A Lion by the Mane

by Edna Dawes

  ‘Welcome to the club,’ said a quiet voice behind her, and she jumped, spilling the liquor down the front of her blouse. ‘Tut, tut,’ admonished Jan, ‘you’ll have to learn to carry your drink if you intend taking it up seriously.’

  She looked at the brown stain spreading across the white material. ‘That’s two nightdresses and a blouse you have ruined.’

  He sat up, pushing off the smothering cardigans. ‘Don’t spread the tale around. People would read highly imaginative meanings into the words.’ It was said lightly, but she treated it as a serious remark.

  ‘What rubbish! As if we would have time for that sort of thing under these conditions.’

  ‘I have never known conditions to be prohibitive.’ He leant, across and pinned her against the canvas with a kiss which proved his point a hundred times over! Taken unawares, Margaret instinctively let herself go limp, and the embrace was over in ten seconds flat. Jan took his hands from her shoulders and slowly looked her over. ‘My God, woman, you must have fallen into the sterilizer along with your surgical instruments!’

  Margaret’s face burned red. ‘There’s no need to be insulting because your vanity is hurt. There are plenty of other little girls to play with.’

  ‘Yes,’ he flared, ‘that’s just about your style, isn’t it? “Run away and play like a good lad.” Uppermost in your character, Maggie, is frustrated motherhood – but you have picked the wrong subject. I was separated from the boys years ago.’

  ‘And can’t resist proving it at every opportunity. You seem to have forgotten you are a runaway jail-bird . . . and a thief,’ she added for good measure.

  ‘Don’t stop there.’ He was lashing himself now, instead of her. ‘I bought an aircraft I can’t possibly hope to pay for, flew it against big brother’s instructions, took you as a passenger and thereby risked your stiff neck, allowed myself to be made a scapegoat by a gun-runner, locked a policeman in his own cell . . .’ He stopped, breathing hard. ‘But don’t leave out the super-crime, the daddy of them all. I have put Schroeder Freight on the black list and ruined the family business. For that, I really should stand in the corner with a bloody dunce’s cap on my head!’

  His anger bit into her like a physical pain. She had never aroused such deep emotion in a person, and didn’t like the feeling.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she begged. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I don’t want your sympathy,’ he whipped back. ‘All I ask is . . . oh, what the hell does it matter!’ In a fierce movement he slid to the end of the truck and dropped to the ground. A gasp escaped him as pain from the forgotten leg-wound ran up his thigh, but he lurched away round the vehicle in an attempt to quench his fury, leaving Margaret in as big a turmoil as himself.

  He was back almost immediately, staring into her grimy face and liquor-splattered blouse. ‘There’s some sort of building ahead; you can see it from the front of the truck.’

  ‘How far is it?’ She scrambled to the ground, glad of the diversion, and went beside him to the head of the bonnet. Way in the distance she could make out a break in the thick growth but Jan’s veld-trained eyes saw more than she did.

  ‘Do you have any money?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Do you want it?’

  ‘I can’t beg for petrol without it.’ The wounded male lashing out at the female had vanished and Margaret brightened as she fetched her handbag. The prospect of getting mobile would improve the situation no end but, when she realized that he intended walking there, a protest slipped out before she could stop it and she feared he would fly off the handle again. He was sweetly reasonable, however.

  ‘There’s no other way. You can’t go, however willing you may be.’

  ‘Let me come with you.’

  ‘And leave all your belongings for any passer-by?’ He unstrapped the gun-belt. ‘Here, this should protect you.’

  ‘I couldn’t use it if the need should arise,’ but he had turned and was on his way.

  ‘Jan!’

  He half-turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why do you carry a gun?’

  ‘Self-defence. We get some pretty wild creatures in this country.’ A twisted smile crossed his lips. ‘Most men take them when they venture from the cities; it isn’t only those with criminal tendencies like me.’

