A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  They passed high-raised boxes into which the broken ground was being deposited from aerial tramways. He listened again as the taut wires which held the wooden boxes hummed and sang as they slid down to the bottom. Could he write to Esther and tell her that the mine had sung to him? No, but he would write to Hannah. She would laugh and ask if it was high opera or a music-hall ditty. Was she all right? They passed a steam engine working a large iron bucket which was sitting empty on its wheels.

  ‘We blast every evening when the kaffirs have been locked in for the night. You can see them now digging at the loosened soil.’

  Harry nodded, they looked like ants, unreal, featureless. He walked on with Frank.

  ‘We’ll see the compound now. I don’t want to come back later. We have things to do this evening, Harry.’ Frank took his arm and winked. ‘There’s a good bar as long as you don’t have too much of the Cape brandy and the ladies are kind to young men out from the old country.’

  Harry smiled too but he did not want that sort of kindness, not while he was waiting for Esther. Neither did he want to see the compound, for it was not night-time as it had been at Johannesburg when darkness had thrown a blanket over harsh sights and he had made sure that during the day he had stayed in the office. The compound was some way from the four large mines and they were driven in a cart by a kaffir wearing a slouch hat and baggy jacket and trousers. As they bumped and ground their way over the rutted track Frank explained how a few big men had bought up the small diggers and had formed a cartel with a few others to prevent diamonds flooding on to the market and lowering the prices. If prices fell, as now, they would restrict the sale of stones until things improved.

  The compound was behind corrugated iron fencing and they entered through the large gates. ‘We have to be more careful with diamond mining,’ Frank said, smoking, the dry heat causing the cigarette to burn more quickly. ‘Diamonds can be hidden on or in their bodies far more easily than the gold. Kaffirs might be good labourers, good beasts, but they’re bloody shrewd and know the value of the stones they dig up. We lock them up in here at night, six o’clock, and let ’em out next morning to start their shift again. Before they sleep though they are searched.’ He pointed to a pole which stood between two stands, much like Harry’s school high jump. ‘We make them jump over that for a start. Then there’s a body search. Mouth and other orifices. If they are found with anything on them they are flogged with a jambok.’

  Harry looked away from the compound, out through the gates, way out to the Karroo which stretched into the distance. He seemed to breathe easier then.

  ‘When their spell is over we lock each one up in a room over there for God knows how many days before they can go home.’ Frank now pointed to a low corrugated iron shack with several doors. He flicked his cigarette away through the air and lit another. ‘We purge them, we have to. You never know, they might have swallowed a stone and it’s in their intestines waiting until they get back to their huts.’

  Would one stone per labourer really break the conglomerates, Harry wondered, but pushed the thought deep down.

  ‘And if you find a kaffir without a pass, you must always take action, Harry. They’ll get a good beating as well as a search. We can’t have any nonsense with these boys, can we? They’re like dogs, they need a firm hand.’

  The room was hung with red velvet drapes, not just at the windows but along the walls too. They were old and the dust was in them and had dulled the sheen they once had. A girl who sauntered past smiled at him and her teeth were yellow. She paused in front of a man who sat near the front door and he rose, following her up the stairs.

  Harry took another drink from his balloon glass, savouring the smell of the brandy he had poured from the silver flask which his father had given him the night before he left England. It was the finest Hine and there were another four bottles in his trunk. Frank had slapped him on the back when he had told him this and dragged him off to this house which lay on the edge of Kimberley.

  ‘Under this roof the lights never go out,’ Frank called from the chaise-longue which had once been green but was now rubbed bare and almost colourless. It was set against the wall nearest to the stairs directly opposite Harry and between them was a worn rug. Frank’s face was flushed and Harry raised his hand and smiled but his back was rigid. He looked down into his glass, cradling it in his hands though there was no need, for it was in fact too warm in this interminable heat. He ran his finger round his collar. Oh Christ, it was so hot. Too hot to be borne.

