Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  Now Hilary’s father pulled out his wallet to pay the driver. He muttered under his breath, displeased at this unanticipated expense. Hilary watched as Simon, the houseboy, lugged her suitcase up onto the verandah. With a pained expression, Mr. Anson waved off the driver’s offer of change — a passive-aggressive gesture if ever there was one — and turned to scowl at her.

  “I won’t have this, you know. You were expected to remain in Joburg until the end of term.”

  “Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry. I know.” She started up the stairs, heading for her mother’s room.

  The following day Daniel Anson departed Mooi River for reasons left unexplained, as usual. Hilary waited till the government limousine disappeared beyond the poplar windbreak and then promptly asked her mother for the use of her car.

  ”Please, Mummy. I won’t be gone long. I promise. Please. Please.”

  Still in her dressing gown, Sharon Anson lit a cigarette — unusual for her, so early in the day. She gave a shrug. She said she knew there would be no peace until she said yes, so she might as well save time and bother by saying yes right away. Hilary clapped her hands and would have given her mother a hug, except the woman backed away. Such overt displays of affection only aggravated her nervous condition.

  A half hour later Hilary was at the wheel of her mother’s little Vauxhall Victor, heading for Bruntville, where she meant to learn what she could from Mrs. Dadla. She clutched a smoke with one hand and steered with the other. Meanwhile, the sky shone down, electric blue, and a gusting wind agitated a row of eucalyptus trees that slumped above the little township like so many raggedy giants. When she got to the edge of Bruntville, she stopped, cut the engine, and ratcheted the handle of the parking brake. She swung herself out of the car. This was the first time she had found herself in Bruntville without Muletsi to show the way and, for a few brief seconds, she felt an urge to climb back into her car, reverse engines, leave this place.

  Instead, she gritted her teeth, got a grip on herself. The hell with that. She hadn’t come all the way down from Jozi just to turn tail. She slid the car keys into the side pocket of her skirt and set out on foot. It was almost noon, and school had let out for the morning. Children dawdled along the rutted lane in their uniforms — black jerseys and tan shorts for the boys, navy skirts and jumpers for the girls. They alternately stared at her and looked away, covered their mouths, giggling. Here was a white woman in their midst. They found it embarrassing or funny, or they didn’t know what to think.

  After a few minutes’ walk, she reached the Dadla house and … oh, dear God. The place was abandoned and smoke-charred, the doorway and windowpanes smashed and now blocked with cheap scraps of lumber nailed into place. What on earth had happened here?

  Before long a man approached, wearing a baggy grey suit and a battered trilby. “Yes, Miss …?” he said. He removed his hat.

  Not for the first time in Bruntville, she had the feeling of being under surveillance. She had the feeling this man had been watching her — or maybe someone else had, someone who had informed this man. Why else would he show up just now, out of the blue, just when she had come upon Mrs. Dadla’s house? But now here he was.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, Miss. Tankie. And you?”

  “Very well. Thank you.” She gestured toward the house, what was left of it. “Can you tell me what happened here? Who did this?”

  Before venturing to reply, the man proffered his hand. He said his name was Mr. Ndlovu. She took his hand in a brief but firm grip. Ndlovu. The word meant “elephant” in Xhosa. Zulu, too. Even she knew that much. Now, with the requisite courtesies acknowledged, the man drew his forehead into the shape of a frown, considering what else to say. After several moments, he pointed at the ruined house. “Them come and burn it down.” He shook his head and made a sombre tsk-ing sound with his tongue. “Very sad. Them very bad.”

  He meant the police most likely, or people in the pay of the police. A warning — that’s what it would have been. She could easily imagine that. A warning to Mrs. Dadla.

  “Where is she? Mrs. Dadla? Is she all right?”

  His eyebrows arched up. “You’re the same one who came before?”

  She knew he meant with Muletsi. She nodded. “Yes.”

  He said nothing, evidently waiting. She realized she had yet to state her name or explain her business here. She hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t felt safe, but the hell with that, too. “I’m Hilary Anson,” she said. “I’m looking for Mrs. Dadla. I’m a friend. Is she all right?”

