People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  ‘That’s true, Babu, though I would not have hesitated.’

  The tears had stopped. ‘He was my son. He grew into a man I could not respect. We cannot always guarantee a good crop when we plant the seed. That is all I have to say.’

  Michael could not help but admire Wilson’s fatalistic acceptance of what must have been devastating news. ‘It is over now.’

  ‘No. It is only just beginning.’ Wilson sighed. ‘The sangoma tried to tell me. There is much to do and my blood does not run as hot as once it did. She said I must use my time well and be satisfied. I have tried to do this but now, as I near the end of my life, I find myself wondering if I have made any difference at all.’

  ‘The way forward will be slow, I agree.’

  ‘And the way behind is closed.’

  Michael felt in his pocket and handed Wilson a packet of Amorpha Aromatic tobacco, for he knew the old man loved his pipe. ‘There are two hard things in this life.’

  ‘Tell me.’ Wilson fingered the packet lovingly before producing a well-worn pipe.

  ‘The first is knowing yourself and what you want to do with your given time in this world.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘You always knew.’

  ‘The sangoma showed me my path. Without her guidance I would have been less sure.’ Wilson rubbed tobacco in his palm, filled the bowl and lit up. ‘And what is the other?’

  ‘The other?’ Michael smiled wryly. ‘The other is even harder than the first.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson agreed, anticipating what Michael was about to say.

  ‘How is it done?’ Michael asked.

  Wilson let smoke trickle around the stem of his pipe. ‘It is done,’ he said slowly, appreciating the fact that Michael was giving him the final word, ‘by keeping in your heart that which, in your head, is sometimes impossible to follow. It is done by believing in the purity of your dreams. And it is done by allowing no other to poison your intent.’

  Michael remained silent.

  ‘You have come to a decision, my son.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Wilson did not ask what it was. That Michael had come to him was good enough. ‘Where will you live?’

  ‘Where I belong. Zululand.’

  ‘Ah! Truly a good decision. You are a son of this land.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael agreed. ‘And it is time my son became one too.’

  ‘Your son is already of this land, nkosi. A river can never break free of its source.’

  It was dangerous for them to be together for too long. Michael drove Wilson back to Kwa-Mashu and dropped him on the road where he’d picked him up.

  ‘Hamba kahle, my son.’

  ‘Shlala kahle, Babu!’

  As he drove away Michael was thinking that while it was all very well for them to wish each other to go well and stay well, circumstances escalating within South Africa might mean that neither of them would ever know if the other had. He did not expect to see Wilson again.

  Michael spent nearly a month back in England so that Andrew could get to know him again. The child treated him like a stranger for a few days, but within a week Andrew’s affections transferred from Claire to Michael.

  Dyson, who was still experiencing headaches and dizziness from his injuries, spent a week with them in Hertford. There was much to be said between him and Michael.

  ‘I’m glad you went to see my father.’

  ‘I had to. He had to hear it from me.’

  They were in the garden, down near the duck pond, enjoying the Indian summer sunshine.

  ‘Did he ever learn that I was still alive?’ Dyson was referring to Jackson.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sorry that you didn’t kill him?’

  ‘Yes and no. I hated him so much that killing him would have been a pleasure. Now it’s over I’m glad I didn’t.’ Michael shrugged. ‘It’s complicated and it’s hard to discuss this with you.’

  ‘It is complicated,’ Dyson agreed. ‘But do not worry about speaking of it to me. I would have killed him myself if I could. However, while I wanted him dead I’m pleased that you didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Remember when we were kids?’ Michael asked suddenly. ‘How easy it all was back then.’

  Dyson grinned. ‘We couldn’t wait to grow up.’

  ‘Yeah! And look what happened when we did.’

  Dyson was silent for a moment. Then, ‘I was in love with Tessa.’

  ‘She told me.’

  ‘She knew?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Dyson rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘It was eating me up, the thought that she’d died without ever knowing.’

  ‘I think she loved you too,’ Michael said softly. ‘She just couldn’t come to terms with it.’

  Unshed tears glistened in Dyson’s eyes. ‘How would you have felt if we’d got together?’

  ‘Married? A bit worried about cultural differences.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  Michael thought about it. ‘No,’ he said honestly.

  Dyson nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’d have been equally concerned about the racial thing.’

  ‘I was.’

  Michael sighed.

  ‘You’re right, Nkawu. Being an adult is hard work.’

  When the time came to leave England, Michael had mixed emotions. He couldn’t wait to get back to Africa but he was leaving so much of himself behind.

  ‘If it doesn’t work out for you back home, would you consider coming here to live?’ Claire asked.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mother, but no. This place is too tame.’

  She’d smiled ruefully. ‘I used to worry that you were growing up wild. In a way, I guess you were.’ She hugged him. ‘It hasn’t done you any harm. I’m very proud of you.’

  He left England promising to come back once a year.

  In the departure lounge at Heathrow he was surprised to be confronted by Inspector John Dyer. ‘Going somewhere?’ Michael inquired.

