People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  Annie Lewis grinned at him. ‘Good. I’m glad you said that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you hadn’t, I would have. I agree. I rather got the feeling yesterday that I was watching a very good play.’

  ‘We’ve all had enough.’

  ‘It can’t be easy, I understand that. But she needs help.’

  ‘She needs controlling.’

  Annie shook her head and curls flew. Michael watched them, fascinated. But her words made him question her experience. ‘If you try to control Tessa she’ll react badly. She’s like a time bomb. She has to be steered towards self-control. Don’t you see, Michael? Tessa needs care, not banishment. And you, of all your family, are the one who needs to care most.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Believe it or not, she respects you.’

  Michael gave a short laugh. ‘Tessa doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’

  Annie ignored the interruption. ‘You are the father-figure, the one she needs approval from. I gather her real father had a drink problem. Tessa needs to have a man in her life, someone she can look up to.’

  Michael rose and glared at Annie Lewis. ‘Tessa needs a man in her life all right. You haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. She’s off to a convent where there isn’t a bloody man in sight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a funeral to arrange.’

  ‘Wait.’ Annie rose as well. ‘All I’m asking is for more time. I can help her, I know I can but, before that, I need to break through the fact that she’s using her father’s death as an excuse.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘No more time, no more consultations. She’s off to a convent before she brings disgrace to the entire family. As you pointed out, doctor, she’s under age and has some kind of fascination for Africans. A lethal combination in this country, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Stop being so bloody moralistic. It doesn’t help at all. Surely you can see that a girl as young as Tessa who deliberately goes out of her way to break the rules is crying out for attention.’

  Michael had had enough. ‘Where do you get this stuff, Dr Lewis? Anyone with half a brain could see that Tessa is simply obsessed with sex.’

  Annie reached out and angrily snatched up her cigarettes. ‘Bugger off then. I can see it’s useless trying to appeal to your better judgment.’ She lit one. ‘God help your sister and God help the rest of you when she turns eighteen.’ She waved her hand impatiently. ‘Go on then, go and arrange your bloody funeral.’

  Michael left her office without another word.

  Annie sank down in her chair staring at the space he’d left. ‘You fool, Lewis. You damned fool. You could see he was anti the moment he walked in. You were supposed to get his confidence, not get his back up.’

  They came from miles around for Joe King’s funeral, a tight-knit community who had only one thing in common – sugar. Some came to socialise, others out of curiosity, even those with no other reason than a day off work. Two separate individuals took Claire to one side and made an offer on the estate. Both said virtually the same things: ‘Quick sale, get it off your back, fresh start, I’ll give you a fair price, no need to go through the agents, you can trust me.’ To each of them Claire smiled vaguely and said, ‘I’ll let you know.’

  The service had been held in Empangeni. Afterwards, everybody made their way to UBejane where Joe was the first and last King to be buried in a family plot, which he’d established a few years earlier in one of his more maudlin moods. A lonely cadaver on a lonely hill in a lonely land. No-one cared. Looking around at the assembled throng of people on the lawn in front of the house, Michael wondered just how many had actually come to mourn. Sober for a change, one of Joe’s drinking buddies wiped the back of his hand across his eyes once or twice. A cousin cried copiously. Michael discounted her. She also wept at weddings. Sally shed a couple of tears, not from grief but from pity.

  Guests were standing in groups, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. ‘Quite a party,’ Michael thought. Thanks, Joe King. Great piss-up. I’m sure you would approve.

  A stunningly beautiful girl with a natural blonde bob, hazel eyes, lightly tanned skin and a figure that turned men’s heads, irrespective of their age, made her way through the crowds seeking out Michael. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quietly.

  He couldn’t place her and it showed.

  ‘Last time I saw you we had a kind of fight.’ She smiled. ‘You had a bee in your bonnet over something.’

