Bernard had finally let his beloved wife, Maggie, go ten years earlier. With her life support system turned off, he had sat with her while her body shut down. It had only taken a couple of hours. Bernard had been devastated by the swiftness of it all. ‘Her body has been ready to go for a long time,’ the doctor had told him gently.
When John Devereaux disappeared, Bernard had been a rock in the lives of Karen and Lana, there whenever they needed a shoulder, a strong arm or just a sympathetic ear. In turn, they freely gave him their compassion, support and understanding. Over the past couple of years it seemed to Lana that her mother and Bernard had developed an even deeper friendship than before, one that had strengthened with shared grief.
Karen had said little during dinner, completely unlike her usual breezy self. Bernard too had been quieter than usual. With dinner over, the three of them took coffee and liqueurs into the lounge where Karen, giving a clear sign of nervous energy, paced the room incessantly.
‘For God’s sake, Mummy, do sit down.’
Karen shot a glance at Bernard. Lana turned her head slowly and stared at him. He had a strangely apprehensive, yet pleased look. A smile of understanding suddenly spread across her face. ‘You two are an item!’ she said happily. ‘How marvellous.’
The relief on her mother’s face was almost comical.
Bernard lumbered to his feet and stood in front of Lana. ‘You don’t mind?’
Lana looked up at him fondly. Next to her mother and father, she had loved Bernard best all her life. When Maggie died she had cried, not for Maggie, but for the grief she knew Bernard was feeling. ‘I think . . .’ she said slowly, ‘. . . that this is the best news I’ve heard in a long time.’
‘Oh, darling, are you sure?’ Her mother was still anxious. ‘We were worried that you . . . well, you and your father were very close.’
Lana rose, went to her mother and put her arms around her. ‘Daddy has been gone a long time. You deserve some happiness, both of you. I’m very pleased, honestly.’
Later that night, lying in her old bedroom, Lana wondered if she was pleased. Her mother was . . . well, her mother. Uncle Bernard was Uncle Bernard. They fitted into different slots in her life. Now she had to rearrange things in her head and fit them into the same slot as each other. How did she feel about it? Strange? Resentful? Happy? She tossed in bed and tried to look at it as honestly as possible. Her mother and Bernard had been friends for years. They had both known loss. They got along with each other very well. Neither of them, as far as she knew, had so much as looked at another person since they lost their respective partners. Were they in love? Or was this a marriage of companionship? She couldn’t ask them. In the end she concluded that she had mixed feelings about it. It did feel strange, there was probably the teeniest bit of resentfulness inside her but she was happy for them. It was the best she could do.
Over the next two years she could see how right the marriage was for both of them. They loved each other in a quiet sort of way. The gaiety and passion which had been there between her father and mother was missing, instead there was contentment and companionship. Seeing them together, especially when they went upstairs to go to bed, still gave her a strange feeling. Most of the time though, she accepted their togetherness as being the most natural thing in the world.
Lana received steady promotion at PAGET, earned on merit and hard work with no hint of favouritism over her colleagues. She did field work in some of the most inhospitable places on earth, living rough with no complaints. Her on-again, off-again relationship with London life meant there was no time for long-standing commitments with the opposite sex. She had only once allowed a relationship to develop into something deeper. The experience left a bad taste and a reluctance to repeat it. In any event, Lana felt deep inside that she was simply cooling her heels for the main event. She never lost the belief that, when the moment was right, when she was ready, she would go to Malawi. She was twenty-seven years old before that time came.
‘Good morning, Miss Bagshaw, wonderful day.’ Lana strode into the foyer of PAGET and paused in front of the reception desk, as she always did, to pass a few pleasantries with the indomitable Cecilia Bagshaw. Years of disapproval, suspicion and professional misery were etched on Miss Bagshaw’s face and she tended to over-compensate by applying too much make-up. No-one at PAGET possessed the courage to tell her it wasn’t working except Lana, and even she trod warily and chose her words carefully. Miss Bagshaw’s disposition had not improved, in fact, it had grown worse. However, she had a very soft spot in her heart for John Devereaux’s daughter, mainly because she mistook Lana’s directness for friendship whereas all Lana was trying to do was tone down the first impression visitors received on entering the building.
