Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  As a lowly stable hand, it wasn’t likely that Muletsi would be privy to these goings-on, the meetings and telephone calls, the discussions about weaponry. But there was an outside chance that Hilary would, and it was that very chance that had brought him here, to work as a groom in Daniel Anson’s barn. Of course, Hilary had no inkling of this, not at first. She would come to understand it soon enough, though, after their circumstances had changed and he could speak freely. Still, what must have surprised her most, that first afternoon, was her father’s early arrival, unanticipated by her, a day in advance. Muletsi was sure she must have wondered about it then. She must have asked herself: Was it possible that the boy had known?

  Not the boy . Muletsi. His name.

  TEN

  Sam

  Ontario, Summer 1963

  HILARY AND I MET at the corner of Number Four Sideroad and Second Line, near the Quinton Vasco lands. Two days had slipped past since we’d last seen each other. Now she was wearing a pair of blue jeans and what I realized was the top piece of a two-piece bathing suit, the fabric checkered in green and blue. Madras plaid? Was that right? At her waist, her tummy rippled a little against her jeans and then broadened into her hips. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Lekka’,” she said.

  “What …?”

  She smiled. “It’s a word in South African. It means ‘good.’” She spelled the word out — l-e-k-k-e-r — but she pronounced it without the r. “Better than good.”

  “Lekka’ …” I said. I liked the sound. “Lekka’ day.”

  And so it was. Another lekka’ day in summer. We both reined our horses around and set off for the quarry, riding at an extended trot parallel to the Quinton Vasco lands. Off to the left, beyond an overgrown ditch, the same endless chain-link fence stretched against a green background. Before long, Hilary began to pepper me with questions about this guy, Quinton Vasco — his age, his marital status, his wealth, his nationality. I wondered why she wanted to know. She didn’t even live in Canada, at least not permanently. It seemed strange, her interest. It puzzled me even then. Of course, I had to admit that I couldn’t answer most of her questions. The man was a mystery; that was about all I could say — a mystery, and he was tearing Kelso apart. People assumed he was buying up the land for financial reasons, as an investment. Probably he was planning some big housing estate. What else could it be? But it was a disaster, no matter what he had in mind.

  Hilary pointed off to the left. “Look.”

  I did as she said and saw at once what she meant. The improvised trail we’d noticed two days earlier? The one that wound through a field of alfalfa and up to a broad ridge? Already, in only a couple of days, that trail had been worked into what was practically a road, covered with gravel, the long grass worn entirely away. Even now a couple of hefty-looking trucks were stationed near the summit. I didn’t see any workmen around, not just now, but something was going on; that much was sure.

  Hilary and I kept riding to the east. Eventually, the road began its sudden descent, twisting down along the escarpment wall, dropping toward the rolling lands below. Here we slowed to a walk. Our horses had to square up to keep their balance on the steep, serpentine road. Partway down the escarpment, we bore to the right along a narrow plateau, tracing the trail that led to the quarry ponds. It was a trek that we were to make countless times in the weeks that followed. That day, as on so many days that summer, the sunlight washed down through a blue sky strewn with high, rafting clouds, scattering through the latticework of maple branches that criss-crossed just above our heads.

  When we reached the stone ledge overlooking the largest of the ponds, I shook my feet free of the stirrups, threw my right leg over the cantle of the saddle, and dropped to the ground. This time I had worn my swimming trunks under my jeans. I had only to kick off my shoes, pull off my shirt, and shimmy out of the jeans. I tossed my clothes onto a flat sandstone ledge, leaving them there to bake in the sun. Hilary did much the same. Next, we unsaddled the horses and replaced the bridles with halters and shanks. That done, we vaulted back on.

  This time Club Soda barely hesitated before plunging from the rocky ledge and careening into the water’s green surface, with Hilary crying in delight as her horse vanished beneath her and as shards of spray exploded all around. Once again, Della and I scrambled into the pond by means of the grassy embankment, a far less dramatic route. Before long Hilary began to sing a song I didn’t recognize in an unknown language with strange glottal popping sounds. When I asked, she told me it was called “The Click Song,” made famous by the same South African singer she had spoken of before.

  “I can’t do the clicks properly. I wish I could.”

  “What do the words mean?”

  “Ag. That’s the mysterious part.” She cleared her throat. “Diviner of the roadways — the knock-knock beetle. It just passed by here — the knock-knock beetle.”

  I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yebo.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Nobody knows.” She laughed and said she would teach me the words if I wanted.

  I said I did. I tried to make a popping sound with my tongue, the way she had done, but my effort didn’t amount to much.

  Later, as we were preparing to ride home, I started to pull on my jeans over my swimming trunks, but Hilary said to stop.

  “Just take your bathing costume off. It’s wet, and … I don’t know. You’ll be uncomfortable.”

  I started toward a grove of cedars, but she stopped me again.

  “Not over there,” she said. “You don’t need to go over there.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. We’re practically brother and sister. What difference does it make, hey?”

  “You want me to take my trunks off right here?”

  “Why not? Go ahead. There’s no one here but us.”

