by Isobel Chace
A PRIDE OF LIONS
by
ISOBEL CHACE
Everybody had warned Clare not to fall in love with Hugo Canning. Women meant nothing to him, they said, compared with his beloved lions.
But Clare found it was one thing to listen to advice -- another thing altogether to follow it!
A lion pride is a hunting unit, and this would seem to be its sole reason for existence. And it is the extraordinary dominance of the male lion, and little else, that welds the society together.
Robert Ardrey: African Genesis (by permission of Collins Publishers)
CHAPTER ONE
MRS. FREEMAN poured the tea with a languid hand. This was her third pregnancy and her husband, Luke, had sent her down to the coast for a while ‘to put some flesh on her bones’, as he put it. Kate, happily, one might even say complacently, married for ten years, glanced at my flushed face and smiled.
“Have you ever met Hugo Canning?” she asked.
“No,” I answered doubtfully. Having reached the age of twenty-five without having been tempted into marriage, I rather resented the matchmaking proclivities of even my dearest married friends.
“Ah!” said Kate.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked, slightly rattled.
“My dear Clare, what should it mean? I don’t think you’re going to like him much. I must say they make very nice sandwiches here,” she added greedily, helping herself to a couple and sitting back to enjoy them with an almost feline grace.
“Don’t they?” I agreed. I hesitated. “Tell me more about Mr. Canning!”
Kate looked amused. “What is there to tell? He’s a male of the species and—and a bit of a fanatic. Luke admires him.”
And if Luke admired him, she did too. Naturally.
“Well, I’m only going to work for him—”
“Oh, not for him, surely? I thought you would be working for this Dutch architect? You’d better tell me about the job all over again. I don’t seem to have got it at all straight!”
So I did. My name is Clare deJong. DeJong is an awkward name to have when one is English-speaking, but my father’s family were Boers from the south and came to Kenya in the last of the Great Treks northward. His side of the family have all the Afrikaner virtues. They are solid, hard-working and obstinate, with those flashes of brilliance that have given South Africa such a great heritage in art and letters. From him I have inherited a love of Africa and the ability to speak pure Dutch, as well as its awkward dialect of Afrikaanse.
My mother is different. She is the daughter of a missionary and spent most of her childhood in a state of semi-starvation because her family never had enough money to live on. The marks of that childhood still lurk in the corners of her face, a face so lovely that there is apt to be a sudden intake of breath when she walks into a room. My mother does not know that she is beautiful—she shares my grandmother’s conviction that it is wrong to stare at oneself in a glass—and so she has never been able to understand why my father picked her to be his wife, a fact for which she is still pathetically grateful. From her I have inherited my looks, a pale shadow of her own, but nevertheless well enough with a little careful make-up. I do not see anything sinful in either cosmetics or a looking-glass!
It was Mother who had insisted that I put my knowledge of languages to good use. In the Kenya of today where tourism is the second industry of the country, translators are badly needed, and I have a working knowledge of Swahili, the lingua franca of the whole area, as well as being able to speak Kikuyu and Masai, picked up in childhood from the workers on my father’s farm. Up to now I had scraped a living in an international firm centred in Nairobi, but then, two days before, this marvellous opportunity had come my way and I was still hugging myself with glee at my good fortune.
“They’re going to build another Safari Lodge in Tsavo National Park—”
“I know that much!” Kate interrupted me.
“The Ghui Safari Lodge,” I went on lovingly. Chui is the Swahili word for a leopard.
“Who is going to build it?” asked Kate, getting straight to the heart of the matter.
“The Government, of course! But—and this is the glorious partl—they’re getting a Dutch architect to design the building!”
“Which is where you come in,” Kate said placidly.
I nodded enthusiastically. “He, the architect, doesn’t speak much English and he certainly doesn’t speak any Swahili. Isn’t it marvellous?”
Kate thought about it. “Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Where does Hugo Canning come in?”
“He doesn’t really,” I said vaguely.
