by Jan Andersen
“It does,” she agreed ruefully. “I don’t think I’ve quite grasped how enormous yet. All I can offer is a fair head for figures, nearly three years’ secretarial work and six months’ theory of fruit farming in South Africa.”
He looked surprised. “That sounds like a considerable start to me. Of course, there is Roger Louw...” he paused as if considering the name. “There’s no absolute necessity for you to stay at Green Bays if you have a career to follow in England, or ... a young man.”
She smiled. “My job was not important, and there was no special young man.”
“Then I take it you intend to stay?” he said briskly. She nodded. “And I shall try to persuade my mother to come out. She loves country life and she’s been working too hard lately. But,” she tried to find the right words to probe a delicate subject, “I found it strange, Mr. Rens, that my father didn’t mention her in his last letter to me, nor in his will. And it wasn’t as though there was any real bitterness between them.”
Mr. Rens frowned. “Yes, I did wonder at that myself. But your father did say, once, something like ‘between my daughter and my brother my wife should be well taken care of.’ Perhaps he guessed, Miss Jamieson, that you had inherited some of his independent spirit.” So there was to be no reunion of her parents, even on paper. In a way this saddened her more than anything else. She had dreamed of seeing them as a family once more. But it was strange that the image of her father that Mr. Rens saw was no different from her mother’s. Could he have changed so much in eight years? Probably she would never really know. She saw that Mr. Rens was waiting for her to gather her thoughts and said quickly, “So you feel as my father did that Roger Louw is a fine manager?”
“He knows his job, Miss Jamieson.”
She sensed some withdrawal in his voice and could not resist saying, “But you don’t like him very much?”
“I don’t know him,” he came back softly, but in a tone that brooked no more mention of the subject. “Now,” he went on briskly, “there are a few papers for you to sign, then I think we could pack up for the day. I promised my wife I would bring you home in time for a swim.”
Tracy spent a pleasant, and what she learned later was a typically South African, evening. The Rens family lived above the city in a long, very modern bungalow, and to have a small swimming pool in the garden was nothing unusual. Tracy was lent a costume and bathed with the eighteen-year-old son and twenty-year-old daughter who questioned her continually about England. To them London appeared to be rather like a Mecca, and when she tried to tell them how lucky they were living in a beautiful country like South Africa, they half agreed, but nevertheless obviously still imagined London was even better.
The meal Mrs. Rens provided was eaten out of doors, beautiful salads and cold meats, spit roast chicken, a creamy dessert and mountains of fruit and cheese. Afterwards they drove round the city, pointing out the places of interest, ending up at the Union Building, the seat of the Government, which dominated the city standing high on the slopes of Meintjes Kop, with terraces of floodlight flowers sweeping down to the city. The lights below were like a myriad of stars and without doubt the Rens were desperately proud of their elegant city and waited anxiously for Tracy’s approval.
“It’s quite beautiful,” she said sincerely, and they smiled happily.
Although the evening was all happy there was a vein of sadness in her. It was a long time since she had been in a family—and the Rens were a family in the truest, friendliest way—and she would never have quite that again, until she started her own.
She slept like a log, and they all bade her goodbye in the morning, wrenching promises from her that she would visit them again. When Mr. Rens drove to his office there was still nearly an hour before her train, and though he offered a comfortable chair to wait, she excused herself by saying she had a little shopping to do.
She found a big store and bought the few items she needed, then made her way slowly to the station. She was in a dream as she walked into the shade and cannoned into someone before she could stop herself.
She was just mumbling her apologies when she realised he was making no move to walk on, but gazing at her as if he recognised her.
“I’m sorry,” she said again and tried to brush past him.
“Please...” he halted her. “You are Miss Tracy Jamieson, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am, but...”
“ ... You don’t know me. Of course you don’t.” He held out his hand. “I’m Alex Lawson and my father is—or rather was—a neighbour of your father’s. I’m terribly sorry to hear about his death, it must have been an awful shock for you.”
She nodded. “But how did you know what I looked like and where to find me?”
“I knew what you looked like because Mr. Rens told me to pick out the prettiest girl at Pretoria Station! I must say I didn’t expect her to bump into me like that.”
She blushed. “You know Mr. Rens, then?”
“Well, I had to see his partner and he happened to be there. When he heard I was driving up to White River today he sent me chasing after you to give you a lift.”
“But I couldn’t take you out of your way.”
“I told you we’re neighbours, and to be quite honest I’d love some company. I’ve done this trip so often that it gets boring when you’re alone. Please come, Miss Jamieson.”
Of course, she could not refuse after that, so he took her overnight bag and led the way back to the car park. It was then that his face fell. “Oh, I never thought, I’m afraid it’s not a conventional car, you might be uncomfortable.”
He was opening the door of some kind of jeep, so she said quickly, “Oh, what fun! I should be able to see much more from this than an ordinary car.’ His face cleared. “My sister would take a fit; she’d be afraid I’d left some animals hairs around.”
