The Sweetest Dream (60 page)

‘A big dam, then?'

‘It won't be the Kariba.'

‘Okay,' said Mr Phiri. He was disappointed. He had expected
to see a lake of sweet brown water, with cows standing in it up
to their middles, and over it thorn trees where weaver birds' nests
dangled. He could not consciously remember ever seeing this
scene, but that is what a dam meant to him. ‘When will it be
full?'

‘Perhaps you could arrange for some good rain? This is our
third season with practically no rain.'

Mr Phiri laughed, but he was feeling like a schoolboy and
didn't like it. He could not imagine the sweep of water that would
be here under the hills.

‘If you want to catch Mandizi, we should go back.'

‘Okay.' This was okay in its primal sense: Yes, I agree.

‘I'll take you back another way,' said Cedric, though it was
against his interests to impress this man who intended to steal his
farm. He wanted to share his loving pride in what he had made
from the bush. A mile from the house a herd of cattle stood eating
dry maize cobs. They had the frantic look of drought-stressed
animals. What Mr Phiri saw was cattle, saw
mombies
, and he longed
to own them. His eyes filled with the wonder of these beasts: he
did not realise they were in trouble.

Cedric said, ‘I am having to shoot the calves as they are born.'
His voice was harsh. Mr Phiri was shocked, and he stammered
out, ‘But, but . . . yes, I read in the paper . . . but that is terrible.'
He saw that tears were running down the white man's cheeks.
‘It must be terrible,' he said, sighing, and tactfully tried not to
look at Cedric. He was feeling a real warmth for him, but he
did not know what he would do if the white man broke down
and wept. ‘Shooting calves . . . but is there nothing . . .
nothing . . .'

‘No milk in the udders,' said Cedric. ‘And when cows are as
thin as that, the calves are poor quality when they are born.'

They were at the house.

Mr Mandizi was just arriving, but Cedric at first thought it
was a deputy: the man was half the size he had been.

‘You've lost a lot of weight,' said Cedric.

‘Yes, that is so.'

He had dropped the mechanic at the Mercedes and now he
opened the back door of the car and said to Mr Phiri, ‘Get in,
please.' And to Cedric in an official voice, ‘You should get your
radio fixed. I could hardly hear you.'

‘That would be the day,' said Cedric.

‘And now to the school,' said Mr Phiri, who was in low spirits
because of the calves. He did not talk as he was driven to the
Mission.

‘This is the priest's house.'

‘But I want the headmaster's house.'

‘There is no headmaster. I am afraid he is in prison.'

‘But why is there no replacement?'

‘We have asked for a replacement, but you see this is not an
attractive posting. They would rather go to a town. Or as near
as they can to a town.'

Anger restored Mr Phiri's vitality, and he strode into the little
house, followed by his subordinate. No one was about. He clapped
his hands and Rebecca appeared. ‘Tell the priest I am here.'

‘Father McGuire is up at the school. If you walk up that path
you will find him.'

‘And why will you not go?'

‘I have something in the oven. And Father McGuire is waiting
for you.'

‘And why is he there?'

‘He teaches the big children. I think he is teaching many
classes, because the headmaster is not here.' Rebecca turned to go
into the kitchen.

‘And where are you going? I have not said you can go.'

Rebecca made a deep, slow curtsy and stood with her hands
folded, eyes down.

Mr Phiri glared, did not look at Mr Mandizi, who knew he
was being mocked.

‘Very well, you can go now.'

‘Okay,' said Rebecca.

The two men set off up the dusty path with the sun hitting
down hard on their heads and shoulders.

Since eight that morning the many classrooms of this school
had been a pandemonium of excited children, waiting for the big
man. Their teachers who were after all not so much older than
some of them, were as elated. But no car came, there was only
the sound of doves, and some cicadas in the clump of trees near
the water tank, which was empty. All the children had been thirsty
for weeks, and some were hungry and indeed had had nothing
to eat but what Father McGuire had given them for breakfast,
lumps of the heavy white sweet bread, and reconstituted milk.
Nine o'clock, then ten. Teaching resumed, the din of several
hundred voices chanting the repetitions necessary because of no
schoolbooks, no exercise books, was audible for half a mile from
the school, and only ceased when Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi
appeared, hot and sweating.

