by Peter Rimmer
“Always keep in with the doorman, dear boy. First rule in a strange country.”
When Jim Bowman walked down Stanley Avenue, he was whistling. There was plenty of time to find himself a job. And the sun was shining. In France, in the trenches, the sun had rarely shone.
There had been a push that morning in which half his men were killed. They had thought the Germans were broken, but they weren’t. They had to retreat to their own trench which was when he met the Rhodesian captain of artillery. The man had been sent up the line to look for new sites for the heavy guns. Once again the British generals had been wrong. The Germans had not run away but hidden deep in the earth and came out to repel the British advance. Jim thought the captain was a year or two older than himself. They were both frightened beyond fear. They sat on empty ammunition boxes in Jim’s dugout he shared with his fellow officers. It was all very new to him. After the morning push there weren’t any fellow officers. Only the captain with the strange accent and the faraway look.
Jim had found a bottle of brandy and two tin mugs. Their part of the Western Front was all quiet. The wounded had been taken back down the line. There were just the two of them hunched and cold in the dugout with the blanket two feet over their heads held up badly by pit poles that had been sent up a year earlier to stop the trenches collapsing inwards in the mud. They could not see the French October sky but it was raining. The blanket dripped water on both their tin hats. Their big grey oilskins covered them like tents. Jim noticed the puttees worn by the captain above his boots were rolled perfectly. Only at first did they drink in silence. Then they introduced themselves.
“Captain Nicole, Royal Artillery.”
“Jim Bowman. Lancashire Fusiliers.”
“Angus Nicole,” said the man smiling. “You never know with the British. So forward. Even in this mess. Probably what kept them together for so long.”
“I’ve only been an officer for three weeks. Colonel Tucker gave me a field commission.”
“That explains the Jim Bowman… I’m from Rhodesia. Southern Rhodesia to be exact. There are lots of us colonials come over to help. You know where Rhodesia is?”
“I’m from Stockport. North of Liverpool. Left school at fourteen though I have read some books. Well, three to be exact. I was down in Manchester, training in the wool trade. Office boy, really. Dogsbody. Everyone’s beck and call. I wanted to go to war believe it or not. Thought there could be nothing worse than a cold dingy wool broker’s office fourteen hours a day. I was wrong, of course. Have you ever been to Manchester?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“All right if you’re rich. Not much fun in a poky room the size of a coal-hole. And damp. That room was always damp. Paradise looking back from this. No, Angus Nicole. I don’t know where it is. Rhodesia.”
“Africa. Central Africa. Just north of the Tropic of Capricorn. The most beautiful country on this earth. Space. Lots of space. Clean air that tastes like champagne. Animals. Big, beautiful animals. And only a thin sprinkling of the humankind. It’s a place we haven’t spoiled, Jim. When this is over you should come out. I’ll give you my address. Can you imagine a cool, green plateau that runs for hundreds of miles among trees and tall grass where it does not rain for six months of the year? Well watered by rivers that flow the whole year round. Where the wild fruit on the marula trees are sweeter than anything on earth.”
“Well, I don’t know about Rhodesia for me. It seems such a long way away.”
“You mark my words.”
“What would I do?”
“Go farming.”
“I don’t have any money to buy a farm.”
“There is so much empty land out there the only real cost is stumping out the trees and planting a crop… Live in a tent. Run some cattle. Live off the gun. You’ll get sick of venison and guinea fowl but you’ll live under the sun with a future and a great future for your children.”
“Are there nice girls in Rhodesia?”
“You’ll have to bring your own wife from England.”
With a flash of insight Jim imagined himself in bliss under the African sun with Jenny Merryl, his next-door neighbour but three. The smile on his face vanished as quickly as it came. Jenny Merryl had long forgotten Jim Bowman even though he had waved to her the last time he was home to see his mum.
A runner put his head through the side curtain of the dugout from the main trench.
“Mr Bowman. Colonel Tucker wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about Captain Carrington or Mr Trent?”
