by Wilbur Smith
‘I’ll go as a simple civilian, all things considered,’ Gerhard remarked.
‘Probably just as well.’ Saffron opened another letter, addressed solely to her, looked at it for a few seconds and then said, ‘Well now, what have we here . . .?’
They were sitting at their breakfast table on the verandah, overlooking the watering hole. Gerhard was about to refill his cup of coffee. He paused and looked inquiringly at Saffron.
‘Ronald Stannard has written to me,’ she said. ‘His letter goes as follows. “Dear Mrs Courtney Meerbach . . .” God, I wish he’d stop being so formal and just call me Saffron. I know he’s being polite, but . . .’
She gave a sigh.
‘“I believe I mentioned that there are a few of us here, mostly the younger types, who agree with you about the need to do something about the way the campaign against the Mau Mau is being conducted. But we also want the Mau Mau to be defeated, and we certainly don’t want to do anything that might look like a betrayal of our country. So how to do one thing, without the other?”’
‘That’s a very fair question,’ said Gerhard, stirring some milk into the cup he had just filled with coffee. ‘And I know exactly how Stannard and his young friends must feel. It’s exactly how any decent German felt, too. And, my darling, you must be careful, too. If you are seen to be going to war against your own community, it won’t do you any good, and it won’t help your cause either, no matter how just it is.’ He sipped his drink and asked, ‘How do you think this will end?’
‘You mean the fight against the Mau Mau? We’ll win, of course. It’ll take a while, but in the end, we’ll just have too much power for them to have any chance of beating us.’
‘Yes, but after that . . . What happens then?’
‘Oh, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Kenya will get its independence. It has to. Once the people have made it clear that they won’t put up with being ruled by us, the game’s up. And the silly thing is, deep down, everyone knows it. I mean, once India proved that it’s possible to leave the empire, well, it was only a matter of time.’
‘And if the country gains its independence, who will lead it?’
‘Kenyatta, I think, if we haven’t killed him first.’
‘And will he be a good leader?’
‘Who knows? But he’s certainly clever, and quite wise, too, I think, which is a different thing. Put it this way, Kenya could do a lot worse.’
‘And he has some respect for your family, right?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then here is my advice. Do nothing now. Let history take its course. And when a new Kenya is born, then you, with all the wealth and status of your family behind you, can serve this country best, by putting that privilege to good use.’
‘If I do, will you help me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll think about it, though I warn you now that “do nothing” has never been my style. But anyway, can I finish poor Stannard’s letter?
‘“We have at least done our best to make De Lancey’s life as miserable as possible, though it sadly won’t do anything to rescue the people he mistreats. But, on a brighter note, I do hope you will come to the governor’s garden party. There is someone I would very much like you to meet. I believe he is the single most interesting and impressive individual on our side in the war, and I know for a fact that he’s eager to meet you and pick your brains. Until then, Yours sincerely, R. Stannard.”’
‘Well, that’s intriguing,’ said Gerhard. ‘We should certainly attend the party.’
‘Will you mind if I desert you in favour of Kenya’s finest cricketer?’
‘Not at all. Will you mind if I bask in the adoration of women who find fighter pilots devilishly attractive, even enemy ones?’
‘Pah! They wouldn’t dare go near you. They’re all terrified of making me angry.’
‘I know how they feel,’ replied Gerhard, laughing.
Saffron threw a bread roll at him. Gerhard caught it one-handed.
‘Pass me the butter,’ he said calmly, as if she had been politely handing the roll to him. ‘And the honey, please.’
‘You really are the most awful, beastly Hun,’ Saffron said, though her tone was as much an invitation as an accusation.
‘Come here.’
She walked around the table and sat on Gerhard’s lap. He wrapped his arm around her.
‘Why don’t we go to Nairobi the night before the reception?’ he said. ‘Leave the children here with Nanny.’
‘Mmmm . . .’ she purred.
‘Let’s stay at the New Stanley, the best suite – it will be quieter than the Muthaiga.’
