Contents
Cover
About the Authors
Also by Barbara & Stephanie Keating
Map
Dedication
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Glossary
Copyright
To My Daughter in France . . .
FOR THE KANISAS
He had been running for more than two hours, his breath heaving in and out now, in ragged gasps. His body was drenched in sweat. It ran in rivulets down his greased torso, through the crusting of dried blood, sliding under the beaded wrist and arm ornaments, the copper leg bracelets and the leather loincloth which was all he wore. All around him, the bush rustled with the sound of creatures hunting for food. The African night reverberated with the heavy cough of a lion calling to his mate and the manic cackle of a hyena behind him on the plains. In the distance there was a rumble of buffalo, moving between their grazing grounds and the winding course of the river. The warrior heard none of these. He was only aware of his own breath, the saw and rasp of it, in and out, and the screaming that still echoed in his head.
There should have been only one at the killing ground, one man to scream, to beg, to plead for mercy. But he had remained silent to the last. Only his eyes spoke his contempt for his executioner, until the warrior could face their judgment no longer and his bloodied knife scoured out their condemnation for ever. He had not expected that there would be so much blood, or that the ripe, sweet smell would stay all this time in his nostrils. His body seemed to reek of it as he ran. Every predator in the bush must be able to smell him. Like the hyena. It had come for the blood, hunching and shuffling through the bush with its rank breath, and its matted, spotty coat. Drawn by the smell of death, and the promise of flesh and bone to tear.
He should have let it kill the woman. He had not counted on her appearance and she had no defence. In that one second, when he saw her eyes widen with recognition, the hyena had made its rush. He had flung the spear, seen it find its mark, watched the creature topple. Then the woman was falling too, and when the screaming began he knew what she had seen. He could see it too, no matter which way he turned his head. The body of the man was staked out on the ground, arms and legs spread wide, genitals sliced away and stuffed into the silent agony of his mouth, belly ripped open so that his entrails spilled on to the earth, sightless eye sockets turned in darkness to the moon. The warrior still saw that vision, still heard the screaming, long after he had escaped the place of sacrifice. He had left the spear in the hyena’s neck and slipped into the surrounding bush, covering the marks of his passing in the way of his people, knowing that the trackers would soon be searching for him, casting all around the ridge for signs of the direction in which he had gone.
In those first moments he had been filled with a savage euphoria, had felt himself invincible. He had completed his quest, had carried out his oath. He could feel the power of the bhang that he had taken prior to the ritual, still coursing through his body, flashing scenes of colour and mystery before his eyes. He was beyond pain as he drew the air down into the fiery passage of his throat. It filled his chest with seared oxygen, whistling out again through his clenched teeth in a shower of foaming spittle. His heart was pounding, muffling the sounds he left behind him so that they were a distant buzz in the back of his consciousness. He came to an area of dense bush and thorn, and ran along its edge, veering away after a few minutes to climb on to a rocky outcrop where his footprints would be lost to anyone following. Then he retraced his path slowly, stepping in his own tracks until he came to another section of the scrub. He crouched and slid into the thicket, mindless of the thorns that tore at him. The drug gave him an altered vision, as though he was looking down into some far-off scene from a great height, and he could see himself moving under the bushes, undulating like a serpent, until he emerged on the other side of the dense undergrowth. His skin was ripped, and blood welled up to mingle with the blood of his victim, which already covered his body. He did not try to clean it away.
He had proved himself, slain the enemy. The great god Kirinyaga would be appeased. The spirits of his ancestors would be placated; his father’s spirit would be placated. He straightened, turned and vanished into the forest, avoiding the animal trails until he reached a clearing far from the ridge. There he stopped, satisfied that he had covered his tracks sufficiently. His hands shook as he unfastened a small pouch from the leather thong around his waist, tapped some of its dark powder on to his palm, and inhaled it deeply into both nostrils. There was another rush of adrenalin to his system so that he shook with the power and the strength of it, and then he began to run again, loping through the night and out of the forest, along the edge of the plain, making for his other sanctuary. Twice more, he stopped to give himself another burst of energy from the contents of the leather pouch. But then it was all gone, and he still had a great distance to cover before he reached his destination.
The screaming had begun again in his head, and flashes of remembrance were confusing his vision, causing him to stumble on the rough terrain. The smell of the dead man’s blood invaded his lungs, so that he felt he was inhaling his victim’s death with every breath. Now he began to see shapes in the shadows around him. Hyenas. Running behind him. Tracking him. He thought he could smell them too, but it might be the scent of the animal he had speared, or the odour of the victim’s sacrificial blood turned rancid by the heat of his own body. For a moment he thought he saw a fire flickering some distance ahead of him. In his imagination, figures moved in the red light, and his nostrils were filled with the stench of burning flesh. He swerved away, not wanting to see who might have built the fire, or what would be burning there. The image faded.
The darkness was beginning to dissipate, and in the limbo world between night and dawn, when all was grey and misted, he was no longer sure what was real and what was not. He feared that inadvertently he had entered the spirit world, that he would not be able to find his way back. He should not have killed the hyena. It had been coming to devour the spirit of the man, and he had prevented it from its task. Hyena and dead man wandering the spirit path, looking for him. They could smell the blood on him. He felt a surge of panic and tried to run faster. A branch whipped across his face and he felt his headdress fall, but he resisted the urge to stop and retrieve it. He was a true warrior now, whether or not he wore the plumed and beaded headdress.