  ‘Nope. Heard you were in town. Came to see you.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m a patient man, King. I have to be, my job demands it. But I also have a tidy mind and I need to know. What happened?’

  ‘Are you asking me to confess to murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What if I said I’d killed him?’

  ‘Your business, none of mine. Africa is off my patch.’

  ‘Jackson Mpande is dead. A rhino got him.’ Michael smiled slightly. ‘Funny how things work out.’

  ‘Know what I think, King? I think it’s time you gave your guardian angel a rest.’

  Michael had just put Andrew to bed when the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anybody, least of all Annie Devilliers. She held out two bottles of red wine. ‘Sacha gave me your address.’

  ‘I won’t ask how he knew it.’

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Dinner. You hungry?’ He stepped aside and she came into the house.

  ‘Starving. When did you get back?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘So why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘No reason really.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Okay, I wasn’t sure I should.’

  ‘I rather thought that. Well, I’m here, how do you feel about it? Open one of these will you?’

  He took the bottles from her. ‘If you must know, bloody glad you’re here.’

  She followed him to a sideboard. ‘You wouldn’t lie about a thing like that, would you?’

  ‘I never lie to ladies.’

  ‘Lady! I like that.’

  Michael opened one of the bottles of wine. ‘I take it you’re out of hiding.’

  ‘Yes. Got an ashtray?’

  ‘Will a saucer do? You’ll find one in the kitchen.’ He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Annie sipped her wine, put the gl
ass down and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to stop next week.’ She went into the kitchen and returned with a saucer.

  Michael pulled a face. ‘Crap! You’re hooked, lady. Face it.’

  ‘I mean it.’ She burst into tears.

  ‘Annie! God, sorry. Look, what’s wrong, why are you so upset?’

  ‘I’m not upset.’ She was scrubbing frantically at her eyes.

  He gently turned her to face him. ‘So why are you crying?’

  She pulled back, snatched the offered handkerchief, and stubbed out her barely smoked cigarette. She started prowling the room like a caged lioness. ‘I don’t know. How should I know?’

  ‘You’re the psychiatrist,’ he reminded her quietly.

  She dabbed at her wet cheeks impatiently. ‘I’m crying,’ she said slowly, ‘because I don’t feel like crying.’

  Michael tried not to smile but failed.

  She saw his grin and tried to hide her own, hiccupped, then gave a wobbly laugh. ‘You must admit, it makes sense in a screwy kind of way.’

  ‘This is about Sacha.’

  ‘He told me to get lost.’ Her voice was indignant. ‘Not in so many words. In fact, for Sacha, he was quite eloquent.’

  ‘Annie, you don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘I know that.’ She frowned at him. Mimicking her own advice to others, she added, ‘I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.’

  ‘So don’t tell me.’

  ‘But I want to tell you.’

  ‘Annie, are you okay?’

  She stared at him. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘No, I’m not okay. My pride’s hurt.’

  ‘And that’s what all this is about?’

  She nodded. ‘I didn’t love him, don’t suppose I ever did. He was a challenge to my psychiatrist mind, the only human being I ever met who is absolutely cold inside.’

  Michael remembered Sacha’s fear when he was standing on the landmine. His words, a man like me shouldn’t be married. A cold man would not have a thought like that. Sacha Devilliers had known he was making his wife unhappy and loved her enough to let her go. Michael said nothing.

  ‘Are you shocked?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That’s why you’re crying.’

  She sipped her wine. ‘I’m going away for a bit.’

  ‘Probably a good idea.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Get my own farm.’

  ‘In Zululand?’

  ‘It’s my home.’

  ‘Mine too. I miss it.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Something’s burning.’

  He rescued the roast lamb but the peas were beyond help. Annie made gravy and they took their meal on trays into the lounge.

  She did not stay long. As she was leaving, she said, ‘Mind if I look you up when I get back?’

  ‘When’s that likely to be?’

  ‘I don’t know. A year. Maybe two.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Be sure you do.’

  EPILOGUE: 1999

  The sky glowed a fiery red. From the house, Michael could hear the roar as flames raced through the cane block. He’d have been down there helping but his daughter had made it blatantly clear that she was more than capable of doing the job without her father underfoot. Michael had taken the snub philosophically, proud that Tessa was as good a farmer as any and content to let her take control. Besides, he reasoned, at sixty-one he deserved to take life easy.

  Sometimes when he looked back, as he found himself doing more often of late, he wondered just where the last thirty years had gone.

  Thirty years! The young man had grown old. Aches and pains mysteriously came and went. It took longer to get to sleep these days and he seemed to be waking up earlier with each passing year. His blonde hair had turned white, as had his matching moustache. Physically fit, he had some years back traded in his sports model figure for a slightly more rounded armchair version.

