Rainbow Weather

The Very Dead White Man

Mr Maseti can go, said Mrs Thompson. "He can drop you two home, take the mealie flour to the church, and be back in time to water the garden."

The children smiled up at the tall, wiry man.

Yes, madam, Mr Maseti said.

Careful not to touch his pink palm, Mrs Thompson handed Mr Maseti the keys to the bakkie, and shepherded the children to the back door. Mr Maseti picked up the sack of mealie flour and balanced it on his shoulder.

After unlocking the security gate beside the garage, Mrs Thompson stood back to let Mr Maseti and the children pass. Securing the sack with one hand, Mr Maseti opened the passenger door of the bakkie, a sturdy pick-up truck, and the children clambered in. He put the mealie flour under the children’s feet. He eased himself into the driver’s seat with a slight eeeech of effort, made a gesture to Mrs Thompson, half wave, half salute, and reversed into the street. Mrs Thompson, a compact figure in a purple print dress, didn’t wave back, but nodded in farewell. She locked the gate and turned back into the house. Mr Maseti rolled the bakkie down the slope to the T-junction at the foot of the street, where he turned right to join the busy main road from East London.

The children, a girl aged about nine and a boy of seven, sat still, only moving their eyes to watch the people on the streets. Their mother was Mary, Mrs Thompson’s maid, and they had arrived at the house half an hour before, with the message that Mary was sick and could not pick up the mealie flour Mrs Thompson had promised to donate to Mary’s church for their New Year Convention.

Mrs Thompson had given the children a cool drink, and proposed a solution that she felt should be satisfactory to all. Perhaps it was a small inconvenience to Mr Maseti, but that was what she paid him for, after all.

Five or six kilometres out of town, Mr Maseti turned off the main road onto a dusty track towards Bulembu, where the children lived. The veldt stretched away in every direction. Painted houses were scattered on the rolling hillsides like beads on a string. The sky was a deep blue, dotted with a few scrappy clouds.

Mr Maseti had only driven a couple of kilometres down the track when he became aware of three very small, dusty boys on the road, waving their arms above their heads and shouting for him to stop.

He braked and rolled down his window.

What’s the matter, boys? he called out to them in Xhosa. What’s happened?

The biggest of the boys, aged about six, ran to the bakkie and pulled himself up onto the step. Clutching at the edge of the window, he peered in at Mr Maseti and gasped, We have found a very dead white man in the grass.

What do you mean, very dead? asked Mr Maseti. A person is either alive or dead. There is no point in talking of someone being very dead.

"Yes, but this man is very dead, the boy insisted. He smells very bad. He looks like an umkhwetha but he is white, white all over."

Mr Maseti sighed. An umkhwetha was an initiate, a teenage boy on the verge of manhood. Current government policy was for initiates to undergo the circumcision required by Xhosa culture in hospital, but many families still chose to send their boys to the village surgeon or ingcibi, where conditions were often less than sterile. This, as well as the time the lads had to spend on the open veldt without water in high summer, led to a number of deaths each year.

But of course he is white. Mr Maseti could not help lecturing this ignorant child. "The abakhwetha paint themselves white. It’s part of the initiation."

The boy rocked backwards and forwards against the window in frustration. "He is an umkhwetha but his hair is straight, not like ours. And his skin is white under the paint. He is not a Xhosa."

An umkhwetha who is not a Xhosa? said Mr Maseti.

But this fruitless discussion had gone on too long for the patience of the little boy.

Come now, he said, reaching in to Mr Maseti and clutching at his arm. Come and see. You will see that I am right.

The boy leapt backwards as Mr Maseti opened the bakkie door.

Mr Maseti paused before he got out.

Children, he said, I am going to see what this boy wants, but I am going to lock the bakkie, so you will be quite safe.

The children moved closer together, and nodded.

Mr Maseti rolled up the windows and made sure every door was locked. He got out of the bakkie, and said, Well, lead me to this very dead white man.

The boys started to trot along the path through the grass. Mr Maseti followed at a slower pace. Low bushes and tussocks of tambuki grass stretched ahead of them. Reaching their destination, the boys stopped, waiting for Mr Maseti to catch up with them. From two or three paces away, Mr Maseti could see a pair of bony, bare, white feet. They belonged to a young white man, lying on his side under a thorn bush with his hands tucked under his chin. He was decked out in the woollen blanket of an initiate, and his face was painted white. And he was very dead. Flies swarmed around his head and the stench made Mr Maseti pull out his handkerchief and cover his nose and mouth. He looked down at the body for a long time.

