by Wilbur Smith
It banked around in a wide circle, appearing once more over the tops of the oaks, and she stood rigid with shock and her soul was riven by a silent scream of anguish as she watched again the shot-riddled yellow scoutplane trying to clear the great beech trees below the chateau of Mort Homme, its engine stuttering and missing.
Michael! She screamed his name in her head and it was like a blinding flash of agony as once again she watched his mortally wounded machine hit the top branches of the tall copper beech and cartwheel, wing over wing as it fell out of the air and struck the earth to collapse in a welter of broken struts and canvas. Again she saw the flames bloom like beautiful poisonous flowers and leap high from the shattered machine, and the dark smoke roll across the lawns towards her, and the body of the man in the open cockpit twist and writhe and blacken as the orange flames sucked upwards and the heat danced in glassy mirage and greasy black smoke and filled her ears with drumming thunder.
Michael! Her jaws were locked closed, her teeth aching at the pressure, and her lips were rimmed with the ice of horror so that the name could not escape from between them.
Then miraculously the image faded, and she saw instead the small blue machine settle sedately onto the green turf of the polo field, its tail dropping onto the skid, the engine beat dwindling to a polite burbling murmur as it swung around at the far end of the field and then taxied back towards the stand, the wings rocking slightly. It stopped below them and the engine cut out with a final hiccough of blue smoke from the exhausts.
The doors on each side of the cabin were flung open and out tumbled Shasa Courtney and his three grinning teammates. It amazed her that they had all crammed into that tiny cockpit.
,surprise, everybody! they howled. Surprise! Surprise! And there was laughter and applause and whistles and catcalls from the stand. An aircraft was still a marvelous novelty, able to attract the attention of even such a sophisticated gathering as this. Probably not more than one in five of them had ever flown in one, and this unexpected and noisy arrival had created an excited laughing mood so that the applause and comment was loud and raucous as Shasa led his team up to the prize table to accept the silver cup from General Smuts.
The pilot of the blue aircraft climbed out of the left-hand door, a stocky bald-headed figure, and Centaine glared at him venomously. She had not known that Jock Murphy included flying among his assorted accomplishments, but she determined that he would rue this prank. She had always done all she could to discourage Shasals interest in aircraft and flying, but it had been difficult. Shasa kept a photograph of his father in flying gear beside his bed and a replica of the SE5a fighter plane hung from the ceiling of his bedroom; over the last few years his questions about flying and his father's military feats had become more insistent and purposeful. She should have been warned by this, of course, but she had been so preoccupied, and it had never occurred to her that he might take to flying without consulting her.
Looking back, she realized that she had been deliberately ignoring the possibility, deliberately avoiding thinking about it, and now the shock was all the more unpleasant.
With the silver cup in his hands Shasa ended his short acceptance speech with the specific assurance: Finally, ladies and gentlemen, you might have thought that Jock Murphy was flying the Puss-Moth. He was not!
He wasn't even touching the controls, were you? He looked across at the bald-headed instructor, who shook his head in collaboration, 'There you are! Shasa gloated. You see, I have decided that I am going to be a flyer, just like my dad., Centaine did not join in the clapping and laughter.
As suddenly as they had arrived and transformed the life of Weltevreden the hundreds of guests had gone, leaving only the ruined turf of the polo ground, the litter and the mountains of empty champagne bottles and piles Of dirty linen in the laundry. Centaine was left also with a feeling of anticlimax. Her last flourish had been made, the last shot in her arsenal fired, and on the Saturday the mail ship docked in Table Bay and brought them an invited but unwelcome visitor.
Damn fellow reminds me of an undertaker standing in for a tax collector, Sir Garry buffed and took General Smuts off to the gunroom which he always used as a study when he visited Weltevreden. The two of them were immersed in the initial consultations for the biography and did not appear again until lunchtime.
The visitor came down to breakfast just as Centaine and Shasa arrived back from their early morning gallop, rosycheeked and starving.