  ‘Jennifer! Jeez! Look . . . I’m sorry.’ Michael ran a hand through his hair, distracted. ‘You look wonderful.’ Three years ago she’d still carried a little puppy fat and worn her hair in a ponytail. The way it was cut now did stunning things to her cheekbones and gave her a sophistication far removed from the teenager he remembered. ‘I was going to call your parents, find out how I could contact you.’

  ‘I heard you were back.’

  ‘Jen. I’m sorry. That last time I saw you . . . Well, I had some things on my mind.’

  She smiled slightly. ‘You’re forgiven.’

  ‘How’s Varsity? Zoology, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Still is.’

  She had an economic way with words which he liked. ‘Not finished yet?’

  ‘Not quite. Just over a year to go.’

  ‘You didn’t come home just for this?’ Michael waved a hand towards the assembled throng.

  When she shook her head, sunlight shimmered, like spun gold, through her hair as it bounced around her face. ‘I’m on study leave.’

  ‘Here for long?’

  ‘Another month.’

  ‘We should get together, catch up on old times.’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Her eyes were steady, looking directly into his.

  Michael took the plunge. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She came straight out with it. No stalling, no pretence that the question needed thinking about.

  ‘My cousin’s having a birthday party at Kingsway. Like to come?’

  ‘Love to.’

  ‘Pick you up around eight, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘It’s casual.’

  She had seen someone in the crowd. ‘Excuse me, Michael. There’s my aunt. I must speak to her or she’ll never forgive me.’ A quick smile and Jennifer was gone.

  Michael watched her go. He watched the way her straight black skirt fitted perfectly over jutting buttocks, how the split at the back exposed long and lovely legs. He watched the way she held her shoulders, the way her hips swayed, ever so slightly, as she walked. She was tall, nearly as tall as Michael. She walked with a long, slow stride, her almost feline grace reminding him of a stalking leopard. She managed to convey both friendly charm and a natural reserve, though Michael sensed that a man lucky enough to push the right buttons would end up with an armful of smouldering passion. He watched the look in other men’s eyes as she passed. ‘Wow!’ he muttered.

  The afternoon passed into evening and suddenly Jennifer was gone. When she kissed him on the cheek in a brief goodbye he couldn’t help but notice her perfume, woody and natural, with a touch of spice. It was perfect for her.

  Tessa had attended the funeral but baulked at the wake. ‘All those boring people.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll stay in my room.’

  Much to Tessa’s surprise, Claire had said, ‘Fine,’ and left it at that.

  As the noise swelled from the lawn outside she knew her mother and Michael would be busy. She intended sneaking out to find Jackson. But, when she tried her door she found it had been locked from the other side. On the French doors, a padlock dangled from the normally open hasp and staple security latch. The windows too had been modified, blocked so they could only open a fraction.

  ‘They can’t do this,’ she raged. ‘It’s barbaric. It’s . . . illegal.’ She was frightened. Everything had gone wrong. The day after Michael found Jackson in her room Claire informed Tessa that she had been booked into a convent near Durb
an. Michael would take her down two days after the funeral. Tessa had wept, begged, made promises she would never keep. Her mother remained unmoved and stubbornly determined.

  Tessa decided to run away with Jackson. Typically, she gave no thought to the impracticalities of the idea, nor did she consider the possibility that Jackson would refuse. She had planned to tell him during the wake for her father. Before then it had been impossible. Someone was always there watching her like a hawk – her mother, Michael, even Bessie.

  And now she was locked in. ‘God,’ she cried silently. ‘Don’t let them send me away.’ But Tessa knew she would have to go. Michael would give her no opportunity to run away.

  The prospect was terrifying. She’d heard of the strict discipline, the rigid rules, the reputed cruelty of the nuns. To Tessa, the thought of living like that was worse than death. She was a free spirit and should be allowed to remain as such. Locked away in a convent she would surely die. Tessa had already made up her mind. If she could not avoid going, she would be so disruptive they would have no alternative but to send her home.