‘What is this? Where is the teacher?'

‘Here,' said a meek youth, smiling in an agony of
apprehension.

‘And what class is this? What is all this noise? I do not
remember that oral lessons are part of our curriculum? Where are the
exercise books?'

At this fifty exuberant children chorused, ‘Comrade Inspector,
Comrade Inspector, we have no exercise books, we have no
books, please give us some exercise books. And some pencils, yes,
some pencils, do not forget us, Comrade Inspector.'

‘And why do they not have exercise books?' said Mr Phiri
impressively to Mr Mandizi.

‘We send in the requisition forms, but we have not been sent
exercise books or textbooks.' It had been three years, but he was
nervous of saying so in front of the children, and their teacher.

‘And if they are delayed, then hurry them up, in Senga.'

There was no help for it. ‘It has been three years since this
school received any books or exercise books.'

Mr Phiri stared at him, at the young teacher, at the children.

The young teacher said, ‘Comrade Inspector, sir, we do our
best, but it is hard without any books.'

The Comrade Inspector felt trapped. He knew that in some
schools–well, just a few–there was a shortage of books. The
fact was, he rarely went out of the towns, made sure the schools
he inspected were urban. There were shortages there, but it was
not a terrible thing, was it, for four or five children to share a
primer, or to use waste wrapping paper for writing lessons? But
no books, nothing at all. Flashpoint: he exploded into rage. ‘And
look at your floors. How long since they were swept?'

‘There is so much dust,' said the teacher in a low shamed
voice. ‘Dust . . .'

‘Speak up.'

Now the children came in with, ‘The dust comes in, and as
soon as we sweep it up it comes in again.'

‘Stand up when you speak to me.'

Since the officials had arrived without ceremony at the door,
the young teacher had not ordered the children to stand, but now
there was a great scraping of feet and desks. ‘And how is it these
children do not know how to greet the representative of the
government?'

‘Good morning, Comrade Inspector,' came the
much-rehearsed greeting from the children, all still smiling and excited
because of this visit which would result in their at last getting
exercise books, pencils, and even perhaps a headmaster.

‘See to the floor,' said Mr Phiri to the teacher, who was smiling
like a beggar refused. ‘Mr Phiri, Comrade Inspector Sir . . .' he
was running after the officials as they made their way to the next
classroom. ‘What is it?' ‘If you could ask the department to send
us our supplies of books . . .' Now he was running beside them
like a messenger trying to deliver an urgent despatch, and, all
pretence of dignity gone, he was pressing his hands together and
weeping, ‘Comrade Inspector, it is so hard to teach when you
have no . . .'

But the officials had gone into the next classroom, from
whence almost at once came the shouts and imprecations of Mr
Phiri's rage. He was there only a minute, went on to the next
classroom, again the storm of shouts. The teacher from the first
classroom who had been standing listening, giving himself time
to recover, now pulled himself together and returned to where
his pupils sat waiting, still full of hope. Fifty pairs of eyes shone
at him:
Oh, give us some good news
.

‘Okay,' he said, and their faces lost their shine.

He was trying his hardest not to cry. Tongues clicked in
sympathy and there were murmurs of ‘Shame'.

‘We shall have a writing lesson.' He turned to the blackboard
and with a fragment of chalk wrote in a clear round child's hand,
‘The Comrade Inspector came to our school today.'

‘And now, Mary.' A large young woman, perhaps sixteen,
looking older, came out of the mass of crammed-together desks,
took the bit of chalk, and wrote the sentence again. She bobbed
a curtsy to him–the teacher had been a member of this class two
years before–and returned to her place. They were silent, listening
to the shouts coming from a classroom in the next block. The
children were all hoping they would be called up to show what
they could do on the board. The trouble was the shortage of
chalk. The teacher had the fragment, and two whole sticks, which
he kept hidden in his pocket, because school cupboards got broken
into, even if they were as good as empty. It was out of the
question to have all the children up, one after the other to copy
the sentence.