  I stood where I was, didn’t move.

  She closed her eyes and said nothing. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes again. She wore only a two-piece bathing suit herself — that and a pair of canvas shoes. Takkies. She shook her head, pursed her lips and made a clicking sound, same as in the song. “The knock-knock beetle,” she said. “That little demon. He makes us what we are.”

  Something had just happened — I knew that much. I just wasn’t sure what it was. I nodded and ducked behind a row of cedars and changed into my jeans there. Before long, we saddled our horses and set off. When it came time for us to part company — I to continue west and homeward, she to head south to the Barkers’ — Hilary pondered for a few moments and then asked why we didn’t ride to the Barkers’ together. I could leave Della in the barn for the night, she would drive me home, and tomorrow we could start working again, preparing for an upcoming competition, a one-day event near a town called Falkirk. It was the first in a series of horse shows staggered through the coming weeks. The results would determine who among us made the team for the provincial championships. I said that was fine with me, and it was. It definitely was.

  Early the next afternoon, Hilary picked me up in Mrs. Barker’s Peugeot and drove us both back to the Barkers’ place. This time she seemed to be in a foul mood and smoked one Rothmans after another, complaining about Mrs. Barker non-stop.

  “She’s like a shadow, follows me everywhere, as if I were a thief or something, as if I would steal the first thing that came to hand, the moment she takes her eyes off me. I’m sure she thinks I’m having an affair with her husband.”

  I found that hard to imagine. Colonel Barker was about three times Hilary’s age.

  She blew out a plume of bluish smoke. “Anyway, she acts like it.”

  I noticed she didn’t say whether it was true or not, her having an affair with Colonel Barker. I wanted to ask her, in a way I did, but something made me stop. It was the rumours, I guess. According to the rumours, she was having an affair with just about every second male in Kelso. I
knew this to be a huge exaggeration, but I didn’t really want to know much more about it than that.

  When we got to the Barkers’ place, Mrs. Barker was traipsing up the dirt lane from the barn. She was wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet and a pair of gardener’s gloves, clutching a bunch of uprooted weeds.

  “Trimming,” she said. “Tidying up. Setting the world to rights.”

  I wondered what she was talking about. I pointed up at the sky. “Lekka’ day,” I said.

  “What …?”

  “Uh. C’est une belle journée? ”

  Mrs. Barker just looked at me, swaying slightly. Something was wrong; I could tell that much right away. For one thing, she didn’t even acknowledge Hilary’s presence. She kept her gaze fixed on me.

  “Everything all right, Sam?” she said, as if we shared some secret code, she and I.

  “Yes.” I had no idea what she was getting at. Why wouldn’t everything be all right?

  “You’d tell me if there was a problem?”

  I nodded but didn’t speak. Mrs. Barker continued to glare at me, as if the Anson girl didn’t exist. I now realized what her questions meant, more or less. They had something to do with Hilary, as if Hilary might be causing me harm.

  “You’re sure?” she said.

  I nodded again.

  “Well, good then. That’s a relief.” She held up her clump of weeds and suddenly seemed to lose her balance. She nearly fell right down. Somehow, she managed to recover her footing. She took a deep breath. “To the compost with these,” she said. “Adieu, adieu.”

  We both watched as she tottered up the drive, in the general direction of the Barkers’ stone-walled house.

  “She’s drunk, you know,” said Hilary.

  I hadn’t known, but now I realized it was true. I could have read the signs myself, but maybe I didn’t want to. It made me uneasy, the whole idea of adults going off track. There’d been a time when I had thought that grown-ups could do no wrong. I was beginning to understand that it wasn’t always so. In some cases, it wasn’t even close.

  Hilary and I headed down to the barn to saddle and bridle Della and Club Soda. That done, she set off at a canter, leading me on a roundabout route that ran through a succession of ploughed fields and maple fencerows until we reached a large, grassy clearing I had never seen before. A grove of crabapple trees bordered a large paddock, scattered with high wooden standards and striped rails that could be assembled and reassembled into different sorts of jumps. Just to the south, someone had erected a dressage ring, marked off by low split-rail barriers, with alphabetical markers set out at regular intervals along its perimeter. The place had everything you needed for schooling a horse, or just about.

  Hilary released Club Soda to run loose in the paddock and then positioned herself in the middle of an open expanse of grass. She told me to ride in circles around her, the same procedure I had followed countless times with Major Duval.

  First, I kept to a walk. Then Hilary said, “Trot,” so I rode at a trot. She said, “Extended trot,” and I got Della to lengthen her stride. When Hilary said, “Canter,” I did that, too. By this time, Major Duval would probably have been roaring at me, practically livid. Head up! Shoulders back! Legs straight! Shorten zee reins! Where in zee name of Got did you learn to ride a ’orse!

  But Hilary just shuffled in small circles, her eyes on me. She barely said a word except “Walk,” “Trot,” or “Canter.” I said nothing, just did my best to follow her instructions.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Come in here.”