  At first, he said nothing, just tilted his head from side to side several times, as if debating in his mind. After a while, he seemed to reach a decision. “Come.” He replaced his hat and turned to retrace his steps along the dirt lane. After a few strides, he turned to look back at her. He waved. “Come.”

  And so she followed, and she wasn’t alone. Stifling their laughter by cupping their hands to their mouths, at least a dozen of the children tagged along as well.

  Apart from the obvious reason — to see Mrs. Dadla — she wasn’t certain why she’d come to Bruntville, or to Mooi River for that matter. Ever since leaving Joburg, she had worried the question over and over in her mind. In the end, she had decided that her exact purpose didn’t matter. She had to follow her instincts, and her instincts had brought her here; that was all she could say. Now here she was, tromping along a dirt lane through Bruntville on the brightest, most bracing kind of winter midday. What was more, she had a dozen kids in those gorgeous school uniforms bringing up the rear. A frigging procession. So bloody cute, those kids. Their cheekbones shone like patches of silver in the overhead sunlight. If you spoke to them, they’d turn all earnest and grave. “Yes, Missus. We are well today. Thank you so. And you, please? Are you very fine?”

  “Down this way, Miss,” said Mr. Ndlovu. He pushed open a squeaking scrap-board gate. Just beyond the gate, a narrow path led to a sagging, ramshackle dwelling with an old floral sheet draped across the opening in lieu of a door. With Mr. Ndlovu’s encouragement, she stepped from the bright sunshine into the murk within. Almost at once, a voice piped up from the semidarkness.

  “Good Lord, daughter.”

  Hilary let her eyes adjust to the gloom until she could see — and there she was, Mrs. Dadla, seated at a table with a yellow plastic cover. The woman staggered upright. She was wearing that long purple cape of hers, the one with the scarlet lining. So she’d just come from church. She took both Hilary’s hands in her own.

  “And here I thought you were in Joburg still.”

  Mr. Ndlovu stood near the doorway behind them, hat off, clutching its brim at his waist. He exchanged a few words with Mrs. Dadla, speaking in Xhosa, it seemed. Hilary could understand nothing of the exchange, but it seemed clear to her now that this Mr. Ndlovu was a man of some standing in the community. Probably, he had been delegated to ascertain her business, her purpose in being here. She’d come to see Mrs. Dadla. He knew that now.

  “Goodbye now, Miss,” he said. He turned and shuffled away.

  “Goodbye,” she called after him. “Thank you.”

  Once the man had departed, Mrs. Dadla was immediately up and doing. She hurried over to a deep basin made of tin, with a bucket of water standing inside. “You’ll have tea?”

  She nodded. “Yes, please, Auntie.” It was the term Mrs. Dadla had requested she use. Now she settled herself onto one of the rickety wooden chairs.

  Eventually, the kettle whistled from its perch atop a charcoal stove. Mrs. Dadla served the tea in two mismatched cups. She lowered herself into a chair across from Hilary and raised that large face of hers with its strong, rounded features. She’d been a handsome young woman once. You could still tell.

  “You must inform me all about Joburg,” she said. “I want to know every little thing.”

  But, of course, Hilary had not come to speak about Johannesburg, and Mrs. Dadla was only being polite. Still, it was best to proceed gradually,
for this was the way of the people here. She described her school in Jozi, recounted a few details of her journey back to Natal. Next, she broached the subject of Mrs. Dadla’s house, and the woman replied with a description of the attack and her narrow escape, clad only in a nightgown and a pair of woollen socks. Eventually, Hilary sensed that it would be acceptable to bring the conversation around to its real purpose.

  “And what of Muletsi?” Did the woman have any news?

  Mrs. Dadla fell silent and seemed to grow sombre. She was thinking, of course. She was weighing carefully the words she would next say. And those words came as a surprise. It turned out that he was right here in Bruntville after all. He was here, and he was all right. But he had to lie low.

  Hilary couldn’t bloody believe it. “Can I see him?”

