'Has your mother ever spoken about me?" he had asked, and faced by Centaine's present reaction to his name, the question took on a new significance.
'Yes, Mater, I spoke to him alone." 'Did he mention me?" Centaine demanded, and Shasa gave a little chuckle of puzzlement.
'He asked the same question - whether you ever spoke about him.
Why are the two of you so interested in each other?" Centaine's expression turned bleak, and he saw her close her mind to him. It was a mystery he would not solve by pursuing it openly, he would have to stalk it.
'They made me a proposition." And he saw her interest reawaken.
'Manfred? A proposition? Tell me." 'They want me to cross the floor." She nodded slowly, showing little surprise and not immediately rejecting the idea. He knew that if Blaine were here it would have been different. Blaine's sense of honour, his rigid principles, would have left no room for manoeuvre. Blaine was a Smuts man, heart and blood, and even though the old field-marshal had died of a broken heart soon after the Nationalists unseated him and took over the reins of power, still Blaine was for ever true to the old man's memory.
'I can guess why they want you,' Centaine said slowly. 'They need a top financial brain, an organizer and a businessman. It's the one thing they lack in their cabinet." He nodded. She had seen it instantly, and his enormous respect for her was confirmed yet again.
'What price are they willing to pay?" she demanded.
'A cabinet appointment - minister of mines and industry." He saw her eyes go out of focus, and cross in a myopic stare as she gazed out to sea. He knew what that expression meant. Centaine was calculating, juggling with the future, and he waited latiently until her eyes snapped back into focus.
'Can you see any reason for refusing?" she asked.
'How about my political principles?" 'How do they differ from theirs?" 'I am not an Afrikaner." 'That might be to your advantage. You will be their token Englishman. That will give you a special status. You will have a freer rein.
They will be more reluctant to fire you than if you were one of their own." 'I don't agree with their native policy, this apartheid thing of theirs, it's just financially unsound." 'Good Lord, Shasa. You don't believe in equal political rights for blacks, do you? Not even Jannie Smuts wanted that. You don't want another Chaka ruling us, black judges and a black police force working for a black dictator?" She shuddered. 'We'd get pretty short shrift from them." 'No, Mater, of course not. But this apartheid thing is merely a device for grabbing the whole pie. We have to give them a slice of it, we can't hog it all. That's a certain recipe for eventual bloody revolution." 'Very well, chbri. If you are in the cabinet, you can see to it that they get a fair crack of the whip." He looked dubious, and made a side-show of selecting a cigarette from his gold case and lighting it.
'You have a special talent, Shasa,' Centaine went on persuasively.
'It's your duty to use it for the good of all." Still he hesitated, he wanted her to declare herself fully. He had to know if she wanted this as much as he did.
'We can be honest with each other, chbri. This is what we have worked towards since you were a child. Take this job and do it well, after that who knows what else may follow." They were both silent then, they knew what they hoped would follow. They could not help themselves, it was their nature always to strive towards the highest pinnacle.
'What about Blaine?" Shasa said at last. 'How will he take it? I don't look forward to telling him." 'I'll do that,' she promised. 'But you will have to tell Tara." 'Tara,' he sighed. 'Now that will be a problem." They were silent again, until Centaine asked, 'How will you do it?
If you cross the floor it will expose you to a blaze of hostile publicity." So it was agreed without further words, only the means remained to be discussed.
'At the next general election I will simply campaign in different colours,' Shasa said. 'They will give me a safe seat." 'So we have a little time to arrange the details then." They discussed them for another hour, planning with all the meticulous attention that had made them such a formidably successful team over the years, until Shasa looked up at her.
'Thank you,' he said simply. 'What would I ever do without you!
You are tougher and cleverer than any man I know." 'Get away with you,' she smiled. 'You know how I hate praise." They both laughed at that absurdity.
'I'll walk you down, Mater." But she shook her head.
'I've still got some thinking to do. Leave me here." She watched him go down the hill and her love and pride was so intense as to almost suffocate her.
'He is everything I ever wanted in a son, and he has fulfilled all my expectations, a thousand times over. Thank you, my son, thank you for the joy you have always given me." Then abruptly the words 'my son' triggered another reaction, and her mind darted back to the earlier part of their conversation.
'Do you remember Manfred De La ReyT Shasa had asked her, but he could never know what the answer to that must be.
'Can a woman ever forget the child she bears?" she whispered the reply aloud, but her words were lost on the wind and on the sound of the green surf breaking on the rocky shore below the hill.
Every pew of the church was filled. The women's bonnets were colourful as a field of wild Namaqua daisies in the springtime, while the men's suits were sombre and severe. All their faces were upturned towards the magnificent carved pulpit of polished black stinkwood in which stood the most reverend Tromp Bierman, moderator of the Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa.
Manfred De La Rey considered once again how much Uncle Tromp had aged in the years since the war. He had never fully recovered from the pneumonia he had contracted in the concentration camp at Koffiefontein, where that English-lover Jannie Smuts had incarcerated him with hundreds of other patriotic Afrikaners for the duration of the English war with Germany.
Uncle Tromp's beard was snow white now, even more spectacular than the curly black bush it once had been. The hair on his head, also white, had been close cropped to conceal its sparsity and it glittered like powdered glass on the high-domed pate, but his eyes were full of fire as he glowered at his congregation, and his voice that had earned him the sobriquet 'The Trumpet of God' had lost none of its power and rolled like a cannonade against the high-arched ceiling of the nave.
Uncle Tromp could still pack the pews, and Manfred nodded soberly but proudly as the thunderous outpouring burst over his head. He was not really listening to the words, merely enjoying the sense of continuity that filled him, the world was a safe good place when Uncle Tromp was in his pulpit. Then a man could trust in the God of the Volk which he evoked with so much certainty, and believe in the divine intervention which directed his life.
Manfred De La Rey sat in the ant pew at the right side of the nave nearest the aisle. It was the most prestigious position in the congregation, and rightly so for Manfred was the most powerful and important man in the church. The pew was reserved for him and his family, and their names were gold-leafed on the hymn books that lay beside each seat.
Heidi, his wife, was a magnificent woman, tall and strong, her bare forearms below the puff sleeves were smooth and firm, her bosom large and shapely, her neck long and her thick golden hair plaited into ropes that were twisted up under the wide-brimmed black hat. Manfred had met her in Berlin when he had been the gold medallist light heavyweight boxer at the Olympic Games in 1936, and Adolf Hitler himself had attended their wedding. They had been separated during the war years, but afterwards Manfred had brought her out to Africa with their son, little Lothar.
Lothar was almost twelve years old now, a fine strong boy, blond as his mother, and upright as his father. He sat very straight in the family pew, his hair neatly slicked down with Brylcreem and the stiff white collar biting into his neck. Like his father, he would be an athlete, but he had chosen the game of rugby at which to excel. His three younger sisters, blond and pretty in a fresh-faced healthy way, sat beyond him, their faces framed by the hoods of their traditional voortrekker bonnets and full-length skirts reaching to their ankles.