SWEET GOLD
Joan Boyes
Copyright Š Joan Boyes 2014 First published in 2014 by BK Press ISBN 978-1-920584-25-2 Cover Design & Typesetting: Ginny Porter All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, translated or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
Dedication For Duncan, Margaret and Jan with love and affection
Acknowledgements Patrick Coyne for reading the first draft of the manuscript. Ginny Porter for assisting me to publish my book. To numerous friends who have urged me onwards. And to you all my gratitude.
1
H
ugh McNeil stood looking over the balcony of his house at the top of the hill, coffee cup in hand, warm in the cool November early morning. Ahead he could see a strip of the Indian Ocean shimmering silver beyond the trees that had grown tall during the last ten years and were threatening to take even the small slice of sea open to him. Moving to his left, his old leather slippers scuffing the floor, he could see, at the base of the hill, the sugar mill’s Venturi towers, their steam rising lazily, and his nose detected the sweet scent of molasses. Hugh heard the vacuum pumps beat out their rhythm. He enjoyed these moments in the day before the rush and bustle which was his life. He sighed. Although Hetty had been gone for nearly three years, the gap in his life was still enormous. To have someone exceptionally special with whom he could share moments like these again was more than he could ask – after all was said and done, who would want to take up with an old codger in his fifties? The thought of Anne filtered through his mind but that was something to be left to the future. He could recall his father saying if one won the sweepstake once it was asking too much to win again. Perhaps he had been right. There was a knock on the half opened door of the bedroom. Impatiently, “Yes?” Prem smiled at his employer. Hugh looked up at the Indian dressed in white shirt and immaculately pressed white trousers standing in the doorway. “Valoo wants the day off. His baby is sick and he must go with his wife to the hospital.” Hetty would have sorted this out and now all this 1
nonsense was left to him. Hugh opened a cupboard door, peered in and chose a tie. Sighing he said, “Suppose so, Prem. Yes, tell him to go. Back tomorrow, see.” Prem, the general factotum now that Hetty was gone, had been brought to the Old House, shortly after Hugh and Hetty moved in, by his father, an old mill hand. “The boy must learn to be cook and get good job,” was the reason for them being there. “Would madam take him?” A tall, thin youth with a pleasant smile persuaded Hetty. It would be for three months when they would again assess the situation. That was fifteen years ago. Prem did learn to cook and worked his way into the household. Now he held sway over Anna and Sophie in the kitchen while he ran the house and became part of the McNeil family over which he was proud to preside and protect, and this included Kunzi Milling owned by the McNeils. However, he would have been the first to admit that the time was right for a new wife for the boss. He wasn’t sure the lady who came out from town now and then was the right candidate. With eastern philosophy he left that in the hands of the gods. Prem nodded, “And Mr Sprigg is here to see you.” “God, so early! What’s he wanting now? Just tell him to wait.” As an afterthought, “Give him some coffee.” Prem nodded again and departed. Hugh could hear him going down the stairs and muted voices from below. He’ll have a long wait; don’t feel like seeing him so early, Hugh thought, putting back the original tie to select another which he didn’t like at all but felt it might be in keeping with what augured to be a bad day. Barry Sprigg, his nephew now Managing Director, his sister Fay’s son, was the bane of his existence. A twofaced little bastard, Hugh knew, but to keep the Kunzi Sugar Company in the family he’d had no choice. The husband of his elder daughter had made it abundantly clear that sugar was not his ‘thing’ and had emigrated, going to New Zealand to 2
prove a point. His younger girl was unmarried, living in Australia. Driving to his office Hugh thought about to the conversation with his nephew. Barry had reminded him of the board meeting this afternoon and pursued the probability of he, Barry, Gerry Martin and Dan Leith going overseas in early January, visiting Australia, Taiwan and Hawaii. Also the reminder (what was wrong with the bloke, Hugh thought – one would think I was senile the way he goes on) of the closing of the mill next Friday to mark the start of the off season. Hugh tuned into his radio; listening to the local radio station was vastly better than thinking of the job at hand though, at times, it was simply white noise in the background, but not this morning. Again and again events and physical things brought Hetty to mind. On awaking each morning there she would be, in his mind, smiling or laughing; she laughed a lot, he remembered. And all it did was make him miserable. When she died so suddenly, without warning, friends tried to cheer