People of Heaven Page 7

  He had her there. She had no idea what he’d been through and he wasn’t about to tell her. Let her imagine the worst. It might keep her off his back.

  ‘May I be excused please, Mum?’ Michael looked imploringly at Claire.

  She nodded and he went to rise.

  ‘Sit down,’ Joe barked. ‘You’ll leave the table when I tell you.’

  Michael had to endure another twenty minutes while his father looked for faults in the way the farm had been run, complained about and criticised most things and even ordered Claire to grow her hair again. When he was finally allowed to leave the table, Michael escaped to his room with a feeling of profound relief. He wished he had the courage to defy his father and shut the door. He didn’t want to see or hear the man again.

  Joe lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, a cigarette between his lips. Claire’s, ‘Darling, do you have to smoke in bed?’ had bounced straight off him. Claire was in the bathroom nervously getting ready for bed. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to tell her that, for the moment at least, her darling husband couldn’t get it up. Joe dragged on the cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling. He supposed it might even come as some relief to her. From memory, she hadn’t exactly been thrilled with the prospect of lovemaking two and three times a night. Joe’s appetite for sex was the one thing about him that she had never understood. Once a week would have suited Claire better.

  She came into the room and smiled at him tentatively. ‘Joe, you haven’t explained why it took so long for you to come home. Was it the injury?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘It took a while to heal up.’

  ‘My poor darling. How awful for you.’

  Joe shrugged and drew on his cigarette. ‘These things happen. I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘Of course, darling. Forgive me.’ She was rubbing cream into her face.

  ‘Come to bed, Claire.’

  ‘In a minute.’ She picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her hair vigorously. ‘How did you get back here?’

  ‘Milk train. Never again. Damned thing takes forever.’

  ‘The milk train. But, Joe, that gets in at eight in the morning. Where have you been?’

  ‘I had some business to take care of in town. ‘That was true enough. He’d gone straight to the hotel from the train. ‘What the hell are you doing now?’

  Hand cream. She was wringing it into her hands. She looked at him uneasily. ‘Isn’t it silly? I’m as nervous as a young bride.’

  Joe stubbed the cigarette out. ‘Come here.’

  Claire turned the lamp down on her side of the bed and slid in next to him. Joe left his burning. He rolled onto his side and turned into her. ‘Not with the light on, Joe.’

  ‘There’s something you should know,’ he said, ignoring her protests and sliding his good hand under her nightie. Her skin felt hot. He reached the bush of hair and ran his thumb lightly over it before pushing his hand between her legs, forcing them open a little. He slid his finger into her and she gave a little cry as emotions, so long held in check, flooded through her. She was dry and unresponsive at first but Joe had learned a thing or two in London and, before long, five years of abstinence had his wife responding more than he had ever known before. ‘I’ll tell her later,’ he thought.

  Joe had spoken of his impotence to several doctors in London. All but one had dismissed his condition and told him to be patient. The exception, a young doctor he’d seen just before returning to South Africa, advised him to keep trying.

  ‘There’s no physical reason, Joe. Not any more. You’re like a lot of men. One failure to have an erection and you become convinced you’ll never have one again. Don’t force it. Once you’re home with your wife let nature take its course. Give your wife pleasure – I’m sure you know what I mean – and you’ll be surprised how quickly your little friend will respond.’

  The Joe who went to war would not have fully understood the doctor’s advice but he was not so innocent now.

  Claire was squirming under his hand, her legs wider. She was slippery and ready for him. Abruptly, he removed his hand and flung back the bedclothes.

  ‘Joe, the lamp.’

  ‘Leave it. I want to see you.’ He slid down in the bed and raised himself over her. Claire immediately snapped her legs shut. ‘Open your legs.’

  ‘Joe,’ she begged.

  He forced her legs apart and lowered his face to her. Soon, her ragged breath told him she had forgotten about the light. She came to him reluctantly, with a long, drawn-out sigh of satisfaction tinged with guilt. Joe understood Claire well enough to know that she would be deeply shocked by what they had just done and by her own reaction to it. He sat up and lit another cigarette.

