by Peter Rimmer
Jenny was going to start a small clinic on Elephant Walk and use her nursing skills to help everyone in the Mazoe Valley. Harry Brigandshaw had agreed to pay for the medicines. Jenny did not want a salary. To Jenny the number of black women and their babies dying at childbirth was appalling. She was going to make sure all that changed. Jim was pleased to see how excited Jenny was at the prospect. A wife with nothing to do on a farm was always a problem. Jim imagined a great explosion in the birth rate among the Shona in the years to come. Not only were they turning the valley into a granary but they were also going to fill it with happy people. Lots of them.
The door to Simon Haller’s office was closed. The girl at reception told Jim to knock and go in. Jim walked around the reception desk. He was some kind of hero after the syndication of his story around the world and imagined Simon would be delighted to write about their wedding and tell the readers they were going to live happily ever after. Like so many things in life that he had expected, Jim found out he was wrong. Simon Haller was distracted. Not in the slightest bit interested in his wedding plans.
“Stories die quickly, Jim. Keep it to yourselves.”
“You and Solly want to come to the wedding?”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
“You do remember the big story of your fabricated war hero and the search for his girl?”
“I’ve fabricated more than one good story, Jim my boy.”
“I’ll bet you have. Anyway, we owe you a big thank you. Sometimes the wrong reasons bring the right answers. We are going to be happy… What’s the matter, Simon?”
“The Preacher. I had a really big story going on that one. I might yet write a book about him. Make him famous… Where are you going?”
“Have a good life, Simon Haller. Despite your dubious motive, Jenny and I will always remember the part you played in our happiness. Just do me one favour. Don’t get the idea of interviewing the widow or I’ll kick you off the farm myself.”
“What’s got into you, Jim?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“My, we are uppity today.”
Controlling his desire to slam the door to Simon Haller’s office, Jim walked around the receptionist, let himself out of the offices of the Rhodesia Herald and walked into the street.
“Why are people so bloody selfish?” he said to Tembo when he got into the car. Tembo didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was talking about. At least Jenny wanted to give and not take.
Jim hoped his next stop would turn out better, but he did not hold out a great deal of hope. Mrs Voss had taken the old man’s rejection philosophically with a wan smile and a sad look. Justine, the daughter, had taken it personally, and something was wrong with her. Even the aspiring writer, Philip Neville, who Jim had imagined was her suitor as otherwise what was he doing on the farm, appeared to be able to do nothing to take away Justine’s despair. At a distance, Jim had twice followed her solitary walks far away from the family compound to make sure she did nothing silly. There was always a chance she might walk into a lion. The lion had a bad habit of sniffing around the farm cattle for an easy kill instead of hunting wild game which often got away. Most importantly, Jim felt responsible for bringing the old fox to the farm. He had meddled in another man’s life and made everyone miserable. His mother had so often warned him to mind his own business. Why, he asked himself for the umpteenth time, was his mother once again so right? She had two words for people poking their noses into other people’s affairs: ‘Nosy parker’. In his case doing what he thought was the right thing had been wrong. Jim doubted it could have turned out more wrong.
Jim told Tembo to park the car half a mile from Sir Robert’s yard. He did not want to spook the old man he had spent so much time with searching for the mythical Place of the Legend. He liked the old man very much. Understanding there were other ways of living a fruitful life without being conventional. Most people left their property as a summation of their lives. Colonel Voss would leave nothing but his life itself and how that life affected other people. Jim knew he would never forget the strange old man with the new boots he had met on his first arrival in Rhodesia at the railway station.
There was rain in the offing but he walked the half mile. King Richard the Lionheart was the first to recognise Jim and came bounding down the farm track, leaping straight up into Jim Bowman’s arms without a pause, nearly knocking him onto his back. For a surreal moment, Jim was holding a large dog in his arms while the dog licked his face. He was also thinking goodness knows what rotten food the dog had been eating because its breath was foul. After a short struggle, he got the dog down. Next, he had a few words with Hamlet and Othello. The horses knew him right away. They were grazing the grass on the side of the road if the farm track could be called a road. Jim nuzzled the soft noses and patted their necks before walking on towards the shack where Colonel Voss was now living if he hadn’t found another young man to grubstake him on a quest and gone off again only God knew where. Then the old man opened the door.
“Dear boy, how nice of you to visit. Fact is, I have a parcel for you. I wrapped it in brown paper but I’m not very good at tying string on my own. My old friend Sir Robert died shortly after I returned. We had some pleasant laughs before he went away. I sat beside him right up to the end. He left me this shack. Now wasn’t that nice of him? So it’s just me and the dog. The horses mostly live a life of their own. Do you know horses spend ninety per cent of their lives eating grass? Tons of it. How are you, dear boy? How is the lovely Jenny? Come into my house and have a cup of tea. My word, you have walked a long way, and it’s going to rain.”
“Tembo brought me in the car.”
“Where is Tembo?”
“Half a mile down the road.”