  He limped away along the road, his hair flaming beneath the sun. He is right, she thought, watching him, the maternal instinct must be very strong in me for the sight of him in those cut-off shorts, filthy shirt, and hardly able to walk in a straight line makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time . . . and oh, I shall be glad to see him come back. Her innate urge for cleanliness set her searching in her cases for a fresh blouse. Then she drenched a handkerchief with cologne to set her face tingling, and brushed her thick dark hair, tying it round with a soft belt from one of her dresses to keep it from her face. The freshness didn’t last long.

  Within half an hour her blouse was sticking to her and thirst was beginning its torment again. The heat under the canvas cover was already enough to remind her of the ordeal in that aircraft, and she looked longingly at the bottle Jan had brought with him. For ten minutes she fought the impulse, but her will-power seemed strangely weak all of a sudden and she drew the cork and sipped. It was warm and tasted revoltingly sour by now, but it slid over her parched throat with comforting wetness until she could drink no more. A glance at her watch showed her Jan had been away for over forty-five minutes, so she jumped down from the truck to see if she could see him coming.

  There was no sign of movement in any direction, which worried her anew. She should have insisted on going with him. Suppose he had collapsed by the roadside! That building was further away than it looked; he would never make it. How long should she wait before going after him? Although the questions were important ones her brain seemed unable to get down to answering them. It was growing unbearably hot, so she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and undid two buttons to push it away from her neck. The sun was playing tricks with her, making the road jump up and down, and hazing the mountains to a blur. Even the truck seemed out of focus and swung about in a most curious way. She sighed. Where, oh where, was Jan? Since her legs felt rather shaky, she sat down under the trees to puzzle out the problem.

  A vehicle approached in a cloud of dust and, as soon as it stopped, Jan got out and limped quickly across to the seated girl. ‘What is it? Are you all right?’ he asked sharply.

  A pale face was turned up to him and the large green eyes held a sad expression. ‘I thought you had abandoned me!’

  ‘Nothing happened while I was away?’

  She shook her head and he continued. ‘It took a long time to walk there, believe me, but we’re in luck. As I thought, that place was part of an Afrikaaner farm and the owner sent me back in a truck with two gallons of petrol. That should get us to Myala. It won’t take long to fill up.’

  He set about doing just that, then handed back the empty cans to the driver, who turned his vehicle round and shot off along the road.

  ‘Nice fellow, that farmer,’ Jan said conversationally as he screwed on the petrol cap.

  Margaret was thinking of Myala and a clinically clean bed in a cool room with blinds drawn against the sun. The picture was so appealing she sank back into the long grass with her eyes closed.

  ‘Steady!’ said Jan’s voice beside her. ‘You can’t sleep there. You’d better get back in the truck.’

  She opened her eyes to see him watching her with concern. Yes, concern! ‘Perhaps it would be wise,’ she agreed.

  He helped her to her feet, noting the movement of her pale breasts through the unbuttoned blouse. It surprised him. There was never any hint of seductiveness about her and he put this lapse down to the assumption that she was now too tired to care. When she swayed slightly as she walked, it seemed to strengthen the idea, but when her knees buckled beneath her and brought a spate of giggles from the girl, a wild suspicion began to hatch in his mind. One glance at the back of the truck was enoug
h. Laughter lit up his eyes and brought youth back to his pain-aged face. He leant against the metal side of the vehicle while mirth got the better of him. Suddenly, optimism struggled to make itself heard through the din of depression, weariness and guilt so that the splendour of his country stirred in his bones and leapt in his blood once more.

  ‘Maggie Ward, you are quite tipsy,’ he accused joyfully. ‘I do believe there is hope for you yet.’

  ‘I . . . was . . . thirshty,’ she explained carefully through her paroxysm of tittering.

  ‘I’ll say! That bottle is almost empty. You don’t start out timorously on the road to ruin, do you?’ He had to lift her into the cab, but her limpness pleased rather than angered him this time. Those few seconds with her in his arms brought him a lightning reminder that life still had its brighter side.

  They had been several minutes on their way when Margaret said, ‘Whatever are they going to think when we turn up at Myala like this? You look quite villa . . . villainoush.’

  ‘But sober,’ he said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘With luck we should be at Russell Martin’s place in an hour and a half. The first thing I shall be after is a cigarette. I never thought I could last so long without one.’

