Meanwhile Sean, secure in the circle of Shasa's left arm, urged him Faster! Faster, Papa! Go faster! On Centaine's knee Garrick bounced impatiently, Me! he yelled. Now me! Shasa. brought the pony in still at full gallop, then reined him down to a dead stop. He lifted Sean off the pommel against his best effort to stick like a bush tick. Garrick slipped off Centaine's lap and toddled to his father.
The, Daddy, my turn! Shasa leaned out of the saddle, swung the child up in front of him and they were off again at a gallop. It was a game of which they never tired; they had already exhausted two ponies since lunchtime.
There was the sound of a motor vehicle coming down from the chateau, and Centaine sprang to her feet involuntarily as she recognized the distinctive beat of the Bentley's engine.
Then she composed herself and went to meet Blaine with a little more dignity than her eagerness dictated, but as he stepped out of the vehicle she saw his expression and she quickened her step.
What is it, Blaine? she demanded as he kissed her cheek.
Is something wrong? No, of course not, he assured her. The Nationalists have announced their candidates for the Cape constituencies, that's all., Who have they put up against you? She was all attention now. Old Van Schoor again? No, my dear, new blood. Someone you have probably never heard of, Dawid Van Niekerk. 'Who have they nominated for Hottentots Holland? When he hesitated, she was immediately insistent. Who is it, Blaine? He took her arm and began to walk her slowly back to join the family at the tea-table under the oaks.
Life is a strange thing, he said.
Blaine Malcomess, I asked you for an answer, not a few gems of homespun philosophy. Who is it? I'm sorry my dear, he murmured regretfully. They have nominated Manfred De La Rey as their official party candidate. Centaine stopped dead, and she felt the blood drain from her face. Blaine tightened his grip on her arm to steady her as she swayed on her feet. Since the beginning of the war Centaine had heard or seen nothing of her second, unacknowledged, son.
Shasa began his campaign with an open meeting in the Boy Scouts hall of Somerset West.
He and Tara drove out the thirty miles from Cape Town to this beautiful little village which nestled at the foot of Sir Lowry's Pass beneath the rugged barrier of the Hottentots Holland mountains. Tara insisted that they take her old Packard. She never felt comfortable in Shasa's new Rolls.
How can you bear to drive around on four wheels that cost enough to clothe, educate and feed a hundred black children from the cradle to the grave? For once Shasa saw the practical wisdom of not flaunting his wealth in front of his constituents. Tara was really tremendous value for money, Shasa reflected. An aspiring politician could not ask for a better running mate, a mother of four lovely children, outspoken, holding strong opinions and possessing a natural shrewdness that anticipated the prejudices and fickle enthusiasm of the herd. She was also strikingly beautiful with all that smouldering auburn hair and a smile that could light up a dreary meeting, and despite four childbirths in almost as many years, her figure was still marvelous, small waist, good hips, only her bosom had burgeoned.
I'd back her in a showdown with Jane Russell, tit for tat she'd win by a length going away. Shasa chuckled aloud, and she looked across at him.
That's your dirty laugh, she accused. Don't tell me what you are thinking. Let me hear your speech instead. He rehearsed it for her, with appropriate gestures and she made an occasional suggestion on content and delivery. I would pause longer there, I and, look fierce and determined, or, I wouldn't make too much of that bit about the Empire.
Not really in fashion any more. Tara still drove furiously and the journey was soon over.
There were larger-than-life posters of Shasa pasted at the entrance and the hall was gratifyingly full. All the seats ken and there were even a dozen or so younger men were ta standing at the back - they looked like students, Shasa doubted they were old enough to vote.
The local United Party organizer, a Party rosette on his lapel, introduced Shasa as a man who needed no introduction and extolled the fine work he had done for the constituency during his previous short term of office.
Then Shasa rose, tall and debonair in a dark blue suit that was not too new or fashionably cut, but with a crisp white shirt, only spivs wore coloured shirts, and an airforce tie to remind them of his war record. The eye-patch further emphasized what he had sacrificed for his country and his smile was charming and sincere.
My friends he began, and got no further. He was drowned out by a pandemonium of stamping and chanting and jeering. Shasa tried to make a joke of it, pretending to conduct the orchestrated abuse, but his smile became steadily less sincere as the uproar showed no signs of abating, instead becoming louder and more vindictive as the minutes passed. Finally he began to deliver his address, bellowing it out to be heard above the din.
There were about three hundred of them, taking up the entire back half of the hall, and they made clear their allegiance to the Nationalist Party and its candidate, waving Party banners that depicted the powder horn insignia and holding up posters of Manfred De La Rey's gravely handsome portrait.
After the first fcw minutes a number of the elderly and middle-aged voters in the front of the hall, sensing the violence that was coming, helped their wives from their seats and scuttled out of the side entrance to a renewed outburst of jeers.
Suddenly Tara Courtney leapt to her feet beside Shasa.
Flushed with anger, her grey eyes hard and glittering as bayonets, she yelled at them, What kind of men are you?
Is this fair? You call yourselves Christians? Where is your Christian charity? Give the man a chance! Her voice carried, and her furious beauty checked them.
Their inherent sense of chivalry began to take effect, one or two of them sat down and grinned sheepishly, the noise began to abate, but a big dark-haired man leapt up from the audience and rallied them.
Kom kerels, come on, boys, let's see the Soutie back to England where he belongs., Shasa knew the man, he was one of the local Party organizers. He had been on the Olympic team back in 1936 and had spent most of the war in an internment camp. He was a senior lecturer in Law at Stellenbosch University and Shasa challenged him in Afrikaans: Does Meneer Roelf Stander believe in the rule of law and the right of free speech? Before he could finish, the first missile was thrown. it came sailing in a high parabola from the back of the hall and burst on the table in front of Tara, a brown paper bag filled with dog turds, and immediately there was a bombardment of soft fruit and toilet rolls, dead chickens and rotten fish.
