The Sweetest Dream (45 page)

Back at the house, they found Father McGuire had come.
Andrew disliked him and began talking, as was his way with
difficult situations. He spent most of his life in committees or
congresses or conferences, always presiding, and in control of
people from a hundred countries representing conflicting interests
and demands. Never has a man better deserved that technical
adjective
facilitator
: that is what he was, and what he did, smoothing
paths and opening avenues. Some facilitators use silence, sitting
with unspeaking faces until at last they enter the fray with
conclusive words, but others talk, and Andrew's urbane and affable rivers
of words dissolved discords, and he was used to seeing angry or
suspicious faces relax into hopeful smiles.

He was talking about the dinner last night which in his
description became a mildly humorous social comedy, and would have
made hearers laugh who knew something of the background. But
these two–and that black woman standing there–did not smile,
and Andrew was thinking, Of course, they are as good as peasants,
they aren't used to . . . and still Sylvia and the priest stood by
their chairs, while he was already sitting, ready to command, and
waiting for them to smile. But he was not winning them, not at
all, and a glance between them suddenly enlightened him: they
wanted to say grace. Anger at himself made him go red. ‘I'm so
sorry,' he said, and stood up.

Father McGuire recited some Latin words which Andrew
could not follow, and Sylvia said Amen in a clear little voice that
Andrew remembered from that other distant life.

The three sat. Andrew was so discommoded by what he saw
as his social gaffe, that he was silent.

The black woman, whom he knew was Rebecca, now served
the lunch. There was chicken, the one that had died that morning
from dehydration. It was tough. The priest said to Rebecca that
there was no point in cooking a chicken just dead, but she said
she wanted to cook something nice for the visitor. She had made
a jelly, and Father McGuire, tucking in, said they should have
visitors more often.

Sylvia knew that Andrew was watching, and tried to eat the
chicken and spooned in the jelly as if it were medicine.

He wanted to know the history of the hospital. He had been
shocked by it, and by Sylvia's being there. How could such a
wretched thing be called a hospital? His dislike of the place, his
suspicion, were being communicated, being felt, by Sylvia, by
the priest and by Rebecca, who stood with her back to her
kitchen, hands folded, listening. He did not like Rebecca. And he
thoroughly distrusted Sylvia's looking like her–the native-style
top, certain mannerisms, ways with the face and the eyes which
Sylvia was unconscious of. Andrew spent most of his time
with
people of colour
–and what could you call Sylvia, looking
like that, almost as dark as Rebecca? He knew he did not suffer
from race prejudice. No, but it was class prejudice, and the two
are often confused. What was Sylvia doing, letting herself go like
this?

These thoughts, all visible on his face, though he smiled and
was his delightful social self, were putting the three against him.
The trio, two of whom he thoroughly disliked, were united in
criticism of him.

Father McGuire's emotions came out of him thus: ‘That white
suit of yours, what possessed you to put that on, to come and
visit us in our dusty land?'

And indeed Andrew knew he had been foolish. He possessed
a dozen or so white or cream linen suits, which took him to the
Third World looking cool and smart. But there was dust on him
today, and he had caught Sylvia's critical inspection of him, seeing
the suit as a symptom.

‘It's as well you didn't see the hospital as it was when I first
came,' Sylvia said.

‘That's true enough,' said the priest. ‘If you are shocked by
what you see now, what would you have said then?'

‘I didn't say I was shocked.'

‘I think we are used to seeing certain expressions on the faces
of our visitors,' said Father McGuire. ‘but if you want to
understand that hospital, then ask the people in our village what they
think.'

‘We think Doctor Sylvia has been sent by God to us,' said
Rebecca.

This silenced Andrew. They sat on at the table, drinking weak
coffee, for which the priest apologised–decent coffee was hard
to find, anything imported was so expensive, there were shortages
of everything, and it was due to incompetence, that was all it was
. . . He went on, a hard practised grumbling and then he heard
himself, sighed and stopped. ‘And God forgive me,' he said, ‘to
complain about a thing like bad coffee.'

