This Was the Old Chief's Country

  His parents, of course, knew about the shed in the bush, but did not speak of it to Mr Macintosh. No one did. For Dirk’s very existence was something to be ignored by everyone, and none of the workers, not even the overseers, would dare to mention Dirk’s name. When Mr Macintosh asked Tommy what he had done to his face, he said he had slipped and fallen.

  And so their eighth year and their ninth went past. Dirk could read and write and do all the sums that Tommy could do. He was always handicapped by not knowing the different way of living, and soon he said, angrily, it wasn’t fair, and there was another fight about it, and then Tommy began another way of teaching. He would tell how it was to go to a cinema in the city, every detail of it, how the seats were arranged in such a way, and one paid so much, and the lights were like this, and the picture on the screen worked like that. Or he would describe how at school they ate such things for breakfast and other things for lunch. Or tell how the man had come with picture slides talking about China. The two boys got out an atlas and found China, and Tommy told Dirk every word of what the lecturer had said. Or it might be Italy or some other country. And they would argue that the lecturer should have said this or that, for Dirk was always hotly scornful of the white man’s way of looking at things, so arrogant, he said. Soon Tommy saw things through Dirk; he saw the other life in town clear and brightly-coloured and a little distorted, as Dirk did.

  Soon, at school, Tommy would involuntarily think: I must remember this to tell Dirk. It was impossible for him to do anything, say anything, without being very conscious of just how it happened, as if Dirk’s black, sarcastic eye had got inside him, Tommy, and never closed. And a feeling of unwillingness grew in Tommy, because of the strain of fitting these two worlds together. He found himself swearing at niggers or kaffirs like the other boys, and more violently than they did, but immediately afterwards he would find himself thinking: I must remember this so as to tell Dirk. Because of all this thinking, and seeing everything clear all the time, he was very bright at school, and found the work easy. He was two classes ahead of his age.

  That was the tenth year, and one day Tommy went to the shed in the bush and Dirk was not waiting for him. It was the first day of the holidays. All the term he had been remembering things to tell Dirk, and now Dirk was not there. A dove was sitting on the Christmas fern, cooing lazily in the hot morning, a sleepy, lonely sound. When Tommy came pushing through the bushes it flew away. The mine-stamps thudded heavily, gold, gold, and Tommy saw that the shed was empty even of books, for the case where they were usually kept was hanging open.

  He went running to his mother: ‘Where’s Dirk?’ he asked.

  ‘How should I know?’ said Annie Clarke, cautiously. She really did not know.

  ‘You do know, you do!’ he cried, angrily. And then he went racing off to the big pit. Mr Macintosh was sitting on an upturned truck on the edge, watching the hundreds of workers below him, moving like ants on the yellow bottom. ‘Well, laddie?’ he asked, amiably, and moved over to allow Tommy to sit by him.

  ‘Where’s Dirk?’ asked Tommy, accusingly, standing in front of him.

  Mr Macintosh tipped his old felt hat even farther back and scratched at his front hair and looked at Tommy.

  ‘Dirk’s working,’ he said, at last.

  ‘Where?’

  Mr Macintosh pointed to the bottom of the pit. Then he said again: ‘Sit down, laddie, I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Tommy, and he turned away and went blundering over the veld to the shed. He sat on the bench and cried, and when dinner-time came he did not go home. All that day he sat in the shed, and when he had finished crying he remained on the bench, leaning his back against the poles of the shed, and stared into the bush. The doves cooed and cooed, kru-kruuuu, kru-kruuuuu, and a woodpecker tapped, and the mine-stamps thudded. Yet it was very quiet, a hand of silence gripped the bush and he could hear the borers and the ants at work in the poles of the bench he sat on. He could see that although the anthill seemed dead, a mound of hard, peaked, baked earth, it was very much alive, for there was a fresh outbreak of wet, damp earth in the floor of the shed. There was a fine crust of reddish, lacy earth over the poles of the walls. The shed would have to be built again soon, because the ants and borers would have eaten it through. But what was the use of a shed without Dirk?