  England was so far away with its cool green colours, its rivers flowing lazily under bridges and its punt poles dripping water back into widening ripples. He rubbed his cracked lips. Would Arthur take the girls next year? But he must not think of that, only of why he was here. But dear God, Esther was so far away and the ache of separation was a physical pain that he could not forget, could not put to the back of his mind. He felt again her lips, her hair, so soft and fine between his fingers, her eyes which looked into his and promised she would wait.

  ‘Take your collar off, Harry,’ Frank called. ‘You’re not amongst ladies now, you know. These girls know how to give you a good time and you’d better make the most of it because you’ll be too busy when we get back to Jo’burg.’

  Laughter filled the room and Harry nodded, laughing too, but not inside. A woman came and sat with Frank, her shoulders bare and her breasts barely covered. Four other men were in the room, lounging in chairs, their legs outstretched, playing poker as they waited for those upstairs to finish. Harry took a sip of brandy and the vapour captured by the glass overrode for a moment the smell from the oil lamps, the sweat from the girl and the men which hung in an almost tangible layer.

  He watched as Frank wrenched at his tie, throwing it across the back of the chair, winking at Harry as he did so, his arm clasped around the woman who wore red. Her dress was tight and shiny and as she crossed her legs Harry saw that her legs were bare and he was swept back to that evening when Hannah and Esther had danced. Was this why his father had been so severe? But what would an upright churchman know of prostitutes? He shook his head, the thought was nonsense and he took another drink.

  He looked again at the woman’s bare legs and felt the heat rise in him, and a hunger came which made him grip his glass and lift it to his lips and he swallowed hard, and again, feeling the brandy burn his throat. He looked back at the other men. They were still playing, throwing stained cards on to the worn green baize of a table. There was no music, just the ticking of a clock which stood by the door that led into the street. Harry tapped his foot in time to it as he placed his glass on the floor, for there was no table.

  ‘Come on, Harry, get your flask out, man,’ Frank called holding out his glass, his shirt unbuttoned now and his other hand stroking the shoulder of the woman. She was kissing his ear and his mouth as he talked and Harry looked away from her, concentrating on Frank’s glass as he walked across the room.

  He filled his own glass as well, too full, but that was as he wanted it. He swallowed and still the men were playing, and still the clock ticked but now it was all slower, and further from him. His hands were steady as he held his glass and lifted it to his lips and he did not notice the vapour so much but saw that now Frank was stroking the woman’s breast, his eyes closed, his mouth on hers.

  Again Harry felt the hunger which he had fought against since he had held Esther to him. Oh yes, he had known women, but not many and he had not wanted another because he loved Esther. He poured more brandy into his glass and as he drank it spilled from his mouth on to his shirt and the heat was suddenly too much and he pulled his tie loose and tore the stud from his neck and still the players dealt their cards.

  His flask was empty as Frank mounted the stairs, the girl hanging on his arm, and so Harry waved the black girl over and watched as she poured Cape brandy. He choked as it caught in his throat. Black and white. A sea of black all around them but not really visible, not really people. How strange. Red earth
and great holes and blue rock. Black and white people. How strange. And he wanted to go home. To leave all this and the heat, the never-ending heat which beat against the ground and was beating in his head now, beating in time with the clock.

  A woman came down the stairs now. He did not want her to come to him because he loved Esther but there was this hunger, this loneliness and he wanted to be touched, to be held. He wanted someone he could cling to, however briefly. But he loved Esther and so this woman in her blue shiny dress with shoulders plump and sweating must not come to him and smile as she was doing. She must not reach out her hand to his and he must not take it, as he was doing. The stairs were high and his legs were heavy and the room they entered was dark and he could not see this woman but saw instead the yellow hair of his love and her blue eyes. It was her breasts he kissed, not this woman’s in this house. It was Esther he held to him, it was her body he stroked. It was her name he called when he could wait no longer.

