Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  Anna laughed scornfully. ‘Impossible!’

  But it was not. Bizarre, perhaps — Mostyn had never been an advocate of black South Africa — but not impossible.

  The Commissioner’s jaws worked again on his moustache. ‘I find that, in certain matters, our leaders can be surprisingly pragmatic. Which is praiseworthy, of course.’

  ‘If you know Pieter Wolmarans, you also know that there is no way he will agree to give up his land.’

  ‘Of course not. Given the choice.’

  Anna stared. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If Mr Harcourt were approached, he would be in a position to name his price.’

  Anna stared. If his price were Oudekraal …

  Bloody hell.

  The Commissioner gave her a diplomat’s smile, carefully crafted. ‘I have been monopolising you too long. I had better talk to some of my other guests.’

  And was gone, leaving Anna to her thoughts. Which troubled her, powerfully.

  At the end of the reception, the Commissioner found her again.

  ‘I enjoyed our chat,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps we can repeat it some time.’

  ‘With my successor, perhaps. I am being recalled.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it.’

  He shrugged. ‘The new South Africa …’

  The phrase sounded distinctly less enthusiastic than before. ‘I understand you have already met my replacement.’

  She knew at once, her veins tightening, but would acknowledge nothing.

  ‘Adam Shongwe has an interesting background —’

  ‘Is he here tonight?’

  Her eyes wanted to hunt the room. With difficulty she restrained them. With these diplomats, you could never be sure how much they knew.

  He said, ‘He does not arrive until tomorrow.’

  She gave him her most disciplined smile. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’

  He turned away. Paused.

  ‘Incidentally —’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know that Mr Harcourt is in South Africa at the moment?’

  Unsure when the reception had been scheduled to end, Anna had booked into a hotel for the night. Now, as a taxi carried her swiftly through the silent streets, she thought about what she had been told.

  The news about Adam Shongwe had startled her, awakening all the memories, but it was a different world now for both of them; there was no reason to suppose his arrival in Australia would affect her in any way.

  Perhaps, because of her commitment to Oudekraal, she might need to be in touch with his office from time to time, but he was likely to have far more pressing issues on his plate than the affairs of one small and relatively insignificant wine farm. It was probable that they would have nothing to do with each other at all.

  What the Commissioner had told her about Mostyn was far more important. She had thought she had Mostyn licked, that by taking over the Oudekraal loans she had put him out of contention. Now she was less sure. He had been in the business for years longer than she had, had forgotten more tricks than she would ever know.

  She had taken him to the cleaners over the divorce; it was entirely in character for him to want to get his own back. She had told him herself how much Oudekraal meant to her; by grabbing it from under her nose, he would revenge himself on both Pieter Wolmarans and herself and increase his portfolio of vineyard investments at the same time.

  That’s why he’s in South Africa, she thought. I can smell it a mile off. I only wish I knew how he was planning to go about it, that’s all.

  She had the uneasy feeling that, by the time she found out, it might be too late.

  Mostyn had phoned Myburgh in Stellenbosch. The fool had been scared stiff because he had failed to talk Wolmarans into selling Oudekraal. Mostyn had never believed that the direct approach had much chance of success. No one knew better than he what a stubborn bastard Wolmarans was. It had been worth a try — the man was older now, after all, and perhaps more amenable — but he had been neither surprised nor discouraged when it had failed. Even the attempt to buy up the Oudekraal loans had been little more than a ploy. He had not expected Anna to leap in, the way she had, but it certainly hadn’t troubled him. On the contrary; it had left her with that much less cash to play with. No, Mostyn remained confident; there were more ways than one to skin a cat, and he had come up with a good one.

  Not that he was about to tell Myburgh that. Instead, he had brushed aside the broker’s apologies, contemptuously, and spelt out what he wanted him to do.

  ‘And try not to fuck up this time …’

  Never let people forget who’s boss; it was one of his favourite maxims.

  Fawning, eager to please, Myburgh had come back to him the same day. The following evening Mostyn had cut short a meeting in Perth to board South African Airways flight 281 to Johannesburg.

  There was an official car waiting when he touched down at Jan Smuts airport. An hour later, he was in Pretoria.

  He stood on the balcony that ran along the front of the Union Building, looking southwards across the sprawl of the city to the hills on the far side. On the skyline an obelisk stuck up like a square tooth.

  ‘The Voortrekker Monument.’ The Minister’s smile did not quite conceal his hatred. ‘Commemorating what the Boers call their great trek into Africa. One day we shall dynamite it, but not yet. The time is not right.’

  Nor would it be until the State President was gone, but Mandela was old and the day of vengeance could be tomorrow. It was one of many reasons why Mostyn had steered clear of putting money into South Africa. The reason he was here now was not because he had changed his ideas about black Africa but because his nose could smell offal in the wind. He had begun with his sights set on Oudekraal, but things had gone far beyond that. Why be content with a solitary carcass when the whole herd was up for grabs? If he could get the Minister to see things his way, the pickings would be enormous.

