Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

' Okay, ' he said, and their faces lost their shine.

He was trying his hardest not to cry. Tongues clicked in sympathy and there were murmurs of 'Shame'.

‘We shall have a writing lesson. ' He turned to the blackboard and with a fragment of chalk wrote in a clear round child's hand, ' The Comrade Inspector came to our school today. '

‘And now, Mary. ' A large young woman, perhaps sixteen, looking older, came out of the mass of crammed-together desks, took the bit of chalk, and wrote the sentence again. She bobbed a curtsy to him – the teacher had been a member of this class two years before – and returned to her place. They were silent, listening to the shouts coming from a classroom in the next block. The children were all hoping they would be called up to show what they could do on the board. The trouble was the shortage of chalk. The teacher had the fragment, and two whole sticks, which he kept hidden in his pocket, because school cupboards got broken into, even if they were as good as empty. It was out of the question to have all the children up, one after the other to copy the sentence.

The storm of noise that was Mr Phiri and Mr Mandizi approaching was just outside the classroom – oh, were they coming back in? at least there was the nice sentence on the blackboard – no, they were striding past. The children rushed to the windows to see their last of the Comrade Inspector. Two backs were disappearing down to the priest's house. Behind them came a third, the dusty black robe of Father McGuire, who was waving and shouting at them to stop.

Silently the children went back to their desks. It was nearly twelve, and time for the lunch break. Not all brought food, but would sit watching their fellows eat a lump of cold porridge or a piece of pumpkin.

The teacher said, 'There will be physical culture after the break.'

A chorus of pleasure. They all loved these exercises that took place in the dusty spaces between buildings. No equipment, no bars, no vaulting horse, or climbing ropes, or mats they could lie on. The teachers took it in turns.

The two men burst into the priest's house, with the priest just behind them.

‘I did not see you at the school,’ said Mr Phiri.

‘I think you did not inspect the third row of classrooms, which is where I was. '

‘I hear you teach at our school. And how is that?'

‘I give remedial lessons. '

‘I did not know that we have remedial lessons. '

‘I teach children who are three or four years behind their proper level, because of the poor state of their school. I call that remedial. And it is voluntary. There is no salary attached. I do not cost the government anything. '

‘And those nuns I saw. Why aren't they teaching?'

'They do not have the qualifications, not even for this school.'

Mr Phiri would have liked to rage and shout – perhaps hit something, or someone – but he felt his head swell and pound: he had been told by his doctor not to get over-excited. He stood, looking at the lunch set out on the table, some slivers of cold meat and some tomatoes. A new loaf emitted delightful odours. He was thinking of sadza. That is what he needed. If he could only get the comforting weight and warmth of a good plate of sadza into his poor stomach, which was churning with a hundred emotions...’Perhaps you would like to share our meal?’ said the priest.

Rebecca entered with a plate of boiled potatoes.

‘Have you cooked sadza?'

‘No, sir, I did not know you were expected for lunch. '

Father McGuire moved swiftly in, with, ' Unfortunately, as we all know, a good sadza takes half an hour to do well, and we would not insult you by giving you inferior sadza. But perhaps some beef? I am sorry to say there is plenty of beef around, with the poor beasts dying from the drought. '

Mr Phiri's stomach which had been relaxing, in the expectation of sadza, now knotted again and he shouted at Mr Mandizi, 'Go and find out if my car is mended.' Mr Mandizi was eyeing the bread, and looked in protest at his chief. He was entitled to his meal. He did not move. ‘And come back and tell me if it is not ready, and I can return with you to your office.'

'I am sure he will have finished by now. He has had a good three hours,’ said Mr Mandizi.

‘And how is it you are defying me, Mr Mandizi? Am I or am I not your chief? And this in addition to the incompetence I have seen today. You are supposed to be keeping an eye on the local schools and reporting deficiencies.' He was shouting, but his voice was strained and weak. He was about to burst into tears from impotence, from anger, and from shame at what he had seen that day. Just in time, Father McGuire saved him, from the same impulse that earlier had made Mr Phiri avert his eyes from Cedric Pyne's tears over his calves. ‘And now, please sit down, Mr Phiri. And I am so happy to have you here because I am an old friend of your father – did you know that? He was my pupil – yes, that chair there and Mr Mandizi...’

'He will do as he is told, and go and find out about my car.'

Rebecca, never looking at Mr Phiri, came forward to the table, cut two hefty slices of bread, put meat between them, and offered them to Mr Mandizi, with a little curtsy, which was far from mocking. 'You are not well,' she said to him. 'Yes, I can see you are not well.'

He did not reply, but stood with the sandwich in his hand.

‘And what is wrong with you, Mr Mandizi?’ said Mr Phiri.

Without replying, Mr Mandizi went out to the verandah where Sylvia met him, coming up from the hospital.

She put her hand on his arm, and was talking to him in a low persuasive voice.

From inside the room they heard, ‘Yes, I am sick and my wife is sick too. '

Sylvia, with her arm around Mr Mandizi – he had lost so much weight it was easy – went with him to the car.

Father McGuire was talking, talking, pushing the meat plate towards his guest, the potatoes, the tomatoes. 'Yes, you must fill your plate, you must be so hungry, it has been a long time since breakfast and I too am hungry, and your father – is he well? He was my favourite pupil when I was teaching down at Guti. What a clever boy he was. '

Mr Phiri was sitting with his eyes closed, recovering. When he opened them, opposite him sat a small brown woman. Was she coloured? – no, that was the colour they went when they had too much sun, oh yes, she was the woman just now with Mr Mandizi. She was smiling at Rebecca. Was this smile a comment on him? Rage, which had been leaving him under the influence of the good beef and potatoes, returned, and he said, ‘And are you the woman they tell me has been taking our school equipment for your lessons, so-called lessons?'

Sylvia looked at the priest, who was signalling to her, with a tightening of his lips to say nothing. 'Doctor Lennox has bought exercise books and an atlas with her own money, you need have no concern on that score, and now if you could give me news about your mother – she was my cook for a while, and I can say truly that I envy you with such a cook for a mother. '

‘And what are those lessons you are giving our pupils? Are you a teacher? Do you have a certificate? You are a doctor, not a teacher.'

Again, Father McGuire made it impossible for Sylvia to reply. 'Yes, this is our good doctor, she is a doctor and not a teacher, but there is no need for a teacher's certificate if you are reading to children, if you are teaching them to read. '

' Okay,’ said Mr Phiri. He was eating with the nervous haste of one who uses food as a pacifier. He pulled the bread to him and cut a great slab: no sadza, but enough bread would do almost as well.

Rebecca suddenly chimed in: 'Perhaps the Comrade Inspector wants to come down and see how our people like what the doctor is doing, how she is helping us?'