People of Heaven Page 6

  ‘What’s this? You and Dyson have been rolling in the dirt again.’ Bessie’s ample frame waddled up to him. ‘You get out of those dirty things quick, quick. Your mother will have a fit if she sees you.’ Without waiting for his reply, Bessie pulled off his shorts and unbuttoned his shirt.

  ‘Aw, Bessie, I’ll do it.’

  ‘You stand still. Tch! What a state. Where are your shoes and socks? Tch! You’d run naked if you could. I swear, you are more a Zulu than I am.’ Left in nothing more than underpants, Michael turned to go but Bessie hadn’t finished with him. ‘Outside, boy. Get out and under the hose.’

  Michael bounded outside and pretended shocked outrage while Bessie played the hose on him. The dogs, alerted by the noise, raced around the side of the house, barking hysterically and joining in the fun. It was something they did most afternoons. ‘Now you run around till you dry,’ Bessie said, turning off the tap and smiling broadly at him. ‘Then get yourself into the kitchen. Got something for you.’

  Unconcerned at his state of near nudity, Michael stayed in the sun until he had stopped dripping. Then he went to the kitchen. ‘You not dried yet,’ Bessie said, not even glancing at him.

  ‘I’m dry enough. Anyway, it keeps me cool.’

  Bessie shook her head. ‘Got an answer for everything, don’t you, boy?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Bessie laughed. ‘Here. Kept these for you.’ She handed him three shortbread biscuits. ‘Don’t go making crumbs now,’ she warned as he left the kitchen, cheeks bulging. The wire-haired terrier, officially called Duke but generally referred to as Boet, followed Michael, nose to the floor, licking up the fallout.

  Michael popped his head around the office door. His mother was poring over a pile of papers, frowning with concentration. Blonde hair fluffed out, like a halo, around her head. She had recently cut it in a short bob and Michael was still trying to get used to it. Her face was too close to what she was reading. Claire kept saying she needed glasses but never got around to doing anything about it. He bit into a biscuit and she heard him, glanced up, smiling that smile that made her eyes go warm.

  ‘I do trust, young man, that you waited until you arrived home before undressing?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Go and get some clothes on and do your homework. I’ll be finished here in about an hour. Then we can talk.’

  Michael grinned through a mouthful of biscuit.

  ‘Okay, okay. We’ll play cards. Just two games, mind.’ She shook her head at her son’s departure. Sometimes she worried that he was growing up too wild, that she didn’t spend enough time with him. He was always out on the farm, in the Zulu compound or the Indian barracks. Although he had cousins his own age, he seemed to prefer the company of Dyson. Not that Claire minded, but she could see the way South Africa was headed and wondered how it would affect her son. She shook her head again. No! That was the wrong way to look at it. If South Africa went the way it seemed to be going then, heaven forbid, there would be a great need for people like Michael who didn’t appear to see different colours.

  Claire sighed. Michael was a good child who did well at school and was popular. What would happen when Joe returned? Her husband hadn’t exactly shown much interest in him. ‘Perhaps it will be different now that Michael is older,’ she thought.

  ‘Where is he?’ Claire wondered aloud. There had been no news for months. She knew Joe was alive and in England. Why hadn’t he come home? Claire had been brought up to believe that a wife did as her husband bade at all times, yet Joe’s absence and silence irritated her. She tried to push the anger aside but it wouldn’t go away, churning around along with her uncertainty over Michael and the responsibility of running the farm. ‘It can’t last,’ she thought tiredly, turning back to her work. ‘Joe must come home soon.’