The story of the hospital–it was not going to be told, Andrew
saw, and knew it was his fault. He wanted to leave, but a visit to
the school had been planned. They would have to go out into
the dazzle of hot light that showed through the window. Father
McGuire said he would get his forty winks, and off he went to
his room. Sylvia and Andrew sat on, both wanting to sleep, but
sticking it out. Then Rebecca came in to take the dirty plates.

‘Did you bring the books?' she asked Andrew direct. The way
Sylvia was keeping her eyes lowered meant that she had been
wanting to ask this, but had been afraid to. She had sent him a
list of books after he had telephoned to say he was coming. He
had forgotten them, though she had written under the list,
Please,
Andrew. Please.
He said to Rebecca, ‘I forgot them, I'm sorry.'
Her face stared:
No
–then she burst into tears and ran out of the
room, leaving the tray on the table. Sylvia fitted plates and cups
on to the tray and still did not look at him. ‘It means a great deal
to us,' she said. ‘I know you won't be able to understand how
much.'

‘I'll send them to you.'

‘They would probably be stolen on the way. Never mind,
forget it.'

‘Of course I won't forget it.'

Now he remembered that when he was in her room he had
seen shelves on the wall, and above it a printed card: Library.
‘Wait,' he said, and went into her room. She followed. There
were two books on the shelves, one a dictionary and one,
Jane
Eyre
. Both were falling to pieces. A sheet of paper was nailed to
the brick: Library Books. Taken out: Returned.
The Pilgrim's
Progress
.
The Lord of the Rings. Christ Stopped at Eboli
.
The Grapes of
Wrath
.
Cry, the Beloved Country
.
The Mayor of Casterbridge
.
The
Holy Bible
.
The Idiot
.
Little Women
.
The Lord of the Flies
.
Animal
Farm
.
Saint Teresa of Avila
. These were the books that Sylvia had
brought with her, a store added to when people came, the books
they had brought with them, begged for and donated to these
shelves.

‘A funny little collection,' said Andrew humbly. He was really
moved to tears.

‘You see,' said Sylvia, ‘we need books. They love books and
we can't get them. And these are all the worse for wear.'

‘I'll send you what you asked, I will,' he said.

She did not say anything. She said nothing in a way that he
knew she had learned and was practising. He suspected she was
praying under her breath for patience. ‘You see,' she attempted,
‘you don't understand what books mean. You see someone sitting
in a hut at night reading by candlelight . . . you see someone
barely literate struggling.' Her voice trembled.

‘Oh, Sylvia, I'm so sorry.'

‘Never mind.'

The list she had sent was in his briefcase, which he had brought
with him: why? but he always took it with him.

The Little Flowers of Mary
.
The Theory and Practice of Good
Husbandry in Sub-Saharan Africa
.
How to Write Good English
.
The
Tragedies of Shakespeare
.
The Naked and the Dead
.
Gawain and the
Green Knight
.
The Secret Garden
.
The Centre Cannot Hold
.
Teach
Yourself Engineering
.
Mowgli
.
The Diseases of Cattle in Southern Africa
.
Shaka the Zulu King
.
Jude the Obscure
.
Wuthering Heights
.
Tarzan
.
And so on.

He went back into the dining-room and found that Father
McGuire had reappeared, refreshed. The two men exited into the
hot glare and Sylvia tumbled on her bed. She wept. She had
promised all the people who had come up to the house and come
up again, and again, asking for books, that a new stock of books
was coming. She felt abandoned. In her mind Andrew stood for
perfect tenderness, kindness; he was the gentle big brother to
whom she could say anything, whom she could ask for anything–but he was a stranger now. That brilliant white suit! I ask you,
white linen, put on to visit St Luke's Mission! White linen that
must be like rubbing thick cream between your fingers. She felt
that in some subtle way that suit was an insult to her, to Father
McGuire, to Rebecca. Once long ago she could have said this to
him, they might have laughed about it.

