Lorna leaned across and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I love such a stiff-necked old goat, ’she said, tears welling in her eyes. ‘But I do, my darling, and I am not alone in my love for you. The same applies to our children, and now there’s a whole new generation coming into the family who will grow up loving their grumpy old grandfather. One day there may even be great-grandchildren.’
Dallas hoped his wife didn’t notice his own tears. Yes, it was time to accept that Meggie had become a woman but it would not stop him telling Stan King what he expected of him – that was a father’s duty.
TWENTY-THREE
Gerda hardly ever left her bed anymore and seemed to have no interest in anything, including her own pregnancy. Torben had promised to find their daughter and bring her safely home but that was proving easier said than done. He couldn’t leave Durban and had no choice other than to do as instructed and hope their nightmare would soon be over.
Torben had taken one chance. Realising that the servants knew what had happened and that they could not do without them, he explained that the Broederbond had been responsible for Alice’s abduction and offered a reward for any information leading to her safe return. It had been a very clever move and one which was unlikely to be discovered. Blacks talked to blacks but seldom to whites – especially members of a secret Afrikaner society which saw them as little more than a source of slave labour.
This was a test and Torben knew he must pass it if they were to have any hope of seeing Alice again. It had already been more than six weeks and he had received no word from her abductors. Under no circumstances would he entertain the idea his daughter might be dead – that was impossible.
Without mentioning anything to Gerda, Torben had also made it known to her brother that there would be a substantial reward for any information concerning Alice’s welfare or whereabouts. It was a risk, he told himself, but Mark was Afrikaans-speaking and mixed with many unsavoury characters who might, from time to time, be called on to undertake special contracts for the Brotherhood. To date he had heard nothing.
Torben continued working, waiting and hoping, trying to keep some semblance of sanity in his everyday business life. Even casual acquaintances noticed a change in him. He no longer frequented any of his favourite clubs and Gerda had withdrawn from the social life of Durban. Gossip at the tea parties held by those with nothing better to do was that her baby had died of some ailment caught from the African nanny. There were tut-tuts of sympathy but nobody actually called on the Petersens, who lived in splendid isolation except for the regular house calls of a well-paid physician Torben had sworn to secrecy. Although he maintained the supply of laudanum which kept Gerda calm and in her bed, the doctor had warned that continued use of the drug might affect her pregnancy. Torben reduced the amount he administered but that was all.
On the leather-inlaid desk, letters for the past week – delivered to the house by messenger from his office in West Street – lay unanswered. Having made sure there was nothing in the mail which concerned Alice, Torben quickly lost interest in everyday business correspondence. One envelope was still sealed. It displayed the fine copperplate hand of Olaf Petersen, the banker brother of his long dead Danish mother, Jette. Olaf was his business partner, a financial wizard who handled the European end of their highly lucrative armaments business and various other dealings from his office in Copenhagen.
Torben picked up a silver letter opener and carefully slit one edge of the envelope. He was not in the mood to read his uncle’s letter, which would undoubtedly contain the usual analysis of projects concluded and new ventures to be explored. For a second Torben had a fleeting memory of another Christmas, one he had spent in Denmark with Olaf’s family. There had been sleigh rides, snow falling gently, happiness and smiles of welcome and, oh, how they loved their food. ‘Tak for mad, ’ the Danes would say – thank you for the food, everything from smφrrebrφd and frikadellers to pork stuffed with apples and prunes or flaky butter pastry covered in melted sugar and slivered almonds. It was certainly far removed from the pain and suffering with which he now lived. Perhaps he could send Gerda to Kobenhavn, Torben thought. She would be well looked after and the sea voyage might do her good. Then he remembered that his wife was nearly six months pregnant. A trip to Europe would require three months at the very least. His mind was wandering as he slid a single sheet of paper from the envelope.
