Professor Potts Cycles Into Danger

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PROLOGUE

KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, 2004

The mountain, edged against the vast African sky, snaked its huge bulk all around the valley. Proud and clear, seemingly impassive, it towered over the human dramas below. Yet it had a moodiness of its own, often hiding, pulling a veil of mist over its jagged head. The sun would tear this away not long after the people from the huts down in the valley had made their way up to the big brick houses where the white people lived, and where they earned their living. At times the mountain could hide for days on end, and then no one could see that peculiar upright rock which, if looked at with the inner gaze, resembled an old man with a beard.

One hot January morning, long before the sun could colour the mountain, or had even lit the sky, the slender girl was awoken by the contractions in her stomach. She knew her time had come. She drew the curtain separating her ‘room’ from that of the old woman who lay on her back snoring, mouth wide open, displaying what stumps of teeth she had left.

Auntie!

The snoring stopped.

Auntie, it’s my time.

The old woman opened her eyes, wiped her hand over her face, and got up. There was no fuss. She had delivered many a baby into a world of hunger and disease, to live for a few months, a few years, longer sometimes. Long enough to serve at some big house somewhere under the watching eye of the mountain.

The mountain was still veiled when the first cry pierced the silence. The old woman looked aghast at the perfectly formed little girl.

She’s nearly white!

The girl didn’t answer and the large luminous eyes in her dark face gave nothing away; the wind whispering secrets through the crevices in the walls was all that could be heard.

The old woman stared at her. Ayish she shook her head, then continued with her work. When she had finished and the baby rested in her mother’s arms, she picked up the bowl of reddish brown water and made for the door muttering under her breath: Apartheid finished long time, but still no food, no jobs, nothing, she pursed her lips. Outside she emptied the liquid on the parched soil where she knew the midday sun would suck up every drop of it.

That evening when the girl sat by the fire under the starlit sky, nursing her baby with one arm, the hand of the other exploring the little feet, the tiny fingers, stroking the precious head gently, she spoke to the old woman.

Tomorrow, first light, I’ll put her by the door of the white people.

A gust of wind swept across the fire, blowing a screen of smoke across the girls face, hiding her tears. The old woman looked hard at her.

You give your child away?

The girl bent her head towards the treasured bundle in her arms. One obstinate tear escaped and plopped – right onto the baby’s heart.

She’ll eat. Her voice was wobbling.

Perhaps they beat her, they’ll make her work for them for nothing.

"She’ll eat. She’ll grow. She will live." Her words were strong now, almost a proclamation.

The old woman was silent. There was nothing to say; she’d seen too many babies die. For a while the crackling of the fire was the only conversation between the two women. The smell of freshly cooked crumble porridge filled the air. When they stuck their fingers into the shared bowl of food, the old woman spoke again.

And you, will you go see her sometimes?

The girl shuddered, clasping the baby tightly to her chest. She shook her head.

I’ll take the Thursday bus out of the valley.

The old woman raised her eyebrows, the question in her eyes.

I’ll go to the big city. I’ll find work.

The old woman gave a deep sigh. Ayish.

CHAPTER 1

When Bruno Mynhard woke up on that mellow spring morning and tried to move his right arm, the vague fear that had been hovering in the back of his consciousness for years now turned into terror.

The arm would not move!

He tried again. But now even the tingling sensation that had been coming and going so menacingly, and which had plagued him constantly over the last four weeks, was gone. There was nothing there, no movement, no life. Nothing.

With his left hand, he gently raised the paralysed arm as one would the corpse of a beloved child. He held it close to his chest for a long time, stroking the forearm hairs to one side, then to the other.

So, it has happened. Even though the tingling and sudden weaknesses followed by periods of remission had warned him that the loss was imminent, it still came as a shock. Could there, even now, be a remission?

He knew there wouldn’t be.

He moved himself into a sitting position and the dead arm fell off his chest. He picked it up again and then, with a violent movement, pushed it away from his body. Anger flooded him. Why him? It wasn’t fair! Had he not lost enough? Slowly over the years his legs had deteriorated so that now he had to move around the house in a wheelchair. To go around his smallholding to see if Filamon had carried out his instructions properly he had to get into his electric buggy - he had had two working arms then.

He heard Filamon whistling at the hen pen, and he could imagine him holding the tin bucket with one hand while sprinkling the feed with the other to the excitedly cackling birds. He could see him sitting beside Witvlies, extracting rich creamy milk from her udder while chanting a Zulu song in a deep baritone voice. He could see him digging the vegetable garden, tenderly putting the young plants into the rich red soil, watering, harvesting in the autumn. Filamon had two working arms and legs that could gobble up mile after mile when he went visiting his family who lived far away.

The gall rose up in Bruno. He puckered his thin lips, causing a deep frown above his well-proportioned nose, distorting his fine features. He wanted to shout out those bitter feelings, but automatically he suppressed them, as he had done for so many years now. He felt the shivers go through him and pulled the blankets up with his strong arm. He needed more now than only Katrina coming in daily, there was no denying it. He sat with that thought for a long time. Late that afternoon he picked up the phone, his hand shaking, and phoned his sister Kate de Wit.

