Echoes From a Distant Land (18 page)

The dance at Torr's Hotel was a fixture of Race Week that everybody anticipated with excitement — especially the women from upcountry. They had few opportunities during the year to dress up let alone dance to a nine-piece band. The music flowed as did the alcohol, which was consumed in no small measure.

Everyone from the racing fraternity was present, which meant the most affluent and therefore influential members of Kenyan society. The Governor was there with his wife, as were all the members of the Legislative Council. The Japanese ambassador and a middle-eastern prince added an international flavour.

Dana and Edward had exchanged partners — he was now dancing with Georgina and she with Georgina's husband, Phillip.

‘Congratulations on a simply splendid dinner party last month,' Phillip said.

‘Pleased you could come.'

‘I'm the one who was pleased — to have had you as my partner for the night.'

‘Now, now, Phillip. You know the rules. We are not supposed to discuss things that happen at Zephyr.'

‘You think that everyone else isn't? Look at Edward and Georgina, giggling like school children.'

‘We can't assume why, and you know the rules as well as I do, Phillip. I too enjoyed our evening, but we must leave it at that. Otherwise I will have to stop this conversation.'

Phillip shrugged. ‘If you insist,' he said.

As the band commenced the next bracket, she was surprised to be invited to the floor by Major Whiteman.

‘Dana Northcote,' he said. ‘So pleased to meet you at last.'

She was somewhat flattered. She had no idea he knew of her. ‘Major Whiteman,' she said.

‘Roger, please. May I call you Dana?'

‘Of course.'

As they danced, the conversation went inevitably to horse racing. Neither would give an inch regarding the superior merits of their respective champions.

‘I heard your Toby ran some good times at training,' he said. ‘But it sounds like you favour your little mare.'

‘I do. She's a darling with a heart as big as herself.'

‘I've heard that about the Abyssinians, but some of the stock from up there has a weakness in the canons. I'm not sure I'd be running her in anything over a mile if I were you.'

‘Why, Major Whiteman, I do believe you are afraid to race against my Dancer.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘Well, it certainly appears that way. Why else would you spread such rumours?'

‘I tell you what, Dana. If either of your horses beats any of mine, I'll double the prize money for you.'

‘I see … and what is your prize if one of yours wins?'

‘I've been looking for a nice little mare for my daughter. Something safe and steady. Like your Dancer. The mare will be my prize.'

Dana bristled. The implied sneer at her darling Dancer infuriated her. In a rush of pique and without giving the matter any thought, she accepted the bet.

It was only back at the Norfolk, now sober and in bed, did her rash decision strike home. The thought of her beautiful Abyssinian trotting around a show pen as a child's pet sent a shudder of horror through her body. She was determined to avoid that occurrence at all costs.

 

Dana lowered her field glasses and shook her head. ‘Back to his old times,' she said to Polly, standing beside her at the rail.

‘And he was doing so well in the trials,' Polly commiserated.

Dana made no reply, but it confirmed Sam Williams's explanation of his form reversal. ‘And now I have to face Roger Whiteman and his taunts,' she said with a sigh. She hadn't had the heart to admit to anyone about her foolish wager with Whiteman.

‘Speak of the devil …' Polly said.

Whiteman swept up to them, beaming. ‘Good afternoon, ladies,' he said. ‘Wonderful race, don't you think?'

Dana said nothing.

Polly made a valiant effort to defend the indefensible Toby.

Whiteman laughed it off. ‘Let's hope for your sake that your Abyssinian does better on Saturday,' he said before excusing himself.

‘What is he talking about?' Polly asked.

Dana, despondent and guilt-ridden, admitted her impulsive wager.

‘Oh, Dana!' Polly said. ‘How could you risk losing her?'

‘I know. I'd had too many drinks, and I was just angry. And so stupid,' Dana said, shaking her head. ‘I don't know what I can do.'

But a desperate plan had already started to take shape in her mind.

