Storms Over Africa

by Beverley Harper

  Her father was breathing hard, eyes like flint. ‘Don’t you ever, ever, compare your mother and me to you and that . . . that . . . that bloody nigger.’ He said it quietly, through lips stretched tight. ‘I loved your mother and she loved me. How we could have reared a thoughtless, selfish and totally irresponsible girl like you is quite beyond me. Get out. Get off Pentland. I need you and your cheap thrill seeking like a hole in the head. Go to hell.’

  Penny had gone very white but the demon which rode her back, like the demon which rode her father’s, had the last say. ‘That’s fine with me. I’m going. And I might well marry Joe and raise his kids. I might even tell him about your poaching.’ She paused, gathering strength for the final onslaught. ‘You are one sick old man,’ she told him. ‘You are sick and prejudiced and set in a rut. I hate your guts.’ And she walked quickly back to the house.

  Richard was shaken. He and Penny had had arguments and fights but they had never attacked each other so personally, never called each other names which would be hard to retract. He walked slowly through the orchard, staring up through the glossy green leaves of the trees to the pure blue of the sky, willing Kathy to come to him. ‘How did it get to this?’ he thought out to his dead wife. All I wanted to do was protect her from that man. I love her. The leaves rustled above his head as a small breeze touched them. Is that you, Kath? He desperately wanted it to be her, even though he knew it could not be. If that’s you, darling, help me deal with our daughter.

  Troubled, and dissatisfied, he returned to the house. As he walked in through the back door he heard a car start up and drive away. He rushed to the front just in time to see the Jaguar disappearing from view around the curve in the driveway. Richard poured a large scotch and slumped into a chair, exhausted. Wellington appeared and hovered uncertainly, knowing that there had been trouble yet again between the master and the young madam. Richard sensed him there and waved him away. He did not want to speak.

  When David returned around 4.30 he found his father drunk and passed out in the lounge. He roused him, helped him upstairs, undressed him and put him to bed. It was something he had done a lot of in the bad years after his mother died, when his father was drinking every day. Seeing his father like this now surprised him. He wondered what had caused it. Had to be something bad. Probably his bloody sister as usual. He knew his father was upset about Joseph but that in itself would not have caused him to get drunk. As he passed Penny’s bedroom door, which was shut, he kicked it and muttered, ‘Bitch!’ He could never understand the relationship between his sister and father, so close one minute and so far apart the next. All he knew was, whenever there was trouble, they both took it out on him.

  It was Wellington’s afternoon off. David went downstairs to raid the refrigerator.

  SEVEN

  Richard threw himself into work for the next few days. He had heard nothing from Penny since the weekend, nor did he expect to. She normally took a week to cool off. This time could take longer. He was confident, however, that she would calm down. Then she would arrive, relaxed and friendly, acting as if the last fight had never taken place. Christmas was just over a week away. If he had not heard from her by the middle of next week he would take steps to bridge the gap. He wanted time to calm down himself. Whenever he thought about their last fight, anger would rise in him and he had to get rid of it with a conscious effort of will.

  David kept out of his way. The boy spent all his time in the reserve doing God knows what. The closest Richard ever came to an explanation was ‘I help out around the place’. When pressed he said ‘I do whatever is necessary’. Richard left it alone. His son was occupied, keeping out of trouble and he appeared happy. He wished it was that easy with Penny.

  On Thursday, however, as they were eating breakfast, Richard suggested that David spend the day with him. ‘I’ve seen nothing of you since you arrived.’

  ‘You’re always so busy with the farm.’ David was defensive

  ‘Come with me. Learn more about the place.’

  ‘I’m not interested in farming, Dad. You know that.’ This was an old discussion. For years Richard had tried to interest David in animal husbandry, crop rotation, ploughing schedules, weaning, stud breeding programs, anything in fact to do with the day-to-day running of Pentland Park. For the same length of time his son had persistently refused to learn, preferring to spend time in the game reserve. David’s lack of interest in the farm further alienated him from his father, who loved farming generally and Pentland Park particularly.

