garden … You are talking of a human soul.”
* * *
It was a year later that Ralph felt a crisis in his work. His books were selling, but on the other hand they were not taken seriously enough by serious people. All his novels had ended happily. He decided to write a tragedy.
He ranged his experience for a tragedy. He thought of, and rejected as too banal, the domestic ruptures of his friends past and present. He rejected the story of his mother, widowed young, disappointed in her son, but still pushing on: that was too personal. He thought of Daphne. That might lead to something both exotic and tragic. He recalled her stories of Old Tuys and Chakata, the theme of the lifelong feud. He took a ticket on a plane to the Colony in order to obtain background material at first hand.
Almost immediately he arrived in the Colony he found himself beset by admirers. He had never before been so celebrated and popular in his person. He was invited to Government House. Dinners were given in his honour, and people drove in through swollen rivers from outlying districts to attend them. He had to pick and choose amongst the invitations he received. Everyone with a white skin had heard of, if they had not read, Ralph Mercer. Moreover, seated among this company on wide verandas after dinner he could look round without catching the cool eye of some critic, some frightful man whom the public hardly ever heard of, but who, at home, was always present at parties of this sort, and who put Ralph out. He began to think he had vastly underrated the intelligence of his public.
“I have been thinking of changing my style. I’ve been thinking of writing a tragedy.”
“Good Lord,” said the retired brigadier whom he had addressed, “you don’t want to do that.”
Everyone said the same.
Another thing everyone said was, “Why don’t you settle here?” or “Why don’t you take a place and live here for part of the year? It’s the only way to avoid the heavy taxes.”
At the Club he had met Michael Casse who had come up to the Capital to see the Land Bank about a loan.
“My wife adores your books,” said Michael. He giggled. Ralph wondered for a moment if Michael was a critic.
“We have a mutual friend,” said Michael, “or rather had. Daphne du Toit. I went to her funeral.” He giggled.
“The reason I’ve come out here is to see her grave,” said Ralph defensively. “And to talk to her uncle.”
“Got a car?” said Michael. “If not I’ll drive you down. I live near them.” Ralph realized that Michael’s giggle was a nervous tic.
“I might settle in the Colony – seven months in the year, you know,” he confided.
“There’s a nice place near us,” said Michael. “It’s coming up for sale soon.”
Ralph had been two months in the Colony, had toured the country, had been shown all the interesting spots, and met the enjoyable people, when at last he accepted Michael’s invitation to stay at his farm.
“Are you writing anything at the moment?” said Michael’s wife.
“No, but I’m collecting material.”
“Oh, will it be about the Colony?”
“It’s difficult to say.”
He was not sure now that the Daphne idea would be as appealing as he had thought. He could not envisage his public, especially that section which he had recently met at close quarters, appreciating such a theme.
Michael showed him over the farm which was up for sale. Ralph said he would almost certainly take it.
They went to see Chakata and Ralph spoke of Daphne. Chakata said, “Why didn’t she settle down in England? Why did she come back?”
“I suppose she wanted to,” said Michael, and giggled.
Chakata spoke of his rheumatism. He hobbled out on the stoep and called for drinks. As they followed, Ralph noticed a lanky old man seated in the corner, muttering to himself.
He inquired of Chakata. “Is that Mr Tuys? Daphne told me about Mr Tuys.”
Chakata said, “Bad year for maize. I shan’t live long.”
Michael drove Ralph down to the cemetery. His wife had suggested: “Leave him alone for a while in the cemetery. I think he was in love with the girl.” Michael respected his wife’s delicacy. He giggled, left Ralph at the graveside, and explaining that he had some errands to do in the village, said he would be back by and by.
“You won’t be long,” said Ralph, “will you?”
“Oh no,” said Michael.
“There seem to be a lot of mosquitoes about here. Is it a fever area?”
“Oh no.” He giggled and went.
After Ralph had looked at the inscription, “Daphne du Toit, 1922–1950”, he walked up and down. He looked blankly at the gravestones and noticed one inscribed “Donald Cloete”. This name seemed familiar, but he could not remember in what way. Perhaps it was someone Daphne had talked about.
“Go’way, go’way.”
That was the bird, just behind Daphne’s grave. She had often mentioned the bird.
“It says go’way, go’way.”
“Well, what about it?” he had said to her irritably, for sometimes she had appeared to him, as in a revelation, a personified Stupidity.
She would tell him, “There’s a bird that says ‘Go’way, go’way’,” without connecting the information with any particular event; she would expect him to be interested, as if he were an ornithologist, not an author.
“Go’way, go’way,” said the bird behind Daphne’s grave.
He heard the bird at some time during each day for the next six weeks while he was completing his tour of the rural spaces. He was glad to return to the Capital, and to be free of its voice. Relaxing in the Club, it was as though the bird had never existed.
However, he went with the Governor for a round of golf:
“Go’way. Go’way …”
He booked a seat on the plane to England for the following week. He met Michael once more by chance at Williams Hotel.
“That farm,” said Michael “– someone else has made an offer. You’d better settle right away.”
“I don’t want it,” said Ralph. “I don’t want to stay here.”
They sat on the stoep drinking highballs. Beyond the mosquito netting was the bird.
“Can you hear that go-away bird?” said Ralph.
Michael listened obediently.
“No, I can’t say I can.” He giggled, and Ralph wanted to hit him.
“I hear it everywhere,” said Ralph. “I don’t like it. That’s why I’m going.”
“Good Lord. Keen on bird life, are you?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Ralph Mercer isn’t going to buy the farm,” Michael told his wife that evening.
“I thought it was settled.”
“No, he’s going home. He isn’t coming back. He says he doesn’t like the birds here.”
“I wish you could cure that giggle, Michael. What did you say he doesn’t like?”
“The birds.”
“Birds. Is he an ornithologist then?”
“No,