Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Gayle’s eyes twinkled approvingly.

  Thea was warming to the subject. ‘Doubting myself might take a bit of time but I’ve got friends and family I can turn to for help. As for fear, if I face it head on . . . Well, things are seldom as bad as you think they’re going to be.’ She broke off, looked pensive, then laughed. ‘My God! I feel better already.’

  ‘There you go. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that but, thanks to you, my freeze-frame, as you put it, feels a little more animated.’

  ‘Hang in there.’

  ‘There’s another possibility, though. One emotion you left out.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘What if all I feel is relief?’

  Gayle threw back her head and gave a throaty cackle. ‘Wouldn’t that be something?’ She watched Thea’s face for a moment before asking, ‘May I offer a little well-meant advice?’

  ‘Do I want to hear it?’

  ‘Probably not, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’ve only spoken to your husband once but, darling, I know a great deal about men. He’s a selfish prick. The ranger though, that’s a different story. He’s in love with you.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘I don’t believe I’m seeing this. Now you just stop that. I didn’t think young women blushed any more.’

  Thea turned away. She was smiling.

  ‘I told you earlier that I like you. I meant it,’ Gayle said softly. ‘Liking other people is a bit unusual for me. Not to dwell on the subject, the bald truth is I’m usually a bitch. No, no,’ she added dryly when Thea made no comment, ‘you can’t convince me otherwise, don’t waste your breath. Just ask Matt. Maybe I see in you the young woman I might have been.’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Whatever, if you return to London I’d like to think you’d come and see us. Will you?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  The door of the bungalow opened as if on cue. Gayle clapped her hands. ‘Oh goodie, here’s Matt with a little sustenance. Thank you, lover. Mmmm, looks good. Afraid we’re making a bit of a mess of your scotch, Mattie.’

  ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘We already have.’ Gayle noticed that Thea was eyeing the food and gave Matt a quick thumbs-up. ‘We’ll join you all for coffee. Is that okay with you, Thea?’

  Matt could see that she was in better shape than she had been at the bar.

  ‘Maybe not.’ Thea smiled. ‘It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘Whatever you feel like.’ Gayle made a shooing motion to Matt with her hand. ‘See you later, lover. We’re in the middle of girl-talk.’

  Back in the dining room, responding to an unspoken question in Sean’s eyes, Matt was able to tell him that Thea, having been a rare recipient of Gayle’s softer side, was coming along nicely. ‘She’ll probably head straight to bed after she’s eaten.’

  ‘Is she still upset?’

  ‘Not that I could see. When Gayle wants to, she has an extraordinary talent for helping people. Despite all the prima donna bullshit, underneath she’s a very caring person. And a great listener. Thea looked calmer, almost relaxed. At a guess I’d say Gayle has got her talking. It’s the best thing possible.’

  Sean nodded. ‘Your Miss Gaynor is quite a lady.’

  ‘Yes she is,’ Matt agreed soberly. ‘When she wants to be, which isn’t very often.’

  Sean smiled. ‘Often enough, though.’

  ‘Just.’ Matt laughed. ‘She’s hell on wheels most of the time but how do you explain who you love?’ How indeed?

  Hewn from a single massive tree, the dining room table at Logans Island Lodge was ten metres long and over a metre wide. Its silky smooth top, one hundred and fifty millimetres thick, a glowing rich red colour with knots and grain providing a contour-like darker pattern. Many a wealthy guest tried, unsuccessfully, to buy it. The table had been constructed in situ since its central supporting legs were set in steel pipe plinths bolted to the floor. Seating thirty with ease on rustic but solid matching chairs, fourteen along each side and one at either end, settings were arranged so that everyone mingled at mealtimes, encouraging an almost family atmosphere. Sean and Matt sat together at one end, flanked by James and Mal, both Gayle Gaynor devotees. Matt was only too happy to answer their questions. It made a nice change for Sean not to be the one on the often repetitive receiving end. He only half-listened to Matt. His heart and mind were with Thea.

