He had grown up with a collection of West African carvings that his father had picked up during various business trips, which had given him a lifelong love of African art. With Stephen’s encouragement, he set up a workshop for African artists from rural areas. It was already attracting participants, many of whom had received some form of art training from mission schools and were established practitioners. Frank encouraged them to work from their culture to find themes and expression, but beside that there was no attempt to instruct or guide them. Those who were interested were simply handed the materials for drawing and painting; they learned from each other and taught one another. The work they were producing was vital, spontaneous and original. It was a small but exciting renaissance. Stephen picked up his pen and wrote:
In all great countries of the world, art galleries have their place in the cultural life of the community, and it is the firm belief of the Trustees that a National Art Gallery is essential to the progress of the people of this land.
Dixon knocked at the open door.
‘Your guests are here, nkosi.’ He gave Stephen such a penetrating look that Stephen understood Dixon knew exactly who his visitors were and why they had come.
Stephen stood up and went to welcome them.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I am very glad to meet you.’
One by one, Mary’s friends took his hand and shook it in the traditional manner; first with the palms, then with the thumbs, then the palms again. They had taken great care in arranging this meeting, as the men were never sure when they were being tailed. Moreover, the police had paid several visits to La Rochelle because of Eric’s murder and it was likely that they would drop by again. For this reason, Stephen thought it safer to see Mary’s friends without Ginie being present.
They hadn’t arrived all at once. Sithole and Chitepo came in a battered car, which they parked by the staff quarters, walking up to the big house with a saw and toolbox as though they were handymen. Mugabe arrived on foot with a crate of mangoes, which he pretended he was selling.
Stephen showed them to the parlour. They admired the room full of sunlight and beautiful objects, the view of the garden and hills. Music was playing on the gramophone.
‘Of all Schubert’s symphonies, the Unfinished is probably my favourite,’ Sithole remarked. ‘I love the mixture of carefree and profound feeling in it.’ He had a deep, clear voice and the quietly assured manner of a completely dedicated man.
‘You like classical music?’ Stephen tried not to sound surprised.
‘Yes. I enjoy classical music and I love to dance.’
‘Oh, me too,’ Stephen smiled at Sithole. ‘There’s actually a sprung dancefloor under the Persian carpet, though we’ve hardly used it.’
They sat down. Dixon served drinks – the men wanted beer – and Stephen invited each of them to tell him about themselves. Sithole began. It was evident that he was the leader, Mugabe and Chitepo deferred to him. He was a headmaster and minister. His reputation as a preacher had already reached Stephen; he urged African congregations to set their sights and ideals high, warning against passivity and despair, telling them not to accept third class citizenship. ‘Don’t sit down and cry,’ he would counsel. ‘Cry while you’re running.’ He explained to Stephen that he was mission-educated and had studied divinity in America for three years. He had just finished writing a book, African Nationalism, which set out the need for equality of human rights and a genuine multiracial society.
When it was Chitepo’s turn, he spoke of his years in London reading for the bar. He had a handsome, open face, and gracious manners. He had recently returned to Rhodesia as the country’s first African barrister. A special law was introduced to allow him to occupy chambers with white colleagues, but his practice was small and unprofitable. White attorneys never referred briefs to him.
‘That’s disgraceful!’ said Stephen indignantly and Chitepo gave him a patient smile, as though Stephen were a child finding out about the evil ways of the world.
‘That is how things are for us.’
Mugabe was mild-mannered, bespectacled and younger than the others. He spoke less than they did; he was diffident, an observer. He had given up a teaching job in Ghana and come back to Rhodesia with his Ghanaian wife to join the nationalists. Mission-educated and a devout Catholic, he had earned three university degrees, two of them by private study. Set on top of his wiry, narrow body was a keen face, which was alert with caution.
‘We have heard about everything you have done for our people,’ said Sithole. ‘A man in your position could lead a self-indulgent life, but you chose a different path. Your actions have shown that we can trust you.’ He had a habit of nodding his head at the end of his sentences.
