Echoes From a Distant Land (21 page)

From up ahead and to the right, Dana heard the cough of a leopard and realised the reason for Dancer's nervousness. The predator was obviously taking advantage of the early darkness to search for prey. Dana let Dancer ease off to the left and hoped she could resume the correct course when they'd distanced themselves from the leopard.

A loud snarl came from the darkness. Dancer reared and plunged then took a great leap forwards, throwing Dana from the saddle. She hit the ground with a sickening thud and at the same moment there came the crack of thunder.

She took a moment to regain her senses, then she shouted for Dancer, but her voice was ripped from her mouth by the wind.

Dana scrambled to her feet, fighting her panic. She knew the leopard was close and would now be emboldened without the intimidating presence of the horse. She listened, but could hear nothing above the howling wind. The silence could mean that the leopard had gone on its way, or was now stalking her in earnest.

Walk, don't run, she told herself, as she continued up the slope, but with the last of the daylight now gone, she had no way of knowing whether she was heading in the right direction.

A shadow loomed at her from the darkness.

Her heart caught in her throat and she surrendered to her panic and took flight.

Something snared her arm.

She screamed.

‘Dana! It's me. It's all right. It's me.'

‘Oh, Sam!' she sobbed, and fell into his arms.

Dana glanced around the
banda
while Sam was outside putting Dancer into the
boma
he'd built to protect the horses. She marvelled at how easily a little warmth and light could dispel a bad experience.

He returned with a handful of sticks to stoke the fire in the middle of the hut and, as soon as he'd straightened from his task, she wrapped her arms around him again, feeling the long strong muscles of his back and his warmth. She didn't want to ever let him go.

He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.

‘I've been watching all day,' he whispered. ‘Hoping you'd come.'

‘I wanted to, but I've been afraid.'

‘Afraid?'

‘Yes. What I feel about you frightens me.'

‘Don't be frightened.'

She stroked his back from his shoulders to his waist then ran her hands down to feel the muscles of his buttocks.

‘I'm better now,' she said. ‘Being with you makes me feel alive. Wonderful.' She looked up at him. ‘I want you, Sam. I'll always want you.'

He kissed her softly and his lips lingered on hers as his tenderness slowly turned to passion.

She pulled at his buttons and when she'd stripped the shirt from him she helped him loosen the clasps on her new-fangled brassiere. When their last items of clothing fell to the floor, he lifted her and laid her on the cot. She felt the coarse hair of the zebra hide against her back and Sam's smooth skin as he lowered himself onto her.

 

They lay naked in the flickering light of the fire with one of Sam's woollen blankets pulled over them. Dana's head rested on
Sam's shoulder and as his breathing returned to normal he enjoyed the feel of her fingers idly caressing his abdomen. The wind had abated; it was no longer howling through the forest above them, but occasionally gusting enough to part the door covering and make the flames briefly dance in the fireplace.

Dana asked how he knew she was approaching the
banda
.

‘I heard the leopard before the wind came up,' he said, ‘and I went out with my rifle to watch over the horses. I saw you coming up the hill, but then I lost you in the gloom until just before the leopard pounced. I must have got lucky with my old Rigby.'

‘It was your rifle!' she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was thunder.'

After he'd released the shot his heart almost stopped when he thought he'd missed the leopard and hit Dana. If he'd had time to think, he might not have taken the shot because of the risk, but then the leopard would have torn her apart. Thinking back on the possible consequences, the cold hand of dread touched him, and he felt such a strong sense of loss at the thought of going through life without her that a hot wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

He forced the notion from his head and played with her hair. It was so much finer than an African woman's. It slipped like silk through his fingers.

‘Have you always been in the horse smuggling business?' she asked.

‘No. I'm quite new at it. A few years ago I almost became a respectable settler — a coffee man, in fact.'

‘When was that?'

He felt her snuggle close to him. He loved the feel of her compact body pressing against his, and her warmth.

‘It's quite a long story. Are you sure you want to hear this?'

‘There's nowhere else I'd rather be,' she said. ‘No one I'd rather be with.'

‘It must have been five or six years ago … yes, it was 1926, and I had just come home from the States. I had a big idea, and plenty of money, but not quite enough to get it all started.'

‘What happened?'

He explained the scheme and how all the coffee growers would share the benefits of the refinery.

