A SONG IN THE MORNING Read Online Free PDF
Author: Gerald Seymour
shouting at the sports afternoons, dropping them at school, picking them up. It didn't make sense to Jack that a man who cared so little for his wife and kid that he could walk out on them should keep a watch to satisfy himself that their survival was assured. Jack didn't know a single detail about the man who was his father.
He crossed the Strand. The rain ran on his forehead, dribbled into his eyes and his nose and his mouth.
There were six demonstrators outside the South African embassy and eight policemen standing on the steps of the building.
It was obvious enough that he should come here. He knew the embassy. Everybody who travelled through central London knew that the embassy was in Trafalgar Square, huge and powerful in its cleaned colonial yellow stone. He had seen the demonstrators on television the week before, when they started their vigil. The embassy building's solidity mocked the critics of South Africa, the orange and white and blue flag sodden but defiant on the high pole. The policemen, gathered close to the main double doors were able to take some protection from the rain. The demonstrators had no shelter. Two were coloured, four were white.
They were drenched. The rain had run the paint of the slogans on their placards which they held against their knees.
FREEDOM FOR THE PRITCHARD FIVE.
NO RACIST HANGINGS IN SA.
THE ROPE FOR APARTHEID, NOT FOR FREEDOM FIGHTERS.
Before last night Jack would not have given a second glance to men and women who stood in the rain outside the embassy of the Republic of South Africa. Any more than the diplomats inside, in the dry and the warm, gave a shit for them, or their slogans.
He saw the distaste on the police sergeant's face as he walked to speak to the demonstrators. The man he picked out was middle forties, Jack guessed, because the hair that was lank on the back of his neck was streaked grey. The man was shivering in a poplin sports top that was keeping out none of the rain. He wore plastic badges for Anti-Apartheid and the African National Congress and the South West African People's Organisation. His jogging shoes were holed and worn, but he stood motionless in the streams of water on the pavement. His placard was
FREEDOM FOR THE PRITCHARD FIVE.
All six looked at him coldly, mirroring the stares of the policemen.
"Good morning. Can you tell me about your protest?"
"Pretty obvious, isn't it? You can read."
"I thought you'd want to tell me," Jack said.
"We don't need your kind of interest."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Just go up the steps and join the other fascists."
Jack read the man's supercilious stare. He had his hair cut short, he wore a businessman's rain coat, a charcoal suit, he wore a tie.
He looked hard into the man's eyes.
"Listen, I am not a policeman. I am not a snooper. I am a private citizen, and I want to know something about the Pritchard Five."
There must have been something in Jack's gaze, and the lash of his voice. The man shrugged.
"You can sign the petition."
"How many signatures?"
"One hundred and fourteen."
"That all?"
"This is a racist society." The man rolled his words, as if they gave him a satisfaction. "There's not many who care that four heroic freedom fighters will go to (heir deaths."
"Who are they?" Jack asked.
"Happy Zikala, Charlie Schoba, Percy Ngoye and Tom Mweshtu. They took the battle into the middle of Johannesburg in broad daylight. It will be a crime against humanity if they hang."
"Your placard calls them the Pritchard Five.''
"He only drove the car."
"And he's white," Jack yelled. "So he doesn't get to be a hero."
Jack wanted to get the hell away, but the man was tugging at his sleeve.
"The issue is whether the White minority government and the White minority courts will dare to hang four Black freedom fighters. That's what it's about . . . "
Jack wrenched himself clear.
He walked the length of the Strand and on until he came to Fleet Street. Sam and Hilda Perry always took the Daily
He crossed the Strand. The rain ran on his forehead, dribbled into his eyes and his nose and his mouth.
There were six demonstrators outside the South African embassy and eight policemen standing on the steps of the building.
It was obvious enough that he should come here. He knew the embassy. Everybody who travelled through central London knew that the embassy was in Trafalgar Square, huge and powerful in its cleaned colonial yellow stone. He had seen the demonstrators on television the week before, when they started their vigil. The embassy building's solidity mocked the critics of South Africa, the orange and white and blue flag sodden but defiant on the high pole. The policemen, gathered close to the main double doors were able to take some protection from the rain. The demonstrators had no shelter. Two were coloured, four were white.
They were drenched. The rain had run the paint of the slogans on their placards which they held against their knees.
FREEDOM FOR THE PRITCHARD FIVE.
NO RACIST HANGINGS IN SA.
THE ROPE FOR APARTHEID, NOT FOR FREEDOM FIGHTERS.
Before last night Jack would not have given a second glance to men and women who stood in the rain outside the embassy of the Republic of South Africa. Any more than the diplomats inside, in the dry and the warm, gave a shit for them, or their slogans.
He saw the distaste on the police sergeant's face as he walked to speak to the demonstrators. The man he picked out was middle forties, Jack guessed, because the hair that was lank on the back of his neck was streaked grey. The man was shivering in a poplin sports top that was keeping out none of the rain. He wore plastic badges for Anti-Apartheid and the African National Congress and the South West African People's Organisation. His jogging shoes were holed and worn, but he stood motionless in the streams of water on the pavement. His placard was
FREEDOM FOR THE PRITCHARD FIVE.
All six looked at him coldly, mirroring the stares of the policemen.
"Good morning. Can you tell me about your protest?"
"Pretty obvious, isn't it? You can read."
"I thought you'd want to tell me," Jack said.
"We don't need your kind of interest."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Just go up the steps and join the other fascists."
Jack read the man's supercilious stare. He had his hair cut short, he wore a businessman's rain coat, a charcoal suit, he wore a tie.
He looked hard into the man's eyes.
"Listen, I am not a policeman. I am not a snooper. I am a private citizen, and I want to know something about the Pritchard Five."
There must have been something in Jack's gaze, and the lash of his voice. The man shrugged.
"You can sign the petition."
"How many signatures?"
"One hundred and fourteen."
"That all?"
"This is a racist society." The man rolled his words, as if they gave him a satisfaction. "There's not many who care that four heroic freedom fighters will go to (heir deaths."
"Who are they?" Jack asked.
"Happy Zikala, Charlie Schoba, Percy Ngoye and Tom Mweshtu. They took the battle into the middle of Johannesburg in broad daylight. It will be a crime against humanity if they hang."
"Your placard calls them the Pritchard Five.''
"He only drove the car."
"And he's white," Jack yelled. "So he doesn't get to be a hero."
Jack wanted to get the hell away, but the man was tugging at his sleeve.
"The issue is whether the White minority government and the White minority courts will dare to hang four Black freedom fighters. That's what it's about . . . "
Jack wrenched himself clear.
He walked the length of the Strand and on until he came to Fleet Street. Sam and Hilda Perry always took the Daily