Kate’s expression was one of complete disbelief. “Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
I hoped I didn’t look as uncomfortable as I felt. “Mr. Canning is on holiday here,” I explained uneasily. “I—I have to meet him before I start work.”
“Why?”
I frowned at my friend. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I think we have to stay in a tented camp while the Lodge is being built. I expect it comes under his general jurisdiction. Wouldn’t you think?”
Kate shrugged. “I’ll ask Luke,” she said. “He’ll be telephoning tonight anyway. He’s thinking of going into politics.”
“Luke is?” Somehow, since Independence, one thought more about white people leaving the political scene in Kenya rather than entering it.
“The Party approached him last week,” Kate said with a magnificent lack of interest. “You know how interested he is in these farming co-operatives.”
I hadn’t known, but then I am younger than Kate and her husband. I had only got to know them through Luke’s younger brother, Martin, and, although I liked them both very much and knew that they liked me, our paths only crossed occasionally. It had been marvellous, though, when I had come from the tiny airport to the hotel to find Kate already in residence and anxious to hear all my news.
Kate grinned at me. “And what happens if Hugo Canning doesn’t approve of you?” she asked slyly.
I felt a nervous flutter somewhere in my middle. “Why shouldn’t he?” I said reasonably.
“I told you! He’s a bit of a fanatic—”
“Well, he doesn’t have to see anything of me on the site!” I retorted.
“His fanaticism,” Kate said delicately, “lies in other directions. Nothing, but nothing, is allowed to interfere with his precious animals. I imagine that if anything goes wrong on the building site you’ll be in the thick of it?”
“But it won’t be my responsibility! All I have to do is to translate between one group and another—”
“Exactly!” said Kate.
I winced, for if there is one thing I cannot bear it is heated altercations anywhere near me. “I don’t think it will be as bad as all that,” I said bravely.
“Probably not,” Kate agreed kindly. “But Hugo Canning is rather overpowering when he’s roused. I thought I’d just warn you.”
I made a face. “You mean his big guns will outclass anything I can produce,” I said wryly.
Kate nodded slowly. “Something like that,” she admitted. “But you can always take cover in your tent, if you see trouble coming.” She laughed suddenly. “Perhaps your Dutchman will protect you!”
But somehow that thought was of very little comfort to me. I had heard about Hugo Canning before from other people and I had a mental picture of him as an enormous savage, looking rather like John the Baptist, with wild eyes and a contempt for personal comfort. A man who preferred the friendship of the wild animals to that of his fellow men.
“Malindi seems such an odd place for a man like that to come on holiday,” I mused more to myself than Kate.
She moved restlessly in her chair, tryi
ng to ease her body. Luke was right, I thought, she was having trouble with this pregnancy, though it would be a hard matter to get her to admit it.
“He fits in rather well, as a matter of fact,” she said. “I saw him yesterday in a dinner jacket, looking as smart as paint, and with a rather handsome young thing on his arm. I couldn’t quite make up my mind who she is, but I imagine she is local, for she isn’t staying at the hotel.”
That explained it, I supposed. I lost interest in Hugo Canning for the moment, my attention caught by sounds of laughter coming from the swimming pool nearby. “I say, Kate, do let’s have a quick swim. Can you? I mean—”
“I can if I potter round the shallow end,” she responded casually. “As a matter of fact it helps sometimes.” A thought struck her. “Do you think it’s going to be a water baby?”
I grunted. “More likely a farmer like Luke,” I said.
She smiled, well pleased. “It couldn’t be anything better!” she declared.
Kate and I went in to dinner together. The dining room is large, the far wall consisting almost entirely of windows that look out across the Indian Ocean. The other walls are all painted white, without any decorations except the occasional copper plate and Arab carpet, and the whole effect is very fine and spacious. A smiling waiter showed us to a table and presented us each with a menu.
“He isn’t here yet,” Kate remarked, looking round the room, “so you can relax, Clare. A cat on hot bricks has nothing on you!”