Stephen shrugged modestly. ‘Look, I should tell you that I don’t get involved in African politics, so I’m not sure how qualified I am, but I’m happy to help in any way I can. My line is humanitarian.’
Taking a handful of nuts, he told them about his latest building project: pavilion houses at the Umtali Show Grounds for African guests who weren’t allowed in the main section. ‘My wife and I prefer sitting there, actually. They were ready just in time for the Agricultural Show. We took our employees to see it. There were horse events, a cattle parade, gymnastics and some of our orchids were on display. It was a good day out. But I digress.’
‘Not at all,’ said Chitepo courteously. ‘You’re showing that we speak the same language of human dignity.’
Stephen smiled at him, aware that he was being flattered because they wanted something and mildly embarrassed that he might be coming across as self-congratulatory. They began to talk about the problems facing Rhodesia.
‘When the white man first arrived, we had no reason not to trust him,’ said Sithole. ‘We took him at his word.’ He crossed his arms, slotting his hands into his armpits. ‘But now we have every reason to distrust him, and distrust him completely because he has betrayed us. He has exploited us, ground us down, stolen our land.’
Mugabe straightened up in his seat, shooting Sithole a warning look. ‘What we need now isn’t trust, but fair dealing between black and white,’ he said. ‘Fair dealing with regard to land allocation, job opportunities, and education.’ He spoke mildly, judiciously, but Stephen could sense his deep frustration and bitterness.
‘We would like to see the justice system completely overhauled,’ added Chitepo.
‘At the moment, a black man is put in prison for years for throwing a stone at a white car or stealing a loaf of bread, but a white man who has beaten his African servant nearly to death gets off with a fine and a caution.’
Stephen bristled, remembering Eliot lying in a pool of blood. ‘I understand and I —’ he stopped himself saying he knew exactly how they felt. He didn’t. ‘What can I actually do to help?’ he asked.
‘We want to form our own political party,’ explained Mugabe. ‘At the moment, there’s the ANC led by Joshua Nkomo, but we are not happy with him.’
‘Why not?’ inquired Stephen.
‘Look how he changed his colours about the creation of the Federation,’ Sithole said. The others nodded in agreement. ‘One moment, he was flying to London with Huggins to support it. Next he was denouncing it, then he stood for a Federal election seat. He is nothing but the white man’s puppet and is too fond of the high life. His politics are weak.’
‘His vacillations are confusing,’ said Chitepo. ‘We need a resolute, straight-seeing leader.’
‘We call ourselves Gukurahundi, which means the first rains of the season that wash away the rubbish,’ Mugabe said, as he picked up his beer and drank with long, thirsty gulps.
‘We want you to help us hone our policies,’ Chitepo continued. ‘And in due course, we’d like you to tell the British Government about us. See what they say.’ His eyes flicked to his colleagues and back again. ‘To be honest, there are financial difficulties in launching a new party too.’
Stephe
n massaged the short hair at his temples. ‘Well, I agree that change is needed. And I’d very much like to see a government with a constitution that’s acceptable to all moderate, middle-of-the-road Rhodesians, black and white. But such a thing couldn’t happen overnight. Even if the present government was amenable to change, I’d recommend a handover period – time for training in the processes of government and administration.’
Sithole sat quite still, looking past Stephen. ‘We’re not demanding the immediate Africanization of the government. But we won’t accept continued domination by a small white minority.’
‘We want the country to be as stable and efficient as possible,’ said Chitepo. ‘No one wants to throw the white man out. We’d like parity in Parliament. We want to open the civil service and other areas of employment that are denied to Africans. We want appointments to be made on merit rather than according to the colour of skin.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Stephen. For some moments, he struggled with himself. Politics were not for him and never had been. He prized his political neutrality, for by staying on the outside, he was free to speak his mind to each and every party and person. Nevertheless, these men were clearly exceptionally intelligent and able. Perhaps politics was a logical next step in his work for African advancement.