‘God in heaven!’ Torben exploded at the words he read, the hand holding the letter shaking uncontrollably. How long had it lain on his desk, he questioned himself. Days. It had been there for days and he hadn’t bothered to open it. Olaf’s scrawled handwriting gave Torben his first glimmer of hope that he might soon find his daughter:
...and for this reason I do not agree with the methods that have been employed by certain colleagues of mine with regard to their recent actions concerning a member of your family. I therefore deem it my duty to impart information which may assist in bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.
Torben continued to read, hanging on to every word. The note concluded: Should you reveal the source of these facts I have no doubt that it would result in the most dire consequences. I therefore urge you to proceed with the utmost caution. It was unsigned.
Sitting back, he placed the piece of paper on his desk and stared despairingly at the heavily draped window. God, the world was so small. A miracle had occurred but Torben knew he would need help to follow up on what Olaf had told him. It was not something he could do on his own. Some weeks earlier he had received a telegram from Meggie saying that their father had been taken ill and was going home. Since then, the annual invitation to spend Christmas at Morningside had arrived and with it a note saying that Dallas was recovering but would not be returning to active duties. Torben had not replied. There were other things on his mind and acceptance would have meant telling the family about Alice. Suddenly that had all changed. It was time to travel again.
Come Christmas Day Dallas had still said nothing to Meggie about Stan King. He hoped his daughter would tell him of her own free will. Lorna had promised not to interfere but that didn’t mean a hint or two would not be dropped to let Meggie know the groundwork had been done.
Cameron’s decision to leave Morningside two days before had come as a complete surprise to Lorna and Dallas. Admittedly, his mood and need to be alone made him almost impossible to talk to– so much so that the opportunity never arose to discuss the idea of Duncan and Tanith building a place of their own on the farm. Without Cameron’s approval as the eldest son, there was no point in even hinting at the possibility.
Tanith lived in a house she was looking after while the owners spent a year in Europe. They had left her one servant, Caliph, who did any heavy work, and after Frazer was born Mister David’s daughter Aminta had moved in to act as nanny for the new baby. Lorna respected her daughter-inlaw’s independence but was sorry she had turned down an offer to use the guest accommodation at Morningside. Of course, the invitation had nothing to do with being closer to what was then an impending grandchild! At least the problem of finding a suitable wedding present had been solved. The gift of a pony and trap had given Tanith mobility and meant that she and Frazer could come to the farm without waiting to be collected.
Tanith, Frazer and Aminta arrived a little before midday on Christmas Day, bringing a sense of family to the house. Lorna and Meggie jostled to hold or amuse the robust and highly vocal Frazer, whose still-unseen father was many hundreds of miles away. Dallas didn’t see it quite like that. Here he was surrounded by women and not one of them was paying him the slightest attention!
Although places had been set for Torben and Gerda– just in case they did arrive– only four of the family sat down to a Christmas meal that year. As always, Mister David had excelled himself. The dining-room table had not been extended to take the extra leaves which allowed it to seat twelve at full stretch, but nevertheless it displayed the sparkling family silver and a fine select
ion of festive fare. Rich guinea-fowl soup was served and Dallas said grace, blessing the food they were about to eat. He also took the opportunity to ask their maker to watch over those who could not be with them and thanked him for his own recovery. For Dallas and Lorna, an African Christmas in the blazing heat of December never quite compared with the more traditional setting they had grown up with in Scotland – snow, and a roaring fire to keep out the cold – but it was still special. A time for family.
Dallas checked the carving knife and expertly honed its already razor sharp edge on the steel before addressing a succulent haunch of well-hung nyala which had been marinating in red wine for the last three days. It needed no pressure to slice the tender meat. There was well-cooked roast pork with crackling and apple sauce for those who preferred something milder, various vegetables, even cold ham, brawn and ox tongue, all home prepared. A spicy beef curry and yellow saffron rice waited for the adventurous with crisp, wafer-thin poppadoms and an array of sweet and savoury sambals.
‘Goodness gracious, ’ Tanith exclaimed. ‘This would feed an army.’ She hadn’t intended the reference and nobody picked her up on it. For the moment, war was a long way from their lives.
