by Peter Rimmer
“Do you think they will get married?” he said.
“Now what are you talking about, Simon?”
“Jim Bowman and the nurse. Jenny Merryl. She was pretty. I asked her out once and she said no. She said she was seeing Jim Bowman again. That would be a nice ending to the story.”
“Didn’t your last story say they were getting married?”
“It didn’t say they were married… No, you’re right. That story is dead. The war’s been over four years today. It’s Armistice Day. 11th of November. On the eleventh day of the eleventh month on the eleventh hour… People have lost interest in the war. They forget so quickly. Just as well. Anyway, the Preacher’s a much better story… I’m going to write a book about him. People like to read about religion.”
Solly Goldman was looking out of the window. The train was through the built-up area of Johannesburg. There were big mine dumps rising from the veld. The wind was blowing yellow dust everywhere. Eyesores.
The mine dumps gave way to the open veld that had once been fought over by the British and the Boers.
“What was his father like?” asked Solly. “The Boer general. Imagine being hanged for fighting for your own people. That wasn’t right, Simon.”
“Life isn’t right, Solly… I’m going to write that book.”
Solly ignored him. His friend had a one-track mind. Outside the window, Solly could see a small herd of zebras. They were running away from the train. Running away from man… It was one thing to write a newspaper article. Quite another to write a full-length book. So many journalists tried. Very few finished. Solly sighed. The zebras were now running away at full tilt.
“At least they have some sense,” he said to no one in particular.
The rhythmic call of the wheels on the metal rails made his eyes close. He was fast asleep before Simon Haller had finished checking his notes on Barend Oosthuizen, the Preacher. Solly dreamed of a man and woman at their wedding. The wedding was in heaven. Among the white clouds.
At Elephant Walk, the sun was shining. The rain had stopped the day before though there was still no sign of Harry Brigandshaw and Tembo. Emily, Harry’s mother, was trying not to worry. And yet she found it difficult to contain her excitement. He would be staying in Meikles Hotel with his friends from the boat. She hoped this time he would stay. There had been too many years when he was away. At school in the Cape. At university in Oxford. Fighting the war in France. Too many years for a lonely mother with nothing else to think of but her children. Without Madge, she had no idea what she would do.
Losing a husband to an elephant and her younger son to the war had been too horrible. Life had been cruel. Even her father living with them on the farm could only be so much comfort. What poor Alison was doing on her own at New Kleinfontein was beyond Emily’s understanding. Every week she travelled on a horse to the other side of what had once been all of Elephant Walk to visit the woman who had been Harry’s nurse back so long ago when both of them were young. Both their husbands were dead. Alison’s hanged as a traitor at the end of the Boer War by the British. Alison who was English. There had been a recent rumour about Barend, Alison’s son and Madge’s husband. Emily had not mentioned the rumour on her last visit to see Alison. The rumour was too appalling. Barend had been buried in a rockfall a mile down at the bottom of a gold mine in Johannesburg. Madge was still beside herself with worry. Everyone had kept the news from the three children. Why Alison had not gone to live with her daughter Katinka in the Cape was another thing in life Emily did not understand.
When Jim Bowman had asked to use the old house on the family compound that had been derelict for years she had agreed. The boy had friends arriving from his old home in England. The friends had arrived on Elephant Walk in a horse and trap just before the rivers had become impassable. The horse had been able to drag the trap through the rising water of the spruits where a car would have bogged down. Harry would have known that. She knew she shouldn’t worry. If he was caught between two rivers, he would survive. Harry knew too much about the bush. Where to find food. He had the Webley pistol he had asked for in his letter. The thought of her son lying dead, shot by his old CO in the Royal Flying Corps, set her off worrying. Harry would come before the sun went down, she kept repeating to herself. All through their lives, Emily had never stopped worrying about her children. Life for Emily was one big worry. Then there was the old man in the rondavel. A woman who carried his name but had never been his wife was about to arrive with a daughter the old man had never seen. What that was all about she had no idea. The poor man had been scrubbed and brushed but still looked like a wild animal.