 

The St Leger was Race Week's premier event and attracted the best horses. It was a race of fourteen furlongs for three-year-old fillies and colts. The bookies placed Major Whiteman's horse, Longonot, as favourite. Dancer was ten to one.

Dana was in the grandstand with Edward as the field gathered at the starting stalls on the far end of the straight. She watched Dancer prancing and skittering as the starter called them to the barrier.

‘She seems very excited,' Edward said, watching through his field glasses. ‘That's a bit unusual, isn't it?'

Dana bit her lip. She'd had no idea how much
seketet
she should add to Dancer's feed and was now beginning to doubt the wisdom of it. If the filly didn't settle down she'd be too excitable to make a good start.

The horses were at the barrier. A few moments later, the crowd roared.

‘They're racing!' Edward shouted.

Dancer had reared in the starting stalls and missed the jump from the barrier. She was four lengths behind the tail of the field as they came down the straight.

Dana groaned, but as they thundered past the grandstand for the first time, the filly was making up ground at an astonishing rate.

‘He can't hold her,' Edward said as the jockey hauled on the reins. ‘She can't keep going at that pace, surely.'

But Dana understood: Dancer had taken the bit or ignored it as it cut into her mouth.

‘What's that fool of a jockey doing?' Edward said as Dancer took the next turn five horses wide, meaning she covered a great deal more ground than the leaders tucked in on the rails.

The field had spread out along the back straight with Dancer behind the leading pack of horses but still within touch if she had the stamina to last the remaining six furlongs. Roger Whiteman's champion, Longonot, was ideally placed — on the rails and a length behind the leader.

Into the home turn, and the crowd went wild: Dancer had overtaken the rear pack and was gaining on Longonot, who had taken the lead. A momentous battle was developing between the big colt and the plucky Abyssinian.

Through her field glasses Dana could see the lather foaming on Dancer's flanks. She was spent, but wouldn't give up. Never having needed to touch her with the whip, the jockey put it away, riding her hands and heels into the straight.

Head to head they fought out the last furlong or so. No other horse was in contention now. It was Longonot or Dancer.

The crowd roared encouragement, but Dana vainly screamed, ‘No! Pull her up!' and dashed from the grandstand, forcing her way through the crowd towards the rail — but before she reached it, Dancer flashed across the finishing line, a length ahead of Longonot.

Dana watched in horror, tears streaming down her face, as her beautiful horse staggered to a stop and dropped her head, blood dripping from her muzzle, and sweat pouring down her quivering flanks.

 

Instead of a triumphant entry to the saddling yard, with the mounted jockey riding high to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, he had dismounted and led the broken horse into the enclosure where Dana was waiting. When she took Dancer's reins she knew she would be doing so for the last time — the filly would never race again.

The crowd knew none of this, enthusiastically applauding the most courageous performance anyone had ever seen.

The Governor presented Dana with the St Leger trophy and the winner's cheque. She tried to make a speech, but her throat closed over. The crowd applauded again, this time for the winning owner's touching humility.

Major Whiteman stepped up and congratulated Dana too, then handed her a stuffed envelope. She looked at it, her mind a blank. By the time she realised it was her winnings — her thirty pieces of silver — he'd left the podium. The envelope weighed heavily in her hand.

The Governor returned to the microphone and concluded the ceremonies, but before she stepped down from the podium, Dana caught sight of Sam Williams among the crowd. She could see in his eyes that he understood what she had done, and that he could see the guilt she had managed to conceal from everyone else.

She could have lived with the consequences of her stupidity if no one knew of it. When the news went out that the brave little filly that had won the St Leger would be retired from the track, she and Dancer would still be champions in everyone's memories. She wasn't worried that Sam would reveal her secret to anyone: he didn't appear to be that kind of person. But the fact that he knew she was not the hero everyone believed her to be rankled.