She slept, woke and made tea–Rebecca would not return
until supper time. She had made some biscuits for the visitor.

The two men returned. Andrew was smiling, but tight-lipped
and looked washed out: well, he had not slept.

‘And there is my tea,' said Father McGuire. ‘I can tell you,
my child, that I need it, yes I do.'

‘Well?' said Sylvia to Andrew. She sounded aggressive, since
she knew what he had seen.

Six buildings, each holding four classrooms, bursting with
children, from small ones to young men and women. They were
all exuberantly welcoming, and all complained to this
representative from the higher places of power that they needed textbooks,
they had no textbooks. There was sometimes one textbook for
the whole class. ‘How can we do our homework, sir? How can
we study?'

There was not a globe, nor an atlas, in the whole school.
When he had asked, the children did not know what they were.
Harassed and frustrated young teachers took him aside to beg him
to get them books to teach them how to teach. They were
eighteen or twenty years old themselves, without hardly any
qualifications and certainly none to enable them to teach.

Andrew had never seen a more depressing place: school it was
not. Father McGuire had escorted him from building to building,
striding through dust to get out of the sun and back into patches
of shade, introducing him as a friend of Zimlia. His fame as Global
Money–though Father McGuire had not mentioned the magic
name–had permeated the whole school. He was greeted with
cries of welcome and with songs, and everywhere he looked were
expectant faces.

The priest had said: ‘I shall tell you the history of this place.
We, the Mission, ran a school here for years–since the colony
began. It was a good school. We had no more than fifty pupils.
Some of them are in government now. Did you know that most
of the African leaders came from mission schools? During the war
Comrade President Matthew promised every child in the country
a good secondary education. The schools were rushed up
everywhere, are multiplying now. There are not the teachers, there are
not the books, there are no exercise books. When the government
took over our school–that was the end. I do not think the
children you saw today will end up in the cabinet, or indeed, not
anywhere that requires an education.'

Then, when he had drunk some tea, he said, ‘Things will get
better. You are seeing the worst. This is a poor district.'

‘Are there many schools like this one?'

‘Yes, indeed,' said Father McGuire equably. ‘Many. Very
many.'

‘And so what will happen to those children? Though some
of them seem to be adults.'

‘They will be unemployed,' said Father McGuire. ‘They will
be unemployed. Yes, surely they will.'

‘I suppose I had better be driving back,' said Andrew. ‘I have
a plane to catch at nine.'

‘And now, if I may be so bold as to ask, is there a possibility
you may do something for us? The school? The hospital? Would
you think of us when you return to the ease and the pleasantness
of–where did you say you are located?'

‘New York. And I think you have misunderstood. We shall
be directing money–a big loan, to Zimlia, but not . . .'

‘You mean, we are beneath your notice?'

‘Not beneath mine,' said Andrew, smiling. ‘But Global Money
aims at high levels of . . . but I'll speak to someone. I'll speak to
Caring International.'

‘We would be duly grateful,' said Father McGuire. Sylvia said
nothing. The furrow between her eyes made her seem like a
scowling little witch.

‘Sylvia, why don't you come for a holiday to New York?'

‘And indeed you should,' said the priest, ‘so you should, my
child.'

‘Thank you. I'll think about it.' She did not look at him.

‘And will you drop in something for us to the Pynes? Just
drop it, no need to go in, if you are in a hurry.'

They went to the Volvo and the sack for the Pynes was put
in the back.

‘I'll send you the books, darling,' he said to Sylvia.

A couple of weeks later a sack arrived, by special messenger,
from Senga, by motorbike. Books, from New York, delivered by
plane to Senga, collected by InterGlobe, who attended to the
Customs, and brought them all the way here. ‘What did that cost?'
asked Father McGuire, offering tea to the exile from the bright
lights of Senga.

‘You mean, all of it?' said the messenger, a smart young black
man, in a uniform. ‘Well, it's here.' He brought out the papers.
‘That will have cost the sender just on a hundred pounds, to get
them here,' he said, admiring the size of the sum.