A Belgian had come all the way from the Inyanga to build an airstrip on the farm and gone off again. There was no aeroplane. Just an airstrip. She had no idea what that was all about either. They told her all these things but never explained anything. She had put new mosquito nets in the old house for the young people, that much she had remembered to do. During the rains the mosquitoes were ferocious. There was so much malaria around. At least the old roof was sound and kept out the rain. The broken windows had been quickly repaired. The guests would have to bathe in Jim Bowman’s new house as the water pipes were broken in the old house built by Tinus Oosthuizen. It just never stopped. Finding enough linen for all the beds had been another problem. She just hoped Harry had not brought anyone else he had not told her about. Anyone else would have to stay with her father. It just never stopped. The men never even thought about the extra food. They just expected everything to work like clockwork. It was all too much. There was more to running all the people than running the farm… Where was Harry?
Emily Brigandshaw was quite beside herself.
Not four miles away Harry had stopped the car where the pass through the hills came out to look down on the Mazoe Valley, where Sebastian Brigandshaw, Harry’s father, had first seen the migration heading north. Fifty thousand elephants, one after the other, the small ones hooking their mothers’ tails not to get lost in the swirling red dust made by so many slow-moving elephant. The sight had inspired Sebastian to call his African farm Elephant Walk.
‘Miles of them, Harry. You should have seen them. The power of nature. Nothing would have turned them from their ancestral path. One day you’ll see it. Every twenty years or so they migrate to the Congo from the Okavango swamps, skirting south of the Zambezi River until they swim across at Tete, the old Portuguese post in Mozambique. Then the migration path cuts back through to the Congo basin. There are Portuguese records of the migration going back centuries. One of the greatest sights in the world.’
Harry could hear his father’s voice in his head as he looked far over the valley to his home. The days of rain had washed the air clean. Pockets of mist hung above the receding rivers, the water sucked up by the heat of the sun.
He had told his passengers about the elephants in the car to distract Felicity and Justine. They had both gone quiet. Deathly quiet. Ever since the car had finally left behind Meikles Hotel on the last leg of the journey from England. Philip Neville, seeing the turmoil in Justine’s mind, had rattled on about the book he was going to write about his great-aunt. The girl had stayed silent, not even looking out of the car window.
Harry cursed his own stupidity. He should never have invited them to the farm. A dead father, now they were so close to Colonel Voss, was better than what she was going to find on Elephant Walk. The big Zulu doorman had told him the old man was living in Peregrine the Ninth’s rondavel. That the new clothes and haircuts had made no difference. The Zulu had been proud of it.
“You can’t change an old lion,” he had said, clutching happily at the thought. The old Zulu and Colonel Voss had known each other for many years.
Now the moment had come. There was nothing Harry could do to stop the disaster.
Far over behind Elephant Walk, he could see a small herd of elephants moving through the sparse flat-topped msasa trees still in the glory of their spring colours of red and russet brown. Harry c
ould see ten miles without the Zeiss field glasses he had taken from the German pilot killed in combat, the leather case marked so eerily with his own initials. He put the field glasses to his eyes and focused on the big animals. They were browsing the trees, eating the fresh leaves, some of which were already turning green. He offered the glasses at first to Felicity and then to Justine. Neither made any response.
The girl had a right to meet her father whatever his condition. A girl only ever had one father… Harry was trying to convince himself without success.
Later they all got back into the black Austin. Tembo cranked the engine at the front with the long, probing crank handle. The car began to wind slowly down into the valley towards the distant elephants. Harry sent a short prayer to God to look after his friends.
Half an hour later they drove through the avenue of jacaranda trees, passing the curing barn for the tobacco, the grading shed and the workshop. They headed towards the cluster of houses on the slope that led down through the msasa trees and the well-cut lawns to the Mazoe River.