  All that day he stayed there, and did not return until dark, and when his mother said: ‘What’s the matter with you, why are you crying?’ he said angrily, ‘I don’t know,’ matching her dishonesty with his own. The next day, even before breakfast, he was off to the shed, and did not return until dark, and refused his supper although he had not eaten all day.

  And the next day it was the same, but now he was bored and lonely. He took his knife from his pocket and whittled at a stick, and it became a boy, bent and straining under the weight of a heavy load, his arms clenched up to support it. He took the figure home at supper-time and ate with it on the table in front of him.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Annie Clarke, and Tommy answered: ‘Dirk.’

  He took it to his bedroom, and sat in the soft lamp-light, working away with his knife, and he had it in his hand the following morning when he met Mr Macintosh at the brink of the pit. ‘What’s that, laddie?’ asked Mr Macintosh, and Tommy said: ‘Dirk.’

  Mr Macintosh’s mouth went thin, and then he smiled and said: ‘Let me have it.’

  ‘No, it’s for Dirk.’

  Mr Macintosh took out his wallet and said: ‘I’ll pay you for it.’

  ‘I don’t want any money,’ said Tommy, angrily, and Mr Macintosh, greatly disturbed, put back his wallet. Then Tommy, hesitating, said: ‘Yes, I do.’ Mr Macintosh, his values confirmed, was relieved, and he took out his wallet again and produced a pound note, which seemed to him very generous. ‘Five pounds,’ said Tommy, promptly. Mr Macintosh first scowled, then laughed. He tipped back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Well, laddie, you’ll make a business man yet. Five pounds for a little bit of wood!’

  ‘Make it for yourself then, if it’s just a bit of wood.’

  Mr Macintosh counted out five pounds and handed them over. ‘What are you going to do with that money?’ he asked, as he watched Tommy buttoning them carefully into his shirt pocket. ‘Give them to Dirk,’ said Tommy, triumphantly, and Mr Macintosh’s heavy old face went purple. He watched while Tommy walked away from him, sitting on the truck, letting the heavy cudgel swing lightly against his shoes. He solved his immediate problem by thinking: He’s a good laddie, he’s got a good heart.

  That night Mrs Clarke came over while he was sitting over his roast beef and cabbage, and said: ‘Mr Macintosh, I want a word with you.’ He nodded at a chair, but she did not sit. ‘Tommy’s upset,’ she said, delicately, ‘he’s been used to Dirk, and now he’s got no one to play with.’

  For a moment Mr Macintosh kept his eyes lowered, then he said: ‘It’s easily fixed, Annie, don’t worry yourself.’ He spoke heartily, as it was easy for him to do, speaking of a worker, who might be released at his whim for other duties.

  That bright protesting flush came on to her cheeks, in spite of herself, and she looked quickly at him, with real indignation. But he ignored it and said: ‘I’ll fix it in the morning, Annie.’

  She thanked him and went back home, suffering because she had not said those words which had always soothed her conscience in the past: You’re nothing but a pig, Mr Macintosh …

  As for Tommy, he was sitting in the shed, crying his eyes out. And then, when there were no more tears, there came such a storm of anger and pain that he would never forget it as long as he lived. What for? He did not know, and that was the worst of it. It was not simply Mr Macintosh, who loved him, and who thus so blackly betrayed his own flesh and blood, nor the silences of his parents. Something deeper, felt working in the substance of life as he could hear those ants working away with those busy jaws at the roots of the poles he sat on, to make a new material for their different forms of life.
He was testing those words which were used, or not used – merely suggested – all the time, and for a ten-year-old boy it was almost too hard to bear. A child may say of a companion one day that he hates so and so, and the next: He is my friend. That is how a relationship is, shifting and changing, and children are kept safe in their hates and loves by the fabric of social life their parents make over their heads. And middle-aged people say: This is my friend, this is my enemy, including all the shifts and changes of feeling in one word, for the sake of an easy mind. In between these ages, at about twenty perhaps, there is a time when the young people test everything, and accept many hard and cruel truths about living, and that is because they do not know how hard it is to accept them finally, and for the rest of their lives. It is easy to be truthful at twenty.