Miriam knew her place in the de Wit household, and in the wider community. This understanding had come to her gradually as she grew up, and she often longed for the time before she was aware of it; that magical time when she first managed to totter off into the garden chasing the light spots that the foliage of the trees had allowed the sun to make on the grass. She shrieked gleefully as she grabbed them, feeling her hands full of light, yet being amazed that the spots were on the ground as well. She saw tiny winged creatures dancing in and around the flowers beckoning her to come and play, and when she got there, they were gone. She lay flat on her tummy, inching her way forward, searching for them. She knew they were there because she could hear their laughter, but when she got close to their sound it turned into bird song. The notes the birds seemed to pour into the air all around her would fascinate her.

She was aware of friendly faces too, looking at her, talking to her; several faces, but one face was there constantly. When she woke up in the morning or from her afternoon nap, this friendly loving face hovered over her, seeing to her needs. That same face put her to bed at night and stayed with her until sleep took her into a world of gold winged creatures singing even more beautifully than the birds.

Gradually she came to know the names of the faces around her. The one who tended to her so lovingly and with whom she stayed at night, was Aunty Lizzie. She had thick black hair, which cascaded down onto her shoulders when she brushed it out. Mostly though it was tied up away from her smiling dark eyes so that she could laugh into them, joyously, when Aunty Lizzie’s playful brown hands tickled her tummy. Aunty Lizzie’s smooth and youthful skin was like hers, not quite white, but not black like the farm-workers either. The hard painted face one she was told to call Mrs. de Wit, and the two children’s names she learned were Sandra and Bessie. The face with the hair on his upper lip she called Mr. de Wit.

She couldn’t remember when she realized that Sandra and Bessie called Mr. and Mrs. de Wit Mummy and Daddy, and when they talked about them they said ‘my Mummy and Daddy’ as if they belonged to them. But there was no one who she called Mummy, or who she could talk about as ‘my Mummy’.

That puzzled her so she asked Aunty Lizzie:

Are you my Mummy?

She saw sadness in Aunty Lizzie’s eyes when she shook her head and said:

No. I wish I was.

Who is my Mummy? she asked.

Aunty Lizzie had looked at the hissing primus stove for a while before she answered.

We don’t know, Miriam.

Why?

She sighed. Mr. de Wit found you on the front doorstep one morning when he went out to go to work.

Miriam couldn’t make that out.

Why? she asked again.

Oh Miriam, stop asking why! Aunty Lizzie sounded upset. All you need to know is that I love you as if you were my own child. She came and put her hand on Miriam’s head, and God loves you and always will.

That pleased her. She knew that Aunty Lizzie loved her, but to have God, where ever he was, loving her too, felt good.

When she was older she was given the job of polishing all the shoes in the house and she believed that she could make them shine better than anyone else could. One day Bessie threw her shoe at her and shouted: Polish it properly! Buff up those streaks at the heel. She felt like throwing the shoe in Bessie’s face, but Bessie towered over her. She knew that Bessie’s size didn’t really matter, she just didn’t dare say anything rude to her, because she had Mr. and Mrs. de Wit for a mummy and daddy and she, Miriam, had no mummy or daddy. Luckily Sandra came in and said, Now, now Bessie, she’s only a child, don’t take your PMT out on her.

She didn’t know what PMT was, and she didn’t care either, all she wanted to do was to get out of that room and go to Aunty Lizzie. But Aunty Lizzie wasn’t at home. Mrs. De Wit had taken her along to the shops to help her with the tons of shopping that came into the house every month. So she buffed Bessie’s shoes up again, making sure she didn’t miss any bits, and then ran out of the house to cry.

The sun was bright on the peaks and there, in between two large ones, she saw the rock that looked like an old man with a beard. Looking at it with her eyes full of tears she remembered that when Mr. de Wit took them to church, the preacher read from the Bible about Moses who met God on the mountain, and that God had spoken to him. Standing there, blinking against the sun, she thought that God had come to console her.

God, she said, Bessie threw her shoe at me like I’m a bit of rubbish! And I can’t even shout back at her because, one day when I was very angry and stamped my foot, Aunty Lizzie told me to always be a good girl, otherwise Mr. and Mrs. de Wit might send me to the orphanage. God, I never want to be away from Aunty Lizzie.

She felt that although God was silent He was listening to her. Then it struck her that if God loved her, as Aunty Lizzie said he did, He could be her father. She was excited by the idea. Bessie could throw her shoes at her, and Sandra could make her fetch this and that for her, but really she, Miriam, was the winner, because Mr. and Mrs. de Wit could never, ever be such loving parents as Aunty Lizzie and God.

That evening when she and Aunty Lizzie were sitting around the primus stove in their two-roomed prefab house, she told her all that. Aunty Lizzie hugged and hugged her, then told her that when she was a baby, everyone in the big house had a hand in bringing her up.