As Harry got out of his car, the dogs jumped all over him while the children screamed with excitement. Emily ran into her son’s open arms, crying uncontrollably. Harry and his grandfather shook hands formally. Madge took her turn with a big kiss on her brother’s cheek.
“He’s all right,” he said to her, “Barend’s all right. Lost his right hand to gangrene, but he’s all right. The papers are full of him.”
They were both trying not to cry.
“When is he coming home?”
“The Rhodesia Herald has a special reporter in Johannesburg who says he’s on his way home now.”
“Oh thank God… Children! Come here. Stop screaming. Daddy’s coming home.”
The dogs having been sidelined by the family were chasing each other through the flower beds.
“Someone get those dogs out of my flower beds,” shouted Emily.
Tembo took the car round in a circle to put it in the shed next to the workshop. He had put all the luggage on the lawn. Two servants in long white shorts and white jackets were waiting barefoot to be told where to take the suitcases. Everyone was smiling except Felicity Voss and her daughter.
A wizened old man was standing in the doorway of a round hut watching everything. Harry did not see him in the turmoil. Jim Bowman had come out of his new house. Behind him were a man and two young women. Somehow the man’s face was familiar to Harry. A small boy he had never seen before was screaming his lungs out trying to compete with Madge’s three children. His home was happy bedlam.
“I don’t believe it,” said Harry, looking across at his mother’s house. “That damn ginger cat is fast asleep with his eyes open.”
“May I introduce myself,” said a voice through the throng. Harry went cold. “I’m Colonel Voss. You, dear child, must be my daughter. How do you do? Felicity, you are as beautiful as I always remember. Now, if you will excuse me I have to go. Hamlet and Othello are escorting me back to Sir Robert. King Richard waits for me. So nice to meet you… Jim, dear boy, your help of course. We have to get the horses harnessed. Unfortunately, dear child, this is the rainy season. Were it not, I would propose a journey to the Valley of the Horses. The Place of the Legend. Maybe next year in the English winter. Or the year after. It has indeed been a pleasure seeing you again, Felicity. Indeed. Indeed… Come, dear boy. We can’t keep these nice people waiting. I’m sure they have things to do.”
“Are you really my father?” asked Justine in a small voice.
“Oh, yes, dear child. You look just like my mother. She was a great beauty you know. A great beauty. Well, I’ll be off. Time waits for no man. Thank you, Mrs Brigandshaw, for your kind hospitality. It shall not be forgotten. Sir Henry. Thank you kindly old friend. Harry, dear boy. Rather a case of hello and goodbye… Indeed. Those dogs are quite mad, you know. Poor old King Richard the Lionheart… There are some things, Felicity, that can never be repaired. This is one of them. Thank you for bringing my daughter. I shall always cherish the memory of seeing her face.”
Leaving them astounded and disbelieving, and before anyone could stop him, the old man began walking away briskly in the direction of Hamlet and Othello’s field, calling each of them in turn. Jim stood rooted to the spot. Harry nodded to him grimly. Jim followed the old man. The dogs were still savaging the cannas. The children were screaming with the same excitement. Felicity Voss was crying. Justine was watching her father walk out of her life with an open mouth. Shocked.
“You must be Mrs Voss,” said Emily gently, taking the woman’s arm. “I’m Emily Brigandshaw, Harry’s mother. I’ll show you to your room. I’m sure it’s been a long journey.”
“The longest journey of my life,” said Felicity Voss.
By the time Justine followed her mother, her father’s receding back was out of sight. Only then did she start to cry, shuddering throughout her whole body.
“He didn’t even kiss me,” was all she could say, over and over again.
Harry had put his hand under Justine’s right elbow and was guiding her into the house.
“Let him be, Justine. It was his decision. He is a great gentleman. What he did just now was the bravest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
“I don’t care what he looks like.”
“But he does. Last time he saw your mother he was a dashing cavalry officer, back from the Boer War. He wants your mother to remember him like that. He knows better than anyone he ruined your mother’s life.”
“Will he take me to the Place of the Legend?”
