by Frank Coates
‘As I said, a whole lot of questions,’ he replied with a grin.
‘Point taken,’ she acknowledged. ‘Let me put it to you another way. If a person was looking to purchase one of these animals, no questions asked, where would she look?’
He studied her for a few moments.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘if this wasn’t the White Highlands I might make an exception and answer you. But since that’s a leading question, and I’m still trespassing on your land, I’ll just bid you good day and thank you again for the hospitality.’
He rounded his horse and gave a flick of his whip. ‘Hah!’ he said, sending the herd trotting off.
Dana watched him go. She liked his style — the way he looked directly at her as if he knew what she was thinking. If he did, she thought, he might be very surprised.
CHAPTER 20
Pomeroy’s on Sixth Avenue, just down from Torr’s Hotel, was not only the most stylish clothing store in Nairobi, the tea salon he operated from kerbside tables was a favourite meeting place for women with modern tastes.
Meet me at Pomeroy’s, Dana said in a message sent to her sister, but Averil was not yet at the tables when Dana arrived so she strolled into the fashion store, a thin line of cigarette smoke trailing from her long, ivory-tipped holder. She ran her fingers over the dress on the mannequin at the entrance, admiring the soft material on the bodice, and the felt of the fitted cloche hat. Flapper fashion was still in vogue among the affluent Kenyan settlers, and Dana adored it. She loved the short hems and straight lines. They suited her shape, and were perfect for dancing. The bobbed hairstyle, popularised by Coco Chanel, also pleased her. She couldn’t imagine the task of maintaining her earlier bouffant coiffures out on the farm at Kipipiri without professional help.
She greeted the sales assistant, and ordered a pot of tea.
As she was waiting, Averil arrived with a flurry of kisses and greetings, before sitting beside her at the table.
‘Oh, I do love that divine hat,’ Averil said. ‘It’s the bee’s knees.’
Dana touched a hand to it. ‘Thank you. I barely had time to get into the Norfolk and freshen up before dashing here to meet you.’
Averil and her husband, Bill, had followed Dana and Edward to Kenya. Bill was one of the few among their group of friends who had been on the land back home in England. He was interested in cross-breeding the indigenous Boran cattle with good beef cattle. He’d bought a Devon bull from the line originally imported from England by Denys Finch Hatton who, like Edward, was a younger son of an earl. Bill was supportive of Dana’s new thoroughbred scheme and gave her the benefit of his experience in cattle breeding.
‘Is that a new dress?’ Dana asked her sister.
‘Hardly, but I’m about to shop for one. Will you help me choose?’
‘Love to, but let me finish my tea; and while I do, you must tell me all you know about this new fellow, Whiteman. I hear he has a large stable and has entered several horses over the week.’
‘Whiteman? Actually, it’s Major Roger Whiteman. Formerly of the Coldstream Guards, apparently. He’s married to a countess.’
‘A countess with money, apparently.’
Averil leaned forwards, conspiratorially. ‘Something of a dark horse himself, I understand.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, nobody knows anything about him.’
‘That hardly qualifies for notoriety. I don’t know a thing about ninety-nine per cent of Kenya’s European population.’
‘But they’re nonentities, my dear. I’m talking about society people. Speaking of which, Bill and I quite enjoyed your last dinner party. When’s the next?’
‘Thank you,’ Dana said. ‘I’m so glad you had fun.’
‘Those saucy little parlour games you invented are very … stimulating.’
‘Everyone seemed to think so,’ Dana said. ‘Who was your partner for the night? Oh, yes, it was Archie — Polly’s Archie. Oh, there’s Gladys Cartwright across the road. Don’t look. Ghastly woman. Did you read her letter to the editor the other day?’
‘Wasn’t it a scream? Let us hope that the ladies in the member’s stand use a little decorum in their dress standards this year. But let’s not bother about Gladys Cartwright; tell me, sister dear, what have you been up to lately? Any gossip?’
‘Gossip?’ Dana said, her finger tapping her bottom lip. ‘I’m not sure it’s gossip, but I’ve had a mystery man come calling.’
‘Really?’ Averil’s eyes lit with interest. ‘Do tell.’
‘Well, he’s tall, dark and handsome. A black American, I suspect, but absolutely smashing.’
‘Sounds delicious.’
Dana told her about the herdsman and his horses and the brief conversation they’d had.
Averil began to chuckle.
‘What is it?’ Dana asked.
Her sister smiled. ‘I was just thinking about how we’ve been discussing widening our dinner guest list with some more, well, interesting people.’
‘Are you thinking about my dashing mystery man?’
‘Exactly. And to make up the numbers, we could invite Lady Cartwright for the men.’
They burst out laughing.
Dana and Polly climbed into the rickshaw outside the Norfolk Hotel, deep in conversation. The two rickshaw boys needed no directions: it was obvious from the ladies’ outfits that they were bound for the opening day of the Nairobi races.
The rickshaw gathered speed, with one boy pushing and one out front pulling on the pole. They left the green western rises of Nairobi behind, travelling past the line of Indian stores built on the swampy land along River Road that sold everything from a pound of nails to a bolt of finest Persian silk, to the racecourse, sitting on the hard black-cotton soil just short of the railway line.