  But it is not easy at ten, a little boy entirely alone, looking at words like friendship. What, then, was friendship? Dirk was his friend, that he knew, but did he like Dirk? Did he love him? Sometimes not at all. He remembered how Dirk had said: ‘I’ll get you another baby buck. I’ll kill its mother with a stone.’ He remembered his feeling of revulsion at the cruelty. Dirk was cruel. But – and here Tommy unexpectedly laughed, and for the first time he understood Dirk’s way of laughing. It was really funny to say that Dirk was cruel, when his very existence was a cruelty. Yet Mr Macintosh laughed in exactly the same way, and his skin was white, or rather, white browned over by the sun. Why was Mr Macintosh also entitled to laugh, with that same abrupt ugliness? Perhaps somewhere in the beginnings of the rich Mr Macintosh there had been the same cruelty, and that had worked its way through the life of Mr Macintosh until it turned into the cruelty of Dirk, the coloured boy, the half-caste? If so, it was all much deeper than differently coloured skins, and much harder to understand.

  And then Tommy thought how Dirk seemed to wait always, as if he, Tommy, were bound to stand by him, as if this were a justice that was perfectly clear to Dirk; and he, Tommy, did in fact fight with Mr Macintosh for Dirk, and he could behave in no other way. Why? Because Dirk was his friend? Yet there were times when he hated Dirk, and certainly Dirk hated him, and when they fought they could have killed each other easily, and with joy.

  Well, then? Well, then? What was friendship, and why were they bound so closely, and by what? Slowly the little boy, sitting alone on his antheap, came to an understanding which is proper to middle-aged people, that resignation in knowledge which is called irony. Such a person may know, for instance, that he is bound most deeply to another person, although he does not like that person, in the way the word is ordinarily used, or like the way he talks, or his politics, or anything else. And yet they are friends and will always be friends, and what happens to this bound couple affects each most deeply, even though they may be in different continents, or may never see each other again. Or after twenty years they may meet, and there is no need to say a word, everything is understood. This is one of the ways of friendship, and just as real as amiability or being alike.

  Well, then? For it is a hard and difficult knowledge for any little boy to accept. But he accepted it, and knew that he and Dirk were closer than brothers and always would be so. He grew many years older in that day of painful struggle, while he listened to the mine-stamps saying gold, gold, and to the ants working away with their jaws to destroy the bench he sat on, to make food for themselves.

  Next morning Dirk came to the shed, and Tommy, looking at him, knew that he, too, had grown years older in the months of working in the great pit. Ten years old – but he had been working with men and he was not a child.

  Tommy took out the five pound notes and gave them to Dirk.

  Dirk pushed them back. ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘I got them from him,’ said Tommy, and at once Dirk took them as if they were his right.

  And at once, inside Tommy, came indignation, for he felt he was being taken for granted, and he said: ‘Why aren’t you working?’

  ‘He said I needn’t. He means, while you are having your holidays.’

  ‘I got you free,’ said Tommy, boasting.

  Dirk’s eyes narrowed in anger. ‘He’s my father,’ he said, for the first time.

  ‘But he made you work,’ said Tommy, taunting him. And then: ‘Why do you work? I wouldn’t. I should say no.’

  ‘So you would say no?’ said Dirk in angry sarcasm.

  ‘There’s no law to make you.’

  ‘So there’s no law, white boy, no law …’ But Tommy had sprung at him, and they were fighting again, rolling over and over, and this time they fell apart from exhaustion and lay on the ground panting for a long time.

  Later Dirk said: ‘Why do we fight, it’s silly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tommy, and he began to laugh, and Dirk laughed too. They were to fight often in the future, but never with such bitterness, because of the way they were laughing now.

  It was the following holidays before they fought again. Dirk was waiting for him in the shed.

  ‘Did he let you go?’ asked Tommy at once, putting down new books on the table for Dirk.