‘And more private.’
‘By the time we go to the reception, we’ll know why nobody else could ever tempt us.’
‘I take it back,’ Saffron said, giving Gerhard a quick kiss. ‘You’re quite a sweet old Hun, really.’
Prudence De Lancey was furious.
‘You promised me we were going to the governor’s garden party!’ she shouted, her voice rising in pitch. She was pacing up and down the floor of their cramped kitchen, on the very edge of bursting into tears. ‘You said it was absolutely a done deal. Those were your exact words – weren’t they?’
De Lancey was sitting at the kitchen table. He had been expecting his wife to serve his supper. Instead, he was having to put up with this hysterical tirade. He said nothing.
‘Didn’t you?’ Prudence repeated. ‘Answer me, damn it!’
‘Yes, dear,’ he said, only able to restrain the urge to hit her because he was so exhausted by a twelve-hour day of non-stop interrogations. Now he was the one getting the third degree.
‘Well, why haven’t we got an invitation, then? Tell me that. The Murchisons have got theirs – I know because Bella told me. And the Stanley-Wrights. Oh God, now I’m going to have to put up with another bloody year of that stuck-up cow Muriel lording it over me.’
‘It’s only a party . . .’
Prudence came up to the table, directly opposite her husband, put her arms down on its surface and leaned forward.
‘No, it’s not “just a party”.’ Her voice was quieter now, absolutely controlled, and that unsettled De Lancey far more than the screaming had done. ‘Don’t you see? That bloody party is one day in my stinking, godforsaken life when I can forget that I live in this ghastly, godforsaken flea-bitten corner of Africa and actually behave like a civilised human being. I know you don’t understand why it matters to me to have my hair done, and put on a nice dress and make civilised conversation. I know you think it’s just me being a stupid empty-headed woman . . .’
De Lancey was quite shocked to discover how completely his wife understood the way his mind worked.
‘. . . but it’s not that at all. It’s me trying to live like a civilised human being for one short afternoon. Just one time when I don’t spend every minute of every hour wondering how I can get back home.’ She let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I thought Bexhill-on-Sea was a boring little provincial backwater. I thought I wanted to see the world. What a silly fool I was.’
Prudence reached into the oven and pulled out a plate on which lay a leathery piece of liver, two boiled potatoes and a spoonful of canned peas.
‘There’s your supper,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a walk. With any luck I’ll run into the Mau Mau and they can put me out of my misery.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ De Lancey muttered under his breath.
The whole miserable scene had been typical of his wife. All that bloody woman cared about was herself, with never a thought for him. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried.
When the other chaps at the Muthaiga started joking about how excited their memsahibs were over the little bits of cardboard now proudly displayed on their mantelpieces, De Lancey had realised he’d missed out.
He’d telephoned McLaurin, not once but three times. On the first call, McLaurin had told him there was nothing to worry abo
ut, it would all be sorted out. On the second, he’d said that he couldn’t help: ‘Not my line of country, old boy.’ And on the third, he’d slammed the door for good.
‘Look here,’ McLaurin had said. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense. So I’ll tell you the state of play. You’re not on the invitation list, and that’s final. As it happens, we senior chaps are all supposed to submit the names of people we think deserve an invitation, and your name was among those I submitted. I did my bit, though precious little thanks I’m getting for it. But someone saw fit to blackball you. From what I can gather, you’ve upset certain . . . how can one put this? . . . influential members of our community. They feel that you’re just a bit too robust in your approach to interrogating the darkies.’
‘It’s that bastard Courtney, isn’t it?’ De Lancey snapped. ‘Arrogant shit. He’s been trying to do me down for more than twenty years.’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly comment. Now, this conversation is over and this subject is closed. Good day, De Lancey.’
