by Rhys Bowen
Rowena and Rupert exchanged a glance.
“And you, you gorgeous man,” Pansy said, turning the full force of her charm onto Darcy. “What brings you out to Africa?”
“They are on their honeymoon,” Rowena said for us. “Isn’t that absolutely sweet? Who ever thought that awkward, shy Georgie would snag herself such a yummy man?”
I felt my face going bright red as Pansy Ragg turned to examine me and Mrs. Simpson had a sarcastic grin.
“And who might you be?” Pansy Ragg asked. “Your face is vaguely familiar.”
“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch—you know, the cousin of the king—and her husband, the Honorable Darcy O’Mara.” Rowena chimed in again before we could answer.
“Delighted to meet you,” Pansy said. “You couldn’t pick a better spot to honeymoon. God’s kingdom. You like to hunt, do you? Elephant? Lion? Anything you choose. It’s like living in a zoo.”
I had come to the conclusion that I really did not want to hunt. I had joined in enough shoots on our Scottish estate. But shooting a grouse did not seem the same as bringing down an elephant or a lion. That seemed cruel and wicked to me. But I stayed quiet as Darcy said something innocuous.
“And who are you staying with?” Pansy went on, clearly determined to be the life of the party. “Also with Lord Delamere?”
“Freddie Blanchford is the one who invited us,” Darcy said.
Pansy looked horrified. “Blanchford? The government chappie? The district officer? My dears, he lives in a poky little government bungalow with one servant, down in that hellhole called Gilgil. You can’t possibly stay with him. Besides, settlers don’t mix with government. It simply isn’t done.”
“He and I are old chums,” Darcy said. “I expect he will have made arrangements.”
“One hopes so.” Pansy raised those perfectly plucked eyebrows. “You certainly wouldn’t want to stay in that ghastly little town with the natives and Indian shopkeepers. If it’s not to your liking come to us. We have oodles of space and Harry would welcome a good chin-wag.”
“You are very kind,” Darcy said gravely.
“An awfully long way to come for a honeymoon,” Pansy went on. “Unless you are planning a really long one. Or scoping out the place to see if you might want to settle out here.”
“We’ll have to see how long we stay and how much we like it,” Darcy said.
I glanced across at him. This was something that hadn’t crossed my mind—that Darcy might be thinking of going out to one of the colonies and settling out there. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to live in a place full of wild animals—and wild people, it seemed, from what my mother and Zou Zou had told me—even if it was with Darcy. This train of thought was interrupted by a voice from the far end of the table.
“So tell me.” The young man at the end of the table spoke up for the first time. He was fair and boyish-looking with hair that flopped across his forehead and a perpetually worried look. He had been relegated away from Mrs. Simpson and Pansy. “It sounds as if all the white settlers are neighbors, is that right?”
“A lot of us live in the Happy Valley, as it’s now known,” Pansy said. “Bwana Hartley, I mean Lord Cheriton, certainly does. Lady Idina, of course. And those people at the next table: Tusker Eggerton and Chops Rutherford with his wife, Camilla. All farmers. Then Harry and I . . . Lord D lives a little farther off.”
“But what about Nairobi?” the young man went on. “Are there no English settlers closer to the capital? Because I was thinking that’s where I should be heading.”
“Of course there are. The whole of the highlands has been settled by Europeans, but you’ll find that around Nairobi it’s more small farmers who came out on the farmer-settlement scheme. Not exactly our type of people. And most of them don’t approve of us. Who are you planning to stay with?”
“Golly, I’ve no idea yet,” the young man said. I was delighted that he had been the one to say “golly”!
“Are you coming out to work then?” Pansy sounded as if this was something sinful.
“I jolly well hope so,” the young man went on. “I’m a third son, you see. No chance of inheriting anything. The pater gave me some money and a plane ticket and told me to come out to Africa and make something of myself. I could hardly say no, especially as he drove me to the aerodrome and put me on the plane.”