Uncertain quite what he meant, Tracy settled in the not uncomfortable bucket seat with the cooling breeze blowing through the wide-open windows. For the first time she really examined her companion. He was wiry and darkly tanned with thick, almost wheat-coloured hair. He had a cheerful, open expression and a manner that was easy and relaxed, yet held just a hint of shyness.
When they were driving out of the city on the clear road Tracy asked, “Are you a farmer too?”
He laughed. “No, but I started off on the farm, until I realised it was mainly the animals that interested me. And Father was more interested in fruit than animals. So we agreed to part. Now I’m a ranger at one of the National Game Parks.”
Her eyes widened in interest. “But how wonderful! Do you know, when I was a child living here I longed to visit the Kruger Park, but my mother was always rather frightened of the animals and somehow, with all the moving about we used to do, I never made it. I’ve only seen films, and that’s so different from the real thing.”
“Then we’ll have to remedy that,” he looked down at her and grinned. “From Green Bays it would be quite a short trip for you.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful ... something to look forward to. Tell me what a ranger does, Mr. Lawson.”
“Alex, please, we’re very informal up here ... what a ranger does? That’s a surprisingly large question. If you ask me what a ranger doesn’t do, it would be more to the point. But to put it broadly I have charge of a particular section of the Reserve, and I’m much more concerned with the animals than the administration. But like all modern jobs there’s more and more paper work.”
“What variety of animals do you see?”
“Too many to count,” he told her, “but there are probably about fifty that are seen commonly. We all have our favourites ... but mine still remains the giraffe. So awkward and yet so graceful. And she has the largest, gentlest, saddest eyes of any animals I know.”
“And is there any animal you really fear?” Tracy asked, wanting him to go on talking about the job he so obviously loved.
He thought deeply about the question as they drove along broad flat road o
f the Highveld, with its endless grazing fields and strips of maize waving softly in the hot breeze. Occasionally they would flash past a group of Bantus squatting round a pyramid of water melons which the children tried to sell by chasing the car down the road, calling, laughing and waving, their teeth large and white against the happy black faces. Tracy noticed that Alex always waved cheerfully back.
“There’s no particular animal I fear,” he said at last, “but there are many that I respect And no one but a fool is not afraid of a wounded or an angry animal—particularly an elephant. There was a case not long ago of a foolish tourist teasing an elephant who in some pain—from the comparative safety of his car—simply because he wanted to get some good cine film. He saw the elephant begin to charge and made a swift getaway. But the next chap who came along, quite innocently, was not so lucky. He was facing the same elephant, who took one look at a much hated man in a machine and charged again. Of course the driver couldn’t reverse quickly enough. The tusks went right through the windscreen and up through the roof. When he was tired of shaking the car about the elephant put a large paw on the bonnet, crushed it, and withdrew his tusks!”
“And the driver?” Tracy said, aghast.
“Badly bruised and shaken. Fortunately the tusks missed him by an inch or so. I had to hunt down that elephant and shoot him, something I loathe doing unnecessarily.”
“I seem to remember reading,” Tracy said, “that there are very strict rules in the Parks.”
He grinned. “There are indeed. And we’re pretty tough on those who abuse them. Shall I tell you about one instance—or am I boring you? I warn you, you’ve got me on my favourite topic!”
“Oh no!” she cried, “you’re not boring me. You’re just making me want to drive up to the Park tomorrow.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Well, one of the guides was driving a couple of tourists through the Park when he saw the car some distance ahead stop. Now, that usually means they’ve seen something, so the trick is to drive up behind them and horn in on the act. It was in fact a hyena, one of the animal kingdom’s greatest scavengers. They’re quite fearless of humans and wait hopefully by the side of the road. This one was doing just that. The chap in the front car had a bun, and instead of throwing it—although that alone is strictly forbidden—he held it out. The hyena took it all right, but since his teeth are even stronger than a lion’s he casually took the man’s hand as well...”
“Oh, no!” Tracy gasped.
“Oh yes. Well, the chap was rushed to hospital and survived, minus a hand. But when he was well he was summonsed for breaking one of the most important rules, fined heavily and banned for life from the Park.”
“But that seems terribly unfair,” Tracy protested. “I understand that he broke the rules, but he did pay for it, didn’t he?”
“That’s what a lot of people say,” Alex replied, “but the Park is for the safety of the animals, not just for the pleasures of the tourists. If one makes an example of someone, then you hope it will stop others doing the same things. In fact, on the whole, it does. It’s a kind of method of being cruel to be kind.”
“I think I see,” Tracy said slowly, “but oh, dear, that poor man.”
“Well, there are many stories to be told about accidents in the Park, mostly through stupidity, and when you’ve seen it for yourself, then I’ll tell you why they happen.” He swung suddenly off the main road, adding, “I think it’s time we had lunch and stretched our legs.”
She had hardly noticed how fast they had been travelling, or how quickly the time had flown. The country had begun to change too. In the distance, veiled in blue, misty haze, was the jagged range of the Drakensburg mountains, which, Alex told her, marked the descent to the Lowveld.