McLaurin had hung up, leaving De Lancey feeling utterly deflated. In the past few weeks he had increasingly felt as though he had done something to offend someone. But he didn’t know who that might be, or what he had done. Two of his colleagues, who certainly delivered fewer confessions than he did, had received promotions, pay rises and commendations, while he got nothing. Out of the blue, he’d been getting endless forms from Government House, each to be completed in triplicate, followed by a request to detail every piece of expenditure that his unit had generated for the past two years, with full receipts. As if these hellish, Herculean labours were not enough to deal with, De Lancey had just been informed that he was to be transferred, without the slightest explanation, to a different screening centre, far from home.
All in all, things were not going well for Quentin De Lancey. As he sat disconsolately at the kitchen table, trying to separate the few bits of edible liver from the excessive amount of gristly veins, he searched for someone to blame for his misfortune. And the answer came soon enough. Hell, McLaurin had as good as given it to De Lancey himself.
On their way from London to Schloss Meerbach, a few months earlier, Saffron and Gerhard had stopped off in Paris, to relive the memory of their first visit in April 1939, when they were young and first in love.
Lying in bed one morning Saffron had said, ‘You know how I’ve always hated the idea of being a spoiled little rich girl . . .?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Gerhard had grunted, rubbing his eyes and, as he did so, feeling his stubble rasp against his palms. He tried to focus on the bedside clock, saw it was half-past eight and groaned softly. He and Saffron had celebrated their return to the City of Light with a splendid dinner, washed down by champagne, fine wine and more than one postprandial cognac. Various after-dinner activities had then kept them both wide awake into the early hours. Gerhard was feeling the after-effects and suspected that he looked as rough as he felt. His wife, on the other hand, looked as fresh and bright-eyed as a teetotaller after twelve hours’ sleep.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have a confession to make. I’m about to do something very spoiled and self-indulgent.’
‘Really?’ Gerhard said, reaching for the bedside phone and dialling room service. He needed coffee, fast.
‘Yes, really . . . I made an appointment to see Monsieur Dior this afternoon. He’s going to make me some dresses. Do you mind?’
‘Deux pots de café, s’il vous plaît, avec du lait chaud et du sucre . . . merci,’ Gerhard said, speaking into the phone. He put the handset back onto the receiver and looked back at Saffron. ‘Why would I mind? If there’s one thing in the world I know about, it’s good design. Dior is a genius. You deserve to wear his clothes.’
So, while Gerhard went on a tour of his favourite pieces of Parisian architecture, Saffron had spent the afternoon having every inch of her body measured, examining one beautiful fabric after another and, above all, talking to Christian Dior about the clothes that he was going to create for her.
‘Ahh, it will be my pleasure, Madame Meerbach,’ he had sighed, looking her up and down. ‘Such perfect, long limbs, such a slender waist, such an adorable bosom . . . and eyes the colour of an African sky. What beauty!’
Three months later a package had arrived at Nairobi airport. It contained three outfits: a black silk cocktail dress, a charcoal grey woollen skirt suit (‘Just in case I ever have to attend another board meeting,’ Saffron had told Gerhard), and the dress she was wearing to the governor’s garden party.
It was an apparently simple, almost girlish design: fitted over the bust and torso, then flowing out into a gathered skirt that was long enough to cover Saffron’s knees, while still revealing her coltish calves and slender ankles to their very best advantage. But the white silk chiffon fabric, printed with big, pink watercolour roses, was so fine that it felt weightless, and the cutting was so precise that the dress fitted Saffron like a second skin, without constricting her in the slightest.
‘I’ve never seen you look more beautiful,’ Gerhard said, as Saffron placed a little straw boater coquettishly on the back of her head. Its band was made of the same fabric as the dress, tied in a little bow. Her gloves were white. Her shoes were a very pale pink, picking up the colour of the roses.
She looked at her man, in his pale grey bespoke suit, sky-blue shirt and dark blue knitted silk tie and smiled.
‘You’re a handsome devil, yourself . . . Now, let’s stop fancying ourselves and get to that bloody party.’
‘Here we go, darling. Wish me luck,’ Saffron said to Gerhard as she spotted Ronald Stannard waving to her across the giant marquee that had been erected on the lawn of Government House. She smiled back and the young colonial official took this as a signal to make his way to them.
