by Peter Rimmer
"They don't have much room," observed Lily.
"Immigrants, most of them. Pushin' off from mother England. There's all that gold in the Transvaal and diamonds in Kimberley. All British know the Boers are beat. If you want a piece of the Empire, got to get up and get it Lily. Don't have to be poor or a servant for the rest of your life. Look at them what went to America. Don't fancy Australia. Too far away. In Africa you are a white man no matter where you come from back home. I'm not coming back, Lily. Did I tell you that?"
"No you didn't… Neither am I."
"What's Mister Jack going to say about that, Lily?"
"Nothing. He's bored with me already and too nice to say so. Poor man's permanently bored. Too much money and too much time on his hands. Probably change his mind about hunting elephant. Jack Merryweather goes where the whim takes him. He needs a bloody disaster to bring him back to life."
"Would you marry him?"
"Of course. For 'is money. When a girl gets to thirty things change. I don't have the sexual power over men I had ten, even five years ago. Another five years it'll all be gone. Why women 'ave lots of kids when they're young and sexy, so the old man won't be able to run away when her looks run out, and they all do. No getting away from nature. If the husband's rich, their wives turn a blind eye to the mistresses and take comfort in the security of the kids. Poor, they just slave away for 'im and the kids until they die of exhaustion. Money, Albert. We got to 'ave money. Money safely put away is the only security we ever 'ave for when we're old. You can't rely on anyone when you're old and no use. Except yourself. And what you saved. Some kids look after their mums, but not all. And whoever wants to be dependent on their bloody kids?"
"What you goin' to do to make money, Lily?" asked Albert, trying to hide the clear idea of what was in his mind.
"Not that, Albert. Too old. I've got some saved. But not enough. You see that lot down there. Look at 'em. What strikes you? What's wrong down there?"
"Not enough room and no deck quoits."
"No, silly."
"They're all poor people."
"And nearly all of them are men is what I see. Most of them will get hard jobs down the gold mines. They'll be living alone, or with men, and what money they have they'll want to spend on drink and women. But there aren't jobs for women down gold mines and few jobs on tap. I count five young women down there. Combine booze and women and even a fool could syphon off their money. I'm going to start the biggest bloody whorehouse in Johannesburg and pay back all the men in my past who just wanted to fuck me and feel my boobs. You think any of them ever looked at me? Lily? Don't be daft. They were too busy looking at my cunt and my tits."
"And where are you going to find the women? People out there frown on white men taking up with black women. Call it goin' native. Same in India, I 'eard from a bloke who worked for an Indian army colonel. Nice flat in the west end to himself. Worked six months every two years. We may be servants, but if you get that out of your mind, we live the same as them. Gentlemen's gentlemen are looked after in the wills. Look after 'im proper and he'll give you a pension."
"And what if Jack Merryweather marries? His new wife will throw you in the gutter. Last thing any woman wants in the house is a confidant that knows her new husband better than she does. All the old servants will be out the door. She'll bring her own. She wants to control her man every way she can. It's a war, holding a man."
"There'll be women in Cape Town ready enough to go north like me. People who don't have real money. Some may have a touch of the 'tarbrush', but that don't matter. Give 'em some Russian name. More exotic the better. Good leather couches you can sink right into. Dim lights and corners where they get to know each other. Big house. Have to be. Ten girls, maybe fifteen, working the rooms… We'd need a doctor to check 'em out. Big log fires in winter. Cold up there they say in winter. Six thousand feet up. A mining camp. With Kruger out of the way, no one will give a damn. Five years is all we need. Then we go proper. Build a proper hotel. By the time we're fifty they'll think we come from landed gentry. What you say, Albert?"
"What about?"
"Helping me run a bloody brothel."
"My mother wouldn't like it."
"Your mother isn't going to get it. Why don't we go down there and mingle with the buggers? Get a feel for what they want. There's a small gate right here. Come on Albert. A bloody whorehouse isn't a bad way to make a living. Excuse me," she said to a man in a thick blue seaman's sweater.
