The laughter lifted his spirits until he caught sight of David and Thomas walking together in the garden. They were smiling at something Thomas said and Richard’s lips curled in disgust when he saw David lay his hand on the black boy’s arm and let it rest there while he pointed at something in the distance with his other arm. It might be the African way but Richard did not hold with men touching each other. Nor, for that matter, did he hold with whites getting too friendly with blacks. It could only lead to trouble.
He tossed back the rest of his drink, annoyed and frustrated. There was no point in saying anything to David about his friendship with Thomas. Richard knew he would come off second best from such a discussion. David would just gently ignore him. He turned from the window and made his way back to the drinks cupboard but changed his mind about having another one. It was David’s first day home. No point in alcohol loosening his tongue and getting into a row. Besides, after allowing alcohol to nearly ruin his life, Richard tended to avoid drinking too much these days.
He went in search of Wellington. Last time he cooked roast beef it was overdone and, as they were having it tonight, he wanted to make sure it was cooked the way he liked it, rare. That was the nice thing about Africa, he decided on his way to the kitchen. When all else fails you can always take it out on the servants. Then he chided himself. ‘Sorry, Kath,’ he said to his dead wife, talking to her in his head as he often did. ‘Didn’t mean it, honest.’
FOUR
Rarely did a day go by at Pentland Park when Richard’s head man, Samson—an immensely charming rogue who had been with Richard over twenty years—did not present one problem or another for him to solve. So it was, the day after David arrived home, that Richard had been busy most of the day trying to fix a pump which drew water from a bore and pumped it into a dam. Samson had, rightly, seen the level of water in the dam was low and he started the pump without first checking to see if there was enough oil in it. The engine had seized. He had then, in his own unique style, informed Richard.
He found his boss in the dining room and approached him, as he usually did, without knocking or in any other way announcing his presence. ‘Ah, but master, how are you this day?’
Richard loved the old man. They had hunted together, toiled together and cried for Kathy together. He knew Samson as well as he knew anyone. He also knew this approach meant a problem. The only time Samson asked after Richard’s health, or called him master, was when he had bad news about the farm. ‘I am eating my breakfast, old one. I do not want to hear your troubles.’ He looked up briefly then back at his plate.
Samson clapped his hands softly together. ‘Ah, but master, they are not my troubles.’
Richard thumped the table in a mock display of elation. ‘No troubles! Wonderful! Surely the sun will shine all day if we have no troubles.’ He shovelled a forkful of toast, bacon, egg and tomato into his mouth and chewed vigorously, watching Samson.
‘Ah, but master, I did not say there were no troubles.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘No, master, I said they were not my troubles.’
Richard put down his knife and fork, swallowed, took a sip of coffee, leaned back in his chair and said, ‘So, you do not have troubles. But there are troubles. Am I to understand then that I am the one with troubles? Tell me, old friend, what are my troubles?’ It was always like this. The roundabout way of getting to the real issue was a part of African etiquette and Richard always enjoyed the preamble, whether it was bad news or not.
Samson enjoyed it too. Richard played the preamble game better than any other white man he had met. ‘The pump in the field where the truck got bogged three rains ago. Do you know this pump, master?’
‘Yes. What about it?’
And Samson gave it to him straight. ‘Ah, but master, that pump, she is fucked.’
‘Fucked! Are you sure it’s not just buggered?’
There were distinct differences. If something was ‘buggered’ it meant it could be fixed. If it was ‘fucked’ then it was beyond repair.
‘No, master. She is very fucked.’ To Samson, the pump was obviously dead.
Richard tried to stare his head boy down. Samson gazed innocently back.
‘How did the pump get fucked, old one?’
Samson beamed at him. ‘The master forgot to put oil in it. When I came and saw the dam was empty I started the pump as I am supposed to do. I did not know the master had forgotten to put oil into the motor.’ The blame was clearly Richard’s.
