Kitchen Boy (26 page)

The gold coin smouldered in the inside chest pocket of his greatcoat, threatening to burn through and brand him. He had visions of the head crowned by a laurel wreath imprinting his guilt on his skin, scarring it red so he’d never be able to take his shirt off or go for a swim if people were around.

‘What’s eating you?’ Ed Usher asked when he told him to bugger off one day.

‘Nothing. Mind your own business.’

‘I’m just concerned.’ Ed’s feet were being treated and bandaged by the medics; he wore felt slippers and used crutches so there’d be no pressure on the bad heel. With his other Long March rescuer Kenneth gone, he’d taken to hanging around J J like a doleful basset hound.

‘No need. Do me a favour and get lost.’

‘You don’t look too good. Have you seen a quack?’ Ed persisted.

‘Yes, and I’m bloody fine.’ J J turned his back and walked off so Ed wouldn’t see that he was shaking again.

‘You know we’re being shipped out tomorrow?’ Ed called after him. ‘First Rheims, then England. On our way home, eh?’

He had a genius for obvious comments that made you want to sock him. J J kept going to control his surge of rage and tried to think about home. Umfolozi had faded to sepia snaps in a photo album after the violent horror film that was war. Victor slumped in his armchair having forty winks. Dot baking cakes. Barbara sulking in her bedroom. Bobby and the stick-fighters in threatening poses on the sawdust mountain. The steam train chuffing into the station. All so distant now from the battle-hardened man he had become with the awful knowledge of bombing and shooting and killing – and worse, betrayal – eating at his mind and guts. Would he have owned up to save his old schoolmate Maurice, or even then would he have been too frightened?

Was he a coward deep down, and the act of saving Herbie an aberration?

Before he was carted off to a labour camp, Herbie had reported the incident in detail to a senior officer and asked him to nominate J J for a Distinguished Flying Cross – so he had a reputation to live up to. How could he have tarnished it in one stupid act of accepting a bribe to keep quiet?

By the time the POWs were loaded onto a Dakota for Rheims, J J was in such a bad way that he was strapped in next to Major Irving who would keep an eye on him through the process of being deloused, examined, showered and kitted out in British Army clothes.

When he was done, the major took him to an empty office in the barracks and sat him down. ‘We’re admitting you to the military hospital at the UDF repatriation camp in Brighton for more treatment before you’re sent home. I know it’s unwelcome news. I’m sorry, lieutenant.’

J J shook his head, unable to speak.

‘I understand how you feel. But shell-shock is a serious condition. Proper treatment is important. We don’t want you demobbed until you’re well again.’

‘It’s not that, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’ Major Irving had kind eyes above his trim toothbrush moustache.

The confession welled and burst like gouts of vomit. ‘I took a gold coin from a guard who was stealing some at the hunting lodge. He offered me one and I took it. Didn’t tell anyone. I should have owned up. It was my fault Naylor was punished. I was afraid of being shot. I’m a coward.’

‘Ah.’

The major sat looking at him and J J grovelled, ‘I’m sorry. I’m rubbish. I let the side down. I deserve a court martial. I’m not worth the –’

‘But I ordered you men not to respond. The Gestapo had discovered the looting and the Kommandant was trying to shift the blame.’

‘If I’d said something they wouldn’t have picked Naylor. His punishment was my fault. How can I face him now?’

‘No need.’ The major spoke with crisp authority. ‘This information stops here, right? You are not to blame for the cruelties of war. You were not in your proper mind when you accepted that coin. Right?’

J J nodded.

The major put his hand on J J’s arm to soften what he was going to say next. ‘Nor can I take it off you, sorry. Rules and regulations.’

‘Why – what?’

‘Only one thing to do: keep the bloody thing until you can deal with it.’

J J kept shaking his head as he said, ‘I can’t. Got to get rid of it. Burning me.’ He was shivering and squirming like a terrified dog.

The major snapped, tightening his hand, ‘Pull yourself together, lieutenant. We have to fly again soon.’

‘Can’t.’

‘That’s an order, not a suggestion.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Still shivering.

He’d fall apart if he went on like this. Bad for morale.

The major tried another tack. ‘What if I say to you that the spoils of war are finders keepers?’

