Rainbow Nation

By Lynn Sly

Under the dusty bluegums a schoolboy kicks a soccer ball to his friend. But his friend is black and in 1960s South Africa such interaction is not tolerated. So we enter the world of small-town Tamboekiesfontein where all the tension of white versus black and English versus Afrikaner plays out in the dealings of its inhabitants, whose secrets are guarded by the local doctor – who has a very personal secret of his own. As the country staggers through a border war and liberation struggle so the people of Tamboekiesfontein are caught up in events that deliver each of them with their own scars into the new South Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn Sly
• Release date: Dec 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311197665

Lynn Sly

After a lifetime of editing, Lynn Sly is now writing her own books and plays. Nothing but trees and birds fill her garden and anything she earns from her books goes to support three dogs, a cat and an ancient horse named Tom. She lives in Irene, South Africa.

Book preview

RAINBOW NATION

A novel

by Lynn Sly

"My experience of gentlemen’s agreements is that, when it comes to the pinch,

there are rarely enough bloody gentlemen about."

– Ben Chifley (Crisp 1960)

PART ONE

The impossible dream

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

– James Joyce (Ulysses 1922)

Chapter One

1985. Midday in the Caprivi. The camp was not so much asleep as supine, stunned into blank submission by the full force of the sun. On the skeletal trees drab leaves drooped in exhaustion. Even the auditory sense was hammered into dull numbness by the incessant background buzz of an invisible insect choir. Nothing and no-one moved.

Inside the surgery, Ian’s nerves were strained so taunt he could monitor his own heartbeat without putting a finger to his pulse. The bombardier’s hands trembled as he pressed his service revolver against the doctor’s right temple. Sweat fingered its way down Ian’s face.

Just one more service casualty the bombardier whispered. That’s all you’ll be. One more wanker who couldn’t take the heat. He was big and darkly handsome – still young enough for the flagging muscle on his broad frame to resist the rapid decline into overweight flab. His hair was plastered wet against his forehead under the black beret, his eyes a startling blue against his deep tan.

Around the barrel of the gun the doctor’s pink flesh took on a livid hue.One more fokking suicide sneered the bombardier. Ian shut his eyes. Hey! Look at me, ordered the bombardier hoarsely. Pale eyelashes lifted to reveal steady, red-rimmed blue eyes. Their unblinking gaze fixed on the bombardier’s face, centimetres away. That’s better. Now tell me. Who are you protecting? Your brother? A grim smile twisted his thin lips. "Or did you manage to get it up one time, you fokking moffie? Ian tried to shake his head, but the pressure of the barrel pinned his skull fast against the surgery wall. Keep still growled the bombardier, Just talk. Now! He was breathing heavily, but despite the stench of his breath, his cologne was still overpowering. The doctor’s lips curled back in a kind of grimace, but no words came. Bliksem! You’re going to die unless you admit it. This is your last chance: tien, nege, agt, sewe, ses…"

Heat radiated between the two men, their bodies close as lovers, their breath, the salt on their skin, mingling.

I never … touched … her. Not me. Not James.

You lie!

I swear. Kobus could have told you ...

You blaming my own brother?

No, Bertus! I said ...

You think I’m blêrie blind? You think I can’t see the child’s got your –

Footsteps sounded in the passage. Instantaneously, the bombardier stepped back, sheathing his revolver, snatching off his beret.

Permission to enter. Sir!

Reeling from his sudden release, the doctor almost ricocheted off the wall. He steadied himself against the examination table with both hands. Come in, he gasped. The door flew open. A young soldier rushed into the room, tense and excited, totally unaware of anything he might have interrupted.

Landmine, sir. Patrol party called for a medic. His eyes darted from doctor to bombardier and back again. Permission to take the …

How many casualties? the doctor interjected.

Two, sir.

How bad? The soldier hesitated.

Forgot to ask, sir.

That’s okay. I’ll go on my own. I’m done here. The bombardier ...

The soldier was staring at the examination bed and, following his gaze, the doctor registered the twisted sheet, the pillow that had fallen onto the floor, and realised that he was gripping the mattress with excessive force – his knuckles glowed white against the scrubbed rawness of his hands. He relaxed his grip. Just make the bombardier a cup of tea, Ian forced a smile, Before he leaves. He reached for his medical bag.

I’m in no hurry, said the bombardier. I’ll wait.