  The next day the train again wound across the interminable veld and Harry was glad that his head ached as though it would break because it dulled the shame of the hot dark night and the body which should have been Esther’s but was not.

  Frank sat opposite, smoking, his face hidden behind the pink pages of the Sporting Life.

  ‘A good time was had by all then, old chap,’ Frank said. The pages rustled as he lowered them.

  Harry did not look at him but pushed the blind to one side, watching the miles upon miles of barren ground. ‘It was fine thanks, Frank.’

  He could see no houses, no farms as he looked and Frank laughed. ‘Sorry we couldn’t get to see that old homestead of your uncle’s. Or rather yours but it’s over that way somewhere. Closer to Kimberley perhaps.’

  Harry leant against the window, looking back at the way they had come.

  ‘What will you do with it?’

  Harry let the blind fall and rested his head back on the seat. The train was rocking and he felt ill.

  ‘Nothing, I expect. But one day I’d like to see it.’ But it didn’t seem to matter what he did with it, he felt so bloody awful. His head was worse. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. Shame was dulled by pain but it was still there. He must make up for his lapse, he must not waste more time. He had money to make. Oh God, he felt so sick.

  Frank folded the paper and handed it to him. ‘Have a read of the pink ’un, if you can get your eyes to focus. I told you to stay clear of the Cape brandy.’

  Harry took the paper but did not read it. He sat with his eyes closed.

  It took days to return to the high veld but at last the ridge was visible and Harry was glad, for up there were the mines and his future. Frank took his arm as they drew into the station and as the doors opened and they passed the carts that were waiting to take baggage and goods he held him fast and spoke low.

  ‘South Africa will be good to you, Harry, but you know the way things are now. There are rules to be kept and questions that should not be asked. We work and we work well and so we are paid well. The kaffirs work so they can pay the poll-tax on their huts, and so the world goes round. We’ve done the tour, I’ve shown you the facts of life and what you have to remember now is that there is no place for humanity when gold and diamonds are the prize. Remember that.’

  Harry looked at Frank, hearing him through the splitting head which he had been unable to overcome. He saw his broad face and long hair, his beard and his eyes which were hard. Yes, he would remember that because it was the prize he too wanted, it was the prize that would secure Esther for him and there was nothing else that was of such importance. So he nodded and Frank smiled, saying as he turned and heaved down their bags, ‘There are some interesting little houses in Johannesburg too, my boy. I’ll show you when we have some time.’

  Though Harry nodded he hoped that he would never again visit a woman who was not Esther for the shame was too great and he had too much to do.

  14

  In January 1908 a deputation of non-militant suffragists were told by Asquith, the new Liberal Prime Minister, that the Government had no intention of giving women the vote.

  Hannah had never seen Miss Fletcher angry before and looked up in amazement as she walked into the sitting-room and threw her hat across the room. Hannah shut the books which she had been marking beside the fire. The dog sat up and Hannah said nothing, just looked as Frances poured a glass of sherry and brought it to Hannah without a word, her face white and her lips thin.

  She then turned on her heel and poured another for herself and stood, her face set, as she looked first at her drink and then at Hannah.

  ‘Cheers, Hannah. We must drink to the start of a difficult 1908.’ Then, pacing the floor, she told Hannah more about the meeting the deputation had had with Asquith.

  Hannah said, ‘Did he give a reason?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Frances snapped, but as Hannah flushed she said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my dear.’

  She walked over to Hannah, looking down on her. ‘It is just so very frustrating. I can see more and more why the suffragettes are not content with polite requests but I can still not bring myself to work as they do.’

  She sat heavily in the chair opposite Hannah. ‘It’s such an uphill struggle but we’ll just have to go on asking, requesting, gathering support and in the end, perhaps we’ll win.’

