by Michael Ray
‘If this goes well then I will.’
‘I still don’t want you to go, even if you get more money. You must promise you’ll think it over?’
‘All right love, I’ll think it over.’
Three
‘Where are you off to, Theakston?’
Graham stopped in his tracks and headed to Bradley’s office. He’d spent the first part of the morning writing up his interview with James, and following a quiet five minutes with a cup of tea and the previous night’s news feeds, was heading off to Jonathan with a copy.
‘Just going out for a couple of minutes, Mr Bradley, to get some fags.’
‘The fags can wait, come in and sit down. I’ve just read your interview.’
He came in and sat down, feeling as if he were back in the headmaster’s study after a particularly unfortunate end of term exam. A sense of impending doom rose from his stomach, ending up behind his eyes. Bradley stared at a few pages of copy, as if to remind himself of the horrors he’d just read then, having kept Graham in suspense, put it down and stared at him.
‘You realise who the readership of this newspaper is?’
‘Ninety percent white, seventy percent female.’
‘And ninety-nine percent supporters of the Tory party, capitalism and the British Empire. What have you written?’
‘An interview with someone who supports none of those ideals, and quite frankly I’m on his side.’
‘I don’t care whose side you’re on, I can’t have my readers think I’m turning the paper into The Daily Worker.’
‘You wanted me to interview him, so of course you’re going to get his views. If you’re worried about your readership then write an editorial.’
Bradley stared hard at him. ‘I’ll write a damned editorial if I want to, not because some cub reporter’s told me to. Now go and add another five hundred words explaining to the white, female, Tory supporting readership of our fine organ, why they should be paying attention to this man, and then tell them how they should react.’
‘Which is?’
‘With the contempt for the lower order they’ve been brought up to believe in.’
‘He’s not lower order, he’s probably better educated than any of them. He’s even got an MA in law from Fort Hare.’
‘Fort Hare? … I don’t care where or what he studied. In their world, the well-educated are part of the lower order, professors are practically untouchable. Just tell them, I don’t know … tell them … tell them how by bringing everyone out on strike he’ll betray both the workers and his country, leaving everyone, including the Blacks who support him, in a far worse state than they are now.’
‘You’d rather I do that than write about how the eventual outcome will be a fairer deal for the poor, at the expense of their betters having to cut down a bit on the champagne?’
‘He’s using his members to start a movement against British rule as well you know.’
‘So let me interview the Governor and find out the official position on independence.’
‘There is no official position on independence; it’s not even on the agenda for discussion. Just calm the piece down a bit. He’s no saint, despite what you say. All that stuff he’s promised is a pipe dream. For one thing the state coffers could never afford it, all that free schooling and infrastructure. Do you really think if he manages by some miracle to kick the British out he’ll deliver?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re a fool. He’ll promise them the earth then, when he’s got his hands on the keys of Government House and the official Daimler, give the top jobs to his friends and family and forget everyone else. What else have you got lined up?’
Graham had been waiting for the question with some pleasure. Normally when it arrived, he would um and ah a bit then get sent somewhere he no had inclination to go, but this time he had an answer. ‘I thought I’d go upcountry and talk to a monk.’
‘You thought what?’
‘Brother Sebastian, you’ve probably heard of him.’
‘No I bloody well haven’t and you’re meant to be covering politics and sport, not religion.’
‘He’s sort of Henry Ngai’s surrogate father. I thought I should get a bit on the early years of a pathological killer.’
Bradley tried to think of a suitable putdown but failed. ‘Very well, how long will you be?’
‘I thought if I left after an early lunch, I could arrive for afternoon tea, stay overnight for supper, and return after breakfast.’
‘And now an agenda not dictated by your stomach.’
‘It’s a hundred odd miles which will take four or five hours, so I’ll leave at midday, spend the evening chewing over the Army of Christ’s Inquisition with him, and then get back here early afternoon.’
‘I want you back before then. If you leave at eight you’ll be in the office by midday and don’t worry, you won’t miss breakfast. Catholics like to eat early.’
‘I wonder, could I have an advance on expenses, I’ll need petrol and a bottle of scotch. Maybe you could let me have a hundred shillings?’
‘What do want the scotch for? You’re a beer drinker.’
‘I don’t drink scotch because you don’t pay me enough; anyway, it’s not for me, it’s to lubricate Brother Sebastian. Look on it as a bribe.’
Bradley pulled out a draw, took out a petty cash tin and handed over fifty shillings. ‘That’ll be more than enough, there’s no need to get anything better than a bottle of Bells, and I want receipts.’
‘What do you want me to do about James Obuya?’
‘I’ll write a bloody editorial, now get out.’
Graham left the office elated, he’d just got Bradley to pay for a bottle of whiskey, must be a first.
‘And this time I want a sinner not a saint,’ shouted Bradley after him, ‘and I don’t care if he is a priest.’
He dropped in on Jonathan’s office, gave him the copy from his interview with James then walked home. To his amazement, Amani was not only in the apartment but helping the housemaid do some cleaning. So much for leaving a note and making a run for it.
