‘Then forget it,’ she shot back, angry herself. ‘Do yourself a favour and go on holiday for a while. I can handle things perfectly well.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll leave tomorrow.’
‘Fine. And, Michael, don’t come back until you get this nonsense out of your head.’
Michael knew they would never speak of it again. Not ever.
Before leaving the farm he had to say goodbye to Dyson. The look on his friend’s face told him that news of Tessa and the fight had already spread.
‘My bag is packed,’ Dyson said matter-of-factly. ‘I am coming with you.’
‘You can’t.’ Michael was just as pragmatic. ‘You’re black.’
Dyson threw his bag into the Land Rover. ‘I thought we could try Umfolozi. The Parks Board is always looking for experienced rangers and trackers.’ He got in next to Michael.
Michael rested both arms on the steering wheel and looked at Dyson. ‘You couldn’t track an elephant across ice-cream.’
‘I know that.’
‘You couldn’t tell a rhino from a hippo.’
‘This thing is true.’ Dyson was staring dead ahead.
‘You couldn’t . . . Christ, Dyson, you’re scared of lions.’
‘So?’
The crushing weight of shock was lifting. It felt good that his oldest friend wanted to come with him. ‘So,’ Michael said, grinning. ‘That makes two of us. We’ll just have to convince someone otherwise.’
‘I’ll leave that to you,’ Dyson said comfortably. ‘You’re the white man.’
The memory was still so vivid, especially when he received letters like this. Until now he had not been able to confront the reality of that day, even from a distance. Michael drained his beer. ‘Maybe it’s time I went home.’ For the first time in three years, it was an appealing thought.
He picked up the letter again. Claire never once so much as hinted that Michael should return. So why was he suddenly filled with guilt? ‘Hell,’ he thought. ‘I’m nearly twenty-three, the project is broke and likely to collapse, and yes, I miss UBejane. It’s time I pulled my fucking head out of the sand and got moving. If Tessa is still playing up she can bloody-well go to a convent.’
Michael found some shorts, pulled them on and set off to find Dyson. The two of them made their way down to the river where, on a flat rock shaded by trees, with the muddy water rolling slowly past, they had more than once rearranged all that was wrong with the world.
‘I think it’s time I went home for a while.’
Dyson smiled. ‘Good. I miss my family.’
Michael threw him a sour look. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Tessa?’ Dyson inquired. He and Michael had never discussed that day.
‘Yeah. She’s giving Mum a hard time.’
‘Fourteen isn’t she? Same as Jackson. He’s got my parents worried sick. He’s running with a bad crowd.’
‘Okay.’ Michael squinted away up the river. ‘I’ll hand in my notice on Friday.’
‘What about your work here?’
‘What about it? It’s all but finished. There’s no more money.’
‘So when do we leave?’
‘You don’t have to leave.’
Dyson simply looked at him.
‘You’re right. You have to leave.’
‘When?’ Dyson repeated.
‘I imagine the sooner the better. End of the month. The project virtually died with that cow.’
‘There are other rhino in the reserve.’
Michael sighed. ‘Sure. And if we let them out to breed they’ll be poached. The new fences won’t be finished for two years and anyway, the bastards will cut their way through just as easily. I’m supposed to be saving the black rhino from extinction and I can’t even provide a habitat they’ll breed in. It’s a farce.’
‘What about suggesting a bigger security area?’
‘I can just see the response to that. The trouble always comes back to our lack of funds. The government wants it to be seen that they’re doing something but they sure as hell aren’t prepared to spend the money on it.’ Michael stared glumly at Dyson. ‘How much worse does the situation have to become before they take this seriously?’
‘You did your best.’ Dyson was pragmatic. ‘There’ll be other projects.’
‘Then they’d better get a bloody wriggle on. There won’t be any black rhino left soon.’
Dyson picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river. ‘That is not what troubles you.’
‘No,’ Michael admitted. ‘It’s my wonderful, happy family.’
‘Go back and try it. Your father might have changed.’
‘Yeah! And the leopard loses its spots. Some hope.’
