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‘Yes. But the real significance, the real tragedy is that a theocracy was born at the Battle of Blood River, Luke. “Rule of God.” Through our “divinely inspired” politicians like Verwoerd. That’s the mentality we’re up against. And we won’t get rid of apartheid until a new generation comes along who doesn’t believe that nonsense.’
‘Or until there’s an uprising. A bloodbath, like Kenya.’
Lisa shook her head. ‘No, that’s another myth. There may be a bloodbath, but it will be black blood that’s spilt, Luke. Like at the Battle of Blood River – an execution. History repeating itself. This government is surrounding us with a ring of steel – but tanks now, not wagons. An uprising will be crushed ruthlessly – it’ll solve nothing.’
‘But the communists? Russia’s got plenty of tanks too.’
Lisa sighed. ‘Communists? That’s just about everybody who opposes this government, according to our Suppression of Communism Act. As for the Russians coming, that’s another bit of wishful black thinking. As happened during the Great Cattle Killing. Sure, Russia’s bent on world revolution, and sure she’ll train saboteurs and black freedom fighters, but Russia’s a hell of a long way away, it’ll be many many years before her tanks get down here. No, the change in this country must come from here –’ she tapped her head – ‘from within. From people like you and me, Luke.’
And she said: ‘Okay, the Boer War. Big lamppost What light does it shed on today?’ Oh fuck the Boer War – he wanted to get laid again. He trailed his hand over the beautiful mound of her buttocks. ‘No, Luke, I’m determined you’ll get more out of me than the facts of life.’
Luke brought his mind back to the question. ‘This government is still fighting the Boer War, figuratively speaking.’
‘Yes. But why? The Boer War was over fifty years ago.’
‘Because of their bitterness. The injustice. The scorched earth, their women and children dying in the camps. So, now that the Afrikaner is on top at last, he intends to stay there at all costs. Hence his ring of steel. His steel laager of apartheid.’
‘True. But apartheid is only directed against the blacks, the Swart Gevaar. You’ve just said the Afrikaner is still fighting the Boer War – and blacks weren’t in that war except as labourers. So, who – and what – is the Afrikaner still fighting?’
‘The English-speaking South Africans?’
‘Right. And why? Because the English still dominate this country economically – because of the Boer War. So how is the government fighting that Boer War problem?’
‘By packing the civil service with Afrikaners?’
‘Right. Affirmative Action, it’s called. To give Afrikaners jobs and have every aspect of government dominated by loyalists. And every aspect of business. And who is the mastermind behind all that?’
‘God?’ Luke grinned.
She flicked his arm. ‘But who in fact?’
‘The Dutch Reformed Church?’
‘But the church only dominates the government’s thinking, its soul. Who is the physical power behind the throne of government?’
‘The Broederbond,’ Luke said. ‘The Brotherhood.’
‘Right … Lampposts, Luke. Illumination. And what do we know about the Broederbond? Very little, because it’s a secret society. But what light does the Boer War shed on it? Ah, now we can start making some intelligent deductions. The Broederbond was founded after the Boer War – after Sir Alfred Milner had made his cock-up of trying to turn us into Englishmen. It was founded to fight for Afrikaner dominance. In all walks of life: the Dutch Reformed Church, business, parliament, the civil service, the army, police, judiciary. And it’s grown into a mighty octopus that now controls the whole country – it’s an Afrikaner mafia now, Luke. And it is really they who rule the country – and they will stop at nothing to stay in power. And there’ll be no reform until their power is broken.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘How, indeed? Only by the pen, my friend, because they’ve got all the swords – all the generals are Broederbonders. But what does history teach us about Power? “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Eventually they’ll corrupt themselves out of power. Become decadent.’ Then she rolled over onto her back and gave her creamy smile. ‘And now, about that decadent suggestion of yours …’
It was a wonderful time. And when the holidays were over and they went back to Umtata and the kids came pouring back to town it got even better: for now their secret was multiplied, a secret to blow a thousand tiny minds, the danger a delicious spice to the delicious forbidden fruit. Luke Mahoney walked to school feeling ten feet tall, a smile in his heart about seeing her surrounded by her bevy of adoring girls, seeing the other boys lusting after her, hearing their lecherous talk, exchanging delicious grins with her, standing in assembly looking at her up there on the staff platform, eyes locked on each other’s, suppressing a grin, his heart bursting with joyous pride – his gorgeous Miss Rousseau, acting history teacher at Umtata High School, centre of the universe… And when she came striding into the classroom in her gym skirt and the muted groan went up from the boys, his bursting heart turned over. And when she began to spin her wonderful tales of history, which he already knew backwards, he just wanted to leap up and applaud, and, oh God, the joy of her legs, her breasts thrusting against her white blouse as she stretched up to write on the blackboard – sometimes, just sometimes, she locked eyes with him for a moment when all heads were down making the notes, and – oh God – the delicious secret.