  Michael went to his room and shut the door. When he had turned six and started school his mother announced that he was too big for the nursery and could choose which bedroom he wanted as his own. The house had six, not counting the master bedroom. Michael gave it careful consideration but, in the end, chose the one she expected, next to hers. The room was large with bay windows, one on either side of French doors which led out onto the verandah. In the summer, the doors and windows were left open and a cool sea breeze blew in. His bed was larger than a single – it had been made by his grandfather – and was both solid and comfortable. A bedside chest provided space enough to accommodate a paraffin lamp, his penknife, bicycle torch and a rather noisy Big Ben alarm clock. There were two ornately carved oak wardrobes with a matching chest of drawers between them. In front of one window were a desk and chair, also in oak, and in front of the other a well-padded armchair. A mosquito net hung suspended from the ceiling over his bed, caught up during the day by some mysterious method of Bessie’s. Honey-coloured cedar flooring was all but covered by a deep pile Indian carpet, the rich redness of its pattern repeated in long folds of velvet curtain. Outside, on the verandah, his mother had placed two cane chairs and a table which, she said, were for his exclusive use. Unfortunately, nobody told the dogs of this arrangement and Michael usually had to fight them for space.

  Michael loved his room. The first thing he did was inform his mother, Bessie and the other servants that they all had to knock before entering. These instructions were taken seriously and it made him feel most important when adults knocked on his door.

  Rummaging in a drawer, he found a pair of shorts and pulled them on. That was it. It was early October, the rains were not far off and it was hot and sticky, even in the house. The air seemed to hang in moist and torpid lethargy. Clothes would soon cling with perspiration. Michael finished the biscuits, washed his hands in a small basin, opened his school satchel and pulled out three exercise books. As well as the arithmetic, he had English sentences to write and history notes to study for a test the next day.

  Michael enjoyed school. His quick mind and thirst for knowledge meant that learning came easily. He also looked forward to homework. Sitting at the desk in his room it was a simple enough flight of imagination to pretend that he was the owner of a large sugar estate, an important businessman or a politician – whatever mood he found himself in – working through the endless mounds of paperwork. He bent to his books and was soon lost in concentration.

  Half an hour passed quickly. Michael’s concentration was broken by the sound of a motor car that had the dogs barking loudly. It was not the old Ford his mother drove, nor was it like any of the other cars that brought neighbours, relatives or friends to visit. The noise was sufficiently intriguing for him to walk out of his room and stand on the verandah, watching the car approach. It was Empangeni’s one and only taxi which spent most of its time parked either at the railway station or outside the hotel. He heard a screen door bang and his mother came out to join him, shading her eyes and looking with interest at the dusty black vehicle as it stopped in front of the house.

  A painfully thin man with hollow eyes struggled awkwardly from the back seat. The heavy greatcoat he wore made Michael feel hot, just looking at it. The man threw a glance at them, then turned and pulled a rucksack from the seat. Michael heard his mother gasp in shock. ‘Joe!’ Then she was running off the verandah towards the car. She reached the man just as he turned back towards the house and flung herself at him, nearly knocking him off balance.

  Joe! His father’s name was Joe. But this gaunt man in the overcoat wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be, his father. This unshaven old man bore no resemblance to the photograph. Shyly, Michael hung back. He saw the man disentangle himself, wincing as he did, saw him put out a hand to ward his mother off, heard him laugh and say, ‘Steady on, Claire.’

  As Michael watched, his mother crumpled to the ground.

  Michael thought the man had pushed her. Without stopping to think, he leapt off the verandah and ran straight at Joe who was staring at his wife’s inert form. Shouting a mixture of Zulu and English, Michael head-butted his father in the groin. To his amazement, the stranger buckl
ed forward and joined Claire on the ground. One of the German shepherds was standing a metre away, its teeth bared. Uncertain what to do next, Michael hovered.

  ‘You little bastard!’ The man’s face had gone white and he was breathing with difficulty. ‘You bloody little savage.’

  Michael was unrepentant. ‘My mother. What is wrong with her? You hurt my mother.’

  The man put out his left hand. ‘Help me up.’

  The authority in his voice gave Michael no option. He clasped the hand and hauled. On his feet, the man let go and swiftly cuffed him on the side of the head. The dog exploded into action and jumped forward but Joe sent it flying with a kick and the German shepherd fled, yelping with pain. Michael’s vision was swimming as a rush of pain went through his head. He barely heard Joe’s next words. ‘I can see a father’s touch is what you need.’