  Mrs. Dadla set down her cup. “Of course you can,” she said. They set out at once, Mrs. Dadla leading the way through a maze of twisting lanes and alleys. They were followed by the same entourage of children as before. Despite her age, the woman walked at a punishing pace, clad in her flowing purple cape, like a prophetess from the Old Testament. Presently, they reached a small earthen enclosure surrounded by slouching matchbox houses, their stucco veneer peeling away as if the buildings were moulting a surface that no longer fit.

  A dozen boys, give or take, were kicking a makeshift ball in a game of pickup soccer. The ball itself was a primitive affair, made of bunches of paper bags compressed and encircled with layer after layer of twine. Something caught Hilary’s eye, some familiar movement, and what she saw next nearly struck her down. It was Muletsi himself, sans eyeglasses. He was roaming the edge of the pitch, calling out instructions to the boys. “Run. Turn. Get back. Cover your man.”

  Something caused him to stop and peer up. With his poor vision, it took him a while to make out what he was looking at. When he realized it was Hilary across the garbage-strewn pitch, he raised both his hands to his face and covered his eyes and did not move. He remained in that position for what seemed a frigging eternity. Then he eased his hands away from his eyes. When he apparently understood that what he saw was just what he thought — not a mirage, not an illusion — he nodded and swung on his heels and walked away. He slipped past a clutter of crouching buildings, turned down an alley, and disappeared. Just like that.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sam

  Ontario, Summer 1963

  WHAT WE NEEDED NOW, Hilary said, was a car. That way, we could retrieve our tack from the quarry pond and then drive to my family’s place, hoping that Della was already there and that she was safe.

  “Come on.”

  She reined Club Soda to the left, bearing southward along Second Line, and we made our way to the Barkers’.

  After we’d put Club Soda out to graze, Hilary hurried into the house, meaning to get the keys to Mrs. Barker’s rental car. When she re-emerged, Mrs. Barker was in close pursuit. The woman stormed after Hilary, demanding further explanation of some unnamed circumstance and promising severe retribution if anything that Hilary said turned out to be a whit less than the truth.

  “You’ve had your way too long, little Miss South Africa,” she said. “Now you’re on probation. I’ve had it up to here with you.”

  Hilary bore the onslaught without a word. She slid into the driver’s seat of the rental. Mrs. Barker was still hovering on the flagstone walkway. I started to open the passenger door to get in, but something made me stop, some stupidity.

  “Hi, Mrs. Barker,” I said. “What’s cookin’?”

  That stopped her. She tilted her head and glared at me, as if I had just said something cogent and arresting, when in reality I was only aping the words Charlotte had used that time in Hatton.

  “Get in the car, hey!” This was Hilary.

  I did as she said. Pretty soon, we were back on Second Line, heading north. Hilary punched the cigarette lighter. “God in heaven. That woman will be the death of me. ‘Probation!’ I don’t even know what that means.”

  The lighter popped back out, and Hilary lit a Rothmans. I kept quiet. Before long, we reached the old quarry trail, the way ahead overgrown with milkweed and wild grass. Hilary stopped the car, and we both climbed out and hiked a short distance farther along the now familiar path, through thickets of birch and maple. We clambered down to the rocky ledge that overlooked the main pond. This was where we’d left our gear, but it wasn’t here anymore. It was gone, all of it — both saddles, both bridles. Hilary’s canvas backpack was missing, as well. She and I poked around some more, making a show of conducting a proper search, even though it was pointless. Someone had pilfered everything; no great mystery who.

  Just about then, we heard the approaching rumble of a car, followed by male voices, laughing. The ruckus came from behind us, back on the gravel road where we’d left Mrs. Barker’s rental. We both listened — outbursts of laughter, the clatter of metallic objects, a male voice swearing, more laughter, then what sounded like a gunshot. I swear — a gunshot. Next I heard car doors slam, two or three in rapid succession. An engine roared, then faded, then roared again, accompanied by the guttural thresh of tires fishtailing in loose gravel.

