‘As you wish.’ Raj bowed low, hiding his smile of pride.
Satisfied, Michael changed the subject. ‘Where is he hiding today?’
Raj knew immediately to whom Michael referred. ‘I am not knowing, Master Michael.’
Michael frowned at him. The Indian was lying.
Raj let him sweat a bit before adding, ‘But I would take care once you are through the cane.’
Michael thumped Raj’s bony arm. ‘Thank you, Raj.’ He said goodbye and raced off up the road, suddenly anxious to get out of the regimented fields and onto his favourite part of the farm.
As sugar farms went, UBejane was large. The flat belt of land which ran parallel to the coast road, nearly 1600 acres, was planted with cane. Behind the cane, where the land rose and became hilly, a further 800 acres had been left uncultivated for cattle. Michael’s grandfather had anticipated the demand for sugar but he had been a cattle man at heart and could not bear to be without his herd. Joe King had seen no reason to change. UBejane, as a result, had emerged as a meshing of many different cultures.
Indian sirdars were responsible for transporting the cut sugar cane. They laid the portable lines upon which the mule-drawn trucks hauled it to the main rail terminal. Here the cane was transferred to larger wagons and railed to Empangeni Mill.
Their wives, or ‘Toght labour’ as they were called, weeded – a job which required constant diligence until the canopy of cane covered one hundred per cent of the ground. It was backbreaking work which they did uncomplainingly. The Indians had been imported into South Africa specifically for work in the cane fields and they worked willingly, grateful they had a roof over their heads and food on their tables – neither a foregone conclusion in their country of birth.
The hardest work of all, the actual cane cutting, was done by migrant Pondo labourers who came up on one-year contracts from down south. Once a contract was over, they returned to their families and a new crew of workers would arrive.
A few Indians held under-management positions, supervising the labourers. Raj was the only Indian on the farm who was considered to be a manager. He had come to UBejane many years before and old man King had been impressed by his intelligence and willingness to learn. Slowly, he had worked his way up to his current position. But while Indians and Pondos concentrated on the sugar side, their responsibilities did not extend to the livestock. Zulus worked with the cattle, refusing to have anything to do with the Indians, the Pondos or the sugar.
A dour old Scotsman, known to all and sundry as Mac, ran the workshop, taking orders from no-one. He was a mechanical genius and extremely useful with his hands, and could fix anything from Claire’s Singer sewing machine to the most complicated piece of farm equipment. He had miraculously survived twenty-six years of old man King’s acerbic tongue and was unquestionably a law unto himself. Joe King had no quarrel with that. When he became owner of UBejane he had been quick to make sure Mac would stay on.
‘Aye,’ Mac had said. ‘But if ye come snooping aboot ma workshop I’ll kick your bloody arse so fast you’ll no ken what hit ye.’
‘Deal,’ Joe had said, sticking out his hand. ‘On one condition.’
‘And what would that be?’ Mac ignored Joe’s hand and scowled ferociously.
‘Stay away from the whisky.’
Mac’s scowl had deepened. ‘I dinna drink whisky, you young pup, I drink scotch, and ye’ll no be finding it on ma breath except Sundays and Sundays will no be any of your business.’
The two men had shaken hands. Joe kept his distance from Mac’s workshop and, for his part, Mac mainly remained sober from Monday to Saturday.
When Joe had gone off to the war in Europe, Mac displayed an uncharacteristic soft spot for Michael and seemed to welcome his company. Claire often wondered about her son’s upbringing. When he wasn’t listening to Raj’s more bizarre advice his head was being filled by Mac’s equally dogmatic ramblings which seemed to draw freely on old Gaelic superstitions. ‘Mac’s magic’ she called it one day when Michael placed a cork on her badly cramped leg and the tension went away immediately. Another time, when Claire could not stop hiccuping, Michael asked, ‘Have you seen a white horse today?’ She had to think for a second but that was all it took for her hiccups to disappear. Hoping none of this would adversely affect her son’s development, Claire left Michael to seek the company of anyone he chose, only stepping in if she felt it really important.
