African Dawn (26 page)

‘In the old days, before we had candles, we used to have electricity,’ Braedan said as he braked to avoid running into a truck that was driving without lights.

Natalie gripped the dashboard to avoid being thrown through the windscreen. It struck her as crazy that she would be driving in the black night with no seatbelt, while drinking a beer. It was unsafe and foolish, but at the same time it was oddly exciting; liberating, even.

‘Another beer?’ she asked Braedan, and leaned forward to pick two rolling bottles off the floor of the cab.

‘
Ja
.’

Natalie unzipped her daypack and took out a Swiss Army knife. She used the bottle opener to open the beers and passed one to Braedan.

He raised the bottle to her. ‘Welcome home to Africa, fucked-up place that it is.’

After eleven attempts, and being constantly told that the cellular phone network was busy, Natalie finally got through to her grandfather on his cell phone and told him she was nearing Bulawayo.

Grandpa Paul sounded delighted, as always, to hear from her, and when she told him she was getting a lift with the Quilter-Phipps boys he ordered her to make sure they stayed for supper.

‘I'm sure their mom will want to see them,’ she told him.

‘Can they hear me?’ Grandpa Paul asked her quietly. Natalie looked at Braedan, who was intent on drinking and driving and didn't appear to be paying attention to what she was saying.

‘No.’

‘Then make sure they both come to dinner, Natalie. Their mother's on a government pension that barely pays enough for her to buy a loaf of bread or a few potatoes a month. She'll want to see both the boys, but we'll be doing her a favour if we send them home fed.’

‘OK Grandpa, I understand.’

The lights were on in Bulawayo, but the town still seemed dead. They passed a couple of restaurants that were open, but business was slow judging by the small number of cars and
bakkies
parked outside. Young men loitered in the shadows of shop awnings. She'd loved coming here, before the incident on her grandparents' farm. She loved the big wide streets, and the carpet of purple blossoms shed by the jacaranda trees, and Lyon's Maid ice cream from the little place near the Haddon and Sly department store. Nineteen seventy-nine changed all that.

Once out of town the road towards Plumtree and the Botswana border took them through open, undulating grasslands studded with granite kopjes. It was beautiful, empty and wild. She'd loved this drive as a child, but now she was heading back to the land of her nightmares.

‘Remembering?’

She looked across at Braedan. ‘Oh, yes, sorry. Lost in my thoughts.’

‘It happens. This country's got too many ghosts and not enough soul any more.’

‘Yet you've come back.’

He drained his third beer and slipped it under his seat. ‘I'm like a lot of people here – I've got nowhere else to go. The ones with money and relatives overseas have gone; the ones with small kids have gone to find them a better education; the ones with professional qualifications have gone to places that appreciate them, and that leaves the ones like me.’

‘My grandparents have stayed.’

‘
Ja
… and then there are the idealists. The ones who believe that if they hope and pray and have faith in the goodness of man and the strength of the human spirit then things will come right.’

‘You sound like you don't believe it.’

‘I don't. But don't get me wrong – I like your grandparents, always did.’

And it was true, he did. And they seemed genuinely pleased to see him and even sour old Tate, Braedan thought.

They'd passed through two security gates manned by smartly dressed Africans who'd made them sign in and radioed ahead for permission for them to proceed. The parallel fences looked in good condition and Braedan had heard the
tick, tick, tick
that told him the fences were electrified and the power was on.

The Bryants met them on the gravelled drive outside the same farmhouse they'd lived in when Braedan had parachuted into the field at the back. Braedan took in the place while Natalie's grandparents hugged and kissed and fussed over her. The fire damage had long since been repaired and the place looked a little larger than he remembered – some extensions over the years, he thought – but like everywhere else in this country it was another reminder of the life they'd all once lived, good and bad. A Land Cruiser
bakkie
was parked under a carport next to the house, and Braedan could see it was packed with camping gear.

Old Paul Bryant must be at least ninety, but his eyes were clear and his handshake was strong. ‘Good to see you, again,’ he said, and Braedan could still hear the slight twang of the Australian accent in the old man's voice. He wore a two-tone farmer's bush shirt of green and khaki and shorts that looked as though they were handmade, with a simple elastic waist.

‘Howzit, Mrs Bryant,’ Braedan said to Natalie's grandmother. Pip was tiny – he'd remembered her as being short, but she'd shrunk with age. She'd made her face up a little and he could see where Natalie and Hope had got their looks.

‘Braedan, how lovely to see you.’ Pip gave him a hug and she felt as though she might snap in his arms if he put the slightest amount of pressure on her. She turned from him and beamed up into Tate's face. ‘Tate, Tate, Tate … it's been too long, how are you, my boy?’