  Although it was still good to know that Oudekraal would be part of the deal. Better than good; delightful. He gloated, imagining Anna’s face when she heard the news. I said I’d fix her if she messed with me. Pull this off, and she’ll know I damn well meant it.

  The thought was as warming as a log fire in winter. Smiling cheerfully, he followed the Minister into the air-conditioned office and got down to business.

  Chris Tembe was Minister for Agricultural Industries in the South African government. The word was that he was always in the market for deals, provided they were the right sort of deal, and Mostyn had flown to South Africa especially to meet him.

  ‘No one else,’ he had instructed Myburgh. ‘Only Tembe. Got it?’

  Myburgh had warned that it might be impossible; the Minister had the reputation of being vehemently anti-white. Mostyn had refused to listen to his anxious bleating; in business there was always a gulf between public rhetoric and private pragmatism. Never mind the race nonsense; Tembe knew which side his bread was buttered, and Mostyn was there to spread it for him. Nothing else mattered.

  ‘What brings you to Azania, Mr Harcourt?’

  South Africa was still its official name, but more and more hardliners were calling it Azania. By using the name now, Tembe was sending his visitor a message and trying to confuse him at the same time, but Mostyn had been in this situation a hundred times and was less easily confused than the Minister thought.

  ‘Wealth,’ he said, ‘and its redistribution.’

  One of the main tenets of the government’s policy was the redistribution of the nation’s wealth from white hands into deserving black ones. Some of which were more deserving than others, of course.

  Tembe waited, dark eyes watchful.

  ‘Taxation is one method. Nationalisation and forced takeover of assets is another. Mugging is a third —’

  Tembe interrupted at once. ‘Mugging is not government policy.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  It was happening on an ever-increasing scale, and they both knew it. Kne
w, too, that the government was doing nothing to stop it.

  ‘The trouble with all these methods is they tend to frighten away the foreign investors that Azania’ — try that one for size, he thought, ‘— needs so desperately.’

  ‘We are aware of all this.’ The Minister’s tone asked why Mostyn was wasting his time. ‘What, specifically, are your proposals?’

  Their eyes met. ‘Specifically, to suggest another method that will be equally effective, as well as more acceptable to overseas opinion.’

  ‘Why should we care about overseas opinion?’

  What a jerk. ‘Because that is where your investment capital comes from.’ And left it for him to pick up or not, as he chose.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have a proposal relating to the South African wine industry. I think you’ll like it.’

  Tracy buzzed Anna. She said, ‘Mr Wolmarans on the phone from South Africa.’

  Frowning, Anna picked up the handset. ‘What is it, Pieter?’

  He was upset, barely coherent. He had received a visit, he told her. A deputation from the local branch of the African National Congress.

  ‘They intend to take over Oudekraal.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘They say they will be buying it, but it’s really confiscation.’

  ‘How much are they offering?’

  ‘A million rand. The house alone is worth twice as much —’

  ‘Extortion?’

  ‘Certainly. But it’s not just a local man trying to make a name for himself. They had a piece of paper from the Ministry. This is official.’

  ‘What did the paper say?’

  ‘Some nonsense about people without natural heirs having their assets stolen by the state: reallocation, they called it. Something about the need to consolidate the industry.’

  ‘Do you have any choice in the matter?’

  ‘Certainly. The way it looks, I can sell Oudekraal or have it confiscated.’

  ‘Are you telling me it’s government policy?’

  ‘There has been talk of a shake-up in the industry, more government control, that sort of thing. Nothing as extreme as this. Whether it’s official policy I have no idea.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I kicked them off my land, double damn quick, but I doubt I’ve seen the last of them.’

  ‘Has anyone else received the same letter?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

  ‘What can I do from here?’

  ‘The papers say your ex-husband has been holding talks in Pretoria.’ She heard his hesitation. ‘I wondered if he might be behind it.’

  A surge of blood warmed her temples. ‘I have no idea, but I’ll certainly find out. I’ll make some enquiries and come back to you.’

  She cradled the phone and sat at her desk, thinking furiously. Mostyn’s first move had been to try and grab the loans. She had blocked that. Now this. He had to be behind it; it had his fingerprints all over it.

  She got Tracy to make some enquiries; found, sure enough, that Mostyn was still out of the country.

  ‘I couldn’t get them to tell me where he was.’

  ‘I know that already.’

  She made a phone call, got the appointment she wanted. She cancelled the rest of the day’s meetings — this is getting to be a habit — and flew to Canberra.

  The new High Commissioner’s aura of physical power had not diminished since she had seen him last. The smile that glimmered briefly in the depths of his black eyes showed he had not forgotten her, either.

  ‘Mrs Harcourt. An unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?’

  His manner was smooth and polished, where in the old days he had been as harsh as lye. Perhaps the need for harshness has passed, she thought. I hope he hasn’t lost the knack; it’s his harshness I shall be needing, now.