Rowena gave a snort of laughter.
“So what do you think you will do?” Pansy asked. “What are your skills?”
“Absolutely bloody useless, I’m afraid. I failed my exams at Oxford. Can’t add up properly. Hopeless at foreign languages. I’m not bad around horses. Animals seem to like me.”
“Well then, you’ll find yourself a job on one of the farms. We’ve people who breed polo ponies and racehorses. You’re rather tall but incredibly thin so I don’t suppose you weigh too much. You might be some use as a jockey in the point-to-point. What are you like as a rider?”
“I have a tendency to fall off over fences, I’m afraid,” the man said amiably as if he didn’t mind confessing all of these failures. “The pater said I was a disgrace to his hunt. Frightfully good huntsman my father is. Master of Hounds and all that.”
“So I take it you aren’t all that hot at polo either?” Pansy asked.
“Crikey, no. I’ve only played a couple of times and I hit my own pony on the rump when I swung the mallet and it bolted with me.”
“What’s your name, young man?” Mrs. Simpson asked, eyeing him with amusement.
“It’s Jocelyn. Jocelyn Prettibone.”
Rupert burst out laughing. “Jocelyn Prettyboy? Are you making this up? Is it some kind of stunt?”
Jocelyn flushed now. “It’s Prettibone, not Prettyboy,” he said huffily. “Norman French. The family came over with William the Conquerer in 1066.” He gave Rupert a hard stare. “And I can’t help my name, any more than you can help who your father is.”
“What do you mean by that?” Rupert started to stand up. “My father is one of the leading men in the colony. Ask anyone.”
“Yes, but he ran off and deserted your mother, didn’t he? I heard people talking about it on the plane.”
“I don’t think my father is exactly the only person who left a spouse for greener pastures,” Rupert said. “Lady Idina is the classic example. And . . .” He turned to look at Mrs. Simpson, then decided, wisely, to say nothing more on that subject. Instead he added, “Look here, if you want to get along with people in the colony, you don’t question them about their past. Everyone here has a past they would rather forget.”
Waiters collected our plates. Nobody had finished their stew.
“And what delight are you going to tempt us with for dessert?” Mrs. Simpson asked dryly.
“Marmarlade pudding, memsahib,” the servant replied solemnly. “With custard.”
Mrs. Simpson gave an audible sigh.
Chapter 8
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
LEAVING KHARTOUM IN THE SUDAN
Thank heavens. I can’t wait to be off again. It was a ghastly night with lumpy beds, incredibly hot, and before it was light we were woken by the call to prayer from every minaret.
I’m not sure if I like our traveling companions. Rowena and her brother both seem to have that beastly streak that preys on others, and there is something about Pansy Ragg that I find disquieting. I hope some of the other inhabitants are easier. But as Darcy said, we don’t have to stay long if we don’t like it.
We took off from Khartoum at first light after a breakfast of more runny fried eggs but no bacon. When one of our party asked for it they were told, haughtily, that one did not serve parts of the pig in a Muslim country. Of course. I feel that I have a lot to learn so that I don’t put my foot in anything (literally and figuratively). The steward mentioned to Darcy that this was the most difficult part of the journey, subject to
dust storms and even violent thunderstorms as we approached the Rift Valley with its sudden up-currents of air. And if we had to set down in the desert, there was no civilization for hundreds of miles.
“We’ll probably have to start eating each other,” Darcy said, clearly enjoying the whole thing. “That Prettibone chap will last longest. No meat on him at all.” He grinned to me. “I wonder what made his father choose Kenya for him. I should have thought he’d have had a better chance of surviving in Australia or New Zealand. I wonder how long he’ll last. He’ll probably be eaten by a lion or gored by a water buffalo on his first day out.”
“That’s probably why he’s heading for the safety of Nairobi,” I said. “At least it has a vestige of civilization. I feel rather sorry for him. I mean we both know what it’s like to have no money or prospects and unsupportive parents, don’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose we do,” he agreed. “I suspect Pansy Ragg will take him under her wing. She’ll enjoy the challenge.”