Paul clapped a bony hand on Braedan's shoulder and winked at him. ‘Come, let's get a beer in before dinner.’ Braedan let Paul lead him inside as Pip bustled along between Tate and Natalie.

Braedan smelled roast chicken as they entered the house, and a rotund African woman came out from the kitchen and said good evening to him and Tate. Braedan returned her greeting in fluent Ndebele and noted, with a touch of self-satisfaction, Natalie's surprise at that.

‘Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes,’ Pip Bryant said. ‘Portia,’ she said to the maid, ‘please won't you set another two places for dinner.’

‘Really, Mrs Bryant, we're fine,’ said Tate.

Braedan felt like smacking him. He was starving and the smell of the chicken was making his stomach do parachute landing rolls.

‘Nonsense, Tate, you will stay for dinner. Portia's doing two chickens in any case, so it's fine.’

Pip wasn't unfriendly or unwelcoming towards Braedan, but she seemed much more interested in Tate. It figured, Braedan thought, as they were both rhino people. It seemed they'd had a bit to do with each other over the years.

And there, on the mantelpiece, over an already stacked fire of mopane wood interspersed with old mealie cobs, was Hope. If Paul Bryant noticed Braedan staring at the black and white studio print, he gave no indication of it. ‘And what have you been up to lately, Braedan? I heard from your mother you'd been in Iraq and Afghanistan. Tricky places to fight a war, eh?’

Braedan gave the answers he usually did to such questions, about how hard it was to tell friend from foe, and how both countries were locked in internal conflicts that foreign troops could hardly begin to understand, let alone solve. But his eyes were drawn back to Hope's face. It must have been taken not long before her death, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Paul suggested they go outside, on the pretext of showing Braedan the garden.

‘Paul, dinner's nearly ready,’ Pip said.

‘Won't be a mo,’ he replied.

Braedan wondered how much the Bryants knew about what had gone on between him, Hope and Tate. They would have quizzed Tate after Hope's death about why she'd got on a plane back to Salisbury so soon after arriving in Kariba. Tate probably told them there'd been an argument, but he would have been too embarrassed to tell them what the argument had been about. Still, Braedan mused, George and Susannah would have raised their eyebrows at the time Hope got home the night before she left; they would have put two and two together, but maybe they would have protected Hope's parents from the truth. He suddenly regretted being so candid with their granddaughter. Would she put all that in her book? It was all so sad, but it was also ancient history.

‘How does it feel being back here, on the farm?’ Paul asked him, and Braedan took a sip of cold Lion Lager from his glass while he thought about that one. The old man was sharp, for sure.

‘It's funny, hey,’ he said at last. ‘It was thirty years ago, but coming back here makes it all feel like it was just yesterday.’ Braedan reached for his cigarettes and saw the grandfather's eyes brighten.

He looked furtively back at the farmhouse. ‘Can you score me a loose one, Braedan?’ he whispered. Braedan smiled and shook a cigarette free of the pack and lit it for Paul. He breathed deep, his eyes closed. ‘She'd kill me if she knew. I expect you know all about Natalie's book by now. How do you feel about going over all that again?’

Braedan shrugged as he lit his own cigarette. ‘It was different for me. I was just doing a job. Natalie wants to find answers, and to tie what happened back then into what's happening in the country now. Me, I'd prefer to forget it.’

‘That's impossible,’ Paul said, exhaling.

Braedan nodded. ‘I know what you mean. It was different for you, in your day … during the Second World War, I mean. You won. You were a hero.’

Paul held up his hand. ‘Enough of the bullshit, mate. I don't like that word. Fact is, for a good part of the war I was a coward, and it wasn't until I met Pip that I straightened myself out. But what you did, Braedan, was truly inspirational, at a time when people needed inspiring. The sensible thing for you and your men to do that day, the right thing, was to wait for reinforcements to arrive. But you didn't. You went out alone and you saved my granddaughter's life. That's a story that needs to be told.’

‘Enough of the bullshit,
mate
,’ said Braedan, imitating the Australian accent.

Paul laughed, then clapped Braedan on the shoulder again. ‘We should get inside. The women will be clucking like those two chooks were a few hours ago. But first, I've got one more thing to ask you.’

‘Sure.’

Paul preceded his question by telling Braedan that he had lost a rhino to poachers three days earlier – the second animal killed in the past twelve months. ‘Things are so desperate here, one of my security guards was turned, by a bribe. I reported it to the police and he was arrested, but I just heard today he's been released on bail. He'll probably get out of the country before he can be prosecuted.’

‘The rest of your guards?’ Braedan asked.

