Rage

  Lana never said a word all the way back. Ed Liner was waiting for them under the dining tent, but his welcoming grin faded as Lana threw her tom panties on the table in front of him and piped in her little-girl voice, ‘You know what naughty old Sean did, Daddy Eddie? He raped your little girl, that’s what he did – he held her down and stuck his big dirty thing into her.’

  Sean saw the fury and hatred in the old man’s faded eyes, and he groaned inwardly. ‘The bitch,’ he thought. ‘The sneaky little bitch. You loved it. You screamed for more.’

  Half an hour later Lana and Ed were in the red and silver Beechcraft Baron when it took off from the narrow bush strip. As it banked away on course for Nairobi, Sean glanced down at his own trouser front.

  ‘Well, OK, King Kong,’ he murmured. ‘I hope you are satisfied, that just cost us fifty thousand dollars an inch.’ He turned back to the Land-Rover still shaking his head sadly as he picked up the bundle of mail that the pilot of the Beechcraft had brought down from the office in Nairobi. There was a yellow cable envelope on top of the pile and he opened it first.

  ‘I am marrying Holly Carmichael on 5th August. Please be my best man. Love. Garry.’

  Sean read it through twice, and Lana and Ed Liner were forgotten.

  ‘I’d love to see what kind of bag would marry Garry,’ he chuckled. ‘Pity I can’t go home—’ He broke off and thought about it. ‘But why not! Why the hell not! Living dangerously is half the fun.’

  Shasa Courtney sat at his desk in the study at Weltevreden, studying the Turner on the opposite wall as he composed the next paragraph in his mind.

  He was drafting his Chairman’s Report for the cabinet select committee of Armscor. The armaments company had been set up by special act of parliament, and the strict secrecy of its operations was ensured by that act.

  When President Eisenhower had initiated the arms embargo against South Africa as a punitive reaction to the Sharpeville massacre and the racial policies of the Verwoerd government, the country’s annual expenditure on weapons manufacture had been a mere £300,000. Four years later they had an annual budget of half a billion.

  ‘Dear old Ike did us a big favour.’ Shasa smiled now. ‘The law of unforeseen consequences in action again, sanctions always backfire. Now our biggest worry is to find a testing ground for our own atomic bomb.’

  He addressed himself once more to that section of his report, and wrote:

  Taking into consideration the foregoing, I am of the opinion that we should adopt the third option, i.e. underground testing. With this in view, the corporation has already conducted investigations to determine the most suitable geological areas. (See attached geological survey reports.)

  The shot holes will be drilled by a commercial diamond drilling company to a depth of four thousand feet to obviate contamination of the underground water supplies.

  There was a knock on the door and Shasa looked up in angry disbelief. The entire household knew that he was not to be disturbed, and there was no reason nor excuse for this intrusion.

  ‘Who is it?’ he barked, and the door was opened without his permission.

  For a moment he did not recognize the person who stepped into the study. The long hair and deep tan, the flamboyant costume – the gilet of kudu skin, and the bright silk scarf knotted at the throat, the mosquito boots and cartridge belt were all unfamiliar. Shasa stood up uncertainly.

  ‘Sean?’ he asked. ‘No, I don’t believe this is happening.’ He wanted to be angry and outraged. ‘Damn it, Sean, I warned you never …’ but he could not go on, his joy was too intense and his voice petered out.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’ Sean came striding towards him, and he was taller and more handsome and self-assured than Shasa remembered. Shasa abhorred all manner of theatrics and affectation of dress, but Sean wore his costume with such panache that it appeared natural and correct.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Shasa found his voice at last, but there was no rancour in his question.

  ‘I came as soon as I got Garry’s cable.’

  ‘Garry cabled you?’

  ‘Best man – he wanted me to be his best man, and I didn’t even have a chance to change.’ He stopped in front of Shasa, and for a moment they studied each other.

  ‘You are looking good, Pater,’ Sean smiled, and his teeth were white as bone against the tan.

  ‘Sean, my boy.’ Shasa lifted his hands, and Sean seized him in a bear hug.

