On the day she was to meet Dyson, Tessa took great care with her appearance. She was embarrassed by their last encounter and anxious that he see her in a different light. It was important to her that Michael’s friend be impressed. ‘Why?’ she asked herself, not knowing the answer. It would have surprised her. ‘Because I want Michael to like me.’
She arrived at the coffee shop ten minutes early but he was there before her, sitting in the alcove of an exaggerated bay window. He jumped to his feet when he saw her. ‘Tessa, you look wonderful.’ She did too. Dressed entirely in black, trousers, roll-necked jersey, jacket and boots, beret and scarf.
She took off the jacket, smiling at the compliment, then sat opposite him. ‘So do you. It’s so good to see you.’
A waiter hovered and they ordered coffee and sandwiches. Outside, rain splashed down and the world was cold and grey. Inside, the delicious aromas of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked bread and cakes had a homely feel. Both relaxed immediately.
Their conversation slipped easily between Zulu and English. They were so engrossed that the waiter had to clear his throat three times before they noticed that he needed them to lean back so he could put their coffee and sandwiches on the table.
Once they were alone again, Tessa broached the subject they had both avoided. ‘I never did thank you for, you know, rescuing me in Gaberones.’
‘Forget it. You are my sister. What else could I do?’
‘I’ll never forget it, Dyson. You saved me from a living hell.’
‘Michael too.’
Her eyes held steady with his. ‘You both did. Up till then I didn’t think . . .’ She bit her lip.
‘That you were worth saving?’
‘Something like that. I knew I wasn’t very nice back then, just couldn’t seem to help myself.’
‘And now?’
‘Um . . . there’s something you should know.’
‘I already know.’
Tessa smiled wryly. ‘The convent story didn’t go down well with you?’
Dyson laughed. ‘You forget. I have known you all your life.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes sparkled suddenly. ‘You have no idea how good that feels.’
‘Besides, my father told me.’
She giggled.
Dyson grinned at her. ‘You look just like Sally.’
He couldn’t have known it but it was the best compliment she’d ever had.
That was three years ago. Tessa and Dyson saw each other regularly after that first meeting. Once a month at least. Tessa took him to Hertford to see Claire and Peter. They became almost like surrogate parents to him and Dyson’s feeling of isolation and homesickness temporarily disappeared when he was in their company.
Tessa opened Dyson’s eyes to the wonders of London and beyond. She insisted they visit museums and art galleries, suggested day trips into the country, bartered for bargains at markets, listened to the soapbox loonies in Hyde Park, stood for hours to catch a glimpse of the queen, went to rock concerts. She took control of his flat and, before long, the barren bricks and mortar had been transformed by rugs, wall-hangings and paintings, pot plants, softly glowing lights and all manner of knick-knacks, some of which she’d bring back from trips.
For his part, Dyson brought to the ever-growing friendship an understanding by Tessa that men and women did not necessarily need sexual combat for a relationship to flourish. It was okay to like a man for himself. Slowly, Tessa came to see that a platonic friend was every bit as good, if not better, than one with whom she ended up in bed. With Dyson, Tessa could be uncomplicated. Something she had never achieved as a child.
Dyson glared at his reflection in the mirror and tried for the third time to get his tie properly knotted. How he hated dressing up, yet he had only himself to blame. It was he who suggested they see the show and have dinner afterwards.
Actually, he was looking forward to the evening. Being with Tessa was fun. She took delight in things, unlike the others he dated occasionally who appeared to consider it their moral duty to act unimpressed by just about everything.
Dyson had come to accept that London was his life from now, that the chances of him ever being able to return home were slim. It wasn’t a bad life. His flat, thanks mainly to Tessa, had developed a homeliness which he found comforting. His workload had increased and he had been promoted several times. His circle of friends was small, diverse and interesting.
