Mad Dogs and Englishmen (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 3)

by Peter Rimmer

  “Thanks, old cock,” shouted down the white driver of the truck. The man wore a cloth cap. There was another white man next to him. The other man looked straight ahead. He had a clipped military moustache.

  “My pleasure. My pleasure.”

  The driver barely slowed down in his pursuit of the four cars. Dust had risen all round Sir Henry.

  One of the dogs appeared from somewhere and looked up at him with a look of sympathy before walking off down the road between the jacaranda trees. The dust did not worry the dog.

  “Where are you going?” he shouted.

  The dog took no notice.

  Harry, who had been in the grading shed with the dog, came out to look.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Better go see. They headed straight for the houses. Mentioned your name and ignored me when I said you were up at the house. Anyway, what are you doing in the grading shed?”

  “Having a look. Asking questions. I want to know all about this tobacco crop. It’s the thing for us. High price. Low weight. We might just make a fortune.”

  “I doubt it… That chap looking for a job was in the front car.”

  “Jim Bowman! Save me a trip to town. Wonder what they want?”

  “That young chap came on an old horse, last time. Called the horse Hamlet. Whoever calls a horse Hamlet? Chap barely needs to shave he’s so young… How’s the hangover, Grandson?”

  “Terrible.”

  “We’ll have a beer together at lunchtime.”

  “Maybe. Whether in flower or in the curing, this tobacco has a lovely smell… Where’s that damn dog going?”

  “That’s what I asked him.”

  The dog was far down the tunnel made by the jacaranda trees where it was cool.

  The Egyptian geese took flight before the first tourer reached the family compounds. The car engines went dead. Only the truck was still moving forward. When it stopped, the passenger got out quickly. It was apparent he resented Jim Bowman being given his front seat in the leading tourer. Even if the young man with a common accent was showing them the way.

  The three houses and the one rondavel remained silent. There was no one in the houses, not even a servant. The man thought he could hear children’s voices down by the river. The river trees were taller than the other trees. Dogs began to bark down by the river.

  The white men got out of the touring cars, taking off their goggles. The black men sat rigid where they were. The mid-morning silence of the surrounding bush enveloped them. The man with a military moustache put a white pith hat on his head against the sun. The cab in the truck had not allowed him to wear his hat. The others were covered in red dust and were beating their clothes. A ginger cat was watching them from the windowsill of the larger house. When the man went up to the cat, he found it fast asleep.

  “I say, this cat’s asleep with its eyes open.” No one took any notice of his observation. A dove called from the bush behind the houses. Another answered shortly after. The crickets were singing in the long grass, green from the good rains. The white men looked around them, less arrogant. The black men stared ahead less frightened now the cars had come to a stop.

  “You looking for me?”

  The white men all turned as one to look back the way they had come. The old man who had held open the gate was walking briskly towards them. With him was a younger man. The man was slim and tall, his face and arms darkened by the African sun.

  “My name’s Brigandshaw. My grandfather says you’re looking for me.”

  “You can’t be Sebastian Brigandshaw,” said Lord James Worth, the false smile back on his face. “You’re too young.”

  “My father died many years ago,” said Harry, coldly. He did not like the man’s attitude. “He was killed by an elephant… Can I help you?”

  “We want a guide, Brigandshaw.”

  “What for?”

  “To hunt elephant. My name is Lord James Worth. You may have heard of my father. My father is the Duke of Portland.”

  “I haven’t I’m afraid.”

  “Probably not. You’re a colonial?”

  “A Rhodesian, Worth. And proud of it. My grandfather, Sir Henry Manderville. The title goes back to the Conqueror… Does yours?”

  “Not quite that far.”

  “I didn’t think so.” It was the only time in Harry’s life he had laid any importance in his grandfather’s title. “And no. We don’t hunt elephant on Elephant Walk. Or anywhere for that matter.”

  “We’ll have to do it alone. This young man showed us the way to your farm. He can walk back to Salisbury. I gave him ten pounds.”

  Jim Bowman got out of the car. The man in the military moustache got back into his front seat. The engines were started by the black men turning a cranking handle in the front of each car. A black man had got out of the back of the truck to do the same job for the truck.

  The convoy did a wide turn and went back the way it came.

  “They want to hunt in the Zambezi Valley,” said Jim Bowman lamely. He had on a good pair of boots for the walk back and wished he had brought a water bottle.

  “Harry Brigandshaw… I was coming into Salisbury to find you. My grandfather needs an assistant for the tobacco. Come and tell us all about yourself… Would you like a beer? My mother tells me you were in the war. In the trenches. I had an easy war by comparison. In the air, so to speak.”

  “Good Lord! Are you the fighter ace?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far… You won the MM?”

  “Yes I did. I was so frightened I ran towards the Germans, instead of the other way… My name is Jim Bowman.”

  “I know… You met my grandfather.”

  Jim was in the middle of telling them about the Valley of the Horses when the guns went off. They were all seated on the veranda with the screens down. A breeze had come up the veranda where it was dark and cool. There were trees interspersed all over the lawn that went right down to the river where he could see the children playing with the dogs. The dog that had gone off down the avenue of jacaranda trees had trotted back and was sprawled on the cool stone of the veranda.