When the final bell rang and she set off back to the hostel – his hostel – he went to his father’s law office with his heart singing. After dinner he went to bed, waited, listened, then pulled on his tennis shoes and breathlessly clambered out of the window and dashed across town. Then he walked past the tall hedge of the girls’ hostel, heart knocking, eyes peeled, trying to look like a schoolboy going from God knows where. The towel hanging out her window, the all-clear sign … Then the heart-knocking business of creeping through the hole in the hedge, followed by the dash across the garden to the drainpipe. He crouched in the nasturtiums, seized the pipe and Went shinning up it desperately, hand over hand, every moment expecting a girlish cry from one of the dormitory windows. Then there was the sill and he swung his leg up and Lisa grabbed his ankle, giggling. He heaved himself over, and fell into her arms. And, oh God, the forbidden fruit was all the more delicious for the outrageous danger.
And so it went. Until the night the drainpipe broke away from the wall. He was about to grab the sill when there was suddenly this creaking sound, and he was clawing at the bricks; then slowly the pipe began to fall away from the wall like a felled tree. Luke Mahoney swooped slowly down through the night, wild-eyed. Oh Christ, how do I talk my way out of this? As he hit the earth with a jarring jolt, his ankle buckled, he crashed onto his side, and the pipe and masonry came crashing down on top of him.
For an instant he lay there, shocked, in agony; then windows were bursting open, lights flashing on, and he scrambled up and tried to run, and he sprawled. He had sprained his ankle. He lay for another instant, clutching his foot, then he was up again and hobbling frantically. ‘Hey!’ girls shouted. ‘Stop! Thief!’ He hobbled flat-out, grimacing, and he sprawled again. He scrambled to his feet once more, but as he reached the gate the hostel door burst open. Girls barrelled out, clutching hockey sticks. Mahoney staggered desperately through the gate, gasping, and the girls burst out. They sprinted after him, yelling, and the first hockey stick got him. He lurched, then another stick whacked his head and he reeled; then another, then another. Under a rain of hockey sticks he crashed into the hedge, his arms curled up over his head, surrounded by gleeful, swiping girls.
‘Good God!’ the head girl gasped. ‘Luke!’
Luke crouched in the hedge, gasping, his head splitting, looking at the menacing silhouettes of astonished, stick-toting girls. He was about to make a plea for he knew not what when a quiet voice said: ‘Leave him, girls …’ And there was Miss Rousseau, in her dressing gown, arms folded, a sombre smile on her lovely face. ‘Go back to bed, girls.’
The excited girls reluctantly turned to leave, staring back, giggling, exchanging glances. Mahoney straightened up painfully, dishevelled. He looked at Lisa.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Lisa Rousseau smiled ruefully. ‘We’re in trouble, Luke. Tomorrow there’s going to be big trouble.’
Luke closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Not you. There’s no reason for two of us to be in trouble.’
‘To talk?’ the headmaster repeated furiously.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘To talk?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The headmaster gave a growl. ‘At midnight you’re shinning up the drainpipe of the girls’ hostel to talk to the housemistress? That’s what you’re telling me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
George Mahoney, sitting beside his son, sighed.
‘To talk about what, pray?’
‘About life, sir.’
‘About Life? With a capital L, of course? And what aspect of Life were you so desperately anxious to talk about at that hour?’ He waved a hand. ‘The birds and the bees, perhaps?’
‘No, sir. About my career, sir.’
‘Your career …’ The headmaster whispered it with the contempt it deserved. He turned and paced across his study. He turned back. ‘Do you know what happens to one’s career when one is expelled from a school? Do you know what a blemish – what a criminal record that is you’ll carry with you for life – with the capital L?!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you are not daunted?’
‘Yes, I am daunted, sir.’
Another growl. ‘And what made you think Miss Rousseau would be willing to talk to you at midnight about your career?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Nothing?’ Steely eyes. ‘She didn’t … invite you perhaps?’
‘No, sir, she did not.’
‘You expect me to believe that? You just took it into your head to climb up her drainpipe at midnight? Without any encouragement whatsoever?’
‘Correct, sir.’
The headmaster glared at him. George Mahoney had his eyes down, a grim smile twitching his face. The headmaster stabbed the air with his finger. ‘I put it to you, Mahoney, that if you didn’t have encouragement from Miss Rousseau, your behaviour was insane! Unless you intended to rape her! Was that your intention?’
Mahoney was shocked. ‘Absolutely not, sir!’
‘To try to seduce her perhaps?’
‘No, sir.’
