'You must buy them this, you must buy them that,' continues Petrus, getting into his stride, no longer listening. 'Now, today, the man does not pay for the woman. I pay.' He floats a hand above his wife's head; modestly she drops her eyes. 'I pay. But that is old fashion. Clothes, nice things, it is all the same: pay, pay, pay.' He repeats the finger-rubbing. 'No, a boy is better. Except your daughter. Your daughter is different. Your daughter is as good as a boy. Almost!' He laughs at his sally. 'Hey, Lucy!'
Lucy smiles, but he knows she is embarrassed. 'I'm going to dance,' she murmurs, and moves away. On the floor she dances by herself in the solipsistic way that now seems to be the mode. Soon she is joined by a young man, tall, loose-limbed, nattily dressed. He dances opposite her, snapping his fingers, flashing her smiles, courting her.
Women are beginning to come in from outside, carrying trays
of grilled meat. The air is full of appetizing smells. A new contingent of guests floods in, young, noisy, lively, not old fashion at all. The party is getting into its swing.
A plate of food finds its way into his hands. He passes it on to Petrus. 'No,' says Petrus - 'is for you. Otherwise we are passing plates all night.'
Petrus and his wife are spending a lot of time with him, making him feel at home. Kind people, he thinks. Country people.
He glances across at Lucy. The young man is dancing only inches from her now, lifting his legs high and thumping them down, pumping his arms, enjoying himself.
The plate he is holding contains two mutton chops, a baked potato, a ladle of rice swimming in gravy, a slice of pumpkin. He finds a chair to perch on, sharing it with a skinny old man with rheumy eyes. I am going to eat this, he says to himself. I am going to eat it and ask forgiveness afterwards. Then Lucy is at his side, breathing fast, her face tense. 'Can we leave?' she says. 'They are here.'
'Who is here?'
'I saw one of them out at the back. David, I don't want to kick up a fuss, but can we leave at once?'
'Hold this.' He passes her the plate, goes out at the back door.
There are almost as many guests outside as inside, clustered around the fire, talking, drinking, laughing. From the far side of the fire someone is staring at him. At once things fall into place. He knows that face, knows it intimately. He thrusts his way past the bodies. I am going to be kicking up a fuss, he thinks. A pity, on this of all days. But some things will not wait.
In front of the boy he plants himself. It is the third of them, the dull-faced apprentice, the running-dog. 'I know you,' he says grimly.
The boy does not appear to be startled. On the contrary, the boy appears to have been waiting for this moment, storing himself up for it. The voice that issues from his throat is thick with rage. 'Who are you?' he says, but the words mean something else: By what right are you here? His whole body radiates violence.
Then Petrus is with them, talking fast in Xhosa.
He lays a hand on Petrus's sleeve. Petrus breaks off, gives him an impatient glare. 'Do you know who this is?' he asks Petrus.
'No, I do not know what this is,' says Petrus angrily. 'I do not know what is the trouble. What is the trouble?'
'He - this thug - was here before, with his pals. He is one of them. But let him tell you what it is about. Let him tell you why he is wanted by the police.'
'It is not true!' shouts the boy. Again he speaks to Petrus, a stream of angry words. Music continues to unfurl into the night air, but no one is dancing any longer: Petrus's guests are clustering around them, pushing, jostling, interjecting. The atmosphere is not good.
Petrus speaks. 'He says he does not know what you are talking about.'
'He is lying. He knows perfectly well. Lucy will confirm.'
But of course Lucy will not confirm. How can he expect Lucy to come out before these strangers, face the boy, point a finger, say, Yes, he is one of them. He was one of those who did the deed?
'I am going to telephone the police,' he says.
There is a disapproving murmur from the onlookers.
'I am going to telephone the police,' he repeats to Petrus. Petrus is stony-faced. In a cloud of silence he returns indoors, where Lucy stands waiting. 'Let's go,' he says. The guests give way before them. No longer is there friendliness in their aspect. Lucy has forgotten the flashlight: they lose their way in the dark; Lucy has to take off her shoes; they blunder through potato beds before they reach the farmhouse.
He has the telephone in his hand when Lucy stops him. 'David, no, don't do it. It's not Petrus's fault. If you call in the police, the evening will be destroyed for him. Be sensible.'
He is astonished, astonished enough to turn on his daughter. Tor God's sake, why isn't it Petrus's fault?
One way or another, it was he who brought in those men in the first place. And now he has the effrontery to invite them back. Why should I be sensible? Really, Lucy, from beginning to end I fail to understand. I fail to understand why you did not lay real charges against them, and now I fail to understand why you are protecting Petrus. Petrus is not an innocent party, Petrus is with them.'
'Don't shout at me, David. This is my life. I am the one who has to live here. What happened to me is my business, mine alone, not yours, and if there is one right I have it is the right not to be put on trial like this, not to have to justify myself-not to you, not to anyone else. As for Petrus, he is not some hired labourer whom I can sack because in my opinion he is mixed up with the wrong people. That's all gone, gone with the wind. If you want to antagonize Petrus, you had better be sure of your facts first. You can't call in the police. I won't have it. Wait until morning. Wait until you have heard Petrus's side of the story.'
'But in the meantime the boy will disappear!'