Well, lads, he said, I think the mamas are going to have to wait a while for their mealie flour.

He patted the biggest boy on the shoulder and addressed them in what his wife Thembisile would have called his Nelson Mandela voice.

"Boys, I must congratulate you for doing the right thing in flagging me down. Now what I need you to do is to wait here so the police will know where to find the body. I have some children with me I need to take home first, and then I will go back into town and tell the police. Maybe I will be able to come with them, but if I don’t, you just need to do exactly what you did with me, and stop the police car when it passes. But you will have to wait a veeeeeery looooong time."

He stretched out his hands out in front of him to indicate the length of the wait.

It might take as much as an hour or maybe two, he added. Do you think you can wait that long?

Of course, the little boys chimed in unison. The biggest one said, But what if the policemen can’t speak Xhosa?

Mr Maseti nodded. Don’t worry, I will make sure they send someone who can. And if there isn’t anyone, I will tell them I need to come back with them.

The boys walked back towards the bakkie and took up their posts at the side of the road. The smaller two sat side by side on a rock but the older one started trampling down the grass and breaking twigs off the thorn bushes.

What are you doing? asked Mr Maseti.

I am marking the beginning of the path, in case something happens and we are not here when the policemen come. What if they can’t come until tomorrow? We can’t stay here all night.

Mr Maseti nodded, That’s very good thinking. You’re obviously very intelligent.

The boy flicked his fingers as if to indicate his disdain at such an obvious statement of fact, and continued with his task.

Mr Maseti returned to the bakkie and said to the children, Sorry to keep you waiting. Let’s get you home now.

Mr Maseti left the children at their house, greeted their grandmother, who said Mary was still sick, but didn’t provide any details, dropped the mealie flour at Mary’s church, and set off back towards King William’s Town. Passing the little boys, he slowed down, and said, Still on guard duty, friends? They nodded and showed him the devastation they had wrought: branches of thorn bushes had been torn down; grass trampled; an arrow made of stones which pointed the way to the body. Mr Maseti supressed a smile and said, Excellent work, boys!

Half an hour later, Mr Maseti reported the discovery of the body of a white umkhwetha to a sceptical clerk at the police station, and a few minutes later was sitting across from a white policeman, an older man with tight grey curls and a paunch on which he rested his folded arms. Mr Maseti had a fluttery feeling in his stomach but he told his story in a calm voice.

The policeman nodded and jotted down notes as Mr Maseti told his story.

And you have no idea who this young man might be? asked the policeman.

No sir. No idea at all. Mr Maseti hesitated before adding, "I have read in the Daily Dispatch about white boys wanting to take part in the initiation with their Xhosa friends."

Yes, I’ve seen that, too. We haven’t had any reports of a missing person, though.

The time of the initiation isn’t over yet. In which case, nobody would be expecting to see him yet, Mr Maseti suggested.

I suppose that’s right. The policemen put down his pen and held out his hand to Mr Maseti.

You’ve been very helpful, sir. You did the right thing in getting to us as quickly as you did. We’re a bit short handed with it being the holidays, but we should be able to send a car to check it out. Do you think you could come with us and show us where you found the body?

No problem, said Mr Maseti.

Waiting for the policemen to organise the car, Mr Maseti phoned Mrs Thompson on his cell phone. He told her that he had been held up on a police matter and that he didn’t think he would be back in time to water the garden. Mrs Thompson sounded annoyed at first, but was mollified by the news that both the children and the mealie flour had been successfully delivered, and that the bakkie was safe in the police yard.

More than two hours after his first encounter with the body, Mr Maseti was trundling along the bumpy road again, this time in the back of a police car being driven by the white policeman. There was a young coloured policeman in the passenger seat. The two officials chatted in Afrikaans but Mr Maseti didn’t bother trying to follow the conversation. He looked out of the window and thought about Mrs Thompson having to water her garden by herself.

When they arrived at the spot, Mr Maseti noticed that the leader of the little boys was missing and that the two remaining had lost their élan. They sat on the rock, cradling their heads in their hands. They sprang up when they saw the vehicle, and ran towards Mr Maseti as he got out of the car.

What happened to the other one? Mr Maseti asked.

His father came and said he had to go home, said one.

He did?

Yes, he was angry because some of his cows had wandered away,

Oh dear, said Mr Maseti, aware of the value of cattle to the people who lived in the countryside. Well, you show us the way, then!

