Читать книгу Roots of Outrage - John Davis Gordon - Страница 15

Those school holidays were wonderful. Wonderful, marvellous, divine, delicious, heavenly, breathtaking, walking-on-air – a head-over-heels, laughing-out-loud, do-backward-somersaults love affair, a secret so delicious he wanted to bellow it to the world.

Umtata was quiet, the school silent, the sunshine golden, the birds atwitter, the bees buzzing. And the big girl’s hostel was empty, except for the beautiful, long-legged, big-busted, sparkly-eyed, wonderful Lisa Rousseau. Every day they went galloping over the hills to the reservoir to make love on a blanket. Twice a week she came to the house to type up the journals (‘No, Luke – your mother may come home …’), every night he climbed out of his bedroom window and hurried across town to the hostel, let himself in the kitchen door and bounded up the stairs – and there was Lisa Rousseau, a grin all over her lovely face, and he seized her in his trembling arms. And, oh God, the wonderful feel of her against him, her strong-soft athletic body, her breasts crushed against his heaving schoolboy chest, her belly and loins crushed against him, his hands frantically sliding over her, feeling, feeling, feeling her. Then she swept her nightdress over her head, and the sight of her nakedness, each night, took his breath away. Then she tumbled onto her narrow bed, a grin of fun all over her lovely face. ‘The first one’s for you; the second one’s for me …’

So it went every night, those school holidays. The first one was over in minutes, two or three minutes of frantic thrusting, then a searing explosion of cascading joy. And Lisa Rousseau lay there, legs wide, smiling, receiving this explosive accolade, then, when that bit of heavenly nonsense was over, it was her turn. Miss Lisa Rousseau toppled him onto his back, and he lay there, exhausted, happy, wildly in love, and she began her magic. She slithered down to his loins and she grinned at him up his belly, her long hair awry and her big eyes twinkling, then she slowly, so slowly, lowered her head and, oh, the wonderful feel of her warm wet mouth, her teeth playfully nibbling, her full lips sucking, her warm pink tongue slithering, her eyes sparkling with the sheer fun of it all, and when she had done her magic she climbed joyfully on top of him, for her turn.

At the end of the second wonderful week Luke had a brilliant idea: his father owned a fishing camp down on the Wild Coast, sixty miles away: how marvellous to have the last week of the holidays there with Lisa all to himself, out in the wide open, sleeping together all night long, swimming naked in the crashing surf, romping together in the languid lagoon, walking along the wild deserted beach together like real lovers … It would be just like a real honeymoon. Lisa thought it a wonderful idea provided his parents didn’t know about her being there. ‘And provided we have some intellectual activity – I, my friend, am going to ensure you get an A for history …’

Luke said to his father: ‘Can I take one of the horses down to the camp? Do some fishing before I start work on my final exams?’

‘Can I come too?’ Jill cried.

‘No girls,’ Luke said firmly.

‘But what about that nice Miss Rousseau?’ Mrs Mahoney said. ‘She’ll be disappointed if you don’t go riding with her.’

‘Oh, she’s going off somewhere for a week to meet a friend.’

‘Well,’ George said, ‘provided you take Justin with you …’

Oh shit.

But the sheer audacity of living together … it was the romantic stuff of story books. And it was a great adventure setting out in the predawn into the land of the Xhosa, something like his great great grandfather Ernest had done into the land of the Zulus. As they rode through the rolling green hills with their Xhosa kraals, through their scattered herds of cattle, Luke could almost feel the shades of his forebear riding with him – and his heart and loins were as deliriously tumultuous as Ernest’s had been over his Sarie. But this adventure required him to take Justin into his confidence.

He said soberly in Xhosa: ‘Justin, I must trust you with a secret. You know the white woman, Rousseau, my history teacher?’

‘I know her,’ Justin said.

Luke cleared his throat. ‘Well, she is going to drive down to the sea tomorrow to be with us.’

‘I know,’ Justin said.

Luke frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘I know,’ Justin grinned, ‘because every night you climb out of your window and run to her house. Like this …’ He placed his elbow in his groin and thrust his forearm up rigidly.