Michael emerged from the cane and stood leaning on a wide wooden gate. Ahead of him, stretching away towards the hills, cattle grazed the lush grass. The farm road lost its grid pattern, climbing through flat-topped acacia trees and outcrops of rock. He scanned the way ahead carefully. From here he could see the house, snug in its enveloping protection of trees, sitting solid halfway up the hill. There was smoke rising lazily from the Zulu compound and, away to the left, the Indian barracks sprawled untidily over an area of almost ten acres.
Beyond the compound and barracks, isolated in an area where no-one cared to visit, was the row of huts for the Pondos. Built from flimsy wood of the kind used to make packing cases, and protected by thatch overhead, at the end of each one-year contract period the huts were burned to the ground. It was the only way to get rid of the accumulated vermin and filth. As hard as everybody tried to make them understand it, the inhabitants, year after year, seemed unable to comprehend the need for cleanliness. Screened behind bushes, the area remained a mystery to Michael. It was the only part of the farm he was forbidden to visit but having contact with the Pondos as they worked in the fields was enough. Silent, sullen and unhygienic in every respect, Michael had no desire to visit their quarters.
‘Where is he?’ Michael muttered, his eyes slitted like he’d seen Mac doing when he was concentrating hard. Dyson could be anywhere.
The road ran between two massive boulders. They would bear investigation. Between the gate and the rocks, a dry creek ran alongside the left of the road. Michael climbed over the gate, lined himself up with where the gully ended at a culvert, then made a mad dash across open ground and jumped down to the sandy bottom of the creek bed. From here to the rocks at least, he was safe. Crouching low, he ran, carefully avoiding twigs and leaves. He reached the outcrop of rock and cautiously sidled around the first. Nothing. Now to investigate the other side. He had no choice but to cross the open ground ahead. Taking a deep breath, Michael stepped on to the road.
Dyson Mpande grinned. He was observing Michael’s progress from the top of the boulder on the right. Flat on his stomach now, he had spent the last half hour in an overhanging tree, tying the lower branches together so that, from the cane fields, they screened the top of the rock. He was gambling that Michael would not notice, and he hadn’t. It was getting increasingly difficult to take Michael by surprise so Dyson had found it necessary to become ever more cunning. Now, as Michael moved directly beneath him, Dyson launched himself, screaming like a banshee, straight on to the back of his friend. Both boys rolled together on the dusty road. Whoever managed to straddle the other won the game.
‘I am Mhlathuze, the forceful one,’ Dyson taunted, laughing, as he pushed Michael down and tried to hold him, his mouth stretched open with effort revealing the gap where four milk teeth had recently fallen out, leaving a thin, uneven white line as their replacements erupted through the gum.
‘I am iNdlovu, the elephant,’ Michael panted in Zulu, rolling sideways so Dyson fell on his side and had to scramble away quickly before their positions were reversed.
The two boys grappled with each other, half serious, half in fun, as the game of strength was played. They were friends, close friends, and they would not hurt each other, but honour was at stake.
Michael, with the advantage of being nearly a year older, won the contest. Dyson took it in good spirit. ‘One day, Nkawu,’ he said, using Michael’s nickname, monkey, ‘I will catch you. You will not always be able to beat me.’ He was brushing dust off his shorts as he spoke.
Michael threw his arm aro
und Dyson’s shoulders, grinning. ‘That is the day I will wear the modesty skirt.’
Both boys giggled.
Dyson looked at Michael’s dusty school uniform. ‘Your mother will beat you.’
‘My mother never beats me.’
‘Well, she’ll beat you today.’
‘Nah!’ Michael was unconcerned. He would sneak into the house and give his uniform to Bessie, the Zulu maid. It would be washed, dry, ironed and back in his room by morning.
‘How was the school today?’ Dyson did not yet go to school, it was the only thing the two boys could not share. A school for African children had been built in Empangeni but it had been overwhelmed with applications. New classrooms were being erected. Until they were finished, Dyson had to wait.
‘I learned a new sum.’ Michael squatted and drew it in the dirt with his finger.
Dyson studied it. ‘How does this work?’
‘It’s called long division. See, if you have to divide it by more than twelve it’s called long division. This is how it’s done.’ Michael showed Dyson how to do the sum.