Two things were missing. His native Zululand whispered to him – shimmering heat, sweeping rivers, deep valleys, sparkling ocean, wide blue sky – challenging him to forget her. As if he ever could! Zululand was as much a part of him as the colour of his skin. It could never be wrenched from him, could never fade from memory. He would stare down from his lounge window to the Soho street below, at a sea of umbrellas, at crowds of people hurrying every which way, and ache for the wide open spaces. Huddled over his gas fire, he would yearn for the cooking fires and the enticing smell of roasting mealies. But Dyson held on to the fact that at least he had those memories. Others, all those grey faces of London, had never experienced the rich smell of rain on hot red dirt, never known the black velvet of a warm Zululand night, never heard the eagles call high and wild as they hovered against a perfect blue background. He might miss Zululand but at least he held her in his heart and mind.
More and more of late, Dyson had also become aware of something else missing from his life. A woman with whom he could share it. If he’d been at home he’d have flown the white flag years ago. The women he met in London were outrageously provocative, staring for long periods directly into his eyes, insisting they walk alongside him instead of behind, drinking beer and then burping, speaking before they were spoken to. At least Tessa was aware of Zulu etiquette and took pains to observe the most rigid of rules, although even she refused to comply with some of them, telling him he was in white man’s land where people did things white man’s way. But whenever she came to his flat, she always made certain she sat in the seat reserved for women, the one to the left of his door. She always greeted him properly: sawubona, I see you. If she passed him anything, it was always with her right hand with the left held under her right lower arm.
These small gestures she made unconsciously. She was the closest thing to a Zulu he had found and, although she didn’t mean to, her observations of his customs increased his feelings that he needed to share his life with someone who understood his ways and every mood. Since he and Tessa were such close friends he’d mentioned it to her a little while ago. ‘Oh dear,’ she’d laughed. ‘I do believe you are growing broody.’
‘Could be,’ he’d admitted.
‘Make sure I like her too.’
‘You won’t have to live with her.’
‘No,’ she’d said seriously, ‘but I’d have to share you with her.’
The comment both touched and stayed with him, especially since she went on to admit, ‘You’re lucky to want those things. I never could.’ She looked so sad at the knowledge he’d wanted to hold her close and comfort her. But he’d never touched her that way and was uncertain how she’d react. For all her history with Jackson and the unconventional life she now led, Dyson was aware of how important it was to Tessa that she sustain at least one friendship with a man that didn’t bring with it all the emotional baggage of her childhood. If he held her, irrespective of an intention to comfort her, those wires she was just learning to control could become crossed. He wouldn’t do that to her, not for anything in the world.
The last time he’d seen her she had come to his flat for dinner. After their meal, they sat at the small table in his lounge, playing cards. Tessa had looked up at him, smiling. ‘You know, Dyson. You’re like an old pair of slippers.’
‘Thanks,’ he’d responded dryly.
‘You know what I mean. Nothing pinches when I’m with you.’
For some reason, the comment had hurt. But it hadn’t prevented him from inviting her to a show and now, here he was, trying to knot his bloody
tie which seemed to have a mind of its own.
They’d arranged to meet at the theatre. Dyson arrived first, as usual, and scanned the crowds for her. She came up the steps and into the foyer a few minutes later. He watched her. Tall and graceful, dark hair left free to frame her face and cascade over bare shoulders. The black sheath gown she wore was simple and elegant. Sleeveless, high round neck, it fell to the floor, touching breasts and hips in such a way that was both modest and sexy. Her make-up discreet, but for a blaze of red on her lips. He knew, when she reached him, she would be wearing that musky perfume she loved so much. She turned slowly, searching for him. At that moment, something happened to Dyson’s heart. It started thumping wildly. He could scarcely breathe. His legs turned to jelly. She saw him, smiled and made her way through the crowd towards him. Dyson could not believe what was happening to him. The very last thing he’d expected, or even wanted, was to fall in love with Tessa King.
‘Hi. Don’t you look handsome.’ She slipped her hand through his arm.
‘And you look beautiful.’ His voice was steady, thank God. ‘I’ve bought us some chocolate. Shall we go in?’
