Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  She had been working for Jack Goodie for six months. Opposition spokesman for Trade and Economic Affairs, Jack had poached her from the accounting firm which she had joined after qualifying. She was a high flier, a partnership had been only a matter of time, but Jack had built a career out of getting people to see his point of view. He had introduced Anna to his vision of the big world and she had moved to Canberra.

  ‘I won’t be able to pay you as much as you’re getting now,’ he had warned her. ‘Nothing like what you’re worth.’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  Even at that age she had known that for her there would always have to be more to a job than simply making money; had been confident enough to believe that aspect of things would eventually take care of itself. What Jack had been able to offer her, what she had seized with eager hands, had been the possibility of influence, of having a say in how things were done. Even more exciting, of how things might be done in future.

  She had never regretted it. She loved the cut and thrust of politics, the interplay of minds and personalities, the trick of getting her own way. The first seductive — and addictive — lure of power.

  Jack was mad about tennis and had taken her to Melbourne for the last three days of the championships. Not that there was anything between them but Jack liked to have his aides around him and Anna, who two weeks before had dug up the ammunition that had enabled him to shoot holes in the Government’s trade policy, was flavour of the month.

  She was just coming out of the Ladies. A sudden blur of movement, an almighty collision and she was sprawling on the floor.

  Half-stunned, a quick fury heating her blood, she looked up at the tall man of her own age bending anxiously over her. She had an impression of long black hair and vivid blue eyes. Then she was on her feet. Screaming.

  ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘No thanks to you, you moron!’ Nursing a bruised elbow. Bruised ego, too, with everyone staring.

  He was fussing around her, would have dusted her down if she’d let him.

  ‘I’m really sorry –’

  ‘For God’s sake leave me alone.’

  His eyes cooled. She realised that this was a man who did not apologise easily.

  ‘I said I’m sorry. You want me to crawl?’

  Some instinct for the incongruous made her laugh. ‘Why should I be the only one?’

  And, as easily as that, it was all right.

  ‘Aren’t you Mark Forrest?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘I used to be one of your top fans.’

  He grinned ruefully. ‘Used to be. That’d be right.’

  His Aussie accent was overlaid with a hint of American. He was rangy and broad-shouldered, fit-looking under his suit.

  ‘Why did you quit?’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘How can you say that? You got to the semis in your first Aussie Open. If you’d kept going –’

  ‘Not to the top. McEnroe, Connors … I was never going to be as good as those guys.’

  ‘Even so –’

  ‘If you’re not going to be number one, there’s no point.’

  She could relate to that. ‘What are you doing now?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Let me get you a drink and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Amazing herself.

  He was a journalist or trying to be, determined to attain the success that had eluded him on the circuit.

  ‘Sports reporter?’ she guessed.

  ‘No way. When I quit, I quit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I saw it when I was still playing. Has-beens hanging around the edges of the game, trying to be mates with the players.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I saw what it did to their pride. I swore I’d never be one of them.’

  He was arrogant yet she found herself admiring him for it. If the time ever came for her to quit Canberra, she’d make sure she did the same. In or out: nothing between.

  ‘What, then? If you’ve turned your back on sport?’

  ‘Foreign affairs. I’m based in Africa at the moment.’

  Her interest sharpened. A question about Africa had come up recently at the office; Jack might be interested in having a word with this man.

  ‘Whereabouts in Africa?’

  ‘I got home from Cape Town a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Going back?’

  ‘Next week. I’m taking over the bureau there.’

  Throwing the words away as though they meant nothing. But was proud, she could tell. Perhaps this time he really would make the top. She found herself hoping so and wondered briefly why she cared.

  ‘Are things there as bad as we hear?’

  ‘They’re not good.’ Which was not what she’d asked. ‘You have to see it from the African point of view and that’s not easy.’

  ‘I’d have thought the riots made it plain what they thought.’

  ‘Riots can be rigged.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Quite often.’

  She was intrigued. ‘That’s not what we see on the telly.’

  ‘We see what they want us to see.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The media.’

  She could not resist the opening. ‘Shouldn’t that be “us”? You’re the media, too.’

  The blue eyes challenged her: fire and ice. ‘I try to be objective.’

  ‘Pretty unusual in your game.’

  ‘In any game.’

  Which was fair enough, she supposed.

  ‘I work for Jack Goodie. I think he might like to meet you.’

  She saw she had no need to explain who Jack Goodie was and was pleased.

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘He’ll tell you that. If he wants to.’

  Jack, when they ran him to earth in a corner of the bar, had no inhibitions.

  ‘This business of sanctions … People are beginning to ask if they serve any purpose.’

  ‘I’d say so. But you really need to go there yourself to understand the situation.’

  ‘If I go, I’ll see half a dozen government blokes and that’ll be that. No point.’

  ‘Mark says we need to see it from the African point of view,’ Anna told him.

  ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘You can’t.’ She took a deep breath, went for it. ‘I could, though.’