  Felicity and Philip took places next to each other and found themselves having a conversation about malaria tablets until Philip, with mock sincerity, said, ‘Gosh, this is serious stuff.’

  Felicity grinned. ‘Just goes to show how mundane we writers can be.’

  ‘And why not?’ Philip demanded. ‘Why should the great unwashed be the only ones?’

  She wagged a finger at him. ‘Politically incorrect.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘You said it! I haven’t heard a man thumb his nose at current-day convention in ages.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re into SNAGs?’

  ‘Would you care for a politically correct response or the truth?’

  ‘Truth.’

  Felicity considered her answer, decided to hell with it, and came straight out with, ‘Super new-age guys bore the tits off me.’

  Philip appreciated her humour. Felicity didn’t mince words and he liked that.

  ‘You know what worries me?’ she said, eyes alight with mischief.

  ‘What?’

  Felicity was a great one for making provocative statements whether they reflected true thoughts or not. Many had taken her words at face value, not noticing the twinkle in her eye or the tongue firmly wedged into a cheek. Philip Meyer, also one not afraid to ridicule the establishment, was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ Felicity said, ‘everyone was happy. Why? Because life was lived the way it had evolved. I’m a great believer in nature knowing best and evolution being a natural phenomenon. Women knew their place was in the home, having babies, cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing and all those nauseating little duties that made domestic drudgery such a desirable ambition. Children loved their mothers, respected their fathers and obeyed the seen-but-not-heard rule. Depending on their sex, they played dolls or cowboys and Indians and it never once crossed their healthy little minds to dabble in drugs. Why? No television. Movies were all about good and its monotonous triumph over evil. Sex was how New Zealanders said six. Violence meant Punch and Judy or Tom trying to pulverise Jerry. He usually failed which used to frustrate the hell out of me. As for the new-age guy, forget him. Men went forth and won bread, breaking off occasionally to die for their country. Life and death were so orderly. Oh sure, there was a bit of inequality but nobody complained. Everybody knew their roles. There was no confusion back then, no sir. Confusion is a premise of the modern world. Why? Because some bloody head case interfered. Some moronic human being who didn’t believe that nature knew best decided man-made change had to be superior. Before we knew it, a new cause-conscious subspecies crawled out of the woodwork. Words like sexist, racist and politically correct dropped from the lips of its devotees. Artificial laws replaced the tried and true evolutionary process. Am I boring you?’

  Philip smothered a smile. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good. Because at this stage I’m unstoppable.’ She grinned. ‘Pass the salt, will you?’

  Philip did.

  Twisting the grinding mill vigorously over her food, Felicity continued. ‘Education institutions were infected first. The subspecies began tampering with the minds of children, telling them what to believe. But that wasn’t enough for them, was it? No sir. They wanted the world. Soon they spread into industry, business, the arts, media. You ready for this? Here comes the insidious bit.’ She realised suddenly that her food was smothered with salt and put the grinder down. ‘Somehow, and I don’t know how they did it, they’ve made us too scared to object to each new rule in case we’re seen as being politically incorrect. I detest that description. What
does it mean? And the really scary bit is this. They breed like rabbits. There’s more of them every bloody day. Now doesn’t that depress you?’

  Philip’s eyes showed appreciation and amusement. ‘May I make an observation?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re full of shit,’ he said deadpan.

  Felicity laughed delightedly. ‘Most certainly. Who isn’t?’

  ‘How much of that do you believe?’

  ‘All of it. None of it. Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Mood. Who’s listening. I can really crank it up if I want to get up someone’s nose.’

  ‘I’d like to hear that.’

  Dan, sitting opposite, found himself thinking that the attractive poet could be just what Philip needed.

  Johan Riekert and Walter Schmidt had discovered common ground with a discussion about steam trains. Erica Schmidt thought the topic excessively boring, tried chatting to Henneke but found the South African woman’s near monosyllabic responses equally trying. She was forced to concentrate on Caitlin explaining to Jutta the process of becoming a game ranger.

