A Sparrow Falls

  ‘I’ll be studying the ground for the exact place to site the homestead,’ he told her, ‘and it will take a full year to see it all in every season. Good water in the dry, but safe from flood in the rains. The cool sea breeze in summer and protected from the cold weather in winter.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she murmured, that’s marvellous.’ But she was looking at his eyes.

  ‘If only I can capture that fleck of light that makes them shine so,’ she thought, and dabbed a touch of blue to the white to mix the shade.

  ‘Two rooms to start. One to sleep and one to live. Of course a wide veranda looking out across the valley.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ she exulted softly, as she touched the eye with the tip of the brush and it came instantly alive, gazing back at her from the canvas with an expression that squeezed her heart.

  ‘I’ll quarry the stone from the cliff, but away from the river so there’ll be no scar to spoil it, and we’ll cut the thatch from the edge of the swamp, and the roof poles from the forest.’

  The sun had swung to the west and it filtered down through the forest roof with a cool greenish light that touched the smooth hard muscles of his arm and the sculptured marble of his back, and she saw that he was beautiful.

  ‘We can build on slowly, as we need new rooms. I’ll design it that way. When the children come, we can change the living room to a nursery and add a new wing.’

  He could almost smell the aromatic shavings of the witels poles, and the sweet perfume of new cut thatch, and in his mind he saw the bright new roof mellowing and darkening in the weather, felt the cool of the high deep rooms at midday, and heard the crackle of the fiercely burning mimosa thorn in the stone fireplace on the cold and starry nights.

  ‘We’ll be happy, Storm, I promise you that.’ They were the only words she heard – and she lifted her head and looked at him.

  ‘Oh yes. We’ll be happy,’ she echoed, and they smiled at each other in total misunderstanding.

  When Sean had told Ruth Courtney that Mark was leaving, her dismay had alarmed him. Sean had not realized that he had taken such a place in her affections also.

  ‘Oh, no, Sean,’ she had protested.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it might have been,’ he assured her quickly. ‘We’ll not lose him altogether, it’s just that he’ll be on a longer rein, that’s all. He’ll still be working for me, but now only in my official capacity.’ And he explained it all to her. She was silent for a long time when he had finished, considering it from every angle before she gave her opinion.

  ‘He’ll be good at that, I think,’ she nodded at last. ‘But I had rather got used to having him around us. I’ll miss him.’

  Sean grunted what could have been agreement, not able to make such a sentimental admission outright.

  ‘Well,’ Ruth went on immediately, her whole attitude becoming businesslike, ‘I’ll have to get on with it,’ which meant that Mark Anders was to be fitted out for his move to Chaka’s Gate by one of the world’s leading experts. She had sent her man on campaign or on safari so often, that she knew exactly what was necessary, the absolute bare necessity for survival and comfort in the African bush. She knew that anything more than that would not be used, bundles of luxuries would come home untouched, or be abandoned along the way. Yet everything she selected was of the finest quality, for she raided Sean’s campaign bag blatantly, justifying each theft with the firm utterance, ‘Sean won’t be using that again.’

  The sleeping roll needed darning, and she made the repair a little work of art. Then she applied herself to the one luxury the pack would contain, books. This choice she and Mark discussed at length, for weight and space made it essential that each book must be able to withstand numerous rereadings. They had a wide selection from which to make their choice, hundreds of battered old volumes, stained by rain and mud, spilled tea and, in more than one case, by splotches of dried blood, and faded by sunlight and age, all of them having been carried great distances in Sean’s old canvas book-bag.

