by Wilbur Smith
‘Yes, but you know about disguising yourself as someone – and something – you are not. You know how it feels to be alone, surrounded by your foes. No one else in Kenya knows these things, and maybe you know things that I do not . . . things that might keep me alive.’ He paused. ‘I have a son, Jacob. I want him to have a father when he grows up.’
Saffron smiled. ‘Of course – I’d be happy to help in any way I can.’
‘Then start by coming on a patrol with me and my unit. Just a routine sweep through the woods.’
‘Ahh . . . I thought you were just asking for advice.’
Saffron sighed, frowning. Her instant, unthinking reaction to Makori’s suggestion had been an adrenalised shot of excitement. And now she was wrestling with something that she had been troubled by, ever since the showdown with Konrad: the realisation that the thrill of the chase and the danger to her life had excited, as much as scared her. Gerhard had emerged from the war with no desire to fight anyone ever again, until necessity had forced him to do so. But Saffron was different: the nearness of death made her feel all the more alive. She was addicted to that danger, she could no longer deny it. But her life was no longer the only one at risk.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I have a son, too, and a daughter. And I don’t want them to grow up without their mother, the way I had to do.’
‘I understand, Mrs Courtney Meerbach. It will just be a routine patrol, like a policeman on his beat. I will make sure you are kept safe, and I tell you this. Even if we never see a single Mau Mau, even if no guns are ever fired, you will learn more about what the war is really like than all these people at this party will ever know.’
Saffron knew that for all his good intentions, Makori could not guarantee that she would be completely safe. And even if he was married, she could not promise herself that she would never be tempted. She could just imagine what her father would call the notion of going on patrol into enemy territory with this man: ‘a bloody damn-fool idea’.
So she looked at Makori and said, ‘Well then, how can I refuse?’
Makori and Saffron went their separate ways. As she was setting out across the lawn, en route to the marquee, she saw Gerhard walking arm in arm with a blonde woman who, on closer examination, she identified as Virginia Osterley.
‘God, that woman’s a menace,’ Saffron muttered under her breath.
Her ladyship detached herself from Gerhard’s arm, gave him a peck on the cheek and trotted off towards the house, presumably in search of the ladies’ room, which was located there.
Gerhard pulled down the sleeves of his jacket, adjusted his tie and, when he finally looked up, spotted Saffron coming towards him. He smiled broadly, but, she thought, a little sheepishly, knowing that she must have seen Virginia’s fond farewell.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Gerhard said, striding towards her.
Saffron waited until he was a little closer and said, ‘Did you have a lovely time with Ginnie Osterley? She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?’
‘Very,’ he said.
He did not seem remotely flustered. Gerhard’s ability to remain cool under pressure was one of the things about him that Saffron found most admirable, but also, at times, most infuriating.
‘Did she lead you into temptation? I can’t say I blame her. The poor girl must be desperate for a proper seeing-to. She certainly isn’t getting it at home.’
Gerhard smiled. ‘It’s not like you to be catty, darling . . . but yes, since you ask, I was tempted.’
‘And?’
‘And I thought about it and realised that I was very happily married. So I politely declined the offer. How about you and that policeman? From what I could see, he looked like a tall, fit, handsome sort of fellow.’
‘Oh, he is, yes, very handsome. Very tempting too.’
‘And?’ Gerhard echoed her earlier question.
Saffron gave a teasing little half-smile. ‘Well, I thought about it and realised that he was very happily married.’
Gerhard laughed. ‘You are a very wicked woman, Saffron Courtney.’
She laughed, too, pleased by Gerhard’s faith in her, and also by his self-confidence. He backed himself against the other man, just as she would absolutely have backed herself in any contest with Virginia Osterley. That was a good sign.
All the same, she did not feel like telling Gerhard about the forest patrol with Makori. Not yet, at any rate.