There was no arguing with Michael. Dyson switched subjects and languages. ‘The one with hair that shines like the moon, does the hlobonga progress?’
Despite his mood, Michael punched Dyson’s arm lightly and laughed. ‘White women do not practise hlobonga.’
Dyson knew this already but pretended to be shocked. ‘Hau! The white woman lets you go all the way, as if she is your wife?’
‘All the way or none of the way. No middle ground.’
‘And on which side of the middle ground do you stand?’
Michael grinned. ‘What about your meetings?’ He changed the subject suddenly.
‘What meetings?’
‘Come on, Dyson. The ones you go to twice a month. Do you think I don’t know about them?’
‘I do not,’ Dyson said seriously, ‘know what you’re talking about.’
Michael leaned towards him. ‘Oh yes you do. You know exactly what I’m saying.’ He placed a hand on Dyson’s arm. ‘Be careful, my friend. It’s easy enough out here but if you join a group in Empangeni the police will know.’
Dyson gently shook off Michael’s hand and eased to his feet. ‘Do not worry about me, Nkawu, I do what I must but I am always careful.’
Michael rose too. ‘You are playing with fire. The African National Congress and the Pan African Congress have been banned organisations ever since the State of Emergency was declared after Sharpeville.’
‘I am not a member of either,’ Dyson said softly.
‘Aren’t you? Way I hear it, they’ve branched out, introduced more radical groups,’ Michael replied. ‘Some of them are pretty hairy.’
They started walking back to the compound. ‘You’re not into anything violent are you?’ Michael asked.
Dyson stopped. ‘What are you worried about?’
Michael thought before saying, ‘Look, if you try to free yourselves with violence, how then do you ensure that it doesn’t turn back on you? Apartheid cannot last. Economic sanctions must come soon. Be patient.’
Dyson gave a cynical laugh. ‘Then why are there are no signs of it? For how long must we suffer?’
‘All I’m saying is be careful. If you are arrested no-one can help.’
‘I know.’ Dyson started walking again. ‘And it is as I said. I am always careful.’
Michael knew he could not change Dyson’s mind. He just hoped that his friend would not come to the attention of the Security Police. Sharpeville should have chastened the South African police. It had been a disgrace. Sixty-nine people, including women and children, dead. Most of them had been shot in the back as they fled a hail of bullets outside the police station. Instead of being embarrassed, the police later went to the hospital where some 150 people were being treated for a variety of wounds and arrested all of them. The police, presumably with Pretoria’s backing, seemed to be out of control.
They parted at the camp. Michael went in search of the one with hair that shines like the moon. She was the daughter of a senior ranger, twenty years old, very attractive. She was killing time until she went overseas. She wanted no involvement, lusting after life and Michael’s body in that order. She suited Michael admirably.
SEVEN
Two weeks later, on a Sunday, they drove through the gates of UBejane
Estate.
‘Told you,’ Dyson said, when Michael commented on how good the farm looked. Dyson had been back on a number of occasions during the past three years. ‘This place runs itself.’
‘Just as well,’ Michael observed dryly.
Dyson made no comment. He was too busy being pleased to be back.
Michael’s keen eyes took in everything. The dirt roads were well maintained, their grassy verges recently cut. The gate between the cane lands and open cattle pasture had been replaced by a grid. There were new plantings, wide irrigation channels with gate weirs to control water flow, huge Rain King gantries for overhead irrigation. In the distance, the house looked as though it had been repainted. Michael had been uncertain about coming home but it sure felt good to be here.
Before resigning his job with the Parks Board, Michael had considered the possibility of specialising in wildlife management. It would mean furthering his education – a university degree most probably – and he was prepared to do that. He spent an interesting couple of days weighing up the pros and cons of two very different lifestyles. It was an important time, the rest of his life would depend on this decision. The idea of game conservation was certainly tempting. He enjoyed the work and believed in its importance.
