Gideon interpreted. “He says it is so. The man with the grey eyes wears a uniform, like a soldier or policeman, and he watches you, Bibi. My babu has powerful magic. He can banish the spirit if you wish.”
“Don’t bother,” I said bitterly. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
Ryder and Gideon walked me back to Fairlight. This time Ryder walked ahead, his shoulders set and his jaw hard. Something was needling him, but I couldn’t imagine what. I left him to his thoughts and chatted with Gideon. He told me about his plans to marry when he was no longer a warrior.
“It is our way, Bibi. A warrior, a moran, has work to do. He works hard for many years, from the time of his circumcision when he becomes a man and puts away his childish ways. Only when his work is finished and he becomes an elder is he permitted to take a wife and have children.”
“And you have a young lady in mind?”
He looked a little bashful. “I do. I think her father and mother will be happy for us to marry.”
“Do you get on well together?”
He nodded. “She is strong and smart and will build a fine house and bear many sons, I think.” He paused then added, “She is very quiet. I do not know what she thinks of. But perhaps a warrior is not meant to know the thoughts of women.”
“Is she pretty?” I teased him.
His expression was sober, but I noticed his eyes smiled even if his mouth did not.
“Pretty like the first sunrise after a deep rain,” he said.
“A poetic sentiment, Gideon. Have you told her that’s what you think of her?”
He shook his head. “A warrior should not speak so freely of such things to women. I should not have told you.”
“Some things ought to be said. Tell her. I promise she won’t be quiet if she knows how much you admire her.”
“I should talk to this woman? Tell her my inmost thoughts?”
“Yes. Trust me, Gideon. I’ve been married three times. I know what works and what doesn’t.”
“Three times! And you are a widow? All three of your husbands are dead?”
“No. Just two. The second one is still alive back in England. I divorced him.”
He shook his head again. “It is a bad thing to put away one’s husband, but sometimes it must be done. Did he mistreat you?”
“Not in the way some husbands do. He didn’t beat me.”
“Was he given to drink?”
I smiled. “Not as much as I am. It was a matter of trust. He thought I betrayed him.”
“Betrayed him?”
“He thought I was unfaithful to him with another man.”
Gideon clucked his tongue. “This is a bad thing, too.”
“Not always,” I advised him. “But in this case my husband was wrong. He believed gossip and lies over my word. And since he could not believe in me, I left him.”
“Did he learn that you were innocent?”
“When it was too late. And I wouldn’t take him back then because I am stubborn and proud and because we would have failed at being married eventually. But it was a lesson to him. We are great friends now because he knows he can trust me completely.”
“Why do you not marry him again?”
“He has another wife. And children now.”
“Fine sons?”
“One. And a twin daughter.”
“Daughters are good. Daughters care for the cattle and build the houses and take care of the ones who need them.”
“And what do warriors do?” I asked with a smile.
He smiled back. “We protect, Bibi. It is what we do.”
11
When we reached Fairlight, Ryder turned down the path to his boma without a backward glance. Gideon walked me into the garden where the clergyman Halliwell was standing chatting with Dora.
“Look, Delilah, Mr. Halliwell has brought us oranges!” she said, brandishing a basket of bright round green fruit.
“Our African oranges are green,” he explained. “My sister thought you might enjoy them. She bought a bushel only this morning and wanted to be a good neighbour. Hello, Gideon,” he said, a trifle more slowly. “I hope you’ve been a help to Miss Drummond.” He turned to me. “Gideon was educated at our mission school. One of the brightest youngsters to come through our doors.”
He had a fatuous smile, as if it never occurred to him that a fully grown Masai warrior ought not to be spoken to as if he were of no more significance than a lapdog. There was a casually dismissive air about his attitude.
“Gideon has been most instructive,” I said sharply. “He took me to meet his grandfather.”
Halliwell gave me a gentle shake of the head. “Tread with caution, Miss Drummond. Native ways are inscrutable to a mind that loves Jesus.”
“Well, I never claimed to love Jesus, Mr. Halliwell. In fact, we’re barely acquainted.”
Dora cut in swiftly. “Where are my manners? Mr. Halliwell, will you join us for some tea on the veranda?”
He agreed and I turned to Gideon. He was watching me closely, and as the clergyman moved away with Dora, Gideon pitched his voice low. “Do not wear your anger like a mask, Bibi. His kind are simple as children. They cannot help what they do not know.”
I gave him a broad smile. “I know you will not accept food or drink from me, but there is a fellow working in the kitchen. I hope you will take something from him before you make the journey home again.”
He nodded and gave me a wave as he headed to the kitchen. I joined Dora and Halliwell on the veranda. Dora passed me a glass of lemon squash with a warning glance. I rolled my eyes at her, and took a seat, stretching out my booted legs onto the arms of the planter’s chair as Ryder had done.
“It’s lovely country for walking, isn’t it?” Halliwell offered. I thawed a little then, and we fell to discussing the countryside. “Of course, one must always be careful of the wildlife, but it gives a fillip of excitement to one’s existence, I find. Danger lurks around every thornbush here. I am always telling Evelyn to be cautious when she goes out to paint.”