  Henneke, just for a change, had not retreated into her head. She was absorbing the subtle flirtation between Philip and Felicity with growing interest. Just for once in her life, she longed to experience the same attraction for someone and have that interest reciprocated. The African pair, who were similarly absorbed with each other, she discounted. Born and bred in the old South Africa, Henneke was too steeped in her ways to allow that anything between blacks could possibly be of interest. Her attitude was not specifically racist, it was simply the result of too many years’ indoctrination by government and church alike.

  Chester and Kalila paid no attention to the conversations going on around them. In a curtain-raiser to the main event, anticipation stimulated both to the point where everything they said was fascinating, funny and meaningful. Their body language altered subtly so that Chester’s arm across the back of Kalila’s chair displayed a protective aspect while her coy looks became flirtatious. The message in both their eyes was crystal clear. Lowered voices already hinted at an intimacy between them. His smile held an indulgent quality. Had they thought about it, they’d have discovered that they were playing the game with textbook precision.

  Down at the camp site, Professor Kruger was well aware of Kalila’s defection, but because he didn’t actually wish to know what the girl thought she was up to, did not comment. He admitted to himself that since coming to Logans Island the study group was in the process of unravelling. That, as far as he was concerned, was a key reason for insisting that these field trips be conducted well away from other distractions. They’d go back to their bush camp in the morning.

  When Fletch mentioned popping up to the lodge for a drink, Eben flatly refused permission. ‘We’re behind in our work as it is. The last thing I need is for you lot to be babbelas in the morning.’ He would not budge even when promised that none of them would over-indulge and suffer a hangover.

  Fletch did consider sneaking off after the professor had retired. He rejected the idea. Odds of two out of ten didn’t make the risk of being caught worthwhile.

  Troy, devouring a canned mixture of baked beans, sausage and mushy peas, asked Angela if she really intended to drop out of the course. Megan said he’d come on too strong. Perhaps if he tried again at a slower pace?

  The question, because for a change Troy spoke with no innuendo other than polite interest, surprised Angela. Instead of the curt responses she’d handed out since he scared her on the bus, she replied seriously, ‘Yes I do. This kind of life is not for me. I might try modelling.’

  ‘Modelling?’ Troy was encouraged by her willingness to say more than a brief yes or no. But then he blew it. ‘You’ve certainly got the face and figure for it.’

  Megan tried to salvage the situation. ‘Or acting, Angela. You’ve got the looks for that too.’

  Angela shrugged. Troy’s reference to her figure had her wary.

  ‘Seems a pity to waste two years’ study,’ Josie said. ‘Can’t you use those units in something else?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll have to think about it,’ Angela answered evasively.

  ‘One of my dad’s clients is a film director,’ Troy put in helpfully. ‘I could try and arrange an audition for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her tone added, ‘But no thanks.’

  Troy dropped the subject but the others hadn’t finished with it. ‘Have you done any acting, Troy?’ Megan asked.

  ‘Me? I’d be hopeless.’

  ‘I have.’ Josie’s willingness to join in the conversation was unusual. ‘At school. I thoroughly enjoyed it.’

  ‘Ever thought of joining the drama society at Wits?’

  ‘I tried it. There’s nothing quite so dramatic as amateurs. I couldn’t take the theatrics.’

  Troy laughed.

  ‘How about you, Fletch? Have you done any acting?’ Megan persisted. She had no idea what was bothering Angela but Megan had a gut feel that Troy would actually be good medicine for the girl. She was trying to keep the conversation alive in the hope that Angela would participate and then, if he didn’t put his damned foot in it again, Troy might be able to get her talking.

  ‘Nah! I’m a sports freak.’

  ‘You sing well enough,’ Angela said.

  ‘Sounds like a cue. Go get your guitar, Megan.’

  Oh well, Megan thought, going to the bus for the instrument. I tried.