He could hear a new scream, over the first one, and he knew it was coming from his own lips as he saw the fire again. This time it was right in front of him. This time it was real. There was a man standing beside it, holding up the panga with which he was skinning a bushbuck. The warrior saw the blade gleaming in the firelight. He stopped, panting. No one must be allowed to see him, to know he had passed this way. The man had stepped back, staring at him in alarm. A hunter. He had been chopping brushwood, making a fire to protect himself from the wild animals, but now he was facing a more dangerous enemy. A short spear lay on the ground beside him. Terrified, he bent to pick it up as the warrior sprang at him, snarling, his knife making the first slash.
In the distance, the pack of hyenas yipped and chuckled, and called out the news to one another. There was blood. Soon there would be feasting. As first light broke over the landscape they moved in, and the air was filled with the sound of their growling and squabbling, with the snapping of jaws and the crunching of bone as they buried their muzzles in the fresh carcass.
Kenya, July 1957
The school bell rang, but the girl stayed where she was, halfway down the drive. Sooner or later she would be missed. In trouble again. But maybe the car would turn in through the gates before they realised she wasn’t there, and then everything would be all right. She had been watching for it all morning from the classroom window, until she was reprimanded. After study she had slipped away down the avenue, stationing herself out of sight of the school buildings. It was a bright afternoon, with high clouds riding in a washed-blue sky after yesterday’s downpour. Perhaps the rain and the muddy roads had made the going slow.
Sarah Mackay fixed her gaze on the band of murram road, the red soil still damp. Around her the boundary of blue gum trees rocked and shivered in conversation with the wind. She loved these high, silver-barked sentinels of the plateau, growing up here at 7,000 feet above sea level. At night they whispered and sighed to her as she lay in her narrow dormitory bed, imagining herself at the coast, at home in Mombasa, almost five hundred miles away.
The playing fields were deserted following the summons of the bell. A curious sense of abandonment engulfed her, as though the world had whirled away without her and she would never catch up with it again. She might survive for centuries in a time warp, waiting for a car that would never come. She had inherited her father’s stocky form and dishevelled appearance, and whatever she did with them her clothes always looked crumpled. Sarah began to sing, trying to keep unease at bay. She was a sturdy girl with a round face and hazel eyes, small for her thirteen years. Singing helped to push worry or loneliness away until she could no longer feel them, and she knew that she was a natural singer. Sometimes she sang songs that other people knew, but often she composed secret words and melodies just for herself. It was like flying, never knowing if you were going to swoop or soar on the next phrase, or land on one of those long, satisfying notes that you recognised as the perfect ending. But this particular song, Sarah realised, was refusing to resolve itself. She paused to imitate the call of a golden oriole, perched in the wattle tree at the edge of the drive. His responding whistle pleased her, but he refused to prolong their chat and disappeared in search of insects. She liked to talk to animals. Smiling to herself, she made several grunting noises in an imaginary conversation with a warthog.
The sun was sinking, creating a soft chill that carried the scent of wood fires being lit for the night. Sarah was beginning to feel hungry. The road beyond the school stretched away, across miles of wheat and open fields to the dark band of trees on the edge of the escarpment. When she was out riding, she liked to lean down from the saddle and gather handfuls of seeds and berries. Later she would thread a wire through them and make a bracelet or a choker. They were in demand, these pieces of jewellery she crafted, and she was working on a birthday present for her best friend. She liked Camilla Broughton-Smith, even though she was so organised, always top of their class and very popular. Her father was important and popular too. Perhaps these things ran in families. They had started boarding school together, and on that first evening Sarah had wept inconsolably for hours, after her parents’ car disappeared down the long drive. During the days that followed, her loneliness had increased. The other girls had made fun of her homesickness, of the dip in the hem of her uniform and the new school shoes that were too shiny. Camilla had come to her rescue, scornfully disposing of would-be bullies, offering to help with homework and to share her impressive weekend wardrobe. Camilla’s pen never leaked, never smudged her fingers or her school shirt. Her exercise books were neat and so was her cupboard. She casually dismissed problems that made other people cry. The teachers sometimes said that the girl was unnaturally hard for her age, that her veneer would crack one day, with disastrous consequences. Sarah wished that she had been given the same tough shell.
She glanced up at the darkening sky. There would be deep trouble if they had to send someone out to look for her after tea. It could be nearly as bad as when she had found a grass snake and let it loose in the classroom. It was Hannah van der Beer who had given her away, looking over at Sarah, covering her wide, laughing mouth with her hand as Sister Evangelis shrieked and leapt up from her chair. Hannah, with her thick, flax-coloured hair, her loud voice and flat accent. Sarah secretly envied the overbearing manner of the Afrikaans girl. She made you feel inadequate, a weakling. Boers, her mother said they were, people of Dutch origin from South Africa. They had come at the turn of the century, trekking in their covered wagons to reach the highlands of Kenya and carve their farms out of the bushland.
