Binstead's Safari

by Rachel Ingalls

  Millie went to her tent to find her letters. She walked slowly in the bright light and smiled slightly. Alistair’s driver was waiting for her. He gave her a folded envelope and she handed him the message she had already written. She asked, “Have you seen him?”

  “No, I take the letters from my brother this time.”

  “I haven’t seen him in a long while now.”

  “He was on safari, three trips.”

  “I know. I’m glad he’s well, but I’m very impatient to see him.”

  The driver smiled. “Him too,” he said. “He never likes to wait.”

  Alistair wouldn’t stay for lunch. “On my rounds,” he explained. Pippa suggested that if he had the time and could manage it, he should bring that other doctor—what was her name?—oh yes, Carrol, to visit them at the Whiteacres’ camp. Alistair blushed. He said he’d think about it.

  “Might not be a bad idea at that. She’s been a bit low lately. I think she’s had some sort of quarrel with Eddie.”

  “Over you-know-what?” Pippa asked, pointing up to the sky.

  “I don’t know,” he said shortly. “I haven’t asked.”

  “Well, try to bring her. We’d all like to meet her. She sounds such a nice girl.”

  Millie had to run after him.

  “You’ve forgotten,” she panted.

  He turned, looked puzzled, then cried out, “Oh good heavens, how could I? Yes, of course. It’s positive.”

  “Don’t shout.”

  “I’m so sorry. Too many things to think of at once.”

  “She did have a quarrel about that, didn’t she? She’s broken up with Eddie.”

  “I, ah, well—I don’t really—”

  “I’m sure you’d be much better for her, Alistair. Just don’t be a gentleman and stand aside. She’ll think you don’t care enough. You go right on in and propose. Down on one knee. Straight away.”

  “I thought I’d better give her some time to think.”

  “Certainly not. If you let her think about it, you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Really? You think not?”

  “Of course not. She’ll retreat into her shell for a couple of years in order to get over the Eddie business, and then she’ll start looking for someone exactly like him. You just go ahead. And remember, this other thing is still my secret.”

  *

  Ian read most of Nicholas’s letter out loud. Perhaps he read all of it. Millie had an idea that some parts had been skipped at the beginning, where there was a sentence about Jill. Nicholas described the way the shooting was going, saying that he was having great difficulty in trying to make the clients stick to their licences and not look on each day’s hunt as an opportunity to outshine each other. For Pippa’s benefit he listed the various excesses and comforts of the big camp, then he gave an account of the people.

