Elephant Walk (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 2)

by Peter Rimmer

  "Can you look after Tina on the way home?" Albert asked.

  "It will be my pleasure."

  "Thank you," said Albert without smiling.

  "I know you don't like me Albert. Frankly in your position I'd be the same."

  "Tina wanted to come. My sister has a strong will. I had never been in the bush."

  "I'll get a message to you when I'm back in Johannesburg. You and I can talk business, start all over again. And you are all right. She's a darling but far too young."

  "Who's a darling? Who's too young?" asked Tina letting herself out of the bathroom.

  "You, my dear… Your brother wants to go home tomorrow."

  "But we only just got 'ere. Blimey. What was the point?"

  "You can stay if you want, Tina. It's Sallie," said her brother.

  "I can stay! Good. That's settled. Hurry up in the bloody toilet you two. I want a cup of tea. At least this place serves tea. Now that's civilised. We must be in the middle of nowhere."

  The only tobacco on the farm at that time of the year was in the shed, the samples left over from the first crop, that had flourished better than Henry Manderville's best expectations. They had made a mess of the first two cures but when the third came out of the barn they had pumped in steam on the dried-out leaves they had hung from poles in clumps of six tied to the thin poles with string. Instead of the dry leaves breaking up, the leaves were soft, pliable, and slightly oily. Henry had even thought it smelt like tobacco, so he made up a small parcel and sent it to Imperial Tobacco in England, marked on front and back 'Product of Rhodesia'. Not a word was heard for weeks. The great piles of leaves stacked in the bunches of six one on top of each other stood on a tarpaulin on the dirt floor of the shed staring at him. For the first time in his life, he was depressed. Everything had come out according to Cousin George's instructions, except that the crop was five times as big for the acreage as expected. And due to the African heat they had had to pump steam into the curing barn before taking out the cured tobacco.

  For Henry, it had been a case of the chicken and the egg. Which came first? He had to grow the tobacco and send it to the cigarette company. To write and say he was growing a crop would not have found any interest. Months went by. War was declared in Europe. The tobacco stood looking at them when anyone was brave enough to go into the shed. Harry even grew worried about his grandfather. The idea had been so good, and with tobacco selling at sixpence a pound in America, even Emily's maths showed they were onto a good thing. On her calculations, they would receive nine times more money for tobacco than maize. And unlike the cattle, that suffered deadly tick-borne diseases and the regular attention of the lions, tobacco seemed to grow straight and pure without a blemish. For a country locked away in south-central Africa, the value to weight ratio made tobacco the perfect crop. A few wagonloads of dried out, cured tobacco were worth a fortune.

  The war changed everything, though they did not know it on Elephant Walk at the time. For a man in uniform, much of his time is spent sitting around waiting for something to happen. He is bored and scared at the same time, long before he hears a gun go off in anger. In civilian life, bored men full of tension took to drink but drink was not allowed in the army on duty. The only sedative to calm jangled nerves was tobacco, tobacco that could be stuffed back in a pocket at a moment's notice. Cigarettes in small packets. With tens of thousands of men joining the colours, the demand for cigarettes multiplied sevenfold. Not only did the price of American tobacco rise sharply, there was a risk factor. It had to be shipped to England across the Atlantic, where German underwater boats were waiting for the merchant ships in packs. Men were soon dying bringing tobacco to England. It was far safer to sail a boat from Cape Town, South Africa, to Southampton than from Norfolk, Virginia to Liverpool. And the British could pay for tobacco in pounds sterling and not American dollars.

  The parcel sent to Imperial Tobacco in London caused a stir considerably bigger than the size of Henry's parcel blaring at them 'Product of Rhodesia'. Admittedly it had taken the chief chemist five minutes to find Rhodesia on the map and another week to test the tobacco and nicotine content and tar. They would need to blend the new African tobacco. There was a difference in taste. But there was a war going on. Men in the trenches wanted cheap cigarettes. Under the bad conditions the men would soon grow used to the new taste. They would even like it. The stuff was the genuine tobacco grown in another place. With the mud and the noise, the chief chemist doubted anyone would notice the difference in the first place.