  I slowed Della to a walk and guided her into the middle of the circle. Hilary gave me a clap on the lower leg and said I was a good rider, all in all. There were just a few wee things that needed work.

  “I’m round-shouldered,” I said. “I slump when I ride.”

  Hilary nodded. “That’s true. You also slump when you walk in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I hadn’t, but it was the riding part that bothered me.

  “Okay,” she said. “Anything else?”

  Plenty. I embarked on a chronicle of the many deficiencies I exhibited while mounted on a horse. The list was long and, to me, sadly familiar. I kept on going until she broke in.

  “Whoa. Take it easy. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  She started walking around Della, frowning in concentration. Finally, she stopped. “Okay, my boykie. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. But, first, one question. How important is this?”

  “Making the team …?”

  “No. Riding well.”

  That stopped me. To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought in those terms before. I’d thought about doing better, not necessarily being better.

  “Because the thing is, I can’t guarantee you’ll make the team. That’s not in our hands. Besides, it’s the wrong reason to be doing this. The best reason for doing a thing well is …” She paused. “Why do you think?”

  I sort of scrunched up my face, because I knew where this was going. I forced myself to speak slowly and deliberately. “The best reason for doing a thing well is to do the thing well?”

  Hilary nodded, as if I had just said something deeply significant.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “It’s known as begging the question.”

  “Say what?”

  “The conclusion is the same as the premise. It’s logically meaningless.”

  “You’re way too young to be using that kind of language.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

  She nodded. “I admit, it does sound kind of spacey, but that’s the gist of it. Do a thing well, and everything else more or less falls into place. One way or another. So … how badly do you want it? Scale of one to ten?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Let’s make it ten.” She stepped back a pace and gestured for me to dismount. “Okay. Off your horse.”

  I kicked my feet free of the stirrups, swung my right leg over the cantle, and dropped to the ground. At Hilary’s instruction, I led Della into the paddock, where Club Soda eyed us from the far end of the enclosure.

  “Right,” said Hilary. “Now take off the saddle.”

  I did as told. I balanced the saddle atop the paddock railing.

  “Same with the bridle.”

  “What …?”

  “You heard me.”

  This was crazy, but okay. I draped the bridle atop the saddle. “Now what?”

  “Now you get back on.”

  I just stood there.

  Hilary nodded. “So get back on.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, my boykie. I am.”

  “You mean, ride like that? With nothing?”

  “Not ‘nothing.’ You’ve got legs, haven’t you? A pelvis? A voice?”

  “I guess.” I stayed where I was.

  “Okay,” she said. “So get back on.”

  ELEVEN

  Hilary

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  IT WAS AS IF someone had turned a switch at the back of Hilary’s noggin. One moment, she was set to off. The next moment … well, she wasn’t sure what happened. But she definitely wasn’t set to off anymore. She was set to something else, something that didn’t seem to have a name. It was as if a whole new world had opened before her, filled with questions she had never considered, much less asked, till now. For example, when you went out for a meal at a restaurant, why was it that all the people sitting down were white, while those on their feet were invariably black? Obvious, hey? That’s just the way it is. But why …? You had to ask yourself that question, and then it didn’t seem so obvious anymore or so innocent.

  Or Slegs blankes. Why did you see that sign all over the place? You didn’t see signs saying Tall people only or Thin people only. Why Whites only? If you didn’t question it, you’d never know there was anything to question. But if you did, then everything changed, as if someone had turned a switch at the back of your frigging hea
d. Now, suddenly, she could think. She could see. Granted, much of what she saw was cruel and unjust, but still it was better to see than to be blind. Welcome to the world — such as it is.

  Just now, she was at the wheel of her mother’s Vauxhall Victor, and they were driving to Bruntville, she and Muletsi. Bruntville. It was a place she had never set eyes on before, not in all her seventeen years, even though it was located only a few miles from her family’s home. Muletsi wanted her to see where he had lived all of his life, apart from the time he’d spent attending university over in the Eastern Cape. Also, she was to meet his mother. That was in the plans, too.

  The other good news was that she had taken to avoiding Jack again, a thing that had proved less difficult than she had feared, in part because he was often away from the farm these days, a pattern he had followed in years gone by. It was Muletsi who told her what was behind Jack’s frequent absences. She couldn’t say she was shocked by the explanation — sickened, yes, but not shocked. She had imagined something of the sort before.

  Girls. Underage girls.

  No doubt as a nod to discretion, Jack avoided the local towns, instead driving up to Ladysmith in his Land Rover or down to Howick, even as far south as Pietermaritzburg. He had to be careful, for he was in violation of the Sexual Offences Act, after all, and on two counts — age and race. She wondered how he avoided being caught.

  “Money,” said Muletsi. “Money and threats. Those are the usual ways. No one will dare to testify against him. Besides, he also has an understanding with the police.”

  “Is it?”

  He explained. It seemed Jack always kept his eyes peeled for any hint of seditious activity. Once he suspected anything of the sort, he was on it like that — here, Muletsi snapped his fingers. Jack took his information to the police in Mooi River, specifically to a man named Walter van Niekerk, who was the captain there.