  ‘I thought about you every single day—’ Sean’s voice was tight and his cheek was pressed to Shasa’s cheek. ‘God, how I missed you, Dad.’

  Shasa knew instinctively that it was a lie, but he was delighted that Sean had bothered to tell the lie.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too, my boy,’ he whispered. ‘Not every day, but often enough to hurt like hell. Welcome back to Weltevreden.’ And Sean kissed him. They had not kissed since Sean was a child, that sort of sentimental display was not Shasa’s usual style, but now the pleasure of it was almost unbearable.

  Sean sat at Centaine’s right hand at dinner that evening. His dinner jacket was a little tight around the chest and smelled of moth balls, but the servants, overjoyed to have him home, had pressed razor edges into the crease of his trousers and steamed out the silk lapels. He had shampooed his hair, and oddly the thick glossy locks seemed to enhance rather than detract from his over-powering masculinity.

  Isabella, taken by surprise like everybody else, had come drifting downstairs, dressed for dinner with her shoulders and back bare, but her cool and distant poise had evaporated as she saw Sean. She squealed and rushed at him.

  ‘It’s been so boring since you went away!’

  She wouldn’t let go of his arm until they went in to dinner, and even now she leaned forward to watch his lips as he talked, her forgotten soup cooling, avid to take in every word. When Shasa at the end of the table made a remark about Kenyan barbers and Sean’s hair style, she rushed to her eldest brother’s defence.

  ‘I love his hair like that. You are so antediluvian sometimes, Papa. He’s beautiful. I swear if Sean ever cuts a single hair on his beautiful head, I will take vows of silence and chastity on the spot.’

  ‘A consummation devoutly to be wished,’ murmured her father.

  Centaine, although less effusive, was as delighted as any of them to have Sean home again. Of course, she knew every detail of the circumstances in which he had left. She and Shasa were the only ones in the family who did, but that had been almost six years ago, and things could change in that time. It was difficult to believe that anybody who looked like that, even more beautiful than her own beloved Shasa, and who was possessed of such charm and natural grace, could be entirely bad. She consoled herself that although he had made a few mistakes when he was a child, he was now a man. Centaine had seldom seen more of a man, and she listened as attentively as the rest of them to his stories and laughed as merrily at his sallies.

  Garry kept repeating, ‘I didn’t really believe you’d come. I sent that cable on an impulse. I wasn’t even sure of your address.’ And then to Holly, who was sitting beside Sean at the long table, ‘Isn’t he wonderful, Holly – isn’t he everything I told you?’

  Holly smiled and murmured polite agreement, and twisted slightly in her chair to prevent Sean pointing up the story he was telling by placing his hand on her thigh again. She glanced around the table, and caught Michael’s eye. He was the only one who was not following Sean’s tale with total concentration. Holly had only met Michael for the first time the previous day, when he arrived from Johannesburg for the wedding, but the two of them had found an immediate rapport, which had swiftly deepened as Holly had discovered Michael’s protective concern and affection for Garry.

  Now Michael raised an eyebrow at Holly, and smiled an apology at her. He had seen his elder brother looking at her, he had seen through Sean’s devices to attract her attention, and had even seen her start and pale as Sean touched her beneath the table. He would talk to Sean after dinner, and q
uietly warn him off, for Garry himself would never see what was happening. He was too besotted by his elder brother’s return. It was up to Michael – it had always been his duty to protect Garry from Sean. In the meantime he smiled reassurance at Holly, and Sean intercepted the look and interpreted it accurately. He showed no reaction. His expression was frank and open and his voice sparkling and full of humour as he finished the story and the others all laughed, all except Michael and Holly.

  ‘You are so funny,’ Isabella sang. ‘I just hate you for being my brother. If only I could find another boy who looked like you.’

  ‘There’s not one of them good enough for you, Bella,’ Sean said, but he was watching Michael, and as the laughter subsided, he asked lightly, ‘And so, Mickey, how is life on that Commie newspaper of yours? Is it true that you are going to change its name to the ANC Times, or is it the Mandela Mail or the Moses Gama Gazette?’

