Roots of Outrage

‘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.