The play took an agonisingly long time to finish. Dyson barely saw it. He was too aware that Tessa was beside him. He was confused by his feelings. How could I love her? She’s like my sister. She’s a friend. She’s a white South African. It’s not possible. It’s madness. His thoughts went round and round. But while he questioned the how’s and why’s, the answers evaded him. He was left with only one certainty. He loved her.
After the show, as they waited for their late supper, Tessa chattered away as she normally did, not noticing that Dyson was unusually quiet. When he put her into a taxi and she leaned out and kissed him on the cheek goodnight, it was all he could do not to reach over and crush her to him. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, his voice strained.
‘I’ll be away for two weeks.’
‘Fine.’ He did not ask where or why. It would be work. In the past he had merely disapproved. Now it nearly broke his heart.
On his way home, he cursed himself for a fool. Tessa was not the kind of girl you fell in love with. They’d had many conversations on the subject of relationships and she’d made it plain enough more than once that she doubted her ability to remain faithful to one man. Dyson doubted it too. And children? To a Zulu, children were insurance against old age. For as long as you had children you had company, a roof over your head, food in your belly and money in your pocket. Tessa couldn’t have any.
Then there was Michael. Dyson and Michael had a rock-steady friendship going back more than twenty years. A friendship that had weathered a political system determined to prevent such things. But how far did that extend? Was Michael, or even Dyson for that matter, completely impervious to the brainwashing that took place in schools, churches and the media? And even if racial prejudice was not a major factor, cultural differences were.
Whichever way he looked at it, the odds were against a successful and lifelong liaison between him and Tessa.
‘She must never know,’ he told himself. ‘I must never let it show.’
PART FOUR
1969 onwards
FOURTEEN
The sun was going down, a huge red orb sinking behind the trees, leaving them as standing silhouettes, rooted to earth against the pastel-grey backdrop of a cloudless evening. It was a sight so timeless that Michael wished he could capture the moment and preserve it somehow, so it would stay that way forever. He had a camera with him but two dimensions could not record the sounds of bird call, or the smell of animal dung mingled with leaves. It would fail to reproduce the slight chill on his skin. A photograph might invoke a memory, but it could never truly capture the whole sensation. A moment in time as exquisite as this had to be experienced fully or not at all. Michael left his camera where it was hanging.
He was perched comfortably in the lower branches of a mopane tree supposedly watching a big male rhinoceros as it made its way through the tall dry grass to its waterhole. The setting sun coloured everything in shades of magenta and Michael’s attention had been diverted by the deepening indigo shadows that touched every stem of golden grass, tingling them pink as they swayed gently in the little breeze that accompanied these last minutes of the day.
He never tired of the African bush. It never ceased to thrill, an element of danger combining with the tranquillity and depth of nature’s finest artistry. Mentally shaking himself, Michael dragged his attention back to the task at hand, raising the binoculars and scanning the bush where he’d last seen the rhinoceros. The animal had disappeared. It didn’t matter. He knew where it was going, what it would do when it got there, how long it would stay and where he could find it in the morning. Despite the unrestricted vastness of this natural habitat, individual animals were territorial, remaining in their own well-demarcated areas. Michael lowered the glasses and folded his notebook. The light was going fast. Time to head for camp. It was a drive of almost one hundred kilometres. He allowed one last glance at the spot where the rhinoceros had vanished, saddened to think that the project was coming to an end and that his and Jennifer’s way of life, which they had come to love so much, would cease with it.
Over the past five years, the entire team had developed an understanding and affection for what was, unquestionably, the most bad-tempered, nastiest and predictably unpredictable creature God ever put on this earth. The almost prehistoric African black rhinoceros. Their research area was vast, stretching from the Chobe River to the east, through northern Botswana and extending into the Caprivi Strip – land which belonged to the South-African administered territory of South West Africa.