Sarah’s thoughts scattered as she saw the distant plume of dust behind an approaching car. Excitement burgeoned into whooping happiness, as the vehicle came into view, moving like a comet before its attendant dust tail. Yes! A grey Mercedes, slowing down now, turning in at the bottom of the drive. Her face was alight, eyes shining, arms outstretched in greeting as she ran to meet her mother. She had counted the hours it would take to drive up from Nairobi, where Betty Mackay would have spent last night. The school was halfway between their home at the coast and the capital of Uganda where her father, Raphael, was at a medical conference. Sarah had been given permission to stay at the Country Club with her mother for two nights, and to come in to school in the morning, like a day pupil. Just like Hannah van der Beer.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ She was shouting out her welcome. The car had stopped. The door opened, and a figure stepped out. Sarah halted, confused. This was not her mother.
‘Mummy?’ The sun was in her eyes. She couldn’t make out who this person was. The reply came in a voice tinged with the broad vowels of South Africa.
‘I’m afraid I’m the wrong person for you, my dear. I’m Hannah van der Beer’s mother. Do you know if she’s around? I’m late collecting her.’
Sarah saw with embarrassment that Hannah was already approaching the car. A car exactly like the Mackays’, only this one had a different number plate, and a dent on the front wing. Had the Boer girl been there while she was singing those mindless tunes, and making childish animal noises? Sarah’s colour turned to scarlet. How would she ever live this down? She began to mumble, trying to prevent distress from turning to tears.
‘I’m sorry. My mother’s coming today. From the coast. From home. She has the same sort of car. I thought she was you. I mean, I thought you were her . . .’
Humiliation made her unable to look up at either Mrs van der Beer or her daughter. Sarah hurried up the drive towards the school buildings. In the quadrangle, she leaned against the wall, a study in misery. Hannah would tell everyone what had happened and the whole class would laugh at her. She knew it for sure. But Rule One of survival was never to let anyone know they could hurt you. Someone was standing beside her, speaking.
‘Did you hear me? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ Camilla Broughton-Smith said again. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I was waiting on the drive.’ Sarah tried to swim out of her suffocating gloom.
‘Well, your mother rang. The car windscreen was cracked by a stone. She’s having it fixed in Nakuru, and she’ll be here by lunchtime tomorrow. Oh, come on – it’s not the end of the world, for heaven’s sake!’
Sarah summoned a watery smile. It would be impossible to put into words her feeling of dejection when she didn’t really understand it. She had made a fool of herself and tomorrow Hannah van der Beer would be feasting on her peculiarities. Maybe she should tell everyone about her humiliating mistake and try to laugh it off. In desperation she stared at Camilla and then she shrugged.
‘Thanks for the message. Better start on my homework.’
The grey Mercedes passed through the convent gates. Hannah van der Beer watched the playing fields and blue gum trees slide past the window in coloured stills of light and sky. She thought of Sarah Mackay who could sing and dance in front of people, who was good at drawing, who could mimic any animal she liked and make beautiful things with her hands.
‘And here am I, a big, brash, Afrikaans farm girl in size six shoes,’ Hannah thought. ‘I know they all call me a yaapie behind my back. No one ever thinks of me as Italian, like Ma.’
Carlotta van der Beer came from an Italian family in Johannesburg, but her husband was an Afrikaner who had always called her Lottie. Hannah turned to glance at her mother’s straight profile, at her dark hair twisted into a knot, at the tanned, roughened fingers curled on the steering wheel. Sarah Mackay’s mother was blonde and pretty. She wore lovely dresses and had smooth hands that did no housework.
‘Who was that girl?’ Lottie said
‘Someone in my class.’
‘Does she come from far away?’
‘Mombasa. They have a house by the sea,’ Hannah said. They could walk out of their garden on to a white beach with palm trees. The van der Beers had been to the coast on family holidays, and Hannah had never wanted to come home.
‘That’s far.’ Lottie’s tone was thoughtful. ‘It must be hard to be so far away from home. Wouldn’t it be nice to ask her out for lunch some weekend?’
‘What? Ask her to the farm, you mean? To have lunch with us at home?’ Hannah was a day pupil. An outsider really. Sarah was a boarder whose parents were English, or Irish maybe – from Europe, anyway. Different. The Afrikaans farmers did not mix much with the British colonial types or the English farming community. And her brother might tease Sarah and try some stupid horseplay, although he’d be impressed by her bird and animal imitations. Sarah had a brother of her own, though, so it would probably be all right. But if she found the farm too rough and ready she would tell everyone in their class, and Hannah would be more of an outsider than ever. She sighed. It was a difficult decision.
‘Well?’ Lottie was surprised at her daughter’s long silence. ‘What do you think?’
‘We could ask, I suppose. But I don’t know if she’d come.’
Three weeks went by as Hannah searched for the right circumstances in which to proffer her invitation. Sarah Mackay, for some reason, barely spoke to her and even seemed to be avoiding her. In truth, although Hannah had been at the school for two years, none of the boarders was her close friend. They always seemed to be part of a world that the daughter of third-generation Afrikaans farmers could not share. Her peers came from families whose roots were in faraway places like London or Dublin, or somewhere called ‘the Home Counties’. They all came from country houses or city residences to which they would return someday. Late one afternoon Hannah finally came across Sarah alone in the art room, finishing a charcoal drawing.
