billowing, parting. The sun was fighting through. The stranger took her arm, and turned her body so that she saw a wisp of cloud, like smoke, rising into the sky.
The Archbishop of Cape Town said, ‘You’re not like your Uncle James. You’re more of a muscular Christian.’
‘Oh, James,’ Ralph said. ‘No, he’s never looked strong.’
‘But he has endured,’ the archbishop said. He seemed to relish the phrase. It gave a heroic quality to James’ life. Which, Ralph supposed, it really did possess. From some points of view.
He wished he could have avoided this interview. They did not merit a prelate; only James’ letter of introduction had brought them here. They could have gone straight to Johannesburg by rail, and on to Elim. They could have been briefed by an underling from the Pretoria diocese. Or not briefed at all. Frankly, Ralph had expected he would have to muddle through. It was the usual way.
‘I wanted James here with me,’ the archbishop said. ‘Some seven years ago. When I was raised to this – ah – dignity. We had here, at that time, everything one could require. Churches, schools, hospitals, clubs. We had the money and the men. We had the blessed opportunity of leadership. Well, perhaps James saw what would come of it. I cannot claim I did.’
The archbishop limped across the room, setting up little vibrations in the furniture, making the tea-cups tremble. He was a vast, heavy man, seventy years old or perhaps more. He handed himself to a sofa; grunting with effort and pain as he lowered himself, he manoeuvred his stiff leg and propped it on cushions as if it were a false limb, or as if it belonged to someone else. It was a moment before he spoke again. ‘We set out with high ideals,’ he said. ‘The things we wanted have not happened. Well, there was no promise that they would.’
The archbishop seemed shy. Could an archbishop be shy? He spoke gruffly, in short, broken phrases; the phrases were, none the less, well-planned.
‘A year before I was enthroned,’ he said, ‘the electorate threw out Smuts and put the Nationalists in. Then certain laws were enacted, which I presume you know everything about – or if you do not, you will know shortly. You will learn the theory. You will see the practice. You will see that we have come, in effect, to be a police state.’ He broke off, waiting for Ralph’s reaction. ‘Oh, be sure I did not always talk in this fashion. I gave the elected government what leeway I could, for one tries to play the statesman. I understood the machinery of their laws, but I did not know how they would operate it.’
‘Apartheid is hard to believe in,’ Ralph said. ‘I mean, you’d have to see it to believe it.’
The archbishop grunted. ‘Separateness, they used to say. It is the change of language that is significant – it is rather more than the evolution of a term. But I said to myself, when Daniel Malan came in, he is not an oaf. He is a cultured man. He has a doctorate,’ the archbishop broke off and gave a short laugh, ‘which he got from the University of Utrecht, with a thesis on Bishop Berkeley. Malan has still some regard for public opinion, I told myself. Then behold, out goes Malan, in comes Strydom, who as you may know was at one time an ostrich farmer. Educated where? Stellenbosch and Pretoria. He is a man from the Transvaal. You will learn what that means. When J. G. Strydom came in I had my moment of despair. That was three years ago now.’
Anna made a tentative movement, in the direction of the tea tray. The archbishop nodded to her, then turned and addressed himself to Ralph.
‘You have heard of the Bantu Education Act. They have put you in the picture in London, I hope. You know our preeminence in education; the churches have done everything, the government nothing. It is we who have educated the African. We did not know, when we were doing it, that we were going about to embarrass the government. All we have achieved, as they see it, is to create a threat to them. By this Act they mean to remove the threat.’
‘I find it difficult to get my mind around it, I suppose,’ Ralph said. ‘Education is progress, would you not think, it is civilization? I can’t imagine that any government in the history of the world, until now, has set out to make time run backwards.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the archbishop said. ‘There would be some. It doesn’t do to generalize. But you see why they’ve done it, don’t you? Education for the non-Europeans is now put into the hands of Dr Verwoerd, at the Native Affairs Department. Dr Verwoerd’s reasoning is, what is the use of teaching mathematics to an African child? A labourer doesn’t need mathematics. Give him mathematics, he will begin to think he might try to be a little more than a labourer. Well, Dr Verwoerd would not want him to make that mistake.’
Anna brought the tea. The archbishop tested it. ‘Very good, my dear,’ he said, ‘Such a pleasure, tea, isn’t it?’ He looked, Anna thought, as if his pleasures were few. She melted away, back to her tapestry stool.
‘The notion is to bring in a new kind of education,’ the archbishop said, looking into his cup. ‘An education to create coolies and houseboys and fodder for the mines. Two and a half hours a day, taught by little girls who have scraped through their Standard VI. This is not merely the prescription for the children of the illiterate, this is for all – for the children of our brightest mission boys and girls, for the children of university graduates from Fort Hare. The parents have to contain themselves in patience while they see their children stultified.’
‘It seems to cut off hope for the future,’ Ralph said. ‘You can repeal other laws, but how will you undo the effect of this one?’
‘Precisely,’ the archbishop said. ‘In twenty years’ time, or in forty years’ time, when this idiocy is over, how will you put wisdom into heads that have been deprived of it?’
The archbishop’s hand shook a little now. The tea-cup seemed to be too much for him, as a delicate piece of china might be too much for a bear. Anna darted forward, took the cup, returned it to the tray. He did not appear to notice her.
‘And so now, how are the churches situated?’ The old man turned his head towards Ralph. ‘We sit before the government “like the rabbit before the cobra”, as Father Huddleston has so memorably expressed it.’ His voice was dry. ‘Father Huddleston has a gift for the vivid phrase, has he not? Some people say we should close all our schools rather than take part in this fantastic scheme. Others say that any education is better than none. Father Huddleston, if I may quote again, calls that sentiment “the voice of Vichy”. Mrs Eldred,’ he turned his head again, stiffly and painfully, ‘although you are a trained teacher, you will find yourself engaged in amusing children rather than teaching them. We have to try to get them off the streets, where they will get into trouble. This place, you know, Elim – well, it is not in my cure, but I can tell you something of what to expect. Elim is what they call a freehold township. Africans have been settled there since the turn of the century. They have built houses, they own them. Generations have grown up in Elim. There would be, I don’t know, 50,000 people?’
‘About that,’ Ralph said.
‘And now there is no security any more, no guarantee of what succeeding years will bring. They are knocking down Sophiatown, and Elim may be next.’
‘Where will they put the people?’ Anna said.
‘Ah, this is the essence of the apartheid policy, my dear. The government wishes to return them to their tribal areas.’ Turning his head again, he spoke with grave, weary courtesy, as if he were addressing the President himself, and giving him all the credit he could muster for a foolish scheme. ‘Well, you will grasp the situation better when you arrive there. But you must understand that for the people you are going to live among everything has