‘But to “talk”? About your career? At midnight?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘“Oh, good evening, Miss Rousseau – or should I say good morning? – just dropped around – or climbed around – to have a little chat about my future career as an historian. I say do you mind giving me a bit of a leg-up over this window sill – but if you prefer I’ll just cling to this drainpipe for half an hour while we ‘talk’ … ”’
And Luke Mahoney, seventeen years old, in the dock without a defence, had very nearly had enough, after a sleepless night. He looked his headmaster in the eye, and his voice took on a new edge: ‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’
The headmaster glared. ‘Do I detect a note of aggression there?’
Luke looked the man in the eye. ‘No, sir. Just a note of self-defence.’
The headmaster’s glare lost its steel for a moment, then his face filled with fury: ‘‘You describe your story as a defence? Would your father –’ he flung an eloquent hand at the lawyer – ‘consider that a credible defence?!’
Luke Mahoney did not care anymore – suddenly he had had enough of this humiliation and he did not care that he was going to be expelled: and as he was going to be expelled why the hell was he putting up with this shit?
‘Very well, sir, as you evidently don’t think much of that defence, how about this one: I climbed up that drainpipe at midnight because I’m madly in love with Miss Rousseau, sir. Because faint heart never won fair lady, sir. But I absolutely assure you, sir, on a stack of bibles, that Miss Rousseau knew absolutely nothing about this passion of mine, sir. And that you have obviously interpreted her resignation as evidence of complicity is quite incorrect, and if that will be a blot on her copybook, if that will prejudice her career, if you give a bad report about her to the education authorities, that will be the grossest of injustices. That would be like the injustice suffered by an honourable woman who is stigmatised by society after being raped, sir. And I promise you I will correct that by writing to the Department of Education and confessing my guilt, sir.’
There was a silence. The headmaster was staring at him. George Mahoney was looking at his son with something approaching pride. Luke Mahoney stood there grimly – and he wasn’t blushing anymore. Take it or leave it, sir, was his demeanour. The headmaster recovered, and glared:
‘And what did you expect Miss Rousseau to do about that, if she had given you no encouragement?’
‘I had no idea, sir.’
His father sighed. The headmaster rasped softly: ‘I don’t believe you, Mahoney. I find it too much of a coincidence that Miss Rousseau does not intend to press charges against you –’
‘Indeed, sir, I’ve gathered that you don’t believe me.’
‘Oh? And have you also gathered that I intend expelling you?’
‘I have, sir.’
The headmaster glared. Then he slumped down into his chair. He sighed, then said: ‘You had a good life ahead of you, Mahoney. Brains, sportsman, personality, good looks. You had an excellent chance of winning a Rhodes Scholarship. Now? Do you realize you’ll have great difficulty even finding employment with an expulsion record?’
Mahoney said grimly: ‘Yes, I realize that, sir. So can we now please get on with it?’
The headmaster was taken aback by this impertinence. ‘Get on with it?’
‘My medicine, sir. The six of the best you’re going to give me. And let me get on the road.’
The headmaster blinked, then leaned forward. He hissed: ‘You can thank your lucky stars that before I formally expel you I am giving you the chance of leaving this school voluntarily.’
Mahoney closed his eyes. And sighed in relief. ‘I am very grateful, sir.’
‘I hope you’re still grateful after this …’ The headmaster picked up a cane. ‘Drop your trousers.’
Mahoney undid his belt. He pulled down his trousers. He bent over.
The cane whistled.
They drove home in grim silence. George parked in the garage. He switched off the engine, then slumped. He turned to his son. ‘You’ve been punished. I’m not going to punish you further.’
‘Thank you.’
The old man nodded. ‘Besides, you’re not a schoolboy anymore. You’re a young man now, whether you and I like it or not.’
Mahoney didn’t say anything. Yes, he felt like a man, though his arse felt like a schoolboy’s.
‘You became a man in the headmaster’s study, You stood up for yourself, you protected Miss Rousseau and took your medicine.’
Mahoney didn’t say anything.
‘Miss Rousseau did know you were coming, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mahoney said grimly.
The old man sighed. He looked away. ‘But you technically saved her honour. Just. That was right.’ He added: ‘Though I’d have expected nothing less of you.’
Mahoney said nothing.
‘Yes, I’ve noticed a sudden maturity’s come over you lately. Now I know why.’ The old man shook his head. ‘So, she did you some good, Luke. That’s the way to look at it.’
Mahoney nodded grimly. ‘Yes.’
‘But I hope you’re not going to keep in touch with her.’
‘No, sir. She and I agreed that last night.’
‘Good. That’s wise.’ The old man looked at him. ‘You’re not really in love with her, are you?’
Mahoney wished he could vaporise. Maybe that would also stop his arse hurting. He lied: ‘No, sir. It was just very exciting.’
For the first time the old man smiled. ‘I bet it was … And I think you can stop calling me sir. You’re out in the big wide world now. You can’t stay in this town. Though you might be a hero with the boys, it’ll be very embarrassing.’
