In the course of thirty minutes Mr Maynard offered twenty-odd African men the choice of a ten-shilling fine or a month in jail for being out in the white part of the town the night before without one or more of the obligatory passes. Most chose prison.
A Coloured man came up on a charge of falling behind on the instalments for his furniture: a stop-order was fixed on his salary.
A white woman stood before the magistrate in order to receive a lecture on improvidence. Having undertaken to pay off five pounds a month on a debt of £130, she had failed to do so. She said she had five children and a drinking husband. Mr Maynard said this was no affair of the Court: she must pay off the arrears of £20 within a week, and keep up the monthly payments in future. She was a middle-aged woman with a thin, lined sunburned face, and a mouth tight with resentment and bitterness.
‘And where am I going to get the £20?’ she inquired. ‘My husband’s out of work.’
‘Then you should get work.’
‘But my baby’s six months old.’
‘There’s a creche, isn’t there? Put the children in a crèche and get a job.’
‘But, sir, if I get a job I won’t be earning more than fifteen pounds a month and it will cost all of that to keep the children in the crèche.’
‘But my dear lady, you should have thought of all that before running yourself into debt.’
‘Thank you very much,’ she said, ‘thank you,’ And went out of the Court with fast blind steps, muttering: ‘Old owl, bloody old owl,’ while Mr Maynard gazed at the space where the next defaulter must stand.
He was a white youth charged with speeding. He earned fifty pounds a month and was fined two pounds.
There followed a black lorry-driver charged with the same offence: he was fined two pounds, but asked for the option of prison, since he earned four pounds a month.
‘And what will your family do while you are in prison?’
‘I have no family, sir,’ said the lorry-driver, smiling broadly.
‘Very wise,’ said Mr Maynard. ‘Right. One month in jail. Next case.’
There were no more cases. The Court rose. That is, all the officials departed save Mr Maynard and the interpreter Elias Phiri.
‘Elias, come here.’
‘Sir,’ Elias stood smiling by the table.
‘That lorry-driver, is it true he has no family?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Mr Maynard sharply raised his brows, and Elias said: ‘Well, sir, I believe he has a woman.’
‘His wife? I suppose not.’
‘A spare, sir.’
‘And children?’
‘Two children.’
‘And so why did he want to go to prison?’
‘His wife is coming from Nyasaland this week, sir, and he knows there will be trouble between the women. I think he wanted to be out of the way, sir.’
Mr Maynard would normally have laughed at this, but he said sharply: ‘Prison is supposed to be a disgrace. What’s the use of us sending you people to prison if you don’t think of it as a punishment?’
Elias said blandly: ‘But, sir, we aren’t civilized yet, perhaps that is the reason.’
Mr Maynard did not laugh, as Elias had expected him to do. He said: ‘I see absolutely no reason why we should give house-room to your friends to keep them out of domestic trouble.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Elias.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At these meetings, the communist meetings, is there a young lady, a white missus, who calls herself Maisie?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, sir.’
‘And the other meetings, the public meetings, does she go to those?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you still keeping a note of the names?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘And so what’s going on? Anything new?’
‘Oh, a lot of trouble, sir. A lot of quarrelling.’
‘Indeed. What about?’
‘The men from the camps, the RAF, sir, they want to make a revolution with us natives, but the others, they say no, the time is not yet ripe.’
‘Ah? And what are the RAF doing about fomenting a revolution?’
‘Nothing, sir. They say it is time to begin, that is all.’
‘And what is this I hear about a white man being seen down in the Location last week selling that communist rag?’
‘I don’t know about it, sir.’
‘Then you’d better find out, Elias. That’s what I’m paying you for.’
Elias, averting his gaze from Mr Maynard’s face, said quietly: ‘Of course many of the RAF men and some of the baases from the town wait outside the Location gates at night for our girls.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Maynard dryly. ‘I am aware that they do. But you know that is not what I am talking about.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’ll expect to talk to you tomorrow, Elias.’ He pushed five shillings across the table at Elias, who pocketed it swiftly and as swiftly went out.
