“So what did your folks think of last night’s broadcast?”
Charles springs this on me about ten seconds after Moira’s finished running through our lesson plan for tomorrow’s cross country schooling. Like he’s been itching to do it ever since we arrived in the kitchen.
No need to clarify. ‘Last night’s broadcast’ has been ‘The Speech’ in our house all yesterday evening and all this morning. Capital T, capital S. Dad sat kind of glum and silent in front of the television last night for a long, long time. I don’t think he really knew what came after, although he seemed to be watching it.
I don’t particularly want to talk about it but he’s expecting an answer.
“My father said, ‘Bloody South Africans have got us snookered and they know it. Smithy knows it. We all know it,’” I tell him. “I’ve heard of snooker, but I had to ask my mother what he meant by that. I didn’t dare ask him. We left him alone.”
“And?”
Um, can I get this right now?
“She said… She said, like, when two guys are playing snooker, um, one of them can, like, um, get a ball to go… well, actually place a ball right in the way of where the other one wants to take a shot to get, um, another ball, like, another colour thing, ball, into one of the holes. ’Cause you have to get all the balls in the holes, don’t you? So if you can stop someone from doing that, you…”
He’s going to laugh. His face is fighting it. Well, it was a rubbish description. I don’t care. I’m not desperate to learn more about the silly game.
Moira’s got her serious face on, nodding, but she looks a little too serious. Trying too hard.
“Quite right. That’s exactly it. So what your dad was really saying is, that whatever he tries now, Smith can’t win. Vorster’s forced him into a corner.”
I guess so. South Africa’s going to cut all ties with us unless we get majority rule because if we do that it might take the pressure off them and their apartheid system. Mr Vorster’s effectively forcing Mr Smith to give in by threatening to cut off his assistance. Like blackmail. That’s what Mum said. And she called them just that: Mr Smith and Mr Vorster. She’s always said we should be respectful to adults, who are older and wiser and know better.
The Owens call them Smith and Vorster, and sometimes Charles says “that man Smith” and “bloody Vorster”. I have a feeling he doesn’t think either of them are very wise at all. They’re certainly messing up our lives at the moment. Nobody seems to know what’s going to happen next. Actually, that’s not quite right. They seem to know now what’s going to happen next, but not what’ll happen after that or whether they’re going to like it.
“Have some more shortbread Tess,” Charles offers, thrusting the plate under my nose. How can I resist that?
“Kissinger and Vorster hatched the plot when they met in West Germany, didn’t they? The Western world must work together to stop the Communists in southern Africa, etc, etc, etc. Achieve an equitable formula in Rhodesia, etc, etc, etc. And bless them, they’re prepared to fork out cash for resettlement of all us whites who might want to get out rather than face majority rule. So good of them. And I believe it was Vorster who was quite vociferous about that. Has to be seen to be trying to help us, his mates, doesn’t he? Only out for himself of course.”
“He doesn’t want an intensified war here any more than we do,” Moira says. “Deep down, he supports the Smith government – same ideals, after all – but Kissinger’s forced him into a corner as well.”
So everyone’s snookering everyone else? I’ve got nothing to contribute so I just watch him while he munches his shortbread and stares into space. Eventually, he sighs.
“That’s the thing about politics, Tessa – nobody can really trust anyone else. And Ian Bloody Smith just continues to believe in Gentlemen’s Honour. Kissinger makes promises – that sanctions will be lifted, foreign capital will flood in, the economy will boom, we’ll rejoin the world in a sense – and our dear Smithy believes him, honestly believes him, and thinks the confidence of all his white voters will be restored. He says that Kissinger was – how did he put it? – ‘decent’. He hasn’t backtracked on his call for tougher military commitments though, has he, while still reassuring us that all this intensified terrorist activity is only a minor hitch and that a military victory is both possible and probable?”
But my parents do have confidence in him. This guy, Henry Kissinger, is blazing round Africa like some sort of fairytale knight trying to find a settlement for us. Dad says he thinks he can please everyone but how often has Charles said you can’t please all of the people all of the time? So the compromise is that we’ll get a transitional government, which means there’ll be two ministers – one black and one white – in all posts. And, there’ll be a ceasefire.
“He quoted Winston Churchill,” I venture, hoping I’ve remembered what Mum said correctly.
“He did indeed. ‘Now is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’”
“And what do you think?”
He says nothing for a while. Quite a while. Then, “I’m not sure Tessa. I need to think about it. A lot of people are not impressed though. Did you hear? Not an hour after the speech ended, someone – or some people even – took the Rhodesian flag down from its pole in Cecil Square and put up a home-made white one at half-mast. And then nicked a Give Way sign from a junction somewhere and propped it against the base of the flagpole.”
And after another pause, “I am sort of optimistic. Or at least I’m trying to be optimistic. Smith’s trouble, as I said, is that he accepts a man’s word as his honour, which is why he experiences such uncomprehending hurt when others, in the nature of humans everywhere, let him down. He and his supporters don’t seem to realise we can’t have it all our own way. Kissinger has promised the earth to us, but remember that his agenda is to get Smith out. And Vorster’s wheedling along with it all, making out he’s so happy for everyone.”
God, the politicians talk and talk. They even held a complete conference on the bridge over the gorge at Victoria Falls, didn’t they? Because it’s classed as No Man’s Land.
Moira thinks that’s funny. “South Africa taking responsibility for resolving the Rhodesian problem? That place is hardly a leading light on the march for African freedom. Vorster thinks he’s the saviour with all this détente, which, my girl, is really just an impressive word to describe the act of going round in ever decreasing circles. What he’s actually trying to do is take the spotlight off apartheid. Idiot.”
Maybe it will be okay. Mum and Dad think the whole problem will go away and Charles thinks this solution to the problem might work.
Three more kids in my class have gone in the last two months. Helen Edwards to England and James Percival and Karen van Driel to Australia. Helen said her folks are not going to hang around and let her brother, Roger, fight in a war we can never win. Roger is only eighteen months older than us, so, once again, I say – how long is this supposed to last for? How long will it take to lose, if we can’t win?
James just said, “Ian Smith will have a lot to answer for.”
*
I haven’t told Mum or Dad about the conversation in the Owens’ kitchen this morning. I won’t tell Rosie either, when she gets home from tennis, because she’d tell them for me.
They’re stuck in such a deep rut that they’re unable to change direction or even see what anyone else is thinking up top. They maintain their convictions: only the whites can rule the country properly, only the whites can maintain law and order and the high standard of efficiency we enjoy, only the whites can maintain the upright morals that we alone manage to have in this depraved world, yes, it’s good that the war will end and that the economy will improve, but no, we can’t have majority rule.