  Macaulay and Gibbon, Kipling and Tennyson, Shakespeare and even a small leather-bound Bible were given place, after being carefully screened by the selection committee, and Mark, whose previous camping equipment had been limited to a blanket, a pot and a spoon, felt as though he had been given a permanent suite at the Dorchester. Sean provided the other essentials for the expedition. The 9.3 Mannlicher in its leather case and two mules. They were big rangy animals, both hard workers and of equitable temper, both salted by having been deliberately exposed to the bite of the tsetse fly and surviving the onslaught of the disease that resulted. They had cost Sean dearly for this immunity, but then the nagana had an almost ninety per cent mortality rate. Salted animals were essential. It would have been less trouble and had the same end result to shoot them between the eyes, rather than take unsalted animals into the fly belt beyond Chaka’s Gate.

  Each day, Sean set aside an hour or so to discuss with Mark the objects and the priorities of the expedition. They drew up a list, which was added to daily and, as it grew, so did Sean Courtney’s enthusiasm. More than once he broke off to shake his head and grumble. ‘You lucky blighter, what I wouldn’t give to be your age again — and to be going back into the bush.’

  ‘You could come and visit me,’ Mark smiled.

  ‘I might just do that,’ Sean agreed, and then resettled his spectacles on his nose to bring up the next point for discussion.

  The first of Mark’s tasks was to compile an estimate of what species of wild animal still existed in the proclaimed area, and how many of each there were. Clearly this was of the utmost importance to any attempt at protection and conservation. All would depend on there being sufficient wild-life surviving to make their efforts worthwhile.

  ‘It may already be too late in the afternoon,’ Sean pointed out.

  ‘No.’ Mark would not even listen to the suggestion. ‘There is game there. Just enough to give us a chance. I’m sure of it.’

  Next important was for him to contact the people living in the area of Chaka’s Gate, the Zulus grazing cattle along the edge of the tsetse fly belt, the native hunters and gatherers living within the belt, each wandering group, each village, each headman, each chief, and hold discussions with them; gauging the attitude of the Zulu peoples to the stricter administration of the proclaimed area, and warning them that what for many years they and their ancestors had looked upon as commonage and tribal hunting-ground was under new control. Men were no longer free to cut timber and thatch, to gather and hunt at will. Mark’s intimate knowledge of the Zulu language would serve him well here.

  He was to build temporary accommodation for himself, and conduct a survey to choose the final site for a permanent warden’s post. There were fifty other tasks less important, but no less demanding.

  It was a programme to excite and intrigue Mark, and make him want to begin, and as the day drew nearer, only one cloud lay dark and heavy on the splendid horizon ahead of him. He would be parting from Storm, but he consoled himself with the sure knowledge that it would not be for long. He was going ahead into Eden to prepare a place for his Eve.

  As Storm watched him sleep flat on his back, spread like a crucifix on the forest floor, without even the cotton underpants between him and nature, the possessive smile of a mother watching over the child at her breast warmed and softened Storm’s lips.

  She was naked also, her clothing scattered around them like the petals of an overblown rose, thrown there by the storm winds of passions which were now spent and quiescent. She sat over him cross-legged on the corner of the plaid rug, and she studied his face, wondering at how young he looked in sleep, feeling a choking of tenderness in her throat, and the soft melting after-glow of loving deep in her body where he had been.

  She leaned over him, and her breasts swung forward with a new weightiness, the tips darker and wrinkled like small pinky brown raisins. She dipped her shoulders and let the nipples brush lightly across his face, and smiled again as he screwed up his no
se and pursed his lips in his sleep, snorting as if to blow away a bothersome fly.

  He came awake suddenly and as he reached for her, she squealed softly and plucked her breasts away from him, slapping at his hands.

  ‘Unhand me, sir, this instant!’ she commanded, and he caught her and pulled her down on to his chest, so that she could hear his heart beating under her ear.

  She snuggled down, making throaty little sounds of comfort. He sighed deeply, and his chest swelled and expanded under her cheek and she heard the air rush into his lungs.

  ‘Mark?’ she said.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘You’re not going. You know that, don’t you?’

  The air in his lungs stayed there as he held his breath, and the hand that was stroking lightly up from the small of her back to the nape of her neck stilled. She could feel the tension in his fingers.

