A Spear of Summer Grass (9 page)

“Yes. And at my
duka
if you don’t want to wait for a trip to town.”

“Good. Consider this an order. And I suppose I ought to get a milk cow.”

“One of the natives might sell you one or you could try Rex Farraday’s herd.”

“Thank you—” I broke off. Ryder was staring hard at me again, and it was unsettling. “What?”

He shook his head. “People don’t surprise me. You do.”

“You obviously don’t have much experience with Southern women. My great-grandmother held her plantation against the Union navy when it sailed up the Mississippi from New Orleans, shelling every Rebel house along the way. I come from hearty stock.”

He took an appraising look at my slender body and snorted. “Where did you learn to bandage like that?”

“War hospital in London. I worked as a nurse for four years.”

He was silent a moment, then said in a calm, flat voice, “Three years in the Royal Flying Corps, Squadron 26.”

“Yes, well, if you think we’re going to trade war stories and become fast friends, you’re quite mistaken. I don’t need a battle buddy.”

“No, but you do need a guide. You don’t know this country yet. I’ll be back this afternoon to take you into the bush and teach you some more Swahili.”

Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and beckoned his friend, the tall warrior with the spear.

“This is Gideon. He’s a Masai. He will stay with you to finish up.” Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared.

“Like a bloody ghost,” I muttered. I turned to the warrior. “Do you speak English?”

He smiled, a dazzling smile, and I noticed his teeth were missing on the bottom as well.

“Of course,
memsahib.
I learned at the mission school.”

“I thought the nuns only taught French.”

“The nuns left and the English came. I learned to speak English there and to know the stories of your Bible.” He stepped forward, shifting his weight as gracefully as a dancer. “Ryder has gone. I will help you now. I speak Maa—my own language, your English, Swahili and a few of the other dialects. I am a learned man.”

His slender chest swelled with pride and I smiled at him. “Very well, Gideon. Let’s get started.”

Dora was moving quietly through the group, dispensing cups of powdered milk and pieces of flatbread still steaming from the pan. They ate and drank and waited to be seen.

I summoned the next patient, and for an hour straight I worked, treating blisters and burns and stitching up the occasional slash wound.

“What is that from?” I asked Gideon softly.

“It is a wound from a
panga, memsahib.
”

“A
panga?
What is that? Some sort of animal with tusks?”

Gideon threw back his head and laughed. “No. A
panga
is a knife.” He reached into his toga and pulled out a long, wicked-looking blade that was slightly curved. It reminded me of a machete, and as I stared at it, I realised what he had said.

“You mean someone did this on purpose?” I asked, gesturing to the scalp I was stitching closed.

“Sometimes men must fight one another,” he replied with a shrug.

I thought of the consequences of the fighting I had seen, the rivers of blood, the broken bones, the scarred lungs and shattered minds. “No, they mustn’t, Gideon. They just do.”

8

I finished up with the last patient just as the milk ran out. I went in the house and washed my hands and collapsed onto the bed. Dora found me there a moment later. She was carrying a plate of thin beef sandwiches.

“You ought to eat. But first you need to change your shirt. It’s a disgrace.” I looked down. Misha’s heavy silk was stained with blood and pus and oil and the powdered red ochre the Kikuyu rubbed into their hair. I sniffed at it.

“It’s a peculiar smell, don’t you think? But not completely unpleasant.”

“Don’t romanticise it. It’s foul.” She rummaged in the wardrobe searching for a fresh shirt. She threw it to me and carried the filthy one away between her fingertips.

I rolled away from the plate of sandwiches. My stomach was strong, but not quite strong enough to spend the morning as I had and still want luncheon. I had lost weight during the war, too. Too many operating theatres, too many torn limbs and broken bodies. As a volunteer nurse I shouldn’t have seen any of it. I should have been rolling bandages and reading aloud letters from home and pouring cups of tea. But war doesn’t care about “should haves.” One of the surgeons noticed that I had steadier nerves and better hands than most of the seasoned professionals. After that he’d made a point of requesting me. I think he thought he was doing me a favour. I was sick three times during my first operation—an amputation that took off a young infantryman’s leg and nearly cost him his life in lost blood. But every time I was sick I wiped my mouth and crept back until the surgeon put that whole leg into my hands and told me to get rid of it. It was heavy, that dead thing in my hands, and I could feel the weight of it still if I closed my eyes and put out my arms. I felt the weight of all of them, every young man who slipped under the ether and didn’t come back, every officer who put on a brave face but clutched my hand until the bones nearly broke. I remembered them all. And in the darkest nights, when the gin didn’t bring forgetfulness and the hour didn’t bring sleep, I counted them off like sheep, tumbling dead over fences in a beautiful green field dotted with poppies.

I woke with a start. I had drifted off thinking of the boys who had never come home again and I had dreamed of them. I was disoriented for a moment, and when I heard a man’s voice my heart began to race. It was a full minute before I remembered that Ryder was coming to collect me.

