Rinderpest was a game-borne disease. The minister pointed out, We cannot risk a repetition of such a calamity. The proclaimed area of Northern Zululand encompasses both highly valuable arable land, and a major watershed vital to proper conservation of our natural resources. If the full potential of our national assets is to be exploited, these areas must be turned over to properly controlled development. The minister went on, Your Government has placed priority on this issue, and we will be placing legislation before Parliament at the next sitting. Mark read the article through carefully. It was placed prominently on the leader page of the Natal Witness. There are more, General Sean Courtney thumbed open a slim folder with half a dozen other cuttings, take them with you. You'll see it's all the same general purport. Dirk Courtney is beating the drum with a very big stick, I'm afraid. He's in such a position of power now. I never dreamed he would be a Deputy Minister. Yes, Sean nodded. He has rushed to power, but on the other hand we still have a voice. One of our members in a solid seat has stood down for Jannie Smuts, even I have been offered a seat in a safer constituencyWill you take it, Sir? Sean shook his silver beard slowly. I've had a long time in public life, my boy, and anything you do too long becomes a bore. He nodded as he thought about his words. Of course, that's not strictly true. I am tired, let the younger ones with more energy pick up the reins now.
Jannie Smuts will keep in close touch, he knows he can call on me, but I feel like an old Zulu chief. I just want to sit in the sun, drink beer, grow fat and count my cattle What about Chaka's Gate, Sir? Mark pleaded.
I have spoken to Jannie Smuts and some of the others, on both sides of the house. We have a lot of support in the new Government as well. I don't want to make it a party issue, I'd like to see it as an issue of each man's own conscience.
They went on talking until Ruth intervened reluctantly. It's after midnight, dear. You can finish your talk in the morning. When are you leaving, Mark? I should be back at Chaka's Gate tomorrow night. Mark felt a prick of guilt as he lied. He knew damned well he was not going home just yet a while. But you'll stay for lunch tomorrow? Yes I'd like that. Thank you. As Mark rose he picked up the file of newspaper clippings from Sean's desk. I'll let you have them back tomorrow, Sir. However, the moment Mark was alone in his room, he dropped into an easy chair and turned avidly to the reverse side of the newspaper cutting he had brought with him.
He had not dared to turn over the cutting and read the words that had caught his eye in the General's presence, but now he lingered over them, re-reading and savouring.
Part of the article was missing, scissored away when the Deputy Minister's speech had been trimmed, but there wasenough.
ExcEPTIONAL EXHIBITION BY YOUNG ARTIST Presently showing at the sample rooms of the Marine Hotel on the Marine Parade is an exhibition of thirty paintings by a young lady artist.
For Miss Storm Courtney, it is her first public exhibition and even a much older and more established artist could have been justly gratified with such a reception by the art-lovers of our fair city. After the first five days, twenty-one of her paintings had found enthusiastic purchasers at prices as high as fifty guineas each. Miss Courtney has a classical conception of form, combined with both a sure sense of colour and a mature and confident execution rare in an artist of such tender years.
Worthy of special mention is Number 16, Greek athlete at rest. This painting, property of the artist and not for sale, is a lyrical composition that would perhaps raise the eyebrows of the more old-fashioned. It is an unashamedly sensual ode to Here the scissors had cut through, leaving Mark with a disturbing unfinished feeling. He read it once more, inordinately pleased that Storm had reverted to her maiden name with which to sign her work. Then carefully he folded the cutting into his wallet, and he sat in the chair staring at the wall, until he fell asleep, still fully dressed.
A young Zulu lass, no more than sixteen years of age, opened the door of the cottage. She was dressed in the traditional white cotton dustcoat of the nanny and she carried baby John on her hip.
Both nanny and child regarded Mark with huge solemn eyes, but the nanny's relief was patent when Mark addressed her in fluent Zulu.
At the sound of Mark's voice John let out an excited squawk that could have been recognition, but was probably merely a friendly greeting. He began to leap up and down on the nanny's hip with such force that she had to grab to prevent him taking off like a sky rocket, He reached out both hands towards Mark, burbling and laughing and shouting, and Mark took him, all warm and wriggling and baby-smelling, from the maid. John immediately seized a handful of Mark's hair and tried to remove it by the roots.
Half an hour later when Mark handed him back to the little moon-faced maid, and went down the steep pathway to the beach, John's indignant howls of protest followed him, only fading with distance.
Mark kicked off his shoes and left them and his shirt above the high-tide mark, then he turned northwards and followed the white sweep of sand, his bare feet leaving wet prints on the smooth firm edge of the seashore.
He had walked a mile, and there was no sign of any other person. The beach sand was rippled by static wind- blown wavelets, and dappled with the webbed prints of sea-birds.
On his right hand, the surf rose in long glassy lines, curling green and then dropping over in a crash of white water that shook the sand beneath his feet. on his left hand, the dense, dark green bush rose above the white beach, and again beyond that, the far blue hills and taller bluer sky.
He was alone, until he saw, perhaps a mile ahead, another solitary figure, also following the edge of the sea, a far small and lonely figure, coming towards him, still too distant to tell whether it was man or woman, friend or stranger.
Mark lengthened his stride, and the figure drew nearer, clearer.
Mark began to run, and the figure ahead of him stopped suddenly, and stood with that stillness poised on the edge of flight.
Then suddenly the stillness exploded, and the figure was racing to him.
It was a woman, a woman with dark silky hair streaming in the wind, a woman with outstretched arms and flying bare brown feet, and white teeth and blue, very blue eyes.
They were alone in the bedroom. Baby John's cot had been removed to the small dining-room next door, since he had begun to show an interest in everything that looked like a good romp, hanging on the edge of his cot with shouts of applause and approbation, and then trying his utmost to scale the wooden railings and join the play.
Now they were enjoying those contented minutes between love and sleep, talking softly in the candlelight under a single sheet, lying on their sides facing each other, holding close, with their lips almost touching as they murmured together. But darling Mark, it is still a thatched hut, and it is still wild bush. It's a big thatched hut, he pointed out. I don't know. I just don't know if I have changed that much. There is only one way to find out. Come with me. But what will people say? The same as they'd say if they could see us now She chuckled easily, and