“I wish I could get it over with,” I answered savagely. “I’m sure there’s nothing he can do! I mean, I’ve already been hired by the Government. But it worries me all the same.”
“He must have some say or you wouldn’t be here,” Kate put
in.
“That’s what worries me!” I admitted dryly. “I thought it was all arranged and then wham, there was this message for me to fly down immediately to Malindi to be interviewed by Mr. Canning.”
“From him?” Kate asked curiously.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. It came from someone in the Department for Wild Life and Tourism.”
“He has great influence there,” Kate warned me.
“I know,” I said flatly.
It was almost an anti-climax when Mr. Canning did finally walk into the dining room. Kate saw him immediately and froze. “He’s here,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, and I turned and saw him for the first time.
He was not very like John the Baptist after all. He was tall all right and he moved with the careful confidence of a man who walks miles every day. Really he looked very much like other men, smooth-shaven, with hair only just long enough to be fashionable, and a suntan that had to be seen to be believed!
He walked straight over to our table, smiling a greeting to Kate.
“May I join you?” he asked smoothly.
Kate looked pleased. “I didn’t like to interrupt you yesterday,” she teased him gently, “but I did so want to say a few words to you. Luke will be so pleased I’ve seen vou.”
He wasn’t in the least put out by Kate’s reference to his companion of the previous evening, I noticed. To tell the truth, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had a kind of animal magnetism that I disliked by instinct. It was a pity, though, that my reaction was obvious to him. He was unkind enough to be amused and that, in turn, made me feel both young and gauche.
“You wanted to meet Clare deJong,” Kate’s cool voice broke the silence. “Clare, this is Hugo Canning!”
“Oh!” I said weakly.
I noted the quick frown that appeared between his eyes with dismay. With an effort I pulled myself together and forced a smile.
“May I sit down?” he asked Kate rather tetchily.
She inclined her head, throwing me a speaking look that another time might have sent me into helpless giggles. How right she had been! I did not like Mr. Hugo Canning!
“I suppose the Chui Safari Lodge is going to be in your area,” I said abruptly. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”
Hugo Canning gave me a long, distinct stare. “Did I ask to see you?” he said. “I thought it was the other way about.”
I turned red with rage. “But—” I began.
“Mr. Doffnang did say he wanted my personal assurance that you really do speak Dutch,” he went on, ignoring my interruption. Mr. Canning frowned. “His English is decidedly poor.”
“Well, I do,” I said sourly.
“Then that’s all that matters,” he said. ‘You can drive to Tsavo with me tomorrow. Mr. Doffnang is already there—” he grinned suddenly— “going slowly mad because no one understands a word he is saying to them!”
After that, Mr. Canning turned all his attention and, I have to admit it, his considerable charm, on to Kate, leaving me to my own devices and to eat my dinner in almost complete silence. If I had not disliked him so much, I might have found much of his conversation extremely interesting, as Kate did, but I was still burning with rage at his casual treatment of my qualifications to do the job I had been approved for. True, it was only an hour’s flight from Nairobi to Malindi, but I never would have come if it had not been for him, and he could have asked me quite well over the telephone whether I spoke Dutch or not. Not that I was prepared to grant that it was any of his business in the first place!
We had reached the pudding course before he spoke to me again. He had been turning the name deJong over in his mind and he suddenly realised that he had heard of my father.
“Harry deJong!” he exclaimed.
I bridled. “What of it?” I said.
“Are you Harry deJong’s daughter?” he rapped out.
I nodded mutely. What now? I wondered.
For the first time he looked at me with real interest. He smiled warmly at me, his eyes lighting up in a way that was oddly attractive. “Then you’ll be very welcome in Tsavo whether you speak Dutch or not—”
“Indeed?” I said coldly.
His smile did not falter. “Yes, indeed,” he said.
Kate was as puzzled as I was. “Why don’t you ask him?” she suggested.
I blenched. “Mr. Canning?” I swallowed.
“No, silly, your father!”