  ‘You should stop altogether. It only takes will-power.’

  ‘Ah . . . but I don’t have any.’

  ‘Nonsensh,’ she slurred, ‘you are the most strong-willed man I have ever met.’

  ‘That is only when I want something so badly that I have to fight for it.’

  ‘I don’t have to fight for things,’ she bragged airily.

  ‘Maybe you have never wanted anything badly enough.’

  That remark appeared so profound Margaret lapsed into silence and soon the jostling and rocking of the truck sent her to sleep. When she settled against his shoulder Jan sighed. He was fully responsible for putting her through all this. Although the lightning had been no fault of his and normally they would have arrived at Myala quite safely, he had had no right to involve a girl in his scheme to get even with Chris. That she was cool and level-headed in no way minimized his guilt for forcing her to cope with what she had been through. Competent as she was, the experience must have been unnerving for a foreign girl unused to the vast, uninhabited distances of this country. One tended to forget that she might be afraid. It was not that she was one of those hearty masculine females with biceps like a wrestler.

  In fact, her curves were firm and exciting, and that freshly-washed, cologne-scented wholesomeness made a man want to bury his nose in her hair and neck while he held her close. No, it was more her assured manner, direct look, and that way of speaking which always sounded slightly aloof and superior to a person who spoke English prostituted by a national dialect. Then, he hit upon what really roused antagonism in him. She was a goody-goody . . . near perfect . . . which was why he had felt slightly malicious pleasure to find she had been tempted by the only liquid in sight. It would be very satisfying to see her make just one mistake before he left her behind at Myala; give just one indication that she was as fallible as he. In other words, his masculine arrogance would like to see her taken down a peg or two!

  Soon, he came upon the boundary fence of the Game Reserve and followed the track which ran beside it for the best part of an hour. The guard on the gates knew Jan and lifted the barrier while splitting his face with a wide smile. He accepted the arrival of this pilot dressed in filthy clothes and a two-day stubble on his chin, driving a canvas-covered truck with a white woman asleep beside him as if there were nothing odd about the situation. Jan greeted him and was told that Warden Martin was not at the bungalow; had been away for four days or more.

  ‘You go on up, sir, him come back not very long,’ said the guard with a roll of his eyes and a boy-scout type salute.

  Jan was perturbed as he followed the main track to Russell Martin’s bungalow. It was unusual for the Warden to be away when stores were due. If he had set out four days ago he must have meant to be back by Wednesday when Jan should have arrived, and naturally would have made a point of meeting the English girl whom he had invited to work with him. Russell had old-fashioned manners which would not have allowed him to leave her to settle in on her own with only Craig Barker as host. It all seemed highly suspicious now that Jan was aware of the arms being received by someone at Myala, but he shied from concluding that Dr Martin was involved. Aside from his principles, the man was so completely absorbed in his work he would have no time for an unlawful sideline. Jan jabbed the accelerator. Up ahead lay the answers to several burning questions he wished to ask!

  The warden’s bungalow was a long, low, wooden building raised from the ground and with a veranda running along two sides of it. It was strictly masculine and utilitarian with no unnecessary trappings, but everything to keep a man content. A vast bookcase held reading matter, ranging from science fiction to a study of diseases in apes; a bar supplied him with pleasing stimulus when the day had gone well and complete oblivion if disaster struck; a record player could soothe him with nostalgia or match his restlessness with wild symphonies. There was a huge refrigerator for supplies, a radio transmitter which linked with the outside world, and a shower alongside wide, airy bedrooms. It was the last two which Jan thought of longingly as he pulled up in front of the steps. Craig Barker appeared on the veranda and leant on the rails, watching Jan trying to alight without wincing.

  ‘Where have you been, man, and what happened to the supplies?’ he called. ‘I got on to Chris, who said you left on Wednesday, as arranged. Now you turn up two days later looking like a tramp. What has been going on?’

  Jan raised his hands. ‘All in good time. First, we want a meal and a shower, then sleep. We are just about done in.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I have Miss Ward with me; the English girl.’ He controlled a grin. ‘She is not quite herself at the moment.’

