The New Collected Short Stories (15 page)

The press in both countries began to speculate on the South African government’s attitude should D’Oliveira be selected by the MCC as a member of the touring side to visit South
Africa.

‘If the English were stupid enough to select him,’ Stoffel told his friends at the bank, ‘the tour would have to be cancelled.’ After all, he couldn’t be expected
to play against a coloured man.

The South Africans’ best hope was that Mr D’Oliveira would fail in the final Test at The Oval, and would not be considered for the coming tour, and thus the problem would simply go
away.

D’Oliveira duly obliged in the first innings, scoring only eleven runs and taking no Australian wickets. But in the second innings he played a major role in winning the match and squaring
the series, scoring a chanceless 158. Even so, he was controversially left out of the touring team for South Africa. But when another player pulled out because of injury, he was selected as his
replacement.

The South African government immediately made their position clear: only white players would be welcome in their land. Robust diplomatic exchanges took place over the following weeks, but as the
MCC refused to remove D’Oliveira from the party the tour had to be cancelled. It was not until after Nelson Mandela became President in 1994 that an official English team once again set foot
in South Africa.

Stoffel was shattered by the decision, and although he played regularly for Western Province and ensured that Barclays retained the Inter-Bank Cup, he doubted if he would ever be awarded a Test
cap.

But, despite his disappointment, Stoffel remained in no doubt that the government had made the right decision. After all, why should the English imagine they could dictate who should visit South
Africa?

It was while he was playing against Transvaal that he met Inga. Not only was she the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on, but she also fully agreed with his sound views on the
superiority of the white race. They were married a year later.

When sanctions began to be imposed on South Africa by country after country, Stoffel continued to back the government, proclaiming that the decadent Western politicians had all become liberal
weaklings. Why didn’t they come to South Africa and see the country for themselves, he would demand of anyone who visited the Cape. That way they would soon discover that he didn’t beat
his servants, and that the blacks received a fair wage, as recommended by the government. What more could they hope for? In fact, he could never understand why the government didn’t hang
Mandela and his terrorist cronies for treason.

Piet and Marike nodded their agreement whenever their father expressed these views. He explained to them over breakfast again and again that you couldn’t treat people who had recently
fallen out of trees as equals. After all, it wasn’t how God had planned things.

When Stoffel stopped playing cricket in his late thirties, he took over as head of the bank’s public relations department, and was invited to join the board. The family
moved into a large house a few miles down the Cape, overlooking the Atlantic.

While the rest of the world continued to enforce sanctions, Stoffel only became more convinced that South Africa was the one place on earth that had got things right. He regularly expressed
these views, both in public and in private.

‘You should stand for Parliament,’ a friend told him. ‘The country needs men who believe in the South African way of life, and aren’t willing to give in to a bunch of
ignorant foreigners, most of whom have never even visited the country.’

To begin with, Stoffel didn’t take such suggestions seriously. But then the National Party’s Chairman flew to Cape Town especially to see him.

‘The Political Committee were hoping you would allow your name to go forward as a prospective candidate at the next general election,’ he told Stoffel.

Stoffel promised he would consider the idea, but explained that he would need to speak to his wife and fellow board members at the bank before he could come to a decision. To his surprise, they
all encouraged him to take up the offer. ‘After all, you are a national figure, universally popular, and no one can be in any doubt about your attitude to apartheid.’ A week later,
Stoffel phoned the National Party Chairman to say that he would be honoured to stand as a candidate.

When he was selected to fight the safe seat of Noordhoek, he ended his speech to the adoption committee with the words, ‘I’ll go to my grave knowing apartheid must be right, for
blacks as well as for whites.’ He received a standing ovation.

That all changed on 18 August 1989.

Stoffel left the bank a few minutes early that evening, because he was due to address a meeting at his local town hall. The election was now only weeks away, and the opinion polls were
indicating that he was certain to become the Member for the Noordhoek constituency.

