Doris Lessing Three-Book Edition: The Golden Notebook, The Grass is Singing, The Good Terrorist. Doris Lessing

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      The native replied, with a rough offhand rudeness: ‘Oranges finished.’

      ‘I know they are not finished. There were two left. I know they are not.’ Mary was appealing, looking up at the boy, almost confiding in him.

      ‘Oranges finished,’ he repeated in that tone of surly indifference, but with a note of self-satisfaction, of conscious power that took Charlie’s breath away. Literally, he could not find words. He looked at Dick, who was sitting staring down at his hands; and it was impossible to see what he was thinking, or whether he had noticed anything at all. He looked at Mary: her wrinkled yellow skin had an ugly flush under the eyes, and the expression on her face was unmistakably one of fear. She appeared to have understood that Charlie had noticed something: she kept glancing at him guiltily, smiling.

      ‘How long have you had that boy?’ asked Charlie at last, jerking his head at Moses, who was standing at the doorway with the tray, openly listening. Mary looked helplessly at Dick.

      Dick said tonelessly, ‘About four years, I think.’

      ‘Why do you keep him?’

      ‘He’s a good boy.’ sid Mary, tossing her head. ‘He works well.’

      ‘It doesn’t seem like it,’ said Charlie bluntly, challenging her with his eyes. But hers were evasive and uneasy. At the same time they held a gleam of secret satisfaction that sent the blood to Charlie’s head. ‘Why don’t you get rid of him? Why do you let him speak to you like that?’

      Mary did not reply. She had turned her head, and was looking over her shoulder at the doorway where Moses stood; and in her face was an ugly brainlessness that caused Charlie to shout out suddenly at the native: ‘Get away from there. Get on with your work.’

      The big native disappeared, responding at once to the command. And then there was a silence. Charlie was waiting for Dick to speak, to say something that showed he had not completely given in. But his head was still bent, his face dumbly suffering. At last Charlie appealed direct to him, ignoring Mary as if she were not present at all. ‘Get rid of that boy,’ he said. ‘Get rid of him, Turner.’

      ‘Mary likes him.’ was the slow, blank response.

      ‘Come outside, I want to talk to you.’

      Dick lifted his head and looked resentfully at Charlie; he resented that he was being forced to take notice of something he wanted to ignore. But he obediently hoisted his body out of the chair and followed Charlie outside. The two men went down the verandah steps, and as far as the shadow of the trees.

      ‘You’ve got to get away from here,’ said Charlie curtly.

      ‘How can I?’ said Dick listlessly. ‘How can I when I am still in debt?’ And then, as if it were still a question of money, with nothing else involved, he said: ‘I know other people don’t seem to worry. I know there are plenty of farmers who are as hard up as I am and who buy cars and go for holidays. But I just can’t do it, Charlie. I can’t do it. I am not made that way.’

      Charlie said: ‘I’ll buy your farm from you and you can stay here as manager, Turner. But you must go away first for a holiday, for at least six months. You must get your wife away.’

      He spoke as if there could be no question of a refusal; he had been shocked out of self-interest. It was not even pity for Dick that moved him. He was obeying the dictate of the first law of white South Africa, which is: ‘Thou shalt not let your fellow whites sink lower than a certain point; because if you do, the nigger will see he is as good as you are.’ The strongest emotion of a strongly organized society spoke in his voice, and it took the backbone out of Dick’s resistance. For, after all, he had lived in the country all his life; he was undermined with shame; he knew what was expected of him, and that he had failed. But he could not bring himself to accept Charlie’s ultimatum. He felt that Charlie was asking him to give up life itself, which for him, was the farm and his ownership of it.

      ‘I’ll take this place over as it stands, and give you enough to clear your debts. I’ll engage a manager to run it till you get back from the coast. You must go away for six months at the very least, Turner. It doesn’t matter where you go. I’ll see that you have the money to do it. You can’t go on like this, and that is the end of it.’

      But Dick did not give in so easily. He fought for four hours. For four hours they argued, walking up and down beneath the trees.

      Charlie drove away at last without going back to the house. Dick returned to it walking heavily, almost staggering, the spring of his living destroyed. He would no longer own the farm, he would be another man’s servant. Mary was sitting in a lump in the corner of the sofa; the manner she had instinctively assumed in Charlie’s presence, to preserve appearances and to hold her own, had gone. She did not look at Dick when he came in. For days at a time she did not speak to him. It was as if he did not exist for her. She seemed to be sunk fathoms deep in some dream of her own. She only came to life, only noticed what she was doing, when the native came in to do some little thing in the room. Then she never took her eyes off him. But what this meant Dick did not know: he did not want to know; he was beyond fighting it now.

      Charlie Slatter did not waste time. He drove round the district from farm to farm, trying to find someone who would take over the Turners’ place for a few months. He gave no explanations. He was extraordinarily reticent; he said merely that he was helping Turner to take his wife away. At last he heard of a young man just out from England, who wanted a job. Charlie did not mind who it was: anyone would do; the thing was too urgent. He at last drove into town himself to find him. He was not particularly impressed with the youth one way or the other; he was the usual type; the self-contained, educated Englishman who spoke in a la-di-da way as if he had a mouthful of pearls. He brought the young man back with him. He told him little; he did not know what to tell him. The arrangement was that he should take over the farm at once, within a week, letting the Turners go off to the coast; Charlie would arrange about the money; Charlie would tell him what to do on the farm: that was the plan. But when he went over to Dick, to tell him, he found that while he had become reconciled to the necessity of leaving, he could not be persuaded to leave at once.

      Charlie, Dick, and the young man, Tony Marston, stood in the middle of a field; Charlie hot and angry and impatient (for he could not bear to be thwarted at the best of times), Dick stubborn and miserable, Marston sensitive to the situation and trying to efface himself.

      ‘Damn it, Charlie, why kick me off like this? I’ve been here fifteen years!’

      ‘For God’s sake, man, I am not kicking you off. I want you to get off before – you should get off at once. You must see that for yourself.’

      ‘Fifteen years!’ said Dick, his lean dark face flushed, ‘fifteen years!’ He even bent down, unconsciously, and picked up a handful of earth, and held it in his hand, as if claiming his own. It was an absurd gesture. Charlie’s face put on a jeering little smile.

      ‘But, Turner, you will be coming back to it.’

      ‘It won’t be mine,’ said Dick, and his voice broke. He turned away, still clutching his soil. Tony Marston also turned away, and pretended to be inspecting the condition of the field; he did not want to intrude on this grief. Charlie, who had no such scruples, looked impatiently at Dick’s working face. Yet with a tinge of respect. He respected the emotion he could not understand. Pride of ownership, yes: that he knew; but not this passionate attachment to the soil, as such. He did not understand it; but his voice softened.

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