This Was the Old Chief's Country (43 page)

The old man began to speak, in a different voice, sad, and hopeless. He was telling how he had wooed his second wife, Theresa's mother. He spoke of the long courting, according to the old customs, how, with many gifts and courtesies between the clans, the marriage had been agreed on, how the cattle had been chosen, ten great cattle, heavy with good grazing; he told how he had driven them to Theresa's mother's family, carefully across the country, so that they might not be tired and thinned by the journey. As he spoke to the two young people he was reminding them, and himself, of that time when every action had its ritual, its meaning; he was asking them to contrast their graceless behaviour with the dignity of his own marriages, symbolized by the cattle, which were not to be thought of in terms of money, of simply buying a woman – not at all. They meant so much: a sign of good feeling, a token of union between the clans, an earnest that the woman would be looked after, an acknowledgement that she was someone very precious, whose departure would impoverish her family – the cattle were all these things, and many more. The old man looked at Charlie and Theresa and seemed to say: ‘And what about you? What are you in comparison to what we were then?' Finally he spat again, lifted the picture and went into the dark of his hut. They could see him looking at the picture. He liked it: yes, he was pleased, in his way. But soon he left it leaning against the iron and returned to his former pose – he drew a blanket over his head and shoulders and squatted down inside the door, looking out, but not as if he still saw them or intended to make any further sign towards them.

The four were left standing there, in the dust, looking at each other.

Marina was feeling very foolish. Was that all? And Philip answered by saying brusquely, but uncomfortably: ‘Well, there's your wedding for you.'

Theresa and Charlie had linked fingers and were together looking rather awkwardly at the white people. It was an awkward moment indeed – this was the end of it, the two were married, and it was Marina who had arranged the thing. What now?

But there was a more immediate problem. It was still early in the afternoon, the sun slanted overhead, with hours of light in it still, and presumably the newly-married couple would want to be together? Marina said: ‘Do you want to come back with us in the lorry, or would you rather come later?'

Charlie and Theresa spoke together in their own language, then Charlie said apologetically: ‘Thank you, madam, we stay.'

‘With Theresa's father?'

Charlie said: ‘He won't have Theresa now. He says Theresa can go away. He not want Theresa.'

Philip said: ‘Don't worry, Marina, he'll take her back, he'll take her money all right.' He laughed, and Marina was angry with him for laughing.

‘He very cross, madam,' said Charlie. He even laughed himself, but in a rather anxious way.

The old man still sat quite motionless, looking past them. There were flies at the corners of his eyes; he did not lift his hand to brush them off.

‘Well …' said Marina. ‘We can give you a lift back if you like.' But it was clear that Theresa was afraid of going back now; Mrs Black might assume her afternoon off was over and make her work.

Charlie and Theresa smiled again and said: ‘Good-bye. Thank you, madam. Thank you, baas.' They went slowly off across the dusty earth, between the hovels, towards the river, where a group of tall brick huts stood like outsize sentry-boxes. There, though neither Marina nor Philip knew it, was sold illicit liquor; there they would find a tinny gramophone playing dance music from America; there would be singing, dancing, a good time. This was the place the police came first if they were in search of criminals. Marina thought the couple were going down to the river, and she said sentimentally: ‘Well, they have this afternoon together, that's something.'

‘Yes,' said Philip dryly. The two were angry with each other, they did not know why. They walked in silence back to the lorry and drove home, making polite, clear sentences about indifferent topics.

Next day everything was as usual. Theresa back at work with Mrs Black, Charlie whistling cheerfully in their own flat.

Almost immediately Marina bought a house that seemed passable, about seven miles from the centre of town, in a new suburb. Mrs Skinner would not be returning for two weeks yet, but it was more convenient for them to move into the new home at once. The problem was Charlie. What would he do during that time? He said he was going home to visit his family. He had heard that his first wife had a new baby and he wanted to see it.

‘Then I'll pay you your wages now,' said Marina. She paid him, with ten shillings over. It was an uncomfortable moment. This man had been working for them for over two months, intimately, in their home, they had influenced each other's lives – and now he was off, he disappeared, the thing was finished. ‘Perhaps you'll come back and work for me when you come back from your family?' said Marina.

Charlie was very pleased. ‘Oh, yes, madam,' he said. ‘Mrs Skinner very bad, she no good, not like you.' He gave a comical grimace, and laughed.

‘I'll give you our address.' Marina wrote it out and saw Charlie fold the piece of paper and place it carefully in an envelope which also held his official pass, a letter from her saying he was travelling to his family, and a further letter, for which he had asked, listing various bits of clothing that Philip had given him, for otherwise, as he explained, the police would catch him and say he had stolen them.