‘That’s good, Sarah. I wish I could draw like that.’
‘It’s not coming out right.’ Sarah was frowning, bending forward over the paper. Her cheek was smudged with charcoal and her hands were impatient as she used her fingertips to try and achieve better shading.
‘Do you like doing landscapes? Out on the veld, I mean, with trees and animals like we have on our farm?’
‘Not really.’ Sarah did not even look up. ‘I’m trying to concentrate on portraits for now. As you can see.’
Hannah recognised the snub, felt herself dismissed. She would have to find some other occasion to bring up the invitation. Sometimes she wondered why she had been sent to the convent at all. All the other Afrikaans farmers’ daughters went to Kikoma School that had both girls and boys, and was not religious in any way. Hannah remembered the argument she had overheard as she had sat in her favourite window seat, concealed behind the heavy curtains in the sitting room.
‘This is different, Jan.’ Lottie’s voice had been firm. ‘You had your way over Piet’s education. He went to Kikoma and he’s done well. He’s tough and bright, and very independent. But Hannah’s not like that, in spite of appearances. And I’m not an Afrikaner like you. I want our daughter to mix with different kinds of people, to see beyond the blinkered vision of your gloomy Dutch Reformers.’
‘Piet’s not blinkered. Or gloomy.’
‘He spends all his spare time with you and me.’ Lottie brushed aside the words with impatience. ‘You have to remember Piet was an only child for five years, until Hannah came along. He had all our attention, and we’re more broad-minded than most of our neighbours.’
‘So, we can make sure Hannah grows up broad-minded too. Without spending our life’s savings on that school.’
‘No, Janni. For Hannah the convent is the best choice. The nuns turn out girls with a refinement she won’t get in Kikoma. Everyone calls that place a heifer boma, and I’m afraid it’s true.’
‘Better not let your friend Katja van Rensburg hear you saying that about her daughters.’ Jan was laughing. His wife was beautiful when she was annoyed. Her olive skin became rosy, and the spirit of her Italian blood flashed in her eyes as she gestured to emphasise her point. ‘It’s a boarding school, Lottie. Surely you don’t want Hannah to live there, with her home only ten miles down the road?’
‘No, of course I don’t. But they take day girls as well. There are about twenty from the town who—’
‘They’re the daughters of Britishers – district commissioners and doctors, and all those other business people and English farmers. I know you have friends among the wives, yes. But our family is different.’ Jan sucked on his pipe. ‘She’ll find it hard to fit in at the convent. Everyone needs to belong somewhere. Especially at that age. Hannah’s not going to spend the rest of her life with Britishers, or with your family in Johannesburg. She’s an Afrikaner and I want her to be proud of that.’
‘She should be comfortable on either side of her heritage, Janni, and be free to take advantage of that in later life, wherever she ends up.’ Lottie leaned over his chair and kissed his forehead. ‘I want her to go to the convent, I really do. I want you to put her name down right now, and come with me for an interview with the Mother Superior. That’s it, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Where’s the money going to come from?’ Jan said. ‘It’s very expensive, the convent. We’d have to use some of what we have put away. And if there’s a drought, or rinderpest among the cattle, or we need a new tractor, what happens then?’
‘Our daughter is more important than a new tractor,’ Lottie said. ‘We can’t deprive her of the best schooling because we’re afraid of something that might never happen on the farm.’
Jan decided to retreat and save time. ‘You can make the arrangements yourself. I’m not going to be interviewed by any Mother Superior. And that’s it from my side.’
Two years later, Hannah felt her father might have been right. She didn’t belong in the convent and she still had no close friends. But she excelled in sport, and on the afternoon of the inter-school hockey championships it was Hannah’s turn to shine as she scored four of the five goals for her team, making them top of the league. She was the star of the day. At the end of the match she was flushed from exertion and triumph. When Sarah Mackay came over to congratulate her she felt a sudden upsurge of courage, and she blurted out the lines she had practised so many times in her head.
‘Good teamwork, Sarah. Oh, here’s my mother. She wants to know if you’d like to come to lunch with us one weekend.’ As she spoke the words in a rush, she saw Camilla Broughton-Smith appear. ‘You too, Camilla.’
Hannah could not believe what she was saying, but there was a better chance that they would come if she asked the two of them.
‘Me too, what? Congratulations by the way, you played brilliantly. That shocked the heifers out of their grubby little socks.’ Camilla draped a pale arm around Sarah’s shoulders.
‘My mother would like you both to come to lunch with us. Next weekend. Well, any weekend. If you want to, I mean.’
Hannah’s courage evaporated quickly and she began to feel the pain of embarrassment. She should never have started this at all. Sarah Mackay was staring at her open-mouthed.
‘What a heavenly idea!’ Camilla prodded her friend. ‘Of course we’d love to come. Wouldn’t we, Sarah? I’ve never been to a farm around here. Have you got cows and sheep? What about horses?’