“They’re dead, sir.”
When Jim Bowman entered the colonel’s dugout ten minutes later a lone German gunner was ranging in on the British front line. From behind the British reserve line a battery of British gunners ranged in on the lone German gun. The German gun went silent. Colonel Tucker smiled grimly.
With the new orders in his hand to be ready to attack at first light Jim went back to find his sergeant. He hoped the colonel had not smelled the brandy on his breath. Then he returned to the dugout.
There was nothing there. The lone German gunner had dropped a shell through the dripping wet blanket. Bits of Captain Nicole were embedded in what was left of the pit propped walls.
The armistice came at eleven o’clock in the morning of the 11th of November, three weeks later. All the guns went silent on the Western Front. It was all over. Jim Bowman still had no idea what it had all been about.
He had found out the address of the Rhodesian captain from the adjutant of the Royal Artillery. The war had been over a month. It was the last job he had as an officer, sending the gold cross of Christ back to Angus Nicole’s parents in a place called Hartley in Rhodesia. Mr and Mrs Nicole had been listed as his next of kin. He had told them Angus had been thinking of his home in Rhodesia minutes before he was killed. He told them about their conversation. The fact he had not known where to find Rhodesia. It was all he had known of the man. All he had in common with the dead man’s parents.
Walking down Stanley Avenue on his second day in Rhodesia, Jim still had the address of Mr and Mrs Nicole in the wallet in the safe at Meikles Hotel. Angus Nicole had been killed nearly two years ago, so he thought it best to leave them in peace. He was going to find his own way. Maybe later when he was established in the new country he had first learnt about in the dugout, he would make a social call.
He had gone back to the job with the wool broker after visiting his widowed mother. Jenny Merryl had moved away. Her mother said she had gone to London. Someone else in the village said she had gone to America. Someone else Canada. She had been a nurse at the end of the war. Nursing officers. Someone else said she had her nose stuck in the air and good riddance to her. Jim was going to hit the man. The village would have laughed at him, defending his next-door neighbour three doors away who would not have given him the time of day.
Jim had three sisters and a brother so his mother would be all right. His father was a fisherman drowned at sea. The boat had washed ashore without the crew. His brother sailed the boat with two of his brothers-in-law. He had thought of joining them but gone to Manchester instead. He had put his money from the army carefully in a bank at three per cent. After learning how to use a knife and fork properly he was back in the damp coal-hole with the wool broker still calling him boy. At the back of his mind was always the place called Rhodesia where for six months of the year it did not rain.
He could either fish for cod, wait ten years to become a wool clerk or get out of England like Jenny Merryl. He imagined her rich and married to an American in California where he had read it was warm all the year round.
At the end of 1919 he went back to Stockport for Christmas. His brother knew he still had the fifty pounds, and they argued.
“Together we can buy a bigger boat. We can share the catch as owners. It’s a good life. Look at you, Jim. You look like a slug. Never seen the sun or the rain. Be a man and be a fisherman. ’Tis a
grand life.”
“Has anyone heard from Jenny Merryl?”
“You still on about her? Don’t be daft. She never so much as looked at you.” He had never liked his brother.
“I’m going to Rhodesia,” he blurted out.
“What the bloody hell for, and where the bloody hell is that?”
“A captain gave me his address. And it’s in Africa, Central Africa.”
His brother laughed and walked away down towards the jetty. “A captain, no less. Blimey! What’s his name?”
“Angus Nicole. And he’s dead.”
“That’s not much good to you.”
“He gave me the idea. I’ve been to the colonial office. They say because I was an officer I could apply for a Crown land farm once I have farming experience.”
“You were only a bloody officer for weeks.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Then piss off. If you don’t want to put your money in a boat, piss off. And good riddance. When you goin’?”
“After Christmas.”
“Told your boss?”
“No.”
“You’re a fool, Jim Bowman. Never come to nothin’. Our dad would spit in your face.”