‘But when the bank realised they were dealing with a
native
, they went into a spin. Apparently the banks have an unwritten policy not to lend to Africans. There was nothing said officially. The bank simply backed away from the agreement to extend the remaining twenty per cent I needed.' He shrugged. ‘So nobody won.'

‘And that was how you lost your money?'

‘No. I didn't lose a lot of money on that. I only lost some people I thought were friends. I lost my money, quite a deal of money in fact, through anger.'

‘Anger? What do you mean?'

‘When my business associates and friends abandoned me simply because I was a black African instead of a black American, I was stunned. But it was the institutionalised discrimination by the banks that got me angry. I was determined to strike back, to do something for the ordinary Kenyans who the banks refused to help.

‘My anger drove me into a business I had no idea how to run. When it failed, I failed a lot of people who had come to rely on me.'

She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘So now it's Abyssinian horses.'

‘Yes. For now, I'm sticking to something I know.'

Sam slipped his arm from around her shoulder and added some fuel to the fire. When he returned to the cot, Dana lifted herself onto an elbow. She placed her warm hand against his cheek, ran a fingertip down his nose, and tickled his lips with a long fingernail.

‘What will we do, Sam?'

He knew what she meant. This was more than a brief fling that could be enjoyed then forgotten.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘All I know is that I don't want it to end.'

Dana drove past the Muthaiga Club's main building and on through the car park to an area of bush beside the golf course. It was then only a short walk to the flat Sam used while in Nairobi. Both agreed it was most important to avoid raising any suspicions around the town, and a rendezvous in a Nairobi hotel was sure to be noticed. It had been a month ago that they had their first meeting at Muthaiga; and on each of the four occasions since, she'd safely made her way to his door without seeing anybody she knew.

Edward knew she was with Sam on the night of the storm when she didn't come home until the following afternoon. On that occasion he could say nothing considering she had caught him in bed with Eliza Banfield, but Edward didn't know they had continued to meet. Nairobi was a small town with an even smaller white community. Dana and Sam didn't want their affair to be the topic at every dinner table from Mombasa to the lake, so discretion was essential.

She and Edward had resumed a cordial but cool relationship. He continued to talk about leaving Kenya as soon as possible, but now made it clear he would do so with or without her. With no assets or means of support, Dana had no option but to go with him. This made her uneasy about continuing her relationship with Sam. She liked him very much. He was kind and attentive and the sex was more exciting than any she'd had, but neither of them had used the word love, and they made no plans together beyond agreeing the next time they would meet. With Edward pressing her for a decision, she decided to raise the matter of their future to find out if Sam wanted more than what they had.

This was not the first time she had planned to do so. Two weeks before, when Sam came through Kipipiri with more horses from Abyssinia, they met again in the
banda.
It was the perfect occasion
to raise the matter as, unlike in Nairobi, she didn't have to hurry home until late afternoon. On that occasion they dozed after making love and then made love again as the sun sent pins of light through the
banda
walls to move like fireflies over their naked, sweating bodies.

She preferred making love there in the
banda
, because at the Muthaiga Club she arrived late morning, but needed to leave by mid-afternoon, otherwise she'd be caught on the treacherous road down the escarpment after dark. However, as she picked her way through the bush towards Sam's flat, she had to admit it had an extra degree of excitement. The secrecy of their meetings added a touch of danger, and her body tingled in anticipation.

She knocked gently on the door and he opened it with that broad smile that said he was happy she was there. He drew her to him as he closed the door and they kissed. His lips pressed warmly against hers and he wrapped his arms around her and slid his hands to her bottom.

‘You have no underwear on,' he said with a grin.

‘Exactly. Isn't that how you like me dressed?'

‘It is,' he said and took her in his arms again, fondling her as he slid the shoulder strap from her dress.

‘No,' she said. ‘Don't undress me. I want you now. Take me here, standing at the door.'

He lifted her dress and felt her wet warmth with his fingers, and rubbed her little nub until she moaned for him.

He opened the front of his pants and, gripping her under her buttocks, used his weight to pin her against the wall then pressed into her.

As she clung to him, teeth biting into his shoulder, she couldn't think about love, but she knew she never wanted this to end.

 

‘Sam?' she said from beside him on the bed.

‘Hmm …?'

He sounded as if he'd come from a light sleep.

‘Sam, can I ask you something?'