Mr Maynard waited a few moments, then shouted: ‘Sixpence.’
The Native Court Messenger came in. ‘Baas?’
‘Have you seen any white men in the Location?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you heard of any white men in the Location?’
Sixpence, otherwise Tabwinga Mleli from the regions north of the Zambesi Valley, stood smiling politely. ‘No, sir. Only the superintendents, sir.’
‘You idiot, I know about the superintendents. I’m asking you about white men, RAF men, selling newspapers in the Location.’
‘No, sir.’
Mr Maynard took a ten-shilling note from his pocket, and rubbed it between his fingers while he gazed at the messenger.
‘I know nothing, baas.’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Maynard, putting back the ten-shilling note, at the sight of which Tabwinga, who earned two pounds a month, let a deep sigh escape him. ‘Send in Mathew.’
‘Yes, sir.’
A moment later, Mathew, an old man who had been for many years in the service of the Court, came in, with humility.
‘Mathew, do you know about white men selling communist newspapers in the Location?’
Mathew’s grizzled old face puckered up: the ten-shilling note was again playing bait between Mr Maynard’s fingers.
‘There are always baases after the girls, sir.’
‘Yes, damn it, I know that.’
‘I did hear,’ said old Mathew, his eyes on the ten-shilling note, ‘that there was a white baas last week in Elias’s house.’
‘Elias? Are you sure?’
‘I heard it only. Perhaps I am mistaken.’
Mr Maynard suddenly threw the ten-shilling note on to the floor. Mathew’s face, puckered up with distress, turned away, as if he was about to walk off. Then he bent and picked up the money, slowly. He said reproachfully to Mr Maynard: ‘I have worked for you for many years, sir.’
‘Yes, you old scoundrel, I know you have. Well, get out.’
The old man went to the door like a scuttling old fowl.
Mr Maynard now allowed himself half an hour for serious thought, putting the facts to himself as follows: The girl was not trying blackmail, she is in fact pregnant. The chances are that it is Binkie’s child, though of course with these people anything is possible. The girl is a negligible creature, but then, so is any girl Binkie is likely to choose. If I don’t do something quickly she will get an abortion and that’s the end of Binkie. (Mr Maynard’s instinct, not his mind, informed him that this would be the case: he so far discounted Binkie as a person that he had not once considered what Binkie would think of his parents’ behaviour.) I must stop her getting an abortion. It is now useless for either myself or my wife to see her. I must approach Martha. Once Martha has made Maisie see reason, I shall explain to Maisie that it would not be in Binkie’s interests for her to have anything further to do
with the communist element in this town. After all, he is a civil servant.
He telephoned Martha at her office, demanding that she should lunch with him.
That morning Mr Robinson had told Martha that she had altogether too many personal calls in the office. He was at that moment standing impatiently beside her desk with documents to he typed.
‘I suppose it’s about Maisie,’ said Martha.
‘It would seem,’ said Mr Maynard, his voice heavy with willed urbanity, ‘that I’ve offended that woman without knowing why.’
Martha said nothing. Mr Robinson bent at her elbow. Mrs Buss’s fingers were hopping like sparrows over her typewriter at the next table.
‘Mr Maynard,’ said Martha, noting that Mr Robinson’s disapproval vanished at the sound of the magistrate’s name, ‘I’m not going to do your dirty work for you. I’ve told you before.’
Mr Robinson let out a gruff: ‘I say!’ and glared at Martha. ‘I can’t imagine why you should assume it is dirty,’ said Mr Maynard.
Martha put down the receiver. Mr Robinson said: ‘You take a very cavalier tone with your elders and betters.’