  In a letter that had gone with the parcel, Sir Henry had explained in full detail the extent of his experiment, asking the company to send him more good seed. He also wanted to know how many acres to plant.

  With a large wooden box full of fine black tobacco seeds the company had brought back from America for research at Kew Gardens, a man was sent to Africa to make sure no one was playing a practical joke on Imperial Tobacco. If the product was genuine, it would be worth millions of pounds to the largest cigarette maker in the world. It would also save the lives of seamen. Or free up space on the ships to bring to England more lethal loads from the factories of America. Even the Americans would not mind. The demand for their tobacco was far in excess of the supply.

  Harry Brigandshaw had been out in the lands all day supervising the clearance of the trees. The man from Imperial Tobacco had given them an advance of one thousand pounds to build another twenty curing barns that were to be half the height of a church steeple. By the time they were given the money on Elephant Walk, it was too late in the season to stump out the new lands and build the tobacco barns. A grading and storage shed had to be built. Before any of the buildings could go up, bricks had to be made on the farm from the gestated soil they would dig from the great anthills that dotted the farm. Water pipes had to come up from the river. Metal flues had to be manufactured in Rhodesia's capital, Salisbury. Special fire clay had to be imported from England to make the long ovens, that would protrude into the barns at ground level to heat the air inside, and drive the moisture out of the leaves hanging in tiers one above the other, the hot air rising and drying all the way to the top. Even if all the maize lands had been used for tobacco, the curing barns and sheds would not have been ready for a crop grown in the 1915 rainy season.

  Harry checked the buildings rising in straight lines. He went down to the brick kilns that were burning the brush from the trees he had torn out of the soil the previous year. Everywhere he found intense activity. The long seedbeds had been prepared in a closed off area, sanitised by burning more of the brush over the turned soil to kill insects and worms that would otherwise eat the tobacco seedlings. The sun was almost down, and some of the labourers had already gone back to the village of grass huts that had sprung up on the banks of the Mazoe River, a mile down river from the family compound. The big, wide-brimmed hat had kept off the sun all day but his sweat had soaked the grey-green felt of the hat. His face was filthy from all the times he had wiped the sweat from his brow. His shirt was soaked through with perspiration, and the part of his legs between the bottom of his khaki shorts and socks was covered in the fine red dust of Elephant Walk. The socks had sunk unnoticed to his ankles long ago. Climbing up onto his horse for the last time that day, he turned to go home, the idea of the first drink already screaming in his head. The stallion broke into a gallop, sensing the end of the working day. From the cluster of newly thatched huts down by the river, the drums began to play. Only in years to come was Harry to know that when the drums stopped beating there was trouble on the way.

  By the time Harry reached the family compound there was no warning of the visitors. Tembo had taken the three horses down to the stables for a rub-down and a feed of oats. Giving comfort to strangers included their horses.

  Tina Pringle saw him for the first time through one of the screens she had watched earlier being slotted into place down the veranda by a black man in a white shirt and shorts and no shoes. The lamps had not been li
t. With the fly screens in place, she was invisible from the outside, even though she stood with her face close to the screen. Everyone seemed to be off doing something and no one took any notice. He had got off the horse without any semblance of effort and handed the reins to a black man who went off in the opposite direction with the horse. Even at that distance across the lawn looking through the flowerbed ringed trees, she sensed they were friends rather than master and servant.

  Tina had no doubt in her mind it was Harry Brigandshaw striding across the lawn, slapping his bare legs once to rid them of the red dust. Halfway across he took off the big, wide-brimmed hat and she could see his face. His hair was long. Even in the last glow of the sinking sun she could see his face was burnt the colour of mahogany by the sun. He was tall, probably close to six feet, she thought, and slim. But most of all he was lithe. Everything about him was easy. The walk, the knee slaps, the sureness of tread, the expectant smile on his face.

