'Oh boy, am I looking forward to really starting work, after bashing the books all these dreary years.' Michael came bursting breathlessly into the dining-room. 'Thank goodness, Pater, I thought I had missed you.' 'Slow down, Mickey,' Shasa cautioned him. 'You'll burst a blood vessel. Have some breakfast.' 'I'm not hungry this morning.' Michael sat down opposite his father. 'I wanted to talk to you.' 'Well, open fire then,' Shasa invited.
'Not here,' Michael demurred. 'I rather hoped we could talk in the gun room,' and all three of them looked grave. The gun room was only used on the most portentous occasions, and a request for a meeting in the gun room was not to be taken lightly.
Shasa glanced at his watch. 'Mickey, Harold Macmillan is addressing both houses--' 'I know, Pater, but this won't take long. Please, sir.' The fact that Michael was calling him 'sir' underlined the seriousness of the request, but Shasa resented the deliberate timing.
Whenever Michael wanted to raise a contentious issue, he did so when Shasa's opportunity to respond was severely curtailed. The lad was as devious as his mother, whose child he indubitably was, spiritually as well as physically.
'Ten minutes, then,' Shasa agreed reluctantly. 'Will you excuse us please, Garry?' Shasa led the way down the passage and locked the gun-room door behind them.
'Very well.' He took his usual place in front of the fireplace. 'What is it, my boy?' 'I've got a job, Dad.' Michael was breathless again.
'A job. Yes, I know you have a part-time job as local stringer for the Mail. I enjoyed your report on the polo - in fact you read it to me. Very good it was,' Shasa grinned, 'all five lines of it.' 'No, sir, I've got a full-time job. I spoke to the editor of the Mail and they have offered me a job as a cub reporter. I start the first of next month.' Shasa's grin faded into a scowl. 'Damn it, Mickey. You can't be serious - what about your education? You have two more years to go at university.' 'I am serious, sir. I will get my education on the paper.' 'No,' Shasa raised his voice. 'No, I forbid it. I won't have you leaving university before you are capped.' 'I'm sorry, sir. I've made up my mind.' Michael was pale and trembling, yet he had that obstinate set expression that infuriated $hasa even more than the words - but he controlled himself.
'You know the rules,' Shasa said. 'I've made them clear to all of you. If you do things my way, there is no limit to the help I will giv you. If you go your own way, then you are on your own --' he too a breath, and then said it, surprised at how painful it was '-- like Sean.' God, how he still missed his eldest son.
'Yes, sir,' Michael nodded. 'I know the rules.' 'Well?' 'I have to do it, Sir. There is nothing else I want to do with my lif I want to learn to write. I don't want to go against you, Pater, but simply have to do it.' 'This is your mother's doing,' Shasa said coldly. 'She has put yo up to this,' he accused, and Michael looked sheepish.
'Mater knows about it,' he admitted, 'but it's my decision aloin sir.' 'You understand that you will be forfeiting my support? You' not receive another penny from me once you leave this hous You'll have to live on the salary of a cub reporter.' 'I understand, sir,' Michael nodded.
'All right, then, Michael. Off you go,' he said, and Michael looke.
stunned.
'Is that all, sir?' 'Unless you have some other announcement to make.' 'No, sir.' Michael's shoulders slumped. 'Except that I love yo very much, Pater, and I appreciate all that you have done for me.' 'You have,' said Shasa, 'a most peculiar way of demonstratin that appreciation, if you don't mind me saying so.' He went to th door.
He was halfway into the city, racing the Jaguar down the the highway between the university and Groote Schuur, before he re covered from his affront at Michael's disloyalty, for that is how Shas saw his son's decision. Now suddenly he began to think about news papers again. Publicly he had always disparaged the strange suicida impulse that gripped so manysuccessful men in their middle years t, own their own newspaper. It was notoriously difficult to milk a reason able profit from a newspaper, but in secret Shasa had felt th sneaking temptation to indulge in the same rich man's folly.
'Not much profit,' he mused aloud, 'but the power! To be able t, influence the minds of people!' In South Africa the English press was hysterically anti-government, while the Afrikaans press was fawningly and abjectly the slav of the National Party. A thinking man could trust neither.
'What about an English-language paper that was aimed at th, business community and politically uncommitted,' he wondered, a he had before. 'What if I were to buy one of the smaller weake papers and build it up? After the Silver River Mine's next dividend i declared, we are going to be sitting on a pile of money.' Then he grinned. 'I must be getting senile, but at least I'll be able to guarantee a job for my drop-out journalist son!' And the idea of Michael as editor of a large influential newspaper had an increasing appeal, the longer he thought about it. Still, I wish the little blighter would get himself a decent education first,' he grumbled, but he had almost forgiven him for his treachery by the time he parked the Jaguar in the parking area reserved for cabinet ministers. 'Of course, I'll keep him on a decent allowance,' he decided. 'That threat was just a little bluff.' A sense of excited expectation gripped the House as Shasa went up the stairs to the front entrance. The lobby was crowded with senators and members of parliament. The knots of dark-suited men formed and dissolved and re-formed, in the intricate play of political cross-currents that fascinated Shasa. As an insider he could read the significance of who was talking to whom and why.
It took him almost twenty minutes to reach the foot of the staircase for as one of the prime actors he was drawn inexorably into the subtle theatre of power and favour. At last he escaped and with only minutes to spare hurried up the stairs and down the passage to his suite.
Tricia was hovering anxiously. 'Oh, Mr Courtney, everybody is looking for you. Lord Littleton telephoned and the prime minister's secretary left a message.' She was reading from her pad as she followed him into the inner office.
'Try to get the PM's secretary first, then Lord Littleton.' Shasa sat at his desk, and frowned as he noticed some chalky white specks on his blotter. He brushed them away irritably, and would have given Tricia an order to speak to the cleaners, but she was still reading from her pad and he had less than an hour to tackle the main items on her list before the joint sitting began.
He dealt with the queries that Verwoerd's secretary had for him.
The answers were in his head and he did not have to refer to anybody in his department - and then Littleton was on the line. He wanted to discuss an addition to the agenda for their meeting that afternoon, and once they had agreed that, Shasa asked tactfully, 'Have you found out anything about the speeches this morning?' 'Afraid not, old man. I'm as much in the dark as you are.' As Shasa reached across the desk to replace the receiver, he noticed another white speck of chalk on his blotter that had not been there a minute before; he was about to brush that away also, when he paused and looked up to see where it had come from. This time he scowled as he saw the small hole in his ceiling and the hair-line cracks around it. He pressed the switch on his intercom.
