A Pride of Lions

by Isobel Chace

  Hugo stiffened. “It will be a long time before Ghui Lodge is finished!” he reminded me.

  “Not so very long,” I said happily.

  “Then you’ll go?”

  “I expect so. There’s nothing much to keep me here, is there?” “Nothing at all,” he agreed.

  “Well then,” I said slowly, “I have to do something!”

  “Oh quite! Especially with Martin Freeman!” he said savagely.

  I trembled inwardly. “I’ve known him for a very long time,” I reminded him.

  “Lucky Martin!”

  He climbed into the driving seat beside me and set off at a tremendous speed through the town. It was worse still when we reached the open road. We stormed down the metal track, the wind whipping our faces, until the engine began knocking in protest. Hugo eased off a little, but his face was unyielding and angry. I was more than a little afraid of him.

  “Hugo—”

  He slowed down a bit more, though it still seemed to me that we were going far too fast to be on any public road “Hugo, it isn’t that I want to go!” I cleared my throat, annoyed that I should sound so craven.

  “Nobody’s asking you to!” he retorted briefly.

  I licked my lips, plucking up my courage as best I could. “But nobody’s asking me to stay either,” I said gently.

  “Do you have to be asked?”

  I squeezed my fingers together until they hurt. “Yes,” I said at last.

  “Why?”

  “Because it isn’t my home!” I explained weakly. “I have no reason to stay. Can’t you see that?”

  “And what of Martin?” he insisted.

  “Martin is a friend from my childhood,” I said flatly.

  “So you keep saying!” he snorted.

  “At least he’s kind—” I began angrily. I broke off, terribly afraid that I was going to cry,

  “And I’m not?”

  “Not very,” I managed.

  “I don’t feel kind!” he stormed at me. "And if you need a reason for staying, you can work one out for yourself!”

  “I see,” I said stiffly.

  “And why go to the Freemans’ anyway?” he added irritably. “Anyone would think you had no home of your own to go to!”

  I bit my lip. “Would you prefer that I went home to my parents?” I asked in a dangerously shaky tone of voice.

  He shrugged his shoulders. "The matter doesn’t arise yet. It will be months before the Lodge is finished—”

  “I’m not sure I shall wait until then!” I interrupted him.

  He stopped the Landcruiser so violently that we skidded to the side of the road. “That,” he said viciously, “is what you think! You’ll stay until the last cup and saucer has been put in place, no matter what the claims of Martin Freeman! ”

  ‘You can’t make me!” I cried, with a courage born of despair.

  “That’s what you think!”

  Ignoring my protests, he yanked me across the seat towards him. His hand on my arm hurt badly, but gentleness was not his way. His mouth descended on mine without mercy and without love.

  “Hugo, please don’t!” I pleaded with him.

  He let me go as suddenly as he had seized me. Very slowly, he reached for a cigarette and lit one for himself, inhaling deeply. “Very well, I won’t,” he ground out. “Not until you beg me to—if you ever do!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We drove home in a sulky silence, both of us seared by the row that had blown up so quickly between us. All I could think of was that I hadn’t known that it could be like that! Love, to me, was a comfortable, civilised emotion, not a whirlwind ready to blow one out of one’s depth without a moment’s notice. To quarrel about Martin Freeman was ridiculous, of course. But how did one turn back and explain such a thing to Hugo Canning? I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t break through the growing silence between us, because—well, frankly, because I was afraid I should be even more hurt if I made the attempt. And I was hurt. Badly hurt.

  When we reached the river, Hugo set the Landcruiser too fast at the bank and I thought we were going to stick fast in the mud that had been brought down by the now quite strong current. To make matters worse, it had started to rain. Great spots of rain stained the dusty bonnet in front of us, running into each other, until the whole was a wet and uniform dark green, marred by muddy streaks of red.

  “You shouldn’t allow your bad temper to affect your driving!”

