Deception!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  CHAPTER 13 (Cape Town, October 1956)

  For the next year, I was as happy as I’d ever been. My parents, especially my father, were half a world away; I had never run into the captain or crew members of the Prince Albert, and no-one tried to push me around. I had money in my pocket; not a fortune, granted, but enough to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. The punters, or the passengers to give them their correct title, could be awkward on occasion, but a smile and a servile attitude was usually enough to charm a tip of some kind out of them. And if there was an occasional miserable old bugger to contend with, there were plenty of softer ones, usually the women, to make up for them

  But gradually, I began to want something more. I looked around at my little gang of porters and realised as I grew older, they stayed the same age, or got even younger. Some, like Enoch, drifted off to the countryside with their families. Others got pulled into the gangs in the townships that were growing up around the city as a result of the segregation laws; they found other more dangerous, but more lucrative, lines of work. Some just disappeared altogether. And there were always other youngsters ready to take their place.

  At this rate, I was going to end up so much older than them, I would lose their respect—and inevitably, someone would come along who would be stronger than me and take over, just as I had from Enoch when I first arrived. I needed to find a way out before I was pushed out. And to do that, I needed to improve my level of education.

  Frank was an old black man who sold newspapers in front of the station. He must have been in his sixties at least. That’s no age these days, but to us kids, he was ancient. He had a kind smile and was always ready for a chat on a quiet day. And when he wasn’t chatting to us or passing the time of day with one of his customers, he always had his head in a book.

  Now, I could read and write pretty well. I’d loved going to school back home in Yorkshire, not only because it kept me out of the house and away from the old man’s line of sight, but also because I’d found one or two of the teachers inspiring. Of course, I couldn’t put that into words as a kid, but that’s what it was. But when I looked at the books Frank was reading, they were ones I’d never heard of. So one day I asked him to tell me about them. He chuckled.

  ‘Well, lad, I don’t reckon there’s much I can learn you,’ he said. ‘All I do is read these ‘ere stories and imagine I’m one of the characters in them.’

  From then on, whenever I had a chance, I sat with Frank and we talked about what he called ‘great literature’. Some of the books we discussed were ones I knew of from home, such as Moby Dick, Treasure Island and The Water Babies. But he also read books from Africa, by authors I’d never heard of, such as Thomas Mofolo and Naguib Mahfouz. After a while, he started loaning me books and I would devour them at night, back in my digs. When I returned them, we would discuss the characters, their motivation and whether we thought the story had turned out as it should or not. Then one day, Frank told me he’d had an idea.

  ‘You know, young Michael, this book reading is all well and good, but if you want to be educated and get a proper job, then you need to do more than fill your head with stories.’ He looked at me over the top of his glasses, held together as usual by a bit of sticky tape, and blew out his cheeks. ‘We need to get you some proper learning. Words is all very well, but I reckon it’s numbers that make the world go around.’

  I’d told Frank I wanted a job in an office, like some of the young men and women I saw arriving on the train each morning from the suburbs and returning home each evening. And he was right. My numbering wasn’t good, and I knew most office jobs involved figures or sums of some kind.

  The following Sunday, Frank was waiting for me outside the station at the end of the afternoon. We’d had a busy day, my feet were aching and I just wanted to get some supper and go to sleep, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me along the road with him.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, lad,’ he said. ‘I’ve fixed up a meeting for you and you’re going to come with me.’ He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but I didn’t have long to wait. We stopped outside an old building from which I could hear singing. Hymn singing. My stomach lurched and I pulled away from Frank. My last encounter with the church had ended disastrously and I wasn’t going to risk meeting up with another Father Pat.

  ‘It’s alright,’ said Frank with a laugh when I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought of the church and clergymen in general. ‘This one’s not like any other pastor or priest you’ll ever meet.’ He persuaded me to wait with him for a while and I have to admit it was pleasant sitting in the sunshine listening to the soaring voices coming through the windows. Shortly afterwards, with a final ‘Amen’, it was all over and a crowd started streaming out of the doors. Most of the congregation was black, but I was surprised to see a sprinkling of coloured folks and even the occasional white face. And the whitest of them all was the preacher, who came down the steps at a gallop and grabbed Frank’s hand, pumping it up and down.

  ‘Frank, we missed your baritone in the choir today. Is this the young friend you’ve been telling me about?’

  ‘Yes, Reverend, this ‘ere’s young Michael. I reckon he needs some advice. Michael, this is Reverend Joe Marks.’

  ‘Well, how about you folks come and join Amelia and me for supper and we can talk about it,’ he said. He pointed to a small house around the back of the church and Frank and I walked with him.

  Amelia Marks was a slight woman, little more than a girl really, with coffee coloured skin that spoke of mixed parentage. That in itself must have caused her problems in the South Africa of the 1950s, but her marriage to a white man was even more courageous. Yet she and Joe were the happiest couple I ever met. They never talked about the inevitable problems they experienced and were always ready with a helping hand for anyone that turned to them for support. They were the most Christian people you could meet and I sometimes wonder what they would think if they knew how I turned out.