I dried my cheeks and brushed out my hair. For good measure I added a slick of crimson lipstick and tied on a silk scarf. I was feeling a little more like myself by the time I joined Ryder and Dora in the drawing room. It was absurd. Dora was plying him with cups of tea as if she were presiding over the tea table in a vicarage in Bournemouth while Ryder lounged in one of the easy chairs, looking like an overgrown panther. The teacup was ridiculously small in his hands, but he held it gently, and when he spoke to Dora his voice was low and courteous.

“Would you like to come, Miss Dora? Every settler ought to know the country.”

Dora flapped a hand, and seemed to pink up a little under his gaze. “Oh, I hardly think so! I’m not at all outdoorsy, you know, except for gardening. I do enjoy puttering, and it seems as if everything grows so well here. The hibiscus and gladioli are practically rioting, they’re so overgrown and the roses want some very serious pruning. I mean to have a look at what might be done to the patch between the house and the lake, if Delilah doesn’t mind.”

“She doesn’t,” I said from the doorway. I looked to Ryder. “You’re wasting your time. Dodo is too much a lady to go bushwhacking.”

The gallant thing would have been for him to remark that I was too much a lady, too, but of course he didn’t. He merely gave me a slow look and rose to his feet. He was too big in that room. His very presence seemed to suck out all the air. I waved my hand impatiently.

“Let’s get on with it if we’re going.”

He handed the cup to Dora and gave her a courteous nod of the head. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Dora.”

“My pleasure, Ryder. And if I am to call you by your Christian name, I think you must do the same with me. From now on, it’s just Dora.”

She pinked up again and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“As you like, Dora,” he said easily. “I’m sorry you won’t come, but at least promise me you won’t walk around without an escort. You’ve got watercress down by the lake, and elephants love the stuff. It wouldn’t do to surprise one. Make Pierre go with you. He’s useless, but if he sees an elly he’ll shriek and wave his arms enough to give you time to get away.”

He gave her a twinkling smile and she laughed. I strode out without looking backward and nearly ran into Gideon on the veranda. He was standing, one leg folded up, looking like an abandoned toy. “Gideon, why didn’t you get tea?”

Gideon merely shook his head and stepped off the veranda, heading for the path that led away from the house. Ryder fell into step beside me.

“Did I offend him somehow? Did Dora insult him?”

“No, she was very courteous. She offered to send Pierre out with tea, which confused him.”

“Why? Don’t the Masai drink tea?”

“Not in a white man’s house. They aren’t vicars and bank clerks, for God’s sake, taking afternoon tea in the drawing room. They drink milk and cow’s blood and if they find a taste for it, some of them drink liquor.”

“Cow’s blood?” I said faintly.

He started to explain and I held up a hand. “Not today. I’ve seen enough blood for now.”

“That’s Africa, princess. Besides, a Masai warrior would never take nourishment from a white woman’s hand. It’s degrading.”

I opened my mouth to debate the point, but Ryder held up a finger. “Don’t shoot the messenger. It’s their way and it isn’t my place to change it.”

I lapsed into silence, but only for a moment. “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression on Dora. She’s never chatty with strangers. Why are you so nice to her?”

He paused and his pause was heavy. He was feeling for the words. “She’s a nice lady,” he said finally.

“Is she your type?” I teased.

He didn’t smile. His expression didn’t even flicker. “I don’t have a type. Now be quiet. You’ll never learn anything about the bush if you keep flapping your jaws.”

I sulked for the next quarter of an hour. Ryder led the way, and I noticed his walk as he moved through the bush, low-hipped and loose, as if he and the earth belonged to each other. It was the walk of a confident man who knows exactly who he is and doesn’t give a tinker’s damn if anybody else does.

We walked past Kit’s cottage but the place looked empty and I was a little relieved.

“Looks like your boyfriend is out,” Ryder said coolly. His face was in profile, and I noticed his nose. It was strong and straight, a no-nonsense nose. But the nostrils were flaring just a little, and I realised the coolness was just a pose. He had been good and irritated since that morning, and suddenly I knew why.

I surveyed my fingernails. “He isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Fine. Your lover is out.”

I laughed. “Word travels fast out here.”

“There are two kinds of white people in Africa. Those who work and those who fornicate. Kit’s the latter.”

“Which are you?”

He turned his head and smiled then, a slow smile that might have been an invitation under other circumstances. “Both. I’m the exception.”

“I’m sorry you lost your bet,” I told him. “But let that be a lesson to you, Ryder. I’m no man’s foregone conclusion.”

To my surprise, that didn’t seem to put him off. If anything, the smile deepened, and for the first time I saw the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. His eyes were bright. He was enjoying the game as much as I was. He took half a step towards me, but just then Gideon, who had been walking some yards ahead, halted and raised a hand. He made a series of gestures and Ryder immediately stepped sharply behind me, his back pressed to mine. He cocked his rifle.

“What’s wrong?” I muttered under my breath.

“Fresh lion spoor,” he replied softly.

“And you’re behind me? My hero.”