No one seemed to care much what he did. Once they learnt he was not going to put his capital in the family business, they lost interest in him. They talked over him. He was no good to them. When he went to the train station no one saw him off. Even his mother knew which side her bread was buttered. Their indifference made up his mind. If he meant so little to his family he might as well go.
His landlady demanded an extra week’s rent. His boss docked his last pay packet for something called breakages. He had become invisible.
Getting on the boat at Tilbury docks in London Jim could hear the door to England slam behind him. He was strangely exhilarated. Like he now felt, walking down Stanley Avenue six thousand miles away from where he was born. Even the two and sixpence he had spent the previous day seemed a good investment.
All morning he walked around the wide streets of Salisbury, wide enough to outspan a team of oxen. Along the tree-lined streets people moved about their business. Passers-by smiled at him. When he reached his hotel, it felt natural for him to head for the front courtyard to drink a cold beer. He felt good. He was smiling. He was happy.
“There you are, dear boy,” said a voice behind him. “Didn’t think you’d run away from such a good proposition.”
When he turned, knowing full well it was going to cost him another two and six, he was pleased to see the shabbily dressed colonel. At least the man did not want him to plunge around the North Atlantic in the rain and howling wind fishing for cod in ice-cold water.
“Have you thought about the legend, dear boy?”
“Of course,” said Jim Bowman, lying. “Will you join me for a glass of beer?”
“Very civil of you. Delighted. I trust you had a good sleep?”
“The best I ever had. A wonderful breakfast. Walked all around Salisbury. Now I’m starving again.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Fact is, so am I, dear boy. Did you tip the Zulu? The doorman, dear boy.”
“As you said.”
“Shall we take the same table?”
“Quite splendid. It shall become a tradition. We will come back to this table when we find the Place of the Legend.”
“So there is a place for the legend. But still no name?”
“Exactly. As the Jews will have it. There is a place for heaven but no name for God. He is too almighty. High almighty… You do believe in God and heaven?”
“And hell, Colonel Voss.”
“Yes, hell. The place that is all the way paved with good intentions. I rather hope I don’t go there.”
“Do you think you have a chance?” After two and sixpence he had the right to gently pull the old man’s leg.
“We all have a chance, Jim. Frankly, I think we all end up as dead as mutton.”
“So you DON’T believe in God?”
“Of course I do. Especially for other people. Where would we be without somewhere to go? And people need the fear of God in them to behave themselves. A man who believes in hell and damnation disciplines himself. He doesn’t need a policeman to tell him what to do. God gives us our conscience. No, believe in God, dear boy. Without the belief in God there will be no civilisation. Why there are so many missionaries pouring into Rhodesia. To bring everyone God and civilisation… Which is otherwise known as the British Empire. And if you think you hear a tweak of cynicism you are wrong. God and civilisation make life a lot more comfortable for everyone. Goodness gracious me. Before we brought in God and civilisation the local tribes were constantly killing each other. We stopped all that but I doubt if we will be thanked for it. You never get thanked for doing a man a favour he didn’t ask for.
“The rains won’t break for another three months so we don’t have much time to waste. We need a small, covered cart with two salted horses. Horses that have been bitten by the tsetse fly and recovered from the sleeping sickness. They become immune… Some food for three months though most we will find on the way. A good compass. Though the stars will help too… And some good blankets. In the high mountains of the legend it is very cold at night. Twelve thousand feet above sea level. Good clean air. No flies. No sickness. Why I think the Arabs went there three thousand years ago… You do have enough money, I hope? You see I don’t have a penny. Not a penny. Rich in intention. Rich in the knowledge of the legend. So far as I have been able to find out, of course. They clam up when a white man talks to them. Even in Shona. I did tell you I speak Shona? A delightful tribe. Came down from the north end and chased the poor Tonga into the valley of the Zambezi River. Very hot and swarming with tsetse fly so most of them died of the sickness.