  Claire turned her face to him and he saw tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve never done that before. ‘There was an accusation in her voice.

  ‘Did you like it?’

  She didn’t answer, just put her hands over her eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to . . . you know . . . do it to me?’

  He looked at her through a haze of smoke. ‘I can’t,’ he told her flatly. ‘I can’t get it up any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She had never heard the expression.

  ‘My cock doesn’t work,’ he said crudely. ‘It won’t get stiff.’

  ‘Joe!’ She was terribly offended by his language.

  Joe relented. It wasn’t Claire’s fault. Her innocence had once been a source of pride to him. Could he feel like that again? God knows, she was attractive enough. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ve been in the company of men too long.’

  To Joe’s astonishment, feelings so long dead began to stir. While he didn’t exactly have an erection, his old mate was definitely showing interest. He stubbed out the cigarette and lay back, the covers around his knees. Claire still had her eyes shut, convinced they were guilty of some terrible sin. Joe knew she would baulk at what he was about to ask. He had to convince her. This was the closest he’d come in years. ‘Darling, look at me.’

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and turned to him.

  ‘We are married. There’s nothing wrong with what we just did.’

  ‘Are you sure? We’ve never done that before.’

  She wanted to believe him, she just needed convincing. ‘You liked it, didn’t you?’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘You still love me don’t you?’

  ‘Yes of course.’ She didn’t sound too sure.

  ‘I love you too, darling. What we did was perfectly normal.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Men don’t usually talk about these things but, with three years in the camp, we had nothing better to do. We often spoke of our wives. The conversations were, well, quite frank. It shocked me, I can tell you. But I was the one who was different.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was relieved. ‘I thought that maybe, that you might have . . .’

  ‘Had an affair? Don’t be silly. I love you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I really would understand.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’ He could not keep sarcasm from his voice. If only you knew.

  She rolled towards him and put an arm over his chest. ‘Forgive me, my darling. It’s just that you seem different somehow.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘Of course I’m different but I still love you. I want to make love to you, but you’ll have to help me.’

  ‘How?’ The word was filled with dread.

  He reached out and picked up her hand. ‘Like this.’

  She gripped him and jerked his foreskin back and forth so hard it hurt. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Sorry.’ She let go of him immediately.

  ‘Try kissing it.’

  ‘What!’

  He nearly laughed out loud at her shock. ‘Go on, it won’t bite.’

  Steeling herself, Claire planted a timid peck on his flaccid penis. This was not the Joe she remembered. His lovemaking had been predictable. As soon as they got into be
d he would reach out and stroke her a few times, playing with her breasts, before raising himself and entering her. Sometimes in the middle of the night she would wake up with his fingers inside her and, as soon as he knew she was awake, he would take her again. Every morning he used to cuddle up behind her so she could feel his engorged penis. It was always the same, he would roll her over and make love again. She rarely saw him erect, or even naked. She had been brought up to believe that men had urges which they couldn’t control and that it was a wife’s lot in life to endure their husband’s attentions and, if lucky, occasionally enjoy it. Joe used to share these beliefs and, if she had any complaints about him, it was the regularity with which he appeared to need sex. Their lovemaking was always conducted in the dark, under the covers with both of them wearing nightclothes. Now he was lying next to her, stark naked, with the bedclothes around his knees and the lamp still burning. The few times Claire had seen Joe erect she wondered how he ever fitted inside her.

  She felt ashamed of what they were doing. It had to be a sin. The things he had just done to her, she’d never felt like that before. Claire King had just experienced her first orgasm and felt embarrassed that she had enjoyed it so much.

  ‘Lick it, Claire. Lick it like I just licked you.’ His breathing had become a little unsteady.

  Claire stared at his penis, revolted. It was stirring, like a great slug. ‘I can’t,’ she moaned.

  ‘Give me the same pleasure I gave you.’

