Cry, The Beloved Country Part 17

But Jarvis sat without moving.

Can you stand up, Mr. Jarvis? I don't want to help you. Your wife's watching us.

She's wondering, captain. Even at this distance, she knows something is wrong.

It's quite likely. Something she saw in my face, perhaps, though I tried not to show it.

Jarvis stood up. My G.o.d, he said. There's still that to do.

As they walked down the steep path, Binnendyk went ahead of them. Jarvis walked like a dazed man. Out of a cloudless sky these things come.

Shot dead? he said.

Yes, Mr. Jarvis.

Did they catch the native?

Not yet, Mr. Jarvis.

The tears filled the eyes, the teeth bit the lips. What does that matter? he said. They walked down the hill, they were near the field. Through the misted eyes he saw the plough turn over the clods, then ride high over the iron ground. Leave it, Thomas, he said. He was our only child, captain.

I know that, Mr. Jarvis.

They climbed into the car, and in a few minutes were at the house.

James, what's the matter?

Some trouble, my dear. Come with me to the office. Captain, you want to use the telephone. You know where it is?

Yes, Mr. Jarvis.

The captain went to the telephone. It was a party-line, and two neighbours were talking.

Please put down your receivers, said the captain. This is an urgent call from the police. Please put down your receivers.

He rang viciously, and got no answer. There should be a special police call to exchange on these country lines. He would see about it. He rang more viciously. Exchange, he said, Police Pietermaritzburg. It is very urgent.

You will be connected immediately, said exchange.

He waited impatiently, listening to the queer inexplicable noises. Your call to Police Pietermaritzburg, said exchange.

He started to talk to them about the aeroplane. His hand felt for the second earpiece, so that he could use that also, to shut out the sound of the woman, of her crying and sobbing.

19.

A YOUNG MAN met them at the airport.

Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis?

Yes.

I'm John Harrison, Mary's brother. I don't think you remember me. I was only a youngster when you saw me last. Let me carry your things. I've a car here for you.

As they walked to the control building, the young man said, I needn't tell you how grieved we are, Mr. Jarvis. Arthur was the finest man I ever knew.

In the car he spoke to them again. Mary and the children are at my mother's, and we're expecting you both to stay with us.

How is Mary?

She's suffering from the shock, Mr. Jarvis, but she's very brave.

And the children?

They've taken it very badly, Mr. Jarvis. And that has given Mary something to occupy herself.

They did not speak again. Jarvis held his wife's hand, but they all were silent with their own thoughts, until they drove through the gates of a suburban house, and came to a stop before a lighted porch. A young woman came out at the sound of the car, and embraced Mrs. Jarvis, and they wept together. Then she turned to Jarvis, and they embraced each other. This first meeting over, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison came out also, and after they had welcomed one another, and after the proper words had been spoken, they all went into the house.

Harrison turned to Jarvis. Would you like a drink? he asked.

It would be welcome.

Come to my study, then.

And now, said Harrison, you must do as you wish. If there's anything we can do, you've only to ask us. If you would wish to go to the mortuary at once, John will go with you. Or you can go tomorrow morning if you wish. The police would like to see you, but they won't worry you tonight.

I'll ask my wife, Harrison. You know, we've hardly spoken of it yet. I'll go to her, don't you worry to come.

I'll wait for you here.

He found his wife and his daughter-in-law hand in hand, tip-toeing out of the room where his grandchildren were sleeping. He spoke to her, and she wept again and sobbed against him. Now, she said. He went back to Harrison, and swallowed his drink, and then he and his wife and their daughter-in-law went out to the car, where John Harrison was waiting for them.

While they were driving to the Police Laboratories, John Harrison told Jarvis all that he knew about the crime, how the police were waiting for the house-boy to recover consciousness, and how they had combed the plantations on Parkwold Ridge. And he told him too of the paper that Arthur Jarvis had been writing just before he was killed, on "The Truth About Native Crime."

I'd like to see it, said Jarvis.

We'll get it for you tomorrow, Mr. Jarvis.

My son and I didn't see eye to eye on the native question, John. In fact, he and I got quite heated about it on more than one occasion. But I'd like to see what he wrote.

My father and I don't see eye to eye on the native question either, Mr. Jarvis. You know, Mr. Jarvis, there was no one in South Africa who thought so deeply about it, and no one who thought so clearly, as Arthur did. And what else is there to think deeply and clearly about in South Africa, he used to say.

So they came to the Laboratories, and John Harrison stayed in the car, while the others went to do the hard thing that had to be done. And they came out silent but for the weeping of the two women, and drove back as silently to the house, where Mary's father opened the door to them.

Another drink, Jarvis. Or do you want to go to bed?

Margaret, do you want me to come up with you?

No, my dear, stay and have your drink.

Goodnight then, my dear.

Goodnight, James.

He kissed her, and she clung to him for a moment. And thank you for all your help, she said. The tears came again into her eyes, and into his too for that matter. He watched her climb the stairs with their daughter-in-law, and when the door closed on them, he and Harrison turned to go to the study.

It's always worse for the mother, Jarvis.

Yes.

He pondered over it, and said then, I was very fond of my son, he said. I was never ashamed of having him.

They settled down to their drinks, and Harrison told him that the murder had shocked the people of Parkwold, and how the messages had poured into the house.