  That first evening, after a wonderful meal of chicken stew and dumplings, Joe lit his pipe and we sat in front of the fire while I told them my story, how I’d got to where I was now, and where I wanted to go from then on.

  ‘Well, young man,’ said Joe as my tale came to an end and my words dried up, ‘you certainly seem to have gone through some rough times.’ Amelia said nothing, but put her hand on my arm and smiled at me, her eyes warm and comforting. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find you a position at some point,’ Joe went on, ‘but Frank’s right; you need some more schooling first.’

  Amelia cleared her throat.

  ‘I used to teach maths before I gave up work to look after the twins,’ she said. ‘I could help to start with.’

  And from then on, I had supper with the Marks family—Joe, Amelia and their four-year-old sons, Peter and Paul—at least once a week. After supper, Joe would put the boys to bed while Amelia and I pored over maths books and I puzzled my way through the homework she set me. We discovered I had an aptitude for numbers which had lain undiscovered during my schooldays and I began to outstrip her knowledge. We also talked a lot about economics and how businesses ran. It was to be the basis, although I didn’t realise it, for much of the rest of my life.

  One evening about thirteen months after I first met her, Amelia pushed back from the table where we were working our way through an old exam paper, and pulled her hair out of her eyes with one hand. She kept looking at me, but it was to Joe she spoke.

  ‘Well, that’s me done.’ She pointed to me. ‘He’s outgrown my knowledge of maths and economics. I can’t help him any more. We need to find him another tutor.’

  ‘Or get him into the night school,’ replied Joe. ‘I’m sure he’s ready for that now.’

  ‘Hey, guys, I’m here in the room. You can talk to me, not about me,’ I said with a laugh. But I was pleased they thought I was good enough to go to night school. Amelia did some more coaching, this time in exam technique, and a few weeks later,
Joe took me to meet the administrator for the local college. And two weeks after that, Joe, Amelia, the boys, Frank and I celebrated with ice-cream sundaes when I heard I was to enrol in the maths class in the local college, starting the following term.

  For the next year, I worked diligently on my maths, often studying my books or doing my homework in the quiet moments at the station. I passed the course successfully; not top of the class, but a respectable fifth. And the tutor suggested I enrol the following term for the two-year business studies course. I was on my way towards a better job, outside the twilight zone of railway portering.

  CHAPTER 14

  Once she’d finished her lunch, Mercy had jumped on her bike and headed out of the city. She didn’t really want to return yet to the luxury compound her father desperately wanted her to think of as home. As she sailed along the highway and out into the rural roads outside São Paulo, she found herself musing on the British woman she’d met over lunch. Rose; what an appropriate name. But she rather got the impression there was a bit of a rebel behind that calm façade, and that Rose would not be at all offended at being considered as such. She’d given out a couple of subtle signs she might be more interested in women than men, and although Mercy was no stranger to relationships with men, she was equally at ease with members of her own sex. No, she realised, she wouldn’t be at all unhappy to see this new acquaintance again. She found herself looking forward to their next meeting.

  Her father’s Mercedes was parked in the driveway when she finally reached home and Mercy gave a wave to Max, the chauffeur-cum-bodyguard who was polishing the bonnet, bulging muscles glistening with sweat in the early evening sunshine. She went around to the rear of the villa, hoping to climb the back staircase and reach the sanctuary of her bedroom unnoticed, but as she crossed the kitchen, Michael Hawkins must have heard her footstep, light as it was.

  ‘Mercy, is that you? Come on in for a minute; I want to talk to you.’

  She changed direction and headed for the airy room her father called his study. He was reading at the large mahogany desk. He’d told her it was modelled on the one in the White House, gifted by Queen Victoria to whoever was the president at the time—she never could remember. Hawkins put his papers down as she came in and stood up. Then, as she’d anticipated, his welcoming smile turned to a frown of disapproval when he saw her outfit.

  ‘Mercy, I thought I told you I don’t like you riding around on that motorcycle. It’s not safe for a woman on her own in this city. I don’t know why you can’t take the car.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Tata,’ she said, tacking a smile on her face, ‘but you know what the traffic’s like in the centre during rush hour. I’d never get anywhere on time if I relied on Max driving me there.’ She looked at him with what she hoped was a winsome look on her face. ‘I’ll be very careful; I promise. I’m a good driver—and I used to ride all over the place before I came here.’

  ‘Well, you’re a grown woman, so I can’t tell you what to do,’ he said, ‘but I really don’t want you to ride around at night. If I stop nagging you about using the bike during the day, will you at least agree to use the car in the evenings?’

  ‘Okay, deal,’ she said, although she knew there was no chance she was going to keep this promise. Apart from anything else, he often used the car himself in the evenings; but she guessed there was no harm in pretending. She spat on her hand and held it out to shake her father’s hand—a method of sealing deals that she’d seen in old movies. But he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him, enveloping her in a bear hug.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just found you; I don’t want to lose you again.’ She returned his hug briefly, although she growled internally at his naivety in believing she would be that submissive. Maybe she should suggest they get a second car just for her. But then, he’d no doubt want to employ a driver for her; and the last thing she wanted was any more spies for her father following her around and knowing her business.