“Is she an artist?” Dora inquired politely.
“After a fashion. She does like to try to capture the landscapes here, so different from our native Kent. But she makes no claim to talent like Mr. Parrymore.”
“Kit’s talent is extraordinary,” I agreed. “He has developed tremendously as an artist since the time I knew him in New York.”
Halliwell sat forward eagerly. “His paintings are so full of life, of vibrancy—don’t you find? They almost seem to have a pulse, they are so alive.”
Dora sipped at her lemon squash while I lit a cigarette. “You surprise me, Mr. Halliwell. I wouldn’t have expected a clergyman to feel so strongly about art.”
He laughed. “I admit I do not have the same calling as many of my fellow men of the cloth. It was a decision of my parents’ making. We were brought up on a small estate outside of Canterbury. Our elder brother was the heir, of course, and Evelyn and I were made to follow the plan our parents laid out. I was sent into the church and she was to keep house for me. But our first love was always art. Alas, I was never given proper tuition in the subject, so my technique has never developed. Evelyn received some very rudimentary training from a drawing master for a few months. I’m afraid that is the extent of our formal education,” he added, his expression rueful.
I could tell Dora was about to say something pointlessly soothing, so I cut in.
“Why didn’t you run away?”
He blinked, like a rabbit just up from his hole. “I beg your pardon?”
I took a long pull on my cigarette just to heighten the moment. “Why didn’t you run away? Take your life in your own hands and make what you wanted out of it?”
He stared at me for a long minute, no doubt as m
ystified as if I had been speaking Mandarin.
At last he laughed again, apparently deciding I was harmless and perhaps a little mentally defective. “My dear lady, what a question! How simple you make it sound and how impossible.”
“Difficult,” I corrected. “Not impossible.” Dora stirred beside me, and I didn’t have to look at her to know she was wearing her disapproving expression. That’s what I always found so tiresome about the English. The long list of Things That Must Not Be Said.
“Not impossible,” I repeated. “You simply had to make up your mind to do without your parents’ help. Say goodbye to their money and you say goodbye to their interference.”
“You are serious,” he said slowly.
“As a grave. Nobody should have to do what they don’t want just because some moneybags relative makes it so. Purse strings are puppet strings, Mr. Halliwell. They can be cut.”
Dora couldn’t take it anymore. “She’s joking, of course, Mr. Halliwell,” she said soothingly. “She doesn’t actually believe that or she wouldn’t be here herself.”
It wasn’t like Dora to air the family’s dirty linen, but my reasons for being in Africa were common knowledge. It was, however, a symptom of her annoyance with me that she mentioned it.
“Oh, I believe every word of it. I just happen to be a hypocrite.” I bared my teeth at Mr. Halliwell in a crocodile smile. “I like nice things and I would be less than useless with a job.”
“A job!” He reached for his handkerchief and passed it over his brow. “I should think not. No properly brought up young lady should have to work for money.”
“I suppose Evelyn toils away at the mission school purely in hopes of a heavenly reward?”
Dora jumped to her feet. “Mr. Halliwell, have I shown you the changes I’m making to the garden? I should love to have your opinion. No, no, bring your drink. It’s too hot to go walking without some refreshment.” They left the veranda, but not before she gave me a backward glance that would have scalded milk.
I settled back into my chair to finish my lemon squash and cigarette. I had bought a cow, terrorized the farm manager, and offended the neighbours, I reflected. Not bad for a morning’s work.
* * *
My afternoon meeting with Gates was less than productive. He had apparently decided on a tactic of unctuous cooperation—at least on the surface. Whatever I suggested he approved enthusiastically, and then a few minutes later, he would casually drop in every reason why what I wanted wasn’t feasible. Then I would remind him who had the whip hand and he would fall in line before starting the whole process over again. It was exhausting, but by the time I’d finished with him, he had set a few of the Kikuyu to reinforcing the barn and building a rudimentary henhouse.
I was arguing with him over the size of it when Ryder appeared with a small dead antelope of sorts draped over his shoulders. “Dinner,” he said.
“Thank God. We haven’t gotten around to replenishing the stores and it’s been nothing but flatbreads and boiled eggs.”
He carried the antelope to the kitchen while I dismissed Gates, who scurried off with ill grace.
“I don’t think he likes you much,” Ryder observed.
I grinned. “Good.”
Ryder didn’t answer my smile. “Be careful. He can be a nasty piece of work.”
“Does he beat his wife like your friends do?”
“Anthony Wickenden is not my friend,” he said flatly. “And no, that’s one sin you can’t drop at Gates’ door. But he does like to harass the Kukes.”
“Why specifically the Kikuyu?”
“Because I’ve told the Masai to stay out of his way.”
“He would treat them worse?”
“Everybody does. The Masai are the lowest on everyone’s list, white or African.”
“But why?”
“You saw how they live. Mud huts and cow’s blood to drink. It doesn’t get more primitive than that.”
“Ryder, I am accustomed to indoor plumbing, feather beds, vintage wines and fast cars. This is all primitive to me.”
He grinned again. “Touché. Now, let’s finish getting your storeroom sorted.”
