allowed cane to flourish. And life was safe on the farms then, when everyone knew their place. Victor, in full cry on his polo fields, never had a moment’s worry about his little woman holding the fort back home.
Then his luck changed. There was a prolonged drought in the late twenties and the cane shrivelled to dry husks. Cane trucks stood in empty rows on their winding narrow-gauge lines and the sugar mills were silent. Soon the Depression was raging and banks foreclosed. Joseph Herald II refused a bail-out loan to his playboy son-in-law who had allowed crops to fail on fertile river soil. Instead, Dot’s father bought the trading store at Umfolozi and its adjoining house, so his daughter and grandchildren would have a roof over their heads and an income. Victor, bankrupt and furious, was forced to become what he most dreaded: a counter jumper.
All too soon Dot learnt how wrong she’d been about a dashing polo player who could put away more cocktails than anyone else. But Landela had moved with his family into the backyard rooms behind the store, and his loyalty and kindness sustained her.
Paintings with gold frames were stacked against layers of tapestries draped over a balustrade. Crystal chandeliers hung skew on the stair posts. Stout sofas and leather armchairs had been pushed back to make room for piles of Persian carpets.
‘Loot,’ someone whispered.
· 9 ·
H ALFWAY THROUGH P SALM 39, R EVEREND G EORGE gets into his stride. He raises his head and aims his demand at the Almighty. ‘And now, Lord, what is my hope?’ then pauses as though waiting for an immediate answer. ‘Hope – ope – ope – ope–’ echo the microphones.
The bishop’s eyes are panning across the congregation. How are the VIPs reacting? The mayor seems to be calculating the number of dust motes in a thin beam of sunlight from a high window. A notorious newspaper editor drums his fingers on his knees. Mr Pillay, the hotel magnate, murmurs to the sharp-suited man sitting next to him – the Breweries’ director from Joburg?
As if underlining the bishop’s speculative survey, a TV cameraman in the side aisle zooms in, first on the two men, then on the current Springbok captain. International rugby players are so huge and powerful these days, thinks the bishop, he’d be afraid to meet one of them on a dark night.
He had once hoped for glory on the rugby field, but settled instead for theological college when he failed to make the second team at school. Now he has his eye on a more elevated position. The archbishop is retiring in a year’s time and the synod meets soon to choose his successor. An appearance on evening television news, presiding over the funeral of a national hero in a gracious old church, can’t fail to impress the delegates.
Bridget sits worrying about Sam. He seems okay, with his asthma under control, but he does bury himself in the war stories he carries around in her tatty little suitcase. What is it about war that appeals to boys, even the gentle ones? Though she has to admit that Hugh is different. He has always been anti-war and stood up bravely to his fierce father. She finds it hard to believe that the old boy is dead. He was so vital. And so interfering when his children’s marriages hit the rocks.
She remembers him accusing her, ‘You went off and indulged yourself.’
‘It wasn’t an indulgence. I was invited to join a crucial research team because MDR-TB is a serious threat. And anyway, Sam is at school most of the day.’
‘A mother’s place is at home with her family.’
‘Don’t be so old-fashioned, Dad,’ she’d protested. ‘It’s okay for mothers to work now. We need our space.’
He’d struck back, ‘Don’t you call me Dad any more. You’re a deserter. I won’t have any truck with you.’
He had been stunned when Hugh married Nelisiwe a year after the divorce. Bridget suspects that the weekend invitations to Sam were as much to shield him from Hugh and Neli’s
Then his luck changed. There was a prolonged drought in the late twenties and the cane shrivelled to dry husks. Cane trucks stood in empty rows on their winding narrow-gauge lines and the sugar mills were silent. Soon the Depression was raging and banks foreclosed. Joseph Herald II refused a bail-out loan to his playboy son-in-law who had allowed crops to fail on fertile river soil. Instead, Dot’s father bought the trading store at Umfolozi and its adjoining house, so his daughter and grandchildren would have a roof over their heads and an income. Victor, bankrupt and furious, was forced to become what he most dreaded: a counter jumper.
All too soon Dot learnt how wrong she’d been about a dashing polo player who could put away more cocktails than anyone else. But Landela had moved with his family into the backyard rooms behind the store, and his loyalty and kindness sustained her.
Paintings with gold frames were stacked against layers of tapestries draped over a balustrade. Crystal chandeliers hung skew on the stair posts. Stout sofas and leather armchairs had been pushed back to make room for piles of Persian carpets.
‘Loot,’ someone whispered.
· 9 ·
H ALFWAY THROUGH P SALM 39, R EVEREND G EORGE gets into his stride. He raises his head and aims his demand at the Almighty. ‘And now, Lord, what is my hope?’ then pauses as though waiting for an immediate answer. ‘Hope – ope – ope – ope–’ echo the microphones.
The bishop’s eyes are panning across the congregation. How are the VIPs reacting? The mayor seems to be calculating the number of dust motes in a thin beam of sunlight from a high window. A notorious newspaper editor drums his fingers on his knees. Mr Pillay, the hotel magnate, murmurs to the sharp-suited man sitting next to him – the Breweries’ director from Joburg?
As if underlining the bishop’s speculative survey, a TV cameraman in the side aisle zooms in, first on the two men, then on the current Springbok captain. International rugby players are so huge and powerful these days, thinks the bishop, he’d be afraid to meet one of them on a dark night.
He had once hoped for glory on the rugby field, but settled instead for theological college when he failed to make the second team at school. Now he has his eye on a more elevated position. The archbishop is retiring in a year’s time and the synod meets soon to choose his successor. An appearance on evening television news, presiding over the funeral of a national hero in a gracious old church, can’t fail to impress the delegates.
Bridget sits worrying about Sam. He seems okay, with his asthma under control, but he does bury himself in the war stories he carries around in her tatty little suitcase. What is it about war that appeals to boys, even the gentle ones? Though she has to admit that Hugh is different. He has always been anti-war and stood up bravely to his fierce father. She finds it hard to believe that the old boy is dead. He was so vital. And so interfering when his children’s marriages hit the rocks.
She remembers him accusing her, ‘You went off and indulged yourself.’
‘It wasn’t an indulgence. I was invited to join a crucial research team because MDR-TB is a serious threat. And anyway, Sam is at school most of the day.’
‘A mother’s place is at home with her family.’
‘Don’t be so old-fashioned, Dad,’ she’d protested. ‘It’s okay for mothers to work now. We need our space.’
He’d struck back, ‘Don’t you call me Dad any more. You’re a deserter. I won’t have any truck with you.’
He had been stunned when Hugh married Nelisiwe a year after the divorce. Bridget suspects that the weekend invitations to Sam were as much to shield him from Hugh and Neli’s
Similar Books