Dallas poured wine for everybody and proposed a toast: ‘Absent friends.’ The response came back: ‘Absent friends.’ It brought a tear to Lorna’s eye which she quickly dabbed away with her napkin.
Fresh fruit salad and cream concluded the feast, followed by demitasse cups of black Turkish coffee. Everybody was replete. They had done justice to a magnificent meal.
Tanith excused herself to feed Frazer while Lorna went to the kitchen where she made sure the staff also had a share of the food.
Arm in arm Dallas and Meggie walked out to the verandah where a decanter of port had been placed beside his chair. Dallas searched for his pipe.
‘No smoking, please, Father. Not until those lungs of yours have had a chance to recover.’
‘If you insist. Then walk with me instead.’
Meggie hesitated but Dallas took her arm and together they stepped out into the afternoon sun. Lorna and Tanith were sitting on the grass under the cassia tree which gave shade to two simple graves. Fresh flowers lay on both. Tanith fed Frazer without any hint of embarrassment and made no attempt to cover herself when Dallas and Meggie approached. Each had their own thoughts and they stayed there in silence, sharing them with spirits from the past.
‘Don’t you Grangers give a girl any warning before you drop in?’ She used the name her half-brother Dallas had adopted when he first arrived in South Africa.
‘Sorry. Father told me about what you want to do with Wakefield and I came to say don’t. Ginnie and I are no longer engaged.’
‘And to do that I suppose you decided to forego a family Christmas? That wasn’t very sensible.’ Caroline Hammond looked up at the unsmiling face and saw nothing but sadness. ‘I assume you’re staying, so now you’re here might I suggest you get off that old nag and go catch us some supper. There’s precious little in the larder.’
‘Thank you. If you don’t mind I’ll see to my horse first. He can be a bit temperamental with strangers.’ Cameron swung a leg over the saddle and slid to the ground.
Klipklop was squatting a few yards away, his eyes focused on those of the bay gelding. Slowly he rose and moved forwards, muttering something unintelligible, never once breaking visual contact. The horse lowered its head and seemed to be listening. Still talking, the little Bushman turned and walked away. Cameron watched in disbelief as his horse meekly followed.
‘I don’t think you need worry about him, ’ Caroline said.
Cameron looked towards the distant peaks – it was impossible not to – then turned to gaze up at the rock-strewn slope of the Inhluzan. He had the strangest feeling of being watched. Caroline had started towards the house when his eye was caught by a lone bateleur eagle, soaring in effortless circles against the cumulus clouds of the midsummer sky. When he caught up with her, Caroline was lifting down a ten-foot, split-cane fly rod from two wooden pegs where it hung on the wall outside.
‘I used it only last week, ’ she said, handing it to him.
The hexagonal rod was feather light, its waxed cotton line wound onto a reel made by Alex Martin of Edinburgh. Only the best, Cameron thought. A rather drab fly had been hooked into the special loop bound and laquered to the varnished wood just in front of a cork handle.
‘That’s a March Brown, ’ Caroline said. ‘You might do better with a Zulu or a Coachman. Try it and see.’ She handed him a flat, rather battered tin of assorted flies. ‘Don’t go any larger than a twelve. There’s quite a bit of water coming down but the river was stocked last year. Rainbow and brown. Put back anything under ten inches.’ She laughed. ‘Here endeth the lesson.’
‘Where should I try?’
‘That’s up to you, my boy. The river is my boundary – sorry, your boundary. Have fun, I’ve got things to do.’ She passed him a landing net. ‘Not least, tidy myself up a bit. You’d best get going, it’s a fair walk. See you later.’ Caroline turned and disappeared inside. From behind a lace curtain, she watched him walk away – the man who now owned Wakefield. She hadn’t told him in so many words but the transfer had been registered. God, she thought, he looks just like my father.