He was examining the hallmarks on the silver cutlery as they entered the dining-room arm in arm through the double doors, laughing at one of Shasa's sallies. However, the mood was instantly shattered, and Centaine bit her lip and sobered when she saw him.
May I introduce my son, Michael Shasa Courtney. Shasa, this is Mr Davenport from London. How do you do, sir. Welcome to Weltevreden. Davenport looked at Shasa with the same appraising stare with which he had been examining the silver.
It means "well satisfied", Shasa explained. From the Dutch, you know, Weltevreden. Mr Davenport is from Sotheby's, Shasa. Centaine filled the awkward pause. He has come to advise me on some of our paintings and furniture. Oh, jolly good, Shasa enthused. 'Have you seen this, sir? Shasa pointed out the landscape in soft oils above the side board. It's my mother's favourite. Painted on the estate where she was born. Mort Homme near Arras. Davenport adjusted his steel-framed spectacles and leaned over the sideboard for a closer view so that his considerable stomach drooped into the salver of fried eggs and left a greasy splotch on his waistcoat.
Signed 1875, he said sombrely. His best period. It's by a chap called Sisley, Shasa volunteered helpfully, Alfred Sisley. He is quite a well-known artist, isn't he, Mater? Cheri, I think Mr Davenport knows who Alfred Sisley is. But Davenport wasn't listening.
We could get five hundred pounds, he muttered, and pulled a notebook from his inner pocket to make an entry.
A fine dusting of dandruff descended from his lank locks at the movement and sprinkled the shoulders of his dark suit.
Five hundred? Centaine demanded unhappily. I paid considerably more than that for it. She poured a cup of coffee, she had never taken to these huge English breakfasts, and carried it to the head of the table.
That is as maybe, Mrs Courtney. We had a better example of his work on auction only last month, "It Ecluded Marly", and it didn't reach the very modest reserve we placed on it.
Buyer's market, I'm afraid, very much a buyer's market. Oh don't worry, sir. Shasa piled eggs onto his plate and crowned them with a wreath of crispy bacon. It's not for sale. My mother would never sell it, would you, Mater? Davenport ignored him and carried his own plate to the vacant seat beside Centaine.
Now, the Van Gogh in the front salon is another matter, he told her as he launched into the smoked kippers with more enthusiasm than he had shown for anything since his arrival. With his mouth full he read from his notebook.
Green and violet wheatfield; furrows lead the eye to golden haloes around the huge orb of the rising sun high in the picture. He closed the book. There is quite a vogue for Van Gogh in America, even in this soft market. Can't tell whether it will last, of course, can't stand him myself, but I will have the picture photographed and send copies to a dozen of our most important clients in the United States. I think we can bank on four to five thousand pounds. Shasa had laid down his knife and fork and was staring from Davenport to his mother with a puzzled and troubled expression.
I think we should talk about this later, Mr Davenport, Centaine intervened hurriedly. I have set aside the rest of the day for you. But let us enjoy our breakfast now., The rest of the meal passed in silence, but when Shasa pushed his plate away, half finished, Centaine rose with him. Where are you going, cheri? The stables. The blacksmith is reshoeing two of my ponies. I'll walk down with you. They took the path along the bottom wall of the Huguenot vineyard, where Centaine's best wine grapes were grown, and around the back of the old slave quarters. Both of them were silent, Shasa waiting for her to speak, and Centai
ne trying to find the words to tell him. Of course, there was no gentle way of saying it and she had delayed too long already.
Her procrastination had only made it more difficult for her now.
At the gate of the stable yard she took his arm and turned him into the plantation. That man, she began, and then broke off and started again. Sotheby's is the foremost firm of auctioneers in the world. They specialize in works of art. I know, he smiled condescendingly. I'm not a complete ignoramus, Mater. She drew him down onto the oak bench that stood at the edge of the spring. Sweet crystal water burbled out of a tiny rocky grotto and splashed down amongst ferns and green moss-covered boulders into the brick-lined pool at their feet.