  I observed huffily as Hugo wrenched the wheel round in an attempt to retrieve our position.

  “It would serve you right if I dumped you in the river and left you there!” he retorted pleasantly.

  “It looks to me as though that’s exactly what you’re going to do!” I returned.

  The Landcruiser came to a tremulous stop, spraying the water up on my side. I gave a little gasp of anxiety and hoped that Hugo hadn’t noticed. He had.

  “I bet you’re wishing you were in the city now!” he said with contempt.

  “Well, I expect you’re wishing we were safely over the other side,” I replied reasonably.

  He laughed without much amusement. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might be an interesting experience for us both to get stuck in the mud.”

  I was genuinely appalled at the thought. “Interesting?” I squawked.

  “Why not? It would give us time to find out what we genuinely thought of one another.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” I said harshly.

  He gave me a bitter smile. “No? I suppose you prefer to dream about Martin Freeman! ”

  “You can suppose what you like!”

  “I shall!”

  We swerved back on to the track across the river and edged forward through the swirling waters. If there was much more rain higher up, it would soon be impassable, I thought. Then Martin wouldn’t be able to drive up from Mombasa and collect me on the way, for the camp would be isolated from the whole world, except for Johnny’s plane, for no one except a lunatic would attempt to reach the camp by any other route. The rain came pelting down, bouncing off the surface of the river, to fall again and join the swelling waters. A crocodile rose lazily on to its feet and eased itself into the brown water and was lost to sight.

  “You haven’t opened your other letter,” Hugo said in a more friendly voice.

  “No,” I agreed miserably. “It’s from my parents.”

  “And what will they say to your deserting your job to go to the Freemans’?” he asked, his eyes firmly on the track ahead.

  “Does it matter?” I returned with a sigh.

  He gave me a quick look. ‘You mean that Harry deJong approves of that sort of thing?”

  The Landcruiser jolted, slipped forward, and was jerked back on to course. I held on to my seat with everything I had.

  “Sorry,” Hugo said briefly. He was so unapologetic, though, that I wondered why he bothered.

  “I am grown up, you know,” I snapped. “So my father doesn’t come into it, one way or the other.”

  “Huh!” he jeered.

  I was silent, concentrating madly on this nightmare crossing of the swollen river. When we reached the other side and had rushed up the bank, Hugo disengaged the four-wheel drive and increased our speed as we drove towards the camp. I felt mentally and physically exhausted, and my shoulder ached. I put up a hand to feel the bandage which, during the day, had grown tighter and tighter. As I had expected, I found my arm was swollen and constricted.

  “I’ll have a look at it as soon as we get back to camp,” Hugo said suddenly. The kindness in his voice made me want to cry.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  But apparently he thought otherwise. As soon as we had reached the camp, he parked the Landcruiser neatly under the trees and came round the front to help me out of my seat. There was no sign that anyone had heard our arrival, only the dripping noise of the rain and the water sliding off the leaves of the trees.

  ‘You’d better go to your tent,”
he said. “I’ll bring some hot water and some fresh bandages.”

  I nodded. I was too tired to argue and, anyway, I didn’t want to. I staggered off to my tent, stiff from the hours of driving and my adventures with the lion. I unzipped the entrance, pushed my way inside, and lay down flat on my bed, waiting for my aching muscles to ease.

  Hugo was not long behind me. I swung my legs to the ground as he came in, ashamed of my moment of weakness.

  “I’m not tired really,” I explained quickly. “But there isn’t anywhere to sit.”

  Hugo put the bowl of steaming water down on the wash-stand just outside the tent. Without a word to me, he went to work unwinding the bandage from my arm. As it fell away, it was easy to see the bruise marks he had made when he had grabbed me and kissed me. He stood in silence for a long moment, gazing down at my arm.

  “I see that I owe you an apology,” he said at last.

  I wiped my free hand on the side of my trousers. “Not really,” I muttered. “It was my fault too.”