"This gate's locked and I want to go down there."
"Can't do that, miss, that's third class. Can't 'ave the classes mixing. You wouldn't know which passenger belonged to where."
"That's daft."
"If you wanted to travel third class you should have booked third class."
"That's even more daft."
"Please, I 'ave a job to do. And company rules says we're not allowed to talk to female passengers. I'm deck crew, see."
"Everyone in his bloody place."
"That's how it goes, miss. Ta-ta."
The seaman pushed his wide sweeping broom further down the deck. Lily watched him for a moment.
"You think about what I said young Albert Pringle. Like is you'll never 'ave another chance. And not everyone even gets a chance in this life. You think of it."
On the fourth day of the voyage, the SS King Emperor dropped anchor off Las Palmas in the Spanish Canary Islands, some two hundred miles from the North African Coast. The sea was as calm as a millpond and azure blue.
Tourist boats motored out to the ship, and steps were dropped from the side of the liner to the level of the boats, that would one by one tie themselves to the bottom of the steps with the help of two Colonial Shipping seamen. For the first time since the ship sailed from Southampton, the classes mingled, as the younger and braver passengers took the steps one by one to a bench seat on the boat. Women and one old man were helped down by the sailors and when the first boat was full, it cast off and was replaced by a second. At the stern of the ship, rowing boats loaded with tropical fruit were concentrating on the third-class passengers who could not afford to go ashore. Black haired tradesmen, all shouting "One shilling", held up small hands of ripe bananas, still on the green stalks, and baskets of red mangoes. The Spanish boatmen were all dressed the same. Black bell-bottomed trousers, dirty black and white ringed shirts and sandals. Sailors from the ship helped the transactions by lowering wicker baskets on lengths of rope, where small groups of third-class passengers found a shilling between them, the money resting hopefully on the bottom of the basket while everyone held their breath. When the three-foot stalk, cluttered with yellow bananas, came up the side and landed on the deck there were squeals of delight. A small boy given a banana took a first bite without peeling off the skin, chewed unhappily and gave it back to his mother; in England where he came from he had never seen a fruit that needed peeling.
Harry heard all the noise and waited like a thief. Mrs Barker had dragooned Robert St Clair before Robert was able to make sure Harry was going to follow the excursion ashore. They were all going to the local hotel for a drink and, Harry surmised, the right to say they had set foot on the Canary Islands, a big tick on the list of people's lives. He waited a full five minutes after the last motor boat left for the shore, then he opened his cabin door and looked both ways down the corridor. Harry smiled with satisfaction before making his way up on deck. The first boats at the stern were being rowed back to shore, and the first-class deck was empty of anyone he knew. His feeling of freedom was overpowering as he looked for a deck chair to sit in and contemplate his luck. Making sure the thing did not collapse he sat down facing the palm fringed island. It was very beautiful and free of the smells of a closer look.
Watching from his own escape door that ended at the top of the stairs from his luxury cabin, Jack Merryweather had watched Harry's antics with considerable amusement. Then he climbed over the step onto the deck and stood behind Harry smiling. When
Harry turned feeling the presence behind him, Jack gave him a look of sympathy.
"Sanctuary at last," said Jack.
"How long are they staying ashore?"
"You think the boat could sail without them?"
"Oh, no. And the motor boat won't sink. We've got them for the voyage. You'd better pull up a deck chair and sit down. Deck chairs are funny. Your bottom is so close to the deck… Isn't she absolutely terrible?"
They both knew they were talking about Mrs Barker.
"Bloody 'fraid it's my fault. I told them where I was going. You don't think comparative strangers will follow you to Southampton and on board a ship bound for Africa. So I told her the name of the ship. We had sailed from England before the woman became obvious. You know, having money can be a bloody bore Harry. You think I'll be bored hunting in Africa?"…Then he reverted to the problem in mind.