The first day of Race Week had a party atmosphere; and it was the only time Dana could enjoy the fun. Her horses would not race until late in the week, but they would require all her attention in the days beforehand.
Although he was a keen racegoer, Edward, along with the other husbands, tended to skip the track on the first race day. They thought it more of a fashion parade than a day for serious racing, and were content to sit instead on the Norfolk’s veranda, sipping gin and watching the world go by.
Dana dropped a coin in the leading rickshaw boy’s hand and the two women joined the throng milling about the entrance.
The women’s dresses reflected the current fashion of straight skirts, high hems and two-tone colour schemes. Being Race Week, the hats were an eclectic collection.
Polly wore a straight, pale blue dress, cut to just below the knee. It had a boyish look, with a high loose neck that she wore buttoned to the top. A dark blue floppy bow tie with trailing tails matched the long narrow waistcoat that had pale blue embroidered roses low on each side. Her hat was tall — Polly could use a little extra height — with a narrow curved brim that completely covered her short, dark hair.
Dana’s dress had a neckline that plunged in a deep V and was made of a light, soft, cotton material in pale grey with cerise floral motifs. It was a similar length to Polly’s, and seemed to float in the light breeze. A fabric belt was tied loosely below her hips. Her cerise hat had a wide downturned brim.
The sun was vertical and too hot. They decided to go to their seats and have a drink while awaiting Averil and their other friend, Georgina.
Climbing the steps into the grandstand, they passed Lady Cartwright in her reserved front-row seat. She gave Dana and Polly a nod and a chilly smile as she ran her eyes over the young women’s outfits.
When they took their seats, six rows back, Dana said, ‘That should fill out another letter to the editor.’
Polly giggled.
Averil and Georgina arrived just before the first race and the women retired for lunch in the large marquee on the grass behind the stand.
They returned to the betting ring to some excitement. A rhino had wandered from the bundu and held up the start of
the third race. It gazed myopically at the mounted course marshal who tried to send it on its way, but then lowered its head and charged him.
It wasn’t unusual to have a disruption of this kind on the first day of Race Week, though these were more typically caused by Thomson’s gazelle or bushbucks. The racecourse generally lay fallow throughout the off-season and herbivores of one variety or another regularly took advantage of the tall grass. The previous year a herd of impala had taken up residence on the course and was soon evicted, but the rhino would not budge.
The course steward called for reinforcements and the bandmaster of the King’s African Rifles’ band rode to the infield with his rifle. The ill-tempered rhino gave him a baleful look, then lowered his head for another charge. The army man hit his target between the eyes and the rhino collapsed in a puff of dust where it had stood. The crowd roared their approval and the band struck up an impromptu ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. A contingent of African workers hurried across the field and, with ropes and pulleys, they hauled the rhino onto a cart and trundled it away.
Race three commenced fifty minutes late, but the rest of the festivities unfolded as planned.
Dana decided to have a bet on the last race and wandered among the bookies, looking for good odds on her selection. A tall black man in a black homburg hat and grey suit caught her eye. He followed the American fashion of a short jacket with padded shoulders, which on his physique was quite eye-catching. He had his head in a race book and didn’t notice her until she stood beside him.
‘I thought it was you,’ she said.
He studied her for a moment. ‘Ahh … the lady with the beautiful roadster,’ he said.
‘And the free pasture, apparently,’ she said.
‘Will I never win forgiveness for my sins?’
‘You haven’t asked it.’ She gave it some further thought. Here was an opportunity. ‘You might if you can tell me where you get your horses.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I need a stallion for my three-year-old.’
‘The little Abyssinian grey.’
‘Yes,’ she said, wondering how he knew about Dancer. But he went on; distracting her thoughts.
‘I’ll keep that in mind if I find someone with an Abyssinian standing at stud.’
It wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. She suspected he could somehow arrange a horse himself, but was being coy because of Abyssinia’s restrictions on their export and the Kenyan penalties should he be caught.
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said. ‘I have to place a bet on the last.’
‘Do you have a winner?’
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Archer’s Post. It’s worth a flutter.’ He turned towards the bookies’ ring. ‘Until next time.’
Dana watched him go. She couldn’t place his accent although she was quite sure it was from some part of America. He was unusual in many ways, and quite interesting, not the least because he was a black man with what appeared to be complete acceptance within Kenya’s white society.
The starter’s bugle signalled the call to the barriers.
Fifteen minutes later, Dana stood with her friends, cheering as the field thundered down the straight. Dana held a five-pound ticket on the horse the stranger had tipped her.
Archer’s Post came in at twenty to one.
CHAPTER 21
Dana was pleased to see Jonathan and Benard giving the horses a rub down when she arrived at the track before dawn on Tuesday morning. Toby’s great track times had given the men renewed motivation. As well as the bragging they could enjoy over the opposition stable hands and strappers, they knew a win would mean a big tip from Dana.
Her early-morning start was to discuss tactics with the jockeys and to give the two horses a good workout under race conditions.
