‘I will reserve my judgment until tomorrow,’ Mr Justice Domashawa announced, and the court rose, the spectators humming with excited comment as they streamed out into the passage.
Over dinner Sally-Anne admitted, ‘For the first time in this whole business, I felt sorry when Sarah went on the stand – she is such a sweet child.’
‘Child? I guess she is a year or two older than you,’ Craig chuckled, ‘that makes you a babe in arms.’
She ignored his levity and went on seriously, ‘She so obviously believes in him that for a moment or two even I began to doubt what I knew – then, of course, Abel Khori brought me back to earth.’
Mr Justice Domashawa read out his judgment in his precise, old-maidish voice that somehow did not suit the gravity of the subject. Firstly, he covered the events that were common cause between prosecution and defence, and then went on, ‘The defence has based its case on two main pillars. The first of these is the testimony of Miss Sarah Nyoni that the accused was on his way to what, for want of a better word, we are led to believe was a love-tryst, and that his meeting with the truck was a coincidence or contrived in some unexplained manner by persons unknown.
‘Now Miss Nyoni impressed this court as being a naive and unworldly young lady, and by her admission is completely under the influence of the accused. The court has had, perforce, to consider the prosecution’s postulation that Miss Nyoni might even have been, in fact, so influenced by the accused as to consent to act as an accomplice in arranging the consignment of contraband.
‘In view of the foregoing, the court has rejected the testimony of Miss Nyoni as potentially biased and unreliable –
‘The second pillar of the defence’s case rests on the premise that the life of the accused was threatened, or that he believed it to be threatened, by the arresting officers, and in this belief embarked on a series of unreasoned and unreasoning acts of self-protection.
‘General Peter Fungabera is an officer of impeccable reputation, a high official of the state. The Third Brigade is an elite unit of the state’s regular army, its members, although battle-hardened veterans, are disciplined and trained soldiers.
‘The court, therefore, categorically rejects the accused’s contention that either General Fungabera or his men could have, even in the remotest possibility, constituted a threat to his safety, let alone his life. The court also rejects the contention that the accused believed this to be the case.
‘Accordingly, I come to the first charge. Namely, that of trading or dealing in the products of scheduled wild animals. I find the accused guilty as charged and I sentence him to the maximum penalty under the law. Twelve years at hard labour.
‘On the second charge of abducting and holding a hostage, I find the accused guilty as charged and I sentence him to ten years at hard labour.
‘On the third charge of assault with a deadly weapon, I find the accused guilty and sentence him to six years at hard labour –
‘—Assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm – six years at hard labour.
‘—Attempted murder – six years at hard labour –
‘—I order that these sentences run consecutively and that no part of them be suspended—’
Even Abel Khori’s head jerked up at that. The sentences totalled forty years. With full remission for good behaviour, Tungata could still expect to serve over thirty years, the rest of his useful life.
At the back of the court a black woman shrieked in Sindebele, ‘Baba! The father! They are taking our father from us!’ Others took up the cry. ‘Father of the people! Our father is dead to us.’
A man began to sing in a soaring baritone voice.
‘Why do you weep, widows of Shangani …
Why do you weep, little sons of the Moles,
When your fathers did the king’s bidding?’
It was one of the ancient fighting songs of the impis of King Lobengula, and the singer was a man in his prime with a strong intelligent face and a short-cropped, spadeshaped beard barely speckled with grey. As he sang, the tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. In another time he might have been an induna of one of the royal impis. His song was taken up by the men around him, and Mr Justice Domashawa came to his feet in a fury.
‘If there is not silence this instant, I will have the court cleared and the offenders charged with contempt,’ he shouted over the singing, but it was five minutes more of pandemonium before the ushers could restore order.
Through it all, Tungata Zebiwe stood quietly in the dock, with just the barest hint of a mocking smile on his lips. When at last it was over, but before his guards led him away, he gazed across the courtroom at Craig Mellow and he made a last hand-signal. They had only used it playfully before, perhaps after a hard-contested bout of wrestling or some other friendly competition. Now Tungata used it in deadly earnest. The sign meant: ‘We are equal – the score is levelled,’ and Craig understood completely. Craig had lost his leg and Tungata had lost his freedom. They were equal.
He wanted to call out to the man who had once been his friend that it was a sorry bargain, not of his choosing, but Tungata had turned away. His warders were trying to lead him out of the dock, but Tungata pulled back, his head turning as he searched for someone else in the crowded court.
Sarah Nyoni climbed up onto her bench, and over the heads of the crowd she reached out both hands towards him. Now Tungata made his last hand signal to her. Craig read it clearly. ‘Take cover!’ Tungata ordered her. ‘Hide yourself. You are in danger.’
By the altered expression on her face, Craig saw that the girl had understood the command, and then the warders were dragging Tungata Zebiwe down the stairs that led to the prison cells below ground.
Craig Mellow shoved his way through the singing, lamenting crowds of Matabele who overflowed the buildings of the Supreme Court and disrupted the lunch-hour traffic in the broad causeway that it fronted. He dragged Sally-Anne by her wrist and brusquely shouldered aside the press photographers who tried to block his way.