"It's all the fault of Ernest Gilchrist but don't let's talk about them. The island looks very pretty."
"Smells when you get ashore. The Spanish out here are not good at sanitation or digging holes to bury their rubbish. Maybe it's too hot to worry about unnecessary work… No, I doubt you'll be bored, Jack. Bitten half to death by tsetse flies at dawn and dusk. Thirsty. Too bloody hot. Frightened out of your wits by a charging elephant, or the surprise look up at a kopje and into the yellow curdled eyes of a leopard. Bored, I don't think so. Had a chap out from England with dhobi itch who scratched his balls all day. Had to send him home. He was on fire down there. Never had that itch before… The word boredom, Jack Merryweather, and the vast, empty expanse of the African bush are not synonymous. My father could have shown you places."
After a moment of silence, Jack turned to look at Harry staring sightlessly at the island. Tears were flowing down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Harry."
"When people are dead that's it. Over. Excuse me for a moment."
Harry got up and walked away down the deck. Willing up his self-control, he cut the cancer of loss temporarily from his mind, wiped his face, and went back to his deck chair.
"No, you won't be bored," he said keeping the choke out of his voice.
"Will you take me out? Into the bush?"
"Yes of course. You'll come and stay at Elephant Walk? Make it easier on mother. Unlike me, she never cries in front of strangers."
"I hope I'm not a stranger to you. And thank you, yes I will."
"No, of course not. I didn't mean it that way. You know what I mean. I won't shoot though. Unless you're in danger or for food. Dad always said."
Jack Merryweather put out his right hand and gripped Harry's left arm for a brief moment. Then they sat in silence. When he thought the time was right, Jack suggested they went to the bar for a drink.
They drifted off down the deck, straw boaters keeping the hot sun from their heads, two young, good-looking men in the prime of life, who to others seemed not to have a care in the world.
The number one Pimm’s cup sloshing around in the ice with pieces of fruit revived Harry's spirits. He was mostly a happy person. He had not reached the age for mood swings and melancholia without good reason.
They were seated at the bar. At the other end, five bar stools away sat an elderly couple who had not said a word to each other. They had been at the bar when Jack and Harry arrived. The barman had found the furthest distance from his two sets of customers, his back almost touching the rows of half-full bottles on the shelves. The ship was quite still, the engines silent. They were to sail in the morning, at first light. Only the fires were kept alive in the boilers. The tall funnels were just visible to Harry from his seat at the bar, trailing thin streams of smoke. The swimming pool was empty. One old woman, well covered against the now hot rays of the sun, lay out on a lounge chair. Harry thought she might have been dead until she sat up suddenly and called for a steward by raising her hand. The old wrinkled skin of her face changed places to sag from her jaw. Surprisingly, the old woman had bright blue eyes as young as the day she was born. The smell of salt in the air was strong, the sweet smell of the sea.
"You ever been bored, Harry?" asked Jack.
"No. I don't think so. Maybe as a kid. No, I don't think so. On the farm there was always something to do… Are you going to marry her?"
"Sallie Barker! Of course not."
"You seem to both have an understanding."
"We both know that we both know what her mother's up to, if that's what you mean… I have a mistress on board. In second-class, of course."
"I know. Albert told Robert who told me."
"Lily's very nice. You'll meet her in Cape Town. She's going to stay in Cape Town while I'm up north on safari. You'll help me buy the guns, won't you?"
"I'll go along but the gunsmith will know far more than me. My father was the white hunter, remember."
"How big is Elephant Walk?"
"About ten thousand acres. Only the red soil is fertile. Comes in big patches between the great rock outcrops. The rest blows in the wind if you take out the trees and don't plant grass after a crop and there are late rains. We're still farming."
"Don't the Africans farm? The blacks?"