I thought about it. “I’ll ask him when next I write,” I said mildly. “Though I’m quite sure that he doesn’t know Mr. Canning from a hole in the wall! He’d have said so! I’m sure he would have mentioned it even if they had only met!”
Kate looked non-committal. “It’s odd,” she said at last. “Very odd! But I shouldn’t let it worry you, my dear. You’ll hardly see the man when you get to Tsavo—you’ll both be far too busy. I should leave it at that!”
I didn’t think I had much choice in the matter, so I did my best to forget it. This was made quite easy for me, for no sooner had I adjusted to the air-conditioning, which made a noise remarkably like the interior of a jet aeroplane, than Kate came in to my room, full of the conversation she had just had with her husband on the telephone.
“Clare, my love, he says I can go home!” she triumphed. “Oh, you don’t know how much I’ve missed him!”
I grinned. “I can guess,” I said.
She had the grace to look a trifle embarrassed. “My mother is home again and he had to agree that she was much the best person to see me through—she saw me through all the others, after all!”
From where I was lying, I could see her shape clearly outlined against the rough white wall. ‘You’ll be lucky if you get home in time!” I observed frankly.
She smiled down at herself, well satisfied with her condition. “You wait!” she gloated. “When it’s your turn, I’ll come and make rude remarks to you and you won’t care a bit!”
“Hadn’t I better find a husband first?” I suggested mildly.
Kate smiled placidly. "Perhaps this Dutchman—” she began.
“No!” I cut her off sharply.
She started and looked at me curiously. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked.
“And Africa has your heart?”
I nodded. In my mind’s eye I could see the vast open spaces, the mountains, the wide rivers, the forests, the multitudes of animals, all the things that made up that intangible something that I had been born and bred to. What man could compete with that?
“That’s why I’m going to Tsavo,” I said. My voice trembled and I steadied it only with effort. “I can’t explain,” I said, “but even in Nairobi I felt half stifled. But Tsavo is the largest National Park in the world. There are miles and miles of beautiful nothingness and the animals walk free and go wherever they will! It’s a place to dream about!”
I think perhaps Kate did understand a little. She was silent for a long moment and then she said: “Oh well, rather you than me!”
I laughed. “It’s sheer bliss!” I insisted. I hesitated. “I’m glad you’re going home to Luke,” I added awkwardly.
It was her turn to be amused. “That’s certainly bliss for me!” she agreed. She got up awkwardly from her seat on the spare bed, and smiled at me very gently. “Goodnight, Clare,” she said. “And good luck!”
When she had gone, I thought about the days that were to come and hugged myself with glee. Not even Hugo Canning could spoil my pleasure in my new job. At last I was to be a part of Africa and share in the great heartbeat of the unspoilt land. It was a bit much to imagine that I should tread on soil where no man had ever trod before, but here at least no man had ploughed it, planted it, or harvested it. Here the animals, the first inhabitants, still roamed free.
It rained in the night. Because of the air-conditioning I had no idea of it until my early morning tea arrived sharp at seven o’clock. Then I slipped out of bed and stared disapprovingly at the dripping trees under a lowering, steamy sky. There was no breeze at all anywhere. I sighed, turning away from the window. It was going to be a hot, sticky day and just when I had hoped that there would be nothing to make me feel more prickly than I need be in the company of Hugo Canning.
I drank my tea slowly, mentally reviewing all that I knew of my new job. I had only visited Tsavo National Park once before. My father had taken me as a treat for passing all my exams. We had stayed at the Killaguni Lodge in Tsavo West. I remembered it well and the restaurant that is placed on the verandah overlooking the artificially made drinking areas and salt-licks. I had only to shut my eyes and I could see again the elephants coming in to drink at dusk, their huge shapes looking even bigger in the gloaming. The braver ones had come right to the edge of the verandah, waving their restless trunks across the low stone wall that was the only barrier that kept them out. Cameras had flashed and one bull elephant had trumpeted his displeasure. And then they had gone, pushing their young into the centre of a group of females for safety.