‘Ma, this is Sarah Mackay.’ Hannah felt she had no option but to plough on. ‘Remember, you met her before? And Camilla Broughton-Smith. They’d both like to come to lunch. As you suggested.’
‘Good. I’ll arrange it right now with Sister Evangelis.’ Lottie smiled at her daughter. ‘What about next weekend, if that’s all right with you girls? We can have a braai if the weather’s good. And Piet will be at home. Bring bathing suits if you like. There’s a swimming hole, but I warn you, the water is cold.’
Langani Farm had been van der Beer property since 1906 when the family had first arrived in Kenya. They had brought their wagons with them on the boat, all the way from South Africa. In the cluster of shacks that would one day become the city of Nairobi, they had purchased a span of untrained oxen and a few basic supplies before setting out for the highland forests, fighting their way upwards with their heavy furniture and belongings, wheezing in the thinning air, trudging through miles of slippery mud that sucked them back and down at every step. Sometimes they hacked their way through thick vegetation, sometimes they shivered through bitter cold and fog and mist, to reach the new, promised land and their allocated acres. For years they had struggled with the raw earth, wresting new crops from the reluctant soil, suffering the heartbreak of dying animals, of rust in the ears of their wheat, of suffocating drought and drenching rain and locusts that swarmed over the ripening crops, leaving their harvest a vanished dream. But perseverance was the corner stone of the Afrikaners. Slowly, and with characteristic intransigence, they tamed and moulded their surroundings.
Her first sight of Lottie’s garden at Langani Farm never faded from Sarah’s mind. The house was long and low, built from local stone with thick walls and tall chimneys. A sloping roof of corrugated iron was supported by stone columns camouflaged by tangled bands of honeysuckle and bougainvillea. The deep verandah overlooked a velvet lawn and bright, curving flower beds, but beyond the lovingly tended trees and shrubs lay open plains, speckled with thorn trees and shared by herds of zebra, giraffe, gazelle, elephant and buffalo. A clipped hedge was all that separated the garden from the wilderness, a fragile rampart against the encroaching bush and marauding wildlife. Beyond the flat plains the distant snow peaks of Mount Kenya rose, glittering, into the dome of the sky.
On that first visit to the farm Jan van der Beer made a barbecue lunch outside under the trees, and then Lottie drove them down to the river. The water was indeed icy, rushing headlong from the melting snow peaks of the mountain. Sarah shrieked as she jumped recklessly from the bank, into the shock of a pool beneath the waterfall. Hannah was laughing from the safe retreat of the bank while Sarah fought for breath, splashing hard to thaw her freezing limbs.
‘You were warned, but you weren’t listening,’ Hannah called out.
‘Well, don’t just stand there laughing like a baboon. Get into the water if you think it’s such a huge joke. You too, Camilla. You can’t just lie there in the grass, trying to look like a film star.’
Hannah was scrambling down the river bank when they heard another voice.
‘Come on, you pathetic little women! Get in there or I’ll help you in and it won’t be gradual.’
Piet van der Beer, tall and gangling, appeared on the bank and stripped off a khaki shirt, boots and socks. There was a shout as he leapt into the air, caught his knees up close to his chest and cannoned into the water. Seconds later he surfaced beside Sarah, shaking the water from his skin, smoothing his blond hair with tanned fingers, grinning at her through eyelashes spiked with drops of water. Her chilled body felt warm. For the first time in her life she was aware of her small breasts beneath the plain school swimsuit, of her slightly pudgy arms and legs. He squinted through the sunlight, and then he winked at her. Laughed out loud, with his head thrown back in the hot sunshine. It was a moment of revelation that changed her life for ever.
Kenya, November 1962
The low, rhythmic croaking of bullfrogs halted abruptly at the sound of Sarah’s footfall, starting up again when she stood still to breathe in the cold, highland air. The African sun had begun its slide down the horizon and she leaned against the verandah post to watch its majestic, red-gold retreat into the earth. There was a chugging sound from the generator, a slow crescendo that brought with it the glow of lamps inside the house. Darkness always came so swiftly, with its sprinkling of early stars. Night jasmine and the scent of woodsmoke masked the daytime smell of dust and gum trees. Beyond the protection of Lottie’s garden, she heard the high bark of a zebra. Voices and laughter drifted out into the beginnings of the night to blend with the whirr and rasp of crickets and tree frogs. From the servants’ quarters came the faint, tinny sound of a radio playing African music. She turned back into the bedroom, realising that she would be the last one to appear for dinner.
She had come in from the ride charged with excitement. They had all started out in the early afternoon, ambling through a grove of jacaranda trees where the lavender-blue flowers had fallen to cover the ground in a drifting carpet that shifted and swirled beneath the horses’ hooves. Beyond the trees, the brittle grass trembled in a white heat haze. They sat for a while on the edge of the plain, waiting for their eyes to become accustomed to the glare. Then Piet beckoned and they rode out into the blazing afternoon, skirting the boundaries of the tribal reservation.