  Michael shook his head to clear it. The blow had been viciously powerful. But scared as he was, he would not move away from his mother who was stirring and moaning. ‘Joe?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Claire.’

  She looked dazed for a second, blinking as the realisation of who stood before her sank in and she rose, staggering slightly. Michael wanted to help her but his mother was too close to the man. ‘Why didn’t you let us know? Where have you been? Oh, Joe, it’s wonderful to see you again. You’re so thin. Let me look at you.’

  She stepped up to him and Joe King backed off quickly. ‘Don’t touch my arm,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s not healed yet.’

  ‘Darling!’ Claire was all concern. Then she turned to Michael, her face beaming with happiness until she saw the unshed tears in his eyes, a combination of concern and the blow she hadn’t seen. ‘Oh, my darling, don’t cry. Mummy’s all right, I just fainted. See, I’m fine again. This is your father, isn’t it wonderful, he’s home at last. Come, darling. Come and say hello.’

  Michael stepped reluctantly forward. ‘How do you do, sir.’

  Joe King scrutinised his son. He regretted cuffing the boy like that but he could still feel the numbing pain of that hard little head. He took in the oval face and blue eyes, the wide mouth and straight blonde hair. He was a good-looking lad. Joe noticed that, of his own genes, there was no sign. His son was all Claire and he was looking at his father with a barely masked aggression. ‘Shake, son. Let’s start again.’ Joe put out his left hand.

  Michael hesitatingly extended his right hand then realised his mistake and changed it to his left. The handshake was clumsy and, as soon as physical contact had been broken, Michael stepped back. He needed to get away on his own. ‘Excuse me, sir. I must finish my homework.’

  His mother gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Blow your homework, Michael darling. I’ll write your teacher a note.’ She took Joe’s left arm in her right. ‘Is this okay? Just tell me where it hurts and I’ll be careful.’ Michael could see that, for the moment at least, he had lost her. She was no longer his. A total stranger had come along and his mother’s attention, something to which he had enjoyed almost total exclusivity, had wavered. Try as he might, Michael could not prevent the empty and lonely feeling as he saw his mother’s happiness. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he knew that, and blamed himself. He had to get away.

  ‘I’m nearly finished,’ he told his mother, looking into her eyes, not glancing at his father. ‘It won’t take long.’

  His loneliness increased when she simply nodded, squeezed the arm she held and said, ‘Fine. Join us when you’re done.’ Then she was talking nineteen-to-the-dozen to that man, as though Michael had ceased to exist.

  As he walked away he heard his father say, ‘So, that’s my son, not really what I expected,’ and his mother’s quick response, ‘Joe, what do you mean? He’s a wonderful boy.’

  To make matters worse, Bessie came rushing from the house. ‘Master Joe, Master Joe, you’re home. Oh thank God. Blessed is our Father in Heaven. Welcome home, nkosi.’

  ‘She makes it sound as though the place is falling down around our ears just because he’s been away,’ Michael thought crossly. ‘What does she want to call him a lord for? He’s just a bloody man.’

  His father was home, and somehow, Michael had disappointed him. His mother was behaving in a way he had never seen before. And he, Michael, felt guilty that he didn’t like his father and was angry with his mother. The event he had looked forward to for so long was a crushing disappointment. Rebellion stirred in him, an emotion he rarely experienced. So, his father was disappointed. So what? Michael was disappointed as well. That man looked nothing like his father. An entirely new sensation welled within him – self-pity. The game of cards with his mother was off, something else he blamed on the stranger. There was no doubting that life would be different from now on. Michael had never heard such authority in anyone’s voice. His father obviously expected total obedience and wasn’t above physical punishment if it were not forthcoming. He hoped the dog hadn’t been seriously hurt. All the poor thing had been doing was defending them.

  Michael had always imagined his father’s homecoming would be a joyous occasion, that his father would become a friend, someone he could look up to. Maybe this man wasn’t his real father? But Michael quickly discarded that thought. His mother’s happy smile was too real. Sighing, he went and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. What did his father mean, not really what he expected?