Dyson picked it up quickly. Since Michael had been going to school he had passed on his lessons to Dyson in this fashion. Every afternoon, as soon as he alighted from the school cart, Michael would go on to red alert for Dyson. The long walk had any number of places where his friend could hide. They would pretend that Michael was a brave elephant hunter and Dyson a fearless Zulu warrior and that they were enemies who had sworn to kill each other. The tension leading up to the ambush was very real to both boys, dissipating immediately afterwards. Then Michael would show Dyson what he had learned.
‘I have written down my arithmetic homework for you. It is all long division. Bring it tomorrow and see if your answers are the same as mine.’
Dyson took the sheet. ‘What else did you learn?’
Michael pulled a face. ‘History.’
‘Pah! I do not need your history, I have my own.’
‘Spelling,’ Michael offered. ‘Here is the sheet. I will test you on Saturday.’
‘And I will test you also, Nkawu.’
Michael turned and squinted towards the compound where Dyson lived. It was like a traditional Zulu village with beehive-shaped huts covered with plaited grass. Most had no windows and the doors were a low arch that required all but the tiniest tot to bend in order to get through. Cooking was generally done outside and each dwelling had its own cooking fire within a circle of stones. The cattle kraals were a short distance away. His grandfather had been fond of quoting Mpande, the third Zulu king who, much to Michael’s fascination was an ancestor of Dyson’s: ‘You cannot rule a Zulu without killing him.’ Michael had always taken this literally and could never understand why anyone would wish to rule a dead person, especially since his grandfather usually went on to say, ‘The way forward for the Zulu is backwards.’ However, he was glad that the Zulus on UBejane lived according to their traditions. It seemed to make them happy and that was all Michael cared about.
Michael loved the compound and the pungent smell of the cooking fires. He loved to sit around the fire and share food with Dyson and his mother, to talk only in Zulu with them and the others. He was equally at home with these Africans as he was with his mother, aunts and cousins. In their openhearted, hospitable way, the Zulus at UBejane accepted Michael as their equal, an honour indeed if only he had thought about it and one with certain obligations on Michael’s part. Not that anything was onerous or difficult to learn. Michael accepted the Zulu ways as easily as he accepted his own. The twin cultures, though poles apart, were part of his upbringing. Moving automatically to the right-hand side of a hut, the men’s side, if bad weather forced them to eat inside was as natural to Michael as using the correct utensils when he ate at home. He spoke Zulu as well as Dyson, mastering the language before he was fluent in English. He was also responsible for Dyson’s grasp of English, correcting his pronunciation and grammar so that, for a rural farm boy, Dyson’s English was only slightly accented and unusually articulate.
When they were together, Michael and Dyson spoke a mixture of English and Zulu, sometimes switching from one language to the other in mid-sentence. The friendship may have been born out of loneliness but, despite Michael now going to school and mixing with others, it continued as strongly as ever. They were best friends, confidants and, the fact that neither of their fathers had yet returned from the war, bonded them even closer. It was often a subject of discussion between them.
They started walking towards the fork in the road, the right of which led to the Zulu compound, the left to the main house. Where the road split, they stopped. Michael picked up a stone and shied it back the way they’d come, startling a family of francolin out of their cover. ‘My mother thinks Dad will be home soon.’ He watched the scurrying red-beaked birds calling out their harsh cry of alarm to each other then turned back to Dyson. ‘I wonder what it will be like. You know, to have a father.’
Dyson sent a stone spinning away after Michael’s. ‘I do not know. It will be strange perhaps.’
‘Yes,’ Michael agreed, ‘but it will be good too.’
They talked about it for some time, each boy drawing on their imagination as best he could. The prospect excited both of them yet it was scary as well. Fifteen minutes later they said goodbye and parted. As he trudged the last 500 metres to his house, Michael wondered what his father’s return would really mean. Aside from Raj and Mac, who provided guidance in their own fields and in their own peculiar ways, he had grown up in the company of his mother, and, to a lesser extent, Bessie. His mother was very special and he loved her deeply. The way she looked, smelled, dressed and even spoke were, to Michael, a source of constant delight. He looked forward to the moment when, just before she went to bed, she would look in on him, bending to kiss his hair, thinking he was asleep. Michael never went to sleep until she had done that. While she was the voice of authority in his life, she was still the comfort zone. There was always an extra sense of wellbeing whenever they were together, a feeling that, whatever happened, it would be all right as long as she were there.