  He had once complained to Kathy, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with the boy. Most kids would give their right arm to inherit a place like this.’

  ‘Your father probably feels the same way about his hotels,’ she reminded him gently.

  ‘This is different.’

  Kathy had smiled at him.

  Richard had thrown his hands in the air and walked away. But it did not stop him trying at every opportunity to turn his son’s interest towards Pentland.

  ‘Okay. Have it your own way. But I’d still like to see you. Do you have to go into the reserve every bloody day?’

  David poured himself some more coffee. ‘I wasn’t going into the reserve today anyway,’ he said. ‘The rangers are all away at a convention in Harare. The park is closed today and tomorrow. I thought I’d explore some of those caves on the escarpment.’

  ‘With Thomas?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Richard finished his breakfast, then excused himself and took his coffee outside and leaned over the railing of the verandah, feeling disgruntled. What was the matter with his children? Penny had a black boyfriend and David preferred Thomas’s company over that of his father. Jesus, Kath, I’m not doing it very well am I, babe? Winston ran up to him and dropped a tennis ball at his feet, tail wagging madly. Richard ignored the dog and went back inside. Winston’s obvious disappointment made him feel better, but only marginally.

  Samson found him inside. As usual, he materialised at Richard’s side, making him jump. ‘I see you, Gudo.’

  ‘I see you, old friend.’ Samson had called him ‘baboon’ but no offence was intended. It was a name given to him by his men in the early years. The first time Richard had stripped off his shirt in front of them they had been astonished by the mat of curly black hair on his chest. Their own bodies were virtually hairless. They had been too shy to comment on it at the time but they took to calling him Gudo behind his back. As they grew to know and respect him, the nickname lost its derisive connotation and became affectionate.

  The first time Richard heard himself being referred to as Gudo he had asked Samson what it meant. Samson had tried everything he knew to put him off the track but, in the end, translated the word for him. The others held their breath.

  He had roared with delighted laughter. The name became official but was used only on certain occasions and sparingly by all but Samson.

  ‘Gudo is not happy?’

  Richard grinned ruefully. ‘No, old friend, this foolish old baboon is not happy. But this old monkey suspects he is to blame.’

  Samson nodded. ‘It is the wise old monkey who knows where the food is. But this wise old man sometimes does not know that the food has been taken. When this happens the others throw sticks and stones at him. Is this his fault, Gudo?’

  Richard chuckled. Samson’s homespun wisdom very often made more sense than anything else he knew. But this time, Samson’s loyalty had outstripped his wisdom.

  Seeing his boss smile, Samson clapped his hands softly. ‘Some of the cattle are in the reserve, master.’ Back to business, back to master. The dividing line was very thin between friend and employee, the rules laid down by Samson himself. It was Samson who was quick to reprimand those who stepped erroneously over the line. Richard left the decision on this matter to his head boy.

  ‘Okay, Samson, you carry on with the fence. I’ll bring them back.’

  Samson left as quietly as he had come.

  Richard called to Dav
id. ‘I need the Land Rover, son. I’ll drop you down on the valley floor if you like. I can pick you up again when I’ve found the cattle.’

  He dropped David and Thomas near a large dam, at a place where the land gently rose for several hundred metres before turning sharply upwards towards the granite walls of the escarpment. Both boys carried packs with food and basic medical supplies. ‘Don’t worry about picking us up,’ David said, ‘we’ll climb up to the top and walk back.’

  Richard envied their stamina.

  He drove on towards the reserve. The cattle could be anywhere but they normally did not stray much further than a few hundred metres over the boundary. He was never sure why this was so but speculated that the scent of game made the cattle nervous. ‘Hey, Kath,’ he thought, grinning. ‘If the cattle and the game are into separatism what’s wrong with blacks and whites doing it?’ Kathy disdainfully ignored him.

