He went into the derelict house. The shelving and built-in cupboards and floorboards had been stripped out by the squatters in the valley for firewood, the window, panes used as targets by small black boys with slingshots.
The books, the portrait photographs from the walls, the carpets and heavy furniture of Rhodesian teak were all gone. The homestead was a shell, but a sturdy shell. With an open palm Craig slapped the walls that great-greatandfather Zouga Ballantyne had built of hand-hewn gr stone and mortar that had had almost a hundred years to cure to adamantine hardness. His palm made a solid ringing tone. It would take only a little imagination and a deal of money to transform the shell into a magnificent home once again.
Craig left the house and climbed the kopje behind it to the walled family cemetery that lay under the msasa trees beneath the rocky crest.
There was grass growing up between the headstones. The cemetery had been neglected but not vandalized, as had many of the other monuments left from the colonial era.
Craig sat on the edge of his grandfather's grave and said, "Hello, Bawu. I'm back," and started as he almost heard the old man's voice full of mock scorn speaking in his mind.
"Yes, every time you bum your arse you come running back here. What happened this time?"
"I dried up, Bawu," he answered the accusation aloud and then was silent. He sat for a long time and very slowly he felt the tumult within him begin to subside a little.
"The place is in a hell of a mess, Bawu," he spoke again, and the little blue, headed lizard on the old man's headstone scuttled away at the sound of his voice. "The tusks are gone from the veranda, and they are running goats on your best grass." Again he was silent, but now he was beginning to calculate and scheme. He sat for nearly an hour, and then stood up.
"Bawu, how would you like it if I could move the goats off your pasture?" he asked, and walked back down the hill to where he had left the Volkswagen.
t was a little b4ore five o'clock when he drove back into town. The estate agency and auctioneering floor opposite the Standard Bank was still open for business.
The sign had even been repainted in scarlet, and as soon as Craig entered, he recognized the burly red-faced auctioneer in khaki shorts and short-sleeved, open-necked shirt.
"So you didn't take the gap, like the rest of us did, Jock," Craig greeted jock Daniels.
"Taking the gap, was the derogatory expression for All emigrating. Out of 250,000 white Rhodesians, almost 150,000 had taken the gap since the beginning of hostilities, and most of those had left since the war had been lost and the black government of Robert Mugabe had taken control.
Jock stared at him. "Craig!" he exploded. "Craig Mellow!" He took Craig's hand in a horny brown paw. "No, I stayed, but sometimes it gets hellish lonely. But you've done well, by God you have. They say in the papers that you have made a million out of that book. People here could hardly believe it. Old Craig Mellow, they said, fancy Craig Mellow of all people."
"Is that what they said?" Craig's smile stiffened, and he took his hand back.
"Can't say I liked the book myself." Jock shook his head.
"You made all the blacks look like bloody heroes but that's what they like overseas, isn't it? Black is beautiful that's what sells books, hey?"
"Some of my reviewers called me a racist," Craig murmured.
"You can't keep all the people happy all of the time." Jock wasn't listening. "Another thing, Craig, why did you have to make out that Mr. Rhodes was a queer?" Cecil Rhodes, the father of the white settlers, had been dead for eighty years, but the old-timers still called him Mr. Rhodes.
"I gave the reasons in the book," Craig tried to placate him.
"He was a great man, Craig, but nowadays it's the fashion for you young people to tear down greatness like mongrels snapping at the heels of a lion." Craig could see that Jock was warming to his subject, and he had to divert him.
"How about a drink, Jock?" he asked, and Jock paused.
His rosy cheeks and swollen purple nose were not solely the products of the African sun.
"Now, you're making sense." Jock licked his lips. "It's been a long thirsty day. just let me lock up the shop."
"If I fetched a bottle, we could drink it here and talk privately." The last of Jock's antagonism evaporated. "Damn good idea. The bottle store has a few bottles of Dimple Haig left and get a bucket of ice while you are about it." They sat in Jock's tiny cubicle of an office and drank the good whisky out of cheap thick tumblers. Jock Daniels" mood mellowed perceptibly.
"I didn't leave, Craig, because there was nowhere to go.
England? I haven't been back there since the war. Trade unions and bloody weather no thanks. South Africa?
They are going to go the same way that we did at least we've got it over and done with." He poured again from the pinch bottle. "If you do go, they let you take two hundred dollars with you. Two hundred dollars to start again when you are sixty-five years old no bloody thanks."
"So what's life like, Jock?"
"You know what they call an optimist here? "Jock asked.
"It's somebody who believes that things can't get any worse." He bellowed with laughter and slapped his bare hairy thigh. "No. I'm kidding. It's not too bad. As long as you don't expect the old standards, if you keep your mouth shut and stay away from politics, you can still live a good life probably as good as. anywhere in the world."