Puzzled, the soldier’s eyes flitted from bombardier to doctor as he reassessed the situation. Despite his heavy cologne, the bombardier stank of sweat and his breathing was laboured, as if he’d had strenuous exercise, but the soldier had driven the man from the airstrip himself. The two cups of tea the boy had brought an hour ago stood untouched where he had left them –a couple of blowflies lazily inspecting the glutinous tide lines round the rim. The bombardier’s travel-stained overnight bag slouched offensively on the desk where he had first dumped it, and the doctor’s swivel chair, hastily abandoned, had spun into the corner, leaning lopsided against the filing cabinet. Obviously, neither man had sat down since the bombardier arrived.

The doctor’s fair skin was strangely flushed. He seemed to be reconsidering something as he stared at the bombardier. Finally he muttered As you wish and unhooked his rifle from the back of the door.

Co-ordinates? Ian asked, holding out his hand for the docket. Reluctantly the young soldier handed it over; he had been looking forward to his first mission – a break in the relentless sameness of the daily routine since his arrival a week ago. He watched in silence as the doctor swung open the door, revealing two vehicles parked side-by-side outside – the medic’s armoured truck with the familiar red cross, and the open vehicle that had ferried the bombardier the short distance from the airstrip, a small flag dangling limply from the rear view mirror. A metallic mirage shimmered above both bonnets, fusing them into one single expanse of steel that merged into the wasteland beyond the fence, dazzling the eyes. The door slammed shut behind him in a flash of darkness.

Koffie. Swart met twee suikers, snapped the bombardier. Taking out his cigarettes and settling himself in the doctor’s chair, he planted his boots heavily on the desk.

*****

There was something going on in there, man. I’m telling you.

Yeah, like what.

Embarrassed, the new recruit just shook his head. It was no good. Doc was a kind of icon around here.

You messed up man. Next time a call comes in you ask all the questions and you write down everything.

I thought I had.

Give him a break. Call doc on the radio.

That won’t work.

What d’you mean?

Look. The recruit joined the other medics at the window. Outside stood one armoured vehicle with a red cross on its side.

Shit! He took the jeep.

Why would he do that? For a moment the three soldiers just stared at each other. Then, as one man, they rushed for the door.

*****

Mugabe.

Mao tse Tung.

What d’ya bet?

Mmmaybe… maybe…my…

Attenshun!

Comrade!

What are you doing? Silence. I heard you a mile away. You saying something about Mugabe? Talk!

Er… er… Supper … we were betting on … bully beef or tinned fish…

OK. OK. I get it. Who is the lookout?

We are … both, comrade. We’re both … on duty.

You mined the road?

In unison: He did.

So no-one laid any mines and … See that? See that dust? It’s a bloody vehicle coming, that’s what. And you’re sitting here… Where’s the fucking landmines? Have you got any ammo … what the hell are you using? Is that birdshot?

Er… We thought… after the patrol…

What have you been doing for the past eight hours?

Waiting for the medics, comrade. The patrol radioed for a medic.

That was at noon – half an hour ago. How do you account for the other … seven hours?

We’re only been here since we heard them radio. We … came here, comrade… to ambush ...

Ambush? How?

Er … surface to air missile, comrade. It’s in the dugout...

Which you can’t use anyway. And for an armoured vehicle? Are you crazy?

They asked for a helicopter, comrade. One casualty is critical.

Bull shit! You expect me to believe that you know what’s going on back there when you’re sitting here, nowhere near the road. You never laid any mines, isn’t it? You’ve been here since before dawn, checking out that waterhole. You’re waiting for fucking waterfowl, isn’t it? Jesus Christ! What’s under here? Jesus Christ! What did you shoot these with? They’re full of lead, who’d ever eat them? Why don’t you just use a bloody grenade? No! That’s not a suggestion.

Comrade, the vehicle!

Christ! It’s not even an armoured vehicle … an open jeep… piece of cake. But – hell no, you can’t hit a bloody elephant at this distance. Where’s your regular issue? Your goddamn ammunition? Don’t even try to use that, for Chrissake; he’s got a rifle, see? Get down! Fuck it, get down!

*****

Ian stopped the jeep. He squinted as the dust settled, dulling his clammy skin more effectively than any compact. He could swear he’d heard voices, but now there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing, the thrum of his pulse less persistent now since the drive from the surgery. Sweat pasted his pants to his inner thighs, glued his shirt to the small of his back. He wiped his forearm across his forehead, exposing a strip of moist pink skin as an ochre streak appeared on his sleeve. He should be dead by now, blown up by a mine or shot dead by the MPLA look-out. Still nothing.