  He slowed his vehicle and scanned ahead through binoculars. Nothing. He was driving along the boundary now, several hundred metres above where the river formed a natural division between the reserve and his property. ‘They’ll be in there somewhere,’ he muttered to himself. He stopped and got out and, as an afterthought, took his old Winchester from the back and stuck a few bullets in his pocket. Coming suddenly upon a lioness with cubs, a cranky old buffalo or a lone bull elephant was not something he wanted to do without some form of deterrent.

  He slung the rifle over his shoulder and adjusted the binoculars around his neck. The sun was hot and burned through his hat, causing perspiration to run down his face. ‘It’ll rain later,’ he thought. He set off in the general direction of the river which, from where he stopped, was hidden from view by an outcrop of rocks and some trees. He expected the cattle to be somewhere in this area. The grass was especially sweet here.

  Richard stepped around the rocks, scanning. He could see no sign of them this side of the river. Raising his binoculars he looked for them on the other side. That was when he saw the elephants. There were two groups. One was at the water’s edge, a young one pushing ahead to run into the cool river. The other group were just emerging from the trees. Richard crouched down and watched them. Their sheer size, even from this distance, was impressive. For all their bulk, however, they moved with exceptional grace.

  Then the shooting started. AK47s. He knew the sound from the war. Elephants toppled where they stood. Stray bullets caused puffs of dust to fly between him and the river. One salvo even pinged off the rocks. Richard flung himself down behind the biggest rock. The silence, once the guns stopped, was deafening.

  Shakily, he rose and backed into the protection of the trees. There, through the binoculars, he watched men emerge from the trees on the other side of the river. Sunlight glinted on their pangas. Three of the men were his own farm labourers. He recognised two of Janie’s men as well. The others were not known to him. As he watched, the chopping started. Some of the elephants were not yet dead and they jerked and struggled as pangas and axes hacked into their faces to get at their ivory. But bullets had smashed their legs and they were unable to rise.

  Richard turned away and was sick. He was sick and he was angry and he knew, as he spewed out his disgust, he was as guilty as every man on the other side of the river.

  He backed away from the awful scene, furious with himself, furious with Janie Roos and furious with his men. He had no idea that poaching was being conducted on such a wholesale scale. This must have been what Gabriel Tenneka had planned. Janie could never have laid his shaking hands on so many weapons. Returning to his vehicle he saw his cattle. They were gathered together and were staring, in wide-eyed fright, towards the river. Richard drove behind them, herding them back towards Pentland Park. They needed no second bidding. The blazing noises of the repeating weapons had completely unnerved them.

  He went directly to where Samson and Philamon were working on a fence line. ‘I see you, old friend.’ Samson had tutored him well. Even in moments of anger he knew better than to rush into the main topic.

  ‘I see you, master.’

  Samson looked him squarely in the eyes and Richard knew absolutely and without doubt that he had not been a party to the massacre at the river. Had not even known about it. ‘Where are Mannus, Toby and John?’ He named the men he had seen at the river.

  Samson shook his head in derision. ‘They had too much beer last night, master. They are sick.’

  Some of his workers over-indulged occasionally. As long as it was not a regular occurrence he usually let it go with a few jibes. He respected their need to let loose every now and then. ‘You did not see them yourself?’

  ‘No, master. They sent their wives to tell me.’ Samson looked closely at Richard. He had seen his boss get angry before but this was something different. ‘Is something the matter, master?’

  But Richard did not trust himself to speak of it. He quietly said, ‘Send them to me when you see them,’ and left, leaving Samson to speculate to Philamon that while the baboon was usually a benign fellow, if he got his dander up everyone had better duck. Philamon, having read Richard’s face as well as Samson, agreed wholeheartedly.

  During the course of the morning, while Richard was looking for his cattle, Christmas fever had struck Wellington and Elizabeth with a vengeance. The kitchen was a hive of activity as Wellington baked and roasted enough food to feed a small army. He had a shopping list prepared and Richard, reading the list, realised he would have to go to Harare to get most of the ingredients his cook required. He had to go anyway. He had not, as yet, bought anyone a present.

