Storms Over Africa (19 page)

‘Steve!' He was aghast.

‘It was okay. I had a rope around my waist.'

‘Where was the guide, surely he didn't allow it? What did he say?'

‘I don't know, he spoke in his own language.' She chuckled. ‘He did sound a tad upset, however.'

‘So you got his drift.' He was proud of her courage and scared for her because of it.

‘Weeeell.'

God, it was good to hear from her. ‘Go on, what did you do?'

‘I hadn't finished photographing.'

He didn't want to hear any more. The mental picture of her hanging down the cliff opposite the tremendous might of Victoria Falls was too much. The Zambezi river was nearly two kilometres wide when it plunged into a 100-metre deep chasm. Huge clouds of spray rose hundreds of metres into the air. The ground on the opposite side, where tourists view the falls, actually shook as the power of this waterway was checked and constricted in the narrow gorge. The sight, sound and feel of the falls was awesome, particularly at that time of year when the rainy season was in full swing. The rope might have broken, the knot come undone, anything could have happened. ‘Where are you going next?' He wanted to change the subject, not have to think about her dangling on a fragile line.

‘Hwange.'

‘Good, you'll have a ranger with you there.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘They've loaned me a vehicle,' she laughed, then rushed on, ‘don't worry, I'll be fine. They're going to let me watch them dart rhino.'

‘That's terribly dangerous. Rhino don't like being darted. They charge things. Experienced men get killed. For God's sake take care.'

‘Richard.'

‘What?' he was excited and anxious at the same time.

‘I miss you.'

The words went into his brain then charged down to his gut, causing it to flip up and over. He felt he could have killed an elephant with his bare hands. ‘You're a maniac.'

She laughed. ‘I'll call you from Harare in a couple of weeks.'

He did not want her to hang up. ‘How do you feel about a hunt?'

‘I don't know,' she faltered, unable to imagine killing all the wonderful animals she was photographing.

‘Remember what I told you about the balance of nature?'

‘I know, Richard. It's just that I don't think I want to be there watching the scales.'

‘You don't have to watch. You can take more pictures,' he tempted her.

‘I'll think about it. Have to go, the bus is about to leave. See you.' She hung up in a rush, leaving him bereft.

She said she missed me. She did say that.
He hugged the comment to himself, absorbing the implications, happy yet unhappy.

The next two weeks crawled by. He contacted Penny and reluctantly invited Joseph Tshuma to join them on the safari. He went ahead and arranged it anyway, confident he could talk Steve into coming. He sold some bulls. He bought some cows. He wrote to David but said nothing about Steve, wanting to tell his son face to face about the new woman in his life. David had been so close to Kathy, he was unsure how he would take the news. It did not seem right to tell him in a letter.

By the time Steve contacted him from Harare he had half convinced himself she had been killed by a rhinoceros. He drove down to the capital to see her. He found her preoccupied and reserved. ‘What's wrong?' he asked during dinner.

She looked at him, her clear blue eyes troubled. ‘I've had a letter from Bryan.'

‘Your boyfriend?' He had forgotten all about him.

She nodded. ‘He's talking about coming over. He says he misses me.'

‘What will you do?'
I'll tear him limb from limb if he comes.

Her eyes were without guile. ‘I'll have to tell him the truth.'

He reached for her hand. ‘What is the truth, Steve?'

‘I've met the man of my dreams,' she said softly.

They were halfway through their steaks. Richard rose hurriedly, scraping his chair on the floor and causing other diners to look up. ‘Let's go,' he said huskily, throwing his napkin on the table.

Their passion reached new heights that night. They made love like new lovers with old knowledge. In the quiet satisfaction following their lovemaking Richard asked Steve to stay in Zimbabwe. ‘I'd already decided to do that,' she said. ‘There's so much here to write about and photograph. I want to understand Africa like you do.'

‘Is that the only reason?' he teased.

She turned and snuggled against him, her breath as she spoke tickling the hairs on his chest. ‘You know it's not.'

He kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like the sea. ‘I've been a bad lad in my time,' he warned. ‘I'm not all that easy to live with. I get impatient easily and I shout a lot.'

‘I'm no angel, Richard. I'll chance it.'

The next morning they collected her photographs. There were hundreds. Her shot of the buffalo tripping over the mooring line was brilliantly comical. A series of breathtaking angles at Victoria Falls, quite different to
those normally taken, justified, in Steve's eyes, the risks she took taking them. She had adopted a different mood in Hwange Game Reserve, filling three rolls of film with hot dusty sunsets and brooding waterholes at dawn and dusk. She had, in the short time she had been in Africa, developed an instinct for that which was quintessential to the continent. Then she showed Richard the photo graphs taken while the rhinoceroses were being darted.

‘Good God, how did you get this?' Judging from the angle, Steve had to be at the same level as the rhinoceros to take the shot. The beast looked to be no more than 60 centimetres from the camera. The photograph was of a portion of its head. The little piggy eyes glared viciously at the lens, mad and red.

‘That's Chantel. Isn't she lovely?'

‘Who named her that?'

‘Me.'

He snorted. ‘That figures. How did you get the shot?'

‘I was leaning over the truck. One of the men was sitting on my legs. It was quite safe.'

Richard wondered if she had been in more danger from the man sitting on her legs, probably gazing down at her wonderful bottom. No doubt she was wearing shorts.

She showed him the next shot. Chantel was vigorously attacking a split-pole fence. Steve
had obviously been sitting on the fence, just above her. Dust billowed around the rhinoceros and chips of wood flew through the air as her horn splintered the wooden fence. Five tonnes of angry rhinoceros in full assault mode 150 centimetres below her and Steve's photograph was crisp and steady. ‘You're a helluva photographer,' he said, handing it back, grudgingly respectful.

The entire sequence of shots of the darting episode literally dripped with danger, heat and the dedication of the men involved. They were brilliant. ‘You could exhibit some of these,' he said. ‘People would buy them.'

She saved the best till last. Three entire rolls taken of African people. She had gone into a village and captured the simplicity and dignity of the villagers. Her understanding of lighting caught the lines on their faces, the gentleness in their eyes and the humour in their mouths. Some of the shots of the huts looked like wash drawings. Children were happy, splashing in the river, their plump bodies shining, drops of water spraying and caught by her camera like sunbursts as she had photographed them from just the right angle.

‘It's nice to see you don't use cheap tricks.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We had a team come from America before the war. They wanted to get the poverty and suffering, not the real truth. They threw
money into garbage bins and then photographed the kids leaning in to get it. It was reported as starving children reduced to raiding bins to get food to eat.'

‘There is a lot of starvation in Africa, though.'

‘Then they should have gone to where it's prevalent, not misrepresented Rhodesia.'

‘Sometimes you call it Rhodesia and sometimes Zimbabwe.'

‘Depends on when I'm talking about.'

‘I see,' she said, nodding. ‘If you're referring to before the war it's Rhodesia.'

‘We all do that.'

‘Even the Africans?'

‘Especially the Africans. Some of the more rural African people still call it Rhodesia. Wellington can never remember to say Harare, he still refers to it as Salisbury.'

‘It's complicated here. Australia is just Australia. No border patrols, no passports required. Everyone is free to go anywhere.'

‘Must be very boring,' he said dryly.

She grinned at him. ‘Now, now,' she admonished gently.

She had business to attend to at the Department of National Parks and Wildlife Management. He reluctantly gave her Joseph Tshuma's name as a contact and she made an appointment to see him. While she was gone, Richard, who had nothing better to do, sat in
the lobby at Meikles reading the newspaper. He was deeply into the complicated machinations of what he saw as the united Europe mess and John Major's problems, when a man sat next to him and said, ‘Bugger me, if it isn't old Didd.'