He took the news calmly. Things mechanical and the majority of rural Africans were not a good combination. As the white baas it was his function to repair the calamitous results when the two got together. He said, ‘Wait for me in the truck,’ and went back to his breakfast.
He did not see David and presumed he was still asleep. It took him until midafternoon to repair the seized engine. It would have been quicker and easier to simply remove the motor and replace it with a spare, since he carried spares for all his equipment. He could then work on the problem in his well-equipped workshop. But Richard liked being out of doors. Working in the field reinforced his sense of being a landowner. He never forgot the claustrophobic atmosphere of his father’s hotels and so, any opportunity he had to work shoulder to shoulder with his men, in any kind of weather, was happily grabbed.
When he returned to the house he asked Wellington where David was. ‘They have taken the Land Rover, master.’
‘They?’
‘Master David and Thomas.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘I do not know, master.’
‘Did they say when they’ll be getting back?’
‘No, master.’
He had to leave it at that. He was not worried about his son. David knew the land like the back of his hand and was well used to driving the old, short-wheel based Land Rover. But when the boys had not returned by nightfall, he began to think of all the things that might have gone wrong. The Land Rover’s engine was reliable but old. Something could have broken, leaving them stranded God knows where. They might be bogged. Or worse. There were stray roving bands of men, relics from the war, armed and dangerous and making a living by robbing and raiding in isolated areas. These groups were to be found all over Zimbabwe. The boys might have met up with such a group.
Richard was just about to press the panic button when he saw the lights of the Land Rover making slow progress across the valley floor. He relaxed. Then he got angry. David knew the rules. To be out after dark, unless he had said he would be, meant everyone would be worried, search parties organised, a lot of time and effort spent. It took twenty minutes for the Land Rover to travel from the valley up to the plateau. By the time the boys arrived at the house, Richard had worked himself into what Kathy used to refer to as a number three rage. A number three was middle of the range.
David took the edge off his anger by walking into the house with his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. ‘I know, I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I miscalculated the time it would take us to get back. I thought I’d have more daylight.’
This was fair enough. In Scotland, summer or winter, night falls like a soft, drawn-out whisper. In Africa, however, it falls like a ton of bricks. But Richard, although he understood this, had some anger to get out of his system. ‘Where the hell did you go?’
‘Into the game reserve.’ David sounded evasive.
‘You had me worried sick.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to worry you.’
‘You are aware there are bandits out there?’
David sighed. ‘Yes, Dad.’ His father always referred to bandits whenever he did not want David to do something or go somewhere he considered unsafe. The fact that neither David nor his father had ever seen bandits never stopped Richard from bringing up the subject.
‘What would you have done if you’d met up with some of them?’
‘I had Thomas with me.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ Richard exploded
. ‘Thomas is Shona. Most of the bandits in this area are Matabele. If anything, his presence would have made things worse. Didn’t you think?’
David backed down. ‘I guess not, Dad. I’m sorry.’
Richard recognised the signs. If he pressed the subject David would simply repeat his apologies. ‘Go and wash up,’ he huffed. ‘Wellington has kept dinner waiting.’
The meal was eaten in complete silence. David shovelled his food down as fast as he could, boarding school-style, and excused himself from the table, leaving Richard pushing his half-eaten meal around his plate in the flat aftermath of his temper. It irked him that, regardless of how often he felt he had right on his side, David always left him feeling he had lost the confrontation. He could never get the better of that gentle dignity. It flummoxed him in the same way it had with Kathy. But while it had endeared Kathy to him, it just made the gap between his son and himself wider.
He gave up on dinner and took his drink outside to sit in his favourite seat on the verandah. He could hear David’s stereo above. The music was Mozart. His son always played classical music when he was upset.
The telephone ringing cut into his solitary appreciation of the music. The ringing stopped, then Wellington appeared at the door to tell him, ‘Some gentlemans on the phone who would not give his name wants to speak with the master.’