Dotted across the hillside were the shambas of the farm workers. Their allotments were terraced and planted with maize, the heads of the corn cobs ungainly on their disjointed stalks, broad leaves falling, spiky and bleached, away from feathery tops. Every boma had a flock of goats and a clutch of scrawny chickens chucking and scratching in the dry, packed-earth clearing around the huts. Women sat on the ground outside, wrapped in bright kanga cloth, pounding the corn to make posho, the staple diet. Naked toddlers played and rolled in the dust. Dogs with curled tails opened an eye to the afternoon glare and growled half-heartedly. The sing-song of women’s voices carried on the heat-laden air.
‘You hardly ever hear the babies crying,’ Sarah said. ‘Unless they’re sick or something.’
‘Look at them,’ Piet gestured with his riding crop. ‘The totos are either strapped to their mothers’ backs, or tucked up in front with their mouths next to the titties and the milk supply. There’s no need to cry. It’s all on draught, whenever they want it.’ He laughed out loud, noticing Sarah’s discomfiture over his choice of words. ‘Is that not a suitable description for you sheltered convent ladies? No offence, but when you live on a farm the feeding of young, whether they’re on two legs or four, is a natural part of the process.’
He spurred his horse forward and they burst out on to the scrubby plain at a wild, uncontained gallop. Red anthills spiralled out of the grass, and a herd of Thompson’s gazelles flicked nervous tails at the sound of the horses and skittered away across the veld, vanishing into the visible tremor of heat. A male ostrich emerged from the tall grass and ran in front of them, his black plumes glistening in the sun. He was so close that Sarah could see the bird’s eyelashes and the stubble on his pale neck before he peeled away into a dense thicket. She rode fast and level with Piet, keeping up with him effortlessly, exhilarated by the sound of the hooves and the smell of the red earth and the wild grasses. They left Hannah and Camilla trailing and raced across the plain, finally coming to a halt in a swirl of dust at the edge of a copse. Piet leaned forward and took the reins of Sarah’s horse. He pushed his hat back and looked at her, breathless and smiling in the afternoon sun. His admiration was evident.
‘Good going, girl. Not like my sister, or Lady Camilla. They’re asleep on those horses of theirs. You’re a fine rider, that’s for sure.’
‘We always ride with Hannah when we’re here at weekends.’ Sarah was unable to disguise the pleasure his remark had given her. ‘It’s more fun with you, though. When the syce comes with us we aren’t supposed to take off in a gallop like that. And your father won’t let us ride out on our own.’
‘Pa’s responsible when you’re out of the nuns’ clutches. He can’t leave you racing around the bundu on your own. Anyway, Kipchoge’s a great man to ride out with.’
‘Yes. But it’s better without him, all the same.’ Sarah glanced sideways at him, hoping to catch his eye and see him smile again.
‘We’ve been riding together since we were totos on the farm. His father was Pa’s first stable hand. He used to ride and train horses for Lord Delamere, but he was always getting drunk after the races. When he was finally sacked, he came home to sit round and watch his wives work on his shamba. Now he rules the stables like the despot he is, but it’s mostly Kipchoge, as his oldest son, who takes care of the horses.’
‘And does he think he’s going to have a stable of his own horses right after Independence?’ Sarah asked. ‘Apparently the new politicians are telling people they can have everything the white people own, as soon as the British leave.’
‘I don’t think Kipchoge has a very high opinion of politicians. Most of them are Kikuyu and he’s a Nandi, so there’s already ingrained tribal suspicion there. In my opinion there are going to be more problems among the tribes here than between the different races. But the transfer of power and ownership from white to black will be slow. Kipchoge and I grew up together and he’s more like my brother. Our generation will work together, black and white, to make a new country.’
‘What does your father think about that idea?’ Sarah’s comment was sly.
‘Pa has old-fashioned ideas, but his heart is good,’ Piet said, smiling. ‘He’s always known Africans who had no education, no interest in farming as we would define it. I think he’s secretly optimistic though, for all his gloomy predictions.’ He turned in the saddle and waved an arm. ‘Here’s the rest of our little posse. We can ride tomorrow if you like. Just the two of us, early in the morning before my sister and Lady Camilla get up. Let’s head down to the river and water the horses.’
Piet led the way through thorn trees hung with the round, swinging nests of weaver birds. Sarah rode beside him in a trance of happiness, taking in the golden, sun-curled hairs on his forearm, listening to the broad cadences of his Afrikaans voice, finding each sentence quite beautiful in its mingling with the low whinnying of the horses, the creak of saddle leather and the saw of grasshoppers. They dismounted beneath a canopy of thorn trees, and Piet took a package from his saddlebag and a knife from a sheath attached to his belt.
‘We can drink from the river. It comes straight down from Mount Kenya, as clear and clean as you can get. And I brought some biltong that Pa and I dried and cut.’
They splashed their faces, gulping handfuls of the icy water. The horses drank deeply, snorting with contentment, and then turned to graze along the river bank. Piet lay in the shade, his arms behind his head. Sarah and Hannah sat cross-legged beside him. Camilla leaned her back against a tree trunk and stretched out long legs to full advantage.
‘It’s extra salty, this,’ she said, making a face as she chewed on the dark, stringy meat.
‘What would you know about biltong, Lady Camilla? You don’t chew that at parties in Government House, I’ll bet.’