Michael had no real memory of his father. He suspected that the man he called Dad actually had little to do with him before the war took him away. His mother once remarked that farming was a very busy way of life but now that he was older, when his father returned, Michael could help more and they could get to know each other. It was that comment which stayed with Michael, that and the vaguest recollection of fear, or something close to it – apprehension, a need for caution. He could not remember.
His father was a sepia image in a photograph, a laughing, good-looking man, white teeth and dark eyes flashing, thick black hair that curled forward over his forehead, a thatch of dark hair on his powerful chest. Michael tried to emulate the man in the photograph but, for starters, he had his mother’s colouring. The buccaneer good looks of his father were beyond him. Sometimes, when he and Dyson played, Michael would smear mud over his blonde hair, pretending to be dark like his father. In other ways too, Michael felt he could never measure up. He was tall for his age and slender. He believed he would never be muscular. His eyes were blue and he had his mother’s Grecian nose, or he would have when he matured, that’s what they all said. Michael didn’t quite know what it meant but he had no-one with whom he could discuss these things.
Michael’s teacher was a woman. Two of his uncles didn’t return from the war. The one who did was in a wheelchair, both legs missing. He rarely spoke. Michael would never discuss his physique with his mother or aunts. The mere idea of doing so made him blush with embarrassment. His cousins, male and female, were of a similar age to himself, give or take a few years, and not worldly enough to advise him. And anyway, under the circumstances, Michael couldn’t have asked them. Six of them no longer had a father and two had only half a father. His best friend, Dyson, was hopeless. But then, Dyson’s mother said that Dyson was the image of his father so he had no need to worry. They did talk about it once. Dyso
n’s, ‘Why don’t you just wait and see,’ hadn’t been much help and Michael never mentioned it to him again.
He also hesitated to ask Raj or Mac. Raj, he knew, would have quoted Indian gods. He always did that. He’d relate some story about an elephant-man or a swan-girl and end up saying how the gods know best so it would not be a good idea to question their will. As for Mac, he got all soft in the eyes over Claire King and Michael knew that Mac wouldn’t understand why he wanted to look more like his father.
He was nearly at the house. A sprawling, one-storeyed building, lime washed white, its dark green corrugated-iron roof sitting low over a deep, paved verandah which ran around three sides. Two Zulu women, working full-time, kept the sprawling two-acre garden immaculate. Shrubs of all description assured vibrant colours all year round. Beds of annuals were specially cultivated for the house. The hedge-hidden vegetable garden was an oasis of succulent treasures through which Michael would prowl, munching on raw peas, beans and anything else that took his fancy. Another favourite destination when he felt peckish was the orchard. Everything grew there, bananas, pawpaw, oranges, peaches, guavas, granadillas, avocados, all his favourites. Planted strategically around the house, mature flamboyants, jacaranda and cassia added more colour, their spent flowers carpeting the lawns before they came into leaf to provide welcome relief from the merciless Zululand sun.
Michael closed the gate, imagining the swimming pool his mother said they might put in when his father came back. Michael hoped they would. Although the sea wasn’t far, it was still a long hot walk. He cut across the lawn, jumping a bed of phlox. His mother would be in the office, just off the lounge on the far side of the house. The dogs – two large German shepherds and a ratty-looking little wire-haired terrier that his mother said looked like an animated dishrag but which was the only one allowed inside – would be snoozing outside on the verandah. If he could make it to the kitchen without alerting them, he was home and dry, his dusty condition, as usual, a secret between him and Bessie. Michael skirted the near side of the house, making for the kitchen door. As he drew closer, delicious smells wafted to him, making his mouth water. Roast chicken, freshly baked bread and the unmistakeable vanilla and cinnamon scent of bread-and-butter pudding. Like any other growing boy, he was perpetually hungry.
People of Heaven Page 5