“I don’t know whether it exists.”
“Does it matter?”
“To your father, it matters.”
“Then he’ll take me.”
“Maybe.”
“I do want to go. I really do.” She was looking over her shoulder as Harry drew her into his mother’s house. The ginger cat was still fast asleep on the windowsill with his eyes wide open. The first time since Harry had got home he heard the Egyptian geese honking.
The following day, just after breakfast, a dispatch rider on a motorcycle arrived on the farm with a telegram from Tina Pringle. Harry showed it to his mother.
“Who, might I ask, is Tina Pringle? Where is she going to stay?”
“You met Tina once, Mother, before the war. We now have a spare room in the rondavel.”
“At least that’s something. Those poor people from England. So embarrassing at dinner last night. And Madge is beside herself. It’s just one thing after another. Nobody tells me anything.”
“My dearest Mother,” said Harry, smiling. “Do you know how much I love you?”
“People always say they love each other. Mostly they don’t mean it.”
“From the bottom of my heart, Mother dear.”
“What do you want, Harry?”
“Nothing but the pleasure of your company.”
“You’ve gone all silly since that cable arrived.”
“I rather think I have.”
“They are down at the river again… Best to leave them alone. I thought she was your girl before the cable. Is she nice, Harry?” Harry knew his mother was referring to Tina Pringle.
“You probably won’t approve.”
“I’ve stopped judging people years ago… Come and sit on the veranda and we’ll have a good talk. The cook can bring us a fresh pot of tea. I want to hear everything. You can bring me up to date on Hastings Court. It doesn’t hurt anymore… Your grandfather is planting the biggest tobacco crop ever this year. Did I tell you Tinus has a cold and won’t wipe his nose with a handkerchief? Those children are little savages. Will Barend behave properly now he’s had such a terrible fright? And he was such a nice boy.”
Emily went on and on, Harry listening to every word. He knew just how lucky he had been to have this woman as his mother. He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek.
“What was that for?” asked Emily.
“For being my mother.”
All though
t of Mervyn Braithwaite had left their minds. In the safety of his own home, Harry had left the Webley pistol in his old room.
Len Merryl and Jim Bowman had gone off alone into the bush before breakfast. It was Jim’s job to bring back a small buck to be roasted over the open fire. With so many mouths to feed a spit roast had been decided on by Emily first thing in the morning. In the thick bush of Elephant Walk, kudu was plentiful. Mrs Brigandshaw had been quite specific.
“A young ram, Jim. Somewhere half grown. Pick your target. Take the .22 rifle and give the shotgun to your friend. If he sees any francolin, he can have a shot. One small kudu and three francolins. Never shoot more than you can eat. And by the way, I told my son the name of your English visitor last night. He thinks the police will want to see him. Harry thought he recognised the man yesterday when he arrived home. Didn’t expect to find him on his own farm.”
“What do the police want with Len?” Jim had said in alarm.
“The man who killed my daughter-in-law was seen by Tembo at the railway station. He thinks the man was waiting for Harry. Your Len Merryl saw someone my son thinks was Mervyn Braithwaite shoot a man through the window of a Cape Town bar. If Mr Merryl can identify the man again, the Rhodesian police will send Braithwaite down to Cape Town to be tried for murder.”
“Will Len have to go to Cape Town?”
“Yes if needed, but Harry will pay for any cost. What’s Mr Merryl doing here?”
“Looking for a job. He doesn’t want to go to sea again. He worked his passage out on the SS Corfe Castle.”
“Harry will bring him back from Cape Town and find him a job in Rhodesia.”
“Have the police caught Braithwaite?”
“No, but they know what to look for. Harry gave them a detailed description at the police station when they were waiting for the rain to stop in Salisbury. In better days Braithwaite was my son’s CO in France. If you call war better days. Mr Merryl’s job will be to pick him out of a line-up. There are not that many people in Rhodesia and Braithwaite has to be staying in a hotel or a boarding house.”