  Professor Kruger excused himself and headed for his tent. He could handle, just, the youthful discussions at the end of a day, ramblings that touched every imaginable topic barring the one he’d prefer to talk about – animal behaviour. But when they started to sing those God-awful camp fire songs, Eben, whose taste in music started and stopped with the national anthem, always made himself scarce. The students knew this. As much as they respected the professor’s knowledge and appreciated his intelligence, it was always a relief when he turned in and they could escape the almost constant feeling of being in a lecture hall.

  Troy winked at Angela and nodded towards the departing professor. The gesture was too personal for her. She turned her head away. But he was encouraged. If the conversation were kept general, well away from anything even remotely suggestive, Angela appeared perfectly willing to talk. If that was what it would take, then that’s what he’d do. Without being conscious of it Troy, for the first time ever, was gearing up to actually putting himself out to secure a girl’s attention. It was a novel experience, but to his surprise, it gave him a feeling of excitement. And it wasn’t carnal. He was suddenly glad that he hadn’t made a move on Caitlin. It was entirely possible, he realised, that Angela was the girl he’d been waiting for.

  EIGHT

  When Gayle returned to the dining room she looked every inch the movie queen. Only Matt knew how good she would be feeling about herself. There was a softness in her eyes and about her smile that not many saw, still less recognised for what it was. The real Gayle Gaynor had been let out for a brief run. On the surface she was the celebrity people expected, stopping several times to chat before reaching Matt’s end of the table. She leaned over Sean’s shoulder and said softly, ‘There’s a young lady in number six who needs tucking in.’

  When Sean nodded, Gayle added, ‘No pressure. She already knows how you feel about her. She’s not running away from it but now is not the time for further complications.’

  ‘Did she tell you?’ Sean was astonished that Thea would mention anything about this afternoon to Gayle.

  ‘Didn’t have to. It sticks out a mile.’

  Sean glanced around, embarrassed.

  Gayle smiled wickedly. ‘I’m talking about your feelings, you idiot.’

  His laugh was almost nervous. ‘I knew that. I . . .’

  He ducked his head, not sure how to go on. ‘Thanks,’ was all he mumbled.

  The actress patted his shoulders, leaned forward and spoke confidentially into one ear. ‘For the record, young
man, Thea did spill the beans. She needed to. And if you don’t mind my saying so, half her bloody luck. Cool it for a while. You’ll get your wish. Now, disappear.’

  Sean excused himself and left. Gayle took the vacated chair and helped herself to Sean’s coffee. Matt leaned across and asked, ‘How is the patient?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She was trying to handle too much at once.’

  Matt tucked an arm through Gayle’s and squeezed. ‘You’re one hell of an angel when you want to be.’

  Gayle kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t spread it around. Could ruin the image.’

  He looked at her fondly. ‘Just so long as you know, you don’t fool me.’

  She flashed a wide smile. The actress was back. ‘Any chance of some wine?’

  As soon as Gayle returned, Henneke’s attention switched from Felicity and Philip. She’d been singled out by the movie star. Gayle’s, ‘That colour suits you,’ was a stock line, delivered with zero sincerity, merely something to say when on show, but to Henneke it had to be one of the nicest compliments she’d ever received. Johan was still droning on about steam engines. Even Walter’s eyes were becoming glazed. ‘Shut up, you boring little man.’ Oh, how she longed to say those words out loud. Gayle Gaynor would. Dear God, give me strength to leave him. But Henneke knew she never would. She had been trapped for most of her life. It was too late to think of change now.

  Caitlin, still fielding questions from Erica and Jutta, noticed Sean’s sudden departure. What’s going on? she wondered, aware that a special bond had developed between Thea and Sean. Could it be what Billy meant earlier with his remark about Sean filling his shoes? Was Billy jealous of Sean? Surely not. Thea had eyes only for her husband, and Sean was too much of a gentleman to allow anything other than friendship between them.

  She glanced over at the bar. No sign of the students. But she did see Billy leave the kitchen carrying a plate of food. What a prat! The lodge manager looked neither left or right, ignoring the rangers and guests. Which was just as well, Caitlin thought. If he’d glanced their way he might have seen Sean headed towards bungalow six.