‘Anything, my darling,' he muttered.

‘Seriously. But you don't have to answer if you feel you can't.'

‘Mmm … must be something important. I'd better listen.' He raised himself on an elbow and rested his head on his hand, looking at her.

She felt self-conscious under his gaze and lost her nerve.

‘Edward wants to leave Kenya,' she said bluntly, then bit her lip. It wasn't at all how she'd planned to tell him.

He stared at her for a long moment without a word. She tried to read his expression, but failed.

‘I see,' he said. ‘And you will leave with him, I presume.'

‘I … well … Yes, I suppose I will.'

He nodded.

‘Unless …' she began, then paused. ‘What are you thinking, Sam?'

‘I'm not thinking anything.'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘What could I be thinking?' He swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Could I think that a Kikuyu man — a horse smuggler — and a white lady could live together in Kenya? The same Kikuyu man who had been laughed out of the Muthaiga Club when he dared suggest he could build a coffee refinery with white partners? Surely not.'

He smiled to take the edge off his words, but she could see the bitterness remained.

‘It depends on how we feel about one another,' she said, reaching a hand towards him. He ignored it.

‘Dana, don't you see? It doesn't make any difference what we feel about each other. It's what others feel about us that matters.'

She slid from under the covers and sat beside him. ‘We don't need to think about anyone else. The rest of the world can do and think what it likes, can't it?'

Sam remained tight-lipped.

‘Sam?' She tried to catch his eye but he stared straight ahead.

‘What do you feel, Sam? Is what you feel strong enough to overcome the ugliness out there?'

He went to the window and stood there, glaring down the track and across the garden to the Muthaiga Club's steep tiled roof.

‘Sam?'

‘You don't understand, Dana. You can't understand. That's the problem you have. You can't imagine what it's like to feel animosity aimed at you simply because of the colour of your skin. But I can tell you this much: if we allowed ourselves to do as you suggest, to … to just ignore the whole world, you would soon enough feel something similar. Oh, yes. And then we'd really have questions to ask: How strongly do we feel? Is all this worth it?'

 

Dana came in from the garden lugging a basket brimming with tomatoes and potatoes. She swung it upwards to the dining table, but caught the edge, sending the vegetables bouncing across the floor.

‘
Damn it!
' she said, and sank into a chair.

Edward came in from the study.

‘Dana … Are you all right?'

She held the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Yes, I suppose so.'

‘Darling, you look exhausted. And hot. Do you have a fever? Let me see.'

He placed his hand on her forehead. ‘Hmm, you are a bit feverish. Are you keeping up your quinine?'

‘I started taking extra when I began to feel ill, but it doesn't seem to help.'

‘Then it's off to Dr Whitmore with you. Can't have you coming down with malaria just as we're planning to leave.'

 

Surely he was wrong. It was not possible. Dana stared at him as her mind raced through dates and people and places. Three months. It could only be Sam … or Edward.

‘Are you sure? I mean, about the timing,' she asked.

‘It's not an exact science,' he said. ‘But I would guess you are still in your first trimester. Somewhere between eleven and fourteen weeks. Don't you know when you had your last period?'

She shook her head. ‘I'm not regular. I don't understand this. I take precautions, and I … I didn't conceive early in my marriage. I was told I might not be able to at all.'

‘Obviously your advisers were wrong,' the doctor said. ‘Mind you, we can't be too critical of them. We didn't know a lot about infertility back then. I take it you're not pleased with the news.'

Was she pleased? She was …
overawed
. On the one hand, she was delighted. On the other, Edward would be furious. He'd warned her not to get pregnant. But accidents can happen with contraception. Surely he'd understand that. She couldn't think about what might happen next.

‘No!' she said. ‘I'm pleased. Very pleased. Just surprised.'

On her journey home she tried to think of a way to handle the situation with Edward. She knew his first response would be to insist upon a termination. She had agreed to it in principle. When Polly had become pregnant under similar circumstances, Archie insisted on a termination, arguing quite correctly that there was no way of knowing if he or one of the other members of the Zephyr club was the father. She could explain to Edward that the timing of the pregnancy meant the father could be none of their dinner party friends. But Edward knew about her first night with Sam and, even if she could convince him that it was his and to allow her to have the baby, the child might be black. That would be the end of her life with Edward.