‘So you are a spy!’

Justin smiled, ‘No, I only study till late, at my window.’

‘And how do you know I go to her house?’

‘Because we must ride past her house every Friday. And because when she comes to your house to work your tail wags like a dog. Like this … ’ He put his elbow in his groin again; and shook it about. He burst into laughter.

Luke grinned sheepishly. ‘She is only teaching me history!’

Justin dropped his head and laughed: ‘I know …’

‘And she is only coming to the sea to teach me more history!’

Justin threw back his head and guffawed, white teeth flashing: ‘1 know …’

‘Do you understand that?!’ Luke grinned. ‘And my parents must know nothing about this.’

Justin wiped his eyes. ‘I understand everything …’

They rode on in suppressed giggles for a moment, then Justin burst into laughter again. ‘But tell me, Nkosaan – is history nice?’

‘Ooooh …’

It was a wonderful week. Floating in the blue lagoon with Lisa, romping in the crashing surf, walking along the deserted beaches, sleeping all night together: not once did Luke go fishing – that was Justin’s job, to keep him out of the way. Who would want to fish when he could be with the divine Lisa Rousseau? He could not get enough of her. But the divine Lisa Rousseau did also get some brain-work out of him.

‘Luke, always think of history as a series of lampposts, which you can see leading up long networks of roads to the present. The greatest value of history is that our knowledge of the past, particularly past mistakes, helps us see into the future, and hopefully avoid mistakes …’

And she said: ‘As Ernest says, the Battle of Blood River wasn’t a battle, Luke, it was an execution – though don’t say so in your exam paper. But what’s the significance of that lamppost?’

Luke said: ‘It’s an emotional rallying point for the Afrikaner every year when they celebrate the Day of the Covenant. He is reminded every year that God was on his side, and therefore still is. And therefore apartheid is right, God’s will.’

‘Yes. But the real significance, the real tragedy is that a theocracy was born at the Battle of Blood River, Luke. “Rule of God.” Through our “divinely inspired” politicians like Verwoerd. That’s the mentality we’re up against. And we won’t get rid of apartheid until a new generation comes along who doesn’t believe that nonsense.’

‘Or until there’s an uprising. A bloodbath, like Kenya.’

Lisa shook her head. ‘No, that’s another myth. There may be a bloodbath, but it will be black blood that’s spilt, Luke. Like at the Battle of Blood River – an execution. History repeating itself. This government is surrounding us with a ring of steel – but tanks now, not wagons. An uprising will be crushed ruthlessly – it’ll solve nothing.’

‘But the communists? Russia’s got plenty of tanks too.’

Lisa sighed. ‘Communists? That’s just about everybody who opposes this government, according to our Suppression of Communism Act. As for the Russians coming, that’s another bit of wishful black thinking. As happened during the Great Cattle Killing. Sure, Russia’s bent on world revolution, and sure she’ll train saboteurs and black freedom fighters, but Russia’s a hell of a long way away, it’ll be many many years before her tanks get down here. No, the change in this country must come from here –’ she tapped her head – ‘from within. From people like you and me, Luke.’

And she said: ‘Okay, the Boer War. Big lamppost What light does it shed on today?’ Oh fuck the Boer War – he wanted to get laid again. He trailed his hand over the beautiful mound of her buttocks. ‘No, Luke, I’m determined you’ll get more out of me than the facts of life.’

Luke brought his mind back to the question. ‘This government is still fighting the Boer War, figuratively speaking.’

‘Yes. But why? The Boer War was over fifty years ago.’

‘Because of their bitterness. The injustice. The scorched earth, their women and children dying in the camps. So, now that the Afrikaner is on top at last, he intends to stay there at all costs. Hence his ring of steel. His steel laager of apartheid.’

‘True. But apartheid is only directed against the blacks, the Swart Gevaar. You’ve just said the Afrikaner is still fighting the Boer War – and blacks weren’t in that war except as labourers. So, who – and what – is the Afrikaner still fighting?’

‘The English-speaking South Africans?’

‘Right. And why? Because the English still dominate this country economically – because of the Boer War. So how is the government fighting that Boer War problem?’

