53
Celebrations and Commiserations
She was in the store when she heard the news.
The store manager descended the stairs and called all staff and customers together. It was most disconcerting for those who waited and those who were waited upon to stand elbow to elbow. One didn’t touch the middle—or God forbid the lower—class if one could help it.
Iris didn’t care, but others most certainly did. The British class system was still alive and kicking in Pietermaritzburg. The war had made a good dent, but not deep enough to amalgamate the classes of the whites, let alone incorporate their servants. Superiority was everything. “But nothing,” Iris knew. She valued her Zulu surrogates’ wisdom far more than her mother’s or King George VI’s.
The manager looked so pleased with himself, Iris thoug