  Michael laid down his knife and fork and met Sean’s gaze squarely.

  ‘The policy of the Golden City Mail is to defend the helpless, to attempt to secure a decent dignified existence for all, and to tell the truth as we see it – at any cost.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Mickey,’ Sean grinned at him. ‘But a couple of times out there in the bush I’ve wished that I had a copy of the Golden City Mail with me – yes, sir, every time I run out of toilet paper, I wish I had your column right there.’

  ‘Sean!’ Shasa said sharply, and his indulgent expression faded for the first time since Sean’s arrival. ‘There are ladies present.’

  ‘Nana.’ Sean turned to Centaine. ‘You have read Mickey’s column, haven’t you? Don’t tell me you agree with those bright pink sentiments of his?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Shasa said sternly. ‘This is a reunion and a celebration.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pater.’ Sean was mock contrite. ‘You are right. Let’s talk about fun things. Let me tell Mickey about the Mau Mau in Kenya, and what they did to the white kids. Then he can tell me about his Commie ANC friends here, and what he wants them to do to our kids.’

  ‘Sean, that’s not fair,’ Michael said softly. ‘I am not a Communist, and I have never advocated Communism or the use of force—’

  ‘That’s not what you wrote in yesterday’s edition. I had the great and glorious privilege of reading your column on the plane down from Jo’burg.’

  ‘What I actually wrote, Sean, was that Vorster and De La Rey between them are making the mistake of labelling as Communist everything that our black population sees as desirable – civil rights, universal franchise, trade unions and black political organizations such as the ANC. By naming these as Communist-inspired they are making the idea of Communism highly attractive to our blacks.’

  ‘We’ve just got a black government in Kenya, with a convicted terrorist and murderer as the new head of state. That’s why I’m getting out and moving to Rhodesia. And here is my own beloved brother paving the way for another black Marxist government of rabble-rousers and bomb-throwers right here in the good old Republic. Tell me, which of the terrorists do you fancy for president, Mickey, Mandela or Moses Gama?’

  ‘I won’t warn either of you again,’ Shasa told them ominously. ‘I will not abide politics at the dinner table.’

  ‘Daddy is right,’ Isabella joined in. ‘You are both being so utterly dreary – and just when I was beginning to really enjoy myself.’

  ‘And that’s enough from the peanut gallery also,’ Centaine picked out Isabella. ‘Eat your food, please, Mademoiselle, you are all skin and bones as it is.’ But she was studying Sean.

  ‘He has been home six hours and already we are all at each other’s throats,’ she thought. ‘He still has a talent for controversy. We must be wary of him – I wonder why he really came home.’

  She found out very soon after dinner, when Sean asked to see her and Shasa in the gun room.

  After Shasa had poured a tiny glass of Chartreuse for her, and balloon snifters of Hennessy for Sean and himself, they all settled down in the leather chairs. The men went through the ritual of preparing their cigars, cutting the tips and warming and finally lighting them with the cedarwood tapers.

  ‘All right, Sean,’ Shasa said. ‘What did you want to talk to us about?’

  ‘You know how we discussed the safari business, Pater, just before I left?’ Shasa noticed how he showed no contrition as he mentioned his enforced departure. ‘Well, I’ve had six years of experience now, and I won’t offend you with false modesty. I’m one of the top hunters in the business. I’ve a list of over fifty clients who want to hunt with me again. I have their telephone numbers, you can ring them and ask them.’

  ‘All right, I will,’ Shasa said. ‘But go on.’

  ‘Ian Smith’s government in Rhodesia is developing the safari business there. One of the concessions they are putting up for auction in two months’ time is a plum.’ Shasa and Centaine listened in attentive silence, and when Sean finished almost an hour later, they exchanged a significant glance. They understood each other perfectly after thirty years of working so closely, and they did not have to speak to agree that Sean had made a virtuoso performance. He was a good salesman, and his figures added up to the promise of rich profits, but Shasa saw the little shadow at the back of his mother’s dark eyes.