‘Good men, as good as you'll find, but they're human, Braedan. My senior guard, a former national parks warden, died of the Big A a month ago. I'd like to promote someone from within, but the truth is none of them has the leadership potential, or the will to take the fight to the poachers. They're not saying anything to me, and outwardly they're behaving as professionally as ever, but the fire's gone out of their bellies, Braedan. I think someone's getting to them.’

Braedan finished his cigarette and thought about what Paul Bryant was saying. He had nowhere near the interest or passion for wildlife and its conservation as his brother did, but this might be interesting work, with the prospect of a little action.

‘I've got a grant from an Australian-based rhino conservation charity,’ Paul went on. ‘It's not much, but I can pay you in US dollars and you'll have a vehicle and a house on the farm, and I'll get your weapons permits sorted for you.’

Braedan had a mounting pile of debts both in Zimbabwe and Australia, and he was months behind on his child support payments. He wanted to see his daughters, Ashley and Jess, but couldn't afford an airfare to Australia, let alone the tickets to fly them both to Zimbabwe. He was, he knew, a burden on his mother as well. His life was a mess and he had few prospects. Anything Bryant could pay him would be more than he had now. He had one final question, though, before he accepted the offer.

‘Why didn't you offer this to Tate? He's ex parks and wildlife and knows all there is to know about rhinos and anti-poaching operations … He could help you in so many more ways than I could.’

Bryant stubbed out his cigarette and threw the butt into a flowerbed. He took a sip of beer and swilled it around his mouth, before wiping his lips and looking Braedan in the eye. ‘Tate's not a soldier, Braedan. You are. You have what it takes.’

21

T
ate didn't like sit-down meals, where one felt obliged to engage in meaningless small talk. Even in the field, where there were often a dozen or more researchers and students working on a project, Tate preferred to eat alone.

He found himself seated between Philippa and Natalie. Pip seemed to want to coddle him all the time, and Natalie kept leaning on her elbows so she could engage Braedan, seated opposite her, with more talk of his travels to various war zones.

Old Paul Bryant had come up with the terrible idea that the brothers and Natalie should travel with him and Pip to Hwange National Park the next day, to join them on the annual game census.

Natalie was obviously excited about the idea of going on the count, but Tate was a lot less enthusiastic. ‘I was hoping we might have a word about the future of your rhinos, Paul,’ Tate said, in between mouthfuls of chicken. He had no desire to camp out in the park and sit in the bush for twenty-four hours counting animals in the company of a bunch of farmers, foreigners and amateur environmentalists.

Paul rested his knife and fork on the table. ‘Come to Hwange with us if you want to talk, Tate.’

Tate had twice raised the issue of Paul relocating his rhinos to a larger conservancy, preferably in the Save Valley, in the southeast of Zimbabwe, where they might be less vulnerable than sitting on a farm out in the middle of Matabeleland, surrounded by properties that had already been overrun by war veterans. Tate himself was considering an emailed offer of a job as warden of the Save Valley conservancy and he would dearly love to have Paul's fourteen animals under his care.

‘In any case,’ Paul said, resting a hand on Braedan's shoulder, ‘my rhinos are going to enjoy a much safer future thanks to this young fellow agreeing to be my new head of security.’

Tate stared across the table at his brother. ‘What?’

‘
Ja
, I'm going to be overseeing security and anti-poaching patrols.’

Tate was incensed. ‘He knows nothing about rhinos!’

They all looked at him. Tate reddened. He realised he'd sounded churlish, but it was the truth.

‘Braedan doesn't need to know about rhinos, he needs to know about catching poachers,’ Paul said gruffly.

The war hero, Tate thought. He said nothing more about the appointment during dinner, but he was annoyed that instead of talking about much more sensible options for securing the long-term future of his rhinos, Paul Bryant had latched on to his wastrel brother as a solution. What Tate really wanted to ask Paul was what was going to happen to his precious animals after he died. The old man seemed in good health for his age, but he wouldn't be around forever.

Paul offered Tate and Braedan the use of a Toyota Hilux
bakkie
to travel to the game count. Tate weighed up the pros and cons of accepting the offer and coming along, or of getting a lift back to Bulawayo, then catching a bus to Harare.

In the end, he agreed. Braedan said something, which Tate didn't catch because he wasn't paying attention, and Natalie laughed uproariously. Tate looked to Braedan and saw him wink at the woman. Tate felt nauseous.

At Pip's insistence the brothers agreed to stay the night at the farm. Tate had decided he would go see his mother the next day, before leaving for Hwange. Pip showed Braedan and Natalie to their rooms, then laid a bony hand on Tate's forearm and whispered, ‘Come with me.’

