by Prue Leith
Poppy laughed and said, “You mean you can’t sleep and you want some company. Is that right?” She shrugged at Karl, saying, “Sorry. Back in a second” and led her daughter back to bed by the hand.
While she was gone Angelina came in, headphones on. But as soon as she saw Karl she pulled them down round her neck and ran to him. “Karl! Brilliant. Mum didn’t say you were here.”
Once Poppy had reappeared and Angelina was again out of earshot behind the blast of pop, Karl said, “They look well. So do you.”
Poppy handed him a glass of wine and smiled her uncomplicated open smile. “We all are. The horrors of last summer seem far away. And I’m not working now, which means I’m fatter. And to my surprise, happier.”
Karl nodded but did not say anything. Poppy remembered that one of the great things about Karl was his ease with silence, his unhurried approach to everything.
But she didn’t have much time and she felt a dip of angst. She’d embarked on this course and she must go on. She said, “But before Eduardo gets home—he’ll be here any sec—there is something I have to tell you.”
Karl said at once, “Look, Poppy, it’s quite all right if you don’t want to put any more money in. We can manage with the bank. The figures still work . . .”
“It’s not that,” Poppy interrupted.
“What then?” Karl looked up at the urgency in her voice and said, “What is it, Popps. Not more drama?”
Poppy smiled uncertainly and said, “Could be. I hope not.” And then went on in a rush, “Karl, the thing is, you remember I told you that Carrie could never love you? I don’t know if it matters now, but I made it up. She never said it.”
Poppy swallowed and went on, her eyes on her lap, “And I told her that you couldn’t stand her either. That you’d never marry her if she was the last woman on earth.” Poppy lifted her eyes to Karl’s. There, she’d told him.
She expected him to say something. To stand up, rant about, ask her what business it was of hers. Anything. But he just looked at her, confusion and pain creeping over his face.
She said, “When she wrote to me about the new camp, she said you wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole. It made me realize…”
He interrupted her,
“Why Popps?” She’d decided to tell him the whole truth, and in fact she found it easier than she thought it would be. She told him how she’d begun to find him desirable in that week during which he’d been conscientiously mending her self-esteem.
“I suppose it was like getting hooked on your shrink. I needed you too much,” she said uncertainly. “And I wanted to get my own back on Eduardo.”
Karl still sat there, looking stunned. She blundered on, “I misread you completely, of course. Of course you wouldn’t fancy me. But I mistook kindness for desire. So when you came to tell me you loved Carrie, I had got it into my head you were going to fall into bed with me.”
Her throat hurt, and tears had overrun her eyes, She went on, “I’m so sorry, Karl. So sorry . . . But you see, it was happening again. Carrie was helping herself to what was mine. As always.”
“Popps, Popps, stop.” He stood up and came across to her, crouching down in front of her. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” He took her hands and squeezed them. “It’s fine.”
By the time Eduardo arrived Poppy was feeling surprisingly cheerful, with the lightheadedness that comes from confession. As she kissed her husband she smelt his familiar aftershave with a rare wash of desire. The pressure of his hand on her back told her that he felt it too. He said, “Why all flushed and excited?” He turned to Karl with outstretched hand and said, “If I didn’t know you so well, Karl, I’d wonder what you two had been up to.”
They talked about Kaia Moya. Karl produced his architect’s plans and detailed columns of figures to explain his business plan, but Poppy had already made up her mind. She’d put up the money. In the last six months she and Eduardo had become close—or at least closer—again. She knew that she’d never completely trust Eduardo again. But she also knew they loved each other, and she was happy. And she wanted Karl to be too. She even thought she could bear it if Carrie was happy.
But she’d prefer Carrie to be happy in Africa.
*
Carrie was sitting on the back step with Maisie, stripping the leaves from a mountain of mielies. She liked this job, slitting the fibrous leaves of each one, pulling them away to expose the fat cob with its tightly packed rows of plump niblets. It was like treasure hunting, with only the occasional disappointment when the seeds had not developed, or some creature had got there first and eaten them.
