest, Derek, is threatening to leave because of Raj’s constant interference. I’ve tried to stop it but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘You tell him, Michael. Raj will listen to you.’

  ‘Does Joe ever raise a finger to help?’

  ‘Hardly. Oh, he threatens to every now and then, like he did this afternoon . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘What’s wrong with the man, Mother?’

  He heard his mother sigh softly. ‘I wish I knew, darling. All I can tell you is that when he came back from the war, he had changed. I thought that, given time, he’d get back to normal. Instead, he became worse.’

  ‘I remember the day he returned as though it were yesterday. He arrived confrontational and stayed that way. You tried to be loyal but no-one could blame you for giving up on him. The problem must have been evident before.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Claire sounded uncertain. ‘But he worked hard. The men liked him. And he hardly ever drank more than a couple of beers. Your father was always kind and considerate. I adored him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I admit, he never had much time for you, but a lot of men are like that with babies. If only the war . . .’ Again her voice faltered and the sentence remained unfinished.

  ‘Why don’t you stop shelling out money? He only spends it on booze. You’re making the problem worse.’

  ‘I can’t. Don’t you see? Everything we have, the lifestyle we enjoy, if it weren’t for Joe . . .’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ Michael cut in sharply. ‘If you must thank someone for UBejane, thank Grandfather. All Joe ever did was get born.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Michael. It may be a company now but this place rightfully belongs to Joe. That’s the way I feel. It was good enough for me before the war. If he hadn’t been so badly treated . . .’

  ‘Stop making excuses for him, Mother. I know he had a rough time of it, but that was fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Can we talk about something else please?’ Claire wouldn’t be drawn. ‘It has happened and I deal with it. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘Okay.’ Michael hesitated. ‘Then let’s discuss Tessa.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘You’re still having problems with her. Every letter you wrote had some reference to her antics.’

  ‘She’s difficult, I admit.’

  Michael had to ask. ‘Has she stayed away from Joe?’

  Claire’s voice went hard. ‘I’ve made sure of it. I’ll never forgive Joe for giving an eleven-year-old whisky.’

  She did not refer to Michael’s other fears but then, he hadn’t expected her to. ‘And now?’ he asked.

  She let her breath out slowly, dissipating the rush of bottled-up emotion. ‘Tessa’s wild. I know she smokes, I can smell it in her room. Sometimes there’s liquor on her breath. She answers back, is rude to everyone. You saw how she was earlier. That’s tame by comparison. She seems to hate us all. I don’t know.’ Claire spread her hands helplessly. ‘I’ve tried talking to her but she just walks off.’

  ‘Can anyone get close to her?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Not even Sally.’

  ‘Friends? She must have friends.’

  ‘She doesn’t really. Janet, the girl she stayed with this weekend, is the closest but Tessa only uses her to get away from here. I’m quite sure that if I phoned Janet’s mother to find out why Tessa was so late getting back it would have nothing to do with lost car keys. Tessa would have deliberately delayed coming home. I know what she gets up to, Michael. I just don’t know how to prevent it from happening.’

  ‘How about a convent?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. It would certainly make life easier around here but, Michael, she’s my daughter. I love her. A convent would make Tessa desperately unhappy.’

  ‘Okay, she’s my sister and while I don’t like her very much, I suppose I love her too. My point is, Mother, if she steps too far out of line then unhappy or not, you and I will have this convent conversation again. Given the choice between her unhappiness and the disruption to all our lives, there really is no contest.’

  He felt her fingers on his arm. ‘I’m so terribly pleased you’re back, darling. UBejane has been without you for too long. Things can only get better now you’re home.’

  Michael heard the wistful note in her voice and hoped she was right. All he said, however, was, ‘Sorry I stayed away so long.’

  ‘That was my fault,’ she said quietly. ‘I sent you away.’

  It was the closest his mother would come to referring to that afternoon three years earlier.

  Word had spread that Michael was back. He went to the workshop first and met Derek, who was on the verge of resigning. ‘Give me a couple of weeks and I promise, Raj won’t interfere with your work any more.’

  By nature an agreeable man, Derek nodded acceptance and went back to work, saying only, ‘You’ve got it.’

  Michael found Raj supervising the loading of newly cut cane on to rail trucks. ‘Goodness, Mr Michael, goodness. I see a man before me.’ Raj’s shrewd eyes observed him critically. ‘You stay away too long I am thinking.’

  Michael clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are right, my friend, but I am home now and also see passing years in the one who stands before me.’

  Raj took no offence as none was intended. ‘It is true, Mr Michael. Old Raj should be at home with his feet up.’

  Michael knew that the old Sikh was more than ready for retirement. ‘So what of your eldest, Balram? Let’s see. He’d be nearly thirty. Surely it is more than time for him to take over your duties?’
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br />   Raj smiled, welcoming the suggestion as though it had never been mentioned to him before. ‘Goodness yes, Mr Michael. My boy is very ready.’

  ‘Then let’s arrange it. It should have happened two years ago. Why didn’t you listen to my mother?’

  Raj looked haughty. ‘She is a woman.’

  Michael laughed. ‘Is she indeed? I hadn’t noticed.’

  Raj did that Indian thing with his head, shaking it from side to side in a figure of eight which looked like a negative but was actually quite the opposite. ‘She is very good and, I am thinking, better than a lot of men.’

  This was high praise from Raj.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘a new manager will be meaning more work for some, isn’t it? At least until they are sure that this man can be trusted.’

  Michael put an arm around the old Indian’s bony shoulders and hugged him briefly. ‘Thank you, Raj. Your loyalty to this family has not gone unnoticed. Before long you will be complaining of boredom and begging for your job back.’

  ‘No, no,’ Raj said, smiling a little. ‘Raj will be too busy sticking his nose into Balram’s work.’

  ‘You will stay here then?’

  ‘Where else would I go, Mr Michael? This is my home.’

  ‘Then we must find a good spot for your retirement house,’ Michael said, smiling. ‘Somewhere high up where you can spy on the whole farm.’