The Diamond Hunter Page 37

  Briskly, she made her way back to the Queen’s Hotel. As she reached the entrance, a rotund gentleman in a pale grey suit, his tortoiseshell spectacles as round as his football-shaped head, alighted from a carriage. There was a De Beers man, for sure.

  ‘Mr Moreton?’

  ‘Miss Grant!’ he said delightedly. ‘How splendid to meet you.’

  They sat in wicker armchairs on the verandah of the hotel, the space cooled by leafy shrubs. Blooms of rhododendrons and azaleas blazed, and Clementine noted the strelitzia poking through like a curious listener; she had called this the lightning bird plant as a child because it resembled a crane with a fiery crown of orange feathers. She used to cut a new one each week and carry it around like a pet, chatting to it.

  ‘Oh, this is always so reliably pleasant,’ Moreton said. ‘I bring my wife here regularly because of the club’s restrictions.’

  ‘You do know women will bang down those club doors sometime, Mr Moreton?’

  He chuckled. ‘I daresay, Miss Grant, though not any time soon.’

  She gave a light shrug as if to say, Don’t be too sure. An African man dressed in an all-white uniform arrived with a tray to pour them coffee from a tall silver pot. The waiter had several horizontal markings on his forehead; Clementine immediately presumed him to be Ethiopian. She dredged the memory from one of her long night-time conversations with Joseph One-Shoe, when she had asked him to tell her of the tribes and their rituals. Clem recalled being terrified yet fascinated when he’d spoken of the various forms of scarification, both horrified and impressed that the women followed in the practice.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ Moreton said. It showed he knew the man, but it was also a polite dismissal.

  She’d been in Kimberley only a couple of hours and Clem was already finding the divide cavernous. They had been far more forgiving and community-minded at the Big Hole when black toiled alongside white as fellow workers.

  ‘Salam, George,’ she said, remembering the Muslim welcome she had learned as a child, before offering her best rendition of a traditional Ethiopian greeting that Joseph had taught her: ‘Tena yistilin.’ She nodded, thrilled her memory was still so sharp. She wondered if poor Mr Moreton was more surprised by her use of the language or the fact that she was smiling and bowing her head graciously to the servant. She guessed it was the latter.

  And George looked terrified, his gaze widening, flicking to Moreton. She leaned over slightly to attract his attention and slipped back into English. ‘You are Ethiopian, are you not, George?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ He wouldn’t make eye contact, busying himself rearranging the already perfectly arranged silver milk jug and sugar bowl.

  ‘How do you come to be all this way south, George?’

  Moreton clearly didn’t entertain the idea of a female guest having a friendly conversation with an African servant. Avoiding outright rudeness, he seemed to have decided it was easier to answer on the African’s behalf. ‘Er, George came here as an orphaned boy, as I understand it, Miss Grant. He was brought by travelling missionaries and raised not too far from Kimberley.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Moreton. And George, how long have you worked at the hotel?’ She raised her hand as Neville took a breath, her gaze firmly on the African.

  ‘Five summers, miss.’ He bowed and stepped back as hastily as he could.

  ‘I’m hoping the coffee is from your home country, George.’

  ‘It is, miss. I hope you enjoy it.’

  She smiled. ‘I know I will.’

  As George withdrew, Clem sipped and tasted the familiar exotic fruitiness that was a unique characteristic of Ethiopian coffee. She recalled Joseph boiling it for her father each morning . . . and often each night, to sober him up.

  ‘Er, we try not to engage with the staff too much, Miss Grant.’

  ‘Don’t want to give them lofty ideas, eh, Mr Moreton?’

  ‘No, no, I —’

  ‘I am teasing, please forgive. As you can likely guess, because of my early childhood I am invested in the welfare of African people.’ This led her to explain about her orphanage in northern England, about Sarah and about the two younger girls arriving soon that she held a particular interest in.

  ‘My, my, that is wonderfully philanthropic of you.’