At the beginning of the project their base camp had been set up on the south side of the Linyanti River in the territory known as the British Protectorate of Bechuanaland. Following independence the new Botswana government continued its support and moved quickly to establish the Chobe National Park, and invited the team to relocate. For a while the park became their headquarters, but the area was not known for its population of black rhinoceros and the few that had been introduced into the park refused to breed. So the team moved to a habitat more favoured by the animal. The Caprivi Strip. From there, the study ranged right up to the Zambezi River, where Botswana, Zambia and Rhodesia shared its banks as a common border. They had been granted ready access to the entire Okavango Delta as well, with its twisted waterways and complex network of channels, ox-bow lakes, floodplains and grassy islands.
Locating rhinoceros had, at first, been frustratingly time-consuming. Their numbers were alarmingly few and being solitary by nature didn’t help. Once found, however, a couple of months of observation would establish an animal’s selected patch and its territorial behaviour did the rest. They were creatures of habit with an almost monotonous daily routine, and the research team had come to know each beast so well that they could generally pinpoint, to the nearest kilometre, where a particular animal would be at any given time of day. The one Michael had been watching lived in an area that straddled the Linyanti River where it divided the Caprivi into east and west, and extended some ten kilometres on either side. The animal generally stayed on the eastern side, enjoying the lush vegetation but sometimes, as now, it wandered into the virgin bushland south of Angola.
Michael’s work, and that of the other field staff, had initially involved locating, darting and recording details of as many black rhinoceros as possible. Tranquillising and eartagging had accounted for a large proportion of the first year. It was hot, dangerous and, sometimes, heart-breaking work. The animals did not respond well to some of the drug combinations and several had been lost, not regaining consciousness and slipping quietly into death. The lowest dosage they dared use was 20cc but this was still a lot of liquid, slowing the dart in flight and making its trajectory unreliable.
It could take twenty minutes before a darted rhino went down and, in that time, the animal would blunder through the bush in blind panic for anything up to eight kilometres.
It quickly became evident that the stress this caused to the animal was a major factor in its inability to recover from the tranquilliser.
Michael was on the point of suggesting a halt in the darting program when a new drug, M99, became available. A potent derivative of morphine, and deadly to humans, it required only a 3cc dosage, cut in half the time it took for a rhino to succumb and reduced stress to a minimum.
Immediately an animal was down, even before being measured and tagged, an antidote was injected into its ear. The dazed rhino was then ‘walked’ until it recovered. Judging the right moment between this and a charge became an art form in itself.
Despite the fact that poaching was mainly responsible for the alarming reduction in populations, this was not the sole reason. The animal bred slowly and was incapable of coping with changing climatic conditions. Even in times of severe drought, a rhinoceros seldom ventured from its own territory and so, unlike many species which would migrate from depleted areas, it simply gave up, starving to death or dying of thirst. Poor eyesight meant that many would blunder into danger zones, falling from river banks, breaking a leg between rocks or in unseen antbear holes. In addition to this, its aggressive personality often meant injury through confrontation with other rhinoceros, or even an elephant. Fate appeared to be against it and the rhino was not cooperating. Attempts to breed the animal in captivity had been a virtual failure.
By providing the rhinoceros with familiar and acceptable territory, the intention was to try to change its decline. Anything that could be learned would be beneficial. Alleviating the poaching problem by removing their horns had been suggested, but for this study everything had to be as nature had designed it.
The project team was as diverse a group of people as could be found. It was headed by Dr Emil Daguin from the University of Gascony in France’s Bordeaux region. Emil had a passion for red wine, Africa in general and black rhinoceros in particular. He spoke his native tongue with a strong regional dialect and appeared astonished when the others, whose proficiency in French varied from Michael’s schoolboy memories to Jennifer’s near perfect mastery of the language, simply could not understand him. However, they all preferred it to his attempts at conversing in English. He was a genial man, large and round, with wild, wiry black eyebrows and a smile that spread from ear to ear, exposing square, crooked, and very white teeth. Emil didn’t laugh, he chortled. A cross between a chuckle and a snort, in the finest Lewis Carroll tradition, which was so infectious that even failing to pick up on what amused him, you couldn’t help but laugh with him.
People of Heaven Page 33