  As she disentangled herself from her father’s embrace, she noticed he was wearing evening dress. He was always smartly dressed, but a dinner jacket and bowtie was unusual, even for him.

  ‘Looking smart, Tata! You’re obviously on your way out?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I called you in. I’m going to a meeting; and it’ll run on into dinner. I’ll be back quite late. Can you look after yourself tonight?’ She was amused that after all these months, he still thought it was his duty to entertain her and made a point of their having dinner together whenever possible.

  ‘Yes, of course I can,’ she replied. ‘But would you like me to come with you? It won’t take long for me to change.’ On a number of occasions, Hawkins had used Mercy as his partner at formal dinners. He described himself as a widower and Mercy assumed this was in deference to her mother. She wasn’t interested in any other wives he’d had in the years since he left Africa. She only had one mother and she was happy at anything that showed respect to her memory.

  Now, Hawkins was shaking his head, although it appeared to be with regret.

  ‘No, sweetheart; not on this occasion. It’s an all-male gathering, and our host, in his wisdom, has decreed we should meet in Il Paradiso.’ She shrugged; she’d never heard of the place. He went on: ‘It’s down in the centre of the city; calls itself a club but to be frank, it’s nothing more than a high-class strip joint.’

  ‘Not your sort of place, then?’

  ‘Not at all—and certainly not somewhere I would want to take my daughter, even if we were allowed to take partners with us.’

  ‘Rough?’

  ‘Not rough, as such, but let’s just say the only women in there are working rather than relaxing. Most of the strippers are on the game, and half the waitresses too. Not the sort of women I would want you to associate with.’ He walked over to his desk, picked up some papers and pushed them into his pocket. ‘Right, I’d better get going or I’m going to be late. Don’t wait up for me!’ He blew a kiss in her direction as he walked past and headed for the door.

  As she stood at the window, watching her father climb into the car and drive away, she thought once more about her mother—his legal wife—who’d been forced to make a living as a prostitute in order to keep them fed. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten about this, or that his actions had put her in that position. He may not have known about his daughter’s existence, but he certainly knew what he was doing when he abandoned her mother in Mozambique all those years ago. Mercy found her previous burst of warmth at her father’s concern fading away to be replaced, as so often, by a strong desire for revenge, not just for herself, but more importantly, for her mother.

  CHAPTER 15

  Suzanne arrived at the offices of Sunshine Supplements at just before one pm. Nigel Atkinson had suggested they have lunch first and then settle down in his office to do the formal part of the interview. It was Megan’s day off and Suzanne didn’t recognise the young woman who met her in the foyer and handed her a temporary security pass. Unlike Megan, this woman was Brazilian, and although her English was faultless, with only a hint of an accent, she was much less friendly than her Irish colleague and also seemed to be avoiding Suzanne’s eyes. When they reached the fifteenth floor, she pointed to a squashy leather sofa in the foyer.

  ‘I will tell Mr Atkinson you are here. He will call you when he’s ready.’ And turning on her heel, she left Suzanne alone.

  The office walls were all glass and from her position, she could see into Atkinson’s office. He was on the telephone and didn’t look like the cheerful, smiling charmer she’d met previously. At one point, he glanced through the glass in her direction and Suzanne smiled and gave him a little wave. But to her surprise, he returned neither the wave nor the smile. Instead, he picked up a remote control from his desk and pointed it at the wall. Immediately the glass turned opaque and he was hidden from her view. How strange, she thought. I wonder what that’s all about?

  She didn’t have long to wai
t to find out. She heard the phone being slammed down just seconds before the office door was yanked open to reveal a definitely unsmiling and unhappy-looking Nigel Atkinson. Suzanne was starting to get a bad feeling about this. He gestured wordlessly for her to come into the office. As she walked towards the area of easy chairs they had used before, Atkinson slammed the door shut and returned to stand behind his desk. Suzanne adjusted her direction and stood in front of him, feeling just a little like a naughty schoolgirl in front of the head teacher.

  ‘Are you well, Suzanne?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes thanks, Nigel, I’m fine.’

  ‘And how’s the story going?’

  ‘Not too bad. I’m looking forward to talking to you about Sunshine Supplements this afternoon. That’s going to give me lots of good material.’

  ‘Really? I find that very interesting.’ He sat down and gave a sigh. ‘You know, I was really getting to like you, Suzanne.’ She said nothing, just looked at him enquiringly. Something was obviously bugging him, and if she waited, no doubt it would come out. And sure enough, after a short silence, he carried on. ‘I bumped into an old friend of mine last night at a meeting. Chap by the name of Bertram, Clifford Bertram, but everyone who knows him calls him Bertie. Do you know him, Suzanne?’

  ‘No, don’t think I’ve heard of him. Should I have?’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised that a journalist of your calibre doesn’t know his name. He was one of the lead foreign correspondents for the Daily Mail for many years.’