  She shook her head to say that this was not her motivation. ‘Joseph One-Shoe was my best friend, and to my father after my mother’s death. He took care of us all, I now realise – and we all left him. I think I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. Will you tell me what you know about Joseph, Mr Moreton?’

  He sighed. ‘I can tell you that Mr One-Shoe is thoroughly liked. I have never heard anyone speak poorly of him. He has done much good work over the years for the children of the African workers. He has excellent language skills – he speaks fluent English, even some Dutch and Xhosa. He has been a valuable go-between, and indeed mediator at times, between the African workforce and the De Beers management.’

  ‘I am not surprised to hear this. Joseph may have been a warrior in the eyes of his people, but he was a deep thinker and a peacemaker from the moment he arrived at the river diggings. He has the sort of personality that makes a great leader.’ She frowned. ‘Why do you say mediator? Have there been problems?’

  The space between them seemed to thicken. ‘Er . . . well, I’m not involved in the actual operation of the mines. I’m an administrator, Miss Grant.’

  Her forehead knitted more tightly.

  ‘You left in . . .?’

  ‘The early 1870s,’ she answered.

  ‘Ah, well, the mining explosion was only just occurring then, really, wasn’t it?’ The question did not require an answer so she remained silent, forcing him to continue. ‘By the 1880s tribes from everywhere south of the Zambezi were sending their men here. It was nothing short of a mass migration for work and wages.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  He paused, looking for how to approach his knotty topic. ‘You see, there’s always the threat of theft, Miss Grant.’ His tone was conciliatory – hopeful, even.

  ‘I do see,’ she lied, wondering where this conversation was going. ‘And how did this affect Joseph One-Shoe?’

  ‘By 1880 he’d got out of diamond digging. He’d set up a little shop that sold all manner of goods to the workers and their families, and then he used his own funds to set up his school to teach their children.’ The man was hedging, she decided.

  ‘Please go on, Mr Moreton,’ she said.

  ‘Joseph One-Shoe lived in Kimberley but was not contained in the compounds, obviously, yet he had free access to them. De Beers trusted him and so did the workers.’

  ‘Compounds?’

  ‘Er, well, yes. How can I explain this? You have to understand, this region sees something in the order of fifty thousand itinerant workers per year, Miss Grant. To keep track of them and to provide accommodation, the men are housed in barracks.’

  ‘Barracks. Like an army?’

  He chuckled nervously and drained his coffee. ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘They are free to come and go, of course?’

  ‘Er, not quite. These are closed compounds.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, no! Nothing like that.’

  She sensed otherwise.

  ‘It is convenient for them. Somewhere to rest, to sleep, to call their own, which puts a roof over their heads and a meal in their bellies after each day. I think the word “compound” is sometimes wrongly construed by people not from here.’

  ‘But I am from here and I find it has a dark tone to it.’

  ‘It’s part of the lingua franca of the diamond diggings. In Malay the word kampong means “enclosure”, for instance, and “compound” means much the same to us in Kimberley.’ Now he was being condescending, wriggling in an effort to leap off the hook she had him on. ‘Compounds were perfectly acceptable before De Beers opened its first nearly a decade ago.’

  ‘Why did they need to be enclosed? Why cou
ldn’t they go home to their families after a shift?’

  He shrugged. ‘We are talking about native workers here, Miss Grant. They could be unreliable. They drink, they fight, they wander. For the purposes of running a business you need reliability in your workforce, and so for our part 25 acres were enclosed by a wall to look after several thousand men at once.’

  She baulked, putting her cup down in consternation.

  ‘That many need a lot of food stores, shops, a dispensary, a church, a hospital. We even have a swimming bath for our workers. They have rooms with electricity and large open areas for recreation. They are paid up to thirty shillings per week,’ he said, as if that made it acceptable to shut up men behind fencing. ‘I can assure you that’s more than the average agricultural worker in England had at the time.’ He was becoming more defensive because of her silence. ‘And if a man found a large stone, he could earn a bonus as much as twenty pounds! That’s akin to three months’ work in one day. But . . . of course with men being accommodated in close quarters, well, there are going to be squabbles.’

