‘Hell of a way to start a new life,’ he muttered to Logan Burton.
The older man spat over the side, wiped his mouth and said grimly, ‘Hell of a way to start anything, old boy.’
Dallas looked around with increasing interest.
A couple of small trading sloops were moored close in shore. Glancing down, he understood why larger ships could not enter the lagoon. The sandy bottom was no more than six feet beneath them in water so transparent he could see fish darting to and fro.
Once clear of the bar, depth returned quickly and Dallas turned his attention to sights above the water. Thick seaweed, like an ocean meadow, covered large parts of the bay. Small islands stood out, choked with mangrove jungle. Wild fowl, pink flamingos, pelicans and cranes in their thousands bobbed or strutted in search of a meal. The ears, eyes and foreheads of hippopotamus were visible as herds played a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t game, rising to the surface for air before disappearing again. To Dallas, who had only ever seen drawings of them, they looked like benign sea monsters.
The water abruptly lost its pale blue colour. It turned instead to a glaucous shade due, in no small part, to weed below and a deep blue sky above. Sunlight danced across the ripples of a turning tide. There was no wind. The temperature and humidity, already uncomfortably high, had them all sweating profusely.
Dallas looked towards land. The customs house occupied the Point, Durban harbour’s northern extremity, a low spit of land fronted by powder-white beach. Next to it stood a small wooden cottage and warehouse. Several buildings were under construction but it was impossible to guess at their ultimate purpose. That was it. The town proper sprawled untidily beyond. A wattle-and-daub general store belonging to a man called Cato, who also owned the warehouse, appeared to be the commercial centre. Located nearby was a forge and blacksmith. Animals were being unceremoniously slaughtered outside a Wesleyan chapel and mission house, presumably for sale by the butcher next door. Grog shops and hotels, offices of the Natal Mercury newspaper, a music hall, a couple of other retailers and some houses straggled along the main streets. The 45th Regiment had their barracks and quarters behind the main part of town, a botanical garden was being developed, a racetrack wound its way through natural bush and a cottage served as the jail. It would have appeared as unplanned mayhem save for the fact that Logan Burton pointed out each feature as it came into sight.
Dallas felt a stab of disappointment. He hadn’t known what to expect but this wasn’t it.
Logan glanced at him and saw the dismay. ‘Look through it. This isn’t Africa. This is England trying to tame it. Get out of Durban as quickly as you can. Allow yourself to linger in this sorry place and before long, you’ll become part of it. You are welcome to join me. After addressing a small matter of money owed to me I will be leaving for Zululand. Probably in about a week.’
Dallas didn’t want to be reliant on anyone, tempting as the thought was. He had to stand on his own two feet. ‘Thank you, but if I’m to make a life here I had best start as I intend to carry on and make my own way.’
‘Well said. Just remember, we all need friends in a place like this. The offer is made. I’ll say no more.’
Getting ashore was a process as unique as everything else. Passengers were carried the last few yards on the backs of black men. Dallas would have preferred to wade but seeing Burton accept a ride as if it were the most natural thing in the world, went along with it. The Africans who conveyed them to dry land were stripped to the waist and smelled strongly of perspiration, their grinning faces displaying square, brilliantly white teeth. The woman who had already come ashore in the same manner as the men was blushing furiously and avoided eye contact with any of the others.
It was eleven twenty-six precisely on a sticky hot Saturday, 20 January 1872, when Dallas Granger first set foot on the shores of Natal – a place he would call home for the rest of his life. Tomorrow was his mother’s birthday. It took a conscious effort to will his thoughts away from family in Scotland. Remembering the traditional champagne breakfasts, presents piled high for whomever was celebrating their special occasion, and for Dallas, even after he’d grown from boy to man, the warm glow that stayed with him all day irrespective of which family member was marking the passing of another year – all a thing of the past and best forgotten.
A short, clean-shaven man dressed in white, which included a wide-brimmed hat worn at a rakish angle, stepped forward to apologise for the length of time it took to disembark and for the unconventional manner in which it had been accomplished. He announced himself as G.C. Cato, owner of both the fine general store in town from which one could purchase everything, and the warehouse behind him. Anybody failing to find what they were looking for in the shop had only to ask and chances were it would be in the warehouse.