Cautiously he opened the door and climbed out. As he shut it, something dropped from the rear-view mirror, but he didn’t turn his head to look. A sharp metallic click sounded from the top of a hillock far off to his right. It was too far from the road to be an ambush – unless they’d gone to take a crap – but he wasn’t taking any chances: he ducked down, rifle poised, braced for the hail of bullets. But there was nothing. Just his luck; Bertus would get to blow out his brains after all.

Ian lowered his rife, yanked his medical bag off the back seat and set off jogging through the bush after the patrol. It was a synch to follow their trail. The trampled grass was good as road signs. Why any of them survived was a mystery.

By the time the armoured vehicle arrived, Ian had already patched up the two casualties. It was only minor injuries. Nothing they couldn’t have fixed up themselves if they’d had the basic medical supplies, but they didn’t know any better. They’d only been in the bush a couple of weeks. That was the problem. Since the SA forces had withdrawn from Angola, there was no-one left who knew what they were doing. No-one was around long enough to gain any experience. By the time they got the feel of things they were replaced.

Ian gave the medics a piece of his mind for following him and ordered them to return without him.

But the bombardier’s waiting, doc.

Well, that’s unfortunate because I’m going back with the patrol for the night. Here’s the keys for the jeep. Tell the bombardier I’ve been blown up.

Sir?

You heard me. Tell him I was caught in an ambush. Take him back to the airstrip. See that he gets off okay. Then fetch me tomorrow.

Watching the young soldiers disappear into the bush, Ian experienced a sudden pang of misgiving. Bertus would not believe them. And even if he did, he wouldn’t budge. Now he’d made up his mind, he wouldn’t be happy till Ian returned, even if it was in a body bag. Bertus de Kock was that predictable. If he decided to believe that a dominee’s daughter could break the seventh commandment, there was no convincing him otherwise. If he wanted Ian to pay for it, guilty or otherwise, it was good as a death sentence.

Coming, doc? The patrol was leaving now, Sparkie and dog taking the lead, the two injured men sheepishly tagging along behind, this youngster pointing after them with his weapon.

No. Ian spat the stalk he’d been chewing into the dust. Without turning his head, he gently redirected the boy’s firearm. And keep it on safety till you need it. He might as well go back. His luck might hold. He’d taken the jeep on what should have been a suicide mission and, against the odds, he was still alive. Crazier things happened out here, in the bush. If he could just avoid being alone with Bertus, maybe it wasn’t such an impossibility after all.

What the hell, he muttered. Someone had to return the jeep. He picked up his bag, slung his rifle over his shoulder and set off after the medics at a trot.

*****

The new recruit was the first to emerge from the bush. The MPLA platoon leader picked him off with a single shot between the eyes.

That’s how it’s done, he hissed at his cadres. Now you take out the others.

Chapter Two

On that fateful morning in 1966, Ian never knew what prompted him to kick the ball to Philemon. But Maritha was convinced she knew.

The little knot of children waiting for the school bus was hardly representative of the local population. They were all white. The few ragged black children across the road were waiting patiently for the trading store to open so they could maybe make a delivery for some white customer and perhaps earn a cent – or even a tickey if madam still had an old Union coin from the fifties lurking at the bottom of her purse. The white children sat sheltered under the enormous bluegums to one side of the wide dusty space where the bus usually stopped. Across the road, outside what was commonly known as the Coolie shop, the black children had no shade, but on that particular autumn day, even though there was not much wind to stir the dirt, the sun would never amount to much.

It was Monday, so the white children were subdued and there was no chattering. But without even hearing them speak you could easily tell who was English and who was Afrikaans. Apart from Maritha, who was the Dominee's child, none of the Afrikaners wore shoes. Only Bertus had his rugby boots slung round his neck, and when he saw Ian kick the soccer ball to Phil, Bertus sat down and put on his boots, lacing them up aggressively, in grim determination.

Ian had been dribbling the ball on his own as he waited for the bus. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Maritha watching. Her blonde hair was brushed back into a smooth tight plait that reached almost to her waist. Although her head was slightly bowed as if she were concentrating on her spelling book, she was watching Ian dribble the ball, closer and closer to where the Afrikaans children sat on their suitcases. Every now and then he made as if to kick the ball to one of them, but then he knocked it out of their reach, teasing, taunting.