‘Hello darling.’ Graham looked at her suspiciously as she came over and gave him a kiss. ‘And how is my man this morning?’ It was getting worse, he was unsure how to react to this uncharacteristic display of affection.
‘Darling, if you like I will send Waridi away, and we can spend some time alone; I don’t have to be at work for at least another hour. Would you like that?’
Yes he would like that, but what were the repercussions? There was also the complication that he was going to have to tell her he was going away for the night. Waridi looked up from her laundry basket with a smile on the corner of her lips. Amani followed Graham’s stare, shouted at Waridi then turned back to him. ‘But why are you here my darling, shouldn’t you be at work?’
It was now or never. ‘I’ve got to go up country to meet that priest, you know the one we talked about last night.’
Amani stared at him, he could see the corner of her mouth starting to quiver. The tetanus shot he’d had earlier in the year had been worth the pain.
‘You promised me you’d think it over.’
‘I have thought it over and I’ve decided to go.’
‘That’s not what thinking it over means, thinking it over means realising I’m right; anyway, I do not believe you; there is no priest.’
Waridi detected the change of mood, and took the laundry basket through into the bedroom to escape the storm.
‘You … you bastard … who is she, this whore you want to spend the night with?’
‘He’s a priest not a whore.’
‘So now you’re spending the night with a priest, what kind of a man are you?’
‘I told you last night what I’m doing, and I’m not spending the night with him, well I am, but I’m not sleeping with him. It’s work, now calm down.’ Bugger, he thought, why didn’t I wait for half an hour before telling her.
‘
You bloody man!’ Amani stormed out of the living room through to the bedroom, slamming the door. He could hear her shouting at Waridi who ran out crying. It didn’t look as if he was going to get a change of clothes or anything else. He left the house and stopped at the Stardust to pick up a bottle of scotch then, keeping enough for petrol, spent the remaining money on a club sandwich and a beer, before heading out of town.
*****
The road north was still only partially built. Sections of tarmac were a pleasure, gliding through the African countryside, past children herding their goats and older villagers their cattle. Occasionally wildlife punctuated the journey; a hawk or eagle perched on the top of a telephone pole, hoping to spot a lizard or snake making the dangerous road crossing. Giraffes stripping the thorn-ridden tops of acacias, herds of gazelles briefly glancing up at the passing car then resuming their grazing. He felt a joy at being free from the city and its complications. Then for a few miles the tarmac would disappear, and the journey grind to a bumpy crawl as he guided the old Ford along the ridges and canyons formed by passing trucks. In the rainy season, he’d never have made it, but for now the undulations were rock hard, solid enough to send the car into spasms every time he misjudged their height.
He stopped for a break at a small shack that proudly proclaimed itself a luxury hotel and nightclub, paying a few coppers for a fresh brewed coffee and for a few minutes dreamt of setting himself up with a smallholding, maybe next to a stream. A couple of cows and some chickens, a mango tree at the front and a couple of avocados at the back. He’d write tales of his bucolic life to brighten the sad existence of the poor sods back in England. Waking up with the sun in the morning, looking at the wildlife across the meadows, maybe the occasional herd of elephants silhouetted against the setting sun … Amani getting up early to milk the cow for his breakfast cup of tea then taking out bread fresh from the oven … it wasn’t going to happen.
He arrived at the promised sign and turned down a dirt track, not so heavily used as the main road and smoother. After half an hour he arrived at the Mission. Three small brick buildings with tin roofs stood on three sides of a square and a whitewashed chapel on the fourth. It was all very neat and very tidy. He parked his Ford in front of what looked like the main building, the only one with glass in its windows, and got out. From under a tree in the centre of the compound, a dog looked up, glanced at the car then, having decided it was too hot to chase intruders, stretched out in the dust and closed its eyes.
He knocked on the door but got no response so looked through a window. It appeared to be an office, albeit one with a crucifix behind the desk and a picture of the Virgin Mary on the wall.
‘Can I help you?’
He turned, feeling slightly guilty at being caught looking without permission as a tall, grey-haired man wearing faded jeans and a white cotton shirt strode over to him. The clothes looked immaculate at a distance, but as he approached, Graham could see that the shirt, though ironed and clean, was worn and often mended. The man, although thirty years older the Graham, looked to have twice the fitness, and the confident air of someone in control of his life.
‘I’m looking for Brother Sebastian,’
‘That would be me, and you are?’
‘Graham Theakston, I’m from the Standard.’
‘A newspaper man then, and if I’m not mistaken a sports writer.’
‘You read it?’
‘Of course, how else could I keep up with the football? We only see an English paper if someone from back home comes to call, so local papers are our only reliable source of information and I have to say I enjoy your column; it really brings the game alive. You’ll doubtless be in need of a cup of tea?’
Graham followed him to what he assumed was the refectory, though with only one table that might have been an ambitious title.
Brother Sebastian bade him sit and disappeared through a door. He could hear him giving orders, the word chai figured a lot. He returned and sat down opposite.
‘So Graham, how can I help you?’