But rather than heading towards the house, he took the path leading to the road.
“Where are we going?”
“To my duka. What I brought was for the Kikuyu. Now it’s time to lay in supplies for you. I have everything you need. Including chickens.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. The little shop was almost an hour’s walk from Fairlight, but well worth the journey. A tin roof housed the shop and its deep porch, and on the porch in the shade of that tin roof, a small, plump Indian man with a turban sat at an elderly sewing machine. The fabric flew through his hands as he worked the treadle, and a small monkey perched on top, supervising. When we approached, the man jumped up and shouted into the building as he came to greet us.
“Mr. Ryder! And the lady of Fairlight!”
“Makes me sound like something out of Tennyson,” I murmured to Ryder.
Ryder introduced me properly to Mr. Patel and the fellow pumped my hand and bowed several times as he escorted us into the building. It was far more than a shop; it was Ali Baba’s cave. The walls were crammed to the ceiling with boxes and barrels and tins of food and supplies, while the counter was hung with a sign proclaiming it was an official post office. A small bar ran along one wall, and tucked in a corner were a few small rattan chairs fitted with chintz cushions. More chintz had been hung over the narrow doorway that separated the shop from the living quarters behind. Mr. Patel yelled through the curtain and in a moment a slender Indian woman wearing a pink sari appeared with a tray of glasses and a plate of small pastries. She was small, not quite my height, with heavy black hair that she had bound into a plait that swung like her hips whenever she walked.
Mr. Patel introduced me to his wife and told her to serve us. The glasses were full to the brim with very sweet tea and the pastries were stuffed with pistachios and drizzled with honey. She handed them out in turn with a smile that showed pretty white teeth against her dusky skin.
“Delicious,” I told her. I didn’t know if she spoke English, but she smiled anyway and hurried back through the curtain. The monkey had a glass as well and he drank politely, wiping his mouth after every sip. I looked up and saw that the curtain was very slightly parted, and only the gleam of one dark eye showed through. It wasn’t focused on me, though. It was fixed unblinkingly on Ryder.
Mr. Patel, who never seemed to stay still for more than a minute, bounded up and dashed behind the bar. When he returned, he handed me a thick stack of envelopes bound with a bit of rough twine.
“The post!”
“Rajesh fetches the post from Nairobi,” Ryder explained, “but it doesn’t go any farther. You have to come here to collect it or to send a letter. If a telegram arrives, Rajesh will send one of his sons out with it on the motorcycle.”
“Your sons?”
“Yes,” Mr. Patel said, smiling widely, “I am blessed with three strong boys. Almost fully grown.”
I thought of the slim, youthful Mrs. Patel and wondered how that was possible.
“The first Mrs. Patel died last year, very sad,” Mr. Patel told me, his voice pitched low. “I have taken a new bride to be mother to my sons and to bring me happiness. This is the Mrs. Patel you have met, my jewel.”
I flicked a gaze at Ryder who was studying his boots nonchalantly.
“How nice for you,” I told Mr. Patel. “And you have a motorcycle?”
“Oh, yes! Very reliable and very fast.”
I scarcely heard him. I was too busy thinking about his jewel and wondering if he knew what she got up to when he was off in Nairobi. I flipped through the stack of mail, noticing the return addresses. “Mossy, Nigel, Quentin. Bless them. And there ar
e several for Dodo, too. She’ll be thrilled.”
I tucked the letters into my pocket, savouring the anticipation of reading them over a long cool gin and tonic. We chatted with Mr. Patel until the pastries were nothing but sticky crumbs on a plate. I spent the next hour scouring Ryder’s shelves for anything and everything we might need at Fairlight. It added up and when Mr. Patel presented me with the total, I was horrified.
I turned to Ryder. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money with me.”
“It’s useless out here anyway, at least on a daily basis. It will just go on account, settled quarterly. Rajesh, put it on the Fairlight account.” Mr. Patel opened a battered green ledger and began to make a tidy notation.
“Who pays for that?” I demanded.
He flicked a glance to Mr. Patel who looked faintly embarrassed. “It is the responsibility of the estate to settle the account.”
“When is the reckoning?”
“Quarterly, memsa.”
“And did Gates settle the account for the last quarter?”
“I regret to say this is not so.”
“How many quarters is the estate in arrears?”
He traced his finger lightly down the page of his ledger. “Six, memsa.”
I turned to Ryder. “Six quarters? For a year and a half, Fairlight hasn’t paid its bill?”
He looked away. “These things happen.”
“These things do not just happen, and that’s a damned poor way to run a business. Mr. Patel, how much is the total?” He named a sum which made me suck in my breath. “I would like for you to prepare a report, please. Itemize the bill so I can see precisely what has been purchased by the estate. I will get you your money.”
He perked up considerably then. “As you wish, dear lady. I will have the bill prepared and delivered to Fairlight at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“And it is to be put into no one’s hands but mine, do you understand?”
He gave me a slow wink. “We are conspirators, memsa.”
“Exactly. And did you write down my chickens?”
Ryder raised a hand. “You refused before, but I would like you to have a welcome present.”
A Spear of Summer Grass Page 14