In the car park he boosted Sally-Anne into the front seat of the Land-Rover, and ran around to the driver’s side, threatening with a raised fist the last and most persistent photographer in his path. He drove directly to her apartment and halted at the front door. He did not turn off the engine.
‘And now?’ Sally-Anne asked.
‘I don’t understand the question,’ he snapped.
‘Hey!’ she said. ‘I’m your friend – remember me?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He slumped over the wheel. ‘I feel rotten – plain bloody rotten.’
She did not reply, but her eyes were full of compassion for him.
‘Forty years,’ he whispered. ‘I never expected that. If only I’d known—’
‘There was nothing you could do then, or now.’
He balled his fist and hammered it on the steering-wheel. ‘The poor bastard – forty years!’
‘Are you coming up?’ she asked softly, but he shook his head.
‘I have to get back to King’s Lynn. I’ve neglected everything while this awful bloody business has been going on.’
‘You’re going right now?’ She was startled.
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’ she asked, and he nodded.
‘I want to be alone.’
‘So you can torture yourself.’ Her voice firmed. ‘And I’ll be damned if I’ll allow that. I’m coming with you. Wait! I am going to throw some things in a bag – you needn’t even kill the engine, I’ll be that quick.’
She was five minutes, and then ran back down the stairs lugging her rucksack and her camera bag. She slung them into the back of the Land-Rover.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
They spoke very little on the long journey, but soon Craig was thankful to have her beside him, grateful for her smile when he glanced at her, for the touch of her hand on his when she sensed the black mood too strong upon him, and for her undemanding silence.
They drove up the hills of King’s
Lynn in the dusk. Joseph had seen them from afar, and was waiting on the front veranda.
‘I see you, Nkosazana.’ From their first meeting Joseph had taken an instant liking to Sally-Anne. Already she was his ‘little mistress’ and his welcoming grin kept breaking through his solemn dignity as he ordered his servants to unload her meagre luggage.
‘I run bath for you – very hot.’
‘That will be marvellous, Joseph.’
After her bath she came back to the veranda and Craig went to the drinks table and mixed a whisky for her the way she liked it, and another one for himself that was mainly Scotch and very little soda.
‘Here’s to Judge Domashawa,’ he lifted his glass ironically, ‘and to Mashona justice. All forty years of it.’
Sally-Anne refused wine at dinner despite his protest. ‘Baron Rothschild would be frightfully affronted. His very best stuff. My last bottle, smuggled in personally.’ Craig’s gaiety was forced.
After dinner he lifted the brandy decanter and as he was about to pour, she said, ‘Craig, please don’t get drunk.’
He paused with the decanter over the snifter and studied her face.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘I’m not being bossy – I’m being entirely selfish. Tonight I want you sober.’
He set down the decanter, pushed back his chair and came around the table to her. She stood up to meet him.
He paused in front of her. ‘Oh, my darling, I’ve waited so long.’
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘Me too.’
He took her carefully into his arms, something precious and fragile, and felt her changing slowly. She seemed to soften, and her body became malleable, shaping itself to his own, so he could feel her against him from knees to firm young bosom, the heat of her soaking quickly through their thin clothing.
He bowed his head as she lifted her chin and their mouths came together. Her lips were cool and dry, but almost immediately he felt the heat rising in them and they parted, moist and sweet as a sun-warmed fig freshly plucked and splitting open with its ripe juices.
He looked into her eyes as he kissed her, and marvelled at the colours and the patterns that formed a nimbus around her pupils, green shot through with golden arrowheads, and then her eyelids fluttered down over them, and her long crisp lashes interlocked. He closed his own eyes, and the earth seemed to tilt and swing under him, he rode it easily, holding her to him, but not trying yet to explore her body, content with the wonder of her mouth, and the velvet feel of her tongue against his.
Joseph opened the door from the kitchen, and stood for a moment with the coffee tray in his hands, and then he smiled smugly and drew back, closing the door behind him. Neither of them had heard him come or go. When she took her mouth away, Craig felt deprived and cheated, and reached for it again. She laid her fingers across his lips, restraining him for a moment, and her whisper was so husky that she had to clear her throat and start again.
‘Let’s go to your bedroom, darling,’ she said.
There was one awkward moment when he sat naked on the edge of the bed to remove his leg, but she knelt quickly in front of him, naked also, pushing his hands away and undid the straps herself. Then she bowed her head and kissed the neat hard pad of flesh at the extremity of his leg.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you could do that.’
‘It’s you,’ she said, ‘and part of you,’ and she kissed it again, and then ran her lips gently up to his knee and beyond.
He woke before she did, and lay with his eyes closed, surprised at the sense of wonder that possessed him, not knowing why, until suddenly he remembered and joy came upon him, and he opened his eyes and rolled his head, for an instant terrified that she would not be there – but she was.
She had thrown her pillow off the bed, and kicked the sheet aside. She was curled up like a baby, with her knees almost under her chin. The dawn light, filtered by the curtains, cast pearly highlights on her skin, and shaded the dips and hollows of her body. Her hair was loose, covering her face and undulating to each long slow breath she drew.