The men sat still, watching him patiently.
‘I am sympathetic to your objectives and I’m terribly frustrated by the current situation,’ he said at last. ‘All right, I’ll help you as best I can. Talk to me.’
Sithole’s eyes glowed with sombre satisfaction. ‘We have a vision for a free Zimbabwe. We’d like to achieve it through roundtable negotiations with the government. If that fails, the next option is by bringing about an economic breakdown – strikes and so on – but only if there is no other choice. We want it to be as peaceful as possible.’
Stephen nodded enthusiastically.
Hours later, the men stood up to leave. They had to be back for the curfew: all Africans who did not live in Umtali had to be in their homes by nine o’clock. They were anxious not to attract the attention of the township police, a particularly brutal class of people who ruled with gleeful and arbitrary violence.
The men had described having their houses searched by the police on more than one occasion, and being roughed up in front of their wives and children while their pamphlets and books were destroyed.
‘I’d be honoured if you would sign our window before you go,’ said Stephen, picking up the diamond stylus and offering it to them.
‘Are you sure?’ queried Mugabe. ‘It might be wise to keep this meeting secret.’
‘Why?’ countered Stephen. ‘You are honourable men; you have come here for honourable reasons.’
Sithole and Chitepo took the stylus and wrote their names in the top right-hand corner, Chitepo underlining his with a flourish. Mugabe refused to sign. He didn’t give a reason and Stephen did not press him for one.
‘Goodbye. Go well.’
‘Go well. Goodbye.’
Outside, daylight was fading into a pink and ashen evening. They left by the back door, looking about anxiously.
33
Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s
The policeman getting out of the car and walking towards the house had light brown hair, and his stomach pushed out against his tunic. He was an average height with sloping shoulders, his face and neck brick-red with sunburn.
Ginie, sitting on the veranda drinking tea and doing embroidery, wondered if he was coming to see them about the anonymous letters. Or perhaps word had reached the police about Stephen’s meeting with the nationalist politicians. Or maybe he wanted to question the Courtaulds and their staff, yet again, about the night of the fire and Eric’s murder. Ginie dabbed the perspiration from her face. There were so many reasons why a policeman might want to visit La Rochelle these days; just thinking about it made her dizzy.
She stood up and went to greet him with the dogs yapping at her heels. Sergeant van Niekerk’s handshake was damp and he mopped his face with his handkerchief. She asked if he would like to sit down and have a drink, but he refused, his close-set brown eyes darting away from hers. His breath smelt slightly sour.
Stephen came through the screen doors. ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘How are you and how’s the manhunt? I’m surprised you haven’t caught them by now.’
Van Niekerk shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Well sir, they’ve been exceptionally wily about covering their tracks.’ His voice was gruff and solemn and he had a pronounced Afrikaans accent. ‘We think they’ve been sprinkling wild chilli powder to throw the dogs off their scent.’
There was a pause. A pigeon cooed in the trees. Another answered. Kru-kruuu. Kru-kruuu. Max growled softly, low in his throat.
‘So, what can we do for you?’ Ginie asked, noticing the scatter of dandruff on van Niekerk’s shoulders.
Van Niekerk kept his eyes to the floor. ‘I’m afraid that I have an arrest warrant for a member of your staff.’
Stephen frowned. ‘I can’t imagine why. Are you quite certain?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Van Niekerk licked his lips uneasily. ‘It’s for Mary Chikomborero.’
Ginie shook her head, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. Her heart had started to beat quickly and painfully, gasping for oxygen. She had often feared this moment would come, but had refused to know it.
‘Surely this is a mistake?’ she queried.
Sergeant van Niekerk looked pained. ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Courtauld. Mary is wanted in connection with assisting felons, not only in evading capture, but also in the arson of Hookwell Farm and the murder of Eric Thompson.’
‘Those are serious charges,’ said Stephen. ‘What evidence is there?’
