There was not a globe, nor an atlas, in the whole school. When he had asked, the children did not know what they were. Harassed and frustrated young teachers took him aside to beg him to get them books to teach them how to teach. They were eighteen or twenty years old themselves, without hardly any qualifications and certainly none to enable them to teach.
Andrew had never seen a more depressing place: school it was not. Father McGuire had escorted him from building to building, striding through dust to get out of the sun and back into patches ofshade, introducing him as a friend of Zimlia. His fame as Global
Money – though Father McGuire had not mentioned the magic name – had permeated the whole school. He was greeted with cries of welcome and with songs, and everywhere he looked were expectant faces.
The priest had said: 'I shall tell you the history of this place. We, the Mission, ran a school here for years – since the colony began. It was a good school. We had no more than fifty pupils. Some of them are in government now. Did you know that most of the African leaders came from mission schools? During the war Comrade President Matthew promised every child in the country a good secondary education. The schools were rushed up everywhere, are multiplying now. There are not the teachers, there are not the books, there are no exercise books. When the government took over our school – that was the end. I do not think the children you saw today will end up in the cabinet, or indeed, not anywhere that requires an education.'
Then, when he had drunk some tea, he said, ' Things will get better. You are seeing the worst. This is a poor district. '
‘Are there many schools like this one?'
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Father McGuire equably. ' Many. Very many. '
‘And so what will happen to those children? Though some of them seem to be adults.'
' They will be unemployed,’ said Father McGuire. ' They will be unemployed. Yes, surely they will. '
‘I suppose I had better be driving back,’ said Andrew. ‘I have a plane to catch at nine. '
‘And now, if I may be so bold as to ask, is there a possibility you may do something for us? The school? The hospital? Would you think of us when you return to the ease and the pleasantness of – where did you say you are located?'
' New York. And I think you have misunderstood. We shall be directing money – a big loan, to Zimlia, but not...’
‘You mean, we are beneath your notice?'
‘Not beneath mine,’ said Andrew, smiling. ‘But Global Money aims at high levels of... but I'll speak to someone. I'll speak to Caring International.'
'We would be duly grateful,' said Father McGuire. Sylvia said nothing. The furrow between her eyes made her seem like a scowling little witch.
' Sylvia, why don't you come for a holiday to New York?'
‘And indeed you should,’ said the priest,’ so you should, my child.'
' Thank you. I'll think about it. ' She did not look at him.
‘And will you drop in something for us to the Pynes? Just drop it, no need to go in, if you are in a hurry. '
They went to the Volvo and the sack for the Pynes was put in the back.
‘I’ll send you the books, darling, ' he said to Sylvia.
A couple of weeks later a sack arrived, by special messenger, from Senga, by motorbike. Books, from New York, delivered by plane to Senga, collected by InterGlobe, who attended to the Customs, and brought them all the way here. ‘What did that cost?' asked Father McGuire, offering tea to the exile from the bright lights of Senga.
'You mean, all of it?’ said the messenger, a smart young black man, in a uniform. ‘Well, it's here. ' He brought out the papers. ' That will have cost the sender just on a hundred pounds, to get them here,' he said, admiring the size of the sum.
‘We could build a reading room with that, or an infant's nursery,’ said Sylvia.
‘We must not look a gift horse in the mouth,’ said the priest.
‘I’m looking at it in the mouth,’ said Sylvia. She was scanning the list of books. Andrew had given her list to his secretary, who had mislaid it. So she went to the nearest big bookstore and ordered all the bestsellers, feeling complacent, and even sated, as if she had actually read them herself: she did fully intend to start reading soon. The novels were all unsuitable for Sylvia's library. In due course they were given to Edna Pyne, who complained continually that she had read all her books a hundred times. 'To her who has, it shall be given.'
The history of the hospital Andrew did not hear was this.
During the Liberation War this whole area, miles of it, had been full of the fighters, because it was hilly, with caves and ravines, good for guerilla war. One night Father McGuire had woken to see standing over him a youth pointing a gun at him, and saying, ' Get up, put your hands up. ' The priest was stiff with sleep and slow at the best of times, and the youth swore at him and told him he would be shot if he didn't hurry. But this was a very young man, eighteen, or even younger, and he was more frightened than Father McGuire: the rifle was shaking. 'I'm coming,’ said Father McGuire, clumsily getting out of bed, but he couldn't keep his hands up, he needed them. ' Just take it easy, ' he said, ‘I’m coming. ' He put on his dressing-gown while the gun waved about near him, and then he said, ‘What do you want?'
'We want medicine, we want muti. One of us very sick.'
' Then come to the bathroom. ' In the medicine cabinet were not much more than malaria tablets and aspirin and some bandages. ' Take what you need, ' he said.
‘Is that all? I don't believe you,’ said the youth. But he took everything there was, and said, ‘We want a doctor to come. '
‘Let us go to the kitchen,’ said the priest. There he said, ' Sit down. ' He made tea, put biscuits out, and watched while they vanished. He took a couple of loaves of Rebecca's new bread and handed them over, with some cold meat. These things vanished into a cloth bundle.
‘How can I get a doctor here? What shall I say? You people keep ambushing this road. '
' Say you are sick and need a doctor. When you expect him tie a bit of cloth to that window. We shall be watching and we'll bring our comrade. He's wounded. '
‘I’ll try,’ said the priest. As the youth disappeared into the night he turned to threaten: ' Don't tell Rebecca we were here. '
' So you know Rebecca?'
'We know everything.'
Father McGuire thought, then wrote to a colleague in Senga, saying a doctor was needed for an unusual case. He should drive out in daytime, not stop the car for anything, and be sure he had his gun with him. ‘And be careful not to alarm our good sisters. ' A telephone calclass="underline" a discreet exchange, apparently about the weather and the state of the crops. Then, ‘I shall visit you with Father Patrick. He has had medical training. '
The priest tied a cloth to the window and hoped Rebecca did not notice. She said nothing: he knew she understood much more than she let on. The car arrived with the priests in it. That night two guerillas appeared, saying their comrade was too ill to be moved. They needed antibiotics. The priests had brought antibiotics, together with a good supply of medicines. They were all handed over, while Father Patrick prescribed. Again the larder was emptied of what was left while two half-starving young men had eaten as much as they could.
Father McGuire went on living in this house that anyone could enter at any time. The nuns lived inside a security fence, but he hated it: he said he felt like a prisoner even going inside it to visit them. In his own house, he was exposed, and he knew he was watched. He expected to be murdered: white people had been killed not far away. Then the war ended. Two youths came to the house and said they were there to say thank you. Rebecca fed them, when she was ordered to do it. She said to the priest, ' They are bad people. '