‘No, we don’t. And if she saw me eating this stuff, my mother would haul me off to a doctor to check for worms and then to an emergency session with the dentist.’ Camilla looked at him through a fall of blonde hair. ‘While you’ve been away learning useless theories at college, we’ve had Hannah for our cross-cultural lessons. She brings us biltong at school. Part of our regular care package, along with your mother’s treacle tart. And don’t call me Lady Camilla.’
Piet sat back into the shadows, observing his sister and her friends. They were so unalike in their appearances, so different in their backgrounds.
‘It always seems strange to me, the friendship between the three of you,’ he said. ‘You’re like sisters in a way, but you’re poles apart. I listen to you talking and it’s like a kind of code, almost as though one knows what the others are thinking, or going to do, before it happens.’
‘That’s not even the half of it,’ Camilla said. A clutter of memories made her laugh out loud. They had shared detentions and prize-givings, finished each other’s homework, survived falls from horses and whacks from hockey sticks, and religious classes and exam nerves and school dances. Awful boyfriends, too, callow and spotty or slicked up and pressing for an advantage that they could brag about in some locker room. ‘You’ve missed all kinds of fun, Piet, being away in South Africa. And you even passed up Sarah’s invitation to join us all at the coast last year. Too busy playing rugby or something equally riveting. Bad choice.’
‘I’d like to see South Africa,’ Sarah said.
‘It’s beautiful. But I don’t like the way they treat the Africans and the Coloureds. It’s a police state, and there’ll be bloodshed eventually,’ Piet said with regret. ‘Unfortunately, the Afrikaners will be mostly to blame for it. We’re lucky to be here in Kenya, in spite of Pa’s misgivings about Uhuru. And it’s home, heh?’
‘Imagine all this being your home. God, what a heritage,’ Sarah’s voice was reverential.
‘Our great-grandparents dug this whole farm out of the wilderness.’ Piet gestured at a dense wall of bush and tangled trees on the far side of the river. ‘They lived in huts made from mud and thatch, until they could use the ox wagons to drag oak up here, and big cedar logs, to build their houses. Then their sons and grandsons took over, and worked like slaves to make what we have now. I’ll be next, and there’s so much I want to do here.’
‘Like what?’ Sarah was surprised. ‘It seems perfect already. But I suppose that’s because your dad is always out there working away at it.’
‘A farm never stays in the same condition from one day to another. But apart from working with Pa to keep the livestock going, and the wheat, I want to turn part of it into a conservation area for game. He thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘You mean, like a national park?’ Sarah stared at him. ‘How would you do it? You can’t fence it in, can you?’
‘No. It would be too expensive at first. But we’d put a stop to the shooting or hunting of any animals in that area, even for food. I’d like to set aside part of the northern plain and the forest on the west side of the farm, just for the game. There’s plenty in that area – leopard, buffalo, elephant, plains game. Even bongo, though they are the most shy of all the forest creatures and you hardly ever see them. I’ll train some of our labour as game scouts and rangers. And I plan to build a lookout, somewhere to stay overnight and watch animals. Like Treetops, but very small. I wouldn’t want mobs of people up here, ruining the place.’
‘I’m going to have a clinic,’ Hannah said. ‘Not like Ma’s dispensary for the labour and their totos. Mine will be for animals that are hurt or orphaned, like small buck or bush pigs that have lost their mothers, or a lame zebra. Remember the newborn giraffe that was abandoned, Piet? I’m going to start a place and look after them.’
‘What noble schemes. I’ll drop in to admire your dedication when I’m famous. Of course no matter where I go, I’ll always have a home here. At the coast, I think.’ Camilla waved an elegant hand. ‘At Kilifi or Watamu – right on the sea. Everyone in Europe will think it so exotic, and they’ll beg for invitations. You can all come down for my scandalous house parties. Piet, you’ll be the glamorous rancher. All the American ladies will fall madly in love with you and try and get into your tent on safari, when their filthy rich old husbands are soaked in gin and fast asleep.’
‘And what will make you so famous?’ Piet was chewing on a stalk of grass, smiling at the picture she had drawn.
‘Drama school first. Then I’ll be discovered overnight by a brilliant impresario who’ll make me a star of stage and screen, with my name in lights. I’ll come back to Kenya on location and make a film. Like Grace Kelly in Mogambo. And you’ll take me and the other stars to watch the animals, from your treetop thing.’
‘What about you, Sarah?’ Piet leaned across and tickled her with a piece of coarse grass. ‘No, let me guess. Either the nuns will lock you up in the cloisters, or you’ll be a doctor like your father. That’s it! A missionary doctor in some remote place, surrounded by grateful natives who’ve been taught to say their prayers.’
‘I don’t know why you should think of me as the missionary type.’ Sarah was stung by his vision of her, so far from the picture of decadent glamour and success that he had accepted for Camilla. ‘Anyway, my brother’s studying medicine. Two doctors in the family are enough. If I pass my exams, I’m going to study zoology. At Dublin University. Then I’ll come back here to do research. On the migratory animals in the Mara and the Serengeti maybe, or the bongo in your forest that no one ever sees. Or warthogs. I love warthogs.’
‘You’ll be the terrors of the country, the three of you. Like a pride of lionesses,’ Piet said. ‘Sisters in spirit if not in blood.’