‘Welcome back, Lana. How was New Guinea?’
By way of an answer, Lana slapped a magazine down on the reception counter. ‘Page twelve,’ she said briefly. ‘Soon as I saw it I thought it would suit you.’
Miss Bagshaw found the page quickly. ‘I don’t know.’ She eyed the article about ageing gracefully with some doubt. ‘I’ve never worn pink lipstick.’
Anyone else would have backed off at that, if indeed they had the courage to show Miss Bagshaw the article in the first place. Not Lana. ‘Rubbish!’ She produced a lipstick. ‘Knew you’d say that so I bought you one to try.’
‘Oh, Lana, how kind, I couldn’t possibly accept . . .’ Miss Bagshaw’s hand crept out and closed around the gift. ‘Well maybe I’ll just try it.’
‘Good,’ Lana said. She intended to coerce the staff of PAGET into commenting on how much the new colour suited the woman. Anything was better than the slash of bright red Cecilia Bagshaw had favoured for years. ‘And as for New Guinea, I’ve known worse.’
Lana had just returned from three months in the highlands of Papua New Guinea. She had lived in a temporary bush camp near the Mubi River, where the canopy of rainforest dripped water constantly, the terrain was vertical and the temperature fluctuated from suicidally humid to homicidally hot and where best friends hated each other within days of arrival. She hadn’t known worse. The continuous cloud cover made aerial photography impossible. The densely foliaged mountain region made access roads out of the question. The contractors and geologists arrived and left in helicopters. By the end of the first week Lana was wishing she had a couple of mountain goats for ancestors.
Sitting in her prefabricated hut, watching the drops of water falling monotonously, bored by constant inactivity due mainly to the interminable rain, unmotivated to join the others playing cards, Lana concentrated on a single droplet of water as it slid down a fat leaf, flared dramatically as it hung, trembling, on the edge then dropped onto the next leaf. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ she asked herself.
A burst of masculine laughter came from the open mess tent. ‘False,’ she thought. ‘They’re as bored as I am.’ Her mind flicked to her father. ‘Dad never mentioned boredom. He must have experienced it, just never talked about it.’ Then it hit her. It was time. She was ready. She didn’t question it; she always knew it would happen this way. Now all she had to do was tell her mother and Bernard.
‘An hour to go. That’s Zimbabwe down there.’
Lana looked politely. Brown African bush, a couple of rivers, a mountain range and one small town. From 35,000 feet, it had no soul. ‘Really,’ she murmured, feeling he was waiting for her response.
‘Ever been there?’
Her fellow passenger had tucked his newspaper into the pocket in front of him and lowered the folding tray. A stewardess was wheeling a refreshments trolley towards them. ‘No, thank you,’ Lana looked up and smiled at the woman before turning to the man at her side. ‘No, I’ve never been there,’ she replied.
He opened a plastic snack-pack and rummaged disinterestedly for something to take his fancy. ‘Great country. Cecil Rhodes knew a good thing when he saw it.’ He buttered a rock-hard scone and smeared it with jam. ‘Malawi’s different; more tropical.’ He glanc
ed over at her. ‘In some parts anyway.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing it.’
‘Are you going to the lake?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
He smiled. ‘It’s what attracts most of our visitors. How long have you got?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ He shook his head in mock disapproval. ‘Not enough time, my dear.’
‘It’s all I could get off work.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a geologist.’
A shadow passed his eyes, fleeting and deep. ‘How interesting,’ he murmured. He put the scone in his mouth and took a bite.
Seeing he was occupied, Lana turned back to the window.
Lana had expected opposition to her plan. Her mother and, to a lesser extent, Bernard, had not disappointed her.