  ‘Just one .thing perturbs me a little, Sean. After all these years you come breezing in again – and the first thing you do is ask for half a million dollars.’

  Sean stood up and strolled across the gun room. The carved tusk hung above the stone fireplace, the central position in the room, pride of place amongst all Shasa’s own hunting trophies.

  Sean studied it for a moment, and then turned back slowly to face them.

  ‘You never wrote to me once in all those years, Pater. That’s all right, I understand why. But don’t accuse me of not caring. I thought about you and Nana every day I was away.’ It was cleverly done. He did not mention the tusk on the wall, and Centaine could have sworn there were genuine tears just at the back of his marvellously green clear eyes. She felt her doubts soften and begin to dissolve.

  ‘My God, how can any woman resist him,’ she thought. ‘Even his own grandmother!’ She looked across at Shasa and was amazed to see that Sean had shamed him. Neatly and adroitly he had shifted guilt and Shasa had to cough and clear his throat before he could speak.

  ‘I must admit it sounds interesting,’ he said gruffly. ‘But you’ll have to speak to Garry.’

  ‘Garry?’ Sean asked in surprise.

  ‘Garry is the director in charge of new projects and investments,’ Shasa told him and Sean smiled.

  He had just knocked together two of the toughest, shrewdest heads in the business. Garry would be a piece of cake.

  Holly Carmichael’s father was the Presbyterian minister of a small parish in Scotland, and he and his wife flew out to Africa quite determined to see their daughter decently married, and to pay for the privilege.

  Centaine took him for a ride around the estate and explained kindly that only by being very selective could she restrict her guest list to under a thousand. ‘Those are just family friends, and our most important business and political associates. Of course it does not include the workers here on Weltevreden or the employees of Courtney Mining and Finance who will be accorded their own separate festivities.’

  The Reverend Carmichael looked stricken.

  ‘Madam, I love my daughter – but a clergyman’s stipend—’

  ‘I don’t really like to mention it,’ Centaine went on smoothly, ‘but it is Holly’s second marriage – and you have already done your duty with the first. I would be grateful if you would consent to perform the ceremony, and let me take care of the other small details.’ With one deft stroke Centaine had procured a clergyman to marry her grandson, for despite veiled offers to install stained-glass windows and restore church roofs, both the local Church of England and Anglican priests had refused to perform the offices. At the same time she had achieved a free
hand with the wedding arrangements.

  ‘It will be,’ she promised herself, ‘the wedding of the decade.’

  The old slave church on the estate had been rethatched and restored for the occasion, and the bougainvillaea blossom of exactly the shade that Holly had chosen for her dress was flown down from the Eastern Transvaal in the company aircraft to decorate it. The rest of the ceremony and the following celebrations were arranged on the same scale and with similar attention to detail with all the resources of Weltevreden and the Courtney group of companies to carry them through.

  The church could seat only 150, and twenty of those were the coloured family retainers from the estate who had known and cared for Garry since the day of his birth. The other thousand guests waited in the marquee on the polo field and the ceremony was relayed to them over the public address system.

  The road down the hill from the church to the polo field was lined with the other estate workers whose seniority and length of service were insufficient to procure them a seat in the church. They had stripped Centaine’s rose garden of blooms and they showered Garry and his new bride with rose petals as they led the procession down the hill in the open carriage, and the women danced and sang and tried to touch Holly for luck as she went by.

  In his grey topper Garry stood taller than Holly and his bulk of shoulder and chest made her seem light as a cloud of pink mist beside him, so lovely that the guests gasped and hummed with admiration as he brought her into the marquee on his arm.

  The best man’s speech was one of the highlights of the afternoon. Sean had them roaring and squealing with laughter and clapping his most amusing sallies, although Holly frowned and reached for Garry’s hand under the table when Sean made oblique references to Garry’s stutter and his Charles Atlas course.

  Sean was the first to dance with Holly after she and Garry had circled the floor in the wedding waltz. He held her close as they turned together and murmured, ‘Silly girl, you could have had the pick of the litter, but, never fear, it’s still not too late.’