Storms Over Africa (6 page)

Kathy knew the truth. Wisely, she kept it to herself. She knew how volatile her husband was, understood his restlessness, and was aware that his social butterfly mother and distant, stern father had not equipped him to deal with gentleness and sensitivity. His thoughtlessness often hurt her feelings. When he forgot her birthday she felt betrayed and
unloved. Her belief that he had a wandering eye caused her pain. His apparent lack of interest in his children, especially David, infuriated her. But at night, in bed, when he held her in his arms and told her he loved her, when his daytime hardness was cushioned and softened by the darkness of their room and the closeness of their bodies, when his voice shook with the strength of his love for her, she understood that she had married a man who could never expose his real feelings in the cold light of day.

Kathy knew Richard better than he knew himself. And she loved him deeply and honestly for the man hidden inside, the man who could say hoarsely during their lovemaking, ‘Kath, Kath, you are my life.' She loved the man who held her after making love and talked of his dreams, his fears and his plans. She loved the man who kissed her tenderly on the mouth just before going to sleep and told her, ‘Sleep well, my darling.' And she still loved him in the morning when his mind went into overdrive and he forgot the niceties in his impatience to be off and doing things. When he snapped because breakfast held him back, when he was irritable with the children because they wanted his attention and he wanted to get to work, Kathy loved him still because she, and only she, knew the other side of him.

David was still asleep when Richard turned off the main road and onto the graded dirt one which led to Pentland Park. The bumping soon woke him, however, and he stretched and yawned, then stared with interest at the passing country. It was the middle of December, the rains had started early—five weeks ago—and the grass, burned dry and white during winter, was lush and green. Those few native trees which had lost their leaves were now resplendent in their full summer uniform. Even the evergreens seemed glossier and thicker foliaged. David appeared to be hungrily devouring the familiar sights, breathing deeply to catch the smells, head thrown back to let the warmth blow over his face.

‘Looks good, doesn't it?' Richard commented proudly as they crossed the cattle grid which took them onto their own land. Pentland Park was the last farm along the road. Beyond it was a vast game reserve which,
before the War of Independence, had been tribal trust land for the Shona.

‘Yep.'

‘Do you miss it when you're at school?' Richard was making conversation to fill the silences.

‘Most of the time I'm too busy to miss it. Sometimes, though, when I have a free afternoon, I take off on my own. There's no doubt about it, Dad, the country in Scotland is beautiful. It's picture book stuff, know what I mean? There's nothing gutsy about it, though, is there?'

He glanced at his son, surprised. Rarely did David string more than a few words together when speaking with him. ‘So what are you saying?'

David shrugged. ‘I guess I'm saying that, although Scotland is beautiful, I prefer Africa.'

‘Why is that?' He found himself interested in David's answer. He never once speculated on his son's preference, believing that, given the choice, he would opt for Scotland over the harsher environment of Africa.

David stared out through the open window as if the answer to his father's question was out there, rather than inside him. ‘There's magic here,' he said finally. ‘It's in the colours. It's in the history of the Africans. But more than anything else, it's in the animals. They make Africa special.' He turned to his father.

‘Do you know, Dad, that unless something is done to stop it, hunting and poaching will clean us out of several important species of animals within the next ten years?'

Richard snorted. ‘What rot!'

‘It's not rot, Dad. It's true.'

‘Where did you get that idea?'

‘It's common knowledge.'

He snorted again. One of these damned days he would like to meet this mythical ‘common knowledge' who seemed to have an answer for everything, especially for the young. ‘And does common knowledge tell you what to do when the animals overrun the farms?' he asked sarcastically.

‘The Africans managed to coexist for centuries with the animals. As soon as the white man came along there were problems. It's our greed. We take more than we need.' David's voice had strengthened and Richard suspected he was quoting verbatim something he had seen on television, or something he had heard someone else say. He did not believe David, experienced in the ways of Africa as he was, could be so naive as to think up such an argument himself.