The storm of noise that was Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi
approaching was just outside the classroom–oh, were they coming back
in? at least there was the nice sentence on the blackboard–no,
they were striding past. The children rushed to the windows to
see their last of the Comrade Inspector. Two backs were
disappearing down to the priest's house. Behind them came a third,
the dusty black robe of Father McGuire, who was waving and
shouting at them to stop.

Silently the children went back to their desks. It was nearly
twelve, and time for the lunch break. Not all brought food, but
would sit watching their fellows eat a lump of cold porridge or a
piece of pumpkin.

The teacher said, ‘There will be physical culture after the
break.'

A chorus of pleasure. They all loved these exercises that took
place in the dusty spaces between buildings. No equipment, no
bars, no vaulting horse, or climbing ropes, or mats they could lie
on. The teachers took it in turns.

The two men burst into the priest's house, with the priest just
behind them.

‘I did not see you at the school,' said Mr Phiri.

‘I think you did not inspect the third row of classrooms, which
is where I was.'

‘I hear you teach at our school. And how is that?'

‘I give remedial lessons.'

‘I did not know that we have remedial lessons.'

‘I teach children who are three or four years behind their
proper level, because of the poor state of their school. I call that
remedial. And it is voluntary. There is no salary attached. I do
not cost the government anything.'

‘And those nuns I saw. Why aren't they teaching?'

‘They do not have the qualifications, not even for this school.'

Mr Phiri would have liked to rage and shout–perhaps hit
something, or someone–but he felt his head swell and pound:
he had been told by his doctor not to get over-excited. He stood,
looking at the lunch set out on the table, some slivers of cold
meat and some tomatoes. A new loaf emitted delightful odours.
He was thinking of
sadza
. That is what he needed. If he could
only get the comforting weight and warmth of a good plate of
sadza
into his poor stomach, which was churning with a hundred
emotions . . . ‘Perhaps you would like to share our meal?' said
the priest.

Rebecca entered with a plate of boiled potatoes.

‘Have you cooked
sadza
?'

‘No, sir, I did not know you were expected for lunch.'

Father McGuire moved swiftly in, with, ‘Unfortunately, as
we all know, a good
sadza
takes half an hour to do well, and we
would not insult you by giving you inferior
sadza
. But perhaps
some beef? I am sorry to say there is plenty of beef around, with
the poor beasts dying from the drought.'

Mr Phiri's stomach which had been relaxing, in the
expectation of
sadza
, now knotted again and he shouted at Mr Mandizi,
‘Go and find out if my car is mended.' Mr Mandizi was eyeing
the bread, and looked in protest at his chief. He was entitled to
his meal. He did not move. ‘And come back and tell me if it is
not ready, and I can return with you to your office.'

‘I am sure he will have finished by now. He has had a good
three hours,' said Mr Mandizi.

‘And how is it you are defying me, Mr Mandizi? Am I or am
I not your chief? And this in addition to the incompetence I have
seen today. You are supposed to be keeping an eye on the local
schools and reporting deficiencies.' He was shouting, but his voice
was strained and weak. He was about to burst into tears from
impotence, from anger, and from shame at what he had seen that
day. Just in time, Father McGuire saved him, from the same
impulse that earlier had made Mr Phiri avert his eyes from Cedric
Pyne's tears over his calves. ‘And now, please sit down, Mr Phiri.
And I am so happy to have you here because I am an old friend
of your father–did you know that? He was my pupil–yes, that
chair there and Mr Mandizi . . .'

‘He will do as he is told, and go and find out about my car.'

Rebecca, never looking at Mr Phiri, came forward to the table,
cut two hefty slices of bread, put meat between them, and offered
them to Mr Mandizi, with a little curtsy, which was far from
mocking. ‘You are not well,' she said to him. ‘Yes, I can see you
are not well.'