The trout in the pool, as long and as thick as Shasa's forearm, came nosing up to their feet, swirling hopefully for their feed.
Shasa, cheri. He has come here to sell Weltevreden for us. She said it clearly and loudly, and immediately the enormity of it came down upon her with the brutal force of a falling oak tree, and she sat numb and broken beside him, feeling herself shrinking and shrivelling, giving in at last to despair.
You mean the paintings? Shasa asked carefully.
Not just the paintings, the furniture, the carpets and the silver. She had to stop to draw breath and control the trembring of her lips. The chateau, the estate, your ponies, everything. He was staring at her, unable to comprehend it. He had lived at Weltevreden since he was four years old, as far back as he could remember.
Shasa, we have lost it all. I have tried since the robbery to hold it together. I was not able to do it. It's gone, Shasa.
We are selling Weltevreden to pay off our debts. There will be nothing left after that. Her voice was cracking again, and she touched her lips to still them before she went on. We aren't rich any more, Shasa. It's all gone. We are ruined, completely ruined. She stared at him, waiting for him to revile her, waiting for him to break as she was about to break, but instead he reached for her and after a moment the stiffness went out of her shoulders and she sagged against him and clung to him for comfort.
We are poor, Shasa, and she sensed him struggling to take it all in, trying to find words to express his confused feelings.
You know, Mater, he said at last, I know some poor people. Some of the boys at school, their parents are pretty hard-up, and they don't seem to mind too much. Most of them are jolly good chaps. It might not be too bad, once we get used to being poor., I'll never get used to it, she whispered fiercely. I will hate it, every moment of it.
And so will I, he said as fiercely. If only I were old enough, if only I could help you., She left Shasa at the blacksmith's shop and returned slowly, stopping often to chat with her coloured folk, the women coming to the stable doors of the cottages with their babies on their hips to greet her, the men straightening up from their labours, grinning with pleasure for they had become her family; to part with them would be more painful even than giving up her carefully accumulated treasures. At the corner of the vineyard she climbed over the stone wall and wandered between the rows of lovingly pruned vines on which the bunches of new grapes already hung weightily, green and hard as musket balls, floury with bloom, and she reached up and took them in her cupped hands as though it was a gesture of farewell and found that she was weeping.
She had been able to contain her tears while she had been with Shasa, but now she was alone, her grief and desolation overwhelmed her and she stood amongst her vines and wept.
Despair drained her and eroded her resolve. She had worked so hard, had been alone so long, and now in ultimate failure she was tired, so tired that her bones ached and she knew that she did not have the strength to start all over again. She knew she was beaten and that from now on her LIFE would be a sad and sorry thing, a grinding daily struggle to maintain her pride while she was reduced to the position of a mendicant. For dearly as she loved Garry Courtney, it would be his charity on which she must rely from now on and her whole being quailed at the prospect. For the very first time in her life she could find neither the will nor the courage to go on.
It would be so good to lie down and close her eyes; a strong desire came upon her, the longing for peace and silence.
I wish it was all over. That there was nothing, no more striving and worrying and hoping. The longing for peace became irresistible, filled her soul, obsessed her so that as she left the vineyard and entered the lane she quickened her step. It will be like sleeping, sleeping with no dreams. She saw herself lying on a satin pillow, eyes closed, tranquil and calm.
She was still in breeches and riding-boots, so she could lengthen her stride. As she crossed the lawns she was running, and she flung open the french doors to her study and, panting wildly, ran to her desk and tore open the drawer.
The pistols had been a gift from Sir Garry. They were in a fitted case of royal blue pigskin with her name engraved on a brass plaque on the lid. They were a matched pair, hand-made by Beretta of Italy for a lady, engraved with exquisite gold inlay and the mother-of-pearl butts were set with small diamonds from the H'ani Mine.
She selected one of the weapons and broke it open. The magazine was loaded, and she snapped it closed and cocked the slide. Her hands were steady and her breathing had eased.