‘By packing the civil service with Afrikaners?’

‘Right. Affirmative Action, it’s called. To give Afrikaners jobs and have every aspect of government dominated by loyalists. And every aspect of business. And who is the mastermind behind all that?’

‘God?’ Luke grinned.

She flicked his arm. ‘But who in fact?’

‘The Dutch Reformed Church?’

‘But the church only dominates the government’s thinking, its soul. Who is the physical power behind the throne of government?’

‘The Broederbond,’ Luke said. ‘The Brotherhood.’

‘Right … Lampposts, Luke. Illumination. And what do we know about the Broederbond? Very little, because it’s a secret society. But what light does the Boer War shed on it? Ah, now we can start making some intelligent deductions. The Broederbond was founded after the Boer War – after Sir Alfred Milner had made his cock-up of trying to turn us into Englishmen. It was founded to fight for Afrikaner dominance. In all walks of life: the Dutch Reformed Church, business, parliament, the civil service, the army, police, judiciary. And it’s grown into a mighty octopus that now controls the whole country – it’s an Afrikaner mafia now, Luke. And it is really they who rule the country – and they will stop at nothing to stay in power. And there’ll be no reform until their power is broken.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘How, indeed? Only by the pen, my friend, because they’ve got all the swords – all the generals are Broederbonders. But what does history teach us about Power? “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Eventually they’ll corrupt themselves out of power. Become decadent.’ Then she rolled over onto her back and gave her creamy smile. ‘And now, about that decadent suggestion of yours …’

It was a wonderful time. And when the holidays were over and they went back to Umtata and the kids came pouring back to town it got even better: for now their secret was multiplied, a secret to blow a thousand tiny minds, the danger a delicious spice to the delicious forbidden fruit. Luke Mahoney walked to school feeling ten feet tall, a smile in his heart about seeing her surrounded by her bevy of adoring girls, seeing the other boys lusting after her, hearing their lecherous talk, exchanging delicious grins with her, standing in assembly looking at her up there on the staff platform, eyes locked on each other’s, suppressing a grin, his heart bursting with joyous pride – his gorgeous Miss Rousseau, acting history teacher at Umtata High School, centre of the universe… And when she came striding into the classroom in her gym skirt and the muted groan went up from the boys, his bursting heart turned over. And when she began to spin her wonderful tales of history, which he already knew backwards, he just wanted to leap up and applaud, and, oh God, the joy of her legs, her breasts thrusting against her white blouse as she stretched up to write on the blackboard – sometimes, just sometimes, she locked eyes with him for a moment when all heads were down making the notes, and – oh God – the delicious secret.

When the final bell rang and she set off back to the hostel – his hostel – he went to his father’s law office with his heart singing. After dinner he went to bed, waited, listened, then pulled on his tennis shoes and breathlessly clambered out of the window and dashed across town. Then he walked past the tall hedge of the girls’ hostel, heart knocking, eyes peeled, trying to look like a schoolboy going from God knows where. The towel hanging out her window, the all-clear sign … Then the heart-knocking business of creeping through the hole in the hedge, followed by the dash across the garden to the drainpipe. He crouched in the nasturtiums, seized the pipe and Went shinning up it desperately, hand over hand, every moment expecting a girlish cry from one of the dormitory windows. Then there was the sill and he swung his leg up and Lisa grabbed his ankle, giggling. He heaved himself over, and fell into her arms. And, oh God, the forbidden fruit was all the more delicious for the outrageous danger.

And so it went. Until the night the drainpipe broke away from the wall. He was about to grab the sill when there was suddenly this creaking sound, and he was clawing at the bricks; then slowly the pipe began to fall away from the wall like a felled tree. Luke Mahoney swooped slowly down through the night, wild-eyed. Oh Christ, how do I talk my way out of this? As he hit the earth with a jarring jolt, his ankle buckled, he crashed onto his side, and the pipe and masonry came crashing down on top of him.