  His hosts jumped up simultaneously.

  “The giraffes!” they said.

  Harry ran into the house and came back with two rifles. His own Purdey and a Lee Enfield .303 he had brought back from the war. He gave Jim Bowman the .303.

  “It’s loaded. If they’ve killed my giraffe, I’ll kill the bastards. How dare they shoot on my farm? Better you stay here, Grandfather.”

  They ran out of the house to the stables. The stables were next to the barns. It took them impatient minutes to saddle the horses. There were no cars on Elephant Walk. Only the two tractors were mechanised, and they were too slow.

  By the time they reached the avenue of jacaranda trees they were at full gallop. Lord James Worth had left the gate open. Jim followed Harry, the heavy rifle thumping his back. Instinctively he had checked the safety catch before getting into the saddle.

  They found the dead giraffe two miles from the homestead. The animal was lying on its side in the long grass with its head missing.

  “They’ve chopped off her bloody head as a trophy.” Jim could see Harry Brigandshaw wanted to kill. Next to the carcass stood two small foals looking at their dead mother.

  “She was tame, for God’s sake.”

  They could both hear the car engines faraway, the sound fading into the bush. The cars and truck were headed back to the main road. Harry thought of chasing them on the horses and knew it was futile. He got off his horse and bent down to the dead giraffe and buried his head in her side. The carcass was still warm.

  “A lion had killed her mother. I was fifteen. Back from school in the Cape. Carried her back from the Zambezi Valley over my saddle. Gave her cow’s milk warmed up in a bottle. Slept in the stalls for a week. A giraffe never hurt anyone. I swear I would have shot that bastard and gladly hanged for it. They’ll stick my beautiful giraffe on some bloody wall i
n some bloody mansion in England and have it stare at them for eternity through glass eyes.”

  “You’ve got her babies. How old are they?” Jim was not sure what to do.

  “About two weeks. The father was wild. My grandfather saw him for a few days when Gabby was on heat. Then he left again for open bush.”

  It took them half an hour to truss the twins. Jim had watched Harry cut lengths of vine that climbed one of the tall trees. The baby giraffes were strong. They left the mother where she lay without her head for the jackals and hyenas. The birds of prey. Jim was now sure there were tears down Harry’s face.

  “Soon the vultures will be circling,” said Harry. “A lion only eats its own kill. There will be nothing but bleached bones in a week. I loved that animal. As much as I have loved any human… You any good at bottle-feeding?”

  “Never tried it.”

  “There won’t be much cash salary. You can have old Peregrine’s rondavel if you want a job. Eat with us until we have built on a kitchen. Tobacco is going to be the crop of the future. Later, we’ll cut you a bonus out of the tobacco sales. If it goes the way Grandfather thinks it will, you’ll have enough capital to apply for a Crown land farm. You’ll be a landowner, Jim Bowman. In a country with the best future in the world.”

  “Are you offering me a job, sir?”

  “If Voss approves of you, so do I. How is the old scavenger? Did you learn anything? About the bush? The rest you can take with a grain of salt. Did he tell you about Gordon? That’s his favourite story.”

  “Is it true?”

  “In everything in life there is a grain of truth. It’s knowing which part is true. He knew my father. Father said he was the nicest old rogue roaming the bush. There was a scandal in London. He has a daughter. Her mother’s family have kept her away from him. I rather think if he ever went back to England they would put him in jail. What for, we have no idea out here.

  “My mother says you have a lady friend from England. Are you getting married? The rondavel with a kitchen would be big enough. It’s easy to extend houses. We make our own bricks on the farm. The soil from the giant anthills fires well. There’s something in the ants’ saliva, I think.”

  “No, I’m not getting married.”

  “Sorry. None of my business… We’ll give it a three-month trial and see if we all like each other. The farm is one big family. Black and white. The elements are our enemies. One day we will put in a big dam across the Mazoe River and never have to worry about the rains again. In Africa, it’s all about water. A dam big enough to sail a boat on. So Voss told you about his daughter?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “About your age. Maybe a bit younger… You can take that one over your saddle. I’ll take this one.”

  “Can’t you report him to the authorities?”

  “I could. It would be a waste of time. Mostly we look after ourselves. People like Worth have to live with themselves. I’m glad I don’t have to live with him. Looked like a perfectly miserable sod if you ask me. Men with lots of money can always buy company. Buy their friends… I hope they try the Zambezi Valley on their own. That should be fun.”

  “Won’t the black men help them?”

  “That depends. If they treat the blacks like they treated me, Worth and his English friends will find themselves alone. One morning they’ll wake up and find the blacks gone. The chap can’t even close a bloody gate. Oh yes, I really hope they go into the valley. At this time of year it’s so hot their brains will boil in their heads… Lions are not so easy to kill and they are not the most dangerous to man. It’s the buffalo. A buffalo can charge oblivious to bullets, there’s so much bone in the front of his head. What you say we just forget Lord James Worth? People like that are best ignored.”

  “Do you get the Rhodesia Herald on the farm?”