As he stepped out of the lift he bumped into Martinus de Jong, the bank’s General Manager. ‘Another half-day, Stoffel?’ he asked with a grin.

‘Hardly. I’m off to address a meeting in the constituency, Martinus.’

‘Quite right, old fellow,’ de Jong replied. ‘And don’t leave them in any doubt that no one can afford to waste their vote this time – that is, if they don’t
want this country to end up being run by the blacks. By the way,’ he added, ‘we don’t need assisted places for blacks at universities either. If we allow a bunch of students in
England to dictate the bank’s policy, we’ll end up with some black wanting my job.’

‘Yes, I read the memo from London. They’re acting like a herd of ostriches. Must dash, Martinus, or I’ll be late for my meeting.’

‘Yes, sorry to have held you up, old fellow.’

Stoffel checked his watch and ran down the ramp to the carpark. When he joined the traffic in Rhodes Street, it quickly became clear that he had not managed to avoid the bumper-to-bumper exodus
of people heading out of town for the weekend.

Once he had passed the city limits, he moved quickly into top gear. It was only fifteen miles to Noordhoek, although the terrain was steep and the road winding. But as Stoffel knew every inch of
the journey, he was usually parked outside his front door in under half an hour.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. With luck, he would still be home with enough time to shower and change before he had to head off for the meeting.

As he swung south onto the road which would take him up into the hills, Stoffel pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, nipping in and out to overtake slow-moving lorries and cars that
weren’t as familiar with the road as he was. He scowled as he shot past a black driver who was struggling up the hill in a clapped-out old van that shouldn’t have been allowed on the
road.

Stoffel accelerated round the next bend to see a lorry ahead of him. He knew there was a long, straight section of road before he would encounter another bend, so he had easily enough time to
overtake. He put his foot down and pulled out to overtake, surprised to discover how fast the lorry was travelling.

When he was about a hundred yards from the next bend, a car appeared around the corner. Stoffel had to make an instant decision. Should he slam his foot on the brake, or on the accelerator? He
pressed his foot hard down until the accelerator was touching the floor, assuming the other fellow would surely brake. He eased ahead of the lorry, and the moment he had overtaken it, he swung in
as quickly as he could, but still he couldn’t avoid clipping the mudguard of the oncoming car. For an instant he saw the terrified eyes of the other driver, who had slammed on his brakes, but
the steep gradient didn’t help him. Stoffel’s car rammed into the safety barrier before bouncing back onto the other side of the road, eventually coming to a halt in a clump of
trees.

That was the last thing he remembered, before he regained consciousness five weeks later.

Stoffel looked up to find Inga standing at his bedside. When she saw his eyes open, she grasped his hand and then rushed out of the room to call for a doctor.

The next time he woke they were both standing by his bedside, but it was another week before the surgeon was able to tell him what had happened following the crash.

Stoffel listened in horrified silence when he learned that the other driver had died of head injuries soon after arriving at the hospital.

‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ was all Inga said.

‘You certainly are,’ said the surgeon, ‘because only moments after the other driver died, your heart also stopped beating. It was just your luck that a suitable donor was in
the next operating theatre.’

‘Not the driver of the other car?’ said Stoffel.

The surgeon nodded.

‘But . . . wasn’t he black?’ asked Stoffel in disbelief.

‘Yes, he was,’ confirmed the surgeon. ‘And it may come as a surprise to you, Mr van den Berg, that your body doesn’t realise that. Just be thankful that his wife agreed to the
transplant. If I recall her words’ – he paused – ‘she said, “I can’t see the point in both of them dying.” Thanks to her, we were able to save your life,
Mr van den Berg.’ He hesitated and pursed his lips, then said quietly, ‘But I’m sorry to have to tell you that your other internal injuries were so severe that despite the success
of the heart transplant, the prognosis is not at all good.’

