Edge of the Rain

by Beverley Harper

  Your loving mother.

  Alex read the letter three times, feeling more guilty with each reading.

  Paulie sent a card:

  Guess what? I climbed on the roof and fell off. Now my left arm is broken. Pity it wasn’t the right arm, then I wouldn’t have to do holiday homework. Happy Christmas.

  Alex wondered why his mother hadn’t mentioned Paulie’s arm.

  There was a card from Pa as well.

  We are all fine. Hope you’re having a good time and looking after yourself. Have a good Christmas son.

  Fondest love.

  Pa.

  It crossed Alex’s mind then that while his mother’s note filled him with the guilty realisation that he should go home, his father’s words, and those of Paulie, made him want to go. ‘I’ll stay for the cattle drive,’ he thought. ‘Then I’ll go home.’

  Two weeks later Jeff came into the bunkhouse to speak to the men. ‘Doesn’t look like it’s going to be much of a rainy season this year. So we don’t wait any longer. Cattle drive starts in two days. Artie’s got the list. Those not going will be fencing.’

  He was relieved to find his name on the cattle drive list. Although he had seen nothing of Madison since that night in her bedroom, he could feel her dislike of him following wherever he went.

  Artie and Pat stared at him in open disbelief when he said he wanted to take Nightmare. ‘For Christ’s sake, boyo, why?’

  ‘She can run. She’s strong.’

  ‘She’ll take your bloody arm off one day.’ The horse tried to bite at every opportunity although she had almost ceased her attempts to unseat him.

  In the end he won his argument and Nightmare became his main mount.

  Those going on the drive were spared the last of the branding. The day before they were due to leave he was sitting with Pat on the verandah when Jeff’s plane roared overhead. ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘Gaberones. He goes about once every six weeks.’

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘You won’t see him again until after the drive.’

  ‘Madison gone too?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, boyo, and you shouldn’t be thinking about it.’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said softly.

  ‘Forget her. There’s plenty of others.’

  ‘Not out here.’

  Pat grinned. ‘True, boyo, but you sure as bejesus can make up for lost time in Gabs. We get to spend a week there. You’ll forget Madison then, boyo.’

  Alex didn’t think so.

  Pat grabbed his arm. ‘Pull yourself towards yourself, boyo. That one’s off limits. She’s on ice till her daddy lets go. If you’re so desperate, try one of them little black girls at the pub. I’m telling you, boyo, I know one that fucks like a rattlesnake.’

  Alex shook his head. The man was incorrigible. There was no point in telling him that sex was the furthest thing from his mind because . . . well . . . it wasn’t. But what he really wanted was for Madison to like him. Pat wouldn’t believe that. Besides, he had decided it was beer time and was manhandling him inside.

  They were leaving at first light. Alex packed a few belongings into a bedroll. ‘Travel light,’ Willie had said. ‘No-one out there to mind. We all smell the same. You can buy some new duds in Gaberones.’

  He had saved all the money he had earned, barring the few pounds he spent in Ghanzi. ‘Take it with you, fella. You’ll be wanting to kick your heels up for a bit.’

  He wrapped his money in a handkerchief and put it in his shirt pocket which buttoned down. He was excited about the drive. The men had told stories of the hardships, dust and heat and flies, lions and lack of water, but he was looking forward to it.

  Most of the farmers in the area moved 600 to 800 head at a time. The farmer himself, or maybe his son, would ride with the herd, a handful of Africans would ride with him and twenty or so Bushmen would walk alongside the cattle, herding back strays. Jeff Carter did things differently. Perhaps because his farm was three times the size of others around and he had the men to use, he never sent Bushmen with the drive. Pat told Alex that Jeff didn’t trust the Bushmen to stick with the drive for its entire thirty day duration. ‘They meet up with clans and just bugger off,’ Pat said. ‘Jeff prefers to use his permanents. That way he knows they’ll stick it out to the end.’

  ‘Does Jeff ever ride with the cattle?’

  ‘He’s done it occasionally. Depends how busy he is.’

  ‘Has Madison . . .’

  ‘Will you stop that, boyo.’

