by Isobel Chace
I could wish that my father was with me now as his name seemed to have some magic for Hugo Canning! But my father was busy with his own affairs. He had his farm to run and his own interests. His daughter was going to have to do as well as she could without him!
When I had finished the tea, I dressed myself in khaki trousers and an olive-coloured shirt with long sleeves, that I rolled up to just above the elbows. I thought the colour suited my well-tanned skin and sun-bleached fair hair, for my eyes had much of the same colour; they were sometimes green and sometimes brown and, sometimes, when I was in a rage, they would shine yellow like a cat’s. The eyes of a lion, my parents had laughingly told me, and I had not minded their teasing, for I had been rather proud of the fact.
The full force of the sticky heat of the day met me at the doorway of my room. I hurried down the steps and into the dining room, aware that a trickle of sweat was already sliding uncomfortably down between my shoulder blades. One or two of my fellow guests at the hotel smiled at me as I walked to my table. Of Mr. Canning there was no sign.
I helped myself to some pawpaw from the central table that was laden with fruit juices, slices of pawpaw, pineapple, mangoes, and practically every other fruit one can think of. I was just squeezing some lemon juice over the bright orange flesh of the fruit when Mr. Canning came in. He looked at me with something like approval and sat down opposite me at the same table.
“I put Kate on the early plane,” he said. “I gather Luke is meeting her in Nairobi.”
“I can’t think why he sent her down to the coast in the first place,” I answered. “They’re miserable whenever they’re separated!”
Hugo Canning grinned, “That’s how it ought to be!”
For some reason, I could feel myself blushing. “What time do you want to leave?” I asked him, to change the subject.
He glanced down at his watch. “In about half an hour? Can you be ready by then?”
I said I could be. I hadn’t even begun to pack my things and I still had my bill to pay, but nothing would have induced me to keep Hugo Canning waiting. It was a mad race to be in the hotel foyer on time. The heat was terrific and the sweat poured down my face and little rivulets under my shirt. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out, but there was no sign of the reviving breeze that normally comes in off the sea to make life bearable. By the time I had arrived, breathless, at the reception desk, I was hotter than I ever hope to be again in my life, and the cool amusement of the patiently waiting Mr. Canning did nothing to endear him to me.
He had a Toyoto Landcruiser, a tough-looking vehicle that bore the dents and scratches of a good many rides through the bush. Mr. Canning threw our baggage into one of the rear seats and me into the seat beside him.
“You’d better hang on,” he bade me. “As soon as we get out of Malindi we get to a murram surface and with all this rain we’re bound to slip around a bit.”
That, I thought, was the understatement of the day. Mr. Canning eased the Landcruiser into gear and we waved goodbye to the cheerful receptionist whose black face peered out at us through the open door. The road to Mombasa was now quite good, but we turned off almost immediately, going through some of the nearby villages with their unique houses ornamented with pieces of pottery and broken stones, stuck into the mud facing. People and animals swarmed round the market stalls, a bright chaos of colour and sound, that melted away before the oncoming vehicle.
The road fell to pieces soon after that. The red murram clay is excellent as a cheap surface material when it is dry, as it is for the majority of the time, but come the rains and it is just like driving over oil. Mr. Canning managed a great deal better than I should have done. As we slithered from side to side of the road, he pulled us neatly back into the centre without any apparent effort, keeping up a flow of small talk all the time as he did so.
We drove through fruit plantations, mangoes, oranges and lemons, and some cotton fields, and then through thickly wooded scrub that dies away into dry, silver thorn bushes, where some tall giraffes made their stately way across the road just ahead of us. About three hours after we had left Malindi we came to the first entrance to the Tsavo National Park and the askari in charge came running out to meet us.
He knew Mr. Canning well, as did all the game park wardens. Ramming his French-type kepi on to his head, he saluted smartly and invited us into his office. Mr. Canning went round to the back of the Landcruiser and opened a bottle of fizzy orangeade for all of us and we stood, leaning against the decorative wrought-iron rhinoceroses on the gates while we drank it. It was deliciously cool, straight out of the ice-box, and some of the heat and weariness from the long drive fell from me as I listened to the two men gossiping about the latest movements inside the Park.
“Are you going to Aruba?” the askari asked Mr. Canning.
“I thought we might stop off there for lunch,” he answered.
The African shook his head sadly. “They say the Hons have moved there and that they are hungry,” he said.
Mr. Canning was immediately interested. “How many?” he demanded.
But the askari didn’t know. He had heard that there were as many as twelve, and some said even more. “It is the Old Man amongst them. This one is not content with a few wives to hunt for him.”
“But surely, if he’s old—” I said.
Hugo Canning laughed. “It’s the old story of the dominant male!” he teased me. “This one has the cunning of all his kind. I saw him once, a handsome beast, unscarred by any battles. Even the other males are moving in under his protection, bringing their families to feed their young properly, and then we shall have trouble.”