‘Started as a simple trader,’ Burton said in an undertone.
‘Welcome to the fine borough of Durban, so named after Sir Benjamin D’Urban, Governor of the Cape, some thirty years ago. You are standing, ladies and gentlemen, six thousand eight hundred miles from England. Naturally, so far from home, you will find your surroundings a little strange at first . . .’
The speech went on for some twenty minutes, though at times it seemed more like a lecture.
‘He does this every time a ship arrives,’ Logan told Dallas with a grin. ‘Regards himself as some kind of unofficial welcoming committee. The truth of it is slightly more pecuniary. He wants people on side so they shop at his store. If the speech doesn’t work, he offers free refreshment.’
People were shuffling and looking bored. It was hot and they had no shade.
‘Get on with it, George,’ Burton called eventually. ‘We’re dying of thirst.’
Huffing with annoyance, G.C. Cato did just that. ‘Please do not judge us by the unfortunate manner in which you were deposited on our shores. I do apologise, especially to you, madam.’ He bowed deeply to the only female present. ‘The journey ashore is never easy. Our problem, as you already know, is the sandbar. Large ships cannot pass over it, even at high tide. Many times we have tried to build a breakwater, even an outer harbour, but the sea always defeats us. Debris from the harbour mixes with sand drifting in the current and despite our best efforts, any progress made by dredging quickly fills and we are back to square one. One day the engineers may actually agree on a way to narrow and deepen the entrance in a manner that works. Until then, please accept my deepest apologies for your inconvenience.’
Logan yawned ostentatiously. Cato decided he’d said enough and dramatically clicked his fingers. Servants appeared carrying trays of delicacies and pitchers of lemonade. ‘Please feel free to partake,’ he said expansively. ‘It is a small gesture of welcome that I take upon myself.’
The speed with which the refreshments were surrounded put paid to any more verbosity on Mr Cato’s part. He mingled with the group of new arrivals, dropping constant hints about the excellence of his general store.
‘Clever,’ Burton murmured. ‘It costs little and earns their loyalty. Guess where most people go to shop?’
It was nearly time to part company with Logan Burton, yet Dallas found himself reluctant to do so. The big man had come to represent a kind of reassurance that life, irrespective of how different, was there for the living. Listening to his stories it was easy to accept the unfamiliar as a challenge, rather than a threat.
‘I wonder if we’ll meet again?’
‘Bound to, old chap. Those of us who venture into the hinterland are forever stumbling over one another.’
‘What are your plans?’
The older man smiled ruefully. ‘There are a couple of traders who owe me money for ivory. Jette all but cleaned me out at cards, the little cheat.’ He laughed. ‘Oh well, I suppose it was worth it, though she failed to favour me with such close attention as you. Still, a man my age can’t complain. After I sort out my financial difficulties, I’ll be heading north for elephant.’ He gave Dallas a quizzical look. ‘I trust our mutual Dan
ish acquaintance didn’t leave you completely without funds?’
Dallas shook his head. ‘It could easily have been so. I was a fool.’
Burton shrugged. ‘A man is at his weakest when a beautiful woman tells him how strong he is. I daresay the merry widow knew exactly what she was doing.’
‘Then how is it you were not taken in by her?’
‘Experience, old chap, though I would willingly have surrendered my meagre possessions for a night in her arms. Alas, it was not me on whom she set her sights. I’ve met women like Jette before. She’s a professional thief, my dear fellow, and a very good one at that.’
Dallas winced. Would he ever learn? ‘I fear you are right,’ he admitted reluctantly.
‘Do not judge Jette too harshly. If anything, admire her expertise.’ He finished the glass of lemonade. ‘I’ll be off then.’ His hand went out and Dallas took it. ‘Good luck, Granger.’
‘Where will you be staying?’