  Still she was petrified. To one so self-indulgent and undisciplined, the spectre of convent life brought visions of nothing but misery. Not to see Jackson, do the things she craved with him, how could she bear it? Feminine company had never made her comfortable, women and girls were boring, they lacked challenge. And now she was going to live with nothing else.

  Locked in her room, Tessa sobbed out her fear and frustration.

  Outside, Claire, Michael, Sally, even Gregor, were going through the motions. The one remaining King brother, Colin, sat silent and staring in his wheelchair, only saying, ‘Thank you,’ whenever condolences were expressed.

  Raj and Balram had attended the burial only, citing pressure of work as a reason not to stay for the wake. Michael suspected that the old Sikh and his son were relieved to see the end of Joe. While prepared to pay their respects, they would not be hypocritical enough to stay for the wake and pretend to be sorry.

  Likewise the Zulus. Dyson, knowing full well the extent of Michael’s hatred for Joe, simply clasped his hand and looked him deeply in the eyes. The look that passed between them said it all. ‘Free at last.’ Then both men nodded slightly and Dyson returned to the Zulu compound.

  Wilson, while not in any way sorry Joe King was dead but nonetheless shocked by the manner in which he died, offered an awkward kind of solace to Claire. ‘It was God’s will. If it had not been, He’d have sent a storm to put out the fire.’ To Michael, Wilson was more practical. ‘Untimely death is the work of evil spells. There is a clever sangoma near here. I will pay her a visit.’

  Michael thanked him, knowing that Wilson was trying to protect the family from further mishaps.

  That evening, Dyson Mpande was in two minds whether or not to attend the meeting due to start at nine-thirty. So much had happened over the last few days that he felt he should stay at home, if for no other reason than to help his parents with Jackson who was being surly, uncooperative and rude. In the end, however, he decided to go. This particular meeting was too important for him not to be there.

  As he drove into Empangeni his mind was busy with the events that had rocked UBejane Estate, events which shamed and terrified his parents to the point where they were considering leaving the farm and returning to their village.

  Michael’s threat to evict the Mpande family was extremely hard to swallow. It emphasised the line drawn between white and black, a line that Dyson would have sworn was invisible to Michael. Now he wasn’t so sure. Dyson wanted to believe his friend had acted out of a need to protect their two families from the authorities learning what had transpired between Tessa and Jackson. Maybe he had. But the threat made was the act of an employer to employee. Michael had the longer arm in that regard and had used it. When the chips were down it seemed, friendship took second place. Dyson could accept that, just. But were Michael’s two sets of rules on a level playing field? Did colour come into the equation after all?

  There were times when Dyson was honest enough with himself to see that dual standards were the rule, rather than the exception. Like everybody else, he had them. His own involvement with the African National Congress was a perfect example.

  Before he went to Umfolozi with Michael, Dyson tended to agree with his father that the ANC could not be all things to all tribes and that the Zulus needed a voice of their own. He had, many times, witnessed Wilson’s frustration about Zulu inertia: their reluctance to revive Inkatha which they claimed did not work the first time so what made anyone think it would be successful this time. Like his father, Dyson was in favour of a peaceful end to apartheid. Unlike his father, however, the prospect of freedom from the hated system was too enticing for Dyson to exercise Wilson’s kind of patience.

  At the end of each day in Umfolozi, with Michael gone to the whites-only accommodation and Dyson to the African compound, the talk around the fire each night quickly revealed that despite banning orders against such meetings, the ANC was alive and active and frustrated by what they saw as virtual containment of a situation that favoured the whites to the detriment of South Africa’s majority. Wherever Zulus lived, small groups formed branches of the ANC’s armed wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe – The Spear of the Nation.

  Dyson was invited to join.

  For a while he thought that Umkhonto was no more effective than any of the other groups meeting in secret around the country. They met, they made plans, but it was all hot air. With their hands effectively tied by the State of Emergency there was little else they could do. Regular raids on such meetings by the Security Police, raids which were always covered by a blare of publicity, ensured that distrust of each other ran high among the dissidents which, in turn, rendered them nothing more than a whispered protest.

