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Authors: Nicholas Monsarrat
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myself with the reserve normal in a priest.
‘It’s very good of you to come,’ he said. ‘We don’t have many visitors.’
‘Miss Marais writes for the newspapers,’ said Jonathan Steele, as if trying to put in a good word for me.
‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Father Shillingford.
I decided that they weren’t going to get me down. ‘This isn’t my usual area of operations, Father,’ I said.
He narrowed his gaze until it reached my face, and answered: ‘There are many different kinds of slum.’
‘But she is interested,’ said Jonathan Steele, rather harassed.
Once again he seemed to be apologising for me – for the way I looked, my jewellery, my shoes. It was true that I seemed out of place in Teroka’s grimy ugliness, and for my part I was going to take damned good care to keep things that way … There was a naked boy-child sitting on the lowest of the church steps – coal-black, innocent, and very beautiful. He was a small, engaging fellow creature now, but in a few years he would be a native, probably criminal or sexually dangerous. Father Shillingford wasn’t going to change that fact, and he wasn’t going to change that feeling in myself, either.
These were odd thoughts for me, Teroka thoughts, and I turned away from them. I wanted nothing so much as to be back in my suite at the Carlton, preferably drinking the second of two dry martinis. But that respite was still some distance, and many ugly sights and people, away from me.
Father Shillingford led us first into his church. The sunlight fell pathetically on the worn pews, the beaten earth floor, the altar-cloth stained by rainwater at one corner.
‘We are very poor, as you see,’ said Father Shillingford.
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I had nothing to contribute. This was a shanty-church in a native location: I had expected it to be poor and shabby. To remark on that aspect of it would be as silly as attending a striptease act, advertised as such, and then saying: ‘But she’s naked!’ I had known Teroka would be naked.
‘And of course people break in at night, and take things,’ Father Shillingford continued. ‘I used to be able to sleep here, but that’s not allowed any more.’
‘He bicycles here from Johannesburg every day,’ said Jonathan Steele. ‘Fourteen miles.’
I had known about that, too.
Our excursion now became progressively more dull, as well as hot and irritating. Outside the church, we walked slowly down one of the streets, picking our way past the children and the goats, occasionally pausing to peer inside some wretched hut or sacking shelter. We were freely stared at; some of the men looked at me in a way I considered impermissible (it would certainly have had my father reaching for his sjambok ). But throughout our tour Father Shillingford was seldom greeted, and never with any particular enthusiasm.
When I commented on this: ‘It’s true,’ he said, rather sadly. ‘It’s something which has happened the last year or so. They think all Europeans are either spies or exploiters – even me, and I’ve had this mission for nearly eight years.’ He was staring at a fat old woman selling a horrible confection that looked like pink peanut butter, and staring beyond her, as usual, at some ultimate horizon. ‘They’ve got to move on soon, you see. Even from this wretched place.’
‘Under the Group Areas Act?’
He nodded, his cheerful red face sombre. ‘That’s the magic phrase the Government uses … In future this is going to be a white area; all these people have got to get out, by the end of the year.’ He looked round him, at the squalor and filth of Teroka. ‘You wouldn’t think that would worry them much, would you? But this is home. It’s been home for twenty years or so. They own these houses and these bits of land. Now they’ve had orders to leave and start somewhere else, farther out of town.’
‘But it’s part of the overall plan,’ I said austerely,
‘It’s very good of you to come,’ he said. ‘We don’t have many visitors.’
‘Miss Marais writes for the newspapers,’ said Jonathan Steele, as if trying to put in a good word for me.
‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Father Shillingford.
I decided that they weren’t going to get me down. ‘This isn’t my usual area of operations, Father,’ I said.
He narrowed his gaze until it reached my face, and answered: ‘There are many different kinds of slum.’
‘But she is interested,’ said Jonathan Steele, rather harassed.
Once again he seemed to be apologising for me – for the way I looked, my jewellery, my shoes. It was true that I seemed out of place in Teroka’s grimy ugliness, and for my part I was going to take damned good care to keep things that way … There was a naked boy-child sitting on the lowest of the church steps – coal-black, innocent, and very beautiful. He was a small, engaging fellow creature now, but in a few years he would be a native, probably criminal or sexually dangerous. Father Shillingford wasn’t going to change that fact, and he wasn’t going to change that feeling in myself, either.
These were odd thoughts for me, Teroka thoughts, and I turned away from them. I wanted nothing so much as to be back in my suite at the Carlton, preferably drinking the second of two dry martinis. But that respite was still some distance, and many ugly sights and people, away from me.
Father Shillingford led us first into his church. The sunlight fell pathetically on the worn pews, the beaten earth floor, the altar-cloth stained by rainwater at one corner.
‘We are very poor, as you see,’ said Father Shillingford.
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I had nothing to contribute. This was a shanty-church in a native location: I had expected it to be poor and shabby. To remark on that aspect of it would be as silly as attending a striptease act, advertised as such, and then saying: ‘But she’s naked!’ I had known Teroka would be naked.
‘And of course people break in at night, and take things,’ Father Shillingford continued. ‘I used to be able to sleep here, but that’s not allowed any more.’
‘He bicycles here from Johannesburg every day,’ said Jonathan Steele. ‘Fourteen miles.’
I had known about that, too.
Our excursion now became progressively more dull, as well as hot and irritating. Outside the church, we walked slowly down one of the streets, picking our way past the children and the goats, occasionally pausing to peer inside some wretched hut or sacking shelter. We were freely stared at; some of the men looked at me in a way I considered impermissible (it would certainly have had my father reaching for his sjambok ). But throughout our tour Father Shillingford was seldom greeted, and never with any particular enthusiasm.
When I commented on this: ‘It’s true,’ he said, rather sadly. ‘It’s something which has happened the last year or so. They think all Europeans are either spies or exploiters – even me, and I’ve had this mission for nearly eight years.’ He was staring at a fat old woman selling a horrible confection that looked like pink peanut butter, and staring beyond her, as usual, at some ultimate horizon. ‘They’ve got to move on soon, you see. Even from this wretched place.’
‘Under the Group Areas Act?’
He nodded, his cheerful red face sombre. ‘That’s the magic phrase the Government uses … In future this is going to be a white area; all these people have got to get out, by the end of the year.’ He looked round him, at the squalor and filth of Teroka. ‘You wouldn’t think that would worry them much, would you? But this is home. It’s been home for twenty years or so. They own these houses and these bits of land. Now they’ve had orders to leave and start somewhere else, farther out of town.’
‘But it’s part of the overall plan,’ I said austerely,
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