The two policemen followed the little boys. Mr Maseti brought up the rear.

The body lay where Mr Maseti had last seen it. The two policemen conferred in Afrikaans. One asked Mr Maseti, Did you see the body from the road?

No, sir. The boys found the body and flagged me down.

The white policeman looked down at them. Well done, boys, he said in English. They turned to Mr Maseti for a translation. He is pleased with you, he said, and they smiled at the policeman.

Did they touch anything? asked the coloured policeman.

Mr Maseti translated, adding, Shake your heads, even if you did. They shook their heads, and one said, We did not touch a thing.

Mr Maseti passed this message on to the policemen, who started scanning the ground round the body. Eventually, they gave up their search, conferred again in Afrikaans, and said, OK. We will cordon this off, and call for a vehicle to take the body down to the morgue. There are no immediate signs of foul play but we’ll see what the autopsy shows up.

Well, boys, said the white policeman, It looks as if your work here is done.

Mr Maseti translated this, and added, You’d better get off home before your fathers come looking for you.

The boys exchanged glances before turning and walking down the path.

The two policemen took some tape out of the boot of the car, which they draped round the thorn bushes to make a rough cordon. One spoke on the radio. Mr Maseti sensed a great delay impending and he said to the policemen, May I go now? I should be able to hitch a ride.

I don’t see why not, said the Afrikaner. Just tell me your address in case we need you as a witness at a later date.

Mr Maseti provided the information and the policeman jotted it down in his notebook.

Well, good bye, he said. The sun was now low in the sky, and it was markedly cooler than it had been when he had set off with the children several hours before. After Mr Maseti had been walking for about twenty minutes, he stopped and listened. There was not a sound to be heard. He took out his cell phone and dialled his son’s number.

Chapter 2

Maternity Leave

New day, new life, Renée Lange whispered as she manoeuvred her car into the visitors’ parking space. She looked at herself in the car mirror, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and stepped out into the milling throngs of schoolchildren. After six months of intermittent supply work, she was going to teach for more than two consecutive days in the same place, covering someone’s maternity leave at a secondary school called Hillview Academy, deep in Scotland’s central belt. She looked around at the grey, angular school buildings and the surrounding blocks of flats, but could see no hills.

Renée had been told to report to someone called Mrs MacPherson, who turned out to be a petite woman in a black trouser suit, with cropped white hair and a pair of black-framed glasses on a chain round her neck.

I’m Renée Lange. The new supply teacher?

Oh, hello, Mrs MacPherson said. Welcome to Hillview. I’ll take you along to the staff room and call Ms Jamieson to come down and collect you.

As they walked along the corridor, Renée asked, I was wondering where the hills are?

Sorry? Mrs MacPherson said.

The hills? Hillview, you know, the name of the school? Renée elaborated.

Oh that! When the school was built in the sixties, you could see the hills from the second floor, but when all those flats were built on the land to the north, they blocked out the view.

I see. I suppose they could hardly change the name of the school.

Not really.

Hillviewless…Flatview…they don’t have the same ring, do they? Renée joked.

Not really, Mrs MacPherson, smiling slightly.

Minutes later, Renée was in the staffroom, sipping a cup of nasty instant coffee and chatting with Elaine Jamieson, the head of the Modern Languages Department. Wearing a black pencil skirt, high heels, and cerise blouse set off with a necklace of chunky pink and turquoise beads, Elaine could have been a model, Renée thought.

Is that accent Australian? Elaine asked.

No, Renée said. I’m South African.

Oh, sorry. I’m rubbish with accents, Elaine said.

Don’t worry. I’ve got used to it, Renée said.

Have you been in Scotland long? Elaine asked.

Just over six months.

And how do you like it?

Oh, it’s great. Everybody’s very friendly and there’s a lot less crime than back home. I miss the sunshine, though.

I bet you do. Hasn’t it been miserable? Elaine said.

It has, hasn’t it?

Well, I suppose I’d better show you your classroom and give you your timetable, Elaine said, standing up.

Renée tipped her coffee down the sink.

Didn’t you like it? Elaine asked.

Well…, Renée hesitated.

I’m just teasing. I know it’s disgusting. We’ve got a perfectly decent coffee maker but nobody wants to organise the rota.

Why’s that? Renée asked.

All we need is a rota for the machine to be put on in the morning, but it’s a nightmare. People complain if it’s too strong, or too weak, if it’s not been freshly made at break time, or if the machine’s left on over night, any excuse to moan really. Some people think the office staff should do it, but they say it’s not in their job description, and management say it’s not their responsibility to make it happen, so we are at a bit of an impasse just now. And meanwhile we have to drink that vile instant stuff.

