'Bloody skivers,' said this man, whom Rose knew was her enemy as a woman. 'They think they can get away with murder.'
Rose did not know what he was complaining of, and only said, in an all-purpose formula, 'They're all the same.'
'Right on. Nothing to choose between any of them.'
Now Rose saw two black men, who had been at the back of the plane, being waved forward by an attendant through to Club Class – or perhaps even First.
' Look at that! Throwing their weight around, as usual.'
Ideology demanded that Rose should protest, but she refrained: yes, this was one of the unregenerate whites, but there were nine hours ahead of close proximity.
' If they spent less time showing off and more on running the country then that would be something. '
His arm and shoulder now threatened to oppress Rose.
' Excuse me, but these are small seats. ‘And she vigorously shoved him back in his seat with her shoulder. He opened half-shut eyes to stare. ‘You are taking up too much room. '
‘You' re not exactly a lightweight yourself, '-but he withdrew his arm.
Here supper was served, but he waved it away -'I'm spoiled for good grub on my farm. '
She accepted the little tray, and began eating. She was sitting next to a white farmer. No wonder she loathed him. Again she wondered ifshe should insist on changing her seat. No, she would make use of this opportunity and see if she could get an article out of it. He was openly watching her eat. She knew she ate too much and decided to reject the fancy pudding.
' Here, I'll have that if you don't want it, ' he said reaching out for the little glass of cream goo. And he had it swallowed in a gulp. ‘Not up to much, ' he said. A boor, as well. ‘I’m used to good grub. My wife's a zinger. And my cook boy's another.'
Cookboy.
'So you' re well served,’ she said, using the political jargon of the moment.
'Pardon?' He knew she was criticising him but not what for. She decided not to bother. 'And what do you do with yourself when you' re at home? And by the way, where is home, are you going back to it or leaving it?'
‘I’m a journalist. '
‘Oh, Christ, that's all I needed. So I suppose you are planning another little article about the joys of black government?'
Her professionalism switched in and she said, ' All right then, you talk. '
And he did. He talked. All around them went on the bustle of the meal service and drinks and duty free, and then the lights were switched off and still he talked. His name was Barry Angle-ton. He had farmed in Zimlia all his life and his father before him. They had just as much right as... and so on. Rose was not listening to his words, because by now she had understood she fancied him, though she most certainly disliked him, and that hot grumbling voice made her feel as if she were being dissolved in warm treacle.
Rose's relations with men had been geared to misfortune, because of the times. She was, of course, a strict feminist. She had married in the late Seventies, a comrade met while demonstrating outside the American Embassy. He agreed to everything she said about feminism, men, the lot of women: he matched her, smiling, with formulations as progressive as hers, but she knew this was merely surface compliance, and that he did not really understand women or his fatal inheritance. She criticised him for everything and he went along with her, agreeing that thousands of years of delinquency could not be put right in a day. ‘I daresay you've got a point there, Rosie, ' he' d say, equably, with a little air of judicious assessment, as she ended a harangue that took in everything from bride-price to female circumcision. And he smiled. He always smiled. His fair, plump eager-to-please face infuriated her. She loathed him while she told herself that he was essentially good material. She was confused because, since she disliked almost everything, disliking her husband was not ground enough for self-examination, though she did sometimes wonder if her habit of keeping up irritated admonitions when they were in bed might possibly account for his becoming impotent. But the more he agreed with her, the more he smiled and nodded and took the words out of her mouth, the more she despised him. And when she demanded a divorce, he said, 'Fair enough. You're too good for me, Rosie. I've always said so.'
This man Barry – now that would be a different matter. On the steps outside the airport building she saw him give money to a porter in a way that made her seethe, so commanding and lordly was it. Now, observing her with her big suitcase, looking about her for the car she had ordered, he strode over and said, ‘I’ll drop you in town. ' He heaved his case to stand with hers, and went off to the car park. In a moment a big Buick stood before her, the front door open. She got in. A black man had materialised and put her cases and his into the car. Barry dispensed more money.
‘I ordered a car. '
'Too bad. He'll find someone else.'
On the plane he had ended a perforation with, ‘Why don't you come to the farm and see for yourself?' and she had refused and now she was sorry she had. At this moment he said, ' Come out to the farm and have breakfast. '
Rose was familiar with the approaches to the city of Senga, and thought it a tedious little place and full of self-importance. In fact what she really thought about Zimlia was the opposite of what she wrote about it. Only Comrade President Matthew had justified it, and now...
She hesitated, and said, ‘Why not?'
‘Why not she says, and expects an answer. '
They did not drive through the town but past it and were in the bush in a moment. Not everybody loves Africa, and, having left it, longs only to go back to an eternally smiling and beckoning promise. Rose knew that such people existed: how could she not, when the lovers of the continent are so vociferous, always talking as if their love were proof of an inner virtue? It was too big, for a start. There was a disproportion between the town – which called itself a city – and cultivation, and the wildness. Too much bloody bush and disorderly hills, and always the threat of an untoward dislocation of order. Rose had scarcely been out of the towns except for brief walks in a park. She liked pavements and pubs and town halls with people making speeches in them, and restaurants. Now she told herself it was a good thing that she was actually experiencing a white farm and a white farmer, though she could not of course write down his complaints, which were nearly all about the blacks, and that was simply not on. She could say, truthfully, that she was broadening her mind.
When they stopped outside a big raw brick-house in a clump of gum trees that she thought ugly, he remarked that she must go around to the front and up the steps and in, while he went to the kitchen to order breakfast. It was still only half past seven, a time when normally she would expect to sleep another hour. The sun stood high, it was hot, the colours were too bright, all scarlets and purples and strong greens and a pinkish dust lay about everywhere. Her shoes almost disappeared into it.
As he went off she had heard, 'My wife's away this week. I've got to organise the bloody kitchen myself.' This had not sounded like an invitation to get into bed and skip the preliminaries. As she reached the top of the steps, and was on a verandah open on three sides that at first she thought was a still unfinished room, he appeared briefly to say, 'There's a bloody crisis with the barns. Go in and the boy'll give you your breakfast. I'll be with you shortly. '
She did not eat breakfast. She did not want any now. But she went into a big room which made her think it could do with some softening up, nice cushions perhaps? – and through it to a room where a large table stood, with an old black man, smiling.