‘These wonderful Africans you're talking about. I suppose they didn't kill animals?'

‘They did,' David was nodding, sure of his next point, ‘but only for meat, clothing and shelter. Not for profit, or because they
thought it made them better in bed, or . . . or because . . . or to wear as an adornment.' David was blushing and starting to stutter. He had never discussed sex with his father and his reference to it unnerved him.

Richard took advantage of David's embarrassment to press home his point and end the discussion. ‘Let me tell you something about hunting, young man. Most of the animals killed in Zimbabwe are part of a government-controlled culling program. Game Department know, almost to the last beast, just how many elephants, rhino, buffalo or anything else for that matter there are at any one time in any one area. They only issue licences if the numbers get too large. It's tightly managed and it keeps animals and man at a workable ratio.' He shot David a look. The boy's jaw had tightened, a sure sign he disagreed. ‘There's just no way Game Department would allow an overkill situation to develop, no way at all.' He lit a cigarette and blew smoke upwards to indicate the conversation was, as far as he was concerned, over.

Although he had deliberately avoided mentioning poaching, part of Richard's vehemence was due to a guilty conscience.

After Kathy died, Richard tried to pick up the threads of his old life. The farm had suffered some neglect during the War of Independence and he had virtually ignored it towards
the end of her illness. But with Kathy not there he lacked the will to roll up his sleeves and make an effort. Penny and David were away at boarding school most of the time and the house rang out with emptiness. Kathy's feminine touches were gone. While Wellington, the old family cook, kept the house clean, it seemed bare. While the gardener faithfully maintained the garden, the colourful splashes of petunia and pansy, alyssum and aster, sweet William and portulaca were missing. Richard felt emotionally dead. His normally strong will had deserted him. The impetus which had carried him through before, which had produced some of the best breeding stock and grazing land in the country, had faltered.

And so he sought the company of some of his former comrades from the War of Independence.

The men who had fought in the war, black and white alike, had earned a reputation as being the best, the fiercest and the most effectively deadly soldiers in the world. But some of these men had not been able to readapt when the war ended. The whites had fought an increasingly bitter war. Most of them had lost someone dear to them. They returned to their old lives with their nerves stretched as taut as any violin string. For some, only alcohol dulled their battered senses. Only getting falling-down, legless, motherless drunk night
after night helped them forget their loved ones, and the sour taste of defeat in a war they believed they should have won.

Richard avoided friends who had returned to their families after the war and picked up their lives where they left off. He felt at home in the company of men who were hurting. Nursing his own grief, he could identify with the bitter disappointment in others. He devoted more and more time to an almost hysterical need to party. He drank until he fell into a stupor. He bedded any woman who happened across his path. He shut the door on grief, love and fatherly responsibility. He told himself he was having fun.

The farm suffered. His infallible instinct at cattle sales was dulled by hangovers. His zest for getting stuck into hard work alongside his African labourers went the same way, leaving him apathetic and short-tempered. Without his enthusiasm and good humour, his workers stopped trying. Fences sagged, fields were overgrazed, soil erosion began a sinister creep along some of his land.

His accountant jerked him out of his self-pitying apathy by bluntly pointing out that Richard owed so much money it would take the farm, on full production, five years to pay it back. He recommended selling. Appalled, Richard looked around for ways to save his farm. But when he saw how badly he had
allowed it to run down he realised the task was probably beyond him. His money was gone, his stock was non-existent and a bank loan, a foregone conclusion in the days of white clubbiness a few years back, was curtly refused by the new black bank manager. Richard returned to his new friend—the scotch bottle.