‘Well, good-bye, Charlie,' said Marina. ‘I do so hope your wife and your new baby are all right.' She thought of Theresa, but did not mention her; she found herself suffering from a curious disinclination to offer further advice or help. What would happen to Theresa? Would she simply move in with the first man who offered her shelter? Almost Marina shrugged.

‘Good-bye, madam.' said Charlie. He went off to buy himself a new shirt with the ten shillings, and some sweets for Theresa. He was sad to be leaving Theresa. On the other hand, he was
looking forward to seeing his new child and his wife; he expected to be home after about a week's walking, perhaps sooner if he could get a lift.

But things did not turn out like this.

Mrs Skinner returned before she was expected. She found the flat locked and the key with Mrs Black. Everything was very clean and tidy, but – where was her favourite picture? At first she saw only the lightish square patch on the dimming paint – then she thought of Charlie. Where was he? No sign of him. She came back into the flat and found the letter Marina had left, enclosing eight pounds for the picture ‘which she had unfortunately broken'. The thought came to Mrs Skinner that she would not have got ten shillings for the picture if she had tried to sell it; then the phrase ‘sentimental value' came to her rescue, and she was furious. Where was Charlie? For, looking about her, she saw various other articles were missing. Where was her yellow earthen vase? Where was the wooden doorknocker that said
Welcome Friend
? Where was … she went off to talk to Mrs Black, and quite soon all the women dropped in, and she was told many things about Marina. At last she said: ‘It serves me right for letting to an immigrant. I should have let it to you, dear.' The dear in question was Mrs Pond. The ladies were again emotionally united: the long hostilities that had led to the flat being let to Marina were forgotten; that they were certain to break out again within a week was not to be admitted in this moment of pure friendship.

Mrs Pond told Mrs Skinner that she had seen the famous picture being loaded on to the lorry. Probably Mrs Giles had sold it – but this thought was checked, for both ladies knew what the picture was worth. No, Marina must have disposed of it in some way connected with her
Fabian
outlook – what could one expect from these white kaffirs?

Fuming, Mrs Skinner went to find Theresa. She saw Charlie, dressed to kill in his new clothes, who had come to say goodbye to Theresa before setting off on his long walk. She flew out, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him into the flat. ‘Where's my picture?' she demanded.

At first Charlie denied all knowledge of the picture. Then he said Marina had given it to him. Mrs Skinner dropped his arm
and stared: ‘But it was my picture …' She reflected rapidly: that eight pounds was going to be very useful; she had returned from her holiday, as people do, rather short of money. She exclaimed instead: ‘What have you done with my yellow vase? Where's my knocker?'

Charlie said he had not seen them. Finally Mrs Skinner fetched the police. The police found the missing articles in Charlie's bundle. Normally Mrs Skinner would have cuffed him and fined him five shillings. But there was this business of the picture – she told the police to take him off.

Now, in this city in the heart of what used to be known as the Dark Continent, at any hour of the day, women shopping, typists glancing up from their work out of the window, or the business men passing in their cars, may see (if they choose to look) a file of handcuffed Africans, with two policemen in front and two behind, followed by a straggling group of African women who are accompanying their men to the courts. These are the Africans who have been arrested for visiting without passes, or owning bicycles without lights, or being in possession of clothes or articles without being able to say how they came to own them. These Africans are being marched off to explain themselves to the magistrates. They are given a small fine with the option of prison. They usually choose prison. After all, to pay ten shillings fine when one earns perhaps twenty or thirty a month, is no joke, and it is something to be fed and housed, free, for a fortnight. This is an arrangement satisfactory to everyone concerned, for these prisoners mend roads, cut down grass, plant trees: it is as good as having a pool of free labour.

Marina happened to be turning into a shop one morning, where she hoped to buy a table for her new house, and saw, without really seeing them, a file of such handcuffed Africans passing her. They were talking and laughing among themselves, and with the black policemen who herded them, and called back loud and jocular remarks at their women. In Marina's mind the vision of that ideal table (for which she had been searching for some days, without success) was rather stronger than what she actually saw; and it was not until the prisoners had passed that she suddenly said to herself: ‘Good heavens, that man looks rather like Charlie – and that girl behind there, the plump girl with the spindly legs, there was something about the back view of that girl that was very like Theresa …' The file had in the meantime turned a corner and was out of sight. For a moment Marina thought: Perhaps I should follow and see? Then she thought: Nonsense, I'm seeing things, of course it can't be Charlie, he must have reached home by now … And she went into the shop to buy her table.