J J blurted, ‘It wasn’t like that! I just kept that thing for insurance, to save my life. Now it’s killing me.’

‘Well, it’s a waste to throw it away.’ The major managed a smile. ‘Catharsis, that’s what you need.’

‘What?’

‘Heaving your guts out to feel better. Ancient Greeks did it. Suggest you tuck it away somewhere safe and dispose of it for a good cause when you get home. Case closed. I don’t want to hear another word. Good luck, lieutenant.’ He dropped J J’s arm, got up and marched out.

But Ed Usher had been listening at the door. And he told Kenneth Naylor and later Lofty, in strict confidence and stressing that the major had said J J was not to blame.

Ed always was stupid.

1. According to international law every soldier is bound to give only his true name, rank, and army number if taken prisoner of war.

2. Every soldier will realise that if he gives away any other information he will be endangering the lives of his comrades and the success of the campaign.

3. The enemy will adopt every kind of method in trying to get information from a prisoner of war.

4. All ranks must be warned personally by their Unit Commanders of the possible methods which will be adopted by the enemy and all officers should lecture the men under their command, encouraging questions.

5. The enemy may use some of the following means in trying to get information:–

a. Kind treatment, leading to friendly discussion and argument.

b. Alcohol and/or drugs.

c. The use of listening apparatus.

d. Instilling fear and third-degree methods.

e. The offer of special privileges in return for what appears to be harmless information.

f. Bogus prisoners.

6. Don’t discuss:–

a. The names of your own Unit or Units in your vicinity of capture.

b. Description of arms and equipment.

c. Transport – giving description of, quantities and condition, etc.

d. Names of senior officers.

e. The numbers of troops and the types.

f. Names of places, commands, FDLs.

g. Morale.

h. The fact that you can speak or understand the enemy’s language.

i. Types of armament, and quantity of aircraft.

j. Landing grounds, and where situated.

k. Roads, and condition thereof.

l. Petrol storages and dumps.

m. All depots for food, spares, etc.

n. Number of our casualties.

o. Number of casualties suffered by the enemy, and the number of prisoners taken by us.

p. Bridges and the conditions thereof.

q. Food and liquors, prices, etc.

r. Broadcasts.

s. Politics.

t. Don’t be clever in giving false information.

u. Conditions under which you have been living.

T
HE AFTERNOON MYNAH-SQUABBLE IS ALMOST
as deafening as the traffic noise when the pall-bearers walk under the arched doorway of St Ethelbert’s, guiding J J onto the platform at the top of the steps. Bishop Chauncey has moved to one side and stands gazing across the city like an emperor surveying his dominions. Passers-by stop and stare at him and the flag-draped coffin and the emerging congregation. Older men hold their hats over their chests. Faces are pressed to bus and taxi windows. Picketa-picketa-picketa go the press cameras. The province now known as KwaZulu-Natal has always been impressed by pomp and ceremony.

It’s a brief though gratifying moment for the bishop. The burial with family and friends will be free, thank God, of Reverend George who has hurried off to prepare for a township night vigil. What makes people like him so damn pleased with themselves? wonders the bishop. We all try to do good in our own way; some just broadcast it less. Maybe that’s a mistake. The diocese should think of hiring a PR person.

The TV crews have set up their tripods to one side of the steps, ready to zoom in on well-known faces.

After the family, the first to sweep through the door is the mayor, who pauses at the top of the steps to accommodate the surge of waiting journalists. The editors have summoned their shock troops.

‘Madam Mayor! Can you give us a statement for the record?’

‘Are you planning a new political party?’

‘Madam Mayor! Do you –’

She cuts in, ‘I’m always telling you people it’s Mayor Thembi. I’m no madam.’

They laugh as they always do and go on. ‘What did you imply by saying, We will have no time for tsotsis?’

‘Was this a spur-of-the-moment idea or was it planned?’

‘Inspired, rather.’ She addresses the snout of the e.tv camera. ‘I was inspired by this very hero. Where are our heroes today? Who can we look up to now that Madiba and Tutu have grown old? We need to start a new struggle against violence and corruption. We must say Hayi khona! to criminals.’ She pauses, conscious that sound bites have maximum impact and the Sunday papers maximum readership. ‘I’ll make a full statement tomorrow morning, ten sharp, in the press room at the municipal offices. Thank you.’