  Jack stared, first at her, than at the journalist at her side. ‘You two an item?’

  Only Jack would have had the brass to say such a thing, she thought. Yet found she didn’t mind.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘After all, we’ve known each other for all of ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ve known it happen.’ Jack was watching her thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t you tell me once your family came from South Africa?’

  ‘My great-grandmother. Way back.’

  ‘But you’ve still got people there?’

  Jack’s ability to retain even the most trivial information was a legend throughout Canberra.

  His question conjured memory. Once again Anneliese’s voice drew pictures from the air, again Anna saw the moonlit gleam of the white walls, the central gable rising above the entrance, the stoep, the oak trees. Oudekraal.

  Instinct made her belittle the image. ‘No one important. Some vague cousin. I’ve never met him.’

  After Anneliese’s death she had thought to write to him, to find out about this cousin whom she had never seen, but the impulse had died. She had not thought of Anneliese’s great house for a long time now.

  ‘Maybe this could be your chance,’ Jack said.

  By now she knew him well enough to read his thought processes. He viewed everything from the same perspective: what was in it for Jack. Sanctions might be important; a lot more important was where South Africa was heading, which side was going to come out on top. And when. The international implications were enormous. Know the answers and Jack woul
d have a head start when it came to choosing the next Foreign Minister.

  He looked at Anna. ‘I’ll have to clear it with Bill first. But if you went you could, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Could what?’

  ‘Get to meet your cousin.’

  ‘Did he mean it?’ Mark asked later.

  ‘He’s probably forgotten about it already.’

  But Anna wondered; she had seen that speculative look in Jack’s eyes before. She guarded her thoughts, smiling at Mark across the table.

  After what had happened at the reception, it had seemed only natural for them to finish off the evening by having a meal together. They had gone to an Indian restaurant in a shabby inner suburb. Anna did not know where they were and didn’t care; anything was better than traipsing off alone to that depressing hotel.

  ‘How come you knew about this place?’

  ‘Came once or twice when I was playing.’ Grinned. ‘At least this time I can have a glass of wine.’

  Or two. They would be using a taxi; it seemed a pity to waste the opportunity.

  The food was hot and delicious, the wine a robust red that went well with it. They talked about themselves; found that despite their different lifestyles they had a good deal in common. Neither of them had started with any money; both were in a fair way to remedy that. Neither had commitments or, for the moment, any plans.

  By the time they’d finished the wine it was ten o’clock; too late to do anything else, too early to call it a day.

  They looked at each other.

  Mark said, ‘One thing I always wanted to do …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hire one of those horse contraptions. Go for a drive in the park.’

  She had seen the carriages trundling through the city streets, the horses stepping proud. At this time of night, the clip-clop of hooves would echo from the silent buildings.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ she said.

  She was immersed in impressions: the musty smell inside the carriage, the worn upholstery, the night streets unrolling slowly past the window, the clop of hooves and rumble of wheels. The man sitting at her side.

  Never spoken to him until tonight, she thought. Now we’ve had a meal together, drunk wine together, we’re sitting in this carriage together with the darkness outside, the fairy lights in the trees. Insanity on top of insanity, there’s even a possibility we may be going halfway around the world together.

  Africa. She thought about that. The prospect ought to have been romantic: the Dark Continent, David Livingstone and Stanley, lions roaring in the veld. She waited, but the tingle did not come. Even the prospect of seeing Oudekraal at last failed to excite. No matter. There was excitement enough right here. More than enough.

  She turned to Mark, seeing only the outline of his face in the darkness. ‘I would like to have gone to St Petersburg in the old days, ridden in a troika through the frosty night with the stars snapping overhead.’

  It wasn’t like her to think such things, never mind say them, yet there the words were, shining in the darkness.

  Where has all this sprung from? she asked herself incredulously. Africa? What have I to do with Africa?

  It wouldn’t happen, of course it wouldn’t, but if it did … It would be for only a few weeks, yet the prospect still made her uneasy. It would be simple enough to go, to find out what she could and come back again, yet she had a hunch that it would be asking for trouble, that the person who came back from Africa might not be the person who had gone there.

  She didn’t need that. Her career was on the move. A couple more years with Jack and then, with his backing, a safe parliamentary seat. After that, the sky. No, she thought. My mind is made up. If Jack says anything, I’ll tell him I don’t want to go.

  Throughout the ride Mark made no attempt to touch her. Her hand lay disregarded on the seat between them and she told herself she was glad.

  The ride finished and they climbed down, returning to the mundane, twentieth-century world. They walked to her hotel. At the marble entrance they stopped. Anna felt her blood, her heart beating.

  ‘You reckon he will send you?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Not a chance.’ She was very positive about it.

  He grinned. ‘Indispensable, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  There was a hole between their words. A succession of holes. They looked at each other. Down the street the fairy lights shone in the darkness.

  ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ he said.