However, two things decided him to return home. It was not difficult to see that South Africa was heading for trouble. There was no way the country’s majority would continue to accept rule by a white minority. The government was crazy if it thought it could continue to act solely for the benefit of the white population. If they’d gone about things in a different way . . . but they hadn’t. World pressure for change had been ignored. Unrest was coming, it was inevitable. When that happened, the already dwindling funds for wildlife projects would, more than likely, dry up completely. The other deciding factor was simply the lure of working for himself, taking decisions, acting on them and standing or falling by them.
Claire had turned UBejane into a company. She held fifty-five per cent of the shares, the bank five per cent and each child ten per cent. Joe King was a director, as was Michael, his mother holding a proxy on his behalf. The twins and Gregor would probably be invited to join the board when they turned twenty-one. Michael knew the girls had no interest in sugar cane or cattle. Tessa would probably head for the bright lights just as soon as she could. Sally had only one burning ambition. To become a ballet dancer. As for Gregor, he was too young to know what he wanted. He still had ten years of schooling ahead of him and, according to Claire’s letters, preferred to spend his time listening to radio plays or reading rather than learning about the farm.
It could be a good life and, if Joe King kept out of the way, an enjoyable one.
Michael turned onto the road that led to the African compound and Dyson directed him to his parents’ neat brick house which had been built for them two years earlier. The compound was unrecognisable. Gone were the beehive huts and kraal walls of neatly woven sapling sticks. Gone were the traditional cooking fires and woven grass grain stores. The only thing left was a central meeting place but even that, surrounded as it was by wooden benches, had lost its traditional appearance. The compound now resembled the Indian barracks and Michael wondered aloud if the Zulus preferred it.
‘Of course,’ Dyson said, surprised by the question. ‘Why wouldn’t they? It’s more comfortable.’
‘Okay. I’m just old fashioned, I guess. I liked the compound as it was.’
‘You, my friend, didn’t have to live in it.’
‘Was it that bad?’
Dyson laughed at the wistfulness in Michael’s voice. ‘No. We miss some of it too.’
‘Progress!’ They said it in unison, and Dyson added, ‘A necessary step forward is not necessarily a step forward.’
Michael grinned. Dyson was fond of such expressions.
‘There is my father.’ Wilson had emerged from his house at the sound of the vehicle.
Michael pulled up and watched, smiling, as Dyson and his father greeted each other. Wilson Mpande approached the vehicle. ‘I see you, Nkosi.’
Michael laughed as he got out of the Land Rover to greet the farm’s induna. ‘Do not call me Nkosi. I am neither a chief nor a king.’
‘Not in your heart perhaps, Master Michael, but in ours you are chief of UBejane.’
‘I’m back to stay,’ Michael told him. ‘Let me at least earn the title.’
Wilson nodded in approval. ‘That day will come soon enough, Nkosi. Spare us the inconvenience of two names.’ His eyes twinkled as he turned back to Dyson. ‘And you, my son. Do you also return to this place?’
Dyson’s eyes found a point on the ground. ‘For the moment, Father.’
Wilson pressed his lips together, then said briefly, ‘We will speak of it later.’ He looked over at Michael. ‘Would you care to inspect your cattle, Nkosi?’
Through the formality, Michael detected pride. Wilson loved the cattle on UBejane as passionately as he loved his own. ‘My cattle are in the hands of one who treats them as his own. I would not insult that man by rushing to check on his work. It is true, I am anxious to examine the cattle but I am also impatient to greet my mother. I would prefer to wait until tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Nkosi,’ Wilson said warmly. ‘Will you take some beer with us?’
‘Another time, Wilson, it would be a pleasure.’
‘Quite so. Your mother has waited long enough.’
A tall young man walked up to Dyson and greeted him with very little enthusiasm. Dyson, on the other hand, was delighted. ‘See,’ he said to Michael. ‘See how my brother has grown.’
Michael looked at the powerfully built Zulu who stared back at him with an almost blank expression in his eyes. ‘Jackson? Look at you! You are a man now.’ The boy must have been the same age as the twins but, in the three years since Michael had last seen him, he had grown from a pot-bellied child into a strapping teenager. He held out his hand in greeting.
