Legacy of War

by Wilbur Smith

  They returned to Cresta, freshened up and were flown by Gerhard to the Lusima Estate House for lunch with Leon and Harriet.

  The meal was a convivial one, for Centaine and Leon were cousins as well as old friends and Harriet, as always, made an occasion planned with military precision seem effortless. Mpishi excelled himself and was summoned from the kitchen to accept the diners’ congratulations. It was shortly before three in the afternoon when they finally got down from the table. Saffron, Gerhard, Centaine and Shasa had been on the go for more than nine hours; the two South African members of the party were recovering from a day and a half in the air and Leon had served a succession of excellent wines with the meal. A number of loungers had been set up on the terrace, shaded by a large umbrella, and soon four contented guests were snoozing the afternoon away. Gerhard flew them back to Cresta in time for Shasa to take him up for a quick joyride in the Mosquito, with the promise that he would let Gerhard have a go in the pilot’s seat the following afternoon.

  After a light supper, followed by a few hands of bridge, they retired to bed. As she lay next to Gerhard, on the point of falling asleep, Saffron murmured, ‘I think that went well, don’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Gerhard agreed.

  ‘Now, if all goes according to plan in Nairobi tomorrow, we should be set to get down to business over dinner tomorrow.’

  ‘Uh,’ Gerhard grunted.

  Saffron took that as a ‘yes’, rolled over and was out within seconds.

  The following morning, the weather was perfect: cloudless skies with a warm sun. On the flight from the Cresta airstrip to Nairobi, Gerhard took the scenic route, flying parallel to the western escarpment of the Rift Valley and then the unique double crater, one ring within another, of Mount Suswa. They landed at Nairobi aerodrome to find a car and driver waiting for them, as Saffron had planned. Her intention was to show her guests the poverty of the Kikuyu people living in the city, and the work being done to improve the lives of humble folk by two young Kenyans of noble birth.

  ‘Play your cards right and I wouldn’t be surprised if cousin Centaine makes a donation on the spot,’ Saffron had told Benjamin and Wangari when she was arranging the visit. ‘She can afford it.’

  She was only in her early thirties, but the drive to the clinic made Saffron feel ancient. She could remember the days, in the twenties, when Nairobi had been no bigger than a provincial English market town and felt like one too. The streets bore British names, the municipal buildings were constructed as if they were in Essex, rather than East Africa, and the only black faces on the streets belonged to the servants of the white population.

  Over the past quarter century, more and more black Kenyans had been forced off their land, or been unable to get work in the ever-diminishing areas of the country that were still assigned to the native population. They had moved to the city in search of employment and established a swathe of shanty towns to the east of colonial Nairobi.

  The roads were unpaved, there were no proper drains, let alone sewers, and the people lived in an urban equivalent of the huts they had left behind. Mud and thatch were replaced by seemingly random combinations of wooden planks, corrugated iron, steel scaffolding tubes and canvas sheeting. Women walked the streets carrying their possessions, or the goods they hoped to sell at market, on their heads.

  The clinic was near the Burma Market, a place most white people regarded as a den of thieves, ruled by gangsters and terrorists. As Saffron drove past the market, she saw stallholders standing guard over great haunches of beef, goat and wild game-meat that hung from the wooden frameworks of their stalls. Small children played on the dusty, filthy paths that ran between the houses and the market stalls. Tradesmen and their customers haggled over piles of fruit and vegetables, fresh from Kikuyu farms, or bolts of brightly patterned cotton, or strings of glittering beads.

  The driver pulled up outside one of the few solid buildings in the area, a bungalow surrounded by a verandah. In the days when this was open country, some settler had built it as his farmhouse. Benjamin and Wangari had bought it, with help from Saffron. She had also agreed to contribute around half the clinic’s monthly running costs, and persuaded Gerhard and Leon to provide additional funds.

  The farmhouse had been converted to provide a waiting room, a medical dispensary and consulting rooms for Benjamin and Wangari at the front of the building. One of the former bedrooms had been turned into a three-bed inpatients’ ward; another served as the office from which the operation was run. A few rooms at the back of the house had become the cramped, but clean and serviceable apartment in which they lived.