“Lions tend to hunt in pairs or small groups and when they do, one always circles around behind. Now shut up.” His head swivelled as he scanned the grasses near us. Gideon moved cautiously forward. After a moment Gideon straightened and called out something in rapid Swahili.

“What did he say?”

“All clear. The lions already fed. There’s a zebra carcass just in that thicket. Keep your voice down, though. They’re probably resting not far away.”

I crept along until we came to a point just above a dry gulley where Ryder stopped to take a drink. He offered me a pull on his canteen, but I waved him off. I went to Gideon, motioning for him to give me a drink from his goatskin. He smiled his broad smile as he handed it over. I took a deep draught and nearly choked. It was blood mixed with milk, both of them warm and thick. The stuff coated my tongue and I willed myself to swallow it down without gagging. I wiped my lips on my sleeve, leaving long streaks of pale blood on the fabric.

“Christ,” I muttered. “A girl cannot have nice things in this country.”

I handed the goatskin back to Gideon and he smiled again.
“Asante,”
I said.

“Karibu, Bibi.”

“What does
Bibi
mean?”

“It is a respectful word that means
madam.
It may also mean other things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as
grandmother
or a lady who has no husband. Africans always give nicknames to the white settlers. It is our way.”

Behind me Ryder snickered. “What do they call him?” I asked, jerking a thumb towards Ryder.

“That is
Bwana Tembo. Bwana
means
sir.
”

“And what does
Tembo
mean?”

“
Tembo
is elephant,
Bibi.
”

I turned to Ryder who was barely concealing a smile. “They call you Sir Elephant?”

He capped his canteen and flashed me a wicked grin as he stood up. “Yep.”

I stood toe-to-toe with him. “Exactly why do they call you Sir Elephant?”

His gaze dropped to my mouth. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb across my lower lip. He held it up for my inspection. “You missed a spot.” He wiped the drop of blood onto his trousers. I heard the cicadas then, their sound shimmering in the air around us, beating against my ears, or maybe it was just the sound of my own pulse.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, I expect you’ll find out one of these days.” He turned away then looked back, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, and, just so you know, they call Kit
Bwana Tausi.
”

“What’s a
tausi?
”

“It’s a peacock. It means they think he’s all mouth and no trousers. Let’s go.”

I had to give the man credit; he knew how to play a good game. I could see how his rustic charm could be devastatingly effective under the right circumstances and with the right girl. Pity for him he didn’t realise yet I was the wrong one.

But there was nothing he didn’t know about the African bush. By the time he had walked me around and back to Fairlight, I knew the major landmarks, how to calculate my position and when the most dangerous times for lions were. He showed me the
luggas
—empty riverbeds thick with foliage and little caves—the preferred lair of the leopard. He cautioned me about the buffalo, which could hammer me flat, and the snakes that spat venom and the ant-bear holes where I could snap an ankle and a thousand other horrors until it all ran together in my head and I wondered aloud if there was any place on earth as dangerous as Africa.

“Not that I’ve found,” he replied cheerfully.

We approached Fairlight from a different path than the one we had taken out, and Ryder stopped as we reached the gate.

“You’ll be safe enough here. The path leads through those Christ-thorn bushes and opens right up onto the lawn. Just remember what I said about never going out without a weapon and a guide.”

If he realised I had walked to Kit’s unattended, he didn’t let on and I wasn’t about to rat myself out. “If I’m not supposed to go walking alone, why did you bother to teach me anything at all?”

“Because you can’t really ever depend on anybody but yourself.”

“In Africa or in life?” I asked mockingly.

“Both. Now get inside. I’ll be back tomorrow with the supplies from the
duka.
”

Before I had a chance to protest his peremptory tone, he was gone. The garden was full of cool green shadows and strange birdcalls. I put out a hand and felt it catch on a thorn. It was Eden before the fall, lush and promising and full of sharp dangers. I made my way through the bushes and out onto the lawn. Dora was snipping some overgrown bougainvillea and humming.

“I was just beginning to worry. We’ll have to hurry if we’re to be ready on time for the Farradays’ party.” She peered at my shirt. “Is that blood?”

“And milk. Apparently it’s Africa’s answer to the cocktail.”

* * *

I dressed in white that evening. Nothing is more luxurious in a hot climate than white, and I had a backless number from Patou that was begging for an outing. I sat stripped to my French silk knickers while Dora applied
poudre de riz
with a lavish hand and a swansdown puff. When she had powdered me from face to feet, she helped me into the scrap of fragile white silk. With it I wore Shalimar and scarlet lipstick and the black silk ribbon at my wrist. Dora was nicely turned out in one of the watery greens she preferred for evening wear, and we were just putting the finishing touches on our toilettes when Rex Farraday arrived in style. He was driving a butter-coloured Rolls-Royce and the engine purred like a big cat as he left it running. He bounded up the front steps of Fairlight, dashing in his formal black, his arms open wide.

“Delilah Drummond, what a delight to have you here!”

He enfolded me in a careful embrace. Rex was always one to appreciate an ensemble. He drew back and studied me. “I don’t know how you do it, but you don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you and it must be going on seven years.”