“All this business outside Fort Victoria is not what it is all about. The archaeologists found some old ruins I have no doubt. With an Arab connection. But not the Place of the Legend. The Arab influence manifested at what the Royal Archaeological Society are calling Zimbabwe, is much later. Part of the slave trade. Anyway, someone else stole the best artefacts years ago. The archaeologists found those stone carved birds and sent them down to Cape Town. But nothing of real worth. Nothing really old… That is my opinion. Everyone else disagrees with me. Everyone else is wrong. You come with me into the high mountains towards Mozambique and I will prove it. Both of us will be rich. In money and prestige. We will go down in history as the men who found the Place of the Legend. The Valley of the Legend. Voss and Bowman. Our names shall live forever. Now that’s better than a good chance of going to hell don’t you think, dear boy?”
“How much will all this cost me?”
“Ten pounds including a second-hand rifle and a shotgun. The only thing we have to make sure about are the horses. Damn long way to walk back.”
“Did you ever look before?”
“Not for the Place of the Legend. Not for the Valley of the Legend that pocket of ancient civilisation in the heart of darkest Africa. An empire to rival the pharaohs.”
“Are we looking for pyramids? A sphinx?” Jim Bowman was trying hard not to smile.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Who will know until we find it? Voss and Bowman. Sounds so grand. Now I’ll have a bottle of beer if you don’t mind?”
“Not more than ten pounds?”
“Not a penny. After lunch we can walk among the exotic trees in Cecil Square and look at the goldfish. They had to put a wire mesh over the ornamental pond. The herons found the goldfish much to their liking. Goldfish and palm trees where none had been before. There are palm trees on the banks of the Zambezi but not on the highveld. Why do people not put up with what they’ve got?”
“How’d you know my name?”
“I asked immigration. Friend of mine. We used to travel together until he got a job. They have a photograph on the form. Not a very good one. You can’t go anywhere in this world without someone knowing who you are.”
“Why me?”
“Because you have fifty pounds. Says so on your form. The one you filled in at the colonial office. Why they probably said you would be offered a Crown land farm. Though they most likely said it was about being an officer. The one thing the British government likes is for the private citizen to pay for the British Empire. Look at Cecil Rhodes, for goodness’ sake. Gave him a royal charter. Didn’t cost the taxpayer a penny. Queen Elizabeth did it with Raleigh. Royal charters to plunder the Spanish Main. Turned pirates into model English citizens provided they gave half their plunder to the Queen, God bless her. What the king gave you for fighting his war, the king shall take away again. And leave you labouring with the soil for the rest of your life, God bless my soul as well. It is a wicked world in which we live. A wicked world. Be careful.”
“Ten pounds.”
“Not a penny more. A friend owns the horses and the cart.”
“We could sell the horses and carts when we come back?”
“We could. We could also deck them in gold and feed them on the finest grass. We will give them names so they too will be famous. Like Pegasus.”
“Will our horses have wings?” The smile spread right across his young face.
“Our horses will have the hearts of lions. The bravery of Ulysses. They shall travel just as far.”
“Ten pounds?”
“Not a penny more.”
“Are you really a colonel, sir?”
“No.”
“Does the Valley of the Legend exist?”
“It’s like heaven. It exists so long as you believe in it. And I believe with all my heart and soul. Otherwise, what would be the point of looking?”
“Waiter!” called Jim, raising his hand.
“We shall leave half an inch of beer in each of our bottles. Libations to the gods. Very important. Just as important as giving the Zulu doorman another penny. They came from the south, the Zulus. Mzilikazi ran away from Shaka when he failed in battle. Tore into the Shona. Made them vassals. The Tongas probably thought it rather poetic. Now the poor fellow is draped in a leopard skin, opening and shutting an invisible door. Why do they call a man outside a hotel the doorman when he has nothing to do with the door? You shall have to buy yourself a large bush hat. The leopard skin band and the feathers can come later. When you have earned them… Thank you, dear boy. Ching-ching. I learnt that in Singapore.”