And it was companionable. Maisie was comfy company, as she’d been when Carrie and Poppy were children. I wonder how many peas she’s podded, beans she’s shelled, meilies she’s shucked. Maisie said, a statement not a question, “You happy now, Miss Carrie. You come home again.”
Carrie said for the umpteenth time, “Maisie, I wish you’d call me Carrie, not Miss Carrie. And yes, it’s good to be here.”
It was true. Carrie had now been at Kaia Moya for almost a month, and had long since stopped holidaying and started working. She’d introduced the sort of bush cooking she knew was right for the guests: stir fries that were familiar enough in flavor for European palates but nonetheless with a whiff of the wild—crocodile with lemon grass and coriander or guineafowl with yams and cinnamon. potjies of casseroled game with figs, ostrich neck or warthog slow cooked like oxtail with quinces; grills marinated in pomegranate or mango. She borrowed dishes from all over Africa: Morrocan lamb with apricots, Kenyan venison with sweet potatoes, Cape Malay fish with curry spices.
Her food was a great success. Tourists felt adventurous without being over-faced by mopane worms or deepfried grasshoppers. And it all looked so good: salad in bowls made by craftsmen in Mpumalnga, buffet dishes in hand-thrown African pottery, bread in exquisite Basuto baskets, tablecloths and napkins of local weave.
So yes, Carrie was content. She didn’t miss her London life at all, and was beginning to think that whatever happened she’d sell the business to Lulu. Lulu had agreed to hold the fort while Carrie did her My Mag stint, and had moved into her house. She was doing well, gaining more customers. Carrie had become her landlord rather than her boss, and the longer she stayed in Africa, the less she wanted to go back.
Carrie still had not made up her mind whether to accept the My Mag job. She had until the end of the month to decide, but Kaia Moya was exerting an extraordinary pull. If it had been a straight choice between helping Karl with the business, and working for the mag, she knew she’d stay right here, no contest.
But Carrie now knew she wanted Karl, and she couldn’t bear it if Karl was in love with Cathy. She thought she’d be OK with a standoff, if Karl resisted her advances forever, but she couldn’t play second fiddle to someone else.
She knew she should just ask him outright, “Are you and Cathy an item? Are you in love with Cathy?” but she couldn’t. Of course, she’d known him long enough to ask him anything, and she was sure he’d tell her the truth. But she feared the answer. What would she do if he said, “Yes, we are in love. We are getting married.”
She wouldn’t be able to bear it. She thought about Karl and Cathy all the time. Sometime she told herself that of course he spent a lot of time with Cathy. He always did when training new rangers. But up to now she’d barely noticed his cadets. Most of them were raw boys just out of school.
Suddenly she stood up. She had to know once and for all. If he loved Cathy, she’d take the My Mag job. It was that simple.
“I’ll see you later, Maisie,” she said, and headed for the staff cottages. Karl’s would be open. He never locked anything. And he wasn’t due back from England for two days.
She found the evidence she needed almost at once. It was an old leather-bound edition of Jock of the Bushveld lying on his desk. In the flyleaf he had written:
Who loves the bushveld a little less, I hope, than one day she’ll love me.
From K
The pain was exactly as she knew it would be. She stood stock still, staring at the words, conscious of a slowly expanding hurt inside her. So, there it is then, she thought. Now you know. She looked down again at the scuffed old volume. She opened it once more, and turned a couple of pages, past Karl’s loving inscription.
And then she remembered. Even as she saw the initials D.F. on the title page she knew this had been her father’s copy, the one he used to read to Poppy and her on the stoep. And then she remembered more. Karl used to read to them from it too. Her mum must have given it to Karl after her dad died.
Anger flooded her cheeks as she thought, Bastard. Jock of the Bushveld had been almost a sacred text with her father. He loved that book, and she and Poppy had learned to love it too. She threw the book back on the desk, and walked back to her cabin.