“But the more there are in a pride, surely the more there are to go hunting?” I suggested.
“That’s true, up to a point,” he agreed. “The lion pride is the best adapted hunting system there is in the animal world. It’s run by the male, who usually hunts in the centre of the line, making the females hunt the animals across him. From that position, he can organise everything that’s going on. But he rarely kills himself. He leaves that to the female. But as soon as the prey is dead, it’s he who eats first, then the other males, then the females, and last of all the young. When the pride gets too big, by the time the adults have fed there’s nothing left for the young and they starve to death. No fully gorged adult is going to kill again, even for her own kittens.”
I knew that such dominance was necessary in the lion’s social life, but my heart bled for the hungry young that came last to the feast.
“And is twelve too many?” I asked quickly.
“It can be,” he said.
The askari finished his orangeade with a flourish and opened the gates to let the Landcruiser through. “You will find them by the Aruba dam,” he said certainly. “Yesterday there was a dead buffalo in the water, killed by lions, and Dedan has seen their spore nearby. He told me, when he came for your letters.”
Mr. Canning smiled and thanked him. “We’ll go and take a look while we’re having lunch,” he said.
And so it was on a note of some excitement that we entered the Park, driving at a great pace down the freshly cleared dirt track towards Aruba.
CHAPTER TWO
The rains from the coast had not yet reached Tsavo. Dust clung to the leaves of the plants which were themselves burned brown by the relentless sun. Behind us, as we travelled along the road, a cloud of dust billowed out adding a thick coating that lay over everything. Above was the fiery globe of the sun, beating down on the canvas and metal roof of the Landcruiser. There was no wind at all.
Travelling along the road, there were few animals to be seen. The heat had driven them to find what shade they could. Thin elephants, red with dust, huddled together under the shade of a tree, flapping their large ears to fan their neighbours and to keep the insects away, but otherwise I saw nothing more than the occasional buck fleeing away from the approaching vehicle.
I wound down the window beside me as far as it would go
, enjoying the hot wind generated by the movement of the car.
“Is it always like this?” I asked Mr. Canning.
“I’m afraid it’s a sticky kind of day,” he answered. “I’d like to tell you that it will be cooler at Aruba when we stop for lunch, but I’m afraid it won’t be!”
I smiled reluctantly. “It doesn’t matter,” I said quickly.
“I imagine the rain is on its way,” he went on. “Sometimes one can almost feel the clouds gathering.”
He was right when he said it would be no cooler at Aruba. The roads in Tsavo have beautifully made roundabouts at all the intersections, on which are written the various places of interest and the mileage from where one is. At one of these, we turned off on to a different road and came immediately to the artificial lake with its well built dam and the permanent camping site that is available to visitors. We rattled our way across the cattle barrier that effectively kept the wild animals out of the enclosure and came to a stop under a tall, spreading tree.
“Would you like to go and sit in the shade?” Mr. Canning suggested. “I’ll bring the lunches over.”
I went over to where he had pointed, where a lattice-roofed verandah hung on to the side of the main building, where there was a shop, some toilets, and an office where one could hire bedding if one was staying the night. There was a table and a few chairs carefully placed to be in the maximum shade from the creepers that spread over the lattice work. It was a charming place. At one time a few mud huts had provided the only shelter, but these had now been taken away and replaced by square brick shelters that provided everything the camper could possibly need. Beyond lay the lake where the animals came in every evening to drink. I screwed up my eyes to see if
there was anything there now, but only a few wart-hogs were dashing hither and thither, their tails raised high over their backs. Of the lions there was no sign.
Mr. Canning strolled over to the edge of the compound, his hands in his pockets. For a long moment he stared out across the lake, then he turned and came slowly back to the Landcruiser and brought the two lunch-boxes over to where I was sitting.
“Are they there?” I asked him.
He looked at me almost sternly. “I think so,” he grunted. “I’ll take a closer look in a minute.”
I was pleased. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than a couple of lions at one time,” I confided. “I can hardly wait!”
“You’d better get your camera ready!” he snorted.
I wasn’t in the least put out. “It may be every day to you, living here,” I retorted, “but for me it’s a whole new world!”
He opened his lunch-box, flicking back the lid with his forefinger and studying the contents with all the gravity of a judge. “With Harry deJong as your father?” he drawled.
I nearly dropped the egg I was eating. “He’s a farmer,” I burst out.
“I know,” he said calmly.
“Well then,” I went on, “cattle and sheep are about the only animals he knows anything about.”
“That’s all you know!” Mr. Canning told me. I waited for him to go on, but he merely sat there, eating his sandwiches with an abstracted air.
“So?” I prompted him.
He was plainly surprised by my interest. “It was some story that someone once told me,” he said mildly. “I remembered the name, that’s all.”
“That’s all!” I repeated. “Mr. Canning—”
‘You’d better call me Hugo,” he grinned at me.