Dancer had recovered from her leg soreness, but her times, although quite good, had not come up to Toby’s standard and it appeared that Dana’s earlier decision to run the gelding in the Jeevanjee Cup had been the correct one.
When the jockeys arrived they discussed how to arrange the training run and agreed that Toby should carry a light weight while Dancer would carry her real race weight to test her legs. The horses would gallop over the same fourteen furlongs set for the cup. Dancer would be entered into a shorter event, but Dana decided to race her against Toby to give the gelding a realistic race experience and to gain familiarity with the track.
The two horses cantered off to the starting point on the far side of the racecourse. Soon they were barely visible through the ground mist. Dana trained her field glasses on them as they jumped from the starting line together.
After a furlong, one of the horses had opened up a handy lead, which, by the turn, had become three lengths.
As they galloped towards her down the straight, Dana could more clearly see them, but there was something wrong. The horse that now had a commanding lead of about five lengths was not Toby the big gelding, as she had expected, but little Dancer!
After the training gallop, Jonathan and Benard led the horses around the walking enclosure to cool them before returning them to the stables for a vigorous rub down.
Dana had been sitting on a bench watching them for ten minutes, trying to fathom the situation. Dancer’s time had improved slightly, but Toby had reverted to his previous plodding mediocrity. The form reversal was even more startling since Dancer had carried a heavier weight than her bigger stablemate. It just didn’t make any sense.
Dana remained seated on her bench, thinking, as the boys walked the horses back to the stables. Her confidence plummeted. She had made a great deal of Toby’s improvement to Edward. Now he’d want to know why it had changed so dramatically. Toby had improved his performance without her knowing the reason, and now had reverted to his old form, again without her knowing why. She couldn’t admit to him that she didn’t know.
‘You don’t look very pleased.’
Turning, she saw the mystery horseman — she still didn’t know his name — had approached without her noticing.
‘Oh … Hello.’ She touched a hand to her hair. She must look a fright. ‘You get around.’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘A little. I’m Sam. Sam Williams,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘Dana Northcote.’
His clasp was firm, but his skin was surprisingly soft. He wore smart grey slacks, a grey homburg and a navy jacket. He looked like a horse owner or trainer, which made sense considering his presence in the stabling area. It was an odd combination: illegal smuggler and thoroughbred owner. He became more interesting by the moment.
‘Do you have a horse entered this week?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘I see.’ It put a dampener on her theory. She wondered how long she could persist with her quest to discover who he was and what he did without appearing rude. ‘Then why come to the stables if you don’t have a horse?’
‘Why must I be looking for a horse? Maybe I’m looking for you.’
‘Me? Whatever for?’
‘To see if you backed Archer’s Post,’ he said.
‘Oh! Yes, I did.’
‘Then am I forgiven?’
‘For your unforgiveable trespassing?’ she said, smiling. ‘You most certainly are. I won a hundred on him.’
‘Wonderful! Then we’re both winners.’
He was silent for a moment and it appeared he was weighing his next comment carefully.
‘You have a wonderful smile,’ he said at last.
Dana coloured. She couldn’t believe she could be embarrassed by a compliment on her smile, but there was something compelling about him.
His smile wavered, giving her a glimpse of a previously unexpected vulnerability. ‘May I buy you breakfast to celebrate?’
She hesitated a moment, before nodding. ‘That would be nice.’
She wasn’t quite sure what she had in mind by accepting his invitation. Maybe she simply wanted to know more about this man. Whatever it w
as, she decided to follow her instincts.
He took her to the member’s reserve for a breakfast of toast and tea for her, and eggs for him, during which they had a lively conversation about horses and the racing industry.
The waiter refreshed their cups, and they sipped their drinks in silence.
‘I feel you are unhappy about something,’ he said.
She was taken by surprise, but in that brief silence she’d been reflecting on Toby’s inexplicable reversal of form.
‘Why do you think that?’ she said to cover her confusion. How could he know?
‘Black magic,’ he said with a disarming smile that held such warmth and genuine concern that she briefly felt compelled to unburden herself on this charming stranger.
‘I can read minds,’ he added to encourage her to speak.
She was almost persuaded.
‘Really?’ she said, stalling. ‘Yes … I suppose I am a little unhappy. I’m worried about my horse, Toby.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. You see, he’s always had patchy form, but until this morning he’d been running some excellent times on the training track, but now … it’s gone.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘And I have no idea why.’
‘I’m no expert,’ he said, ‘but I’ve bought and sold plenty of horses over the last few years. Maybe I could look at him for you.’ His smile returned.
Why not? she thought. ‘Well … thank you. That’s kind of you to offer.’
The boys were again rubbing down the horses when they arrived at the stables.
‘This is Toby,’ she said, pointing to the first stall.
He ran an eye over the gelding, then nodded.
‘And this is my little darling, Dancer.’
‘She’s very pretty,’ he said, stroking Dancer’s sleek neck, before giving it a firm pat. ‘What’s that he’s rubbing on her leg?’
‘Oh, that’s Jonathan’s special dawa. She had sore legs and we’ve been rubbing that into them over the last week or so. I don’t know if it was the dawa or just nature taking its course, but her legs seem to be better now. We’re still using it, just in case.’