  They stayed like that for many seconds and then he let the air out of his lungs with an explosive grunt.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Where am I not going?’

  ‘This place up there in the bush,’ she said.

  ‘Chaka’s Gate?’

  ‘Yes. You’re not going.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I forbid it.’

  He sat up abruptly, joggling her roughly off his chest.

  They sat facing each other, and he was staring at her with such an expression that she ran her fingers through her hair and then folded her arms across her breasts, covering them protectively.

  ‘Storm, what or earth are you talking about? he demanded.

  ‘I don’t want you to waste any more time,’ she told him. ‘You must start making your way now, if you’re ever going to amount to anything.’

  ‘This is my way — our way,’ he said, bewildered. ‘We agreed on it. I will go up there to Chaka’s Gate and build our home.’

  ‘Home!’ She was truly appalled. ‘Up there in the bush — me in a grass hut? Mark, are you out of your mind!’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘What you’re going to do is start making some money,’ she told him fiercely, and, picking up her blouse, she pulled it over her head, and as her tousled head emerged she went on, ‘and forget about little boys’ games.’

  ‘I’ll be making money.’ His expression was stiff, and becoming hostile.

  ‘What money?’ she asked, just as frostily.

  ‘I’ll have a salary.’

  ‘A salary!’ She flung back her head and gave a high peal of scornful laughter. ‘A salary, forsooth! How much?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It isn’t really all that important.’

  ‘You’re a child, Mark. Do you know that? A salary, twenty pounds a week? Can you really and truly imagine me living on your salary?’ She gave the word a world of contempt. ‘Do you know who earns salaries? Mr Smathers earns a salary,’ she was on her feet now, hopping furiously on one leg as she drew on her knickers. ‘Daddy’s foremen at the saw-mills earn salaries. The servants that wait on the table, the stable-grooms earn salaries.’

  She was pulling up her riding breeches, and with them all her dignity.

  ‘Real men don’t earn salaries, Mark.’ Her voice was high and shrill. ‘You know what real men do, don’t your

  He was buttoning the fly of his breeches also, forced to follow her example, and he shook his head silently.

  ‘Real men pay salaries – not take them,’ she said. ‘Do you know that when my father was your age he was already a millionaire!’

  Mark was never able to fathom what it was that triggered him, perhaps the mention of Sean at that particular moment, but suddenly he lost his temper. He felt it like a hot red fog behind his eyes.

  ‘I’m not your bloody father,’ he shouted.

  ‘Don’t you swear at my father,’ she shouted back. ‘He’s five times the man you’ll ever be.’

  They were both panting and flushed, clothing rumpled, half-clad, with wild hair and wilder eyes glaring at each other like animals, speechless with hurt and anger.

  Storm made the effort. She swallowed painfully, and held out her hands palms upwards.

  ‘Listen, Mark. I’ve got it all planned. If you went into timber, selling to the mines, Daddy would give you the agency and we could live in Johannesburg.’

  But Mark’s anger was still on him, and his voice was rough and scaly with it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then I could spend my life grubbing money for you to buy those ridiculous clothes and—’

  ‘Don’t you insult me, Mark Anders,’ she blazed.

  ‘I’m me,’ Mark told her. ‘And that’s what I’m going to be the rest of my life. If you loved me, you’d respect that.’

  ‘And if you loved me, you wouldn’t want me to live in a grass hut.’

  ‘I love you,’ he shouted her down. ‘But you’ll be my wife and you’ll do what I decide.’

  ‘Don’t challenge me, Mark Anders. I warn you. Don’t ever do that!’

  ‘I’ll be your husband,’ he began, but she snatched up her boots and ran to her horse, stooping to loose the hobble and then flinging herself on to its back bare-footed, and looked down at him. She was breathless with anger, but she struggled to make her voice icy and cutting.

  ‘Don’t take any bets on that!’ And she dragged the horse’s head around and kicked him into a run.