She felt very calm and detached as she lifted the pistol, placed the muzzle to her temple and took up the slack in the trigger with her forefinger.
She seemed to be standing outside herself, looking on almost without emotion other than a faint remorse at the waste and a gentle sense of pity for herself.
Poor Centaine, she thought. What an awful way for it all to end. And she looked across the room at the gilt-framed mirror. There were tall vases set on each side of the glass filled with fresh long-stemmed yellow roses from the gardens, so that her image was framed within blooms as though she were laid out in her coffin and her face was pale as death.
I look like a corpse. She said it aloud, and at the words her longing for oblivion changed instantly to a sickening self-disgust. She lowered the pistol and stared at her image in the mirror, and saw the hot coals of anger begin to burn in her cheeks.
No, merde! she almost shrieked at herself. You don't get out of it that easily. She opened the pistol and spilled the brass-cased cartridges onto the carpet, threw the weapon onto the blotter and strode from the room.
The coloured maids heard the heels of her riding-boots cracking on the marbel treads of the circular staircase and lined up at the door to her suite, smiling happily and bobbing their curtseys.
Lily, you lazy child, haven't you run my bath yet? Centaine demanded, and the two maids rolled their eyes at each other. Then scampered to the bathroom in a convincing pantomime of obedience and duty while the pretty little second maid followed Centaine to her dressing-room picking up the clothing that she deliberately dropped on the floor as she went.
Gladys, you go and make sure Lily runs it deep and hot, she ordered, and the two of them were standing expectantly beside the huge marble tub as Centaine came through in a yellow silk robe and tested the water with one finger.
Lily, do you want to make soup out of me? she demanded, and Lily grinned happily. The water was exactly the right temperature and Centaine's question was acknowledgement of that, a private joke between them. Lily had the bath crystals ready and sprinkled a careful measure on the steaming water.
Here, give it to me, Centaine ordered, and emptied half the jar into the bath. No more half measures. Centaine watched the bubbles foam up over the rim of the tub and slide onto the marble floor with a perverse satisfaction, and the two maids dissolved into giggles at this craziness and fled from the room as Centaine threw off the robe and, gasping with the exquisite agony of the heat, settled chin deep in the foaming water. As she lay there, the image of the pearl-handled pistol reformed in her mind but she drove it forcefully away.
One thing you have never been, Centaine Courtney, is a coward, she told herself; and when she returned to her dressing-room she selected a dress of gay summer colours and
she was smiling as she came down the stairs.
Davenport and Cyril Slaine were waiting for her.
This is going to take a long time, gentlemen. Let us begin. Every single item in the huge mansion had to be numbered and described, the value estimated, the more important pieces photographed and everything entered laboriously in the draft catalogue. All this had to be completed before Davenport went back to England on the mail boat in ten days time. He would return in three months to conduct the actual sale.
When the time came for Davenport to leave, Centaine surprised them all when she announced her intention of accompanying him around the mountain to the mail ship dock, a duty which would normally have fallen to Cyril.
The sailing of the mail ship was one of the exciting events of the Cape Town social calendar, and the liner swarmed with passengers and the dozens of guests who had come to wish them bon voyage.
At the first class entry port Centaine checked the passenger list and found the entry under M': Malcomess, Mrs 1. Cabin A 16
f Miss T. Cabin A 17
Malcomess, Miss M. Cabin A 17
Blaine's family was sailing as planned. By agreement she had not seen him since the last day of the polo tournament, and surreptitiously she searched for him now through the smoking saloons and lounges of the liner's first class section.
She could not find him and realized that he was probably in Isabella's suite. The idea of their intimate seclusion galled her and she wanted desperately to go up to Cabin A 16 on the boat deck on the pretext of saying farewell to Isabella, but really to prevent Blaine being alone with her for another minute. Instead she sat in the main lounge and watched Mr Davenport demolishing pink gins, while she smiled and nodded at her acquaintances and exchanged banalities with those friends who paraded through the liner's public cabins determined to see and be seen.