The next morning Carrie stayed in her cabin, working on a piece for My Mag. Karl was due back tomorrow and she wanted to finish the article and leave for Johannesburg before he was back. Cathy would be back tomorrow too, and she had no wish to see their happy reunion. At 11a.m. there was knock on her door. She called, “Come in” absently, her mind on a recipe for ginger shortcake.
The door opened but no one said anything and Carrie was forced to swing round and look up. Karl stood in the doorway, the bright light behind throwing his face into darkness. She could not see his expression. He shut the door without turning away from her.
“Karl, hi. Aren’t you back early?” she said. Good, her voice was dead cool.
“I know,” he said. “I came home early to ask you to marry me.” He still had his hands behind him, on the door handle. He did not come any closer, but he repeated, “Carrie, please marry me.”
She stood up then, her legs feeling very odd. “Marry you? Me marry you? But what about Cathy?”
Karl came toward her then, putting his arms out, tentative. “Cathy? What about Cathy?”
Oh God, thought Carrie, this is like a bad movie. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She felt sick.
“You are in love with Cathy. I saw the book.”
He didn’t seem to hear. He put his arms round her and pulled her into his chest.
It felt wonderful. Safe. Home. Oh God, how could she ever have loved anyone else? She shut her eyes, thinking, I’ll just stay here and not think about Cathy.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. Then Karl said, “What book?”
Carrie moved a fraction away, reluctantly. She didn’t want to have this conversation now. She said, “Jock of the Bushveld. I went snooping in your cottage.”
“Oh Carrie,” Karl cried, pulling her roughly to him again, “you complete idiot!”
Carrie pushed him back, her color rising. She said, “I saw the inscription, Karl: ‘For C from K.’ She wrenched out of his grasp, feeling happiness evaporating with every word.”
“C is for Carrie.” He said it again. “Darling, C is for Carrie. I was going to give you that book last July. And then I realized you were in love with Eduardo. I’ve kept it on my desk ever since. In hope.”
She started to laugh. A shaky laugh, near tears. “And Cathy? You don’t . . .”
“Cathy is a child. A tough, talented, good ranger. But no, I don’t love her.”
He got his arms round her again, and this time she relaxed. She felt wonderfully small against him, vulnerable and cherished.
But within seconds, Carrie was having her old problem with lust. She wanted to pull Karl’s clothes off. Make love to him, make him want her, prove to him that she was worth it.
She reached up and kissed him as she had done so many months ago in her London kitchen. And again she felt his initial resistance, then his responding passion. At last, she thought, at long long last.
But he pulled away. Oh Christ, she thought, I don’t believe it. But he said, holding her away from him, “Carrie, wait. I promise you I’m going to screw you senseless. Fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. But not here. Grab a jersey and a hat. We are going for a drive.”
She followed him out and they walked through the camp to his cottage. As he passed the kitchen he called, “Maisie, we’ll be gone all day. Do you think you could pack me a quick picnic? Just some bread and cheese and fruit. Enough for four. Put some wine in too.”
Her heart sank. They must be taking rangers or laborers with them for some job.
In his cottage he pulled a couple of blankets off the bed, threw two thick jackets to Carrie and stuffed Jock of the Bushveld into his pocket.
Maisie handed them a basket and a coolbox and Carrie, as if in a dream, followed Karl to the jeep. They climbed in and Karl started the engine, and drove past the staff compound, without stopping to pick up anyone.
“Why a picnic for four?” she asked.
“Lunch and supper,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of talking to do.”
The drive was, Carrie thought, the happiest hour of her life. Karl was going to make love to her. He was going to marry her. They’d have happy-ever-after, those babies, a life and business together at Kaia Moya.