  Thirty years ago, returning to South Africa with his two-year-old son, Michael had no idea what life had yet to dish out. All he knew was he wanted to spend the rest of it in Zululand. He sold the townhouse in Johannesburg and found a farm near Amatikulu, some fifty kilometres south of where he grew up. By UBejane’s standards, it was small, just under 500 acres. While he waited for the paperwork to go through he spent time with Jennifer’s father.

  Shattered by the death of his wife, daughter and grandson in the space of a year, Harold Bailey had thrown himself into his farm work, trying out all the newest innovations as they appeared. As a result, he was able to bring Michael up to date.

  The sugar industry was becoming less labour intensive. With the introduction of mechanical techniques many of the functions that had been undertaken by hand were now performed by machines. Using the new technology, farmers were able to make the same profit on less land. The era of the large, privately owned estates was coming to an end. Michael was glad of his father-in-law’s advice. He’d been away from cane farming for five-and-a-half years. By the time he took over his own property he was eager to put into practice new techniques which he’d seen working well.

  He and Andrew moved into their new home midway through 1970. It was a sprawling, Mediterranean-style brick house with tiled floors, large windows and arched doorways. The furniture from the Johannesburg townhouse seemed to float forlornly in the large rooms and Michael had the feeling that they were only camping in the new house. He told himself he’d buy more furniture, make the place more homely, but he never did. It was a house, not a home. Without Jennifer, it could never be a home.

  Michael had agreed to keep on all the previous owner’s staff, which included a shy young Zulu girl called Mirrit. She was supposed to clean and attend to the laundry but she was only fourteen and her skills were basic. But a kind of chemistry occurred as soon as she met Andrew. For Andrew, it was love at first sight. He adored her and Mirrit, in turn, worshipped Andrew. She had endless patience, playing with him, reading to him in halting English, strapping him to her back and going for walks. They became inseparable, which left Michael free to concentrate on the farm.

  Like his father-in-law, Michael found solace in hard work. As a result, his farm flourished. He made friends with several neighbours and slowly developed a social life. The second anniversary of Jennifer and Jeremy’s deaths was spent with the only other person on earth who felt them as keenly as Michael. It was a sad night for both men.

  In a way, this anniversary was more difficult than the first. A year ago Michael and Andrew were staying with Harold Bailey, and their losses were still a raw wound. The first anniversary of the deaths of Jennifer and Jeremy, though more poignant than other days, was not so different from the rest of the year. Grieving, as both men were, neither had to face a surge of sorrow since they lived with it constantly. Now, after two years, neither of them particularly wanted to bring it all back, and yet they knew they had no choice.

  The process was made even more difficult by the fact that Andrew, now three-and-a-half, understood every word of their conversation and asked a lot of questions – some of them almost too painful to answer.

  ‘Grandfather, was my mummy your little girl just like I’m daddy’s little boy?’

  Or, devastating child-like logic.

  ‘You’re going to die first, aren’t you, Grandfather? When you see Mummy and Jeremy will you say hello from me?’

  Harold and Michael’s eyes met over Andrew’s head. If only they could be as pragmatic.

  After dinner, with Andrew asleep on the sofa, Jennifer’s father suggested they take their brandies outside. Seated in comfortable old leather armchairs, Harold, who was never one to mince words, got straight to the point.

  ‘I dare say you’ll marry again.’

  Michael had always enjoyed a good relationship with his father-in-law. He realised there was no point in trying to save the old man’s feelings. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘No. It’s too soon, I can see that. But someone will come along one day. You’l
l marry and have more children.’

  ‘Possibly. I’m in no hurry, Harold. If it happens, it happens.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, son. It’s just that Andrew is the only blood link I have left with my daughter. I’ve changed my will. When I die, Andrew will inherit this place. If he’s under twenty-one, you will act as executor. I hope you don’t mind. It was always going to go to you and Jen but now . . . Well, things change.’

  ‘I think it’s a terrific idea. Andrew’s too young to remember Jen. This is a bond, a connection to her. Of course I don’t mind, Harold.’

  It was a relief for Michael when the day and evening ended and another year would pass before he had to face it again.

  True to her word, Annie Devilliers returned to South Africa after eighteen months of wandering the globe. She arrived at the farm on a Sunday morning, driving a battered old jeep. ‘Sacha gave me your address.’

  Michael was no longer surprised that the man kept tabs on him. He pointed to the vehicle. ‘Where did you get that old thing?’

  ‘Durban. Isn’t she beautiful?’

  He went down the steps to greet her. ‘How are you?’ He was very pleased to see her.

  She stood on the lawn, watching him walk towards her, hands on hips. She wore jeans, a man’s white shirt with the tails tied around her midriff and the sleeves rolled up, and was barefoot. A cap was jammed onto her head and her hair was tucked up under it but long strands had escaped and he could see it was just as wildly curly as ever. Deeply tanned, the startling violet of her eyes radiated warmth. ‘You look good.’

  ‘So do you.’ He stopped a short distance away. ‘Are you back to stay?’

  She nodded. ‘Might set up a private practice in Empangeni.’