It was summer though the air seemed thin and bracing with none of the sticky heat he had left behind at Morningside. Christmas Eve, Cameron reflected, realising that his thoughts were not with the family but here, setting off to try to outwit a wily trout or two in a Drakensberg mountain stream. Not having much experience of fly-fishing, he was glad to be alone where nobody could watch his attempts at deceiving a distinctly canny quarry.
The river was swollen and mud brown, not crystal clear as he had expected. It swirled and sucked, rippling round large rocks which protected deep pools of surprising tranquillity. Cam found what he thought would be an ideal spot and drew off line to lie in a tangle-free pile at his feet. He flicked the rod back, keeping its tip high, held it there for a fraction of a second while the line straightened out behind him, then brought it forwards, releasing some of the pile which he controlled with his left hand. So far so good, he thought. Back again then forwards. Nothing. The fly had dropped and caught in the grass. He released it and started again. Better. But he wasn’t getting the distance he wanted. His father could keep a fly in the air effortlessly, singing back and forth in an ever-lengthening loop until he decided where it would touch the water.
Cameron’s line hit first, followed by the fly. Splash! That was not the way to do it but the current quickly carried it downstream. With his left hand he retrieved line into the pile, shortening what was out in the water until he could raise it with the rod and try again. A few more casts and Cameron was becoming more confident. Why weren’t the fish biting, he wondered. The water must be too murky. Another cast. Perhaps a different fly, something a bit brighter?
Wham! The fly had drifted downstream, close to the bank. Cam had been on the point of retrieving the line and flicking it into another cast. Suddenly the rod came alive in his hand. It bent, jumping furiously and almost touching the water. He lifted the tip, keeping tension on the line. Give a bit, take a bit, slowly. Keep calm, he told himself. It felt like a monster. Damn. The landing net was out of reach. Cameron didn’t have enough hands and nearly lost his footing trying to get it. Tension. Keep the tension. His right hand he held high, the net at full stretch in his left. In seconds it was caught. A spangled rainbow, all of six inches long.
Cameron carefully removed the fly and released the fish, one of many he would catch in that mountain stream. Now he had to do something about supper.
Returning to the house three hours later he presented Caroline with two fine trout, each well over a pound in weight and which had his full admiration as worthy adversaries. He and Caroline cooked them in a pan with lemon and butter, outside over a glowing bed of coals. It was the best Christmas Eve dinner Cameron could remember.
‘How
are things on the front?’ Caroline asked, sipping a cup of sweet tea.
‘Boers are on the run but that doesn’t stop them making fools of us.’
She stayed silent.
‘The faster we burn the bastards out and pack their families off to camps, the better.’
‘That’s not the answer, ’Caroline said quietly. ‘We have to live alongside each other when this conflict is over. Waging war on innocent women and children won’t help.’
Cameron swung on his host. ‘Are you some kind of Boer lover?’ he asked, chin jutting forward in challenge. ‘Those Boere meises are no more innocent than their menfolk. They keep the komandos in the field and that costs us lives. Don’t feed me your liberal rubbish.’
Caroline looked at him. She had sensed from the moment Cameron arrived that he was on the point of cracking. What she didn’t know was why.
For a while he remained silent. Caroline waited patiently.
‘My brother was killed by the Boers.’
‘I know. This is war.’
Finally he sighed and fumbled in the pocket of his tunic. ‘Read this, ’Cameron said, passing her the crumpled note.
‘I’d rather you talked about it.’
Cameron let his hand fall and the words came, spilling over each other while Caroline listened in silence. He told her everything, dredging secrets from the dark recesses of his soul until eventually there was no more. ‘My mind was somewhere else. Others died because I felt sorry for myself – men who had trusted me.’
In that moment she realised that Cameron was angrier with himself and his own lack of control than with anybody else – even Ginnie. ‘I said this to your father and I’ll say it to you. Losing yourself in the past is often easier than facing the future. Memories are the milestones in our lives but if we stop moving, life loses its interest. The road ahead may not be easy but at least it’s going in the right direction. Where it leads is something we mere mortals will never know.’
Footprints of Lion Page 36