Leon Courtney had tolerated, rather than enjoyed, the governor’s garden party. But the following afternoon’s social activity was far more to his liking. Leon was sitting on the stone steps that led from the terrace of the Lusima Estate House down to the garden, drinking a chilled bottle of Bass Pale Ale. A cool box beside him contained a further five bottles, for this was Manyoro’s favourite tipple and today the two men would share the drinks and talk, just as they had been doing for nigh-on fifty years.
Leon lifted the bottle in salute as he saw Manyoro walking across the grass towards him, and grinned as his Maasai brother waved back.
His smile faded. Manyoro was not well. It was obvious from the way he walked. His stride had lost its energy, his back was not straight, nor was his head held high as befitted a great chief.
It had been a couple of months since the two of them had spent any time together. Manyoro had complained of having a stomach ache that wouldn’t go away. His normally ravenous appetite had all but disappeared. He found himself getting tired much more easily.
Leon had put it down to the inevitable effects of the ageing process.
He must be almost eighty by now. He has to show it eventually.
But as Leon got to his feet to shake hands, he saw that this was more than passing time taking its toll.
Manyoro’s body seemed diminished. He had never looked so thin. The muscles and fat were wasting away from his frame; his cheeks were sunken, his mouth downcast. His skin seemed sallow, unnaturally pale and tinged with a yellowish hue.
‘I see you, my brother,’ Leon said, taking Manyoro’s bony hand.
‘And I you, Mbogo,’ came the reply, but the words lacked their usual booming volume.
Manyoro took the bottle that Leon held out to him.
They drank in companionable silence and then Leon asked, ‘What ails you, brother?’
Manyoro shrugged, grimaced dismissively and then said, ‘It is nothing. It will soon pass.’
‘Have you consulted a doctor?’
Manyoro emitted a laugh that turned into a dry hacking cough.
‘You know me better than that! I am never ill. And if I were, I would summon the Makunga and he would see to me.’
Leon did not want to insult his friend, but the Makunga was nothing but a witch doctor, and whatever disease had Manyoro in its grasp, herbs and spells would not suffice to cure it. He had to try to get him proper help, his conscience demanded it, but it would take diplomacy and tact.
And even my dearest friends would not list those two qualities as my strong suits.
‘You are the son of a great healer . . .’ Leon began.
‘We are both Lusima’s sons,’ Manyoro pointed out.
‘Indeed – and we both had cause to thank her for her skills, for she healed us both. I know that Africans have ancient knowledge that my people do not comprehend. But Europeans have modern science, and this enables us to know the world in a different way and find cures that may help when the old ways are not enough.’
‘Are you suggesting that I go to the hospital in Nairobi? You know that the hospital for black men and women is not like the one for you whites.’
‘I know,’ Leon admitted. ‘And I can only hope that in time, justice and fairness will demand equal treatment for everyone. But for now, all I care about is you. I will get you the finest doctors in Kenya. Once they determine what is wrong with you, I will fly in the top specialists from Johannesburg or Cape Town. Nothing will be too good for you.’
Manyoro sipped some beer, then gave Leon a fe
eble pat on the back.
‘You are a good friend, Mbogo. You love me and you reach out your hand to help. I thank you for that. But maybe there is no need for help. What if this is just my time? Death comes to all of us in the end.’
Leon felt a sudden, primal shock of fear, less like one grown man facing the loss of another than a child discovering that their father will soon be gone forever.
‘No! Don’t say that! There must be something . . .’ He cast around for what that might be. But only one possibility crossed his mind. ‘What about Benjamin? He is a doctor. Surely he can help you.’
Manyoro’s face tightened with barely suppressed anger. ‘I told you – never mention that name to me again. He is no longer my son. I do not wish to see him. And he will not come to me . . .’
As Manyoro said those last words, they seemed to be laden with the pain and desperation that lay beneath his anger.
Leon said, ‘My father and I were enemies. He died before we could reconcile. But I would give everything I own – all this land, my businesses, every penny in the bank – to be able to see him again and tell him that even when I hated him, I loved him too. And I’m sure that the old bastard would say the same.’