Maritha had watched the friendly on Saturday. Ian was only eleven, but already an easy match for Bertus, who was sixteen, and lithe and fast enough to escape any tackle, darting out from under the bigger boy's clumsy grasp, evading his fingers like a slippery tadpole. Phil had also watched the game. He and his father had taken the cart to Meyerton to fetch his pass, and stopped to water the donkeys within sight of the playing field. Phil knew he could have played better than Bertus, or most of the others, apart from Ian, who was exceptional. But Philemon was not allowed to play, because he was black. The only chance he got to practise was when Ian kicked the ball to him sometimes in the afternoon after school. When the Afrikaans kids were gone.

That Saturday, the Afrikaans school would have won easily if it had not been for Ian. Even though he was the youngest member of the English team, he had made all the difference. Plus he had scored that final try in the very last moment of the game. Now, even though the Afrikaans boys were there, Ian felt confident enough to kick the ball across the road to Phil, because Maritha had cheered him on Saturday when he had outrun, outscored and outclassed any of the Afrikaans boys, and subconsciously he knew she was watching him now.

Philemon was also eleven, but smaller, lighter than Ian. Even though he was not expecting the ball to come his way, Phil was ready and with a hoot sent it skidding back to Ian whose face remained impassive, stony, unmoved as he kicked it high and wide, back across the road to where Phil, leaping lithe as a cheetah, instinctively knew it would land. That was when Bertus sat down in the dust to put on his boots.

Ian was surprisingly fast for his size. Phil knew that from their practice sessions in the afternoons. He could not help liking this freckled white boy with his slow smile and strange colouring. It was no accident that Phil was always waiting outside the trading store when Ian came back from school. What puzzled Phil was that Ian didn't stay around longer, because there were no Afrikaans boys there to see. Instead, after playing for a while, Ian went off to the river with his books, sometimes leaving the ball with Phil for a bit to knock about with the other black kids. What Phil did not know was that Ian was not alone down by the river bank.

Maritha was a quiet child, but had all the determination of her prodigiously stubborn race. Her father's study had many books and most of them were written in High Dutch, but there was also one children's book with fine coloured pictures, which was written in English. One afternoon when her father was out, Maritha had taken this book down to the river and was sitting under one of the many willows, puzzling over the words when Ian came by. He had been following the water downstream on the way to his own house. All the best houses in the district lined the river. Ian's father was a shunter on the railway, the second generation of a plucky Scottish family that had come out to work for the government in 1919, to escape the curse of emphysema from the railways back home. He had built their home himself – Ian and his brother still helped their father with additions over the weekend, toting sand, mixing cement, laying the bricks.

Ian loved the long green leafy fronds and the sound of the birds, so different from the dust and desolation of the surrounding farm lands, and even though it took longer than walking along the road, he often walked home this way. When he saw Maritha sitting there so still and perfect, frowning slightly in concentration, the soft sunlight turning the fine tendrils of her hair into a misty halo, he stopped and put down his bag, although not the ball that he had with him as usual. Maritha's pink lips were moving silently, carefully shaping the unfamiliar words. For a full minute Ian watched, unconsciously spinning the ball with the tips of his fingers, fascinated. His own sister was a noisy, bony little scrap, a bit of a tomboy, who sometimes played catches with him on their front lawn if she was not riding her pony; she did not share his love of books. This girl was different – all pink and white and gold – splendid and untouchable as his mother's fancy tea service that was kept in a glass cabinet and only brought out on very special occasions – Royal Albert, dimity rose pattern. Then he caught the gentle husky sound of Maritha's low voice and made the delicious discovery that she was reading English.

Maritha looked up. She recognised the expression on Ian's face. It was the same expression she had caught on her father's face once when he watched her brushing her hair at night, so she knew she was safe. Safe as the weavers and kingfishers in the weeping willows. She had never seen this boy use a catty. For all his prowess on the sports field, he was somehow quieter, gentler than the other boys.

That was how it had begun. Now they met regularly. Ian helped her with her English and she helped him with his Afrikaans. They became secret friends. On the weekday mornings when waiting for the bus, no one would have guessed that they'd ever so much as exchanged a greeting. He sat with the English children and she sat with the Afrikaners. They certainly never openly glanced at each other. But despite that and even though she was only eleven, Maritha knew that she was beautiful (Margaritha is beeldskoon said her father, and the Dominee's word was gospel) and now that everyone knew that Ian was the most promising rugby player in the district, how could he help but show off in front of her?

Bertus seethed. His own eleven-year-old brother was a runt compared with Ian. How could that quiet Engelsman be so tough