  ‘I just came,’ said Dirk. ‘I didn’t ask.’

  They sat together on the bench, and at once a leg gave way and they rolled off on to the floor laughing. ‘We must mend it,’ said Tommy. ‘Let’s build the shed again.’

  ‘No,’ said Dirk at once, ‘don’t let’s waste time on the shed. You can teach me while you’re here, and I can make the shed when you’ve gone back to school.’

  Tommy slowly got up from the floor, frowning. Again he felt he was being taken for granted. ‘Aren’t you going to work on the mine during the term?’

  ‘No, I’m not going to work on that mine again. I told him I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’ve got to work,’ said Tommy, grandly.

  ‘So I’ve got to work,’ said Dirk, threateningly. ‘You can go to school, white boy, but I’ve got to work, and in the holidays I can just take time off to please you.’

  They fought until they were tired, and five minutes afterwards they were seated on the anthill talking. ‘What did you do with the five pounds?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘I gave them to my mother.’

  ‘What did she do with them?’

  ‘She bought herself a dress, and then food for us all, and bought me these trousers, and she put the rest away to keep.’

  A pause. Then, deeply ashamed, Tommy asked: ‘Doesn’t he give her any money?’

  ‘He doesn’t come any more. Not for more than a year.’

  ‘Oh, I thought he did still,’ said Tommy casually, whistling.

  ‘No.’ Then, fiercely, in a low voice: ‘There’ll be some more half-castes in the compound soon.’

  Dirk sat crouching, his fierce black eyes on Tommy, ready to spring on him. But Tommy was sitting with his head bowed, looking at the ground. ‘It’s not fair,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘So you’ve discovered that, white boy?’ said Dirk. It was said good-naturedly, and there was no need to fight. They went to their books and Tommy taught Dirk some new sums.

  But they never spoke of what Dirk would do in the future, how he would use all this schooling. They did not dare.

  That was the eleventh year.

  When they were twelve, Tommy returned from school to be greeted by the words: ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  They were sitting as usual on the bench. The shed was newly built, with strong thatch, and good walls, plastered this time with mud, so as to make it harder for the ants.

  ‘They are saying you are going to be sent away.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Oh, everyone,’ said Dirk, stirring his feet about vaguely under the table. This was because it was the first few minutes after the return from school, and he was always cautious, until he was sure Tommy had not changed towards him. And that ‘everyone’ was explosive. Tommy nodded, however, and asked apprehensively: ‘Where to?’

  ‘To the sea.’

  ‘How
do they know?’ Tommy scarcely breathed the word they.

  ‘Your cook heard your mother say so …’ And then Dirk added with a grin, forcing the issue: ‘Cheek, dirty kaffirs talking about white men.’

  Tommy smiled obligingly, and asked: ‘How, to the sea, what does it mean?’

  ‘How should we know, dirty kaffirs.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tommy, angrily. They glared at each other, their muscles tensed. But they sighed and looked away. At twelve it was not easy to fight, it was all too serious.

  That night Tommy said to his parents: ‘They say I’m going to sea. Is it true?’

  His mother asked quickly: ‘Who said so?’

  ‘But is it true?’ Then, derisively: ‘Cheek, dirty kaffirs talking about us.’

  ‘Please don’t talk like that, Tommy, it’s not right.’

  ‘Oh, mother, please, how am I going to sea?’

  ‘But be sensible, Tommy, it’s not settled, but Mr Macintosh …’

  ‘So it’s Mr Macintosh!’

  Mrs Clarke looked at her husband, who came forward and sat down and settled his elbows on the table. A family conference. Tommy also sat down.

  ‘Now listen, son. Mr Macintosh has a soft spot for you. You should be grateful to him. He can do a lot for you.’

  ‘But why should I go to sea?’

  ‘You don’t have to. He suggested it – he was in the Merchant Navy himself once.’

  ‘So I’ve got to go just because he did.’

  ‘He’s offered to pay for you to go to college in England, and give you money until you’re in the Navy.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be a sailor. I’ve never even seen the sea.’