He recognised the caller immediately. Gabriel Tenneka was a successful commodity broker in Harare and, up until a couple of years ago, the front man for most overseas sales of poached game products which passed from Richard and Janie’s lands. With his contacts around the world, Gabriel had access to Swiss bank accounts, money-laundering facilities, friendly customs officials, genuine exporters and importers and, most important, a staggering number of customers. Richard presumed, although he did not know for sure, that the man still handled Janie’s trophies.
Gabriel wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘I’ve got a big order. I need ivory.’
Richard bristled. It was not the first time Tenneka had approached him since he stopped supplying ivory and skins, despite Richard’s consistent refusal to oblige. ‘Why tell me?’
‘Roos is becoming unreliable.’ Richard knew that. Janie Roos barely drew a sober breath these days.
‘My answer’s the same as before,’ he told Tenneka. ‘No poaching.’
‘Just this once,’ Tenneka wheedled, then added, ‘you weren’t always this moralistic.’
‘Not even this once,’ Richard said curtly, resenting the man.
‘It’ll mean a great deal of money.’
Richard wasn’t even tempted. ‘No way, Gabriel. I’m not running those risks any more.’
‘There’s a World Wildlife Conference in Harare next week. The game reserve will be practically unmanned for two days and nights. There’s virtually no risk. I’ll send someone to set it up. He can liaise with your men.’
‘I can’t stop you going into the reserve,’ Richard said, exasperated that the man appeared not to listen, ‘but don’t let me catch anyone on my land, you understand me?’
‘We need your land to store the tusks.’
‘Look, Tenneka, I’ve told you before, no more poaching. It’s finished. I don’t want to know—okay?’
‘But can we use your land?’
‘Jesus Christ, man, how many times do I have to say it, no!’
Abruptly Tenneka changed the subject. ‘I see your daughter is keeping company with an acquaintance of mine. How much does she know?’
‘About the poaching? She knows.’ Penny had been indifferent to his involvement.
‘This man is with Game Department. He could be dangerous.’
‘To me? Why? I haven’t been involved for two years. Besides, I trust my daughter.’
Again, Gabriel Tenneka changed the subject, spending five minutes complaining about Janie Roos before saying goodbye.
After he hung up he speculated briefly on what Tenneka meant about Penny’s new boyfriend. Gabriel Tenneka was a man who liked to let everyone know that he knew everything and everybody. Richard decided the man was just playing some kind of power game. He was not about to lose sleep over it. Penny was more than capable of looking after herself.
He took his drink back outside. The music of Mozart had been replaced by something which he had been reliably informed was heavy metal. Typically, however, David kept the volume at an acceptable level. Richard found himself wishing the boy would rebel. The discordant music and screaming voices irritated him intensely but he was more irritated by the fact that he could not, in fairness, complain about the volume.
A soft whisper of sound alerted him he was not alone. Samson materialised out of the dark and stood before him. ‘I see you, master.’
He prepared himself for bad news. ‘I see you, old one.’
Samson shuffled his feet and cracked his knuckles, a sure sign of very bad news. But good manners made him delay. ‘It is a very fine night, master.’
‘It is indeed, old friend.’
‘It is good to watch the night.’
Richard was intrigued to know what Samson had to say which would have made him walk from his house, halfway down the escarpment. However, he had been taught, by this very man, that impatience was more than a severe breach of etiquette—it was highly insulting. For all his impatient nature, Richard would not insult this man for anything. ‘Many good thoughts come in the darkness.’
‘The darkness hides the eyes.’ It had taken Richard years to follow the obliqueness of African rhetoric. It required lateral thinking. It also required a deep understanding of the African psyche.
‘Yes, Samson. The eyes do not need to hide the truth.’
This was Samson’s cue. ‘Something very bad has happened, changamire.’ Samson used the Shona word for Sir.
Richard was now very alert. ‘Let’s have it, Samson.’