‘Of all the harebrained schemes I’ve heard, this takes the cake.’ Karen Devereaux-Pickstone literally strode around the room. ‘Tell her, Bernard. Tell her to forget this foolishness.’
‘I could send an investigator,’ Bernard offered.
‘You tried that, remember?’ Lana smiled to take the sting out. ‘This is something I have to do.’
‘In God’s name, why you?’ Karen sat down, crossing her legs and throwing an imploring look towards Bernard.
‘It was so long ago,’ Bernard said. ‘Have you really thought this through?’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Karen snapped. ‘Thoughtless and selfish. Ridiculous.’
‘Thank you, Mummy.’
‘Tell her, Bernard.’
There were times when Bernard believed he knew Lana better than her own mother did. This was one of those times. ‘I might be able to get a name for you. Someone at the High Commission out there.’
Karen fixed her husband with a stare hard enough to stop a charging buffalo. Bernard shrugged helplessly, started to smile, thought better of it and stared mournfully back.
‘I’m going and that’s that.’ Lana set her jaw.
‘Your father’s assistant was called Kadamanja,’ Bernard offered. He knew that look.
Silence was loud in the room. Bernard was frantically trying to think up an excuse to go and do something, anything, as long as it was away from here. Karen saw the determination on Lana’s face and, although her mind was telling her she understood her daughter’s need, her heart was scared for Lana’s safety. Something had been badly amiss in Malawi fifteen years earlier. Too many had died or simply disappeared. But she knew it was no use. Defeated, she looked at the practicalities. ‘How long do you plan to be away?’
‘Two weeks. That’s all I can spare her,’ Bernard said, startling himself with his note of authority. He had studiously avoided exercising any discipline over Lana, except in a work environment, because he was aware she would resent it. He knew her of old. Telling her not to do something always seemed to be taken up as a challenge. As a frustrated schoolteacher once said to Karen and John, ‘The only way to be certain your daughter will do something seems to be to expressly forbid her to do it.’
Bernard knew this was not true. It was senseless rules, rigid disciplines or unfair decisions which Lana immediately dissected, digested and spat out again in the form of an honest request for things to make sense. Even as a child, she appeared well aware of the consequences in going head to head with authority but this did not prevent her from doing so. Bernard respected this and loved her all the more for it and he could see why she wanted to go to Malawi. Bernard also loved her mother. Under these circumstances Bernard knew that he was somewhere between a rock and a hard place. Having contributed but one time-related directive, Bernard thought he should quit while he was ahead. He went outside to examine the roses even though Karen and Lana both told him in even tones that it was raining.
‘Poor man,’ Lana said, smiling fondly at the door which Bernard had quietly closed behind him.
‘He hates confrontation,’ Karen agreed. She turned to her daughter. ‘Do you really have to do this, darling?’
‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’
Karen looked troubled. ‘I always believed I did. Lately...’ she shrugged and spread her hands. ‘Oh I don’t know, Lana. Lately I think it’s best if we let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘I can understand that, Mummy, really I can.’ Lana crossed to her mother and hugged her. ‘Your life has moved on and I’m pleased for you.’ She looked intensely into her mother’s face. ‘I made a vow fifteen years ago. I made it to Daddy. I won’t rest until I find the truth. Please try and understand.’
Karen reached up and brushed Lana’s cheek. ‘I do understand, darling,’ she said softly. ‘But I won’t sleep a wink until you’re safely back in England.’
Lana stirred in her seat and sighed. What lay ahead? Heartache? Frustration? Was this an emotional wild goose chase? Thanks to Bernard she had two names. Tim Gilbey at the British High Commission in Lilongwe and Moffat Kadamanja in Karonga, son of her father’s assistant. She wondered about his Christian name. As far as she knew, Moffat was a Scottish surname. David Livingstone’s wife had been a Mary Moffat. ‘Strange kind of name for an African,’ she mused. She shrugged mentally. Strange name or not, would Moffat Kadamanja or Tim Gilbey be able to help?