  The house was festooned with decorations. Elizabeth had outdone herself. Every doorway, every window, every picture rail was strung with glittering red and gold ribbons, twisted and plaited and pinned up in loops. A young pine tree had been cut and stood in the corner of the lounge, dripping with balls and bells, stars and candles with the traditional angel, made ten years earlier by Kathy, at the top. The tree had been placed in an old oak wine cask which lay on its side. Small rocks stacked inside kept it stable. Years ago, Richard, who loved the look of old oak, had banned Elizabeth from putting decorations on the outside of the barrel so she oiled it and polished the brass bands around it until it shone almost as brightly as the Christmas lights.

  She had not confined herself to the inside of the house. The verandah and its railings were strung with lights. Richard had complained, ‘If we get a storm the whole bloody house will blow up,’ but Elizabeth had smiled and said ‘yes, baas’ and kept on adding lights. He made the same comment every year.

  Normally, from the valley below, the house glowed warmly at night and looked solid and inviting. At Christmas it looked like a show boat. Richard had never liked it. Kathy used to calm him down and say, ‘The servants get such pleasure from doing it, don’t stop them.’ The first Christmas after she died he prohibited any form of decoration but Wellington’s and Elizabeth’s disappointment was an unpalatable thing and he lacked the heart to prevent it thereafter. He told himself he was doing it in memory of Kathy, or for the children. In truth, he was probably doing it for his staff.

  He had been putting off telephoning Penny but, once Wellington gave him the shopping list, he realised he would have to contact her. As angry as he was with her, a trip to Harare without seeing her was unthinkable. With some trepidation he telephoned her at work. He figured she would be less likely to scream at him if she was in her office. ‘Penny Dunn, please.’

  ‘Penny Dunn.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Daddy, where are you?’ She sounded normal enough.

  ‘Pentland. I’m coming down tomorrow. Christmas shopping. Have dinner with me?’ Short, sharp sentences. He instinctively used them when he was unsure of himself.

  ‘No-one else?’

  ‘No-one else.’

  ‘Good. I’d love to.’

  ‘Pick you up at seven.’

  ‘Stay with me.’

  ‘No, baby, I don’t want to put you out.

  Beside
s, I have some business to do while I’m there. Meikles is more central.’

  Okay. See you tomorrow night. Bye.’

  He was so relieved when he got off the telephone he went outside and threw the ball for Winston for twenty minutes.

  Mannus, Toby and John came to him just before dinner. To indicate a lack of respect for them Richard did not bother with preliminaries. ‘I saw you three at the river.’

  All three shifted their feet and looked at the ground.

  ‘You know I cannot allow this?’

  Three nodding heads, eyes still firmly on the ground.

  ‘No poaching on Pentland and, above all, no poaching in the reserve. That is the rule.’

  Three nodding heads.

  ‘You must take your things and go. None of you work here anymore.’

  As they turned away, eyes still downcast, he felt a surge of sympathy. Poaching was second nature to these men. But not on this scale. Even they must know how wrong it was.

  One of them turned back. ‘Master?’

  ‘Yes, Toby.’

  ‘That man who came from Harare, he paid us a lot of money.’

  Richard knew the temptation would have been impossible to resist but he hardened his heart. ‘Then you won’t mind being out of work, will you?’

  Going inside, feeling somehow responsible for the slaughter of the elephants, he reflected sadly to Kathy, ‘I seem to fuck up everything I touch these days.’ Then he silently apologised to her for his language.

  Over dinner he asked David if he would like to come to Harare with him. Then he wished he had kept silent. If he showed up to dinner with even David in tow Penny would be cross with him. He was relieved when his son said, ‘I don’t think so, Dad. I did my Christmas shopping in Scotland. Besides, I promised Adam Robinson I’d help him dart some rhino on Saturday. We’ll have to start early. If I go to Harare I won’t get back in time.’