The guest rooms were in a wing of the house that had been added after the guerilla attack on the farm. Pip led Tate back into the old part of the house. She stopped by a door and Tate suddenly realised where he was.

Pip opened the door. ‘I've kept it just as it was, well, apart from some of the fire damage that we had to repair.’

Tate saw the bed and the posters on the wall of rock stars he'd never known so couldn't remember. One, of a young man with long straight black hair, was singed at the edges. But mostly it was all exactly as it had been the last time he'd been in this room. They'd sat on the bed – he remembered it squeaking and his flush of panic, in case her parents heard. But all he'd done was kiss her. He was so shy, he didn't even know if, or how, he should touch her, but that kiss had left his head spinning.

It was his imagination he was sure, but he almost thought he could still smell Hope's perfume.

‘I couldn't show Natalie,’ Pip said in a hushed voice, ‘as she'd probably
freak out
or whatever it is young people say. But you … I thought you'd …’

Tate, himself, was feeling a bit freaked out, but he knew people had to deal with grief in their own way. He had thrown himself into his work, Pip had maintained a shrine to her daughter; both of them thought of Hope every day of their lives. He didn't know what to do, or say. He felt Pip's spindly arm encircle him and hold him as tight as she could. Awkwardly, he put his own arm around her.

‘I miss her so,’ Pip said, her voice catching.

Tate felt the tears well behind his eyes. He wanted to blurt out that it was his fault Hope had been killed, that he didn't deserve to still be alive.

‘Goodnight, Mrs Bryant,’ Tate said, extracting himself from her embrace and walking out the bedroom door.

*

With the extra company and her grandparents' easy manner over dinner Natalie had not dwelled on what had happened to her in this house when she was a child. It was different, though, when she said goodnight and went to the room Grandma Pip had prepared for her. It wasn't Hope's room, thank goodness.

A scops owl called in the night, in a tree outside her window. Its soft, high-pitched
brrr brrr
might have sounded benign to anyone else, but it jarred her nerves. It was hot, which was normal for this time of year, but it was also very humid. She lay on her bed, a ceiling fan rotating slowly above her, and when she ran a hand under her T-shirt and down her tummy, she felt a sheen of perspiration. The owl called again, and she shuddered, despite the heat.

When she closed her eyes she saw the flash of light again, heard the boom and smelled the smoke. The men were banging on the door. She thought it was someone coming to rescue her from the fire. When the door crashed open she saw the face of nightmares long faded, leering at her, reaching for her.

She screamed.

Natalie sat up in the bed and clutched the sheet to her. She'd been more tired than she'd thought after the flight from Kenya and the long drive from Harare to Bulawayo, and she had drifted off to sleep, but the nightmare had woken her. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.

It was irrational, she tried to tell herself. She felt suddenly embarrassed and hoped no one had heard.

It was still, and even hotter than before. Overhead, the ceiling fan had stopped turning. The power was out, which she knew was common in Zimbabwe. The president and his lackeys were more interested in making money for themselves than investing it in infrastructure. She'd read that water shortages were also common, although fortunately her grandparents had a bore on the farm.

Natalie crooked an arm behind her head and stared at the ceiling. She was thirsty. The wine had helped her relax back into the house, and kid herself she would be fine, but it had also dehydrated her. She swung her feet over the side of the bed. The polished concrete floor was fractionally cooler than the thick air that blanketed her. Natalie stood and padded, in her pyjama shorts and T-shirt, to the door. It creaked as it opened.

Without the starlight that illuminated her room, the hallway was pitch-black. She almost turned and went back into the bedroom. Don't be silly, she told herself. She hadn't been afraid of the dark as a child, until the attack on the farm in 1979. Since then she'd not so much been scared of the dark but of what it might conceal.

Natalie reached out and felt for a wall. She felt the hall runner, threadbare as it was, under her feet and started moving along the hallway. With each step she found her eyes adjusted a little more to the darkness. Her right hand, which had been running along the plaster, came to a void. Ahead of her was the door at the end of the corridor that led to the lounge room and kitchen.

Natalie realised where she was. This was the last room of the original building. Hope's room. Her room when she stayed over. She felt for the door handle and started breathing faster, suddenly afraid she couldn't get enough air into her lungs. She licked her lips …

It's all right, it's all right
, she tried convincing herself. She failed. God, what was behind the door? She wanted to know, but couldn't bring herself to turn the knob. There was the light, the boom, the smoke, the smell of the man's sweat as he put a hand over her mouth and dragged her away. There was Aunty Hope's things, her pictures, her records, her perfume … There were the flowers on her coffin and Grandma and Grandpa crying as they lowered her down … There was …

Natalie gasped and spun around as a hand touched her arm.