  At that moment, his bedroom opened and the subject of his thoughts stood there. ‘Leave the door open, son. That way I’ll know you’ve got nothing to hide.’ It was supposed to be a joke but it came out wrong. Michael just nodded dumbly. His privacy was precious to him. ‘Stop admiring yourself and do your homework. Join us when you’ve finished.’ With a penetrating look at the desk, Michael’s father left, leaving the door wide open.

  ‘Join us,’ Michael seethed, going towards his desk. ‘You’re the one joining us.’

  It was not a propitious beginning.

  Dinner that night was a terrible ordeal. His father drank too much whisky which made him difficult to understand, especially when he grew angry, which he appeared to do for no reason. Joe spent most of the meal criticising Claire’s running of the farm, the new irrigation system being the first target. ‘What was wrong with the old way? Why on earth did you change things?’

  Claire answered patiently. ‘Because it’s more profitable. The mill prefers it. We truck more cane with better sucrose and we save on labour as well. A fifteen-minute burn does the work that would take fifty men almost two days. I’ve got all the figures, Joe.’

  ‘Figures!’ He scoffed. ‘Who thought them up? Figures can be made to say anything you damn well please.’

  ‘I didn’t think them up, I drew them up. See for yourself, tomorrow,’ Claire responded evenly, though Michael could see a steely glint in her eye. ‘They work. The mill burned nearly a third of Colin’s quota because the cane was dirty.’

  ‘Colin!’ Joe swallowed half a glass of whisky. ‘Without legs he’s about as much use as you.’

  Claire bit her lip. ‘It hasn’t been easy for him. He’s had no-one to turn to.’

  ‘I suppose he’ll expect my help.’ Joe banged his hand on the table, making Michael jump with fright. ‘Where the hell are Bob and Noel? They must have been back for months. By hell, Claire, things are going to change around here. If those lazy brothers . . .’

  ‘Joe!’ Claire was shocked. ‘I wrote to you. Didn’t you get my letters?’

  ‘What letters?’ Joe asked belligerently, knowing that he had received many, most of which were never read. He poured more whisky from the decanter that he’d insisted be placed on the table.

  ‘Bob and Noel were both killed,’ Claire whispered, tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, my darling, didn’t you know?’

  The news sobered Joe briefly. ‘Dear God!’ he whispered, rubbing his left hand across his eyes. Two brothers dead, another crippled. So many fine young lives ruined. All in the name of power. He forced himself to listen to Claire.

  ‘B
ridget is selling Kingston. She says that, without Bob, she can’t bear to stay. Peg wants to keep Kingsmead going. It’s a battle for her. She has also started to irrigate and things are improving. You’ll see, Joe. We get one ratoon a year now.’

  ‘One a year!’ Joe was startled. A ratoon, the new sprout after cane has been cut, normally took eighteen months to reach maturity. If Claire was getting one a year he could substantially increase his quota.

  ‘We’ll go and see Colin tomorrow,’ Claire suggested. ‘Bridget and Peg too, I know they’ll be pleased to see you.’

  But Joe was only half listening. His wife had become more forceful, more confident than he remembered, taking charge and doing a good job of it though he’d be damned if he’d tell her so. He should be proud of her, he knew that. But resentment was crowding his masculine pride. He was the boss and Claire, having proved to herself that she could run the farm, was obviously not about to take a back seat. The news that two of his brothers were dead was a shock. They had never been close, old man King had seen to that, always playing one off against the other, but even so, they were his brothers. More to exert his own authority than anything else, he said, ‘Why don’t we buy Kingston? It’s good land.’

  ‘We can’t afford it,’ Claire said flatly.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Joe spoke sharply. He glanced at Michael. ‘What are you staring at? Get used to the fact that I’m back and I’ll make the decisions.’ He looked back at Claire. ‘You can both get used to the idea.’ He reached for the decanter again.

  ‘Joe!’ Claire’s eyes reproached him.

  ‘Joe!’ he mimicked. ‘So I drink a bit. So what? You would too if you’d been through what I went through.’