The clamour round the mayor and people chatting in groups on the steps have been a godsend for Purkey. He is able to inspan Hugh as well as Theodora and Mtshali to help him guide the trolley down the ramp towards the hearse, which he’d had to leave parked in the loading zone. Two pink tickets flutter under a windscreen wiper. Purkey thinks, Serves Mr Digby Senior right for economising on a second driver. The three hired black limos waiting for the family aren’t top-class either. Digby & Smith is going downhill. He needs to look for a position with an outfit that appreciates experience and doesn’t employ unreliable apprentices. Maybe he should start his own?

Wendell Purkey knows he’s a class act.

The four of them slide the coffin in with only one anxious moment when the trolley won’t collapse and has to be forced into place. He says, ‘Thanks, eh? I appreciate the help, really appreciate. Just one more thing. Maybe someone could just bring the wreaths? They go in at the sides.’

‘I’ll ask the rugby players.’ Hugh goes up into the church again.

‘I’m okay from here to the cemetery,’ Purkey tells Theodora and Mtshali, ‘then I’ll need more assistance. The graveyard staff will have got the site ready, lowering mechanism and green mats and so forth, but they aren’t dressed for public duties. Are you riding with the family in one of the limos?’

‘Yebo.’ Mtshali will be driven with Barbara and Theodora, Bridget with Sam and Neli, Shirley in the front one with Lin and Hugh. Lin has arranged a lift for Stanley.

‘We are very happy to help.’ Theodora arranges her handbag on her arm.

‘Thanks, eh?’ Purkey says yet again, his cheeks going pink. Black women have changed from when they were all nannies or shopgirls, he thinks.

At the top of the steps Shirley frets, ‘Where’s Hugh?’

‘He was helping down there,’ Lin points, ‘though I can’t see him now.’

‘He should be here. All these people I don’t know –’

‘Just stand next to me. Bridget and Neli and I will deal with the ones who want to say something, okay?’ Hugh’s wife and ex-wife are standing nearby. Barbara holds court further down the steps with some of her cronies.

‘There should be a man of the family with us.’

‘Why?’ Lin can’t stand it when her mother lapses into clinging-vine mode. It’s so stupid, thinking you need a man for everything. So fifties.

‘Don’t you start again.’ Shirley’s rage flares. This daughter thinks she’s so clever, yet look what a mess she made of her marriage. Women just want careers now without a thought for families. It’s so selfish. They wouldn’t know or care about having to give up babies. She feels everything boiling up inside her – John’s illness and death, this daunting funeral, the crowding memories, the lonely future – and blurts, ‘You and Hugh aren’t the only ones, you know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have another son.’

‘What?’

‘Another son, older than you.’

Shirley’s face has gone bright red again. Lin whispers, ‘Where?’

‘Back in England now. He’s a diplomat. He was born before I met your father. I had to give him away for adoption. John never knew.’

‘What? Is this true?’

‘Yes. You think I’d lie about something so important?’

They’re in a bubble, isolated from the chatter around them: Shirley defiant and Lin shocked by the revelation that came hurtling at her. Hugh is not her mother’s eldest and her much-loved father was deceived for fifty years. She lashes back, ‘Dad married damaged goods, then.’

‘How dare you call me that!’

‘You deceived him.’

‘No. I just didn’t tell him everything.’

‘You lied. He thought he was marrying a –’

Her mother flinches and she stops.

‘He didn’t need an adoring little virgin. He needed me.
Me
. Someone who understood and could put up with his horrors.’ Shirley speaks in a low voice so no one else will hear. ‘He never asked about mine. You can’t begin to understand what it’s like to give up a newborn child. You have no right to judge.’ For the second time that afternoon she is on the edge of tears, struggling to control emotion which should be private. ‘Stiff upper lip, my girl,’ her father used to say if she got hurt and looked as though she was going to cry. ‘How you feel is your business.’

‘You’ve been keeping this secret all these years,’ Lin accuses.

‘I had to. But my son tracked me down after he had children. He looks like Hugh. Taller, though.’

‘You’ve seen him?’