  They were all up at four the next day. Pat, Bob, Willie, Kel, two other men and Alex. They were joined in the horse yard by a dozen Africans who would make the ride with them. He saddled up Nightmare who, sensing something different, decided to be difficult. ‘Told you, boyo,’ Pat warned.

  ‘She’ll settle down.’

  There was something wrong with his boots. He took them off and pulled them on again. His feet settled in comfortably this time.

  He saw the supplies wagon pull away, drawn by four yoked oxen, looking like it had stepped out of the last century. Six spare horses trotted behind, tethered to the back of the wagon. Other horses ran with the herd. The wagon had prearranged places to wait. It would travel at the front of the drive the whole way.

  The men rode the six miles to the holding pens. They were driving 2,000 head to a farm Jeff had near Sekoma. If the rains had come the cattle would have been driven all the way to Lobatse but they would need time to recover their condition after the long haul. The big double gates of the holding paddock were swung open. Cattle bellowed, whips cracked, voices shouted out.

  Pat rode up to Alex. ‘Come on, boyo, come on, we’re not here to fuck spiders.’

  Alex grinned at him and cracked his whip.

  The animals streamed through the gates. The cattle drive was on its way. Alex pulled a scarf over his mouth and nose. Nightmare was as skittish as hell but he managed her easily. He cracked his whip again and she jumped but kept going. As the first of the cattle reached the road and dust swirled thick yellow in the rising sunlight, he looked back to the yards. The lone figure of Madison stood, watching them depart. In an exultant mood, he raised his hat and waved, but received no acknowledgement. He hadn’t really expected any.

  EIGHT

  He rode with Pat and Bob on the left flank. He was pleased he was not riding at the back—within minutes, those who were had become dust ghosts. Nightmare settled down after the first hour although the other two were not prepared to ride too close alongside. Her snapping teeth were capable of removing a large chunk of flesh. Riding a safe distance from Pat he asked why the supplies were carried in a wagon, rather than a truck.

  ‘We tried vehicles a couple of years ago. They don’t carry as much. If they break down you have to ditch them and they’re too fast. The guys driving them spend most of the day sitting around in the heat just waiting.’

  ‘What if someone gets sick? A vehicle could get them to safety.’

  ‘That’s not just any old wagon you’re looking at, boyo—no sir. There’s a two-way radio and it carries enough medical supplies to deal with anything from a common cold to a dose of clap. Bob here did a first aid course a few years back. He would have to be forcibly restrained from chopping out your liver if he thought it would help. If anyone runs into real trouble Jeff can always bring the plane. Mind you,’ he grinned, ‘most of us would prefer to take our chances with Bob. We figure we’re more likely to survive him than a flight with Jeff.’

  That made him feel marginally better.

  The cattle were allowed to take their own time, stopping frequently to eat the brown grass. By the end of the day they were still on Jeff Carter’s land. ‘We don’t push them,’ Pat told him, ‘until we get to Takatshwane. Between there and Kang there’s no reliable water and we’re into deep sand. Then we hurry them up. They have to do a good twenty-five miles a day then. It’s the worst part of the trip. A hundred miles of bugger all. They need their streng
th for that.’

  They camped that night on the southeastern border of Jeff’s land. ‘We always camp here first night out.’ Willie held his foot up for Bob to pull his boot off. ‘Ahhhh, that’s better.’

  Willie preferred American style cowboy boots. He ordered them from a Sears and Roebuck mail order catalogue and, as soon as one pair arrived, he ordered the next. They could take up to a year to reach him by the time the wheels of finance had turned between Bechuanaland and America, followed by a sea journey to the South African port of Durban and thence the arduous trip by road to Ghanzi. They must have been hellishly hot but he stubbornly refused to wear any other. Everyone else (apart from Alex who was still wearing store-bought riding boots from Francistown) took their feet to a San shoemaker in Ghanzi who made their boots from the soft leather of gemsbok. They fitted like gloves and were unbelievably comfortable. Alex intended to get a pair on his return.

  The wagon arrived ahead of them. The driver, a short stocky Bantu, had their food cooking, their bedrolls laid out and beers standing in water from the bore with a wet towel thrown over them to keep them cool. They were not icy cold but they went down just as well.

