African Sky Read Free Page B

the air force women. Some of the askaris’ wives were talking about it this morning. It will be bad for us.’
    Bryant swallowed hard. ‘Us?’
    â€˜She was found in the township, Paul. Mzilikazi.’
    â€˜Who was it? Do you have her name?’
    â€˜No, sorry. I am worried about this.’
    â€˜So am I, mate. I have to go, Kenneth.’
    â€˜Of course. I’d like to see you, later, though, about some more building materials for the school. It’s why I was looking for you.’
    â€˜I’ll try to make time. Come look for me.’ He clapped the African on one arm and nodded to him, then turned back to the guardroom. Bryant knew that Kenneth Ngwenya was a man driven by much more than his job as the sole teacher at the base’s African school. He was committed – more than any teacher Bryant had ever met – to the education of his children, who were mostly the offspring of the askaris, Rhodesian Africans overseen by white officers and noncommissioned officers, and the labour brought in to construct the sprawling air base. But Ngwenya had confided to Bryant that he was also a member of the Southern Rhodesian African National Congress, a political group committed to improving the lot of the colony’s black population, and other, loftier goals that went far beyond the bounds of reality, such as the right to vote and majority rule.
    Bryant felt his heart beating faster as he approached the guardroom and the boom gate at the main entrance to the base. He wiped his hands on the side of his uniform trousers to dry them. At least he would have time to compose himself before he met the police.
    â€˜Stand fast!’ Flight Sergeant Henderson barked as Bryant approachedthe gatehouse. Henderson ground his left boot into the pavement and snapped out a parade-ground salute. Two black African air askaris dressed in khaki uniforms, ankle boots, puttees and fezes also came stiffly to attention. The askaris provided base security.
    Bryant returned the courtesy with a casual brush of the peak of his cap. He thought he read a flash of contempt at his sloppy drill in the flight sergeant’s slate grey eyes. He didn’t care.
    â€˜Morning, sah!’ Henderson boomed.
    â€˜Morning, Henderson. As you were, men,’ Bryant drawled.
    The flight sergeant relaxed his ramrod-straight body ever so slightly. ‘Thank you, sir. A Sergeant Hayes and a Constable Lovejoy, a female , are waiting for you in the guardhouse, sir.’
    â€˜Thanks. Leave them with me.’
    â€˜Begging your pardon, sir?’
    â€˜Yes, what is it?’ Bryant asked Henderson.
    â€˜That African, sir. Ngwenya. The schoolteacher.’
    â€˜What about him?’
    â€˜Well, he’s a civilian, sir. Shouldn’t be wandering about the base willy-nilly. I can have a word with him if you like, sir. Tell him to stop bothering you.’
    Bryant looked at the smile and wondered if Henderson were actually being sincere, or if he were being baited. ‘ Mister Ngwenya is welcome on the base anytime, Flight. Perhaps you’d like to volunteer for one of the work parties doing some construction work at the school?’
    â€˜Very busy man, I am, sir.’
    Bryant opened the door of the guardroom. Henderson would keep. If the man had been operational, on a squadron serving as a wireless air gunner or a bomb aimer instead of a glorified gate guard, he would have seen plenty of black faces serving at the same rank as him. The Royal Air Force was happy enough to have Jamaicans and Nigerians flying and dying alongside Englishmen, even if Flight Sergeant Henderson had a problem with an educated Rhodesian walking around the base.
    Bryant didn’t consider himself a bleeding heart, but he did pridehimself on judging a man by the way he acted, not by the colour of his skin. He’d grown up in Dubbo in the far west of New South Wales, the son of a sheep shearer who roamed the plains from farm to farm.