  His eyes smiled at me. “That’s very generous. But not quite true. I had no business to use force—”

  I bit my lip. “It’s all right,” I said awkwardly.

  His hands were very gentle as he bathed away the pus that had gathered in the open gash. “As Katundi would say, a woman lives in the past and the future as well as in the present. She links our ancestors with our descendants, therefore she ranks higher than a man. A man may strike his father, but he may not strike his mother. This is the law.”

  “But not our law,” I said flatly.

  He smiled. “We, too, are African born and bred.”

  “But—It’s ridiculous! In Africa, a woman may rank higher than a man, but much good does it do her!”

  “Not very much,” he agreed. “But I truly am sorry, Clare.”

  I wriggled with embarrassment. “So am I,” I growled. “And anyway,” I added, “I’m not your mother!”

  His delighted laughter filled the tent. “Indeed you’re not!” he exclaimed.

  “Well then?” I said grudgingly.

  “Well then, there are other possibilities I can think of,” he retorted, “but I’ll leave you to work them out for yourself! You’ll not get away from here easily until the rains are over, Martin or no Martin, so there’s plenty of time!”

  But time for what?

  He finished bandaging my arm, pinning the end neatly on the outside where it wouldn’t rub. “There you are!” he said. He picked up the used dressings and the bowl of water and went outside into the gathering darkness. “Be seeing you!” he called out. And then he was gone.

  Karibu had already been shut up in her stable for the night. I half thought, while I was waiting for dinner, that I would go and visit her, but sheer fatigue made me think again. The morning would be soon enough. In the morning, I would take her down to the river with me when I scrubbed the filters. There was nothing the elephant loved more than to bath in the muddy waters while I looked on. If I was not very careful, she would spray me with water too, until I was as wet and muddy as she was herself.

  I wouldn’t allow myself to think of Hugo at all. It took a certain amount of resolution to dismiss him from my mind, but I was not a deJong for nothing. If I failed completely to dismiss him from my heart, that was something I could keep to myself. Pride is a mask that many a woman has worn with honour, and I was proud, proud to the backbone. If I had not been, I would have gone then and there to Hugo and told him that I wouldn’t have minded if I had never seen Martin Freeman ever again.

  It was something of a relief to find that Hugo had not come over from his house for dinner. Katundi beat the gong with relish and I walked slowly through the darkness, rather enjoying the sensation of the heavy rain beating down on to my waterproof. Abdul Patel was already there. He had left his turban behind in his tent and his black hair glistened with water.

  “What a night!” he said.

  “We only just got across the river,” I told him. “By tomorrow, no one will be able to cross at all.”

  Abdul shrugged, smiling. “It will keep the Mzee on the other side!” he remarked.

  I went cold inside. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. But he might have thought he’d come along, in case we’d brought the other lions here. We brought him here that first time.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” I asked him tremulously.

  “Not really,” he agreed. “Anyway if we can’t get across the river, neither can he!”

  I wasn’t much comforted by this assurance. I had never heard of a lion swimming, but if determination was all that it took, the Mzee would swim across no matter what the river was like. But he wouldn’t come! I thought of him as I had last seen him, shepherding the rump of his pride along the top of the dam at Aruba. The cubs were too young to go far in a day and he would hardly leave them to fend for themselves.

  I sat down at my place at the table and filled my glass with wine. The noise of the rain on the thatched roof was like a whisper, punctuated by the thunder that burst at intervals overhead.

  “Is anyone else coming to dinner?” I asked.

  Abdul Patel looked surprised. “Johnny isn’t back yet,” he said. “I don’t know where the others are.”

  I motioned to Katundi to serve the soup. He came forward with the steaming bowl, carefully ladling some first into my plate and then into Abdul’s.