  ‘And Joseph?’

  ‘Joseph One-Shoe was one of the peacemakers to whom we could turn. However,’ Moreton said, sounding like he wanted to move on from the subject, ‘Joseph – or Zenzele, as he is now calling himself – told Dr Ashe at Kimberley Hospital that his work here was done.’

  ‘Then I must meet with Dr Ashe, perhaps?’

  ‘He will know more. I gather they are rather good friends.’

  Dr Ashe’s head almost grazed the low doorway of the waiting room. He arrived with a cheerful smile for Clementine, full of apology for having kept her.

  ‘I hear you were in surgery. There’s no need to apologise,’ she reassured him.

  ‘I’m always on the way to or coming from surgery.’ He grinned, taking off his fragile-looking rimless glasses to polish them with a large handkerchief. Despite his thin lips he had the kindest of smiles. ‘I am so delighted to meet any friend of Joseph’s.’

  ‘Thank you. I know you like him well.’

  ‘More than like him. I respect him enormously. Zenzele was important to this town. I think I would have had to perform more surgeries for the African community if not for his leadership calming many a fight.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I’ve learned about the compounds.’

  ‘Don’t visit. Don’t go near them. You will not like what you see.’

  ‘So they are prisons?’

  ‘Of a fashion. No women or children are permitted. The men are isolated for months and forbidden to visit their families in the townships that have sprung up. Granted, it has prevented desertion and kept the men as physically fit as possible, away from alcohol and temptation. It all depends on your perspective, I suppose, as the mine owners argue most logically in their favour. There is the immediate and unforgiving presumption that every African will steal the diamonds – not may, Miss Grant, but will.’ He waggled his finger to emphasise his point. ‘And so these compounds, no matter how De Beers likes to argue its case, are about preventing illicit traffic in diamonds. The men are strip-searched at the end of each day.’

  She blanched. ‘Good grief.’

  ‘I refuse to be involved in internal searches.’

  ‘How humiliating. If no trust is given to them, why would those men feel any loyalty?’

  ‘Well —’ he gave a sad smile — ‘the workers do thieve, that’s the point. Not all. But it only takes one or two, and in the case of the diamond mines it’s more than that. A man can make a month’s wages or more from the single theft of a couple of smallish diamonds secreted about or even inside his person, if he can get away with it. It’s very tempting. They have families – they have whole tribes relying on them.’

  ‘For food?’

  ‘No, Miss Grant. For weapons. That’s where the money usually goes. The tribal chieftains like the white man’s guns.’

  ‘I see. And Joseph helped?’

  ‘He was a voice the workers trusted when scuffles broke out or the men wanted to strike. He often negotiated better conditions for them, advocating directly with De Beers.’

  ‘Are you able to tell me where I might begin to search for Joseph, please?’

  He sighed. ‘I fear he has left Kimberley. That was his plan and I haven’t seen him since our last game of chess. He’s quite good.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘My father taught him how to play, and how to box. He never lost a match, you know.’

  ‘Had his nose broken a few times, I gather.’ Dr Ashe grinned. ‘He did mention your father, although Joseph is a man of few words and he did not offer up his life story willingly. I only realised how much your family meant to him when he was actually leaving.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was directly after Joseph spoke to Mr Axford about his recollections of the unfortunate incident with your father. After that it seemed our Zulu friend lost all desire to remain in Kimberley. There was an instant change, as though a burden had been lifted.’

  ‘Dr Ashe, I was assured as a child he was dead and knew no different until that letter was read out to me by Mr Axford.’

  ‘A terrible shock, no doubt – not just the content but the voice behind it.’

  ‘Precisely. But it gave me back the single most important person in my life, who was essentially stolen from me.’

  ‘I am sure he knew the effect it would have on you. I could be wrong but perhaps it was the reason he left Kimberley.’

  ‘So that I didn’t come looking for him, you mean?’