“I don’t know what to make of her,” I said, lowering my voice even though the noise of the engines meant that we couldn’t be overheard. “She’s so fashionably dressed and heading for a dairy farm. It must be frustrating to own Chanel and Worth so far from anyone who appreciates them.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find life among the farmers here has many elements of high society,” Darcy said. “They are nearly all aristocrats, after all.”
“I wonder why they left England if they have titles and money.” I stared out the window at the rugged brown hills below us. Coming to a place as remote as Kenya seemed a rather rash decision to me.
“Some people relish a challenge. They don’t want to be fenced in by ordinary life and you have to admit life for many aristocrats is pretty boring, unless there is hunting, shooting or fishing going on. And don’t forget many families have lost their fortunes in the great crash of ’29.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. Darcy had just spoken the word “crash” when the aeroplane dropped suddenly with no warning. Like a stone. Items flew out of the racks overhead. My stomach went up to the ceiling with half our belongings. It was all over in a second and the airliner flew on as if nothing had happened. I stared out the window, but there was blue sky with no sign of clouds.
“What was that?” I asked shakily as one of the stewards rushed to pick up the items that had fallen. I noticed that he had spilled coffee down his white uniform.
“An air pocket,” Darcy replied. “I told you the air becomes unstable as we approach the Great Rift Valley.”
“Golly,” I said, forgetting sophistication. “I hope that’s not going to happen too frequently. My stomach is still somewhere near the ceiling.”
Darcy smiled and took my hand. “All part of the adventure. Something to tell them when we get home.”
“You like adventure, don’t you?” I studied his face.
“I do. I like not knowing what’s going to happen next.” He stroked my cheek. “Whereas you like order and security. You take after your great-grandmother.”
“I suppose I do,” I agreed. I was thinking about that desk job he had promised to take when we got home. Would he ever be happy with routine and security? Would he come to resent being married to me and tied down? I turned to stare out the window again and noticed a great bank of clouds ahead of us. One minute we were in brilliant sunshine, the next we plunged into dark cloud. The plane started shuddering and bucking. I grabbed Darcy’s hand.
“What this time?”
“Thunderstorm,” he muttered. He didn’t look quite so calm anymore.
The storm seemed to go on forever. It was time for our lunch but the stewards could not stand up to prepare or serve it. We jerked and bucked as if we were riding an unbroken horse.
“Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen,” one of them announced. “We’ve got a good captain here. He’s used to this sort of thing.”
Just when I was about to tell Darcy that I had had enough and I wanted to go home right away the clouds parted and we were again in brilliant sunshine. Stewards leaped up to offer cocktails and snacks. Normally I wouldn’t want to drink in the middle of the day but I willingly took Darcy’s suggestion of a brandy and ginger ale. And thus fortified I managed to eat my lunch.
We came in for a landing in a harsh desert landscape at a small place called Juba, and endured a most unpleasant wait in a hut while the plane was being refueled. Then we took off on the last leg. A mountainous country was now below us. Brown rugged landscapes with only occasional trees and no sign of towns or villages. And then ahead what looked like an ocean. I frowned, trying to recall geography lessons of Africa. If we were approaching the east coast it would surely be on our left, not extending to our right. Before I could admit my ignorance Darcy leaned across me. “Lake Victoria,” he said. “Largest lake in Africa. We’re over Uganda now but part of Kenya also borders the lake. We’ll be landing at Kisumu. They chose it because originally this route was going to be operated by flying boats.” He paused, listening. “Ah, we’re starting our descent. Jolly good.”