‘Just starting our descent,’ the man in the next seat said unnecessarily. She had felt the engines throttling back. ‘Gets a little bumpy sometimes.’
Lana smiled at him. ‘Clear air turbulence I guess.’ The sky was endlessly blue but the aircraft began to judder as though they were flying through storm clouds. Next to taking off, she wasn’t particularly fond of landing either. To take her mind off the bumps, she asked, ‘What do you do in Malawi?’
‘I farm tobacco about a hundred kilometres north of Lilongwe.’
‘Tobacco?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is there any market left for tobacco?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘It might be a dirty word in some places but cigarettes are very much the go throughout the Third World, all over Asia and the Middle East and in most of the Eastern Bloc countries.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Do you smoke?’
Lana shook her head. ‘Never had the urge.’
‘Bright lady,’ he commented. ‘I can’t kick the habit.’ The aeroplane hit an air pocket and dropped alarmingly. When they were flying straight and level again he gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Besides, I’m more likely to die flying than smoking.’
Lana laughed. His humour was wry and she enjoyed it. He was a man with hard edges, she could see that. It didn’t bother her. Very often, in her experience, the harder the edge the softer the centre. Then she remembered he had lied about delaying the flight. She liked mavericks but she liked them honest. Caution was the word in her head.
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself,’ he said suddenly. ‘After all, I’d hate to die next to a stranger.’ He put out his hand sideways. ‘Karl, with a K not a C, Henning at your service.’
Lana took it. ‘Lana Devereaux,’ she said, shaking his hand.
His smile froze, and so did his eyes. ‘Devereaux,’ he said softly. ‘Did you say Devereaux?’
‘My father was French.’
He closed his eyes a fraction longer than a blink. When he opened them there was nothing but friendly interest in them. ‘I think it’s a charming name.’
‘Thank you.’ She wondered if she’d imagined it. He seemed to be having trouble collecting his thoughts.
‘I met a Devereaux once,’ he said quietly, looking at her intently. ‘In Blantyre actually. He was a geologist too.’
Lana’s heartbeat quickened. ‘John Devereaux?’
He nodded. ‘I believe that was his name, yes.’
She could not believe her luck. ‘He was my father,’ she said quickly.
‘I see,’ he said slowly, still nodding. ‘That’s perhaps why I thought you were familiar. I can see the family resemblance.’
‘Did you know him well?’
He pulled at his earlobe. ‘Not really.
Only spoke to him briefly at the hotel. He was heading north as I recall; something about a seismic survey of the lake.’
Lana felt something like panic well in her. Her father’s death had taken so long to accept. Now, talking to this man Henning, it seemed to bring him back, make him real again. It was an oddly disturbing feeling. She wondered why Karl Henning would remember her father if he only met him once. ‘He must have made quite an impression on you,’ she commented.
His expression didn’t change. ‘I never forget a face or a name.’
She let that go but decided to probe further. ‘He disappeared in Malawi,’ she said quietly. ‘No-one ever found out what happened to him.’
He was regarding her with unreadable eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I heard he’d gone missing. Is that why you’re here? To try and find out?’
He sounded sincere but instinct warned her not to say too much. ‘Not really. It was so long ago. I just wanted to be where he had been.’ She smiled suddenly, brushing away her melancholy. ‘I expect that sounds morbid.’
‘No.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘I might be able to help you though. I keep a yacht moored up north. I was planning to do some sailing next week. Perhaps you’d like to join me.’ He produced a slightly dog-eared business card. ‘If you come with me you might meet someone who knew him. Give me a call if you can make it,’ he said lightly.
Lana took the card, looked at it briefly before putting it into her shirt pocket. ‘Thank you,’ she said, not intending to take him up on it. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
He pointed past her. ‘There’s Lilongwe.’
She looked. From the air the city appeared fresh and bright, spacious yet orderly. They were a few thousand feet above the ground and she had a good look at ultra-modern buildings, green lawns, wide, tarred roads and sprawling houses. ‘I didn’t expect this.’
Echo of an Angry God Page 14