Martha was feeling quite sick with dislike of both him and the magistrate. She was still weak after the illness. Mr Robinson, receiving no answer, examined his typist. Martha knew she must be pale, for she could feel the cold deadness of her cheeks. Mr Robinson escaped from the situation by saying: ‘I shouldn’t overdo it the first day if I were you, Mrs Knowell, You don’t look too good.’ Forcing a smile he added: ‘And you might bear in mind that as a member of the legal profession, I have a natural desire that my staff should show a modicum of respect to magistrates – at least when they are using my telephone.’ He went into the inner office, slamming his door.
Martha would have gone home to bed. But she was thinking of the meeting that night. She had missed three, and longed to be back with the group.
Chapter Three
Seven o’clock in Black Ally’s; the smell of hot fat; the spitting and cracking of hot fat from the kitchen; the tables crammed as usual full of the RAF – unbuttoned, at ease, noisy, a thick mass of men under a grey haze of kitchen fumes and cigarette smoke. Anton sat in his usual corner, eating methodically, waiting for Martha. She came in brightly, smiling yet anxious, examining his face so as to match what she had learned of him during the last three weeks with how she had seen him before. He hastened to rise, draw back a chair and settle her; this protective and almost fussy manner belonged to the man who had been a devoted nurse. She was thinking: he wouldn’t have done that before, Is he doing it now because I’ve been sick or because I’ve become something different for him?
In a corner nearby the RAF group, Andrew, Jimmy, Murdoch and Bill Bluett were steadily taking in eggs, bacon and chips. Jimmy saw Martha, the colour on his big cheekbones deepened, and he gave her a stiff nod. The three others greeted her with the Jocular defensiveness they used for any woman, comrade or not, whom they met when they were in a group of the RAF. She saw them give Anton unfriendly looks, and remembered that while she had been away battles of principle had raged. Even Andrew, because he was with the others, allowed himself – while checking disparaging remarks about Anton in a brisk comradely voice – to ally himself with their hostility by smiling connivance. She looked at Anton, to see how he felt, but he seemed unaware. She thought it impossible that he did not know they were hostile to him; therefore he must have decided it was unimportant. This made Martha feel better. Yet she asked: ‘Anton, why didn’t you sit with them?’
‘I was here first.’
‘You could have moved and sat with them?’
‘I was waiting for you.’ There was an awkward gallantry in his manner which struck a note foreign to their relations before her illness, and discordant with the simple kindliness of his manner to her while she was ill.
She thought: I’ve become something else for him, and it made her uncomfortable and resentful. Again she felt caged and hemmed in: there was a new possessiveness in him, something dogged and cold.
I’m caught for life, she thought: but the words ‘for life’ released her from anxiety. They all of them saw the future as something short and violent. Somewhere just before them was a dark gulf or chasm, into which they must all disappear. A communist is a dead man on leave, she thought. That’s what matters, and not how I feel about Anton. And, anyway, if Anton and I are unhappy it will be easy to separate.
These ideas flashed through her mind all at once, and she smiled at Anton and said: ‘Well, of course, I wanted to be with you too.’
They continued their meal. Martha was conscious of the airforce men in the corner, envying them because of the solidarity of their comradeship, even while she told herself it was sentimental to envy them: the comradeship was the uniform, that was all, and had nothing to do with them as individuals. All the same, she was possessed by an old feeling that she was being shut out of some warmth, some beautiful kind of friendship. She watched Anton eat, and told him about Maisie. She was wanting him to say that Maisie should have the baby and defy the world, but he broke a piece of bread carefully between long, thin fingers, and said: ‘There’s nothing to an abortion if it’s properly done.’
At this moment the four airforce men rose from their own table and came to stand by them. There were a few moments of banter, behind which Martha could feel a dislike of Anton which dismayed her. Was it simply because of the RAF solidarity? Because they had seen her choose Anton instead of one of themselves? Her instinct said no.
Andrew said bluntly: ‘What are you two love-birds talking about?’