  Then the screen door was pushed open and they were facing each other, the smile on Harry's face turning from expectation to astonishment. She thought he even shook his head slightly to make sure. Their eyes locked, as a shaft of light burnt through the screens as the sun found a small gap in the clouds, before quickly sinking towards the horizon. Neither of them could speak. Then her brother came through from inside the house and the spell was broken.

  "Hello. You won't remember me and it's all my fault."

  "Of course, I do," said Harry finding normality. "You worked for Jack Merryweather. Did well for yourself. Albert Pringle, isn't it?"

  "You have an amazing memory," said Albert.

  "Not really. You're quite famous, you know. Even though we're in the sticks, we do sometimes read the Joburg papers."

  "This is my sister Tina. We're on safari. Tina, this is Harry Brigandshaw. He's the boss around here."

  "Don't you believe it. My mother runs the show. Doesn't miss a thing… Now there we go," he said looking over his shoulder. "The sun is officially down. Light the lamps and let's have a drink. I've been parched for a whisky for an hour. Been in the lands since the sun came up… You're staying with us, I hope?"

  "Yes we are," said Tina sweetly, licking her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  It was the first time in her life she actually felt weak in the knees in the presence of a man. He was the most gorgeous thing she had ever seen. And when he bent over to light the first lamp with a long match he had found on the table she could see his eyes were blue. Which was when she sat down with a plonk to save herself any embarrassment. The room filled up and she was able to watch him from the safety of the couch. When he caught her looking at him she winked. She had recovered her composure. She was back in control.

  When a very old man came onto the veranda with Henry Manderville and took over the conversation, Harry sat down next to her on the couch.

  "Your brother says you can only have two drinks. Here's the first one."

  "Oh, does he? We'll see about that old cock."

  "I've met your mother and father. Stayed with Robert St Clair in '07. We were up at Oxford together. Albert was then in London. A brother in Australia. Where were you, Miss Pringle?" His blue eyes were smiling at her full of mischief.

  "In and around… Don't you remember the little girl with Barnaby?"

  "I remember Barnaby had a friend."

  "That was me. I was about nine then. Grown a bit, don't you think? Has anyone told you you're plain gorgeous."

  "Not that I remember," he said, laughing to cover his embarrassment.

  "Well you are… You goin' to show Tina the farm tomorrow?"

  "If you like."

  "Oh I'd like all right… Just the two of us… Mind if I call you Harry?"

  "Not at all."

  "That's good… That's nice. Cheers old cock. Down the 'atch… Now what the bloody 'ell was that?" The sound from the night which Tina knew well enough, still made the hair stand up on her neck.

  "A lion. Probably a mile away. Sound travels far in the bush."

  "Who's the old geezer?"

  "Peregrine the ninth."

  "Funny name."

  "He's actually the ninth Earl of Pembridgemoor. Grandfather got it out of him."

  "Try and tell that to my brother. The bloody old earl you're talking about is a fat old sponger. He's on the board of Serendipity Mining and Explosives Company. Bert needed his name."

  "Now that is a bad coincidence. Forget what I said. You're probably right. The old man over there has been telling tall stories."

  "There goes the lion again!… It's quite nice when you know what it is."

  "And a mile away." She had moved up an inch closer to him on the couch. She could feel the heat from his bare knee.

  Across the room, Harry's mother was in deep conversation with Benny Lightfoot. Tina thought the old lady had tarted herself up a bit. The hair was in place, and though the dress was out of fashion, Tina could see it had come from an expensive shop. Then Benny and Harry's mother were coming towards them and Harry got to his feet.

  "This is my son, Mr Lightfoot," she introduced, "my son Harry. Mr Lightfoot's an American Harry but he lives in Johannesburg. Been all over the world. Quite fascinating. I see you have been introduced to Miss Pringle. We're going to sit down to supper tonight. At the dining-room table. I had your grandfather open the red wine, Harry. Not often we have company in these parts. It's so nice to talk about something other than the farm and the war in France."

  From across the room, where he had been trying to catch his grandson's eye picking up the wink for some time, Henry Manderville gave Harry a wink.

  It was going to be a party, Tina thought, picking up the wink.