Only one person called him that. Major Greg Yeomans, who, during the war had been a field operative with Intell-Salisbury attached to the Selous Scouts, had not endeared himself to his superiors because of his habit of deliberately bastardising everyone's name. They tolerated him only because of his efficiency but even that counted for nothing when, in the same report, he once referred to General Walls, then Commander of the Rhodesian Army, and Lieutenant Colonel Ron Reid Daly, who formed and commanded the Selous Scouts, as General Window and Lieutenant Colonel Nightly.

The habit would have been irritating in most people. Greg Yeomans, however, was a warm and intelligent man who was well liked. In fact, in some circles this renaming was considered to be a sign of acceptance. If you didn't have your name turned around by Yeomans, you weren't part of the team.

Richard had not seen the man since the war. ‘Greg,' he said, pleased. ‘Where did you spring from?' He had barely changed. Tall and almost painfully thin with a shock of fiery red
hair which sprung up from his head and stuck out in tufty disarray. Red eyebrows, thick and bushy, over intelligent blue eyes. A nose which looked as though a child had modelled it out of putty, lumpy and long. The only thing missing was the huge untidy red beard he had grown during the war.

Yeomans tapped his long nose and answered. ‘Here and there.'

‘Still the conspirator I see.' Richard remembered how impossible it had been to get any information out of the man.

He tapped his nose again, ‘Now and then.'

Richard laughed. ‘Okay, okay, I'll ask. What are you doing these days?'

And Yeomans, delighted at the opportunity, said, ‘This and that.'

‘Let's have a drink,' Richard rose.

‘Thought you'd never ask.'

They were at ease immediately. Of all the men he had known during the seven-year war, Greg Yeomans was the one he respected most. He had once seen him drop from a helicopter, hit the ground running, shooting and rolling in such a manner that Richard was convinced the man must break one of his spindly legs. Instead, he proceeded to take out seven terrorists who had been hiding in ambush and climb back into the hovering helicopter three minutes later, all with no discernible change to his breathing pattern. He had been alone on
the ground and the covering fire from the helicopter had hindered, rather than helped him. ‘Jesus, Old Woman,' he said to the gunner, who's name was Youngman, ‘you bloody nearly shot me.'

‘Sorry, sir,' Youngman stammered. He was nervous and inexperienced.

‘Just don't do it again.' He had calmly lit a cigarette with hands that showed no sign of shakiness.

They went into the bar. They talked of the war, of the funny incidents they remembered, and of mutual friends. It seemed that Greg was still involved in some kind of intelligence work, although he now lived in South Africa. He was deliberately vague about his work so Richard did not push it, knowing that if the man was reluctant to talk about it nothing would make him, and content in the knowledge that whatever he was up to it would be for the good of Zimbabwe.

‘I'd like to talk to you,' Greg finally said. ‘Not here, though.'

Richard thought of Steve who was due back in about an hour. ‘My room,' he suggested.

‘Nope. Too many people have seen us together.'

The old tingling feeling of danger came back. Something was on, he was sure of it. He wanted to know more. ‘Come to the farm.'

‘Tomorrow?' Greg suggested.

Steve would be there. ‘I have company. A woman.'

Greg chuckled. ‘You sly old dog.'

‘This one is special.'

Greg raised his eyebrows.

‘Come tomorrow anyway. We can get away and talk.'

‘Fine.' Greg drained his drink and said loudly, ‘Great to run into you again, Didd. Hope to see you around sometime,' and left, greeting one or two people as he went.

He could not shake the feeling it was all starting up again. Speaking in hushed voices, checking over the shoulder to make sure your words were not being overheard, having one conversation while pretending to have another, it was terribly familiar. He was impatient to know exactly what was going on.

He and Steve drove up to Pentland later that afternoon. They drove through several local thunderstorms, the water cascading out of the heavens like a waterfall, visibility down to one or two metres on occasions, the sound of the rain drowning out their voices in the car. ‘I've never seen anything like it,' she marvelled, as they burst through the edge of one such downpour like it was a curtain, the other side of which the road was quite dry. ‘It's so selective, so local.'

‘That's Africa for you,' Richard said. ‘Everything's local, everything's different and everything's spectacular.'