“Call him. A good shout carries a long way in Africa. Not many people shouting around here. I’ll go and get the parcel while you call Tembo. I like Tembo but he doesn’t like us white men stealing his land. You mark my words. However friendly we all seem, we’ll end up in a fight. Rather like the Red Indians. Nature of man. One tribe conquering another. Been going on since man came down from the trees. No, we were probably taking a swing at each other up there in the forest canopy.”
When Jim came back from calling Tembo from the top of the farm track that led to the shack, the old man was holding a brown paper parcel while puffing contentedly on his old pipe with the bowl carved in the shape of a crocodile head. There was a twinkle in Colonel Voss’s eye. A smile of knowing something that was going to make Jim smile.
“Justine is devastated you ran away again.”
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense. What does she know? Everyone wants the wonderful father. The one in her imagination is far better than me. Look at me, dear boy. Just look at me. Next thing they’ll want to take me back to England and introduce me to their friends. I just happened to be the one who gave her life when society frowned on fornication. Maybe one day society won’t be so cruel to the children. We were wrong. Felicity and I. Wrong, dear boy. You can’t just go around impregnating young girls when you have a legal wife. However much you think you love them at the time. Felicity feels sorry for herself all alone at her age and she’s right. It is my fault. Trying to find a little comfort at the end of our lives and destroying the child is selfish. Wrong. Cruel. A disaster, dear boy. The story we concocted saved her from the viciousness of people’s tongues. From those self-righteous people and their cold, miserable lives. Seeing Justine just once was more than I deserve. The picture of her beautiful face will go with me for the rest of my life, a great treasure to be treasured next to my heart… Dear dear, it’s beginning to rain. We’ll have tea another day or you won’t get back to your farm before the rivers come up… Hello, Tembo! Mind the dog! Just stay in the car!”
“Are you all right here?” asked Jim. Tembo had slammed the car door in the dog’s face just in time.
“Of course I am, dear boy.”
“I’ll visit once in a while.”
“What are you living off?”
“I always find a way. Done it ever since I ran away to Africa… Oh, I nearly forgot. Please give this parcel to Justine.”
“Can I tell Mrs Voss what you said?”
“Of course you can. You can say whatever you like. You and I know quite well the best thing an old codger like me can do is keep right out of their way. I am not what they think I am. Or, more precisely, I’m not what they want me to be. Life always has a price. You know that. Fact is, neither of us have had bad lives. Better than most. Felicity is rich in money. The African bush was all I wanted to be rich in mind. You remember the Valley of the Horses? Pure magic on earth. The great beauty of nature as planned by God.”
“What’s in the parcel?”
“The story of my life. The truth, if there is any truth. Mostly the truth escapes us. I wrote it for both of them before Walter my son was killed in France on the Somme in 1916. I still had a friend in the army who knew I was alive despite the story of my death in the Anglo-Boer War. He knew how to get a letter into my hands. He was regular army like me. Walter was killed in the first battle of the Somme. Justine was not the only one without a father as Walter was for most of his life. I missed both of them more than you could even imagine. Like I had killed myself, which I had while still alive. In that brown paper parcel is their father. Not the old man you see now. She can do what she wants with it, though if she wants to have it published someone will have to dress it up as fiction. Only we must know it is true as far as the truth can go. That way she can live with her father through the pages of a book for the rest of her life. She must understand that society could destroy her. Society always destroys anyone who doesn’t conform to its rules. We call it civilisation. Maybe it’s the way we have to live where there are so many of us. The only way to survive.”
“You won’t take her into the Valley of the Horses?”
“Of course not, dear boy. Now, if you’ll go please I want to go inside and have a good cry. It usually makes me feel better. Come on, King Richard, our guests are leaving… Thank you for coming, Jim Bowman.”
When Jim got into the car and looked back at the small dwelling he could see smoke from the one chimney. The kettle would soon be boiling. There was now no sign of Colonel Voss or King Richard the Lionheart. Jim had a lump in his throat. Tembo started the car with the long cranking handle. Then they were driving back to Elephant Walk.
Halfway back the rains came down and visibility was less than twenty yards.
When they drove onto the farm, the daylight was going. Jim Bowman was glad to be home.
The next morning he gave the brown paper parcel with the loosely tied string to Justine Voss and left her alone with her father. No one saw her all day.
Jim told Felicity what had happened in the yard.
“We are going home on the next boat that leaves Beira for England. Am I allowed to read the book?”
“I think so. I’d be surprised if you are not one of the main characters, so to speak.”
“Do you think Philip should turn it into a novel?”
“Why not? I’ll bet it’s one hell of a story. I spent months with him looking for traces of the last Arab civilisation in Africa and I know how good his stories are. That way your love for Colonel Voss will live forever in a book and Philip will have fulfilled his great-aunt’s wishes and carry on receiving his thousand pounds a year or whatever the amount is now.”
“Is the book true?”
“You’ll have to read it. If anyone can recognise the truth it’ll be you, Mrs Voss.”
“I want to go and see him for the last time.”
“You can’t. He’s gone away again,” lied Jim.
“He doesn’t do trips in the rainy season. He told that to Justine.”
