Absent. The English Teacher: The English Teacher

14. Return to Elsinore

1 14 R RE ET TU UR RN N T TO O E EL LS SI IN NO OR RE E “Mr George?” “Yes? Oh, no!” George had taken care to lock the dogs in the garage. They were barking furiously. He wished now that he’d left them in the yard. “Mr George George?” “Yes. George J. George.” “Of 43…” “Leander Avenue, Hillside. Yes.” “Mr George, last Sunday you were observed walking naked in a public place.” “I wasn’t naked, I…” “I’m arresting you for public indecency.” “All right officer, I’ll come, but please would you allow me to organise some food for a child who is staying with me?” “If you make it quick.” “I’ll be quick.” He hobbled back to the kitchen, put all the fritters on a plate, and took them to his khaya. The child was sitting on the doorstep drawing something in the sand with a stick. She looked at him with not quite expressionless eyes. There was a glint of expectation. George offered her the fritters, told her he had to go away for a while, urged her to keep out of sight, he would be back as soon as possible. Did she understand a word? The he returned to the kitchen where he found Ultimate’s pen and paper. He wrote: I HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. SORRY. BACK SOON. DOGS ARE IN THE GARAGE. He placed the note on the dining room table and hobbled back to the policeman. There were two others in the blue Santana whose engine was still running. A back door opened for him to climb in. He was immediately placed in handcuffs. The woman officer looked him up and down and said, “Why are you dressed like that?” 88 “I…” “Isn’t it you look like a kaffir?” They all burst out laughing while the driver changed gear and drove off. At the charge office George caused some consternation because he had no shoes to remove. So they took his fez and pushed him into the same overcrowded cell as last time. Before he could get his bearings, a hoarse voice called out “Uthini, George?” It was Joseph. “Joseph!” cried George, “good to see you,” and they shook hands. “Didn’t you get the bail money I sent?” “Yes, but they wouldn’t grant me because they say I resisted arrest. Why are you here?” “Public indecency.” “What?” “I was walking around the dams in my underpants.” Just then the cell door opened and a guard came in with a tattered paperback in his hands. “Mr George!” he barked. George held up his hand like a school pupil. “The Chief Inspector says you must read the first two chapters of this book before he sees you for questioning.” He held the book out and George took it: A Grain of Wheat by the Kenyan writer, Ngugi wa Thiong’o. He knew it well. It had been an A-level set work some years before. “Bastard wants another free lesson,” he muttered. “What did you say?” from the guard. “Nothing… er… a mosquito bit me.” The guard shook his head in contempt and exited the cell. The prisoners, this time round, seemed quite lively. The cell was abuzz with talk of the forthcoming ‘harmonised’ presidential and parliamentary elections. News of Simba Makoni’s late entry into the fray had given the vast underclass of Zimbabwe new hope. Someone had smuggled in an article from the English newspaper, The Independent, in which Makoni was quoted to have said, “I share the agony and anguish of all citizens that we all have endured for nearly ten years now. I also share the view that these hardships are a result of failure of national leadership.” George thought he was the only white in the cell until his tired eyes fell on… he couldn’t believe it… his old headmaster. He was sitting down 89 in a corner of the cell with his elbows on his knees and his hands on his ears. He looked quite comical in bare feet and a worsted grey suit. George shuffled over to Mr Sylvester Crackling MA, PCE, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Headmaster,” he said, “how are you otherwise?” The Head creaked out of his position of despondency and blinked at the quondam English teacher. “Not surprised to see you here, George. What was it, drunken driving?” “No, Sir...