  “Newspapers! I haven’t read a newspaper since the end of the war. Anyway,” Harry said with a chuckle, “they don’t deliver out this far. Why, do you read the newspapers?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Having at last landed himself a job he did not want the embellished war hero story making him look a fool. He did not want Harry Brigandshaw looking at a photograph of him slightly glassy-eyed from whisky and wine leering into Solly Goldman’s camera lens while stuffed into a dead man’s uniform, even if the uniform was from the right regiment. As they rode back, Jim took stock. In two days he had almost made up his losses. He had a job. A home. People he knew he was going to like. The story of Jim Bowman and Jenny Merryl was best left to the mill girls of Manchester. The story was over. Jenny would have her last photograph in the paper. With luck, the story would never come up again in his life.

  Before reaching the avenue of jacarandas Jim turned in his saddle to look back. Vultures were circling high in the sky. Death for one was life to another. For the first time since going to war, he felt at home. At the end of the avenue of trees he got off his horse and closed the three bar gate behind them. The small giraffe was looking at him on the slant where she was tied to his saddle.

  After safely stabling the baby giraffes, they walked through the barns and buildings to the houses.

  The children had come up from the river with the dogs. An older woman he remembered from before was looking at him.

  “There you are,” said Emily. “Did my son offer you a job?”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Welcome to Elephant Walk. This is my daughter Madge. The monsters are her children.”

  “We are not monsters,” said Paula, Tinus and Doris in unison… “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jim Bowman… Can you help me with the baby giraffes?”

  “What baby giraffes? Where are they?”

  “In the stable.”

  “Oh, please!”

  Catching the nod from the mother and grandmother, Jim found himself walking back to the stable with three children and the dogs. He was happier than he could ever remember being in his life. When he reached the stables, he could still see the vultures circling in the sky. The birds looked very beautiful in the air.

  While Jim Bowman was finding his feet with the children, Jenny Merryl was finding life equally sweet. All thought of early marriage to Jim had gone with her new popularity. Being the centre of rich male attention was new to Jenny Merryl, even if the African sun had shaded the colour of her young skin to a soft brown making her look exquisite. Not once had she peeled. The suntan suited her. She was a natural blonde brushed a rich brown by the morning rays of the sun. She had learnt to stay out of the sun after nine o’clock.

  She was nineteen years old, almost twenty. Her body was firm and full. Good, childbearing hips and high breasts. Surprisingly, her eyes were brown among the blonde hair she let grow despite the new fashion for close-cropped hair. When she looked in the mirror, she knew she had never looked more beautiful.

  Her best attribute was her ability to flirt with her eyes. To give the man a glimpse of a darker soul that wanted more than pretty words. A brief glance into a man’s eyes sent a shaft of heat straight to their sexual organs. The ability which she could turn on and off at will, had come with hours of practising in front of a mirror. Too long a look was cheap. Too short would not have the desired effect. Everything was in the flash. It worked for Jenny even at a distance. Across a crowded room she could draw men towards her as surely as pulling them with a string. In England the trick had been of lesser value. In England when the right type of men came across to her they left soon after hearing her speak. They knew she was common. Or they made a crude proposition. In Africa, her north country accent was said to be cute. No one cared. Her power worked on everyone.

  The attention went straight to her head. She had found out she had something to sell. Something rare in Rhodesia. Something all of them wanted. A young, pretty girl, a girl with sex appeal.

  The crush she had built up over the years for Jim Bowman had vanished when they had met again. He was just a boy. A sweet young boy, but still a bo
y. He had been as shy as ever he had been in Neston, barely able to speak. She had given him her best look when they met in Simon Haller’s office at the newspaper. The man had given her the twenty-five pounds reward a week before. Jim, she learnt, had been away somewhere in the mountains. Jim had stammered, stuck to the floor. The war hero who had found his girl was meant to sweep her up in his arms, not stand rooted to the spot.

  “Hello, Jenny. It’s so nice to see you again.” They had stared at each other, an unlikely pair caught in a charade. “Did you have a good journey?” he had put out his hand. They had touched hands. There was nothing. They were strangers in a strange country, far from home.

  “Would you like to go to lunch?” he had asked.

  “I can’t today,” she had answered for no reason.

  “Well, maybe another day.”

  “That will be nice.”

  “Mr Haller has your address in Salisbury?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Good. How is your mother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And Len?”

  “We don’t write.”

  “How are you liking Africa?”

  “Very much.”

  “I hope it wasn’t me what brought you here. The newspapers, you know…”

  “In a way. Not really. Things are different when you arrive.”

  He had not even said she looked pretty. He had barely smiled. She had thought the distance from Neston would push away his shyness. It was just the same. If someone had not told her through a newspaper that Jim loved her she would never have guessed in a million years. The fantasy exploded like a child’s balloon, leaving little on the floor of its former glory. Just an old, worthless piece of shrivelled coloured rubber that would never blow up again. Were it not for the comfort of Simon Haller’s twenty-five pounds she would have been frightened. Her young girl’s dream of perfect love had vanished from her mind. All the little children. The little house. The perfect home. The perfect love.

  “Goodbye, Jim.”