For an instant he lay there, shocked, in agony; then windows were bursting open, lights flashing on, and he scrambled up and tried to run, and he sprawled. He had sprained his ankle. He lay for another instant, clutching his foot, then he was up again and hobbling frantically. ‘Hey!’ girls shouted. ‘Stop! Thief!’ He hobbled flat-out, grimacing, and he sprawled again. He scrambled to his feet once more, but as he reached the gate the hostel door burst open. Girls barrelled out, clutching hockey sticks. Mahoney staggered desperately through the gate, gasping, and the girls burst out. They sprinted after him, yelling, and the first hockey stick got him. He lurched, then another stick whacked his head and he reeled; then another, then another. Under a rain of hockey sticks he crashed into the hedge, his arms curled up over his head, surrounded by gleeful, swiping girls.

‘Good God!’ the head girl gasped. ‘Luke!’

Luke crouched in the hedge, gasping, his head splitting, looking at the menacing silhouettes of astonished, stick-toting girls. He was about to make a plea for he knew not what when a quiet voice said: ‘Leave him, girls …’ And there was Miss Rousseau, in her dressing gown, arms folded, a sombre smile on her lovely face. ‘Go back to bed, girls.’

The excited girls reluctantly turned to leave, staring back, giggling, exchanging glances. Mahoney straightened up painfully, dishevelled. He looked at Lisa.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

Lisa Rousseau smiled ruefully. ‘We’re in trouble, Luke. Tomorrow there’s going to be big trouble.’

Luke closed his eyes and shook his head.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Not you. There’s no reason for two of us to be in trouble.’

‘To talk?’ the headmaster repeated furiously.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘To talk?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The headmaster gave a growl. ‘At midnight you’re shinning up the drainpipe of the girls’ hostel to talk to the housemistress? That’s what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

George Mahoney, sitting beside his son, sighed.

‘To talk about what, pray?’

‘About life, sir.’

‘About Life? With a capital L, of course? And what aspect of Life were you so desperately anxious to talk about at that hour?’ He waved a hand. ‘The birds and the bees, perhaps?’

‘No, sir. About my career, sir.’

‘Your career …’ The headmaster whispered it with the contempt it deserved. He turned and paced across his study. He turned back. ‘Do you know what happens to one’s career when one is expelled from a school? Do you know what a blemish – what a criminal record that is you’ll carry with you for life – with the capital L?!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you are not daunted?’

‘Yes, I am daunted, sir.’

Another growl. ‘And what made you think Miss Rousseau would be willing to talk to you at midnight about your career?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing?’ Steely eyes. ‘She didn’t … invite you perhaps?’

‘No, sir, she did not.’

‘You expect me to believe that? You just took it into your head to climb up her drainpipe at midnight? Without any encouragement whatsoever?’

‘Correct, sir.’

The headmaster glared at him. George Mahoney had his eyes down, a grim smile twitching his face. The headmaster stabbed the air with his finger. ‘I put it to you, Mahoney, that if you didn’t have encouragement from Miss Rousseau, your behaviour was insane! Unless you intended to rape her! Was that your intention?’

Mahoney was shocked. ‘Absolutely not, sir!’

‘To try to seduce her perhaps?’

‘No, sir.’

‘But to “talk”? About your career? At midnight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘“Oh, good evening, Miss Rousseau – or should I say good morning? – just dropped around – or climbed around – to have a little chat about my future career as an historian. I say do you mind giving me a bit of a leg-up over this window sill – but if you prefer I’ll just cling to this drainpipe for half an hour while we ‘talk’ … ”’

And Luke Mahoney, seventeen years old, in the dock without a defence, had very nearly had enough, after a sleepless night. He looked his headmaster in the eye, and his voice took on a new edge: ‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’

The headmaster glared. ‘Do I detect a note of aggression there?’

Luke looked the man in the eye. ‘No, sir. Just a note of self-defence.’

The headmaster’s glare lost its steel for a moment, then his face filled with fury: ‘‘You describe your story as a defence? Would your father –’ he flung an eloquent hand at the lawyer – ‘consider that a credible defence?!’

Luke Mahoney did not care anymore – suddenly he had had enough of this humiliation and he did not care that he was going to be expelled: and as he was going to be expelled why the hell was he putting up with this shit?