He lay very still so as not to disturb her and gloated over her, wanting to reach out, but denying himself, so as to make the ache of wanting more poignant, waiting for it to become unbearable. She must have sensed his attention, for she stirred and straightened out her legs, rolled over onto her back and arched in a slow voluptuous cat-like stretch.
He leaned across and with one finger lifted the shiny dark hair off her face. Her eyes swivelled towards him, came into focus, and she stared at him in cosmic astonishment. Then she crinkled her nose in a roguish grin.
‘Hey, mister,’ she whispered, ‘you are something pretty damned special. Now I’m sorry I waited so long.’
And she reached out both brown arms towards him. Craig, however, did not share her regrets. He knew it had been perfectly timed – even a day earlier would have been too soon. Later, he told her so as they lay clinging to each other, glued lightly together with their own perspiration.
‘We learned to like each other first, that was the way I wanted it to be.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, and drew back a little to look at his face so that her breasts made a delightfully obscene little sucking sound as they came unstuck from his chest. ‘I do like you, I really do.’
‘And I—’ he started, but hastily she covered his lips with her fingertips.
‘Not yet, Craig darling,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t want to hear that – not yet.’
‘When?’ he demanded.
‘Soon, I think—’ And then with more certainty. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘soon, and then I’ll be able to say it back to you.’
The great estate of King’s Lynn seemed to have waited as they had waited for this to happen again.
Long ago it had been hewn from the wilderness. The love of another man and woman had been the main inspiration in the building of it, and over the decades since then it had taken the love of the men and women who followed that first pair to sustain and cherish it. They and the generations who had followed them lay now in the walled cemetery on the kopje behind the homestead, but while they had lived, King’s Lynn had flourished. Just as it had sickened when it fell into the hands of uncaring foreigners in a far land, had been stripped and desecrated and deprived of the vital ingredient of love.
Even when Craig rebuilt the house and restocked the pastures, that vital element had been lacking still. Now at last love burgeoned on King’s Lynn, and their joy in each other seemed to radiate out from the homestead on the hill and permeate the entire estate, breathing life and the fecund promise of more life into the land.
The Matabele recognized it immediately. When Craig and Sally-Anne in the battered Land-Rover rode the red dust tracks that linked the huge paddocks, the Matabele women straightened up from the wooden mortars in which they were pounding maize, or turned stiff-necked under the enormous burden of firewood balanced upon their heads to call a greeting and watch them with a fond and knowing gaze. Old Joseph said nothing, but made up the bed in Craig’s room with four pillows, put flowers on the table at the side of the bed that Sally-Anne had chosen, and placed four of his special biscuits on the early morning tea-tray when he brought it in to them each dawn.
For three days Sally-Anne restrained herself, and then one morning sitting up in bed, sipping tea, she told Craig, ‘As curtains, those make fine dish rags.’ She pointed a half-eaten biscuit at the cheap unbleached calico that he had tacked over the windows.
‘Can you do better?’ Craig asked with concealed cunning, and she walked straight into the trap. Once she was involved in choosing curtains, she was immediately involved in everything else. From designing furniture for Joseph’s relative, the celebrated carpenter, to build, to laying out the new vegetable garden and replanting the rose bushes and shrubs that had died of neglect.
Then Joseph entered the conspiracy by bringing her the proposed dinner menu for the evening. ‘Should it be roast tonight, Nkosazana, or chicken curry???
?
‘Nkosi Craig likes tripe,’ Sally-Anne had made this discovery during casual discussion. ‘Can you do tripe and onions?’
Joseph beamed. ‘The old governor-general before the war, whenever he come to Kingi Lingi I make him tripe and onions, Nkosazana. He tell me “Very good, Joseph, best in world!”’
‘Okay, Joseph, tonight we’ll have your “best-in-world tripe and onions”,’ she laughed, and only when Joseph formally handed over to her the pantry keys did she realize what a serious pronouncement that had been.
She was there at midnight when the first new calf was born on King’s Lynn, a difficult birthing with the calf’s head twisted back so that Craig had to soap his arm and thrust it up into the mother to free it while Shadrach and Hans Groenewald held the head and Sally-Anne held the lantern high to light the work.
When at last it came in a slippery rush, it was a heifer, pale beige and wobbly on its long ungainly legs. As soon as it began to nurse from its mother’s udder, they could leave it to Shadrach and go home to bed.
‘That was one of the most marvellous experiences of my life, darling. Who taught you to do that?’
‘Bawu, my grandfather.’ He held her close to him in the dark bedroom. ‘You didn’t feel sick?’
‘I loved it, birth fascinates me.’
‘Like Henry the Eighth, I prefer it in the abstract,’ he chuckled.
‘You rude boy,’ she whispered. ‘But aren’t you too tired?’
‘Are you?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t truthfully say that I am.’
She made one or two half-hearted attempts to break out and leave.
‘I had a telegram today, the “C. of A.” on the Cessna is complete, and I should go down to Johannesburg to collect her.’
‘If you can wait two or three weeks or so, I’ll come down with you. They are having a terrible drought in the south and stock prices are rock bottom. We could fly around the big ranches together and pick up a few bargains.’