  ‘We’ll win,’ Hannah assured her, drinking her sherry and leaning back in her chair. ‘We’ll win.’ But impatience made her head ache, for still she could not join in the battle as she really wished because the Pensions Bill was not through yet. Later, when Beatrice had cleared away dinner and the fire was low in the grate, she showed Frances the letter she had received from Harry. It was short and the first he had written to her since school.

  My dear Hannah,

  I have just arrived and have completed a tour of the Rand and Kimberley too. It is extremely hot and there is dust everywhere and it is so very different to England. I am expected to work on the gold ridge for some while in a more direct way than I had been led to believe. I had fully expected to be out each day surveying the land for evidence of more gold-bearing ore but they have too many engineers already so I am back in the pits. I love it.

  I hope to move to Kimberley in due course because the diamond mines are even better. I also hope to have a mate assigned to me soon. He will be a native or kaffir, as we call them here. I received your letter and am pleased that you are well and yes, I think that it is probably a good idea to interest Esther in your woman’s movement – she will need something if she is to find this miserable waiting bearable. But, Hannah, take care of her for me. You must promise me this.

  Give my regards to Miss Fletcher. I am writing to Father in a separate letter.

  With love from your brother,

  Harry.

  As Frances finished Hannah said, ‘You can see that he says nothing about the natives and their conditions. I must write to him about it; I must find out from him what is going on out there.’

  Miss Fletcher passed it back, removing the spectacles which she now needed to read, rubbing the bridge of her nose. ‘He doesn’t give much detail of his life out there at all, does he?’ she agreed. ‘But he sounds happy. And do you think you will be able to keep Esther busy enough to wait for Harry?’

  Hannah looked up at her. ‘I don’t know, but I shall have to try.’

  At Easter, the King’s Speech was silent on votes for women. Joe had come to London to present some furniture designs to a customer and he walked around the streets with her while Frances attended a meeting to discuss which Members of Parliament they should try and persuade to draw up yet another Female Franchise Bill. Together they handed out letters written by Frances asking for support. He held the hessian bag and talked of the home and how Eliza came to help because it was only ten miles and the trap could do it there and back in one day. Hannah’s aunt had hung curtains at all the windows and the women who were staying had joined in. Sam had organised the men and the children and
had cleared out the stables because there would be apples on the trees in the orchard and Joe wanted to store them in the old hay-loft.

  As they walked the fog-shrouded and stinking streets, pressing against the dank wall as a drunk staggered past, she longed for the clear air, the fields, Aunt Eliza’s curtains, the smell of apples which made her remember Uncle Simon. But Cornwall would have to wait because there was a battle which must be fought day in and day out before there could be that sort of peace for her.

  So she knocked on the next door and handed out the letter, smiling and talking and asking for support for the suffragists’ campaign for votes for women. She wanted to ask for support for the suffragette rally to be held in the Albert Hall too but she did not, for her loyalty to Frances was too strong, and she shrugged as Joe smiled and handed her another letter.

  ‘Wait a little longer, Hannah,’ he said and she nodded, taking his arm until they reached the next house because he made her feel as though it did not matter quite so much.

  Joe left the next day, pleased with an order for six chairs and one table. He looked tanned and strong and well in contrast to the pallor of the people in the narrow streets, streets which still swam with a heavy fog and a cold dampness.

  Hannah did not go with him to the station because Arthur was expecting her for dinner with his parents and besides, she did not want to see Joe leave the arched grey station to travel towards the lush, green, clear country. And so she had waved as he climbed into the hansom cab, making herself think not of the rolling hills and the apple-loft but of Arthur and the brilliant lights that would flood the dining-room tonight.

  He had invited Esther too and she came to fetch her in Uncle Thomas’s carriage, wrapped in a silk shawl which could pass through her mother’s wedding ring, she told Hannah and Frances.

  Hannah turned as Frances said, ‘How lovely for you, Esther.’ And though there was no laughter in her face or her voice Hannah knew that it was just below the surface.