  Slowly, reluctantly, Claire lowered her face to his groin. His moans, and the alarming way his penis grew inside her mouth, told her he was enjoying it. Which was more than could be said for Claire. Quite suddenly, he grabbed her head, held it firm and ejaculated into her mouth. As soon as he let her go, Claire jumped up and ran for the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time and vomiting into it. She was shocked beyond belief, nauseous and weak. She rinsed her mouth and, as an afterthought, cleaned her teeth again.

  When she returned to the bedroom, he was smoking another cigarette. Joe smiled as though she were a favourite child. ‘Thank you, my darling.’

  Claire knew then that she did not love this man, that he had changed beyond recognition and that the Joe who had gone to war did not appear to have come back. Her upbringing made it impossible to consider divorce but she knew it had to be made clear to him that certain things would not be tolerated. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again.’ Revulsion put anger into her voice.

  He looked genuinely surprised. ‘It’s the only way I can do it.’

  ‘Then go and see a doctor. I will not let you do that to me again, it’s disgusting.’

  He could see she meant every word. He remembered how stubborn she could be. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I thought you’d want to help me.’

  Her face softened, she came to the bed and sat down. ‘I do . . . I will help you, Joe, but if you ever do that in my mouth again I’ll . . . I’ll bite it off.’ She was only half joking.

  Joe laughed. ‘I promise.’

  Claire got into bed and curled into him. She would still be a dutiful wife, there was no other course of action available to her. ‘Go to sleep. You’ve had a long day.’

  Well after Claire had fallen asleep, Joe was still wide awake. He had been surprised by his erection. He wondered if his excitement had been caused by Claire’s obvious reluctance. He knew what he was doing, that he was playing on her old-fashioned beliefs that she comply with his sexual wishes. It crossed Joe’s mind that this would possibly be a way of controlling his wife who seemed to have developed more confidence, at least in the matter of the farm.

  Joe already knew that he had ceased to love Claire. The woman he had come home to was a virtual stranger. Her modesty annoyed him. Her lack of worldliness exasperated him. But it was her confidence which got to him most. He was in charge and she would just have to get used to it. He could probably get his sexual kicks elsewhere, that would help.

  The son he didn’t know, or even particularly like, was another irritation. The boy sat at dinner staring accusingly at his father. His father, damn it! The word used to mean something. The kid would need sorting out. Joe had been raised on his father’s belt and it hadn’t harmed him. The kid would find out the hard way.

  Quite suddenly his mood switched. ‘Damn it! Come on, Joe. This is all you ever wanted once. You can’t have changed that much. Give it time. Claire’s a wonderful woman. Michael’s probably okay too, you just have to get to know him.’ Joe stared up towards the dark ceiling. ‘The old Joe will come back. He’s in there somewhere. He’ll come back. He’s got to.’

  It was the closest the new Joe could come to a prayer.

  THREE

  Wilson Mpande trudged wearily along the track. The going was tough. It was little more than a trail made by the passing of people and animals. It had been all uphill for the past ten kilometres. With each minute his rucksack grew heavier, and the army uniform hotter. Ahead, he could see the jagged peak of Ka Isele, towering above the Amahlumbe Range. Tired as he was, the sight of it cheered him on. He was nearly home. This was the land of kings. His illustrious ancestor, Mpande, after whom he had been named – third king of the Zulus – had ruled for more than thirty years and built his kraal in sight of Ka Isele. Mpande’s son and successor, Cetshwayo, established his own kraal nearby. These hills were rich in the history of the Zulu nation but it was more than that. Much more. Zululand was in his blood and Wilson had dreamed of this homecoming for more than five years.

  He stopped and breathed in deeply, the pure air a delight, the green rolling hills a balm for eyes that had squinted for so long against the white-hot desert glare of North Africa. The sky was like a painting, a perfectly blue backdrop for the fluffy white clouds overhead and the darker thunderclouds that boiled up behind distant hills. Soaring effortlessly, a pair of black eagles were lazily riding unseen thermals in their never-ending search for food. Each time one of them banked and turned, the jet colour of their feathers gleamed in the sunshine. As he watched, one suddenly folded its wings and dropped like a stone to the ground, rising again with a struggling dassie firmly held in razor-sharp talons. Calling to its mate, the black eagle quickly became a dot in the sky, powering back towards the far escarpment. The heavy rock rabbit didn’t seem to impede its progress at all.