“There was a young lad just out from England visiting Colonel Voss. The young man has a little money from his father. He and Colonel Voss are going to look for gold. The colonel has a theory that the shallow diggings left by the men who built the Great Zimbabwe ruins hide mountains of gold. More gold than on the Witwatersrand of South Africa. The colonel knows where to find the old diggings now they are overgrown by the bush. The young man is going to sink a proper mineshaft, make a fortune, and go back to England to buy back the family estate.”
“You should be the storyteller, Mr Bowman.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Thank you, Jim, if I may call you by your first name. I hope you and Jenny will be happy together for the rest of your lives.”
Jim walked down to the river before Mrs Voss could ask any more questions. At least no one else knew where to find Sir Robert’s old house. A large crocodile was basking in the sun on the opposite bank. For a moment they eyed each other. The river was only fifty yards across. There were big vundu in the river, the size of sharks but easier to catch. Jim thought the old fellow on the other side of the river was digesting his lunch. He had his mouth wide open. A small bird was inside the open mouth picking food from the crocodile’s teeth.
Jim let his mind roam out and about for a long time. When he looked back the small bird had finished picking for food, the crocodile had closed its jaws, closed its eyes and seemed to be fast asleep. Jim knew on closer inspection there would still be a slit open for the crocodile to see. He never ever trusted crocodiles.
“Did you get your ten pounds back?” Jim was rudely startled out of his reverie. Tina Pringle had crept up on him. There was nothing for her to do. The preparations for Christmas were out of her hands. Harry was out in the lands even though it was Sunday. Harry Brigandshaw liked to be doing something all the time.
Jim did not answer her. She sat down on the fallen tree next to him. She was still as sexy as the first time he had seen her and Barnaby St Clair in Meikles Hotel.
“No, you didn’t,” she answered for him. “The moment the money was in Barnaby’s pocket he forgot about you. Thank you for the lunch. He thinks people owe him a living. His presence is worth more than returning the money. In a strange way, he is right. I always wanted to be with him even as a little girl. When you are with Barnaby life is exciting even when he is stealing ten pounds and a lunch from a young man who probably couldn’t afford it. I’m guilty too. He used me as the bait in those days. Still would if I gave him the chance.”
“Having lunch with you was worth the ten pounds.”
“We are the flatterers! Thank you, Jim… My father was a railway worker. We lived close to the St Clair estate. Seeing we are going to be living close to each other until you buy your own farm I want you and Jenny to know the truth. This accent of mine is false. The product of a Miss Pinforth. Barnaby knew, of course, which was why he would never marry me. He’s a snob but I still love him. Is that wrong? Out here we are starting a whole new class of Englishmen. The colonial with estates so big they can’t see the neighbours’ chimney smoke. Barnaby would have been no good out here. He doesn’t like real work. He likes to trick people out of their money. Scam people. He’s very good at it. He is now very rich with the stock market going up every day. Yet he’d never even think of your ten pounds or buying you a lunch. You were only useful to him when he needed you. Only then did you feel the warmth of his charm… He’s always been in my life. I wonder if he will ever really go away? Poor Harry. He just doesn’t know what he’s letting himself into.”
“Don’t you love Mr Brigandshaw?” Jim was never able to think of his boss by his first name.
“I’m pregnant, Jim.”
“Is it Barnaby’s child?”
“I’m not that bad. It’s Harry’s all right. We had a fling on the boat coming out.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me.”
“I need a friend. Will you be my friend, Jim Bowman? Africa is going to be very lonely. It’s so vast and so few of us. Can you imagine hot roast turkey in this heat for Christmas? Roast potatoes. Stuffing. Hot mince pies. Christmas pudding flaming on a silver tray for God’s s
ake. Don’t you think we English overdo things a bit? Harry’s bought Tembo a shiny black Ford motorcar all the way from America for saving his life. So he can take his four wives into town. Harry is so generous. Quite the opposite of Barnaby. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m going to make Harry Brigandshaw a very good wife. Ten children, we want. Well, maybe not quite ten. I can still see Barnaby as a small boy in my mind’s eye when I first fell in love with him. We were five years old… Good Lord! Is that a crocodile on the other bank?”
“He’s asleep.”
“He’s enormous! Can he swim over here?”
“He can but he won’t. He’s just had his lunch.”
“How’d you know?” Tina was on her feet ready to run.
“A little bird told me.”
Epilogue
Eighteen months later, Soldier of the Queen was due to be published in England, fulfilling Philip Neville’s obligations to the will and securing the legacy from his aunt for the rest of his life.
The family had been staying at Hope Cove. Only Philip was going up to London on the train for the launch of the book. Justine was heavily pregnant and preferred to stay behind at her mother’s house where they had all been living since the spring. The launch and the baby were due at the same time. For Felicity, the thought of a grandchild had revitalised her life. Given it a purpose. Ever since Philip had found a publisher for Soldier of the Queen, the floodgates had opened. The first three perfect paragraphs had exploded into the fictional book he had wanted to write about his Great-Aunt Constance’s life. Turning the Colonel Voss story into fiction had shown him the way.