In that moment Dana wanted to hate him for what he knew, but she could also see that he, among all of them, understood her grief.

Soon after Race Week, Sam had a reason to stay the night in Gilgil. He made an early start for Nairobi the next morning, but decided to ride out to the nearby Northcote farm to check on the little Abyssinian mare.

When he reached the farm he had second thoughts. He knew it was Dana he wanted to see, rather than the mare, and instead of going to the farmhouse he rode to the back of the property where he'd found an old abandoned
banda
when he passed through on one of his visits to Abyssinia.

He boiled water and took his cup of tea outside the
banda
to enjoy the sweeping view. He liked the tranquillity of the place; and he sat sipping his tea and pondering the foolishness that prompted him to take such a long detour for no reason.

He shook off the mistake and rode down the hill. From the first rise above the homestead he spotted the mare as one of the syces led her from the stable into the home enclosure. Her gait had improved, but she still favoured her left foreleg. It confirmed his original suspicion that she had split her canon bone — a situation not uncommon among wild Abyssinian horses, but one that could be cross-bred out of their progeny.

It was then he recalled Dana's earlier enquiries about getting an Abyssinian stallion from him.

The memory cheered him. Next time he passed through he would have an excuse to call in and discuss business.

 

In the early weeks of February, through the persistent drizzle of what some of the old-timers called the grass rains, Dana found it difficult to get back into her usual routine. She couldn't bear to be
with the horses, delegating their feeding and exercise to Jonathan and Benard. There was nothing she could find to fill the empty space left when her love of her horses was shadowed in shame. If she chanced to see Dancer in the paddock, she'd quickly turn away.

Edward was totally unsympathetic. It wasn't his fault, of course. He was unaware she'd given Dancer the drug that had caused her gallant little filly to break down, but she resented his attempts to chivvy her out of her mood.

That morning broke without a sign of rain. For the first time in weeks, she took care in choosing her clothing and went for a long walk. She was feeling much better as a result, but when she returned to find Edward at breakfast in one of his surly early-morning dispositions, it dampened her mood.

‘Good morning,' she said, as she sat and poured herself a cup of tea.

‘It's about time,' he replied as he replaced his cup and carefully smoothed first one side of his ginger moustache, and then the other. It was a habit, almost a ritual, he adopted whenever he was annoyed with something or somebody. It was his way of keeping calm. And it always irritated her.

‘What do you mean by that?' she asked.

‘I'm saying it's good to see you back to your early rises.'

‘I'm always an early riser.'

‘Since we no longer share a bed, it's hard to know when you arise. Or retire for that matter.'

‘Edward, we decided long ago that we'd not share a bed. Don't you recall? And since you won't give me a child, what would be the point?'

‘Anyway, it's about time you stopped moping.'

‘So you've reminded me on several occasions.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Dana! It's only a fucking horse.'

‘You don't understand, do you? You've never understood anything about me.'

‘I understand this much — you've spent the last six months fussing around with those stupid nags, pouring money into them,
and for what? A complete waste. Fifty guineas for the St Leger. It won't even cover the fodder.'

‘What else have I to do around here?'

‘I should think that now that you've won your precious race, you can help to manage the bloody farm. God knows we need some profitability.'

She was on the verge of reminding him that she had been against the idea of coming to Kenya in the first place. Neither of them had any experience in farming. In fact, she'd pleaded with him not to leave London. But thanks to his gambling debts and disastrous business decisions they'd been forced to flee his creditors. Instead, she pushed back her chair and left the table.

She strode out the gate into the warming air of the highland morning. She immediately felt better and on an impulse — or simply by force of habit — went to the stable.

Dancer was standing, head lowered, in her stall. Toby whinnied a greeting. She gave him a pat and scratched his ear, then went to Dancer's stall. The filly shook her head as Dana opened the gate and ran her hands along her flanks. Then she cradled the filly's head in her arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘My poor baby,' she said, stroking the horses's neck as she continued to hold her head in her arms. After a moment or two she stepped back and looked into Dancer's eyes. ‘Why don't we go for a little walk? Would you like that? Maybe it'll cheer us up.'