him up by telling him that he would have wonderful memories to call upon; unfortunately memories only exacerbated the misery. Many a time, he would have had to admit shamefacedly, he’d gone to the end of the garden, hidden by trees and shrubs, and wept. Perhaps life was becoming easier; perhaps he was being forced to adapt. Being on one’s own, it was the ‘alone’ part that was so difficult to bear. Life was so much more liveable to have someone with whom to share; to love and be loved even if there were times when things did not go too smoothly. He and Hetty had always been able to overcome those occasional disagreements. These days he felt more and more reluctant to give full attention to Kunzi and all it entailed. He simply felt tired. The usual rounds of the fields and the factory failed to bring any enthusiasm. The only person who gave anything to him was Abby Gregor, Hetty’s niece married to the mill’s chief 3
engineer. She managed him with great kindness and helped at the Old House. On the other hand she wasn’t too free with gentleness to pull him out of any depression he might be suffering. Yesterday she had met him outside the offices and suggested he took a holiday especially as everything would quieten down now the cutting and crushing of cane would soon be over for a while. “Some of the others are taking leave so why not you?” “Where on earth to? Going on one’s own is no fun at all.” Abby detected that negative sound in his voice that was becoming so familiar. “What about your old varsity friend in Cape Town – Dave Whitney. He’s on his own, isn’t he? Hugh had to smile, “His wife ran off with the man down the street, literally.” Abby couldn’t help laughing. “Well there you are then. Think about it. He’ll be needing company.” “I will – thank you. Come for a drink this evening.” He entered the building to speak to Gerry Martin regarding pouring excess molasses down the river at night. The environmentalists would be onto them if dead fish littered the river mouth. The board meeting was as boring as ever. As chairman Hugh gave all his attention to the business on hand; tactfully diverted arguments that promised to become heated or explaining an item to the oldest member (nearing seventy, hard of hearing and retiring in a few months) and calmed one of the young members, a wealthy young upstart on the board by virtue of his family’s shareholding. Hugh found it especially nerve racking and tiring that morning, particularly the argument about Sprigg, Leith and Martin being sent overseas. “They must go,” Hugh explained as patiently as he could. 4
“There’s a vast world of knowledge that we could make use of – can’t sit here thinking we know it all. We need to improve field management; improve the process and Barry goes to get an overall picture which he can put into practice. And if that’s all, gentlemen, I suggest we adjourn to the drinks table and help ourselves”. Hugh chatted to Driks Moolman, the Mill secretary, who made an appointment to see him in his office later that afternoon. The subject of his personal assistant was brought to his attention when Barry Sprigg offered him his usual whisky and water. “The interview is scheduled for next week. I think she’ll be what you need. Hope this one fills the criteria. Should do.” I daresay, he thought, Barry has found some wizened up old bat. It would be my luck as things are at the moment. He was brought back to reality by a question being asked of him.
5
2
T
he end of November saw the last bundles of cane being loaded for the final crushing of the season. The giant cane carriers roared and groped their way from the loading bays on the sections for delivery to the mill where bosses and artisans looked forward to the closing of the vast machinery which would now be overhauled. This work would dictate the re-opening sometime in April. And so the off season had begun. There was a hive of activity in the mill as the great machines were dismantled, repaired or replaced. Banging, crashing, shouting and swearing emanated from the buildings. The vacuum pumps were silent and the cooling towers at rest. The cane cutters, mostly Pondos from the south, were heard singing and laughing as, with their cane knives or machetes, they laid flat the final cane which was bundled, chained and taken to the loading zones. In a few days buses would transport the cutters home to Pondoland and others would be entrained to their destinations amid great jubilation. Very few of these men had their wives living on the sugar estates, an invidious position that was slowly being rectified. Certain workers remained. These held permanent positions in charge of the irrigation systems, the vast pipes and attachments of the overhead sprays in need of repositioning to water the young cane. Hugh McNeil made a point of driving to the various sections, where the cutters were housed, to see them off and wish them well. “Hamba khahle, go well,� he said, shaking as many hands as he could and watched the buses leave amidst yells and shouts and much laughter, to await their return the following year. 6