44

TAKING CHARGE

GLOOM PREVAILED IN THE VAN DER LINDE KITCHEN where for once there was no large pot of yellow mealie pap blooping on the coal stove. Tannie Charmaine was on strike, having delivered an ultimatum when she rose from the nuptial bed as usual at seven. ‘Either someone drives me into the dorp to find out what the devil’s going on with all these cars and trucks coming through, or no breakfast.’

Swart Barend had refused and was sulking in the gun room in the comforting presence of his rifles, oiling them one by one with a furious scowl. Despite being half a kilometre apart and at opposite ends of the ethnic spectrum, he and Chief Mohlalipula in his Great Place were thinking exactly the same dark thoughts at that moment. Old bulls don’t have the strength and audacity of young bulls, though they will not learn this until challenged. It’s a grave blow when the challenge comes from an old cow.

The other male Vanderlindeans were too intimidated to go against Swart Barend’s dictates. Their wives and daughters did not dare. Rooi Barend had left in Tannie Charmaine’s car through the unchained gate, saying he had urgent business.

She was not without resource, however, being a boerevrou of pioneer stock. She put on her new size forty-four mauve polyester trouser suit, sailed out to the tractor shed, climbed up into the perforated seat of the John Deere tractor, got it going with a flick of her capable wrist, and trundled through the gate towards the village, with its mowing attachment gnashing in front. This would teach the old stick-in-the-mud and all his feeble underlings not to listen to her.

The charge office was milling with police reinforcements from other districts who had driven through the night, arrived before dawn and were now making plaintive enquiries about breakfast. There had been no reportable incidents in the settlement during the watch. Owners of the dry shebeens, conscious of the effects of alcohol deprivation, had served free tea with plenty of condensed milk until their unusually sober clients gave up and went home. At Queenie’s Place the tea had been laced with Amarula until it too ran out.

Captain Ngobese elbowed his way to the charge-office counter and demanded of the sergeant, ‘What’s the problem you said was so urgent? I’ve only had three hours’ sleep.’

‘It’s logistical, sir. These men are hungry. The food has run out.’

‘Get in some bread from the café, Sergeant. Use your initiative.’

‘But that’s run out too, and the fresh bread won’t be ready till eight.’

Annoyed by the negative ‘but’, Captain Ngobese turned to survey the charge office. Clumps of policemen he didn’t recognise stood chatting and catching up on interdepartmental news.

He said, ‘These men should stand down and be taken back to town. Where are the riot vehicles?’

‘But that’s another problem, sir.’

He ushered Captain Ngobese to the window that looked out over the ground where wagons had once outspanned in the heart of the village. Now it was a bus and taxi terminus ringed by an informal street market under the pepper trees. The riot vehicles parked there during the night had kids swarming all over them, sitting astride their angled khaki roofs and hanging off steps and handles. Women selling second-hand clothes and grass mats had draped their wares on the bumpers. Piles of fresh mealies were heaped on one of the wheel casings and a selection of pumpkins, butternuts, gem and gourd squashes on another. Worse, they had been parked in by buses and taxis that were surrounded by a mass of people coming and going or queuing for a ride to the supermarkets in town.

‘Plus there’s more trouble coming.’ The sergeant indicated a pantechnicon with MASHONISA’S MARQUEES & FUNERAL ACCESSORIES painted on its doors, inching down the tarmac as its many wheels dipped in and out of potholes. Behind it a line of cars, bakkies and trucks stretched past the shops towards the nuns’ ex-garage. He went on, ‘The patrol stationed at the intersection with the highway reports that traffic is increasing. Some of the cars have newspaper or TV logos on their doors.’

The captain had come from the opposite direction along a back road to the police station and had not seen the traffic. As he stood trying to decide what to do, a tractor with rasping metal teeth in front came thundering down the tarmac, driven by a large white woman who grappled with the steering wheel as though wrestling with a boa constrictor. Her hair escaped in wisps from a grey bun, her hefty mauve backside bounced on the seat and a regal smile acknowledged the drivers gesticulating and hooting at her.