  But, before long, Dyson caught sight of a small miracle. True, the protest was timid but each time it was voiced the whisper grew stronger. It was like a far-off trade wind. It could not yet be felt but they all knew it was coming. So the meetings continued, plans were made, and Dyson knew that when the trade wind finally reached them, not only would it be of hurricane force but they would all be ready to fly with it.

  His only problem was that he could see chaos, violence and bloodshed ahead, which would visit on the Africans well before it touched white lives. And when it finally impacted on the whites it would be carnage. And his best friend in this world was white. So where the hell did that leave him?

  The meeting was to take place in a private house owned by the uncle of a respected ANC member. The venue changed each time to avoid alerting the ever-vigilant Security Police. The State of Emergency, declared after Sharpeville, was about to be lifted. When that happened the ANC could legally hold meetings but, for the time being, any gathering was assumed to be political and therefore banned.

  There had been alarming rumours that the prime minister was about to cut all constitutional ties with Britain, declare a republic and withdraw from the Commonwealth. If that were true and British influence removed, the measures of repression, increasing all the time, would spiral out of control. Before that happened, Pretoria had to be made aware that things would not go all their own way, that the majority of South Africa’s population had had enough.

  Their agenda this night was to discuss the best way to announce that an armed struggle was about to begin. They had already decided on a series of bomb explosions. The question was, where? Some still wanted to avoid harming anyone, give a warning only of things to come. Others argued that it was necessary for whites to die in order to get Pretoria’s attention. The conversation was becoming heated with little or no consensus of opinion. Dyson favoured the idea of one bomb going off in a predominately white shopping complex. He didn’t relish the idea of innocent people being killed but desperate situations required desperate measures. After all, Nelson Mandela himself had declared, ‘Violence is inevitable. It would be unrealistic and wrong for African leaders to continue preaching peace and non-violence when the g
overnment meets our peaceful demands with force.’

  In the hubbub of raised voices, no-one heard safety catches being snicked off in the darkness outside. Some later recalled hearing a crash as the front door was kicked in but their arguing had become so volatile that it took all by complete surprise when heavily armed white policemen burst into the room and fanned out, blocking all escape. The sudden silence was profoundly, almost painfully, loud. Fear put a sheen of sweat on faces which, a few seconds earlier, had been confident and aggressive.

  No-one moved. There were voices outside and the policemen at the door stepped aside to admit an unarmed man wearing the uniform of a commander. He stood just inside the door, slowly scrutinising faces. Several of the men he knew by name. ‘What are you doing?’ he barked suddenly.

  They were prepared. Beer and crisps evident for just such an intrusion. ‘A party, Nkosi.’

  A sneer crossed the officer’s face. ‘Where are the women?’

  ‘It is a beer drink, Nkosi. No women.’

  The man stepped further into the room, turning slowly on one heel as he looked around. ‘You were shouting hilltop to hilltop just now. We could hear you from the end of the street.’

  ‘Sorry, Nkosi.’

  ‘What was that word we kept hearing? Umkhonto, was it?’

  Several of the policemen smirked, nodding their heads.

  The commander looked directly at Dyson. ‘What is this Umkhonto that has you all yelling and arguing, eh? Tell us. We would like to know too.’

  Dyson remained silent, his eyes not meeting those of the policeman.

  ‘Speak up, kaffir.’ The friendliness suddenly gone, the commander’s voice was hard. ‘What is this Umkhonto?’

  Another’s voice responded timidly, ‘It is nothing, Nkosi. We were recalling a great battle in the days of Shaka, that is all.’

  The commander narrowed his eyes. ‘Umkhonto we Sizwe,’ he said softly. ‘The Spear of the Nation.’ Turning slowly around the room he jabbed a finger at various men. ‘ANC, ANC, ANC, ANC,’ he repeated, selecting at random. ‘This is a political meeting.’