The interior of the long, low Bambi Motel was quiet and blissfully cool. It was, she learned, a favourite stopping place for motorists with its comfortable bungalows and a dining room renowned for good food.
After a wash and a long iced drink of fresh orange
Tracy felt refreshed. She was enjoying every instant of the trip, marvelling at the scenery that had somehow slipped too quickly away in the train, to remain so sharply etched in her memory.
At lunch, a delicious meal of cold meats and many exotic salads, Alex did not talk much, as though he were more uneasy in an atmosphere like this than in the truck, talking about his beloved animals.
Just when coffee was served he said abruptly, “Are you going to run the farm, Green Bays, yourself, Tracy?”
She was puzzled at his tone. “Well, yes, at least under Roger Louw’s supervision. My father put great trust in him, so I must too.”
“Farmers are not always good judges of people, my father or your father. Both were farmers.”
Very steadily she said, “I’m alone here and I must make some judgments for myself. But I must also listen to my father. You seem to be suggesting that I should take your advice rather than his. Don’t you think he would have known what was best for his own farm?”
“Roger Louw’s a good man with fruit trees,” he replied obliquely.
“Well, then,” she answered, exasperated, “isn’t that the only important thing?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, twisting his coffee cup round and round on its saucer. “Ask me that question in a year’s time and I’ll be able to give you the answer.”
CHAPTER THREE
ALEX dropped her at the station to pick up her car, then led the way back towards Green Bays where he bade her goodbye and drove on the extra few miles to his father’s farm.
It was about five when she reached the house, and to her surprise Roger was on the terrace waiting for her. He even greeted her with the suggestion of a smile. “I told Noni that being English you would probably like tea as soon as you arrived. Was I right?”
“Yes ... but how did you know I was going to arrive?”
He turned and pointed over the slope of the orchards. “Beyond that is the road, and any car coming along there kicks up a cloud of dust that we can see for miles. So don’t ever think you can creep into Green Bays unnoticed—unless you’re prepared to walk. Ah, here’s Noni with the tea. Noni, an extra cup, please. I think I’ll join Miss Jamieson.”
Tracy could barely hide her surprise at his abrupt change of front. Antagonism had been replaced by cautious friendliness. He waited, almost certainly wanting her to say something.
She smiled at him. “Then I’ll have to be careful—or find a back way in! But thank you for thinking of the tea. Driving in this country makes you very thirsty.” He glanced down at his watch. “That’s strange, the train must have been very late...”
“But I didn’t come by train. A man called Alex Lawson drove me all the way.”
“Lawson?" He spat out the name. “How on earth did you come to meet him?”
“Why, through the solicitor, I suppose. Mr. Rens knew he was driving back to White River and suggested he should give me a lift.”
“Did he stop to make a phone call on the way back?”
She stared at him, worried by the suppressed anger in his voice. Even if two neighbours did not get on, she did not see that it was necessary for her to become involved.
“I don’t know,” she said coolly. “If he did then I didn’t see him. But would you mind explaining what all this is about?”
He paced angrily up and down, then came to an abrupt halt in front of her. “I was about to tell you that a call came for you this afternoon inviting you to dine next door.”
“At the Lawsons’?”
He nodded.
“And you think that Alex Lawson phoned home during, say, the lunch-time stop and suggested that his family invite me to dinner. What a preposterous idea! If he did want me invited to dinner, then surely he just waits until he gets home now? In any case,” she added bluntly, “I see no reason why you should be upset about it.”
He sat down, and she noticed that he had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he sa
id, “it’s a habit of mine, going off at a tangent without really explaining myself. The story goes back four years when this farm was first up for sale. Your father told me that old Lawson, Alex’s father, had always wanted this place to extend his own farm, and must have thought the property was in the bag, because when your father bought it he accused him of pulling a fast one. Ever since then he has harboured a mild resentment against your father. But he did approach him only a few months ago and ask, if Green Bays did ever come up for sale again, if he could have first refusal. I imagine, since the farm has not come up for sale, he thinks you might not have such strong feelings about the place as your father.”
“I see ... or at least I think I do,” she said thoughtfully, “but where does Alex fit into this?”
“Only that he’s Lawson’s son and they must have talked this over. He wouldn’t waste a chance meeting with you.”
What Roger said sounded reasonable enough, yet it did not completely explain the younger man’s mutual distrust. After all, Roger was only manager of Green Bays, he had only been here for three months.
She poured out a second cup of tea and sampled one of Noni’s delicious-looking sponge cakes. “What’s Mr. Lawson senior like?” she asked.
“In some ways he’s a typical farmer. In others he’s much more a man of the world. But he’s shrewd, tough and very, very determined.”
“Oh,” Tracy said in a small voice. “I don’t like the sound of him. When did you say I’ve been invited to dinner?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight? Oh, heavens! Well, I can refuse, can’t I?”