The Sun Between Their Feet: Collected African Stories Volume Two. Doris Lessing
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knew she could no longer see us.
For a few days we didn’t go back to the house. When we did we stopped playing Mr Thompson. We no longer knew him: that laugh, that slow, insulting stare had meant something outside our knowledge and experience. The house was not ours now. It was some broken bricks on the ground marked out with bottles. We couldn’t pretend to ourselves we were not afraid of the place; and we continually glanced over our shoulders to see if the old black woman was standing silently there, watching us.
Idling along the fence, we threw stones at the pawpaws fifteen feet over our heads till they squashed at our feet. Then we kicked them into the bush.
‘Why have you stopped going to the old house?’ asked Mother cautiously, thinking that we didn’t know how pleased she was. She had instinctively disliked our being there so much.
‘Oh, I dunno …’
A few days later we heard that the Thompsons were coming to see us; and we knew, without anyone saying, that this was no ordinary visit. It was the first time; they wouldn’t be coming after all these years without some reason. Besides, our parents didn’t like them coming. They were at odds with each other over it.
Mr Thompson had lived on our farm for ten years before we had it, when there was no one else near for miles and miles. Then, suddenly, he went home to England and brought a wife back with him. The wife never came to this farm. Mr Thompson sold the farm to us and bought another one. People said:
‘Poor girl! Just out from home, too.’ She was angry about the house burning down, because it meant she had to live with friends for nearly a year while Mr Thompson built a new house on his new farm.
The night before they came, Mother said several times in a strange, sorrowful voice, ‘Poor little thing; poor, poor little thing.’
Father said: ‘Oh, I don’t know. After all, be just. He was here alone all those years.’
It was no good; she disliked not only Mr Thompson but Father too, that evening; and we were on her side. She put her arms round us, and looked accusingly at Father. ‘Women get all the worst of everything,’ she said.
He said angrily: ‘Look here, it’s not my fault these people are coming.’
‘Who said it was?’ she answered.
Next day, when the car came in sight, we vanished into the bush. We felt guilty, not because we were running away, a thing we often did when visitors came we didn’t like, but because we had made Mr Thompson’s house our own, and because we were afraid if he saw our faces he would know we were letting Mother down by going.
We climbed into the tree that was our refuge on these occasions, and lay along branches twenty feet from the ground, and played at Mowgli, thinking all the time about the Thompsons.
As usual, we lost all sense of time; and when we eventually returned, thinking the coast must be clear, the car was still there. Curiosity got the better of us.
We slunk on to the veranda, smiling bashfully, while Mother gave us a reproachful look. Then, at last, we lifted our heads and looked at Mrs Thompson. I don’t know how we had imagined her; but we had felt for her a passionate, protective pity.
She was a large, blonde, brilliantly coloured lady with a voice like a go-away bird’s. It was a horrible voice. Father, who could not stand loud voices, was holding the arms of his chair, and gazing at her with exasperated dislike.
As for Mr Thompson, that villain whom we had hated and feared, he was a shaggy and shambling man, who looked at the ground while his wife talked, with a small apologetic smile. He was not in the least as we had pictured him. He looked like our old dog. For a moment we were confused; then, in a rush, our allegiance shifted. The profound and dangerous pity, aroused in us earlier than we could remember by the worlds of loneliness inhabited by our parents, which they could not share with each other but which each shared with us, settled now on Mr Thompson. Now we hated Mrs Thompson. The outward sign of it was that we left Mother’s chair and went to Father’s.
‘Don’t fidget, there’s good kids,’ he said.
Mrs Thompson was asking to be shown the old house. We understood, from the insistent sound of her voice, that she had been talking about nothing else all afternoon; or that, at any rate, if she had, it was only with the intention of getting round to the house as soon as she could. She kept saying, smiling ferociously at Mr Thompson: ‘I have heard such interesting things about that old place. I really must see for myself where it was that my husband lived before I came out …’ And she looked at Mother for approval.
But Mother said dubiously: ‘It will soon be dark. And there is no path.’
As for Father, he said bluntly: ‘There’s nothing to be seen. There’s nothing left.’
‘Yes, I heard it had been burnt down,’ said Mrs Thompson with another look at her husband.
‘It was a hurricane lamp…’ he muttered.
‘I want to see for myself.’
At this point my sister slipped off the arm of my Father’s chair, and said, with a bright, false smile at Mrs Thompson, ‘We know where it is. We’ll take you.’ She dug me in the ribs and sped off before anyone could speak.
At last they all decided to come. I took them the hardest, longest way I knew. We had made a path of our own long ago, but that would have been too quick. I made Mrs Thompson climb over rocks, push through grass, bend under bushes. I made her scramble down the gully so that she fell on her knees in the sharp pebbles and the dust. I walked her so fast, finally, in a wide circle through the thorn trees that I could hear her panting behind me. But she wasn’t complaining: she wanted to see the place too badly.
When we came to where the house had been it was nearly dark and the tufts of long grass were shivering in the night breeze, and the pawpaw trees were silhouetted high and dark against a red sky. Guinea-fowl were clinking softly all around us.
My sister leaned against a tree, breathing hard, trying to look natural. Mrs Thompson had lost her confidence. She stood quite still, looking about her, and we knew the silence and the desolation had got her, as it got us that first morning.
‘But where is the house?’ she asked at last, unconsciously softening her voice, staring as if she expected to see it rise out of the ground in front of her.
‘I told you, it was burnt down. Now will you believe me?’ said Mr Thompson.
‘I know it was burnt down … Well, where was it then?’ She sounded as if she were going to cry. This was not at all what she had expected.
Mr Thompson pointed at the bricks on the ground. He did not move. He stood staring over the fence down to the vlei, where the mist was gathering in long white folds. The light faded out of the sky, and it began to get cold. For a while no one spoke.
‘What a god-forsaken place for a house,’ said Mrs Thompson, very irritably, at last. ‘Just as well it was burnt down. Do you mean to say you kids play here?’
That was our cue. ‘We like it,’ we said dutifully, knowing very well that the two of us standing on the bricks, hand in hand, beside the ghostly rosebush, made a picture that took all the harm out of the place for her. ‘We play here all day,’ we lied.
‘Odd taste you’ve got,’ she said, speaking at us, but meaning Mr Thompson.
Mr Thompson did not hear her. He was looking around with a lost, remembering expression. ‘Ten years,’ he said at last. ‘Ten years I was here.’
‘More fool you,’ she snapped. And that closed the subject as far as she was concerned.
We began to trail home. Now the two women went in front; then came Father and Mr Thompson; we followed at the back. As we passed a small donga under a cactus tree, my sister called in a whisper, ‘Mr Thompson, Mr Thompson, look here.’
Father and Mr Thompson came back. ‘Look,’ we said, pointing to the