Messages from every conceivable place, every kind of person, he said. By the way, Jarvis, we arranged the funeral provisionally for tomorrow afternoon, after a service in the Parkwold Church. Three o'clock the service will be.

Jarvis nodded. Thank you, he said.

And we kept all the messages for you. From the Bishop, and the Acting Prime Minister, and the Mayor, and from dozens of others. And from native organizations too, something called the Daughters of Africa, and a whole lot of others that I can't remember. And from coloured people, and Indians, and Jews.

Jarvis felt a sad pride rising in him. He was clever, he said. That came from his mother.

He was that right enough - you must hear John on it. But people liked him too, all sorts of people. You know he spoke Afrikaans like an Afrikaner?

I knew he had learnt it.

It's a lingo I know nothing about, thank G.o.d. But he thought he ought to know it, so he took lessons in it, and went to an Afrikaner farm. He spoke Zulu as you know, but he was talking of learning Sesuto. You know these native M.P.'s they have - well, there was talk of getting him to stand at the next election.

I didn't know that.

Yes, he was always speaking here and there. You know the kind of thing. Native Crime, and more Native Schools, and he kicked up a h.e.l.l of a dust in the papers about the conditions at the non-European Hospital. And you know he was hot about the native compound system in the Mines, and wanted the Chamber to come out one hundred per cent for settled labour - you know, wife and family to come with the man.

Jarvis filled his pipe slowly, and listened to this tale of his son, to this tale of a stranger.

Hathaway of the Chamber of Mines spoke to me about it, said Harrison. Asked me if I wouldn't warn the lad to pipe down a bit, because his firm did a lot of business with the Mines. So I spoke to him, told him I knew he felt deeply about these things, but asked him to go slow a bit. Told him there was Mary to consider, and the children. I didn't speak on behalf of Mary, you understand? I don't poke my nose into young people's business.

I understand.

I've spoken to Mary, he said to me. She and I agree that it's more important to speak the truth than to make money.

Harrison laughed at that, but cut himself short, remembering the sadness of the occasion. My son John was there, he said, looking at Arthur as though he were G.o.d Almighty. So what could I say?

They smoked in silence awhile. I asked him, said Harrison, about his partners. After all their job was to sell machinery to the Mines. I've discussed it with my partners, he said to me, and if there's any trouble, I've told them I'll get out. And what would you do? I asked him. What won't I do? he said. His face was sort of excited. Well, what could I say more?

Jarvis did not answer. For this boy of his had gone journeying in strange waters, further than his parents had known. Or perhaps his mother knew. It would not surprise him if his mother knew. But he himself had never done such journeying, and there was nothing he could say.

Am I tiring you, Jarvis? Or is there perhaps something else you'd like to talk about? Or go to bed, perhaps?

Harrison, you're doing me more good by talking.

Well, that's how it was. He and I didn't talk much about these things. It's not my line of country. I try to treat a native decently, but he's not my food and drink. And to tell you the truth, these crimes put me off. I tell you, Jarvis, we're scared stiff at the moment in Johannesburg.

Of crime?

Yes, of native crime. There are too many of these murders and robberies and brutal attacks. I tell you we don't go to bed at night without barricading the house. It was at the Phillipsons, three doors down, that a gang of these roughs broke in; they knocked old Phillipson unconscious, and beat up his wife. It was lucky the girls were out at a dance, or one doesn't know what might have happened. I asked Arthur about that, but he reckoned we were to blame somehow. Can't say I always followed him, but he had a kind of sincerity. You sort of felt that if you had the time you could get some sort of sense out of it.

There's one thing I don't get the sense of, said Jarvis. Why this should have happened....

You mean...to him, of all people?

Yes.

That's one of the first things that we said. Here he was, day in and day out, on a kind of mission. And it was he who was killed.

Mind you, said Jarvis, coming to a point. Mind you, it's happened before. I mean, that missionaries were killed.

Harrison made no answer, and they smoked their pipes silently. A missionary, thought Jarvis, and thought how strange it was that he had called his son a missionary. For he had never thought much of missionaries. True, the church made a lot of it, and there were special appeals to which he had given, but one did that kind of thing without believing much in missionaries. There was a mission near him, at Ndotsheni. But it was a sad place as he remembered it. A dirty old wood-and-iron church, patched and forlorn, and a dirty old parson, in a barren valley where the gra.s.s hardly grew. A dirty old school where he had heard them reciting, parrot-fas.h.i.+on, on the one or two occasions that he had ridden past there, reciting things that could mean little to them.

Bed, Jarvis? Or another drink?

Bed, I think. Did you say the police were coming?

They're coming at nine.

And I'd like to see the house.

I thought that you would. They'll take you there.

Good, then I'll go to bed. Will you say goodnight to your wife for me?

I'll do that. You know your room? And breakfast? Eight-thirty?

Eight-thirty. Goodnight, Harrison. And many thanks for your kindnesses.

No thanks are needed. Nothing is too much trouble. Goodnight, Jarvis, and I hope you and Margaret will get some sleep.

Jarvis walked up the stairs, and went into the room. He walked in quietly, and closed the door, and did not put on the light. The moon was s.h.i.+ning through the windows, and he stood there looking out on the world. All that he had heard went quietly through his mind. His wife turned in the bed, and said, James.

My dear.

What were you thinking, my dear?

He was silent, searching for an answer. Of it all, he said.