‘At the Royal. Should be there about a week. It’s not a bad place if you can’t afford better. Five shillings a day. Snakes, rats and ants stay for nothing, but a man cannot be choosy. If you have the money, look for a room in a boarding house. There are a few just out of town that offer a clean bed and good food. Cheerio, old chap. Hope we run into each other again.’ With a nod and quick grin, Logan Burton strode away.
Making inquiries, Dallas was directed to the Berea, an area where he might find decent accommodation. Mr Cato offered the use of a sulky to transport him and his luggage, ‘For a nominal fee’. Dallas accepted. He could see no other way of getting around. A railway existed but the line only ran from the harbour to a quarry on the Mngeni River, a distance of six miles and not in the direction he wished to go.
Mr Cato had to be headed off from the subject of railways and future plans for extending Natal’s before Dallas could thank him.
‘My pleasure. The driver knows where to take you.’
They drove through the town centre. Up close, first impressions proved right. Durban was basic in the extreme. Its run-down appearance was further emphasised by evidence of heavy rain which had obviously fallen quite recently. Large puddles lay everywhere, some so deep that it was necessary to take a detour around them in order to avoid becoming bogged. Tracks of horses and carts churned the mud which on higher ground had already formed into hard sun-baked ridges and wicked wheel-trapping ruts.
The centre of town, which did indeed revolve around Cato’s General Store, was alive with activity. Dallas saw gentlemen and ladies as finely dressed as he’d seen in London, yet they seemed so out of place in this pioneering land. More at home were tough-looking common folk – the men dressed in homemade clothing of varying materials, including animal skins, their women plainly clad in calico, cheap cotton or even sacking cloth. Weather-beaten, sun-darkened faces, unfashionable hairstyles and attire notwithstanding, there was pride, confidence and contentment in their bearing. These people would never grace the drawing rooms of aristocracy back home but something about them told Dallas that not one would swap places with those who could.
Children of the local gentry waited patiently in their parents’ carriages while others, barefoot and plainly clothed, were less inhibited. Shrieking with laughter, they splashed through puddles, climbed trees or played hide-and-seek in a carefree display of health and happiness. The quieter, well-dressed children eyed them with envy but were bound by convention, afraid of being scolded by their parents if they joined in.
Africans seemed to be at work everywhere, bare torsos and arms shining with the sweat of their labours. Deep, melodious voices, the rhythm giving uniformity and cohesion to their mutual cooperation, combining effortlessly as they toiled in the hot sun. Skinny dogs and domestic pigs competed for scraps on the ground while vervet monkeys screeched and chattered in branches overhead as they foraged for fruit.
Beyond town, the ground rose steadily as they travelled inland. Looking right, an endless ocean sparkled clear to the horizon. Behind and below, back the way they’d come, the lagoon limited urban sprawl in that direction. On the other side of its deep, dark water rose The Bluff. From up here, Dallas could even make out the Marie Clare anchored in the roadstead. Turning from the view, he gazed ahead.
The Berea was favoured, Mr Cato had informed him, as a residential suburb. It enjoyed sea breezes which, each evening, brought a welcome fanning to relieve the day’s stifling heat. And indeed, as they climbed, the air did become noticeably cooler.
The African driver reined in outside a neat, two-storeyed cottage. A steeply pitched roof and lacy curtains gave the place a homely, lived-in appearance. Flowerboxes overflowing with small, star-shaped petals from white to pink and deep red added further to its welcoming, friendly atmosphere. Brick walls had been recently whitewashed and the window shutters displayed a fresh coat of green paint. The cottage reminded Dallas of country Scotland and he felt immediately drawn to it. Set in a garden of lush lawn, flowering shrubs and large shady trees, the owner had much to be proud of. A sign on the picket fence read, ‘A. M. Watson – boarding establishment’.
Dallas jumped down and opened the gate. A cobbled path ran through flowerbeds to the front door. He knocked and waited. It was opened by a black girl of around fourteen, dressed in stiffly starched white.
She couldn’t possibly be the owner but Dallas was uncertain how to address her. He had yet to learn that asking to speak with the master or mistress of the house was the acceptable norm, rather as he might have done in Scotland. ‘Madam, I believe you have a room to let.’
She stared at him in wide-eyed silence.