  “Ag, perfect.” Hilary turned and started to march back along the trail. “This is just perfect. Thank you, Lord.”

  I hurried after her, half expecting to find our car gone, too, but it was right where we’d left it with just one difference. Now the left front tire was flat. At first I thought that someone must have punctured the side wall with something sharp and solid. Then I remembered the gunshot. That made more sense. On some instinct, I glanced down at the ground nearby, the gravel surface, and soon noticed a glint of coppery metal. I’d seen enough Perry Mason episodes to recognize what it was — the shell casing. Without stopping to think, I scooped it up and tucked it into my front pocket.

  Meanwhile, Hilary settled her weight against the side of the car and put back her head, as if pleading for divine intervention. You’d have thought a flat tire was a disaster beyond repair.

  She looked at me. “Now what …?”

  “It’s no problem,” I said. “I can change a tire.”

  “You can?”

  “Of course.”

  And I could, too. It was one thing my father had taught me. I had a few false starts with the jack, but in the end the job got done. We were still without saddles or bridles or Hilary’s backpack, and we still had to drive over to our place, where God knew what disaster awaited, assuming Della had even found her way home. But at least we had four working tires.

  Hilary dug the keys out of her pocket and then stopped. “Damn him,” she said. “Damn him to hell.”

  It was obvious who she meant, but I asked anyway.

  “Who do you think?” She slid the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine caught at once. “He acts like such a bully, but he’s a kid at heart, a stupid little kid. Who else would do something idiotic like this?”

  A stupid little kid …? That had never been my impression. But it wasn’t what bothered me now, or not really. What bothered me now was the tone of her voice as she said it. She sounded almost affectionate. And maybe she really was — affectionate, I mean. Or maybe that was an illusion too, an act that she was putting on. One way or another, we got back on the road, and pretty soon we were driving through Hatton. I peered off to the right toward Weintrub’s Garage. Bruce Gruber’s car was not where you’d normally expect to see it, parked over at the north end of the small packed-earth lot. So he was still off cruising around somewhere, causing trouble. Probably Edwin and Davey were with him. None of this surprised me.

  About ten minutes later we reached my family’s place. Hilary swung right and drove up the long laneway. She stopped not far from the willow trees in front of the barn to let me out.

  “Look,” she said. “I’ve got to make a phone call — right away. Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure. It’s —”

  Just then, Charlotte stormed out of the barn in what looked to be a state
of panic, her twin braids flailing around her head.

  “Sam,” she shouted. “What happened to Della?”

  I got out of the car. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  “She’s in the barn, but I can’t catch her. She’s too jumpy. What happened?”

  “I fell off. She got away. I don’t know.” I turned back to Hilary. “The phone’s inside, in the kitchen. You can use it.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Hilary was gone like a shot.

  Calling Bruce, I thought. I doubted he was home. I brushed past Charlotte and made straight for the barn.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait up.” She turned to follow me. “She’s only got a halter on. Where’s her saddle and bridle?”

  “Charlotte. Just shut up.”

  “You’re not supposed to say that. I’m telling, just as soon as Mum gets back.”

  I remembered that our mother was out playing tennis at the Finlaysons’.

  Once inside the barn, I paused to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. The combined scents of horse and leather, hay and molasses, wafted all around. The air was damp, much more humid in here than out of doors. It took a moment or two for my vision to adjust, but soon enough it did, and there was Della, standing loose in the grooming bay.

  “I tried to catch her,” said Charlotte. “But I couldn’t. She’s all fidgety. I thought you’d fallen off. I thought you were hurt.”

  “I’m fine. I already said.”

  “I know. I meant before.”

  Something wasn’t right, though. Della was trembling, her sweaty coat rippling in places. Her legs quivered. She was standing with her head away from me, facing her stall, its door closed. She couldn’t get in.

  “It’s okay, girl.”

  I tried to sound soothing while I eased myself to the left to squeeze past her. I reached out with my right hand to pat her on the rump. No sooner had I made contact with her coat than she squealed and let loose an unholy kick.