Hundreds of miles south were the gold-bearing reefs of Johannesburg; hundreds of miles north, the rich copper mines. These the two lodestars of the great central plateau, these the magnets which drew men, white and black; drew money from the world's counting-house; concentrated streets, shops, gardens; attracted riches and misery – particularly misery.

But this, here, was farming country, true farming land, a pocket of good, dark, rich soil in the wastes of the light sandveld. A ‘pocket' some hundreds of miles in depth, and only to be considered in such midget terms by comparison with those eternal sandy wastes which fed cattle, though poorly, and satisfied that shallow weed tobacco. For that is how a certain kind of farmer sees it; a man of the old-fashioned sort will think of farming as the making of food, and of tobacco as a nervous, unsatisfactory crop, geared to centres in London and New York; he will watch the fields fill and crowd with new, bright leaf, and imagine it crushed through factory and warehouse to end in a wisp of pale smoke, he will not like to imagine the substance of his soil dissipating in smoke. And if sensible people argue: Yes, but people must smoke, you smoke yourself, you're not being reasonable; he is likely to reply (rather irritably perhaps): ‘Yes, of course, you're right but I want to grow food, the others can grow tobacco.'

When Alec Barnes came searching for a farm, he chose the rich maize soil, though cleverer, experienced men told him the big money was to be found only in tobacco. Tobacco and gold, gold and tobacco – these were the moneymakers. For this country had gold too, a great deal of it; but perhaps there is only room in one's mind for one symbol, one type; and when people say ‘gold' they think of the Transvaal, and so it was with
Alec. There were many ways of seeing this new country, and Alec Barnes chose to see it with the eye of the food producer. He had not left England, he said, to worry about money and chase success. He wanted a slow, satisfying life, taking things easy.

He bought a small farm, about two thousand acres, from a man who had gone bankrupt. There was a house already built. It was a pleasant house, in the style of the country, of light red brick with a corrugated iron roof, big, bare rooms and a wide veranda. Shrubs and creepers, now rather neglected, showed scarlet against the dull green scrub, or hung in showers of gold and purple from the trees. The rainy season had sprung new grass high and thick over paths, over flower-beds. When the Barnes family came in they had to send an African ahead with a scythe to cut an opening through thickets of growth, and in the front room the bricks of the floor were being tumbled aside by the shoots from old tree roots. There was a great deal to do before the place could be comfortable, and Maggie Barnes set herself to work. She was the daughter of a small Glasgow shopkeeper, and it might be thought that everything would be strange to her; but her grandparents had farmed and she remembered visiting the old people as a child, playing with a shaggy old cart-horse, feeding the chickens. That way of farming could hardly be compared to this, but in a sense it was like returning to her roots. At least, that was how she thought of it. She would pause in her work, duster in hand, at a window or on the veranda, and look over the scrub to the mealie-fields, and it did not seem so odd that she should be here in this big house, with black servants to wait on her, not so outlandish that she might walk an hour across country and call the soil underfoot her soil. There was no domesticated cart-horse to take sugar from her hand, only teams of sharp-horned and wild-eyed oxen; but there were chickens and turkeys and geese – she had no intention of paying good money for what she could grow herself, not she who knew the value of money! Besides, a busy woman has no time for fainthearted comparisons, and there was so much to do; and she intended that all this activity should earn its proper reward. She had gone beyond her grandparents, with their tight, frugal farm, which
earned a living but no more, had gone beyond her parents, counting their modest profits in the back rooms of the grocery shop. In a sense she included both generations, could see the merits and failings of both, but – she and her husband would ‘get on', they would be prosperous as the farmers around them were prosperous. It was true that when the neighbours made doubtful faces at their growing small-scale maize, and said there could be no ‘taking it easy' on that farm, she felt a little troubled. But she approved her husband's choice, the growing of food satisfied her ideas of what was right, and connected her with her religious and respectable grandparents. Besides, many of the things Alec said she simply did not take seriously. When he said, fiercely, how glad he was to be out of England, out of the fight for success and the struggle to be better than one's neighbours, she merely smiled: what was the matter with getting on and bettering oneself? They were just words to her. She would say, in her bluff, affectionate way, of Alec: ‘He's a queer man, being English, I canna get used to the way of him.' For she put down his high-flown notions to his being English. Also, he was strange to her because of his gentleness: the men of her people were outspoken and determined and did not defer to their women. Alec deferred to her. Sometimes she could not understand him; but she was happy with him, and with her son, who was still a small child.