His uncle said, “That’s another thing—I want to talk to you about that. Don’t hang about—take a taxi from Liverpool Street. St. Walstan will pay.”
Ralph picked up his coat and hat and strode off to the station. He feared the worst. His uncle was going to tell him that he was needed here, in the East End; that the tropics could wait, and that he and Anna should see about renting some rooms a bus ride from the hostel. He wondered whether he would say yes and supposed he would. Anna would have to unpack her cotton dresses and put them in mothballs, and begin her married life as an East End housewife visiting street markets with a basket over her arm. He rehearsed some inner rebellions: let James sacrifice himself, James is a clergyman, he has no life of his own. He bought a cup of tea in a cafe near Liverpool Street. He thought of going back into the station and taking the next train back to Norwich; or alternatively, the next train to somewhere else.
It was half past five when James came back from court, and the hostel was almost full that night, so before he had any conversation with his nephew he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and began to help with the day’s last meal. It was stew—it usually was stew of some sort—but there was all the bread to be cut and margarined. The inmates always wanted bread, three slices per man, whatever the rest of their meal was. They grumbled if they did not get it, as if their rights had been violated.
When the meal was over and the men on the washing-up rota had been identified and corralled and set to their task, James with a twitch of his head beckoned Ralph into his office. They closed the door and with a single purpose, without a word, heaved a filing cabinet at the back of it; they knew from experience that it was the only way they could get a minute without interruption.
“Is it about the posting?” Ralph asked. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem.” James sat down at his desk, and found space for his elbows among the unpaid bills and begging letters and rubber bands. “Why do I have these rubber bands?” he wondered. “What are they for? No, Ralphie, there is no problem with Dar es Salaam, it is just that something more urgent has come up, and I thought that you should have the chance to consider it.”
Here it comes, Ralph thought: my future on the Mile End Road.
James said, “Would you like to go to South Africa?”
On the outskirts of Swaffham today there is a goodly selection of dinky bungalows. They have wrought-iron gates and birdbaths, trellises, hanging baskets, shutters, and dwarf walls. They have raw brickwork and shining windows, and scarlet floribundas in well- weeded beds. Their carriage lamps are the light of the twentieth century. In the marketplace Ralph hears the broad drawling accent in which his grandfather spoke moderated to the foul contemporary tones of middle England.
These bungalow dwellers repopulated the villages of Breckland, which were empty when Ralph went to Africa. Between settlements, there are still tracts of heather and furze, and black pine plantations: barren, monotonous, funereal, like the contents of an East European nightmare. But the bowed, arthritic pines that line the roads creep to the edges of the small towns, intruding themselves among the DIY merchants and filling stations and furniture warehouses; they gather round the new housing estates, like witches at a christening.
It is only in the land marked off by the military’s fences that the old country can be seen. “Danger areas,” they are called on the map. It is said the army builds models there, of life-sized Belfast streets, and that snipers and marksmen creep behind empty windows and false walls. From the roads you can see Nissen huts, like slugs in formation. Signs read NO ENTRY WITHOUT PERMIT—MINISTRY OF DEFENCE PROPERTY. Vegetation creeps like serpents around their metal poles. The wind topples them.
To the east, where Ralph and his children now live at the county’s heart, the great wheat fields roll onto the horizon, denatured, overfertile, factory fields. A farm that employed eighty-five men now employs six; the descendants of the other seventy-nine have delivered themselves from rural squalor, from midden and rotting thatch, and live in the bungalows, or in red-brick council houses with long gardens. In spring, primroses struggle in the verges. In June, there are dog roses in such hedgerows as remain.
Ralph dreams; again, he is three years old. Somewhere behind him, unseen, his father walks, and Uncle James. He curls down inside his grandfather’s coat.
They are going to the church. His grandfather will show him the angels in the roof, and the Pedlar of Swaffham carved on a stall end, and the pedlar’s dog with its round ears and big chain.
The Pedlar of Swaffham: John Chapman was his name. He dreamed one night that if he went to London, and stood on London Bridge, he would meet a man who would tell him how to make his fortune.
The day after this dream, Chapman put his pack on his back and with his dog set off to London. On London Bridge he stood about, until a shopkeeper asked him what he thought he was doing. “I’m here because of a dream,” the pedlar said.
“Dream?” said the shopkeeper. “If I took any notice of dreams, I would be in some country place called Swaffham, in the garden of some yokel called Chapman, digging under his damn-fool pear tree.” With a sneer, the fellow retreated to his merchandise.
John Chapman and his dog returned to Swaffham and dug under the pear tree. There they found a pot of gold. Around the pot ran an inscription. It said, “Under this pot is another, twice as good.” The pedlar began digging again, and found a second crock: and now his fortune was made.
John Chapman gave candlesticks to the church, and rebuilt the north aisle when it fell down, and gave ?120 to the steeple fund. His wife, Cateryne, and his dog were carved on the stalls, the wife with her rosary and the dog with his chain. John Chapman became a churchwarden, and wore an ermine gown.
But Ralph’s dreams? He has shelved them: packed away his specimens and consigned his maps and monographs to a space under the eaves of his father’s house in Norwich. He has consented to another kind of life from the life he had planned for himself. It happens to people at Ralph’s age, at twenty-five, you realize you are no longer the person you were, and will never become the person you meant to be. But he thinks, after all, there is a living to be made; there is a row to be hoed, and at least I am not a clergyman. He is serving God—a bit—and Mammon—a bit; his father’s friends say he has not
From a jelly speck to man the line improves, edging nearer all the time to the summit of God’s design. As the species has evolved, the child in the womb grows, grows through its gills and its fur and becomes human. So society creeps forward, from savagery to benevolence: from cold and hunger and murder, to four walls and hearth stones and arts and parliaments and cures for diseases. At twenty-five Ralph believes this; he believes too in the complex perfectibility of the human heart.
FOUR
Lucy Moyo took a bunch of keys out of the