  She felt the warmth, spreading. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d like you to come.’

  He was close, looking down at her, eyes seeking.

  She laughed, shifting gear. ‘Jack gets these mad ideas. They hardly ever come to anything.’

  ‘Talk him into it.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Otherwise …’ He gestured helplessly. ‘Ships that pass in the night.’

  His words ran like blood through her veins. She reached out, wound her fingers around his. Smiled. Her answer said itself.

  ‘No one said anything about passing.’

  Up in the lift together amid the hum of the mechanism, the soft whisper of air. Anna stared at her reflection in the bronze doors and wondered what she was getting into.

  I don’t do this. Never. One night stands …

  She had never been in the least promiscuous. She’d had only one other relationship in her life; it had ended in failure, although she had hoped for better things at the time.

  You two an item?

  The veined eyes, the knowing smile. She had almost laughed in Jack’s face. An item? Do yourself a favour.

  Now this.

  The corridor, endless. The succession of doors. Cards hanging from the handles. Do Not Disturb. Dear God.

  If anyone had told her that morning that she would be doing this, she would have thought them mad.

  They reached her room. She could feel his physical presence behind her as she turned the key in the lock. They went inside. Behind them the door closed, pincering out the light. They were alone in darkness. She felt him raise his hand, seeking the switch.

  ‘Leave it.’

  The better to hide from his eyes, from herself.

  She walked across to the window and looked out. Far below, the street was empty. She left the heavy curtains undrawn and turned back into the room. Where he waited.

  ‘This way we’ll be able to see each other,’ she explained.

  See and not be seen.

  She was alone with him, yet not with him. She sensed the beating of her heart, the tick of her life’s slow clock. The seconds drew out like hours. Still he did not move. A moment’s exasperation; did he expect her to make all the running? Suddenly, passionately, she wanted to end the tension stifling them both, this hovering upon the brink of what might happen, might not. By answer she reached up to caress the side of his face. Without warning her hand took charge, did something totally different and unexpected. She took hold of him. Tightened her grip.

  There.

  She woke once in the night. For a moment she remembered nothing; then memory flooded back. She put out her hand, tentatively, felt him sleeping peacefully beside her. She was glad that he had stayed and not cheapened her and what had happened by sneaking away while she slept. She lay still, eyes closed in the darkness, remembering.

  The muscled body, hard yet gentle. The hair springing on chest and loins. The heat. The light from the distant streetlights gleaming in his eyes as he found her. And again found her. She waiting. She sharing. She filled by him, by the moment, by the wonderful togetherness. By the surging explosion of delight. Again, and again.

  Now was a time for tenderness. The tenderness of heart and loins, of memory sharpened by joy. She had to share the moment, could not bear to be alone while he was there. She woke him gently.

  ‘Love me,’ voice and body urgent, ‘love me now.’

  Back in Canberra Anna found that Jack Goodie had spoken to the party l
eader, got the green light for what he wanted. Early in the new year, Mark Forrest beside her, she flew to Sydney on the first leg of her journey to Africa, to the country that her great-grandmother had left seventy-nine years before.

  THREE

  Heat. Smoke. Dust. The stink of Africa.

  Anna stood at Mark’s side with the other media people and looked past the protective screen of blue-overalled riot police at the chanting, swaying mob spilling across the dusty square of earth that passed for a football field.

  This is what I came to find out, Anna thought. Exhilarating but, God, frightening too. I’m a Sydneysider. What has this to do with me?

  Somewhere there was burning, a building maybe, the acrid smoke heavy in the still air.

  The crowd was shouting, a continuous, chanting rhythm that swelled and crashed like the sea. She couldn’t understand the words but it didn’t matter. You didn’t need words to recognise the meaning.

  Fury.

  The so-called peaceful protest was getting out of hand.

  The mob drew nearer, black eyes taunting the police. She could smell the stench of sweat and dust driven up by the pounding feet.

  The first stone hurtled through the air and skittered across the ground between two of the cops. The police line stirred as an order was barked by the captain standing on top of the armoured vehicle at the end of the rank.

  ‘They’re letting them get too close,’ one of the media men muttered. Tension was a wire tautening his voice

  Anna thought so, too. She glanced at Mark apprehensively but he was busy with his camera and did not notice.

  More stones, a clattering fusillade of them. More orders. Two men loped forward out of the police line. Their arms swung in unison. Tear gas grenades popped at the feet of the dancing demonstrators. Grey clouds of gas billowed out. The crowd fell back.

  A few whiffs of gas came back to the newsmen. There were some coughs, and a couple of the guys were busy with their handkerchiefs. Anna’s eyes were smarting, too, and again she glanced at Mark. Again he took no notice, squinting through the viewfinder of the Nikon, its motor drive whirring.

  Again she felt the exasperation that, with passion and tenderness, made up so much of her feelings for him, but there was no use complaining; he hadn’t wanted her to come at all.