‘Very well, sir, as you evidently don’t think much of that defence, how about this one: I climbed up that drainpipe at midnight because I’m madly in love with Miss Rousseau, sir. Because faint heart never won fair lady, sir. But I absolutely assure you, sir, on a stack of bibles, that Miss Rousseau knew absolutely nothing about this passion of mine, sir. And that you have obviously interpreted her resignation as evidence of complicity is quite incorrect, and if that will be a blot on her copybook, if that will prejudice her career, if you give a bad report about her to the education authorities, that will be the grossest of injustices. That would be like the injustice suffered by an honourable woman who is stigmatised by society after being raped, sir. And I promise you I will correct that by writing to the Department of Education and confessing my guilt, sir.’

There was a silence. The headmaster was staring at him. George Mahoney was looking at his son with something approaching pride. Luke Mahoney stood there grimly – and he wasn’t blushing anymore. Take it or leave it, sir, was his demeanour. The headmaster recovered, and glared:

‘And what did you expect Miss Rousseau to do about that, if she had given you no encouragement?’

‘I had no idea, sir.’

His father sighed. The headmaster rasped softly: ‘I don’t believe you, Mahoney. I find it too much of a coincidence that Miss Rousseau does not intend to press charges against you –’

‘Indeed, sir, I’ve gathered that you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh? And have you also gathered that I intend expelling you?’

‘I have, sir.’

The headmaster glared. Then he slumped down into his chair. He sighed, then said: ‘You had a good life ahead of you, Mahoney. Brains, sportsman, personality, good looks. You had an excellent chance of winning a Rhodes Scholarship. Now? Do you realize you’ll have great difficulty even finding employment with an expulsion record?’

Mahoney said grimly: ‘Yes, I realize that, sir. So can we now please get on with it?’

The headmaster was taken aback by this impertinence. ‘Get on with it?’

‘My medicine, sir. The six of the best you’re going to give me. And let me get on the road.’

The headmaster blinked, then leaned forward. He hissed: ‘You can thank your lucky stars that before I formally expel you I am giving you the chance of leaving this school voluntarily.’

Mahoney closed his eyes. And sighed in relief. ‘I am very grateful, sir.’

‘I hope you’re still grateful after this …’ The headmaster picked up a cane. ‘Drop your trousers.’

Mahoney undid his belt. He pulled down his trousers. He bent over.

The cane whistled.

They drove home in grim silence. George parked in the garage. He switched off the engine, then slumped. He turned to his son. ‘You’ve been punished. I’m not going to punish you further.’

‘Thank you.’

The old man nodded. ‘Besides, you’re not a schoolboy anymore. You’re a young man now, whether you and I like it or not.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything. Yes, he felt like a man, though his arse felt like a schoolboy’s.

‘You became a man in the headmaster’s study, You stood up for yourself, you protected Miss Rousseau and took your medicine.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything.

‘Miss Rousseau did know you were coming, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mahoney said grimly.

The old man sighed. He looked away. ‘But you technically saved her honour. Just. That was right.’ He added: ‘Though I’d have expected nothing less of you.’

Mahoney said nothing.

‘Yes, I’ve noticed a sudden maturity’s come over you lately. Now I know why.’ The old man shook his head. ‘So, she did you some good, Luke. That’s the way to look at it.’

Mahoney nodded grimly. ‘Yes.’

‘But I hope you’re not going to keep in touch with her.’

‘No, sir. She and I agreed that last night.’

‘Good. That’s wise.’ The old man looked at him. ‘You’re not really in love with her, are you?’

Mahoney wished he could vaporise. Maybe that would also stop his arse hurting. He lied: ‘No, sir. It was just very exciting.’

For the first time the old man smiled. ‘I bet it was … And I think you can stop calling me sir. You’re out in the big wide world now. You can’t stay in this town. Though you might be a hero with the boys, it’ll be very embarrassing.’

‘Yes.’

George sighed. ‘So, young man, you’re going to Cape Town, to stay with your uncle. You leave by train tomorrow. And you’re going to finish your matric by correspondence course. When that’s over, you’ll come home and we’ll review your future.’ He sighed again. ‘But there’s no chance of sending you to Oxford now, without that scholarship. Or any other university overseas. I can’t afford that.’