Renée could only think to say, Oh dear.

The bell rang, and pupils swarmed around them. Every now and again, Elaine greeted a passing student with a jaunty Hiya!

Renée’s first class was already assembling as the two women arrived. Elaine introduced Renée in French, and handed her a folder containing an outline of the day’s lessons.

Au revoir, she cried to the class as she left, who chanted back, Au revoir, Madame Jamieson.

Bonne chance, she said to Renée over her shoulder.

Renée survived the first part of the morning. She taught the French words for the rooms in a house to a compliant first year class, and spent the first of a double period going over a reading comprehension with a Higher German class, made up of three girls, all with long, straight hair pulled over one eye, and eyes thickly caked with black eye liner.

She found her way to the staffroom at break time and made her coffee in the same mug she had been given at the beginning of the day. She had discovered that teachers could be funny about their cups.

How did it go? asked Elaine, sitting down beside her.

Good, thanks. I thought the students were pretty well behaved.

Yes, there are a lot of great kids. They’ve got a bad reputation but they don’t deserve it.

At that moment, a middle-aged man in a rumpled brown suit came up and pressed a ten-pound note into Elaine’s hand.

Here, that’s for Jamie’s fund. Sorry it’s a bit late.

Oh, no problem. Thanks, Bob! Bob, this is Renée; she’s doing Isabelle’s maternity cover. Renée, Bob Atkinson, long-serving member of languages department.

Pleased to meet you, Renée. Is that a French name?

No, I’m South African.
Oh, Sith Efrican, Bob said.

Yes, born and bred, Renée said.

Welcome and good luck, Renée, Bob said, shaking her hand and sitting down on the other side of Elaine. He turned away and began to talk to a woman on his right.

I don’t know why people keep wishing me luck, Renée said. The kids seem lovely.

Wait till you’ve taught a whole day, Elaine said, laughing.

I suppose so. What’s Jamie’s fund? Renée asked.

Jamie was my husband. He died of cancer a couple of years ago so I fundraise for Cancer Research. I did a sponsored parachute jump last year.

Gosh, said Renée. That’s amazing. Not the cancer obviously, but the parachute jump. She added quickly, How awful! You’re far too young to be a widow. I think of someone my mum’s age when I hear the word.

Elaine laughed, I know. Widow is such an old word, somehow.

How old are you? Renée asked, adding, If you don’t mind me asking.

I’m twenty nine, Elaine said.

There was a brief pause before Renée said, I’m a sort of widow too.

What do you mean ‘sort of’? Elaine asked.

I never actually got married. My fiancé died just before our wedding.

"Oh, that’s awful. What happened? If you don’t mind me asking," she said.

Not at all. He went bungee jumping on his stag do and something went wrong with his harness. He fell to his death.

But that’s tragic. At least I had three really good years with Jamie. How awful for you.

Elaine’s eyes filled with tears.

Renée said, Actually, it was a long time ago. I’m over it really, although I’m sure it’s left a mark somewhere.

Elaine nodded. Yes, you never really forget. Pointing to Renée’s left hand, she added, And you still wear your engagement ring.

The bell rang before Renée could answer and teachers filed out of the staffroom, cups of coffee in hand and bundles of papers under their arms.

The second half of the double period of German was not as successful as the first. Renée discovered that her sweet, cooperative students were not prepared to open their mouths to say one word in German. Exasperated, Renée gave them a pep talk in English about how important it was to take risks if you wanted to become proficient in a language. Wrapping up, she set them the task of preparing a one-minute talk about their families for the next class.

Renée saw three alert, pleasant and cooperative faces turn sullen before her eyes. Three pairs of eyes that had met hers all through the first period were now fixed on their notebooks. She knew enough about teaching to know that they were lost to her and that she would now have to spend the rest of her contract getting them back.

If that was dispiriting, her day deteriorated sharply after lunch. Her last class of the day, second years, sensing her shakiness like a shoal of piranha fish picking up the scent of fresh blood, decided to have some fun. When Elaine popped her head round the door of her classroom at the end of the day, she found Renée slumped over her desk, her head on her arms.

Oh, Renée, don’t let the little buggers get to you! she said, patting her on the shoulder. It can’t have been that bad, surely?

Renée looked up at her, not quite crying, and said, "It was that bad, it was worse than bad, it was awful. They’re