Manyoro did not reply. Leon pulled out two more bottles of beer from the wicker hamper. He passed one to his friend and let him drink almost all of it before he said, ‘So, tell me, you mighty chief . . . I know you Maasai own all the cattle in the world. But how many head do you want to give me to take to market?’
The old man grinned and they settled into a conversation about livestock that kept them both happily occupied until the hamper was empty.
That night, lying next to Harriet, Leon said, ‘We have to do something to bring Benjamin and his father back together, before it’s too late.’
‘You’re right, darling, that has to happen,’ his wife replied. ‘But we aren’t the ones to do it. And we both know who is.’
‘No, I won’t,’ Benjamin said. ‘I can’t. He won’t see me. He said that and he meant it. Now, I know you meant well, but I have patients to attend to—’
‘Wait,’ Saffron said. ‘Hear me out. Please, Benjy . . . for old times’ sake.’
He turned, unable to look her in the eye, and stared at the framed medical certificates on the walls of his consulting room.
‘Please, my darling,’ Wangari said, ‘listen to what Saffron has to say.’
‘Very well then, go ahead.’
‘I’ll keep it brief,’ Saffron said. ‘Think about this as a doctor. You know someone is sick. How can you refuse them treatment?’
‘What if they refuse to let me treat them? I can’t force them.’
‘All right then, think about this as a son . . . My father told yours how much he regretted never being reconciled to his own father. Now look at me. I lost my mother when I was a little girl. I never had the chance to say goodbye to her. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and wish I could see her again . . . just once.’
‘I feel the same,’ said Wangari. ‘Please, Benjamin . . . You know I didn’t make peace with my father. I still dream about him all the time. We are together again as father and daughter, like the old days. Then I wake up and he has gone and I know that I will never, ever be able to tell him that I love him, or hear him say that he loves me, and it breaks my heart. You have that chance . . .’ She took her husband’s hand and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m begging you . . . go to your father.’
Benjamin lowered his head. ‘He won’t see me.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Benjamin!’ Saffron exclaimed. ‘Grow up. Be a man. If Manyoro goes to his grave and you didn’t try to see him, you will not forgive yourself. And I won’t forgive you, either!’
‘Well?’ said Saffron, when Benjamin and Wangari were led into the drawing room at the Estate House, where she, Gerhard, Leon and Harriet were waiting. ‘What happened?’
Benjamin’s eyes were like two pools of sorrow. Wangari was clinging to him as if he might collapse. Finally he spoke.
‘My father saw me.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Saffron exclaimed, and moved towards Benjamin to embrace him.
He lifted a hand. ‘Wait, that’s not all . . .’
Saffron held back.
‘I examined my father,’ Benjamin continued. ‘I was able to make a preliminary diagnosis. Ideally one would follow it up with blood tests and X-rays. But I can say with a fair degree of certainty that the patient – my father – has liver cancer. The disease seems advanced, to the point where a cure . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Ahh, what am I saying? There is no cure for liver cancer.’
‘How long . . .?’ asked Saffron.
‘I don’t know. It could be a few months, it could be days.’ Benjamin looked at Leon. ‘Could I have a glass of whisky, please?’
‘My dear boy, of course,’ Leon said. ‘I should have had one waiting for you.’
He poured a generous measure, added ice and handed Benjamin the glass. Benjamin downed half the drink and let it calm his nerves.
‘My father wants to go back to Lonsonyo Mountain, to be close to my grandmother’s spirit. I will be going with him.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ Saffron said, and it was the good news, rather than the bad, that made her cry.
‘My father will only have his wives and offspring with him on the mountain, but he’d like to see you – all of you – before he goes . . . You most of all, sir.’
‘Of course,’ Leon said. ‘Shall we go to him now?’
