The Sweetest Dream

‘And what is this growing here?'

'Tobacco. It is what is keeping your economy going.'

‘Ah, so that is the famous tobacco?'

‘You mean you've never seen tobacco growing?'

‘When I go out of Senga inspecting schools I am always in such a hurry, I am a busy man. That is why I am so pleased to have this chance of seeing a real farm, with a white farmer. '

' Some ofyour black farmers are growing good tobacco, didn't you know that?'

Mr Phiri was silent, because they were driving along the base of a tumbling hill and there, in front of them, was a waste land of raw yellow soil in heaps and piles and ridges, and an excavator was labouring away, balancing on improbable slopes and declivities. ' Here we are,’ said Cedric, leaping out, and he went forward without looking to see if the Inspector was following. A black man, the excavator driver's mate, came forward to the farmer and the two stood close together, conferring over a map ofsome kind, on the edge of a hole in the dense yellow soil. Mr Phiri went cautiously forward among the yellow heaps, trying to keep his shoes clean. Dust blew off the tops of the heaps. His good suit was already dusty.

‘Well, that's it. ' Cedric returned.

‘But where is the dam?'

' There. ' Cedric pointed.

'But – when it is finished how big will it be?'

Cedric pointed again. 'There... there... from that line of trees to the kopje, and from there to where we are standing.'

' A big dam, then?'

' It won't be the Kariba. '

' Okay,’ said Mr Phiri. He was disappointed. He had expected to see a lake of sweet brown water, with cows standing in it up to their middles, and over it thorn trees where weaver birds' nests dangled. He could not consciously remember ever seeing this scene, but that is what a dam meant to him. ‘When will it be full?'

' Perhaps you could arrange for some good rain? This is our third season with practically no rain. '

Mr Phiri laughed, but he was feeling like a schoolboy and didn't like it. He could not imagine the sweep ofwater that would be here under the hills.

' If you want to catch Mandizi, we should go back. '

' Okay. ' This was okay in its primal sense: Yes, I agree.

‘I’ll take you back another way,’ said Cedric, though it was against his interests to impress this man who intended to steal his farm. He wanted to share his loving pride in what he had made from the bush. A mile from the house a herd of cattle stood eating dry maize cobs. They had the frantic look of drought-stressed animals. What Mr Phiri saw was cattle, saw mombies, and he longed to own them. His eyes filled with the wonder of these beasts: he did not realise they were in trouble.

Cedric said, ‘I am having to shoot the calves as they are born. ' His voice was harsh. Mr Phiri was shocked, and he stammered out, ‘But, but... yes, I read in the paper... but that is terrible. ' He saw that tears were running down the white man's cheeks. ' It must be terrible, ' he said, sighing, and tactfully tried not to look at Cedric. He was feeling a real warmth for him, but he did not know what he would do if the white man broke down and wept. ' Shooting calves... but is there nothing... nothing...’

'No milk in the udders,' said Cedric. 'And when cows are as thin as that, the calves are poor quality when they are born.'

They were at the house.

Mr Mandizi was just arriving, but Cedric at first thought it was a deputy: the man was half the size he had been.

‘You've lost a lot of weight,’ said Cedric.

‘Yes, that is so. '

He had dropped the mechanic at the Mercedes and now he opened the back door of the car and said to Mr Phiri, ' Get in, please.’And to Cedric in an official voice, 'You should get your radio fixed. I could hardly hear you.'

' That would be the day,’ said Cedric.

‘And now to the school,’ said Mr Phiri, who was in low spirits because of the calves. He did not talk as he was driven to the Mission.

' This is the priest's house. '

‘But I want the headmaster's house. '

' There is no headmaster. I am afraid he is in prison. '

‘But why is there no replacement?'

‘We have asked for a replacement, but you see this is not an attractive posting. They would rather go to a town. Or as near as they can to a town. '

Anger restored Mr Phiri's vitality, and he strode into the little house, followed by his subordinate. No one was about. He clapped his hands and Rebecca appeared. 'Tell the priest I am here.'

' Father McGuire is up at the school. If you walk up that path you will find him.'

‘And why will you not go?'

‘I have something in the oven. And Father McGuire is waiting for you. '

‘And why is he there?'

' He teaches the big children. I think he is teaching many classes, because the headmaster is not here. ' Rebecca turned to go into the kitchen.

‘And where are you going? I have not said you can go. '

Rebecca made a deep, slow curtsy and stood with her hands folded, eyes down.

Mr Phiri glared, did not look at Mr Mandizi, who knew he was being mocked.

'Very well, you can go now.'

'Okay,' said Rebecca.

The two men set off up the dusty path with the sun hitting down hard on their heads and shoulders.

Since eight that morning the many classrooms of this school had been a pandemonium of excited children, waiting for the big man. Their teachers who were after all not so much older than some of them, were as elated. But no car came, there was only the sound of doves, and some cicadas in the clump of trees near the water tank, which was empty. All the children had been thirsty for weeks, and some were hungry and indeed had had nothing to eat but what Father McGuire had given them for breakfast, lumps of the heavy white sweet bread, and reconstituted milk. Nine o ' clock, then ten. Teaching resumed, the din of several hundred voices chanting the repetitions necessary because of no schoolbooks, no exercise books, was audible for half a mile from the school, and only ceased when Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi appeared, hot and sweating.

‘What is this? Where is the teacher?'

' Here,’ said a meek youth, smiling in an agony of apprehension.

‘And what class is this? What is all this noise? I do not remember that oral lessons are part of our curriculum? Where are the exercise books?'

At this fifty exuberant children chorused, 'Comrade Inspector, Comrade Inspector, we have no exercise books, we have no books, please give us some exercise books. And some pencils, yes, some pencils, do not forget us, Comrade Inspector. '

‘And why do they not have exercise books?’ said Mr Phiri impressively to Mr Mandizi.

‘We send in the requisition forms, but we have not been sent exercise books or textbooks.' It had been three years, but he was nervous of saying so in front of the children, and their teacher.

'And if they are delayed, then hurry them up, in Senga.'

There was no help for it. 'It has been three years since this school received any books or exercise books. '

Mr Phiri stared at him, at the young teacher, at the children.

The young teacher said, ' Comrade Inspector, sir, we do our best, but it is hard without any books. '

The Comrade Inspector felt trapped. He knew that in some schools – well, just a few – there was a shortage of books. The fact was, he rarely went out of the towns, made sure the schools he inspected were urban. There were shortages there, but it was not a terrible thing, was it, for four or five children to share a primer, or to use waste wrapping paper for writing lessons? But no books, nothing at all. Flashpoint: he exploded into rage. ‘And look at your floors. How long since they were swept?'

' There is so much dust,’ said the teacher in a low shamed voice. ' Dust...’