A voice called from inside, speaking a language he could not understand. The girl smiled shyly and beckoned, leading him to where a woman sat in a high-backed chair. She offered no greeting, looking him up and down with bright, intelligent eyes. Finally she said, ‘You seek a room?’
‘Yes, madam.’ Dallas self-consciously tugged his jacket straight.
‘How long do you wish to stay?’ The question bordered on imperious but her tone conveyed nothing more than professional interest.
‘I am not certain, madam, having only arrived this very day.’
‘Oh? On which ship?’
‘The Marie Clare.’
‘French.’ The woman sniffed. ‘Damned frogs.’
Dallas didn’t know what to make of her comment so remained silent.
‘My name is Ann Maria Watson. I own and run this establishment. Do you have references?’
‘No, madam. My travels bring me straight from home.’
‘Hmm. You seem well educated.’ She lowered her glasses and peered at him. ‘Have you a position to take up?’
‘No, madam.’
‘What do you expect to do?’
‘Start a business, madam. Trading perhaps.’
‘For heaven’s sake, young man, stop calling me madam. I’ve told you my name. What’s yours?’
Disconcerted by her abruptness, and his own lack of manners, Dallas fumbled for a response. ‘My apologies, mad . . . er, Mrs Watson. Dallas Granger, at your service.’
A glint had appeared in Mrs Watson’s eyes as if she was enjoying his discomfort. ‘Well now, Mr Granger, trading is it? Fancy yourself as a bit of an adventurer, do you?’ She gave a sardonic smile. ‘Many have tried. Some succeed. Most fall foul of the drink. Do you imbibe, Mr Granger?’
‘No more than most men.’
‘That’s nothing to be proud of and no recommendation in this part of the world.’
‘Not to excess, madam.’
‘Mrs Watson,’ she corrected absently. ‘I assume you can pay?’
‘Of course.’
There was silence while she seemed to come to a conclusion. Then a change of subject. ‘My nephew is Thomas Baines.’
Dallas recalled Lady Diamond asking Hanson Wentzell about him the night before the Marie Clare docked in Cape Town, but for the life of him, could not remember a word of the Dutch farmer’s reply. ‘I’m afraid I –’
>
‘No matter. He is an artist, an explorer and gold prospector.’ She was obviously very fond of him.
‘Did he paint that?’ Dallas had noticed an exceptionally good watercolour on the wall and pointed to it. Not large, the predominant colour was an intriguing blue-green-grey tone that had been used to good effect to denote trees, cactus and foliage. There was a glimpse of open space beyond and in the foreground a line of men crossing a stream. The transient moods of weather and light were skilfully captured, a hazy wash in the far distance creating an impression of untamed infinity. At the same time there was a sense of order about the shapes in the foreground. The presence of people was almost an intrusion, though whether intentional or not had been left up to the observer.
The woman turned, rose and moved towards a fireplace over which the painting hung. Dallas was surprised at her agility. Out of the chair she seemed younger than he had first supposed. Mrs Watson examined the watercolour as though she’d never seen it in her life. ‘Thomas did that eight years ago in the Zambezi Valley. He’s travelled all over, you know.’
‘It’s very good.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ She was pleased. It seemed to sway her in his favour. ‘I can rent you a room but for how long I do not know. Thomas is up north working for the Gold Fields Exploration Company in Ndebele country. The company is rumoured to be having some financial difficulties so he could be back at any moment. Thomas worked with David Livingstone, you know.’
‘Really!’ Dallas was relieved to at least know something of the missionary.
‘If he returns to Durban he’ll need his room.’
‘That’s fine, Mrs Watson. I don’t expect to be here for long.’
‘A week in advance. All meals. The room is serviced and laundry done twice a week. That will be three pounds, ten shillings. I require seven days’ notice, if you please. Otherwise money in lieu. Will that be acceptable?’
‘Perfectly. Thank you.’
She called the maid and rattled off what were obviously instructions before turning back to Dallas. ‘Mabel will show you the accommodation. If it’s to your liking, you can move in immediately.’
Shadows in the Grass Page 14