‘No, he’s sleeping. But in the morning—’
‘Absolutely, we’ll do that. And perhaps we can see him more than once, you know . . . before he sets off.’
‘I’m sure that will be possible.’
Leon saw it as his duty to keep a calm, unruffled demeanour, even in the face of bad news. He maintained the façade through dinner. Afterwards, he was the attentive host as he suggested to Benjamin and Wangari that they should stay the night.
‘Harriet, darling, could you ask Tabitha to make up one of the spare rooms?’
‘No need, darling,’ Harriet replied. ‘Tabitha keeps them all in a perfect state of readiness, just in case.’
‘Excellent. How about you, Saffy? Bit late for you and Gerhard to head off to Cresta now.’
‘It’s all right, Daddy, the children and staff were told we might not be back till tomorrow.’
‘Then I suggest we turn in. We can reconvene at breakfast and make a plan for the day.’
Leon went upstairs, washed, undressed and got into bed. He laid his head on Harriet’s breast and let her wrap her arms around him as he sobbed uncontrollably at the thought of losing the brother he loved.
Special Constable Quentin De Lancey owned a farm near Nyeri, to the east of the Aberdares, the hills where the bulk of Mau Mau forces were based. But the screening centre to which he had been transferred lay on the lower slopes on the far side of the hills, to the west. It was a long way to go home every evening, so for the first few months of the emergency, he had no option but to spend every weeknight in the white officers’ quarters at a police station near the centre.
His room was small, poorly ventilated and furnished with a bed, a table and a chamber pot. This meagre accommodation added to De Lancey’s sense of injustice. It proved that, after all he had done, the men who ran Kenya treated people like him as if they were no better than blacks. Resentment ate away at his soul. He lay awake at night, while insects buzzed and fluttered around the tiny bedchamber, dreaming up ways to get his own back on those who had looked down on him.
To compound De Lancey’s belief that he had been hard done by, there was nowhere for his loyal houseboy, Josiah Ethigiri, to sleep, so that for the first time in thirty years, he had no personal servant to see to his needs. Josiah remained at the farm with De Lancey’s wife, Prudence. She was terrified, living up country without her husband to protect her from the savages she imagined to be hidi
ng behind every bush. Soon she was threatening to leave Kenya and return to England to stay with her aged mother.
De Lancey solved his problems by requisitioning a farmhouse about a mile from the camp, where he and Prudence could live.
‘It’s close enough to our chaps to be safe, but far enough away that I can’t smell the blacks,’ he told his like-minded pals, when he found the time to visit the Muthaiga Club.
Knowing that he would be a target for the Mau Mau, De Lancey had a stockade of thick, sharpened logs, eight feet high, erected around the house. A gate formed of the same logs was secured at night with a heavy wooden bar.
‘A battering ram couldn’t budge that, my dear,’ he told Prudence. ‘We’ll be safe, I assure you. But just to be certain, I’ve arranged for armed police officers to stand guard, round the clock. These are good, loyal men. They know which side their bread is buttered, you mark my words.’
If an intruder managed to scale the stockade and evade the guards, they would confront De Lancey’s three Rhodesian ridgebacks: large, pale brown hunting dogs who had been given a cruel, abusive upbringing, calculated to make them hate and distrust human beings.
When at home, De Lancey made sure to have his revolver within reach at all times.
‘Purely precautionary,’ he said. ‘One can’t be too careful.’
Prudence, however, saw this as a worrying sign that the Mau Mau could still get into the house.
He went through his elaborate precautions for the umpteenth time, telling Prudence every detail of the lines of defence.
‘You are perfectly safe. And the Joneses are only a hundred yards away. Gareth’s a sound chap. He’d come running at the first hint of trouble.’
The months went by. De Lancey returned from work every day to find that Josiah already had a fire going beneath the boiler, so that he could scrub the sweat and dirt from his exertions in the interrogation chamber. Josiah would gather up his uniform to take to the laundry room and wash away the blood of his own tribespeople.