 

Edward was calm. Very calm. When Dana told him she was pregnant he was sitting in the parlour with a pile of English newspapers. His face reddened, but he said and did nothing for a few moments. Eventually he arose from his chair and walked out to the veranda, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood there studying the hills surrounding the farm and when he returned his expression was composed.

‘This is totally unexpected,' he said.

‘Yes. I'm sorry. I was taking precautions, but —'

‘Wasn't this supposed to be impossible?'

‘Well, no … not impossible, but
unlikely
, according to the doctors.'

‘But you've had it confirmed by Dr Whitmore?'

‘Yes.'

He nodded. ‘At least he can be relied upon to be discreet.' He stroked his jowls. ‘I will make arrangements to have it terminated.'

‘Edward, I'm sure it's yours —'

He held up a finger, halting her protest. A flicker of anger crossed his face. ‘There is no way you can be sure of that. It will never do. You will have it terminated. I will arrange it.'

She knew it was pointless trying to convince him otherwise. In her mind she had already been through every argument she could imagine and lost them all comprehensively.

Edward returned to his armchair, gave his newspaper a noisy rattle, and resumed his reading.

A week later — a week during which nothing changed in their normal routine — Edward handed her a railway ticket.

‘You leave for Mombasa in five days,' he said. ‘Dr Alessandro himself will collect you at the station. He thinks you will need a few days to recuperate. Your return ticket is open-dated.'

That night she lay in bed with the cool mountain breeze ruffling the curtains. She stared at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, thinking of Sam, who was somewhere in Abyssinia and not due back for a fortnight.

What had been in his mind when they last met? He wouldn't open his heart to her. He was angry, perhaps not at her, but at the world.

She ached to see him, but what would he say about the baby?

 

Dana had written and destroyed several notes to send to the Muthaiga Club for Sam. In all likelihood, she would be back from Mombasa before he came through Kipipiri again. In any case, what
could she say? He was so sure they couldn't survive as a couple in Kenya. How much worse would it be if she had a white child? Even a black child? There was just nowhere in Kenya where they could live in peace.

The temptation to share her secret with one of her friends — Polly or Averil — was almost irresistible, but if she told them about Edward's objection to the baby, she'd have to tell them why and she didn't want to reveal Sam to them. This troubled her: perhaps Sam was right. The stigma attached to being a white woman with a black lover might be greater than she could bear. She was alone.

She tried to be appreciative of Edward's consideration as the day of her departure drew nearer. He helped her arrange a delivery of dry feed for the horses so they avoided colic from the thick new pasture that followed the start of the rains. He was sweet on the several occasions when she was on the point of tears, but when she looked into his eyes, hoping to see compassion and a reprieve for her baby, she found only determination.

 

Edward acted like a conspirator in a crime story, keeping Dana secreted in the first-class waiting room at Nairobi as the train filled with passengers. He had considered using Gilgil station, a mere ten miles away from home, but the news that Dana Northcote had caught the train to Mombasa alone would be all over the highlands within a day.

He hurried her on board at the last moment. Placing her suitcase on the rack, he kissed her on the cheek with the conductor's whistle screeching in her ears.

Dana was alone in the small carriage, watching tents and huts flash by her window as the train climbed from the swampy flats surrounding Nairobi, over the Embakasi rise, dotted with Maasai villages, and onto the Athi Plains. Herds of zebra and wildebeest bolted in fright at the sound of the train's whistle. It was an amazing transformation. Within less than a hundred miles, the land
had changed from high, rolling green hills and forests to a sea of yellowed grass undulating to a distant pale blue horizon.

At the Athi River bridge a herd of elephants bathed and trumpeted. Dana watched them as she passed, reflecting upon the speed of events over the previous days.

The gently rocking carriage enticed her into sleep. She dozed through the heat of the day, but awoke in fright, unable to get her bearings. Weird baobab trees, whose naked, spindly arms reached pleadingly to the heavens, stood sentinel in endless grassland.

They stopped at a
dak
bungalow at dusk to eat a hurried meal as the staff made the beds in the first-and second-class carriages. She ate little and slept badly through a night punctuated by whistles, jolting carriages and strange dreams.

The sun rose over the Taru Desert with menace, but there was not a living thing there to fall prey to its deadly rays. The earth, thorn bushes and stones had been bleached the same pitiless grey. The world was a barren place.