There were signs of human occupation now—cultivated fields, palm trees, occasional bungalows and funny little round thatched huts cut into clearings in the thick green carpet of forest. The aeroplane circled lower and lower and then made contact with the ground, bumping to a halt. We had arrived safely. I said a silent prayer of thanks. We collected our hand luggage and waited for the steps to be rolled to the door of the plane. Mrs. Simpson positioned herself to disembark first, in a slight jostling match with Pansy Ragg. We followed, again hit immediately by a wave of hot air. Only this time it was not dry, like opening an oven. It was so humid that it felt hard to breathe. We were led to a shed where His Majesty’s government officer, dressed impeccably in tropical uniform, greeted us and checked our travel documents.
“You’ll all be catching the afternoon train to Nairobi, I take it,” he said. “You’ll find vehicles waiting to drive you to the station. Have a safe onward journey.”
We came out of the airport and I realized with delight and amazement that we were actually in Kenya. We had made it! Kisumu wasn’t much of a town. A few bungalows with corrugated iron roofs strung along a red dirt road, a ramshackle shop, shacks with bright creepers growing over their roofs and tall stalks of maize and banana trees growing in gardens. Not many people around in the heat of the day, except for a couple of little boys kicking a makeshift ball around and a gaggle of skinny dogs watching them. The taxi took us along the one macadamized road lined with spectacular trees, some of them with bright red flowers and others with bright purple. They almost looked too bright to be real.
“Flamboyants and jacarandas,” Pansy Ragg said, as I pointed at them. “They are not native here, but we’ve come to love them in the colony.” She had been assigned to the taxi with us although she had brought so much luggage that it had to be crammed around our feet and strapped to the roof.
“You’ve been away for some time, Mrs. Ragg?” I asked.
“A month,” she said. “My mother is no longer in good health so I like to visit her once a year. And Harry is so understanding. He never minds what I do. He has his farm and his safaris that keep him nicely occupied.” She gave a cat-with-the-cream smile as she said this.
“You’ve taken an awful lot of clothes for a month,” I couldn’t help saying, although as I said it I realized it sounded rude.
“No, darling.” She patted my hand. “I’m bringing an awful lot of clothes. Shopping spree in Paris, you know, and a visit to Molyneux in London. One so tires of last year’s fashions.”
Darcy took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face. “I had no idea it would be so hot and muggy,” he said. “We were told a temperate climate.”
“Ah, well, we’re at lake level here, aren’t we?” In spite of the heat in the taxi she looked remarkably fresh. “Once we’re in the train we start climbing. If you’re
going to the Happy Valley we’re close to eight thousand feet. Quite a different landscape altogether.”
The railway station wasn’t much more than a hut beside a platform. The train stood waiting for us, a great fire-breathing dragon of an engine puffing and ready to get going. It seemed rather too impressive for the four carriages behind it. We were escorted to a carriage while a stream of African porters swept up our bags and loaded it into the luggage van, chattering and laughing loudly the whole time. When we were aboard there was a whistle from down the platform and the train lurched forward. The compartment was unbearably hot. I hoped we didn’t face too long a journey ahead of us. When we opened the carriage window smoke from the engine blew in so we closed it again hastily.
Shortly after leaving Kisumu the landscape changed. We could feel the engine laboring as we started to climb up a steady grade. The vegetation was no longer tropical. The forest thinned out into a wide grassland, dotted with occasional flat-topped trees. The tall grass was bleached yellow by the sun. Then I saw something strange. A group of misshapen leafless trees. As the train approached, those trees broke into an ungainly canter and I cried out loud. It was a group of giraffes! After that I was glued to the window, spotting herds of antelope, zebras, buffalo, even a rhinoceros. It was like driving through a zoo. Darcy was smiling, enjoying my childish excitement.
“You’ll have a chance to shoot some of them, if you like,” he said.
“I don’t know if I want to shoot things,” I said. “It’s not exactly fair, is it? I mean, it’s their country. We’ve no right to shoot them.”
“You’d better not let the settlers hear you talking like that,” he said. “They live for their safaris. It’s their major sport. We’ll certainly have to go on one.”
“Then I shall claim to have poor eyesight and be a rotten shot,” I said.