  The surgeon nodded. ‘He was a man of language; he could write English competently. He could have contacted you at any time, but he chose not to. Knowing Joseph as I do, I doubt he would have wanted to disrupt your life.’

  ‘Well, he has, as you can see,’ she said, but softened her words with a smile.

  ‘I suppose he hoped you’d make inquiries and find him gone and then not make the journey. He is committed to returning to his people.’

  ‘He should have remembered I was a spontaneous child, always impatient!’ She grinned. ‘He has a school?’

  ‘A shop and a school, until recently. Both successful. He sold the shop within days of speaking to Mr Axford. There were any number of takers but he refused all offers, including a large one from De Beers, and instead sold it to a family whose father he had once dug alongside for diamonds. The sale of the shop was eight weeks or so ago, Miss Grant.’

  ‘How would he have travelled back to his people? Ox wagon, do you think?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. He told me he had walked to the diggings and, wild carnivores notwithstanding, he would walk back.’ It sounded so typical of Joseph. ‘We had a meal together and a final game of chess. He hugged me goodbye. And I am not ashamed to admit I felt rather emotional when he left the hospital premises. I knew I would never see him again.’

  ‘How about the school?’

  ‘It now runs itself well, as I understand it. It has an annual fundraising effort and the support of lots of people who benefit from the work of the children’s parents. Even De Beers, I might add. It is an excellent establishment – good for the community.’

  ‘Then I suppose that is my next stop. Thank you for seeing me, Dr Ashe.’

  Ashe stood, tall and straight.

  ‘You’re both about the same height.’

  ‘Yes. We joked that we could share clothes.’

  ‘But not shoes,’ she said, smiling.

  35

  Afternoon had closed in by the time she tiptoed into the single classroom that acted as a school for African children, but it was empty. Tidy but abandoned. The hollow echo of her heels on the floorboards reflected perfectly how she was feeling. Another blank. Another dead end. Another place where Joseph might be was useless to her. She looked at the blackboard. A note written in chalk told visitors that today was a field day for the children. It was signed by Miss Londiwe.

  Clem walked out onto the small schoolhouse’s narrow verandah, from where s
he could see the foundations of what looked to be another classroom. Joseph’s school was expanding. He would feel proud of this. The shop might have given him an income, but it would be the school that mattered. Here they were, involved in a similar endeavour to care for and educate black children. How sad that neither had known the other had taken a similar journey. She hated that Joseph had walked away from his school.

  The emptiness grew. She hadn’t eaten anything today but it wasn’t hunger that gnawed at her belly, it was grief. She had lost him and didn’t know how to look for him.

  Zenzele was barefoot; he was Zulu once again and running back to his roots. So should she.

  Just as Clem decided that she would leave for England immediately, a low rumble rolled across the heavens. Impundulu is waking up, she thought. The lightning bird would visit soon.

  There was one more place she had to see before the sky lit up and opened its clouds. As she walked, her boots crunching on familiar red dust now that she was on the outer reaches of the town, she imagined the hotel clerk’s expression when she told him her plans had changed. He would have to ask the butler to repack her trunk and the hotel would need to help her change her return booking on the steam train bound for Cape Town.

  Clementine walked purposefully, attempting to overcome her sense of failure. She noticed that although Kimberley had become a thriving town, its sprawl of elegant suburbs comprised of large homes with sweeping, well-kept gardens, its shantytown character had not been completely driven away. Shades of the circus-like clutter of humanity she recalled from childhood were evident on its outer reaches, where the Africans arriving from across the southern part of the continent had settled. Villages had sprouted like weeds. Each family’s living quarters were essentially a hut with a wooden frame, walls of sacking and a roof of iron sheets. Some had erected timber fences around their homes to enclose their chickens and keep their children safe. She felt the eyes of the township upon her as she passed.

  Uncle Reggie’s repeated lie about Joseph being dead felt like a bleeding wound in this moment. All of the lost years when she could have found him. Tears pricked but she walked on towards the outskirts of the shantytown to where the sprawl of humanity had not reached, and it became Africa’s glorious desert again.