  The conversation ranged from women to women and back again. ‘Lost your cherry yet, boyo?’

  Alex blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good for you. You’ll get some action in Gabs. Plenty of women there.’

  Willie laughed. ‘This mad Irishman only thinks of two things.’

  ‘What’s the other?’ Alex grinned at Pat who pulled a finger at him.

  ‘Beer.’ Willie whoofed as Pat jabbed his finger into his solar plexus.

  ‘Wrong, I think of three things.’

  ‘After beer and women, what else is there?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Ireland,’ Pat said softly. ‘I think of rolling green hills.’

  ‘Out here? What! You trying to send yourself mad?’ Bob shook his head. ‘I never think of home.’

  ‘Where’s home, Bob?’ Alex couldn’t place his accent.

  ‘I’d have to say Cape Town although I was born in England. Yeah, Cape Town. Prettiest little town in the world. Ever been there?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I’ve never been out of Bechuanaland. We lived near Shakawe all my life. Until I went to school in Francistown I’d never been anywhere else.’

  ‘All in good time, boyo. You’ll get there.’

  ‘Where are you from, Willie?’

  Willie stared at his bare toes. ‘I’ve really been around, man.’

  ‘So where did you grow up?’

  ‘Ghanzi.’

  ‘But you’ve travelled?’

  ‘Yep. Every year. Ghanzi—Lobatse—Ghanzi, via the Kalahari Cattle Highway.’ He hitched himself higher. ‘You see, kid, I’m happy where I am. Don’t need to know about anyplace else.’

  ‘Is Jeff from Ghanzi?’

  ‘Jeff? Nah! He’s from South Africa. Came here twenty years ago. When Britain was allocating farms Jeff was there with his hand out. Mind you, he’s worked at it. Hocked himself to the hilt to buy out his neighbours. It’s paid off too. He’s the richest farmer in the area.’

  ‘Why does Madison go to school in Britain?’

  ‘There you go again, boyo. Get her out of your mind.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘She just sort of sits there all the time.’

  Pat laughed. ‘Won’t do you any good, boyo. She’s out of reach.’

  ‘Even if she weren’t, she doesn’t like me anyway.’

  ‘Forget her,’ Willie advised. ‘Jeff would have a pup if he knew you were even thinking about her.’ He reached for his guitar and strummed a few experimental chords while adjusting the tuning to his satisfaction. Then, with the camp fire crackling in the background, he entertained everyone for hours, the firelight glinting on his gold teeth as he sang cowboy songs in his strong tenor voice. Alex listened, content. The last song he sang, ‘Oh Give Me a Home, Where The Buffalo Roam’, had been memorised by the Africans. From the darkness beyond the fire they joined in, their rich voices harmonising as only Africans can. It was a stirring sound.

  The next morning they had to get 2,000 cattle through a fifteen foot gate. As Willie said just before he cantered off to round up yet another stray, it was a bit like squeezing a soft turd through the eye of a needle.

  ‘How many bloody gates are there?’ They had been at it for two hours.

  ‘Only one. It’s the quarantine camp the other side of Kang.’

  Alex was relieved. Nightmare was foaming at the mouth with exertion by the time the last stragglers went through.

  ‘Think this is tough?’ Willie grimaced at him. ‘Wait till we get into the sandy country.’

  The ride on the second day was action filled. While they were on Jeff’s land the cattle could virtually wander wherever they liked providing it was in a forward direction. Stock routes, in some areas half a mile wide, ran alongside the road. Most of the farms were unfenced. When cattle were not being driven, neighbouring ranchers let their own cattle graze near the road. Technically, the land in these routes was privately owned. A gentlemen’s agreement existed between all the ranchers but certain ground rules did exist. Now they were on someone else’s land they were honour bound to keep the herd bunched. The cattle had to be discouraged from foraging until they reached each night’s destination. However, as with most things to do with cattle, Alex discovered they had different ideas. Strong as she was, Nightmare was ready to drop by the end of the day.