  The long dining-room table had been made by Sir Henry Manderville from a piece of bush timber that was now known as Rhodesian teak. The colour was a rich brown and shone from years of polishing. It had been made with loving care when Henry was trying to make himself useful. The Africans called the wood mukwa and it was as hard as nails. Henry remembered; he had done as much saw sharpening as wood cutting but the result still pleased him. Emily was at one end of the long table with Benny on her right. At the other end Harry had the girl Tina on his right. Madge might be pregnant with Barend Oosthuizen's child on the new section seven miles away but Henry wanted a son by Harry to cement the new Rhodesian dynasty. A third generation in Africa would make them permanent. The girl was possibly too young, and spoke with a dreadful Dorset accent, but that would change. Her brother, now in high finance, with a company listed on the London Stock Exchange, had most likely once spoken like his sister. In the bush where there was no one to raise an eyebrow, Henry found the directness of the girl a pleasant change. It had all happened rather fast, starting on the couch on the veranda during sundowners. He had never seen people more aware of each other from such a short acquaintance.

  Peregrine had eaten his food, excused himself from the table, and gone off to bed, followed by Albert, who was making an early start in the morning. Peregrine could only manage two small glasses of whisky and a little white wine with the roast chicken. Henry was not looking forward to getting old. Mostly, Peregrine sat in a chair with his eyes shut, or he went to bed. It was good he had people to look after him. His days of living in the bush alone were finally over. Henry had walked his old friend to the new rondavel and then came back for a second helping of roast chicken. Tembo had been sensible and killed two birds. If there was anything over they would have it cold for lunch.

  A message had come back from his granddaughter Madge, saying she was not feeling well, and if she felt better they would come over in the morning. Henry hoped nothing was going wrong. The marriage had been rushed. As soon as Alison had arrived from Cape Town, leaving her daughter Katinka behind in the Cape, they had gone off to the new missionary at uncle Nat's old church and had him read the banns of marriage. Three months after Barend came back from the wilderness he was married. Now he was going to be a father. It was
all too fast for Henry's comfort. A man didn't change from being a wanderer overnight. For all intents and purposes the man had been a vagabond. And now with the diamonds sold he was going to stay put in one place for the rest of his life and be a farmer. Henry could only hope and pray. The poor boy was being smothered by two women, his wife and his mother, competing for attention.

  If no one came over by lunchtime, he would ride over and pay his granddaughter a surprise visit. It was all right for grandfathers to pay surprise visits. Part of their duty, he rationalised as he poured himself another glass of red wine. They had visitors. It was a dinner party. There were not too many yards to walk to find his bed. Being a little drunk was also good for grandfathers. For good measure he gave Harry another wink. He left them to talk to each other. Harry to Tina. Emily to Benny. He was quite happy with his memories. It was enough for him to be part of the family. He had rather hoped Alison would be at the dinner party but he couldn't have everything. He would definitely ride over in the morning. Pushing his glass away, he quickly got up from the table and left the room.

  Barend Oosthuizen had come in from clearing the lands for breakfast. The idea of sending his breakfast out to the lands to eat watching the blacks never entered his head. If they didn't do what they were told he boxed their ears when he came back, so watching them all day was a waste of time. He would leave that kind of farming to Harry Brigandshaw.

  He had never been quite sure how much of Elephant Walk had belonged to his father. There was talk he had sold his share when the family had moved to the Cape and bought the farm Kleinfontein in the Franschhoek Valley that had been confiscated by the British after they hanged his father for treason.

  He had managed to sell the diamonds with the help of Harry and Emily had had the surveyors out from Salisbury to divide the farm. He had title to his six thousand acres of land, half what had been the farm Elephant Walk, capital enough to employ a gang of black men and build a house, and still not have to make a profit for five years. He had Madge, the only woman he thought he had loved in his life. He had a son or a son it surely would be. He had his mother living under his roof to assuage his guilt for running away from her. And it felt like they had put him in prison. Despite the wide open space he was claustrophobic. He wanted to run away. Be on his own. But mostly, he did not want any part of the responsibility.