The White Father (39 page)

There was work to be done. He put down the coffee cup and stepped off the veranda to walk down the village. Every morning he made this walk, as a genius loci, he liked to think, might stroll around his grove. The sun was already hot on his bare head, and the old people were hobbling out to sit in front of their huts, pieces of yellow bread in their hands. He greeted them with the gesture that meant, roughly, May all be as well in your house as it is in mine. They replied with a few words and the right hand to the left cheekbone, which meant, May it always be so. Some children stopped their elementary
hopscotch
to besiege him for sweets. Gravely he searched his pockets. There were no sweets in his coat, he was sorry, but perhaps in the trousers …? They followed his movements with round eyes. They knew he had sweets, he always had sweets: this ritual he went through of not being able to find them was a necessary ritual for him, no doubt, and they must wait for it to be over in quiet politeness. The sweets were, after all, and to his astonishment, in his coat. He distributed them, the toffee papers glinting in the sun, gay as confetti. He patted some of the nearest heads and continued down the village. More greetings were exchanged, more sweets were handed out. One of the nine remaining adult men joined him for the stroll: he assumed an important air as though they were deep in vital matters. Confidence, then, was slowly returning to the
survivors
. A week ago there was not even a pretence of being able to cope with the tribe’s business.

As they walked on they were joined by the other men, until
there were ten of them solemnly patrolling the village. At the end of the muddy track by the river they halted, watching the cattle drink. A boy of twelve or thirteen was in the water with them, standing up to his knees in the river, washing himself. He did so with elaborate self-consciousness, making much of his genitals and taking particular care over his nipples.

“He has a girl,” said one of the men. “He is in love.”

The others laughed. The boy looked up from his
self-absorption
, horrified to have been seen by the adults. He plunged at once under the water, only his head showing, two white eyeballs flashing in his black face. A girl—it was Dayu—scampered from some nearby bushes. The nine Ngulu men laughed uproariously. Shrieve smiled. For some reason he could not join in the laughter, he found the scene too painful, too hopeful.

He turned away, fighting his tears.

“Aiee!” called one of the men to the boy. “You can come out now, she’s run away!”

The boy moved slowly towards the river bank, crouching down so that below the navel he remained covered by water. The men laughed and jeered at him. Though they were almost naked themselves, total nudity was always considered funny. Suddenly the boy stood up straight and began to laugh with them, dripping in the sunshine, his body still that of a boy, with only the first hints of adult hair. He ran up through the shallow water to where he had left his loincloth and put it on, his back turned modestly towards the giggling men.

They began to walk back slowly through the village. Shrieve found he had two men on either side and five behind, an almost military formation, though the Ngulu would never even pretend to go to war again. He smiled into the sunlight, hoping they would think his tears came from squinting into the brightness. There were letters to write, there were reports and memoranda. He thought of Edward Gilchrist’s letter, gauche and awkward and full of genuine concern. Of Jumbo, irrepressibly aggrieved. Of Weatherby and Mallory and Hoggart. He could face them now, he thought.

When they reached the bungalow, the nine men stopped and he turned towards them, saying a few conventional words.

They replied with equally conventional phrases. They weren’t much to build on, these nine. They were weak, uninspired men, who had probably survived because they could not muster the courage or conviction to die. They smiled. He smiled back. They bowed. He acknowledged their bow. They went away, very pleased with themselves.

He watched them go, thinking of Dayu scampering from the bushes, of the boy washing himself so that she could see. They were simple people, his Ngulu.

He climbed the steps to the veranda, nearly tripping over Tom, who came toddling unsafely to greet him.

“Hello, Tom,” he said in English. “Come on, little one, you’ve got to learn your native tongue. Say hello. Hello, Tom, hello.”

“Ho,” said the child. He wobbled to the top of the steps, looked at their steepness in alarm and sat abruptly down. He began to cry. Shrieve picked him up.

“None of that,” he said. “You’ve got to put away your Ngulu habits, Tom. English boys just don’t cry, I’m afraid. They have stiff upper lips, they don’t let their feelings show.”

Amy came out and took the child. “That girl Dayu,” she said in a scolding tone, “I don’t know where she is.”

Shrieve didn’t tell her. He went indoors to his desk and began to write letters.