  As for the Whiteacres, he wrote, I think they hate each other. Every day I go out with them, I remember that story about the wife who shoots her husband instead of the elephant. And the sleeping arrangements are in constant flux, as your friend Rollo would say. More than usual. The first thing that happened was that the engaged couple had some sort of quarrel. He moved in with Darleen; she had decided almost as soon as we put down stakes that Otis was never going to make her anything more than the secretary. To start off, she took comfort from Whiteacre. The wife, Bobsy, never said anything and they’re still sharing a double tent. All this is so much worse out here than in town. When Darleen changed her allegiance to Bill, he asked his fiancée (Martha) to trade tents, as she was still in the double and he and Darleen were too cramped in the single. She agreed. She came to me and asked if it was understood that her ex-fiancé had paid for everything, because she was now on her own but intended to finish the safari—another one who might go off half-cocked, although maybe not. She seems much the most sensible of the lot. Showed me her engagement ring, a stone the size of my thumbnail, and said to the best of her knowledge if engagements were broken for whatever reason, the ring remained the property of the woman and she might just go round the world on her diamond to make up for the way things had turned out. She also said, “I’m still crazy about him, but I can see now it would never change. I’d have a lifetime of it.” The next thing was that Bobsy Whiteacre in an extremely discreet manner made me a proposition, if that’s the word. Perhaps not. I’ve been so bothered about Jill and the farm that I wasn’t taking in much of the finer detail. A few scenes of the farce may have slipped by without my noticing. However, I pleaded ignorant and now Bert has been turned down by Martha and in revenge is after me to boot her out of the team. I hope you’re following all this. And at some point Bill changed his mind and thought he’d go back to Martha, who said no. That left him still sharing the double tent with Darleen. It’s been like musical chairs ever since. What we need is someone like H. Lewis to go through the place like a dose of salts—you remember what they said about the Janson show. I had a letter from him last week, says he’s getting married again. Can you believe it? She has to get a divorce first. We’ll see him as soon as he’s done with the next set of clients. In the meantime, the extra man the Whiteacres found is supposed to be seconded to Bill and Martha. Named Bean. I’ve seen him about. Used to be with B & C down on the coast. On the sauce, frequently all but afloat on a tide of it. Whether his job is going to include Bobsy Whiteacre or Darleen, or even both, is anyone’s guess. He doesn’t look up to it. Seems struck on Martha, but she’s had enough. She plays cards with me and old Otis, who tells us about doing the tours in Norway back in the year dot, climbing over the mountains and meeting Henrik Ibsen, so he claims. A nice old boy. He says he plans to leave us soon, but has enjoyed everything immensely AND WILL RECOMMEND US WARMLY TO EVERYONE HE KNOWS. I’m not sleeping very well. If you can manage to join us sooner rather than later, I’d be grateful. Thank you again for everything. As ever, Nick.

  “That’s it,” Ian said. “Poor old Nick.”

  Millie said, “What was the Janson show?”

  “A monumental package-holiday company that used to run booze-up tours for millionaires. All the ladies wanted to try out the tame hero, started to quarrel over him. He put it to them that, ah, he could either take them on all at once, or they could do it by rota.”

  “And?”

  “They drew up a schedule, whose turn was when. So the story goes. He said it wasn’t true. Fancy Harry getting married.”

  “Best thing for him,” Pippa said. “Just what he needs. Everyone needs a family. I keep thinking about those poor men in the balloon, shot out of the sky like that.”

  “You see? I told you they weren’t safe. Anything can happen.”

  Stan said, “What does B & C stand for? And that other one with initials?”

  “Oh, it’s the same one. We just call it G & T for a laugh. Referring to the sort of client they get, sort of safari they run. Sitting about in camp, drinking gin and tonic.”

  “And not always such a bad idea,” Pippa said.

  *

  Stan had a dream. He dreamt that he was in a jungle at night. The thick-growing trees were slung with creepers and looked like the background to the Tarzan movies of his youth, but he knew that they were in the East and that he was in the war. Other men, soldiers, were crowding up in back of him. They were all in the army together. A man came out from behind a trunk just ahead: his brother, Sandy, who said, “Where were you? I’ve been waiting for you.” His brother was dark, like an African. Stan thought that he had changed into a Negro, then he realized that it was just camouflage blacking. There were fires and detonations in front of them. Whenever one of the explosions came, the glare lit up the night trees so you could see they were actually green. People kept moving forward on their bellies all around him. Suddenly there was a stillness. Then Sandy brought his hand chopping down hard on the back of Stan’s neck. He said, “It’s your turn now.” There was a white burst of light that covered everything. Stan felt his head snatched back into the night. His body jum
ped together. He was wiped away, he died. And then he was awake, his chest fluttering as if his heart were spilling out over it, and warmth falling away from him in rivulets like the seawater off a rock.

  Millie too had a dream, at the time when the deepest part of the darkness was about to thin out and lift. She dreamt that she was being married. She was standing next to Henry, holding his hand. She had on a long white dress and the necklace he had given her. All around them their wedding guests were dancing in a circle. The people went so fast that they melted into each other, blending like paints that ran together. Henry said, “From the first moment I saw you.” She died for joy.

  *

  Early in the morning they were climbing over each other in the small tent to find their clothes and Millie said, “You’ve stepped on my alligator. And I can’t find the boa constrictor.”