Stoffel didn’t speak for some time, but eventually asked, ‘How long do I have?’

‘Three, possibly four years,’ replied the surgeon. ‘But only if you take it easy.’

Stoffel fell into a deep sleep.

It was another six weeks before Stoffel left the hospital, and even then Inga insisted on a long period of convalescence. Several friends came to visit him at home, including
Martinus de Jong, who assured him that his job at the bank would be waiting for him just as soon as he had fully recovered.

‘I shall not be returning to the bank,’ Stoffel said quietly. ‘You will be receiving my resignation in the next few days.’

‘But why?’ asked de Jong. ‘I can assure you . . .’ Stoffel waved his hand. ‘It’s kind of you, Martinus, but I have other plans.’

The moment the doctor said Stoffel could leave the house, he asked Inga to drive him to Crossroads, so he could visit the widow of the man he had killed.

The tall, fair-haired white couple walked among the shacks of Crossroads, watched by sullen, resigned eyes. When they reached the little hovel where they had been told the driver’s wife
lived, they stopped.

Stoffel would have knocked on the door if there had been one. He peered through the gap and into the darkness to see a young woman with a baby in her arms, cowering in the far corner.

‘My name is Stoffel van den Berg,’ he told her. ‘I have come to say how sorry I am to have been the cause of your husband’s death.’

‘Thank you, master,’ she replied. ‘No need to visit me.’

As there wasn’t anything to sit on, Stoffel lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs.

‘I also wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to live.’

‘Thank you, master.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you and your child would like to come and live with us?’

‘No, thank you, master.’

‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked Stoffel helplessly.

‘Nothing, thank you, master.’

Stoffel rose from his place, aware that his presence seemed to disturb her. He and Inga walked back through the township in silence, and did not speak again until they had reached their car.

‘I’ve been so blind,’ he said as Inga drove him home.

‘Not just you,’ his wife admitted, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘But what can we do about it?’

‘I know what I must do.’

Inga listened as her husband described how he intended to spend the rest of his life.

The next morning Stoffel called in at the bank, and with the help of Martinus de Jong worked out how much he could afford to spend over the next three years.

‘Have you told Inga that you want to cash in your life insurance?’

‘It was her idea,’ said Stoffel.

‘How do you intend to spend the money?’

‘I’ll start by buying some second-hand books, old rugby balls and cricket bats.’

‘We could help by doubling the amount you have to spend,’ suggested the General Manager.

‘How?’ asked Stoffel.

‘By using the surplus we have in the sports fund.’

‘But that’s restricted to whites.’

‘And you’re white,’ said the General Manager.

Martinus was silent for some time before he added, ‘Don’t imagine that you’re the only person whose eyes have been opened by this tragedy. And you are far better placed to . .
.’ he hesitated.

‘To . . . ?’ repeated Stoffel.

‘Make others, more prejudiced than yourself, aware of their past mistakes.’

That afternoon Stoffel returned to Crossroads. He walked around the township for several hours before he settled on a piece of land surrounded by tin shacks and tents.

Although it wasn’t flat, or the perfect shape or size, he began to pace out a pitch, while hundreds of young children stood staring at him.

The following day some of those children helped him paint the touchlines and put out the corner flags.

For four years, one month and eleven days, Stoffel van den Berg travelled to Crossroads every morning, where he would teach English to the children in what passed for a
school.

In the afternoons, he taught the same children the skills of rugby or cricket, according to the season. In the evenings, he would roam the streets trying to persuade teenagers that they
shouldn’t form gangs, commit crime or have anything to do with drugs.

Stoffel van den Berg died on 24 March 1994, only days before Nelson Mandela was elected as President. Like Basil D’Oliveira, he had played a small part in defeating apartheid.

The funeral of the Crossroads Convert was attended by over two thousand mourners who had travelled from all over the country to pay their respects.

The journalists were unable to agree whether there had been more blacks or more whites in the congregation.