"In patches. Before we got there they were raided every two or three years by Lobengula's impis. In Africa, it has always been a fight for survival. The bush looks harmless, but it isn't. Very beautiful, but not harmless. There are diseases of all kinds. Malaria, sleeping sickness, cholera. There are wild animals and the Matabele, Lobengula's Zulu tribe. The bush is pretty thin on people. A few huts near the rivers. A patch of pumpkins. Mealies. Sorghum to make beer. A short, sweet life. Harsh, very harsh when it goes wrong like a drought. They own a few scrawny cows and goats. Mostly they ask us for work so they don't have to worry about regular food. It's one thing to starve yourself but not much fun to watch your kids die. I speak the local language. Had a friend called Tatenda. Ran away during the rebellion. Taught me Shona. Never found out what happened to Tatenda. His family had been slaughtered by Lobengula. Dad brought him home as an orphan. He told me he would have died. He was the only one left behind when the raiders left with the young women and children. He'd been in the bush tending the village cattle when the Matabele struck. They were an offshoot of Shaka's Zulus from Natal. Mzilikazi, Lobengula's father, raped and pillaged his way north-west, and finally settled down north of the Limpopo River. The tribe they call the Matabele are a hotchpotch of Zulu warriors but most of them have mothers from the tribes raped and pillaged. We British put a stop to it but I wonder if we will ever get any thanks for it. They probably think they've exchanged one master for another but at least we don't rape and kill. The land was empty of farms and mines so maybe pillage doesn't come into it either. It probably all depends on which side of the fence you are looking from, which point of view… If you are so bored, Jack, why don't you cut yourself a farm out of the virgin bush? Keep you going for a lifetime. Generations, in fact. In Rhodesia, everything still has to be done, from more roads and railways, dams so we can water the lands, and avoid the deadly cycle of droughts. Telegraph wires. Sanitation. Hospitals. Churches. Oh, you come and settle with us in Rhodesia and you and your family for generations will never be bored. It's not as safe and cosy as London, but bored, never."
"Someone like Sallie Barker would never want to marry and live in the bush surrounded by savages. They want culture, comfort, and tea parties three times a week with their society friends."
"Then marry your mistress. Marry Lily White if that is her real name."
"Oh, Harry, do you think it might not be?"
"Bloody certain if you ask me."
He had spoken softly but not softly enough. The couple at the end of the bar got up and left.
"Why do people who listen to other people's conversations get so upset when they hear something they don't want to hear?" asked Harry.
"Maybe it serves them right… Steward. Would you be kind enough to make two more Pimm’s exactly the same? The last time was perfe
ct. And I rather think the lady in the lounge chair at the pool wants something… Ah, I see the problem. She can't get up from the canvas bed on her own. Make amends for swearing in public, Harry, and go and help the old dear… No. We're all right. She's made it. All the arm waving was to change her point of balance. She's up and leaving. Her hearing must be perfect. Did you see that terrible look she gave you? You could almost hear her say 'damn colonials.'"
Until he met Mrs Barker, the idea of marrying for money had never entered Robert St Clair's head. Mrs Barker was obsessed with the Honourable Robert St Clair, son of Lord St Clair whose title and lands went back into medieval history, and the romance of chivalry that even Robert's second-class degree in history had warned him was anything but chivalrous. When it came to men with power they usually behaved like thugs when anyone challenged them. Nothing really changed through history, only the weapon of destruction. But Robert was not going to destroy the images in Mrs Barker's head. If what he had by the luck of birth was so important, maybe he could sell it to another Mrs Barker whose family was rich, very rich… The idea of teaching small boys' history as it was written paled at the potential of being a rich girl's husband.
They had come ashore and been driven in open carriages to the local hotel, the horses seeming even older than the carriages. An avenue of fluted brass poles held up a yellow awning over a worn strip of red carpet that took them through the hotel's entrance to a lounge where overhead fans were slowly trying to stir the air. The fans were powered by three small boys with little red caps on their heads. Nowhere had Robert been able to see the name of the hotel to tell his parents where he had been.