His neighbour, Janie Roos, was an Afrikaner who had married a Rhodesian girl and who, before the war, had been a friendly, open youngster who worked hard, played hard and loved his land as much as Richard loved Pentland. Janie had returned from the war with the remains of a bullet wound in his back which had been so badly repaired by a field surgeon there were days he was unable to get out of bed. Not prepared to live with her husband's bad temper and drinking bouts, his wife left him, taking their two young children with her. Richard and Janie spent endless days and nights drinking together, sunk into bitterness, criticising the new order of a Rhodesia turned Zimbabwe but unable, or unwilling, to make the best of things. Criticism was easier. Blaming the new government was more palatable. Both men were further bonded by the loss of their wives. Janie blamed his wife for leaving him. Richard blamed all sorts of things. Sometimes he even blamed Kathy, particularly if he were at the maudlin end of a bottle of scotch or two.

Sprawled in chairs on Janie's verandah one day, Richard mentioned he was going to sell Pentland.

‘Why, man?'

‘It's too run down. I can't afford it any more.'

‘Ja, I know what you mean.'

Richard looked blearily at his old friend. The boy's once clear eyes were red-rimmed and dulled by pain and too many bottles of whisky. His skin was sallow and lines of pain were etched around his mouth. He knew Janie lived with pain constantly, stubbornly refusing pain killers. He also understood why. Janie's physical pain matched his despair. By letting in the physical pain, the emotional ache was easier to bear.

‘Damned shame though,' Richard said wistfully. ‘I love that farm.'

Janie shifted in his chair and winced. ‘You and me, man, we had two of the best properties in Rhodesia.'

‘Bloody war.'

‘Ja, man, these bloody kaffirs will stuff it up, you wait and see.'

‘Couldn't run a piss-up in a brewery.'

Both men looked over Janie's land, at the few ragged cattle, at the broken gate and the near empty dam. ‘Bit of money might help,' Janie said finally.

‘Bastard bank manager turned down my
application for a loan.' Richard reached for the scotch bottle.

‘I know man, you told me.'

‘Bastard!'

‘They're all bastards. They'll ruin this country for sure. They're already reclaiming our lands.'

Richard sighed and thumped his near full glass of scotch down on the table between the two of them. ‘God, if only I had the cash.'

In the distance they saw a small herd of elephant. The animals were on Richard's property. ‘You got visitors,' Janie said, pointing.

‘Doesn't matter. Got hardly any stock anyway.'

‘Ja, but they do a lot of damage.' Janie waved his glass at the elephants and slopped most of the liquid on the verandah floor.

‘So what?' Richard really did not care.

‘We should chase them off.'

Richard rose unsteadily. ‘Let's do it,' he said abruptly. He often did that. It was almost as though he no longer knew his own mind.

They got into Richard's Land Rover and drove towards the elephants, through the cattle grid onto Pentland Park. The animals saw them coming, wheeled and made off for the distant game reserve. They had not been chased off for several years but instinct told them they would be safer in the reserve. Richard slowed his vehicle and the two men watched them go.

‘There goes a lot of cash,' Janie said.

Richard glanced at him. ‘Too dicey.'

‘Not if they're on your land.'

He thought about it. The elephants, along with other animals from the reserve, had been coming onto Pentland a lot lately. Before the war, when his cattle dotted the land and his farm workers were always out and about, the elephants had rarely ventured onto his farm. On the few occasions they did, Richard had enjoyed the sight of them so much he had only chased them off if they started doing damage to his fences or the forest land. What if a few went missing? How could it be proved he had anything to do with it? The sale of a few good tusks would go a long way to kick-starting Pentland. He had the contacts in Harare who would buy tusks on a no-questions-asked basis. He had the location at Pentland Park. All he needed were a couple of competent men who could keep their mouths shut and who would keep their nerve in the face of danger. He believed he had the very men working for him at Pentland Park: he had known them for twenty years, taken them on safari with him often. Samson, his head boy, was an excellent tracker and skinner. Philamon, younger than Samson, was as good a shot as Richard himself.

His conscience bothered him, but only slightly. One way or another, an excess of animals inevitably meant some of them had to
die. Adam Robinson, the head ranger in the reserve, had said only the other day that, because of the long drought, they would have to cull nearly fifty percent of the elephants in the reserve. So why not cull a few of them himself? It could be done humanely, no traps, just well-placed shots so the animals would never know what hit them.