  That night, as the tired men sat in the darkness, they were treated to the spectacle of an awesome electrical storm. Forked lightning split the sky as it danced in crazy patterns from one end to the other. Sheet lightning accompanied it, lighting up the land briefly like a flare. Thunder rumbled continuously. In the distance, the lightning started a grass fire. Within a few minutes the wind had it blazing against the dark horizon and spreading swiftly so it resembled a distant explosion. ‘We’ll have to watch that tomorrow,’ Bob said. ‘It’s okay for now but it’ll depend on which way the wind’s blowing. Might have to stay an extra day here.’

  Competing successfully against the thunder, lions announced their presence. ‘Bastards!’ Pat said in disgust. ‘We’ll need extra men on tonight. Come on, boyo, let’s take the first shift.’

  Normally, the Bushmen on a cattle drive would build a kraal, an enclosure of thorny branches, to keep the cattle in one place during the night. They would light large fires to keep the lions away. Because of the size of Jeff Carter’s drive, this was impractical. Men had to work double shifts.

  Riding around the cattle on another horse to give Nightmare her well earned rest, bone weary, with his mind crying out for sleep, Alex watched nature’s fireworks and listened to the snarling voices of one of her children. Lions were close. Shadowy shapes slinking just thirty feet away, waiting for a chance to rush in and grab one of the cattle. Each time sheet lightning flashed he could see them, crouched low and menacing. The cattle knew they were there and were restless. His horse wasn’t particularly fond of them either and she danced nervously whenever she caught their scent. Pat shouted a warning and he wheeled the horse and, whip cracking, headed off a bold female who had sneaked in behind him.

  He had thought he’d worked hard during the day but it was nothing to the vigilance required to keep the lions away. By the time he finished his extra shift and crawled into his sleeping bag he was too damned tired to worry about them.

  In the morning the lions were nowhere to be seen but, wherever they went, they had managed to take four of the cattle with them. ‘Not bad,’ Bob said. ‘Last year at this place they got twelve.’ Although the air was filled with smoke, the grass fire had burned itself out. Added to the heat, flies, sand and dust, the smoke made the day more uncomfortable than a day had any right to be. The scarf he pulled over his mouth and nose kept the flies off and the sand out. But the smoke seemed to seep straight through, choking his straining air passages, making his eyes run, fouling his tas
te buds. He figured it couldn’t get any worse.

  He was wrong.

  Made bold by desperation, the lions killed again and again. The cattle became as jumpy as hell, the horses likewise. Nightmare, to her credit, remained obedient but he could sense the tension in her. With hardly any sleep, the men grew cranky. Whips cracked more often, cattle who got in the way of them suffered open wounds and blood from the wounds encouraged the lions. It was a vicious circle. Alex’s mind was so tired he could barely think straight, his body ached with fatigue, he hated cattle more than he hated anything in his life. He hated the desert, he even hated the other men.

  The further south they went, the sandier the terrain became. After the third day they left the farming country behind and were into the desert. Keeping the cattle bunched became easier; there was hardly anything worth eating and the sand was so deep it made moving along it too difficult. The cattle tended to stick to the rutted road. Two men rode in front, five at the back, the rest flanking the herd. Alex, to his acute physical discomfort, spent two days behind and three on the left flank before being asked to ride ahead. They were the most miserable five days he had ever known. Even the sand got through his scarf. He had grit up his nose, in his eyes and ears, in his mouth, down his throat, between his fingers and toes, under his nails and in his groin. His clothing was stiff with dust and sand, his hair stood on end with it, his eyebrows and lashes were whitened by it, his hat the same. The sand was attracted to his perspiration-soaked clothing like a magnet. The glare from the sun on the white dunes was physically painful. And the lions became so bold they did not even bother to hide their presence during the day.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said morosely that night by the fire, ‘in all this whiteness, how come we’re so dirty?’

  They had not used water to wash for two days. They had another day to go before they would find water again, unless it rained and that did not seem likely. The sky had remained obstinately blue every day, tantalising them with thunder and lightning each night. But no rain. All the men looked the same: grime encrusted. Not healthy brown dirt, a kind of sludge grey grime which crept into the creases on their faces and stayed there.