  It was obvious at once that the services Benjamin and Wangari were providing were desperately needed. A line of people ran the length of the verandah as Saffron led the others into the building, and the waiting room was packed. Benjamin poked his head around the door of his consulting room to summon his next patient, saw Saffron, said, ‘Hello, with you in a minute,’ and disappeared again as his next patient went in to see him.

  Saffron waved a greeting to the Indian pharmacist, his wife and daughter, who ran the dispensary that doled out the medicines prescribed by Benjamin and paid for largely by the Courtney family. She knocked on the door of Wangari’s office.

  Wangari emerged, closing the door behind her. Her belted, khaki linen shirt dress was freshly laundered, crisply ironed and had clearly been an expensive purchase. But Saffron saw that the colour was faded and some of the buttons that ran from the neckline down to the hem of the skirt were mismatches: replacements for originals lost along the way. In days gone by, her father would have long since bought her a new dress. But the last time they had spoken, Wangari had made it plain that, with his opposition to her marriage to a Maasai as strong as ever, there was no chance of help of any kind from him. She was therefore obliged to make do and mend. Her hair, likewise, was no longer straightened and styled in Nairobi’s finest salons, but simply gathered up in a brightly coloured cotton scarf. But as Wangari had said to Saffron, ‘I don’t care a bit about the money. It’s my daddy that I miss.’

  The two women exchanged kisses. Gerhard said, ‘It’s good to see you again, Wangari,’ and then Saffron introduced Centaine and Shasa.

  ‘Benjamin’s with a patient,’ she added. ‘He said he’d be out in a mo. Why don’t you tell us about your legal work, while we’re waiting?’

  ‘Of course,’ Wangari replied. ‘Let’s go into my office, it’s a little quieter.’ As they followed her in, she added, ‘I wish I could offer you all a cup of coffee, but I’m afraid we don’t have that sort of thing. Every single penny we have goes on essential supplies. I don’t even have enough chairs for you all. But I’d be happy to get some water, if anyone would like.’

  ‘Please, don’t go to any trouble,’ said Centaine. ‘I can see that you are busy enough as it is. Tell me, what do your clients need from you?’

  ‘Well, it used to be mostly about resolving disputes. For example, neighbours fighting over a boundary would come here and I’d try to help them broker an agreement. Or if people came with legal problems, I’d explain their rights and, if needs be, put them in touch with solicitors’ practices that could pursue legal action, because I’m not yet qualified to represent them in court myself. But recently . . . Well, it’s very different now . . .’

  ‘How so?’ Centaine asked.

  ‘It’s the uprising . . . The people who come to me are caught in the crossfire between the Mau Mau and the government. The terrorists will stop at nothing to keep ordinary Kikuyu men and women under their control. And the authorities have thrown away every principle of British justice. Habeas corpus, the right to a fair trial, freedom from police brutality – absolutely everything’s been ditched in their determination to lock up anyone they suspect of the slightest contact with the Mau Mau.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just absurd!’ Shasa objected, and Saffron was surprised, even shocked by the anger in his voice. ‘This is just propaganda, put about by
Commie agitators.’

  ‘Shasa!’ Saffron exclaimed. ‘Really!’

  ‘No, I understand. No one likes to hear the truth about their own people,’ Wangari replied.

  Shasa ignored her. He had turned his fire elsewhere.

  ‘And you’re involved in this, are you, Saffron? Spending hard-earned Courtney money?’

  ‘And von Meerbach money,’ Gerhard pointed out, with studied amiability. ‘Worth every penny, too.’

  Before Shasa could reply, Benjamin came in through the office door. Saffron saw Wangari flash him a quick look, at which Benjamin cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention and said, ‘I hope I’m not interrupting. But I’ve only got a few spare minutes. Perhaps I could give everyone a guided tour of our medical facilities?’

  ‘Excellent idea!’ Saffron was grateful for the interruption. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered to Wangari as they walked back out into the waiting room. ‘But is it true, then . . . are things that bad?’