‘We found fingerprints and other evidence in her house, sir. And she was spotted with one of the men.’
Ginie’s mind flew back to the man she had seen Mary speaking to on the walk with Mark, the strip of prison calico caught on the thorn bush. . . Could Mark have reported Mary? Realisation crept down her spine like a cold drop of water.
‘Is it true?’ Stephen asked Mary, who had come onto the veranda in time to hear this.
‘Yes.’ She let out a barely audible sigh. Suddenly she looked smaller, this brave self-contained woman who was fighting battles Ginie knew nothing about.
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Ginie asked, quietly. ‘We could have helped you.’ Stephen shot her a warning look, which she ignored. ‘Don’t you trust us?’
‘How could I put you in danger, Missus Ginie? You were always so good to me.’ Mary’s voice sounded distant, as though she was repeating lines she’d learned by heart. She drew herself upright and tossed her head. It was a proud, audacious gesture that expressed the accumulation of months and years of pent-up defiance.
‘They have crossed the border into Mozambique,’ she said to van Niekerk. ‘You won’t find them. And anyway, they’re not criminals. They were imprisoned for holding a political meeting and if Eric Thompson hadn’t murdered my husband, they wouldn’t have harmed a hair on his head.’
Van Niekerk responded by reaching for his handcuffs. ‘Put your hands out in front of you,’ he said tersely. Mary did as she was told and he snapped the cuffs on.
‘They’re too tight!’ Ginie exclaimed, unable to bear the sight of the metal digging into Mary’s wrists. ‘Can’t you loosen them?’
Van Niekerk ignored her. He led Mary to his car and opened the back door for her. She climbed in clumsily, hampered by the cuffs.
‘Ask Zandile to look after my children,’ she entreated Ginie. ‘Please tell her they—’
The door slammed shut, cutting her off. Ginie watched helplessly as van Niekerk walked to the driver’s seat and heaved himself in. Red dust spurted up behind the car as it roared down the hill. The Courtaulds watched until it vanished from sight. Ginie felt nothing, not anger, not sorrow. It was as if Mary’s absence had taken everything from her. She felt she could keel ov
er, or be cast into the air like a discarded paper bag. Returning to the veranda, she sat and gazed unseeingly at the garden while Stephen called Chitepo to try and arrange bail for Mary.
34
Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s
I came home from school to find Tucker lying on his back on the parched earth behind the house. His water dish was empty and he was twitching weakly.
Panicked, I shouted for Mum but she did not answer. I ran to the kitchen and mixed up some sugar water. Grabbing the dropper, I hurried back to Tucker, but he was too far gone and didn’t have the strength to take it. The liquid dribbled out of his beak uselessly. He was looking at me and I couldn’t tell if his expression was pleading or resigned. As I stared back, his eyes began to dull and film over.
Mum was on the old sofa in the living room, staring into space. The rings under her eyes were so purple and bruised, it looked as though someone had hit her. She looked stricken when I told her Tucker was dead and she murmured about bird diseases, but I knew that she had forgotten to fill his water dish. Tame since infancy, he had lost the ability to fend for himself.
Dad helped me bury Tucker in the garden, under the big mawonga tree. We made a plain wooden cross and etched his name on it. Tears were soaking my face. Dad’s eyes were dark, the grey and blue fused by angel. Late that night, when they thought I was sleeping, I heard him berating my mother for not checking Tucker’s water in the heat.
‘Mark. . .’
‘I can only do so much,’ Dad said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Give me one last chance. Please? I’ll be better, I promise.’
There was a long pause. My anxiety bled out into the darkness. Then, the quiet, hopeless sound of her crying.
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I heard my father say. ‘I can’t prop you up anymore, it’s killing me.’
‘It’s Ginie, isn’t it?’ she sobbed. ‘That damned dragon lady has turned your head. I’d be able to reach you if it wasn’t for her. You’re always going over there behind my back, what am I supposed to think?’
The Dragon Lady Page 19