  “Wait till I’m awake, will you?”

  “Paintings, Stan. Move your foot.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re proving, Millie. I’m having wet dreams now. This is ridiculous.”

  “I don’t see why. For years you don’t want me for anything but the shopping and the cooking. Now I want a divorce and suddenly you want bed. That’s the ridiculous part.”

  “You don’t really, do you? You want a divorce?”

  “Yes, Stan. I do. Pick up your foot, please.”

  “Oh, the hell with that. Look, we’ll talk about it.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Millie smiled. She said, “Sure. Just remember, when you’ve left it too late, I’ve already done my talking.”

  “I mean, we’ll really talk about it.”

  “Fine.” She pushed the flap aside and moved out of the tent. He went after her, holding his shirt in his hand. He said, “You don’t really want a divorce, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m waiting for something.”

  Stan looked around him at the empty plains, the blank, hot sky. “Here?” he asked.

  “I’m waiting for the right time. And for you to accept it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “That’s great. That’s just great.” He put on his shirt and started to do up the buttons. He thought of a really good argument against everything she had said, but when he looked up to tell her, saw that she had already walked away from him.

  *

  Millie and Pippa travelled a long way from camp that day in search of good views. They settled near a majestic slanted tree that rose from a small eminence above a grassfield. The field was of many colours, from pale almost-white, to a deep russet-gold. Pippa set up her easel while Millie stared ahead.

  You’re with me all the time, she thought. I keep remembering everything. I tingle all over. I can’t wait.

  The moment she came into the room, he stood up from the bed, where he’d been sitting. He said, “I forgot to give you this.” He took something from his pocket and held it out. In the palm of his hand was a gold chain. He lifted it up.

  She said, “It’s beautiful.”

  “And you’re beautiful,” he said.

  “But I can’t. How would I explain it? What could I tell my husband?”

  “Tell him you bought it,” he said. “If you really get stuck, tell him you found it in the street. That’s what I always used to say. Nobody believed me, either.”

  Pippa came and stood beside Millie. She asked, “How is it?”

  “I’ve been dreaming. It’s so nice here. But I just wondered: the best view is probably from out there, looking back. Looking at the tree. Don’t you think?”

  “That’s for another day. It’s a much more difficult proposition. The light.”

  Millie walked over and looked at the beginning Pippa had made. The painting evidently aimed for an impression of the field’s different colours, their several ways of holding and shedding light. At the moment, it looked like a picture of a hairy rug.

  “A series of washes afterwards,” Pippa said.

  “Mm.”

  They ate their sandwiches and drank cold tea out of thermos flasks. Robert wandered over to the other side of the field for a while, to join two men he gossiped with and who usually shared his meals outside camp.

  They dozed when the sun was at its height. Later, when Pippa went back to her landscape, Millie decided to start another painting. As she progressed, she was filled with the idea and worked very fast, making a picture that showed an African poacher shooting down the green-and-white checked London balloon. But she was disappointed at the result. The incident had been a serious business and she had made it seem comic. Her rendition was like a cartoon. She thought she’d tear it up.

  “Any luck?” Pippa called. Her sketch, with the added washes, now indicated the softness and bushy growth of the field.

  “That’s nice,” Millie said.

  “Something’s wrong, though.”

  “Not that I can see. Something to do with the way the shadows are falling? I never notice things like that.”

  “Of course, it’s the shadows. I should have asked you sooner. Here. And here.”

  When Millie turned to walk back to her improvised easel, she saw that Robert and his friends were crowded around it and obviously talking about the scene she had brought to life.

  “I just thought of something,” she said. “I painted a picture of the poacher, and you can’t see his face, but maybe everyone will think the real man is dressed that way and has that kind of a gun and so on.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Come take a look.”

  “May I see, please?” Pippa said to Robert. The group stood back. Pippa’s face became contorted.