Maybe, one day, she’d be friends again with Poppy. For once the thought of Poppy did not gray Carrie’s skies. Rather she wished she could see her. She wanted to tell Poppy about Karl. Not to crow that Poppy was wrong about Karl, but because she wanted her sister to share her happiness. She wanted Poppy to be pleased for her. She wanted to tell her big sister that she’d come good after all—she was going to stop being mad and bad, and be a wife. Maybe a mum.
As if following her thoughts, Karl said, “Poppy and Eduardo seem pretty good together again. They’re going to provide the capital for the extra cabins and the camp.”
Carrie thought, this must all be a dream. Any minute I’ll wake up and find that bloody Cathy is going to marry Karl. She said, “She’ll never forgive me. I know she won’t.”
“She has forgiven you. Her problem has been forgiving herself.” And then he told her about Poppy doing her best to keep them apart.
Carrie was aghast.
“But Karl. Poppy doesn’t do things like that. I do that sort of thing, not Poppy. Why would she do that? I can’t believe . . .”
“Darling heart, she was jealous. She’s always been jealous of you. Just as you have been of her. She’s not a saint. She’s a lovely woman. But she’s not a saint.”
They climbed again to the ledge above the rock pool, and it was like a replay, only this time the air was charged with desire and the certainty of what was to come. Karl said, “Go on, take your clothes off again.”
She felt a moment’s embarrassment as she started to pull off her T-shirt. She giggled and said, “Oh Karl, this is like a B movie. I can hear the sound of soaring violins. Or I expect you to start beating your chest and making Tarzan noises.”
He didn’t laugh. He pulled her toward her by the waistband of her shorts, and as he undid the button he said very quietly into her ear, “Last time, when you swam around that pool naked, and I pulled you out, and then sat trying to pretend I was made of stone as the most beautiful woman in the world sat wet and slippery in front of me, I swore if I ever did get you to love me, I’d pay you back.”
He stroked every inch of her as he undressed him, but would not let her caress him, and he would not kiss her mouth. “No,” he said, as her lips tried to find his. “If I kiss you, I’ll fuck you, and that’s not for yet.” And he would not let her sit down, or lie down, though her legs were caving in beneath her. Oh God, she wanted him so much, the warmth of the sun and his hands on her body were driving her wild.
Her body ached, really ached, for him. Wanting him so much was agony, but she was desperate for him to go on caressing her. She wanted him to use both hands, but one of them was holding her wri
sts together behind her back so that she could not caress him. She thought she might faint with longing.
Suddenly his arms were right round her, practically lifting her off her feet. She could feel his whole body against hers and she thought, with a little thrill of triumph, At last.
He pushed her up against the rounded wall of rock. It was smooth and hot from the sun.
“It’s hot.” The words came out in a gasp of protest. But he did not release her and she felt the heat against her thighs and bum, and then in a great blast against her back and shoulders as he pressed against her, forcing her skin against the smooth hot granite.
“I know,” he said, and he was in her. She opened her mouth, half in ecstasy, half with the pain of the hot rock, and he put his open mouth over hers, kissing her, ravaging her, loving her, but most of all possessing her. Her legs came up around his waist as he thumped her against the wall. Carrie was drunk, delirious.
When it was over they slid together down the smooth rock. Carrie was now oblivious of the heat beneath them, of her bruised back, of her swollen mouth. She felt nothing but an overwhelming lassitude. She was dizzy and drenched in love.
The rest of the day was a dream. They slid around each other like seals in the icy pool until desire overcame the cold and they made love again, half in and half out of the water. They ate cheese and bread with ravenous appetite, then fell asleep on their towels in the sun.
Karl woke first and smoothed suntan oil onto Carrie’s scratched red back, and then continued stroking and oiling her, over her shoulders, under her armpits, between her thighs, until she couldn’t bear it and she turned over pulling him into her once more.
As the sun left the river gorge it grew cold. They dressed and climbed to the plateau, hauling on jerseys and jackets as the shadows lengthened and the game appeared at the waterhole below. They sat on the edge, Carrie’s anxiety stilled by the safety of Karl’s shoulder.