  She explained. ‘I know redistribution of wealth is official government policy, but —’

  ‘The first I’ve heard of anything like this.’ He frowned. ‘I shall make a few phone calls. Come back at twelve. We shall have some lunch, and I shall tell you what I’ve found out.’

  They ate in the private dining room at the High Commission. Silver service and all the trimmings.

  ‘A far cry from Guguletu,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t recall we had time to eat on that occasion.’ Anna looked at the menu card with the South African crest. ‘Spyskaart. You still use Afrikaans, then.’

  ‘For the present.’

  ‘What do you have to tell me?’

  ‘I’m waiting for a phone call. It is four o’clock in the morning in South Africa. Things take a little longer.’

  While they waited they ate, chatting about this and that.

  ‘I hear you had thought about going back into politics,’ Shongwe said.

  Had thought … Anna was startled; the Premier’s offer had been confidential, after all, as her refusal had been.

  ‘You are remarkably well informed.’

  ‘May I ask why you turned it down?’

  ‘All that aggravation … For what?’

  ‘Status. Money. Power.’

  ‘They mean nothing.’

  ‘They would to most people.’

  ‘Power you can use, perhaps. But for its own sake? Not to me.’

  ‘And that is important? That what you do should be worthwhile?’

  ‘Of course. I want more from life than money.’

  ‘Is that why you involve yourself so much in social issues?’

  It seemed incredible that he should have taken the trouble to find out these things.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  A waiter topped up her glass. She checked the label.

  ‘Not Oudekraal,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Do you want me to see if we have some?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  A far cry from Guguletu, indeed, yet the essentials were the same; still the magnetism, the potent aura of physical power.

  She said, ‘You haven’t changed.’

  ‘I’m disappointed you think so.’ He opened his jacket. ‘Huntsman of Saville Row. I don’t remember wearing anything like this in the old days.’

  He had worn a T-shirt, the muscled arms emerging smoothly from the tight sleeves.

  ‘I meant you, not your suit.’

  ‘Clothing maketh man.’

  ‘Not clothing. Manners.’

  A dark smile on the dark face. ‘Mine have always been bad. As you no doubt remember.’

  ‘You had your moments.’

  In one respect he was certainly different. In those days he would not have traded aphorisms with her. Clearly the diplomat had emerged from the chrysalis of the freedom fighter, yet Anna sensed that underneath was the same man she had known fifteen years before.

  Another image: face contorted, hair flying, riding, riding in the cry-filled night. Seeking escape, that dark and unattainable goal.

  The wineglass rang as she replaced it on the table.

  A uniformed flunky came and whispered in the High Commissioner’s ear. Shongwe nodded, looked at Anna.

  ‘Pretoria,’ he said.

  He walked to the end of the room and took the phone. Anna tried to eavesdrop, but could distinguish no words in the soft rumble of his voice.

  At last he returned to his place and sat down. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘The Minister has issued a directive.’

  ‘Minister?’

  ‘Tembe. In charge of agriculture.’ He looked at her. ‘It seems your ex-husband went to see him.’

  I knew it.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There is a feeling that South Africa needs an expert to control the wine industry.’

  ‘A Commissar?’

  A smile tweaked the dark lips. ‘If you like. Mr Harcourt’s name has been mentioned. Still responsible to a minister, of course, but with a lot of power behind the scenes.’ Adam frowned. ‘That would have been enough for most men but not, apparently, for him.’

  ‘
What’s he done?’ Anna wondered, hoping for the worst.

  ‘It seems he’s jumped the gun. My information is that he has suggested forming a company to take over properties where there was no member of the immediate family to inherit.’

  ‘Theft.’

  ‘Redistribution of wealth,’ he corrected her. ‘Which, as you said, is government policy. With no one any the worse.’

  ‘I would be willing to debate that,’ she said. ‘You say they’re talking of forming a company. Who are the shareholders?’

  ‘My informant did not know. Until it actually happens, you understand, there is nothing on file. But the wine industry is highly technical, so at least one would need access to the necessary expertise.’

  ‘Mostyn has plenty of that,’ she said bitterly. ‘What else would they need?’

  ‘Someone to represent the interests of those to whom the wealth is to be redistributed.’

  ‘Tembe?’

  ‘That is a most improper suggestion.’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Improper, none the less.’ He stood. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

  She put out her hand, letting it rest for the tiniest fraction of a second on the silk-smooth African skin. ‘Do you really think you can do anything?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Then I shall have to do something myself. Oudekraal owes me a lot of money. The agreement says I can convert the loan into shares whenever I want. Once the business is in my name, they won’t be able to touch it.’

  He looked dubious. ‘Let me throw that at the legal boys. See what they think.’

  They went to his office, where Shongwe spoke briefly on the phone. When he put down the receiver, his expression was bleak. ‘They say you can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a non-resident. Reserve Bank approval would be necessary. You would be most unlikely to get it, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Then I reclaim my loan —’

  ‘You should not have been permitted to make the loan in the first place. An oversight, perhaps, but the fact remains that it was illegal. They say you have no claim against the company at all.’