‘Of course not, Dad.’

‘And that means you’re going to have to take your law degree by correspondence too, through the University of London. Because there’s no point in taking a South African law degree – there’s no future in this country under apartheid. You must prepare yourself for somewhere where they practise English law.’

‘Apartheid can’t last forever, Father.’

‘No, but it could easily last half your lifetime. And it’s going to collapse in a bloodbath. And when that happens you’ll need an English law degree, not Roman-Dutch. I want your sister to get out too.’

‘I’m not sure I want to be a lawyer.’

‘Nonsense. I know talent when I see it – you’ve got a nose for the law, like I have. And for argument. Anyway, it’s an excellent degree to have, good background for other walks of life. What the hell do you think you want to do – history?’

‘Yes. Or journalism.’

The old man sighed. ‘History? Look, son, you’re under the influence of this woman. Sure, history’s fascinating but there’s no money in it and anyway you’re far too brainy to be a teacher. Even if you become a university professor, there’s no money in it. And as for journalism, forget it, there’s no money in it either. And all newspapermen drink too much. Listen, son: you’ll get enough journalism if you write up those journals arid get them published one day – including your own story. The modern South Africa. In fact I want you to make me a solemn promise that you’ll do that. You’ve got the gift of the gab and history. Do you? Promise?’

Mahoney looked at his good father. ‘Yes, sir,’ he promised.

George slapped Luke’s knee: ‘The Law, son. It’s a grand profession. Get to the top! Become a QC. Then a judge. Not a country attorney like me. So, do you promise me you’ll do an LLB through the University of London? I’ll pay the fees.’

Luke was in no position to refuse anything. ‘Yes, I promise you.’

George Mahoney nodded. ‘So the next question is what job are you going to do while you’re doing your LLB? You can’t work for me in this town, after what’s happened. I think we could get you a job with HM Shipping for a few years?’

Mahoney said grimly: ‘I don’t want family charity.’

‘Charity? I’m sure you’d do an honest day’s work, even if you are bored out of your mind. I would be too. But –’ he pointed out a bright side – ‘I’m sure they’d give you a few trips on their freighters. See something of the world? Australia. The States.’

‘I’d love that, but not at the price of being a shipping clerk.’ Luke turned to his father. ‘No, for those three years I’ll be a newspaper reporter.’

The old man looked at his son. ‘And that’s a slippery slope, my boy. However …’ He sighed and began to get out of the car. ‘We’ll preview the future when you come home at Christmas. And now – let’s go and face your tearful mother.’

Mahoney put his hand on his father’s arm – a good man whom he’d disappointed so badly. ‘Dad? I’ve screwed up. And I don’t want you to pay for my stupidity.’

The old man smiled. ‘Miss Rousseau wasn’t stupidity, son. She was Life. The stupid part was getting caught. Remember that. Of course I’m bitterly disappointed about your Rhodes Scholarship. But don’t worry about my opinion of you, young man. You’re all right. And you only did what any young man with balls would do. And one day you and I will be laughing about this.’ He looked at his son, then clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And now let’s go and face the music …’

But there was no music from his mother. Only her gaunt face, her sniffs. Only once did she start to recriminate: ‘And we had such hopes that you were going to be a top lawyer one day … ’ and George Mahoney muttered: ‘And who says he won’t be?’ Nothing else was said throughout the meal, except Please and Thank you. The clink of cutlery, the tasteless meal. Jill glanced at her big brother with big, compassionate eyes and said not a word. Justin came in to replace plates and dishes: he knew the Nkosaan was in big shit. The whole town knew Luke Mahoney was in big shit. When the dessert was over Mrs Mahoney dabbed her eyes, and departed wordlessly.

That night, when silence had descended, there was a scratch on Luke’s door, and Jill came creeping in. She pulled a letter out of her dressing gown. ‘Miss Rousseau made me promise to tell nobody about this.’

Luke switched on his bedside light. He opened the envelope.