She slipped a light saddle over her, and a few minutes later they were heading down the track towards the gate. Dana intended her outing to end there, but the sun lifted her spirits. She even imagined Dancer's step had picked up as they followed the road to the gate then veered left to climb the ridge towards the treeline that demarcated the edge of their property and the beginning of the Aberdare forest.

At the highest point of their land she dismounted and walked to the shepherd's hut under a large tree a hundred yards from the encroaching forest. It was a single room with a fireplace in the centre and a small bed. She had christened it the shepherd's hut when they'd first moved to Zephyr and she didn't yet understand
enough Swahili to call it a
banda
. The Africans who used it when the ranch had carried a great deal more stock than she and Edward owned probably took shelter there from the rain. Nowadays, they were able to keep the stock within close proximity of the farmhouse, so the
banda
was no longer needed, but Dana liked it. It reminded her of the cubby house she'd had as a child and always gave her a feeling of security when she stepped inside it.

She slipped past the tanned hide covering the door and sat on the cot. It had a number of skins on it, including a zebra skin that she stroked, enjoying the coarse hairs against her palm.

She came outside again and, after the dimness, the bright light assaulted her eyes as she followed the smoky blue line of the mountains down the slope where, a mile or so further on, past a couple of low ridges, sat the house. The breadth of the vista always bestowed on her a feeling of peace and contentment. Now she let her eyes drop to the course of the river as it dodged among the thick green patches of scrub to the west.

She noticed a lone rider heading towards her. She felt some alarm: the intruder was on private property, and she was a long way from the security of her house.

She walked quickly towards Dancer and swung into the saddle to watch his approach before making a retreat. His high seat in the saddle indicated he was a horseman; as he drew closer, she was relieved to recognise Sam Williams.

She was thankful she'd at least put on a nice pink blouse that morning. She dismounted and patted the blouse's collar to make it flat. Then she shook her head to get her hair to sit right.

‘Morning,' he said, looking down on her from his saddle.

‘Good morning.' She was at a loss for small talk.

‘Should I join you, or have you come up here to be on your own?'

She had left the house with the intention of being alone, but now that he was there with that slightly shy smile, she felt the need for company, a need she'd not felt since the races.

‘Please do.'

He dismounted and she led him to the shade beside the hut where a large branch had broken from the tree during the last big blow. They tethered their horses and sat on the log.

‘That's a very unusual pendant,' he said. ‘It's a lion's fang, isn't it?'

She touched a finger to her throat. ‘It is,' she said. ‘My first and only trophy.'

He nodded. ‘It fits with your character.'

She waited for an explanation, but he changed the subject. ‘I came by a few weeks ago. Just after Race Week,' he said.

‘You did? I was at home, surely.'

‘I didn't go to the house. I sat up here for a while. I love this place. Every time I pass here, I come to this very spot. It helps me think, and you can see everything.' He paused for a moment. ‘I didn't see you out. I reckoned if you were feeling up to having visitors you'd be out riding.'

She smiled. ‘That was very kind of you.' She was touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘You know about Dancer … About what happened to her. I could see it in your eyes.'

He nodded.

She glanced towards the filly, nosing a clump of grass. Dana plucked a grass stalk and slowly began to shred it. ‘I'm grateful you didn't report me to the stewards. I deserved it for my selfishness and stupidity.'

‘I'm the last one who could run to the authorities. I imagine you've already realised I'm not so perfect myself.'

‘A horse smuggler is nothing.'

‘Sometimes with a little gold in the saddlebags too. But I'm not sure Emperor Ras Tafari would agree that taking his precious Abyssinians from his country is nothing.'

She smiled in spite of her sadness. ‘How did you get into that business?'