  ‘Yes, but you have to see for yourself. Come back another day, and I will prove it to you.’

  They had just entered the inpatients’ room. Benjamin spoke to each of the patients in Swahili, for, as a Maasai, he was far from fluent in Kikuyu dialects. Saffron, Centaine and Shasa could understand every word, and even Gerhard had by now learned enough to be able to get the gist of what Benjamin was saying.

  In truth, though, it really wasn’t necessary to know that Mrs Kiprono was recovering from a severe bout of dysentery, or that Mr Cheruiyot had a heart condition, or that Benjamin had arranged for little Mary Jermutai to have her tonsils out at the Native Civil Hospital, to understand that Benjamin was born to be a doctor. He remembered everyone’s names without needing to check their notes, was entirely genuine in his concern for them, but was also quite firm in his instructions.

  ‘You take your pills, like you’re supposed to,’ he told Mr Cheruiyot. ‘Or the next time you have a heart attack, it will be your last.’

  The scepticism on Cheruiyot’s wrinkled old face suggested that he was not entirely convinced, and Benjamin knew it.

  ‘I’m sure that Germans believe their doctors,’ he said to Gerhard, as they left the room. ‘But a lot of my patients, the old ones particularly, still cling to the old superstitions. He’d rather be seeing a witch doctor to get rid of the demon in his chest than take a white man’s medicine.’

  ‘Well, this man needs his lunch,’ said Shasa, making it only too plain that his interest in the clinic was at an end.

  ‘Darling, could you take everyone out to the car?’ Saffron said to Gerhard. Then she went back to Benjamin and Wangari.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Benjamin asked.

  ‘God knows,’ Saffron said. ‘But don’t worry, my faith in you is as strong as ever, and I know Gerhard feels the same. Now, Wangari, I’m going to be a little busy for a while. There’s a family matter to attend to. But when that’s done, I’ll come back and you can tell me the truth about what’s really going on. And I swear I will believe you.’

  They went into the centre of Nairobi for lunch, and it was not until Saffron and Centaine left the table to powder their noses in the privacy of the ladies’ room that Saffron was able to ask, ‘Why was Shasa like that at the clinic?’

  ‘Like what?’ Centaine replied.

  ‘You know what I mean. He was downright rude to me, and Wangari too. I’ve never known him like that.’

  Centaine sighed. ‘Tara has a clinic just like that one in a township near Cape Town.’

  ‘I know she does. That’s one of the reasons I thought you might be interested to see something like it here.’

  ‘You don’t understand, my dear. Shasa’s marriage is falling apart. Tara has become a Communist revolutionary.’

  ‘Surely not! I mean, I know she’s a bit of a lefty, but she’s not taking up arms against the capitalist state.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what she’s doing. The police have a file on her that contains enough allegations to get anyone less well-connected locked up in prison. She is very close to the most radical wing of the black freedom movement in South Africa.’ Centaine gave Saffron a meaningful look and repeated the words, ‘Very close.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ said Saffron. ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘Yes. I believe so. I have my own intelligence network. A woman in my position, with so many native workers, needs to know what the black leaders are thinking and doing. I haven’t discussed Tara’s activities with Shasa. He may not be aware of everything himself. But he must have his suspicions.’

  ‘It all makes sense now. Oh, hell! Today’s outing was the worst thing I could have thought of.’

  ‘You weren’t to know, my dear. Your intentions were good.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t think I’m really a Communist too. Or that I’m disloyal to my husband.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t. You’re liberal in your opinions, but you’re not a Communist. You’re too much of a Courtney for that! And you and Gerhard are either the world’s greatest actors or as happily married as any couple could be.’

  ‘The latter, thank God. But I suppose, from Shasa’s point of view, that makes matters worse. I mean, we remind him of what he doesn’t have.’

  ‘Yes, chérie, I dare say you do. But that is hardly your fault. Now, let’s rejoin the men before they think we’ve run away.’

  ‘Ah, there you are, my darling!’ Gerhard exclaimed when Saffron and Centaine returned to their table. ‘We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.’