‘How good of you to come, Mrs Courtney Meerbach.’ Stannard looked at Gerhard and added, ‘Mr Meerbach.’
‘Good to see you, Stannard,’ Gerhard replied, shaking Stannard’s hand. ‘I’ll leave you both to it.’
Saffron blew Gerhard a kiss, then turned her attention to Stannard. He looked, as ever, like a man not cut out for life in the tropics. His linen suit was crumpled, his face was glowing pink in the heat of the crowded tent and thin, damp strands of hair lay pasted across the crown of his head.
‘I’m so glad you came. There’s a chap I’d like you to meet. He knows more about the Mau Mau than any white man in Kenya.’
Stannard looked around the marquee, spotted his target and gave another wave, this time of summons. A man about twenty yards away grinned in acknowledgement and began making his way through the crowd, smiling politely as he cut a path between one little knot of guests and another, ignoring the looks he was getting, which ranged from startled surprise to undisguised hostility, as he passed.
Saffron knew that it was rude, not to mention undignified, to stare, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the man. For one thing, he was almost the only black man in the entire marquee who wasn’t one of the servants. And for another, he was one of the most beautiful human beings she had ever seen in her life.
He was tall, an inch or two over six feet, by Saffron’s estimation, dressed in the police uniform of khaki shirt, shorts and socks, with brown lace-up shoes. It was an outfit that made even the most handsome white man look like an overgrown Boy Scout. Yet on this African paragon it seemed as elegant as the finest Savile Row tailoring, perfectly designed to set off his broad shoulders, deep chest, lean abdomen and long, well-muscled legs. The sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and the long line of medals across his left breast only added to the effect.
If Michelangelo had ever seen you, Saffron thought, he’d have told David to hop it, your services are no longer required.
The man’s face was worthy of his body. His skin was a rich coffee brown and his head was shaved, emphasising the elegance of his forehead, which was smooth and lustrous, unsullied by the slightest furrow or wrinkle. He had high cheekbon
es which seemed to angle across his face in perfect parallel with the clean-cut line of his jaw. His nose was straight, its nostrils slightly flared above a mouth whose lower lip was full, while the upper was shaped like a wide, shallow bow.
At rest these lips looked sensual, brooding, almost pouting, and his dark eyes had a slightly narrowed, penetrating gaze. But when he smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth, his eyes lit up, creasing to either side and a youthful, almost cheeky side to his character revealed itself.
Saffron seldom felt vulnerable, let alone helpless, but she was suddenly very aware of the delicate femininity of her dress, the frivolity of her little hat and the very obvious vigour and strength of the man walking towards her.
Get a grip, girl, she told herself, feeling her pulse racing as his eyes met hers and began their own examination. You could get yourself into serious trouble here.
Stannard knew a great deal more about cricket than he did about sex, and seemed entirely oblivious to the electricity crackling in the air.
‘Mrs Courtney Meerbach, may I introduce Sergeant Maku Makori of the Kenyan Police? Sergeant, this is Saffron Courtney Meerbach.’
They shook hands. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.’ Makori’s handshake was confident and his good manners contained no shred of servility, nor any hint of inequality. This was plainly a man of dignity and self-respect. ‘Mr Stannard has told me something about you,’ he added. ‘It made me curious to know more.’
Saffron gave a little laugh, which, she realised, sounded a lot more nervous than she had intended.
‘Goodness, Ronald, what have you been saying?’
‘Oh, well, ah . . .’
Stannard was blushing furiously and Saffron had to suppress a giggle when she caught Makori’s eye and spotted his evident amusement at the other man’s floundering.
‘Mr Stannard was kind enough to tell me a little about your war work,’ Makori said, rescuing the situation. ‘It sounded very impressive.’
‘No more so than yours, Sergeant,’ Saffron said, feeling more at ease now. ‘Am I right in thinking that I can see a Distinguished Conduct Medal among your gongs?’