  “Shall I ring the gong again, mama?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “They’ll come when they’re ready,” I said. Hans Doffnang came first. We could hear him outside the mosquito netting, shaking the worst of the wet off his mackintosh. When he came into the light, I could see that he was laughing. He sat down beside me in a businesslike way, unfolding his napkin and peering at my plate to see what I was eating.

  “So you’re back!” he greeted me.

  I nodded. “I’ll be back at work tomorrow,” I assured him hastily.

  “Good.” He patted my hand with one of his. “I have something to tell you, meisje!”

  I sat up very straight. It would be just my luck, I thought, that something would have gone badly wrong on the site while I had been away.

  “Yes?” I prompted him.

  “Do you remember that we talked about Kruger the other day?”

  I nodded, wondering what on earth could be coming next. “I remember,” I said.

  He thumped his chest with his two open hands. “I, too, am a great man!” he announced. “In a minute you will see it for yourself!”

  I stared at him. “I think you’ll have to tell me—” I began.

  “No, no! Clare, it is good that you went away! Never shall I be sufficiently grateful to you!”

  “Then everything is all right on the site?” I asked him cautiously.

  “I’m not talking about the site!” he replied, vaguely irritated by the suggestion. “Who cares about the site?”

  I chuckled. “I thought you were a great architect,” I reminded him.

  “So I am,” he confirmed, totally without conceit. “But now I am talking about my being a great man!”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, not seeing at all.

  He chuckled happily to himself as he refilled my glass with wine and then filled his own. “Life is very good!” he exclaimed with a sigh. “Very good!”

  There was a scraping noise outside as Janice fought with her umbrella. Katundi went to her aid, holding the mosquito netting apart for her to come in. She blinked as she came into the light and it was easy to see that she was faintly put out that we should all be looking at her. She looked different, older, more mature, and lovelier than ever. And then I saw what it was that was different about her. She had braided her hair!

  She sat down at the table with a quaint air of embarrassment.

  “Did you take any decent photographs?” she asked me quickly, before anyone could mention the change in her.

  I managed to look suitably guilty. “I forgot,” I said. “I’m
awfully sorry. I took the camera with me, but when it came to it, I was too busy to take any photos.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  Hans Doffnang dug me in the ribs with his elbow. “You see!” he said in triumph.

  Janice blushed. “I wish you’d tell him, Clare, that I haven’t changed my hair for him. I find it more—more convenient, that’s all!”

  Obligingly, I translated this into Dutch, but Hans Doffnang only laughed.

  “That is what she says now!” he smiled. “But last night it was a different story!”

  “Was it?” I asked Janice, frankly intrigued.

  “Well,” said Janice, “there was no one else to talk to with all of you away.” She sounded extraordinarily unsure of herself. “Who does he think he is, anyway?” she demanded.

  “Paul Kruger,” I told her. “He had very strong ideas about modesty in women’s dress.”

  “I know that!” said Janice.

  “And so she braids her hair and gives up playing poker!” Hans Doffnang put in with a satisfied air.

  “But I don’t want to live in some puritan-minded village in Holland!” Janice wailed.

  Hans Doffnang rushed round the table towards her. “You shan’t do anything you don’t want! We shall live anywhere you please! Anywhere!”

  Somehow or other, Janice seemed to understand every word he said. “Oh, Hans!” she exclaimed. She stood up too and faced him, Abdul Patel and I completely forgotten. “Oh, Hans, I don’t care where I live so long as it’s with you!”

  “Mijne liejde, my life, have you ever been to Holland? You will like it very well, ja! Married to me, we shall both be very happy all our days!”

  Janice looked as astonished as the rest of us. It was clear that marriage had never occurred to her.

  “But—” she said faintly.

  Hans kissed her warmly. “We will have a celebration at once! I have some excellent wine in my tent. I will fetch it and we shall drink it together with our friends.” He shot off into the darkness, completely forgetting his raincoat. Janice sank back into her chair, looking pale and lovely.

  “It’s impossible!” she said weakly. “I don’t even understand what he’s saying!”