  “That’s the trouble,” Millie said. “I think I’d better tear it up right now.”

  “No, my dear. Certainly not. It’s priceless.”

  “Can you explain that I don’t know what the man really looks like?”

  “I see. Yes, that’s a bit tricky. It’s understood that you weren’t there at the time, but if not, then you must have dreamt it, and dreams reveal the truth.”

  “Especially since the balloon is exactly the way it should be. Can you just say I could paint him out and put in a different man? I’m no good at the complicated stuff, long sentences and everything.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve now established the magical vision of this painted man being the one who did the deed.”

  “Lucky I didn’t give him a special hat or shirt. I still don’t understand it. Everybody here sees photographs and other pictures, even movies and TV. And those self-service snapshot booths in town. Even the Masai were using them. All the time.”

  “The Photo-Me kiosks. Of course. But this is the old guard, you know. Not the modern generation. Not like Tom.”

  “It’s dry already,” Millie said. “I guess it’s a classic of its time now. Too late to do anything about it.”

  They started back long before Stan and Ian, who had spent their morning tracking a wounded lioness. The only time she broke cover, they could see that there was an arrow or dart, or spearpoint of some kind still lodged down behind her shoulder. She led them across a dry gully and up into a formation of craggy rocks. Ian threw his hat on the ground and stamped.

  “There’s no way of getting her out of there. No way at all.”

  “Smart cookie.”

  “Absolutely. I don’t know why so often the ones that deserve to survive are just the ones that don’t.”

  “It happens to people too, haven’t you noticed? It’s practically axiomatic.”

  “True enough.”

  “And in the end, it’s only a reprieve, anyway. Nobody survives for very long.”

  “Rotten feeling to leave a wounded beast. Put her out of her misery before the hyenas get at her.”

  “She might take a few with her.”

  “Still, there it is. Let’s go.”

  They shot eland for the evening meal on the way back to camp and travelled through country that was mellow and glowing
from a sun about to set. As he turned his face against the yellow and rosy blur cast over the land, Stan thought it was a little like the beginning stages of inebriation. And then, as he was looking into the fields, a memory came to him—as suddenly and vividly as a shiver running over his skin—of Jack’s flat in London: the four of them intertwined under just such a soft, drunken light in a tangle of limbs, and of himself doing things, having things done to him and not being sure who was doing them, and not caring.

  He had two dreams that night. The first was like an echo of his afternoon vision: he was naked, pressed deep within a coiled and slithering knot of other naked bodies. But all at once it wasn’t London any more. One of the women was Millie. And the man, when they were at last face to face, was his brother, Sandy.

  His second dream began as one of those nightmares where you believe you are awake. He was out hunting with Ian and they picked up the track of the lioness they had been following. This time it led across a pretty landscape filled with trees. Soon they came to scattered buildings and the beginnings of towns, but still the trail led on. It began to look like home. He recognized a neighbour’s house from a few streets away. And then they saw a clearing full of Africans in masks and carrying shields and spears; they were chanting and dancing around in a circle. Ian pushed him. “They’re waiting for you,” he said. Stan didn’t want to enter the circle. He knew that if he did, he would die. “It’s a trial of manhood,” Ian said. “It’s a fertility rite.” He shoved Stan hard, into the middle of the circle, and the same thing happened that had happened to him the night before: slamming him in the base of the neck, grabbing his head away backwards into nothingness and the white snowfield blinding across his eyes.

  He woke again and stayed awake for a long time. He said to himself that things couldn’t go on like this.

  My brother, he thought. Father named him Alexander. A bronze star name. But Sandy wasn’t any braver than I am. He used to cover up his eyes in the movies. He was afraid of the moths divebombing in the bathroom. They were never proud of me that way. And he wasn’t worth it, anyhow. I know that. It’s because he did the heroic thing and died. But I don’t have to prove anything. I am not a coward.