‘Probably because I failed at everything else.' He was smiling too.

‘No, seriously. How is it that an educated American gentleman comes to Africa and gets involved in a business that takes him to the wildest parts of the continent?'

She thought she must have offended him because he remained silent for a long time before saying, ‘My name is Wangira. Samson Wangira. I have an American elocutionist and six years in the States to thank for this accent. The fact is, I'm a Kikuyu, born and raised at the foot of Mt Kenya.'

He told her how he saved the life of a wealthy American businessman who later sponsored him to enter New York University; after that he learned about horses in the mid-west.

‘You accuse yourself of being selfish and stupid,' he said. ‘You're not the only one. I was too selfish to keep in touch with people — family and friends — who loved me in spite of my years of separation from them. Too selfish to keep in touch. And too stupid to appreciate the love of a good friend.'

He told her about his family and the nun who had helped him in his early education. He spoke with feeling about the Jewish man who had loved him but had never taken advantage of a young man's gratitude. She became absorbed in his story and was surprised at how he was able to relate the facts with such honesty.

‘And now I'm in the horse business, in a manner of speaking.'

‘And I'm out of it,' she said. ‘The horse business, I mean.'

‘Why? Because you've had some bad luck with your little mare here?'

‘Bad luck? She'll never race again, and she was my best prospect.'

‘You once asked me about a stallion to put to Dancer for breeding purposes. Why not continue with those plans? You know she has the qualities to be a champion. She could still give you some champion foals.'

In her remorse she'd forgotten about that other side of her plans for Dancer.

‘Can you get an Abyssinian stallion for me?'

‘I can. It may take time to find the right one, but I can keep it in mind as I travel around. If you are prepared to wait. Let me put a business proposition to you. In return for the stud services of a stallion — to be provided — I would like to use your property to rest and agist my horses before driving them on to Nairobi.'

‘Isn't that what you've been doing?'

‘Well, yes … but now it'll be on the level.'

‘I'll need to talk to Edward, but I don't think there'll be a problem with that.'

‘Good. As they say in America: we have a deal.'

He reached out his hand.

She hesitated before taking it. ‘On one condition.'

‘Yes?'

‘You allow me to give you dinner tonight.'

A smile slowly spread across his face, and he nodded. ‘I think I can agree to those terms.'

She accepted his handshake, feeling the hard strength in it.

 

Mary had done wonders. The roast lamb was succulent and her golden pudding and custard was a marvel on such short notice. Sam seemed to enjoy it.

‘There's more,' Dana said, nodding at Sam's empty plate beside her.

‘Oh, please … I've already had two helpings.'

‘Will you join me in a port, then?' Edward asked.

‘Thank you, but no. I don't drink these days.'

Edward had been introduced to Sam during Race Week as Sam Williams — an American. When he corrected that error, Edward, to his credit, and despite the whisky, remained a good host and seemed to be enjoying Sam's conversation.

He warmed even further to Sam upon learning of Dana's proposal to put one of Sam's Abyssinian stallions to her eligible mare. In time he could see Zephyr becoming a stud for Abyssinian racehorses.

As Sam described the finer points of the Abyssinian breed to Edward, Dana took the opportunity to study her visitor more thoroughly. She watched his mouth as he spoke. It was very expressive. And his skin seemed so smooth she had the urge to stroke his arm. Yet he had the build of a man hardened by years in
the saddle. She remembered the firmness of his handshake earlier that afternoon.

She interrupted them. ‘Before you go too much further, Edward … Faizal is about to retire, and I believe we should invite Sam to stay in our guest room tonight.'

‘No, please,' Sam said. ‘Don't go to any trouble. There's a guest house in Naivasha.'

‘It's obviously too late to ride anywhere,' she said.

‘She's right you know, old man,' Edward agreed. ‘Leopards. The high country's crawling with them at the moment. Must have been the dry that brought them all out.'