  ‘Where is Missy?’ Sean demanded as he unfolded his napkin and tucked the corner into his waistcoat, glancing at Storm’s empty place at the table.

  ‘She’s not feeling very well, dear,’ Ruth told him, as she began serving the soup, ladling it out of the fat-bellied tureen in a cloud of fragrant steam. ‘I allowed her to have her dinner sent up to her room.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Sean looked up with concern creasing his forehead.

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ said Ruth firmly, closing the door on further discussion. Sean stared at her for a moment, and then understanding dawned.

  ‘Oh!’ he said. The functions of the female body had always been shrouded for Sean Courtney in deepest mystery, and awakened in him an abiding awe.

  ‘Oh!’ he said again, and leaned forward to blow noisily on a spoonful of soup to cover his embarrassment, and the niggling resentment that his beloved child was a child no longer.

  Across the table, Mark applied himself to his spoon with equal determination, but with an empty aching feeling below his ribs.

  ‘Where is Missy tonight?’ Sean asked, with what was for him a certain diffidence. ‘Still not well?’

  ‘She telephoned Irene Leuchars this morning. Apparently the Leuchars are having a huge party tonight and she wanted to go. She left after lunch. She’s driving herself back to Durban in the Cadillac.’

  ‘Where will she stay?’ Sean demanded.

  ‘With the Leuchars, naturally.’

  ‘She should have asked me,’ Sean frowned.

  ‘You were down at the saw-mills all day, dear. The decision had to be made immediately, or she would have missed the party. I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

  Sean minded everything that took his daughter away from him, but he could not say so now. ‘I thought she hated Irene Leuchars,’ he complained.

  ‘That was last month,’ said Ruth.

  ‘I thought she was sick,’ Sean persisted.

  ‘That was last night.’

  ‘When is she coming home?’

  ‘She may stay in town for the race-meeting at Greyville on Saturday.’

  Mark Anders listened with the empty space in his chest turning to a great bottomless void. Storm had gone back to join that close group of rich, indolent and privileged young people, to their endless games and their eternal round of extravagant partying, and on Saturday Mark was leaving with two mules for the wilderness beyond Chaka’s Gate.

  Mark would never fathom how Dirk Courtney knew. To him it seemed further evidence of the man’s power, the tentacles of his influence that reached into every corner and crevice.

&nb
sp; ‘I understand you are to make the survey for the Government, to decide whether it’s worth developing the proclaimed area beyond Chaka’s Gate?’ he asked Mark.

  Mark could still hardly believe the fact that he stood unarmed and completely unprotected here at Great Longwood. His skin tingled with warning of deadly danger, his nerves were drawn like bow-strings, and he walked with exaggerated care, one hand clenched in the hip-pocket of his breeches.

  Beside him, Dirk Courtney was tall and courteous and affable. When he turned to make that statement, he smiled, a warm spread of the wide and handsome mouth — and he laid a hand on Mark’s upper arm. A light but friendly touch, which shocked Mark as though a mamba had kissed him with its little flickering black tongue.

  ‘How does he know it?’ Mark stared at him, his feet slowing, so that he pulled gently away from Dirk’s touch.

  If Dirk noticed the withdrawal, it did not show in his smile, and he let his hand fall naturally to his side and took the flat silver cigarette-case from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Try one,’ he murmured. ‘They are made especially for me.’

  Mark tasted the incense of the sweetish Turkish tobacco, using the act of lighting the cigarette to cover his uncertainty and surprise. Only Sean Courtney and his close family knew, and of course the Prime Minister’s office — the Prime Minister’s office, if that was it, as it seemed it must be, then Dirk Courtney’s tentacles stretched far indeed.

  ‘Your silence I must take as confirmation,’ Dirk told him, as they came down the paved alleyway between two lines of whitewashed loose boxes. From over the half-doors, the horses stretched out their necks to Dirk and he paused now and then to caress a velvety muzzle with surprisingly gentle fingers, and to murmur an endearment.