  Wilson sighed with pleasure at the sight. His roots were here. That, in fact, was what Mpande meant – the root – and he, Wilson Mpande, bore the name with pride, aware that his royal blood was linked to the greatest king of all, Shaka.

  It had come as something of a shock to Wilson to learn how little most white South Africans knew about the history of the Zulu royal house. In North Africa, on those few occasions the subject came up, Wilson realised that while all whites had heard of Shaka and most knew his half-brother, Dingane, had assassinated him, their knowledge dwindled at that point.

  Right now it didn’t bother him. For once, he did not care that the only people who seemed in awe of, or showed respect for, his royal blood were other Zulus. That would change. It had to. The Zulu nation had been too powerful, too magnificent, to simply fade into obscurity. The time was coming when his people would once again pull together and become such a force that all their neighbours would show respect. And that included the white man.

  Wilson threw out his chest and took in great gulps of air, feeling the tiredness leave him. His village, his wife Nandi, and his son were just over the next rise. As a child he had played on the very spot where he now stood. Where that line of trees followed the stream, he had wooed and won Nandi. And away to his left, as far as the eye could see, were the valleys, hills and rivers in which the young Wilson had grown into a man. Wilson knew every inch, every nuance, every mood of this land that was his home. It held no surprises other than its beauty and treachery. It could be harsh and unforgiving yet little glades and streams offered water so pure, so sweet, so cold, that his tongue stung with anticipation. The ground on which he walked was no stranger to Zulu sweat, blood and bones –
the air he breathed alive with echoes of ancient battles. ‘Yebo,’ Wilson said aloud, setting off again. ‘I am home.’

  The sense of coming home had been slowly increasing since he left the train at Empangeni and began walking north-west. It was good to be finally speaking his own language with people he met along the way. The sight of Wilson in uniform created a great deal of interest. Many people knew nothing about the war, it held no importance to them. Wilson wondered if their ignorance was a good or a bad thing. He didn’t know if he envied or pitied them. A bit of both he suspected.

  He could have changed trains at Nseleni and ridden all the way to Ulundi but he wanted this experience. He wanted to walk the hills of his home and cross the White Umfolozi River where it swept lazily around the big bend, sandy banks so wide they looked like a beach. On the other side lay the land he knew intimately. As soon as he crossed the river he began to meet people he knew well. He passed places where he had herded his father’s cattle, killed his first duiker, met with friends to talk or practise stick fighting. The area was alive with Wilson’s memories, his past.

  Two days’ walking fell away, he felt invigorated and excited. He topped the last hill and there was the village looking almost exactly as he had kept it in his mind. It had grown somewhat in his absence, new huts to accommodate younger men as they came of age and took a wife, new kraals for their cattle and, something that had not been there before, a shop. Garishly painted with dancing figures and advertising, it looked decidedly out of place among the neat beehive dwellings. Wilson frowned with disapproval as he scanned the area below, trying to pick out his father’s kraal and the homes within. When he located the dwellings his concern deepened. Much repair was needed to the hut he had built for Nandi. His brothers should have been taking care of it for him. There was something very wrong.

  Reaching the village he made directly for his father’s kraal. Built in the traditional, time-honoured way, it was a large circular enclosure of cut acacia trees, the flat and thorny tops intermeshed and compacted to form an impenetrable wall. Sited on a gently declining slope with the entrance at the lowest point so that, when it rained, dung and other dirt washed through and onto the vegetable garden beyond, within the outer stockade was a second enclosure where the cattle were secured at night to keep them safe from predators. Between the inner and outer walls were the huts, fourteen in all. Wilson’s grandmother’s was the largest and on the highest ground, furthest from the entrance. With her lived the spirits of their ancestors. To the right was his father’s hut and to the left, his mother’s. Various other family members lived within the kraal’s inner and outer walls, the distance from the entrance depending on their seniority. On either side of the entrance were the huts of the unmarried girls and men.