‘Someone has broken into the bottom shed.’
‘What? That’s impossible. The shed is locked.’ Richard had locked it himself that afternoon.
‘That is so. Nevertheless, master, the door she is standing open.’
‘Anything missing?’ Theft was unheard-of on Pentland. The news that someone had broken into the shed was a shock.
‘I do not think so, master.’
‘Wait here.’ Richard strode quickly to his office where he kept all the keys for Pentland Park. The key tagged ‘bottom shed’ was in its usual place, hanging from a peg on a board of some twenty keys. He snatched the key off the board, bellowed through the house to Samson, ‘Let’s go!’ and stomped outside to where David had parked the Land Rover, not stopping to see whether or not Samson was with him. His head boy, anticipating Richard’s actions, was waiting for him at the vehicle.
On the way to the bottom shed he asked Samson who had discovered the break in and what the hell were they doing snooping around the shed anyway. He was only slightly mollified when Samson told him it was he who had found the door standing open while he was doing a routine check of the farm’s outbuildings.
The bottom shed contained one of his two tractors, spare petrol in jerry cans, fencing wire and star posts, an assortment of tools, a few bags of salt, two old pumps he had been meaning to fix, several cartons containing nursery furniture and some bales of hay. Nothing was missing as far as he could see but whoever had broken into the shed had made quite a mess. The bales had been cut open and hay was strewn everywhere. The bags of salt had been emptied onto the floor and his tools had been dumped out of their tool kits. Someone had also shifted the stacks of star posts and left them lying, like fiddlesticks, in a haphazard jumble on the shed floor.
He and Samson spent nearly an hour tidying the place before returning to the house. He parked the Land Rover, said good night to Samson, and went inside. But he was troubled. Why would someone break into that particular shed? It was the one in which he used to store his illegal trophies. Coming on top of Gabriel Tenneka’s call he was tempted to believe that someone had been looking for evidence of poaching.
If his involvement could be proved, even after two years, he knew he would be in a great deal of trouble, maybe even facing a prison sentence. As he went upstairs to bed he noticed David’s light was off.
He got undressed quickly, ran a cold shower, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed, snapping off the bedside light and taking time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness until he could see the glittering stars through his open window. ‘Kath,’ he thought, looking through the window at the black, diamond-studded canopy which was the sky, ‘I know it was stupid. I must have been mad. I only did it to save Pentland but I know it was a helluva risk. Is someone out to get me, Kath? God, I miss you, darling.’ Sometimes he could feel her presence. It was nothing tangible, just a sense of nearness which was probably wishful thinking on his part, but it was comforting.
‘I’m not bitching, Kath, honest.’ He grinned at her through the open window. ‘Well . . . maybe just a little. I know, I know, you think I’m an idiot. Maybe you’re right. If you hadn’t left . . . ah shit, sorry, darling, I know you couldn’t help it.’
But if Kathy was listening she gave no sign. Tonight Kathy was nowhere to be found. And Richard, feeling as though the goose which had laid the golden egg uncomplainingly for two years was poised to bite him on the leg, rolled away from the expressionless sky and fell into an uneasy sleep.
FIVE
The next morning Samson had more bad news. Janie Roos had sent a message to him early in the morning to warn him that he would no longer tolerate Richard’s interference. It appeared that a snare one of his men had laid in the game reserve had been tampered with and rendered useless and Janie had jumped to the wrong conclusion that Richard was somehow responsible.
Despite his irritation with Janie’s continued poaching, particularly if he was using snares in the reserve, Richard was more irked by the fact that he was powerless to stop the man. He spent the day wondering if someone was out to get him and hovering between frustration and anxiety. To make matters worse Penny was arriving around seven o’clock, bringing with her a man he had never met, with whom she was obviously sleeping, and against whom he had been warned. David kept well out of his father’s way.
Storms Over Africa Page 6