Martha grimaced at the ‘love-birds’ but, because she trusted Andrew, told him about Maisie: she wanted a more generous reaction than Anton’s about the baby.
The three men with Andrew listened seriously, as Andrew did: she was grateful for it – because she was in trouble she became a comrade again, and one of them.
Jimmy said hotly: ‘It’s a bleeding shame, that’s what it is.’
Bill Bluett said: ‘Serves her right for not bargaining over the wedding ring, poor bint.’
Andrew said: ‘Never mind, we’ll put it all right come the Revolution.’
‘The Revolution’s not going to help her much,’ said Martha. ‘That is, unless we can make one in the next two or three days.’
Anton said: ‘She should have thought of all that before: instead of getting pregnant and then feeling sorry for herself.’
The atmosphere chilled. The four men stiffened inside their thick uniforms, and their eyes exchanged cold messages. Murdoch cried out in derision: ‘She should have thought of that before, should she?’
‘That’s the long and the short of it, mate,’ said Jimmy with solemnity – ‘look before you leap, a stitch in time saves nine, and if a girl gets caught out, that’s her funeral.’
Bill Bluett said to Martha, ignoring Anton: ‘See you upstairs.’ The other three men followed the jerk of his head towards the door.
Martha got up and said: ‘We’ll be late.’
Anton said: ‘There’s five minutes.’ He lowered his chin obstinately, and hunched up his shoulders, sitting silent. Then he deliberately reached for the cheese plate and began to eat. Martha, sitting on the edge of her chair, watched him, thinking that the meeting was due to start now, that she had never known him be unpunctual before by so much as half a minute, and he had begun eating again in order to enforce himself against both her and the RAF men.
The fumes of hot wet cabbage and boiling fat filled her throat and she set herself not to feel sick. At the end of five minutes Anton rose and said: ‘Now it’s time.’
Upstairs there was a full complement of people. Anton went to sit by Jasmine, who was waiting for him with her papers spread ready. Martha sat beside Andrew McGrew, feeling a disloyal pleasure in the way the RAF opened their ranks to her, as if protecting her against Anton. She looked to see how Anton reacted: he had the appearance of someone on trial, and her instinct was confirmed by the expressions
of satisfaction on the faces of the RAF men. Jimmy even whispered to her: ‘Don’t you worry, lass, we’ll fix everything.’
At once her emotions swung over: it appeared that there had been some decision among the men to ‘fix’ Anton? Well, they had no right to it; and no right to take her compliance for granted.
There was a crisis blowing up, and Anton was aware of it, and confident he could handle it.
He said: ‘Comrade Jasmine will now read the minutes of the last meeting.’
Jasmine did so in her small voice, effacing herself as a good secretary should with such intensity that there was no need for Anton to sit as he did, gazing severely at the paper from which she read, in order to remind everyone that minutes were no mere formality, but something that needed everyone’s attention.
Martha’s mind wandered. She blamed herself for not concentrating. She had meant to listen behind the formal words for a sense of what really happened at the last meeting. She thought: Next week, the minutes will read: Minutes of the last meeting, that’s all, just a formality, but actually something ugly is happening.
Martha, at the risk of earning Anton’s disapproving stare, let her eyes move over the other faces. Elias Phiri, seated at the end of a bench, was staring at the floor. The smooth thick flesh of his forehead was puckering and smoothing and puckering again – like cat’s paws of wind on warm smooth water. Martha thought: When illiterate natives – I mean, Africans – listen to something they don’t understand, their foreheads pucker and smooth like that – but Elias isn’t illiterate. That means he’s worried about something. One of his feet shifted. It began to feel and move in rhythm. Listening for the rhythm, Martha heard a pulse of drumming from over the street: they were dancing at McGrath’s. Elias swallowed a guilty yawn behind a large hand. Well, he wasn’t listening either.
Marie and Piet sat side by side. She had her hand on his knee. They both stared before them. Impossible to tell whether they were listening or not.