‘Sorry,’ Braedan said, his wonky smile showing through the dark.

Her heart was pounding. ‘God, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I was thirsty.’

‘Kitchen's straight ahead, as far as I remember,’ he said.

She nodded, trying to compose herself. ‘This room … it's where I was sleeping that night.’ Her hand was still on the doorknob.

He reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. ‘You don't have to go through there.’

She looked at him, searching for his eyes to try to read them, but it was too dark. Was he just a muscle-bound grunt who'd saved her because it was his job, and slept with her aunt because he could … or was there more to him?

‘Myself, I'm all for a little compartmentalisation of the soul, but don't ask me to spell that,’ Braedan said.

‘Compartmentalisation?’

‘Some fears aren't worth facing.’

She laughed, and he put his finger to his lips as he lifted his hand from hers. ‘I'm going to get that drink of water.’

‘I'm thirsty too.’

He followed her through the next door and she felt safe with him behind her, watching her. She remembered burrowing her face in his uniform as he'd picked her up. She'd cried and cried as he'd carried her through the bush. ‘You're safe now, you're safe now, my girl,’ he'd said to her. She was just a child. And he had saved her.

In the kitchen Natalie opened the door of the fridge. ‘Water?’ she asked.

‘I see a beer in there. Do you think your grandpa would mind?’

‘He only has one a night, so I think you're safe.’

‘Right. I saw him have at least three. I think he was sneaking them on the sly while your gran wasn't looking.’

‘Shush,’ she said. She took out an old plastic Coke bottle filled with water and passed him a bottle of Lion, then closed the door. ‘We'll wake the house if we're not careful.’

‘Outside?’

She nodded, and followed him out onto the front stoop. Braedan sat down on the step. He had on the same shirt he'd worn in the car, but unbuttoned as though he'd just thrown it on, and she suddenly noticed he was only wearing boxer shorts. He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket.

‘Um … do you mind if I bum one of those?’ She sat down next to him, the concrete cool on the bare skin at the back of her thighs.

‘If any more of the Bryant family come out of the smoking closet I'll be forced to quit myself!’

‘What do you mean?’ She slid a cigarette from the offered packet.

‘Nothing.’ He leaned in closer to light her cigarette.

She coughed. ‘Rough.’

‘Zimbabwean – the finest sweepings from the floors of the finest empty tobacco sheds in the world. We can't even kill ourselves with decent cigarettes any more.’

She didn't laugh.

‘Sorry.’

‘It's OK.’ She took another puff and exhaled. ‘What does it feel like for you, being back here?’

He shrugged. ‘Place was just about in ruins last time I was here. I went to plenty of farms that had been revved. It was the same old story. You got used to the destruction, to the heartbreak of the families involved.’

She didn't buy the tough guy act. ‘Yes, but you didn't save a little girl at every farmhouse.’

He looked up at the stars and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘No. At a couple of places we got there too late, and little kids died.’

Natalie felt her whole body sag. ‘I'm sorry, Braedan … I haven't really thought about what else you might have been through.’

‘
Ag
, forget it. Like I said, there's some things I like to keep locked away, in a compartment, in here …’ He tapped his heart. ‘But, yes, I could tell you some stories of the fun we used to have, hey. We used to
jol
like there was no tomorrow in those days.’

For many of them, she thought, that was probably still the case. Natalie looked up and the sky was studded with stars. ‘It's hard to imagine people having fun during a war, but I can remember my mom and dad having some big parties.’

His eyes caught some starlight and she could imagine how handsome he must have been in his youth – he was still a very good-looking man. There was something of that heroic youngster still in him, though dulled by too many years of hard living. She could see how Aunty Hope had been momentarily weakened by his mix of charm and bad-boy cockiness.

Braedan stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I haven't felt so alive since those days. Funny, because a few of my mates didn't make it. It was all for nothing.’

He looked at her, and she couldn't read the expression in his face. He reached out a hand, towards her, and she felt her heart stop. Was he going to touch her? Could he somehow tell that she'd just been thinking he was attractive? Had she given him some kind of sign? She didn't think so.

‘It's all right.’ His fingers brushed her shoulder. ‘Spider,’ he smiled, flicking the tiny bug away.

She exhaled. ‘Phew. For a moment, I thought …’

‘Thought what?’ His face was a picture of contrived innocence as he got to his feet. ‘Early start tomorrow. Night Natalie.’

‘Night Braedan.’
You cheeky bastard.

The next morning Tate awoke and went to the dining room to find Pip waiting for him.