Graham was unsure how to play it. He thought of flannelling, but one look at Brother Sebastian told him that wouldn’t help; besides, Jonathan had said he was OK, so he leapt straight in. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Henry Ngai and his early years here. I want to try to shed some light onto why he is what he is.’
Before Brother Sebastian could answer, the tea arrived with a plate of neatly stacked digestive biscuits.
‘Thank you, Mary. Mary, this is Graham.’
Graham thought she looked sad, he gave her a smile but received nothing in return except tired eyes. As she turned to leave, Brother Sebastian called her back.
‘Graham, will you be staying for the night?’
‘I’d be grateful, if it doesn’t inconvenience you.’
‘No, not at all; Mary, if you could make the arrangements please.’
She gave a slight nod of the head and left.
‘A most helpful young woman, there is one thing though. I’d be grateful if you didn’t discuss Henry in front of her, or indeed anyone else here; they find the situation confusing.’
He nodded, ‘of course.’
‘Perhaps after you’ve finished your tea we might go for a walk?’
‘I’d enjoy it, Brother.’
Brother Sebastian smiled and Graham smiled back. He was getting the hang of interviews; first off, go for a walk.
*****
The compound was neat, tidy, dusty and almost empty.
‘Where is everyone? Shouldn’t there be more children?’
‘We are many things and we support the whole community not just the children, but you’re right, our main function is as a school. They’re at home in the surrounding villages, helping their families. This is a holiday, and most of them will be busy in the fields.’
They toured the empty classrooms then went into the empty church. Brother Sebastian crossed himself in front of the altar and Graham copied his actions then sat down next to him facing a large crucifix.
‘It doesn’t matter where in the world you go Graham; enter a Church and you will immediately find peace, a quiet place for reflection.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘You are a churchgoer?’
‘Not habitually,’ Graham replied, trying to remember the last time he’d been in one, probably his wedding. Amani had wanted a church service and despite the lack of expectation, he’d enjoyed the unfettered enthusiasm from Amani’s relations; the enthusiastic hymn singing, the cheering and clapping at inappropriate places. If that had happened back in Manchester there’d have been much tutting from the rows of Sunday best. On his side there had only been a handful of people, a few from the office, Mr Bradley, Jenny and her boyfriend. Jonathan had been his best man, but none of his family could afford to come out for it; he doubted any of them approved anyway.
‘I’ll be holding an early evening mass, I hope you’ll attend though I presume you won’t be taking communion. You’re not Catholic are you?’
‘Church of England born and bred, even went to one of their schools.’
‘No matter, we both look towards the same God.’
When we’re not fighting each other, Graham thought.
*****
‘I’m sorry Brother,’ Graham said after his second whiskey. ‘I still don’t get the difference between your version of Heaven and any other religion’s. The basic theory is the same, you’ve got someone in charge, with an entourage of angels or lesser gods, and all the good people, those who haven’t taken up lodgings down below, singing their praises and telling them what great blokes they are.’
‘The main difference is that the gods you are referring to still suffer from human fallibilities; indeed, they’re very often the embodiment of those fallibilities, whereas the Christian God is infallible.’
‘Except perhaps suffering from insecurity issues. If I were omnipotent, I’d get tired of the sycophancy after the first couple of hallelujahs. Still, the way y
ou came up with football analogies during the sermon was brilliant, had them all on high alert, absorbing every word, though Mary seemed to be asleep.’
‘I’m afraid Mary isn’t very interested in football and at the moment, doesn’t sleep well at night, all this business with Henry. She does make a very wonderful pie though.’
‘Brother, I’ve never tasted warthog so sweet.’
‘We don’t encourage bush meat, but if it’s been killed already, it would be a sin not to eat it.’
They were outside the living quarters, sitting under the eves. Just a hurricane lamp to light the table and a bottle of scotch between them. The sounds of insects provided a background to their conversation, punctuated by the calls of night creatures in surrounding trees. Graham closed his eyes and let the sounds wash around his head. They had insects in the city of course, and some of the frogs could set your ears ringing, but there was always a background of civilisation, cars, dogs, other people. Here there was just nature.
‘There weren’t many young people attending mass, I couldn’t see anyone between the ages of twelve and forty.’
‘There I have a problem,’ replied Brother Sebastian, hesitating a little. ‘The young aren’t interested in religion, and to be honest I don’t encourage the children to join us, they get bored and become disruptive; besides, they have their own service.’
‘A pity.’ He got out his notebook. ‘Now Brother, we really should talk a little about Henry Ngai.’
Brother Sebastian nodded his head, ‘very well. First thing though, the reason I didn’t want Mary around was that she understands a little English. Henry is her son.’
‘Oh … well that might explain her demeanour, does she know what he’s been up to?’
‘Almost certainly, but how much she knows and how much she believes, only God knows.’
‘God and Mary.’
‘Yes, God and Mary. So what do you want to know?’
‘For a starters, is Henry’s father still alive?’
Brother Sebastian hesitated, ’I don’t think anyone apart from Mary knows who his father is.’
‘And possibly the father?’
‘Possibly, but some of these people have many partners, I’ve been fighting against it ever since I arrived.’