Bessie and Sandra adored you, and played with you whenever they could sneak away from their homework.

Aunty Lizzie went very serious when she said:

You are blessed Miriam, always remember that it was through the kindness of Mr. de Wit’s heart that we could keep you.

Miriam thought about what she had said, and about Mr. and Mrs. de Wit. She had always liked Mr. de Wit. It was his eyes that she liked best. Not their colour, they were only a measly blue, but what was inside them. When he looked at her, she always thought his eyes were smiling, even if his mouth wasn’t. He spoke quietly, not like the other big-tummy Afrikaner men who sometimes visited the house bellowing out their greetings, slapping Mr. de Wit on the back. Nor like Mrs. de Wit whose voice sounded harsh as she pushed the words out through her scarlet lips. No, his voice was friendly, always, even when he told her not to trample on the plants in the flowerbeds. But Mrs. de Wit, well the only thing she liked about her was the colour of the blouses she wore. She ironed them every week: orange, brown, pink and tan, and the deep sky blue one with the white specks in it.

It wasn’t as if Mrs. de Wit did horrible things to her - oh no, she always made sure she and Aunty Lizzie had enough to eat, and that she had enough clothes. It was really just her eyes. They always looked at her as if they didn’t see her, and they didn’t smile like Mr. de Wit’s. Miriam saw hardness deep inside them. Bessie looked like her mother, except her hair was black. Sandra had Mr. de Wit’s light brown hair, but her eyes were a beautiful blue, a real deep colour, which sparkled when she laughed. She had a clear memory of Sandra giving her a piggyback, galloping like a horse until she shrieked with laughter. That was when she was quite little.

School holidays were busy times for her and Aunty Lizzie. Usually Sandra and Bessie brought friends home to stay, and there were many beds to make and the biggest pans in the kitchen came out of the cupboards to cook in. One time Mrs. de Wit’s old brother Mr. Mynhard, came too. She didn’t like him much even though he was friendly to her. She saw that he had grey hair that hung around a large bald patch on the top of his head. Because his face looked funny to her, she kept looking at it to try and make out why. She didn’t think he would notice her staring at him, because his brown eyes kept shifting about all the time he spoke to people, never really looking at them. After a while she could make out why his face looked so strange. It was that frown of his; it looked as if it was running from his forehead right into the bald patch. It made him look very angry, but his voice didn’t sound angry when he spoke to her.

I hear you do well at school, Miriam.

Yes sir, she said.

My name is Bruno, Miriam.

She didn’t think she could call him Uncle Bruno, like Sandra and Bessie, so she said:

Yes Mr. Bruno.

He smiled, and the frown was only holding on to the bald patch. He got up heavily, leaning on the dining room table, which Aunty Lizzie was starting to lay for dinner.

I hear she could read and write before she went to school, Lizzie, he said no doubt due to your efforts.

Aunty Lizzie’s light brown face coloured pink and her eyes sparkled.

I tried to help, Mr. Mynhard.

Hmm, he said, and shuffled towards his wheelchair, gripping his walking stick firmly.

That evening when she and Aunty Lizzie had at last done the big pile of washing up and swept the kitchen, they took their food, which was being kept warm in the pans on the stove, and went to their little house. Miriam thought that Aunty Lizzie was really pleased with what Mr. Bruno had said to her, because she started telling her how clever he was.

He was headmaster of a big school in Cape Town before he came here to KwaZulu-Natal, you know, Miriam.

Bigger than my school, Aunty Lizzie?

Aunty Lizzie laughed. Oh, that school could swallow up Rusthof Primary five times.

That put Miriam off him even more. She thought that he must be a very cruel man to have a school that would swallow up her little school where she was so happy. There were two large classrooms for the fifty of them, boys and girls together, an office and a tearoom. But best of all was the green field stretching out all around the building, sprouting yellow flowers in the early spring. She loved the smell of freshly cut grass when the black man, called Petrus, pushed the mower across it, singing high notes, then making deep low sounds when he did his little jigs.

When Aunty Lizzie spoke again her voice was very sad, Mr. Mynhard had a little girl who died when she was just eight years old; poor Mr. Mynhard.

Miriam felt sorry for the poor little girl who could no longer skip in the sunshine or go to school any more. School was such a good place! There was no housework to help with; there were playmates, and she got lots of praise from Miss Lang their teacher. Miss Lang had blond hair, and Miriam noticed how well it toned in with the brown of her eyes. Her skin was very white, and Aunty Lizzie told her that that was because she came from England.

Why? Miriam was puzzled. Why did England make her skin so white?

Oh, I guess it’s because they don’t get as much sun over there as we have here in South Africa.

She stroked Aunty Lizzie’s arm. Why did the sun make our skins so much darker than Sandra and Bessie’s?

Aunty Lizzie laughed out loud. No, that was not the sun Miriam.

What was it then?

Aunty Lizzie paused for a moment before she spoke. "You see, white people have two white parents, and black people have two black parents. People with our sort of skin colour have one white and one black