Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

' There. ' Cedric pointed.

'But – when it is finished how big will it be?'

Cedric pointed again. 'There... there... from that line of trees to the kopje, and from there to where we are standing.'

' A big dam, then?'

' It won't be the Kariba. '

' Okay,’ said Mr Phiri. He was disappointed. He had expected to see a lake of sweet brown water, with cows standing in it up to their middles, and over it thorn trees where weaver birds' nests dangled. He could not consciously remember ever seeing this scene, but that is what a dam meant to him. ‘When will it be full?'

' Perhaps you could arrange for some good rain? This is our third season with practically no rain. '

Mr Phiri laughed, but he was feeling like a schoolboy and didn't like it. He could not imagine the sweep ofwater that would be here under the hills.

' If you want to catch Mandizi, we should go back. '

' Okay. ' This was okay in its primal sense: Yes, I agree.

‘I’ll take you back another way,’ said Cedric, though it was against his interests to impress this man who intended to steal his farm. He wanted to share his loving pride in what he had made from the bush. A mile from the house a herd of cattle stood eating dry maize cobs. They had the frantic look of drought-stressed animals. What Mr Phiri saw was cattle, saw mombies, and he longed to own them. His eyes filled with the wonder of these beasts: he did not realise they were in trouble.

Cedric said, ‘I am having to shoot the calves as they are born. ' His voice was harsh. Mr Phiri was shocked, and he stammered out, ‘But, but... yes, I read in the paper... but that is terrible. ' He saw that tears were running down the white man's cheeks. ' It must be terrible, ' he said, sighing, and tactfully tried not to look at Cedric. He was feeling a real warmth for him, but he did not know what he would do if the white man broke down and wept. ' Shooting calves... but is there nothing... nothing...’

'No milk in the udders,' said Cedric. 'And when cows are as thin as that, the calves are poor quality when they are born.'

They were at the house.

Mr Mandizi was just arriving, but Cedric at first thought it was a deputy: the man was half the size he had been.

‘You've lost a lot of weight,’ said Cedric.

‘Yes, that is so. '

He had dropped the mechanic at the Mercedes and now he opened the back door of the car and said to Mr Phiri, ' Get in, please.’And to Cedric in an official voice, 'You should get your radio fixed. I could hardly hear you.'

' That would be the day,’ said Cedric.

‘And now to the school,’ said Mr Phiri, who was in low spirits because of the calves. He did not talk as he was driven to the Mission.

' This is the priest's house. '

‘But I want the headmaster's house. '

' There is no headmaster. I am afraid he is in prison. '

‘But why is there no replacement?'

‘We have asked for a replacement, but you see this is not an attractive posting. They would rather go to a town. Or as near as they can to a town. '

Anger restored Mr Phiri's vitality, and he strode into the little house, followed by his subordinate. No one was about. He clapped his hands and Rebecca appeared. 'Tell the priest I am here.'

' Father McGuire is up at the school. If you walk up that path you will find him.'

‘And why will you not go?'

‘I have something in the oven. And Father McGuire is waiting for you. '

‘And why is he there?'

' He teaches the big children. I think he is teaching many classes, because the headmaster is not here. ' Rebecca turned to go into the kitchen.

‘And where are you going? I have not said you can go. '

Rebecca made a deep, slow curtsy and stood with her hands folded, eyes down.

Mr Phiri glared, did not look at Mr Mandizi, who knew he was being mocked.

'Very well, you can go now.'

'Okay,' said Rebecca.

The two men set off up the dusty path with the sun hitting down hard on their heads and shoulders.

Since eight that morning the many classrooms of this school had been a pandemonium of excited children, waiting for the big man. Their teachers who were after all not so much older than some of them, were as elated. But no car came, there was only the sound of doves, and some cicadas in the clump of trees near the water tank, which was empty. All the children had been thirsty for weeks, and some were hungry and indeed had had nothing to eat but what Father McGuire had given them for breakfast, lumps of the heavy white sweet bread, and reconstituted milk. Nine o ' clock, then ten. Teaching resumed, the din of several hundred voices chanting the repetitions necessary because of no schoolbooks, no exercise books, was audible for half a mile from the school, and only ceased when Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi appeared, hot and sweating.

‘What is this? Where is the teacher?'

' Here,’ said a meek youth, smiling in an agony of apprehension.

‘And what class is this? What is all this noise? I do not remember that oral lessons are part of our curriculum? Where are the exercise books?'

At this fifty exuberant children chorused, 'Comrade Inspector, Comrade Inspector, we have no exercise books, we have no books, please give us some exercise books. And some pencils, yes, some pencils, do not forget us, Comrade Inspector. '

‘And why do they not have exercise books?’ said Mr Phiri impressively to Mr Mandizi.

‘We send in the requisition forms, but we have not been sent exercise books or textbooks.' It had been three years, but he was nervous of saying so in front of the children, and their teacher.

'And if they are delayed, then hurry them up, in Senga.'

There was no help for it. 'It has been three years since this school received any books or exercise books. '

Mr Phiri stared at him, at the young teacher, at the children.

The young teacher said, ' Comrade Inspector, sir, we do our best, but it is hard without any books. '

The Comrade Inspector felt trapped. He knew that in some schools – well, just a few – there was a shortage of books. The fact was, he rarely went out of the towns, made sure the schools he inspected were urban. There were shortages there, but it was not a terrible thing, was it, for four or five children to share a primer, or to use waste wrapping paper for writing lessons? But no books, nothing at all. Flashpoint: he exploded into rage. ‘And look at your floors. How long since they were swept?'

' There is so much dust,’ said the teacher in a low shamed voice. ' Dust...’

' Speak up. '

Now the children came in with, ' The dust comes in, and as soon as we sweep it up it comes in again. '

' Stand up when you speak to me. '

Since the officials had arrived without ceremony at the door, the young teacher had not ordered the children to stand, but now there was a great scraping of feet and desks. 'And how is it these children do not know how to greet the representative of the government?'

' Good morning, Comrade Inspector, ' came the much-rehearsed greeting from the children, all still smiling and excited because of this visit which would result in their at last getting exercise books, pencils, and even perhaps a headmaster.

'See to the floor,' said Mr Phiri to the teacher, who was smiling like a beggar refused. ' Mr Phiri, Comrade Inspector Sir...’ he was running after the officials as they made their way to the next classroom. 'What is it?' 'If you could ask the department to send us our supplies of books...’Now he was running beside them like a messenger trying to deliver an urgent despatch, and, all pretence of dignity gone, he was pressing his hands together and weeping, 'Comrade Inspector, it is so hard to teach when you have no...’

But the officials had gone into the next classroom, from whence almost at once came the shouts and imprecations of Mr Phiri's rage. He was there only a minute, went on to the next classroom, again the storm of shouts. The teacher from the first classroom who had been standing listening, giving himself time to recover, now pulled himself together and returned to where his pupils sat waiting, still full of hope. Fifty pairs of eyes shone at him: Oh, give us some good news.