Dearest Luke

It will seem that a terrible thing has happened, but one day you will laugh about this. Despite this setback, I am confident you will get through the examinations ahead, and the many others you will doubtless sit, with flying colours. You should not think of contacting me, but I’m sure I will hear about you and I will do so with pride and great affection. You are the most promising historian, and young man, I have met. Work hard, and you will have a wonderful life.

Love

Lisa

Jill whispered: ‘Does she say she loves you?’

Luke switched out the light. ‘No.’

Jill didn’t believe that. ‘Are you going to marry her when the exams are over?’

Luke smiled despite himself. ‘No.’

‘Why not? She’s so wonderful. She loves you, all the girls think so. Did you … you know?’

‘What?’

‘You know …’

Luke put his hand on his sister’s. ‘No,’ he smiled sadly.

Jill put her hands to her face and gave a sob.

‘Oh I can’t bear it! My two most favourite people leaving at once, you and Miss Rousseau!’

Luke said softly: ‘You’ll be leaving too, in a few years.’

She sniffed. ‘Do you promise that you’ll write to me … ?’

Later there was a tap on Luke’s window. ‘Nkosi?’

Luke got out of bed and went to the window.

‘Come with me,’ Justin whispered. He turned and crept away through the garden.

At this hour? It could only be Lisa. He thought she had already left town! He scrambled into shorts and climbed breathlessly out of the window.

Justin was waiting. ‘I have a witch doctor here.’

Luke’s knocking heart sank. Not Lisa … ? And, oh, he didn’t want medicine from any witch doctor. ‘But I have no money.’

‘You can pay me tomorrow. He is a very good witch doctor, from my area; he is staying in my room tonight.’

Justin led the way down through the vegetable garden towards the servants’ quarters. Outside the row of rooms a cooking fire was glowing under a big black tripod pot. Round it squatted the cookboy, and gardenboy and their wives. And dominating them all, the witch doctor.

He was an old man. Around his neck hung the accoutrements of his office: the cloak of civet skin and monkey hide, the pig’s bladder, the necklace of baboon’s teeth, the pendants of bones and claws and fruit-pips, the bracelets of animal hair, the leggings. He looked up at Luke, without rising, and softly clapped his hands. ‘I see you.’

Luke clapped his hands. ‘I see you, nganga.’ He squatted down on his haunches. The servants looked on, wide eyes white in black faces. Luke wished they were not there to hear his troubles.

The witch doctor crouched, staring at the ground for a long minute, his white head down. Luke waited, and despite himself he was in the age-old grip, in the awe of the medicine-man, the priest, the medium to the supernatural. Then suddenly the witch doctor gave a shriek, and everybody jerked, he flung out his hands, and bones scattered on the ground.

They all stared at them. The witch doctor looked at the bones intently, motionlessly: then he pointed. To one, then another, then another: then he began to chant softly. He chanted over the bones for a minute; then scooped them up and threw them again. He threw them a third time. Then he rocked back on his heels, eyes closed. For a minute he was still: then he spoke softly: ‘Beware the land of twenty-one

Mahoney’s heart was knocking. Beware the land … A hundred and twenty-five years ago his great great grandfather had written in his journal, Woe unto the land whose borders lie in shadow … And that prophecy had turned out to be true. The murder of Piet Retief. Blaukrans, Weenen … It gave Luke gooseflesh. But the land of twenty-one?

‘Beware the woman with the red forehead.’

The red forehead … ?

‘Beware the woman who talks of pigs …’

Who talks of pigs?

Then the witch doctor said: ‘Stay in the land of the evening sun, or you will weep in the land that lies in shadows.’

Luke had gooseflesh. The land that lies in shadows … He wanted to ask, Where is this land? Justin touched his knee and shook his head, No. Then the witch doctor opened his eyes. He got up and disappeared into the nearest room.

Justin stood up. He beckoned to Luke. They walked back through the vegetable garden towards the house. Luke said in English: ‘Please ask him where the land of twenty-one is. And about the women. Come to the window and tell me.’

‘He only knows what the spirits have spoken.’ Justin stopped. ‘Maybe one day we will see each other again, in Johannesburg. I will pray for you.’

Luke’s eyes were burning. He held out his hand.