I swallowed. “Don’t you know that you’ve had Kate and me at fever pitch of curiosity ever since you first asked me if Harry deJong is my father?”
He looked amused. “Of course,” he answered calmly. “Well, then?”
“It probably happened before you were born,” he teased me. He laughed openly at the mutinous expression on my face. “I should have thought you would have known! It was when all the farmers were driving all the wild animals off their land up your way. It was Harry deJong who realised that it was the elephants who made the drinking places for all the other animals in dry weather. They chum up the dry river beds, making waterholes. Without them, he would have had to lay on water for all his cattle. So he took a couple of men with him and turned a small herd of elephants back on to his farm at the foot of the escarpment. It was one of the first examples of practical ecology I ever heard about.”
I couldn’t help wondering why it was that I had never heard about it, but I had never heard my father even mention such an adventure.
“Was that really enough to change your mind about me?” I asked, astonished.
“Not entirely,” he said in a voice that brooked no further questions. He picked up his field-glasses, leaned back in his chair, and casually observed the dam behind the lake. “They’re there all right,” he said at last. “Want to have a look?”
I accepted the binoculars eagerly, wondering at my own excitement. I had to adjust the lens to fit my eyes, but as the vision cleared I caught sight of something moving and leaned forward with a small gasp of emotion. “There are lots of them!” I exclaimed.
“Mmm. We’ll find out exactly how many afterwards.”
“I don’t believe there can be as many as twelve, though,” I observed.
Hugo shrugged. “You can’t possibly tell from here,” he rebuked me. “Hurry up and finish your lunch. I want to get going.”
I swallowed down the last of the cake from my box and began to peel the small orange that was still inside. The thin skin was bright green and there were almost as many pips as there was fruit inside, but it was sweet and full of flavour and I had no intention of hurrying over my enjoyment of it.
Hugo watched me with increasing impatience. I pretended not to notice, but it wasn’t easy, for I was aware of his every movement. He was that kind of man. When at last I had finished, he was already on his feet, pulling the safari hat he wore down over his eyes against the glare. I plonked my own cloth hat on the back of my head and retreated behind enormous dark glasses that I had bought in a highly fashionable boutique in Nairobi.
“My word!” said Hugo.
I grinned. “They’re the last word, aren’t they?” I said.
“The bitter end!” he retorted.
Undismayed, I screwed up the now empty lunch-boxes and stowed them away in the trash bin. A blue-necked lizard froze on the wall beside me. I looked at it with interest, noting the green, gold, and bright yellow colouring that marked its back. Then, with a sudden scurry, it was gone. I could feel Hugo’s eyes on the back of my neck and, with a sigh, I made my way back to the Landcruiser and climbed into the front seat.
“Ready?” Hugo asked with a touch of sarcasm.
I maintained a dignified silence, which was ruined only by the fact that he didn’t appear to notice. We started off with a sudden jolt and my dark glasses slipped down my nose. I thought that Hugo smiled, but if he did, he quickly suppressed it, and I busied myself with waving goodbye to the three or four wardens who sat gossiping in the shade. They waved lazily back, hardly moving a muscle.
“Why didn’t you ask them about the lions?” I asked suddenly.
He looked a trifle embarrassed. “I thought we might as well have a look for ourselves,” he muttered.
I thought about it for a moment. “Good idea!” I said.
We exchanged triumphant glances and I thought with a sense of shock, This is Hugo Canning! But I didn’t freeze with fright as I would have done that morning and I was quite worried that I didn’t. If things went on like this, I would end up by liking Hugo.
He drove straight down to the lake. The family of warthogs moved away in a flurry of indignation, slipping and sliding through the mud. A dead buffalo had been dragged half into the water, the stink from its decaying body filling the air.
“Did the lions do that?” I asked, awed. It was the first time I had ever been only a few feet away from a buffalo and I was disconcerted by its size. From a distance they looked so very like the domestic cattle the
y are so like, except for the thick spread of their horns across their foreheads, that I had imagined them to be very much the same size. But this beast was enormous.
Hugo cast an indifferent look over the stinking carcass. “It was killed by lions all right,” he confirmed.
“Oh,” I muttered inadequately.
“What’s the matter? Shocked?” he pressed me.
“N-no,” I said. But I was not so sure. There was something shocking about the death of the great beast, brought low by what must have been a savage attack and a rather horrid end.
“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he comforted me. “Things that are natural seldom are. We had a warden who was taken by a lion and who later escaped. He said he wasn’t even frightened at the time. He felt quite indifferent—”
“I don’t believe it!” I burst out.
“You can,” he assured me. “The warden in question is a truthful man.”
There is no arguing in the face of certainty, so I swallowed my doubts and turned my attention to other matters. There is a certain distinction in being the first to spot any animal for which one is looking, and I was determined that, as far as these lions were concerned, it would be I who saw them first.
I was not disappointed. As my eyes swept the green belt that surrounded the dam, a lioness stretched herself lazily and flopped down again in the shade of her chosen tree.