‘But we could be blood sisters.’ Sarah leaned forward. ‘Give me your knife, Piet, and we’ll each make a cut on our hands and draw some blood. Then we’ll mix it and make a promise to stick together always, to support one another through thick and thin. No matter what. We’ll be sisters in blood, in the traditional way of the Kikuyu or the Maasai.’
‘I’m not having any part in this.’ Piet shook his head. ‘It’s a weird idea for a bunch of convent ladies. Only warriors do that kind of thing. And if Pa hears about this—’
‘I can’t imagine who would tell him,’ Camilla said sweetly.
‘I don’t know, Sarah. That’s something tribal that the watu do. It’s a spooky idea.’ Hannah’s face was troubled and she looked across at Camilla, anticipating her support.
‘Oh God. You’re always so dramatic, Sarah. And fey. That’s the curse of being Irish, you know.’ Camilla sat up straight and held out her hand, palm up. ‘I think it’s a great idea. One of your better fancies. Let’s do it.’
Sarah got to her feet. ‘I’ll make a fire from some twigs. Come on, Piet, you rinse off your knife and then we’ll put the blade into the flame to sterilise it. I’ll make the cuts, if Camilla and Hannah are too squeamish. I’m not a doctor’s daughter for nothing.’ She glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Your knife is really sharp. If you don’t give it to me I’ll use my blunt old penknife, and I’ll be hacking great lumps out of our hands. Then your parents really will have something to say.’
Sarah cleared a space on the ground. She was about to search for kindling when Camilla appeared beside her with a handful of dry sticks. Hannah sat still, her expression solemn, and Camilla looked at her, silent but with eyebrows raised.
‘All right. I’ll do it. We’ll make our promise together.’ Hannah turned to address her brother. ‘And don’t even think of walking off into the long grass, Piet. Because you’re going to be our solemn witness. Give me your lighter.’
The twigs were soon crackling and a thin spiral of smoke rose from the heart of the woodpile. Sarah took Piet’s knife and held it over the flames. Then she stood up and held it out so that the blade glittered in the afternoon light.
‘I’ll go first.’
She saw Piet step forward in protest, but she deliberately ignored him as she made a quick incision on the mound at the base of her thumb.
‘Me now.’ Camilla did not flinch or avert her eyes as Sarah made the cut.
Hannah held out her hand, watching in silence as the scarlet drops welled in her palm.
‘Come over here, Piet, so we have a witness as we press our hands together and make the blood mingle,’ Sarah ordered. ‘By the way, Camilla’s blood isn’t blue. I hope that doesn’t come as a shock to anyone.’
‘We should make our promise now,’ Camilla said. ‘Something that always binds us, no matter how far we may travel from this day and place.’
‘I promise never to forget, always to stay true to our friendship. Always to be there for my sisters.’ Sarah’s eyes were very bright as she spoke and her face was grave.
Piet looked at Hannah and saw that there were tears in her eyes as she repeated the words. But Camilla was smiling as she pressed her palm into the hands of her friends and made her own promise.
The ride back to the farm was a silent progress. In the stables Sarah leaned against Chuma, the chestnut gelding. She closed her eyes, seeing in her mind the ritual they had just performed, remembering Piet’s expression, the crinkles that appeared around his eyes and the curved line of his mouth when he laughed. When he had handed her down from the saddle, her skin had prickled and she had shivered as he held her lightly for a moment to steady her. His wrists were very strong, and he wore a bracelet woven from the hair of an elephant’s tail. To bring him luck and protection, he said. She could smell his skin and see the band of sweat on his forehead, just below the brim of his leather hat. Her sense of him was so unnerving that she had not been able to thank him as he helped her undo the horse’s saddle and bridle.
‘See you at dinner, kid. I’m off to catch up with Pa.’ He gave her hair a little tug and then he was gone, to put away the tack.
In the guest bedroom she found Camilla varnishing her nails.
‘Where on earth have you been? I’ve already had a bath and washed my hair. That was a wild ceremony this afternoon,’ Camilla said.
‘God, you’re almost ready for dinner.’ Sarah ignored the reference to their promise, not wanting to make light of the event. ‘How do you always manage to be painting your nails or putting cream on your legs when I’m rubbing down horses or—’
‘I intend to dedicate my life to the pursuit of glamour.’ Camilla’s tone was sly. ‘Lucky devil, that Piet, with his great life plan already underway. Is that why you’re late? Stayed on with the golden boy for a little private je ne sais quoi?’
‘What rubbish,’ Sarah’s face was burning, and she was trembling slightly as she turned away to hunt for her hairbrush and sponge bag. ‘What should I wear? What are you wearing?’
Camilla had already chosen a skirt and sweater that her mother had bought for her in Italy, and some high-heeled shoes. She slipped into her clothes, smoothed some sort of glow on to her cheeks and ran a lipstick across her mouth, making it full and shiny.
‘I’m going to chat to Hannah,’ she said. ‘You can borrow my blue shirt if you like. The colour suits you. Don’t worry – you’ll look great. But you’re going to have to find a way to stop your face turning puce like that. It’s a dead giveaway. See you later.’
toto