  ‘We thought we’d let you two have some man-talk,’ said Centaine.

  ‘About aeroplanes,’ added Saffron.

  ‘How did you guess?’ asked Shasa.

  He laughed and it was such a natural expression of amusement, and so much like the boy she had first met nearly twenty years ago, that Saffron almost believed everything was all right again.

  ‘Do you know, Saffron, I’ve a mind to hate your husband,’ Shasa said that evening, before dinner at Cresta Lodge. ‘I mean, he seems like a nice enough fellow. He’s as good a German as they come. But I detest the bounder, and do you know why?’

  ‘No,’ said Saffron, not certain after the day’s events whether Shasa was being serious or not. He still wasn’t calling her ‘Saffy’. So she was nervous, asking him, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s too good a pilot.’

  Thank God, nothing to worry about, Saffron thought, doing her best to muster a laugh.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ Shasa went on, ‘the Mosquito is known for being tricky to fly. She’s like a high-bred racehorse – goes like the wind, but bloody temperamental. She’s particularly dicey if you’re not used to twin-engined planes. They’re not the same as single-engined ones, you see, a whole other kettle of fish.

  ‘Gerhard has spent his life flying planes with one engine. For all I know, he can’t even count to two. That made me a little edgy letting him sit in the pilot’s seat. Wasn’t sure whether I was risking my aircraft and my neck, both of which I value highly. I gave him a few words of advice, as an experienced Mosquito pilot to a novice.’

  ‘Much appreciated, old man,’ Gerhard interrupted.

  ‘We head down the runway. Gerhard takes off and, stone me, it was like he had been flying Mozzies all his life. Five minutes in, he turns to me and says, “Do you mind if I see how she manoeuvres?” “Be my guest,” I say. The next thing he’s flinging my poor crate around the sky like he’s got the Red air force on his tail. I mean, barrel-rolls, Immelmann turns, a split-S, a pitchback, high and low yo-yos . . . This may sound like gibberish to you ladies, but, Saffron, your husband is the best damn pilot I have ever encountered. Now I feel like I did the day you first arrived at Weltevreden and you went down the throat at me.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Gerhard.

  ‘It’s a polo expression,’ said Saffron. ‘It means charging at your opponent and daring them not to turn away before you do. Playing chick
en.’

  ‘I was almost sixteen,’ Shasa continued. ‘Three years later I was playing polo for South Africa in the Berlin Olympics. And I’d gone down the throat once in my life, to score a goal that won a tournament. But for a thirteen-year-old girl to do it to me—’

  ‘And you pulled away,’ said Saffron, only too happy to rub it in, twenty years later.

  ‘I did, because I didn’t want to kill you,’ said Shasa, not willing to concede a thing. ‘I was a well brought-up boy. I knew that killing one’s guests was bad form, particularly if they were younger and female.

  ‘My point is, I was furious at you for doing that to me, Saffy, but damn, I admired your guts and I’ve respected you ever since. Now your man has let me know that anything I can do in a plane, he can do better. I don’t like that. I am not a man who appreciates being beaten at anything, ever. But even so, I can’t deny it, Gerhard. You’re a hell of a pilot.’ Shasa raised his glass. ‘I salute you.’

  Oh, well done, my darling, Saffron thought. It was you that got Shasa back on side.

  There was a knock on the door and Wajid came in.

  ‘Cook is ready to serve, memsahib,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Wajid,’ Saffron replied. She took her cousin’s arm. ‘Would you be kind enough to lead me in?’

  Shasa smiled. ‘My great pleasure.’

  Gerhard took Centaine’s arm and in they went to eat.

  The two couples chatted for a while about their respective homes, in a light-hearted competition to determine which branch of the Courtney family had the most desirable residence. In the end it was agreed that the house at Weltevreden made the Lusima Estate House look like a humble cottage and Cresta a mere shack. Furthermore, the Kenyan Courtneys could not begin to compete with the Old Master paintings and museum-worthy antique furniture with which Centaine had decorated her home.