  The Assistant Warden, a rugged fellow in his mid-twenties, took the steps at a jump and looked in the cab. He whistled through his teeth. ‘I can’t wait to see her when she is herself! I’ll carry her in.’

  ‘You lead the way. I can manage her,’ said Jan, wishing the open blouse didn’t reveal quite so much of Margaret.

  ‘Man, you don’t look fit to carry a mongoose much less a cuddlesome flerric. Besides, if she is going to be living here, the sooner I get to know her the better.’ The eager tanned face of the younger man suddenly appeared disturbingly lecherous to Jan, who had no intention of letting Margaret into his clutches.

  ‘Just show me which is to be her room,’ he insisted, ‘and I’ll take . . .’

  ‘There is no need for either of you to do anything,’ said a light voice. ‘I am well able to get myself from A to B without assistance. Have we reached Myala?’ This last was addressed to Jan.

  ‘Yes. This is Craig Barker, the Assistant Warden. Doctor Martin is away.’ He turned to Craig. ‘Where is he? Do you know? It’s not like him to take off when he knew Miss Ward was arriving. Was he aware that we had been delayed?’

  The younger man shrugged shoulders. ‘He went out on Sunday after a sick zebra, and that’s the last I saw or heard of him. I didn’t start getting concerned until Wednesday, but your failure to turn up replaced one worry with another. I tell you, man, I’ve had one hell of a week. Chris was raging when I contacted him; said he’d heard from Jo’burg that you’d had to ditch. Then yesterday I had another message from him in Kimberley asking if you had turned up. An aerial search found your aircraft minus stores and people so they concluded you had been rescued. He had some pretty forceful things to say about the welfare of Miss Ward, I can tell you; seems to feel he is responsible for her. Still, that’s your worry now. I’ll get some boys to unload the stores.’

  ‘I haven’t got them. All the crates are in the police compound at Alwynsrus.’

  ‘Please may I have a shower and a long drink of water?’ said the forgotten Margaret in her precise way.

  Both men swung round. ‘Of course,’ exclaime
d Craig. ‘How thoughtless of us to stand around when you have plainly had a harrowing time. I’ll organize a meal while you both clean up. There is only one shower, so you’ll have to fight over who goes first. When you feel up to it we’ll get things straight, Jan.’

  Margaret was so long in the shower she had Jan banging on the door demanding entry. In truth, she felt that no amount of washing would make her feel clean, so she stood beneath the glorious spray, soaping her body again and again while she emptied shampoo willy-nilly on her hair. When she had smothered herself in talcum and cologne, slipped into a tangerine sleeveless dress, and combed her damp hair into place, she breathed a blissful sigh. Now she was Margaret Ward again, not a scruffy vagabond called Maggie.

  They hardly spoke a word during the meal. Craig left them to eat while he worked in his office, and they were both so hungry it was time-wasting to indulge in chat. It had been a sharp surprise to both of them to see the other in a normal state again. Margaret had regained her classic quality and, with it, the suggestion of starched white coats and clinical assessment of emotions. Jan was sorry to see the going of ‘tipsy Maggie’.

  His own appearance caused a different reaction in the girl. Newly-shaved and in a clean shirt and shorts borrowed from Craig he no longer evoked a fond, maternal concern in her breast, nor could what she felt be described as ‘nursy’. Covertly her eyes travelled from his hair, darkened to chestnut by the shower, to his freckled face which, now the thick stubble had gone, seemed stronger and more full of character than before. In Cape Town she had seen him either angry or carelessly flirtatious. The events of the past few days had etched themselves on his features, showing more forcefulness than she remembered – or had she not looked below the surface until now? In the aircraft and on the night of his delirium she had seen enough of his body as she tended him, yet now, the sight of his brown throat through the open neck of his shirt and his muscular arms covered with fine golden hairs brought on an oddly breathless feeling. He lifted his eyes and caught her studying him which made her colour rise. Heavens! she thought. Never will I touch alcohol again. It obviously slackens my morals.