‘Time does not stand still to await your return,’ Jackson said coldly, ignoring Michael’s outstretched hand.
Michael remembered that he had never been able to get close to Dyson’s brother. ‘That is true. I must hasten home before my sisters turn into old women.’
Dyson and his father laughed. Jackson did not. He looked Michael up and down insultingly then turned and sauntered off.
‘I must teach my young brother some manners,’ Dyson said quickly, trying to disguise his embarrassment.
Michael clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Your brother’s hot-blooded and proud. A true Zulu. Surely that is no shame. Don’t be too hard on him, my friend.’
But he saw the worry in Wilson’s eyes as they followed Jackson’s departing back.
When Michael left home, Gregor had been a small boy of five. The rangy, barefoot youngster who swung off the verandah to greet him was not the brother Michael remembered. He had been something of a sickly child. Now he was the picture of health. Dark blonde hair hung down over his eyes, his lithe body tanned, sturdy arms and legs fleshed out. Michael went to pick him up, thought better of it and held out a hand instead. Gregor responded by flinging himself at Michael, wrapping both arms around his older brother’s waist. ‘I knew it was you, I just knew it.’
‘Ho, little brother. I see a man must not stay away too long. You are growing so fast I hardly recognised you.’
Gregor smiled happily at the compliment. With no father figure in his life, Michael was the substitute Gregor had always looked up to and tried to please. ‘Have you come home for good?’
‘Depends. I hope so.’
The look on Gregor’s face told Michael that his brother knew what Michael had meant. He would stay as long as he could stand his father.
The screen door banged and Claire King came out onto the verandah. ‘Michael! I don’t believe it! What a wonderful surprise. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’
Michael jumped the steps and hugged his mother. Holding her shoulders he looked closely at her. She had a
ged. Calm grey eyes smiled a warm welcome but in their depths he also saw a great sense of relief. ‘How long can you stay?’
‘I’m back for good if that’s okay with you.’
‘About time too,’ she said briskly.
Although Claire’s manner was matter-of-fact, Michael could see how pleased she really was. His mother had carried the responsibility of UBejane for over twenty years. Fine lines had appeared around her eyes and mouth. She looked tired. ‘Have you got glasses yet?’
Claire laughed. ‘Not yet. I must do something about it now you’re back.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘Sally is over at Kingsway. Tessa spent last night with a school friend in Empangeni. They’ll both be back this evening.’
Michael looked for some clue, any innuendo in his mother’s words, but found none. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing them,’ he said.
‘Sally will be overjoyed,’ Claire added, giving Michael the hint he sought.
‘Good.’ Michael braced himself. ‘And Joe?’
Gregor answered with the succinctness of one who has run out of patience. ‘Pissed, no doubt. Probably entertaining his latest. She’s black.’
‘Gregor!’ Claire admonished, but not very vehemently.
‘Some things never change,’ Michael remarked. It came as no surprise. In the past he had often wished that Joe would get caught with one of his African women. It was a crime for which he might be sent to prison. Then again, who would know? Being a member of the elite white club might simply mean a slap on the wrist while the unfortunate woman paid the more severe price.
‘Come inside,’ Claire said. ‘Tea should be ready.’
‘I’ll get my things. Which room?’
‘Same one,’ she smiled. ‘It’s just as you left it.’
As he unpacked, Michael’s thoughts wandered. His mother’s outward tranquillity was a rare gift and one she had come to master. Whether out of necessity or she had been born that way he wasn’t sure, but he was glad she had it. A more emotional woman would have gone to the wall years ago. The way his mother coped with unpleasantness was to pretend it didn’t exist. For years she had acted as though Joe simply wasn’t there. On those rare occasions when she absolutely had to speak to him, drunk or sober, Joe received nothing but polite indifference from Claire. Her letters made it seem that she was doing the same thing with Tessa, ignoring the truth and acting as though all was well with the girl. Michael had never decided if his mother was weak or incredibly strong. Could she possibly be as serene as her outward manner suggested, or did unspoken anxieties churn inside, invading each and every day of her life?
People of Heaven Page 17