‘Tannie Charmaine van der Linde,’ the sergeant explained. ‘They’ve given up on the independence thing. Too many supply problems and Rooi Barend was missing his beer. Not to mention Salomie. She works there by the motel.’

‘Give me strength,’ Captain Ngobese muttered. Again.

‘What was that, Captain?’

‘Never mind. We need to deal with this escalating situation. While I contact HQ, you and the duty officer concentrate on getting the men fed. See if the butcher will braai up some chops and boerewors. Send to the café for cooldrinks and chips and confectionery. Try the Beijing Bazaar too. Mrs Ming does pies on Saturdays.’

‘But—’

‘Jump to it, Sergeant. Your first priority is to get the men fed. After that, we’ll need to organise traffic pointsmen and more parking space. If people keep arriving and milling about, crowd control will be essential.’

‘This is a major problem, eh?’

‘Affirmative.’

Captain Ngobese would have given his long-service mantel clock to punch the justified smirk off the sergeant’s face, but there was too much to be done. And he was a peaceable man. Usually.

Eddie Drinkwater woke with a raging thirst and a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, so he did not resist when Jo held up his head to give him sips of water.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Thumping headache. Guts-ache too. Need a drink.’

‘Oh no. You’re going straight into hospital.’ His eyes were yellow.

‘Bugger that.’ He tried to fight his way out of the bedclothes but a stab of pain under his ribcage sent him reeling back onto the pillows.

Her face came down to his. ‘I’m taking charge now, Dad. You’re sick and you need help. I’ve arranged for a private ambulance to come and fetch you later this morning. Ma Philo will pack your bag.’

‘No, goddammit. It’s my life. My life.’

‘Mine too. I’ll be turfed out of med school if my fees aren’t paid. And it’s all I ever wanted, to be a doctor. So I’m selling the store and putting you into rehab.’

‘You can’t,’ he gasped.

‘Oh yes, I can. I’ve spoken to a friend whose father is a lawyer. I can have myself declared curator bonis and take over your affairs.’

He did not recognise the angry face cantilevered over him and sobbed, ‘Where’s Jo? What have you done with my lovely Jo?’

‘What have you done, more like. You betrayed me.’ The face withdrew and he heard her voice receding into an echo chamber as she went away. ‘And Ma Philo-o-o. And Khanya-a-a.’

‘Judith.’ He struggled to get the word out properly. ‘Judith. Judas.’

Hendrik Ossewa woke to find his wife, Magdalena, tugging at his pyjama sleeve. ‘Hennie, Hennie! There’s been a sighting. Petro’s son who works for Reuters just phoned and told her.’

‘Sighting?’

‘You know, a vision.’

‘Vision of what?’ Hendrik was a night owl who liked to linger over his brandy listening to Sousa marches, not a morning person.

‘The Virgin Mary. Some black schoolgirl says she saw her in a place called Crocodile Flats. Petro’s driving straight down there now and taking me with.’

‘What?’ He heaved himself up against the pillows, appalled.

‘It’s only a few hundred k’s. I’m wearing my new turquoise silk two piece. See?’ She twirled to show it off.

‘I forbid you to go!’ He wagged a pallid forefinger. ‘I was there only yesterday on official business. It’s a black spot full of shacks and diseases. Kids die like flies. The people are dirty.’

Her shoulders squared. ‘There’s no need to be like that. I know what I’m doing. The Virgin Mary appears to those in need, Petro says. And I’m in need.’

‘Of what?’

She eyed his self-important face and the boep straining his pyjama cord. ‘Attention, Hennie. Some little sign of appreciation for what I put up with from you. A miracle of my own.’

‘Might I remind you that we are not gullible Catholics like Petro? Get a grip on yourself, vrou. This is nonsense. The answer is no,’ he blustered.

‘People in need don’t have denominations. We’re pilgrims on a mission. I’m going, finish and klaar.’

She marched out slamming the door and was gone down the drive in Petro’s car before he could gather his wits to stop her.