Shooting Butterflies (23 page)

‘A licenced hunter, not a tracker?' Wayne said.

‘Hunter, as in he knows his stuff with the flora and fauna, and he's taken down an elephant with one shot. Only then do you get your licence.'

Wayne looked at Bevin, but there was no expression on his face. Just a man relating a story. ‘Sounds like a real businessman and a good marksman.'

‘He came back to her and rolled out the plans for her farm that he'd worked on, with those he had visited, and they began building their fence. Next they ploughed in a huge section of tobacco, once it was done for the season, and they planted velvet beans to attract the natural game in the region.'

‘That was smart. Why buy game if it's for free roaming around the place,' Wayne said. ‘I think I like him before I even meet him.'

‘You do realise that this is just a black guy, right?' Bevin said.

‘So?'

‘Black is still black,' Bevin said.

Wayne shook his head. The hatred was so conditioned in some people that they would never see past the colour of a person's skin. It would take generations to get rid of the unnecessary hostility drummed into them from when they were young. Wayne smiled. He thought of how his dad had been so much before his time, how as a farmer he carried none of the prejudice against blacks. He'd always treated his workers properly, built them decent-sized housing for their families. They had a small but decent compound with running water and electricity. The tractor collected the 44-gallon rubbish drums and emptied them twice a week into their dump on the farm. There were so many things that Wayne had to be grateful to his dad for, yet living by example was probably the most precious gift he could have passed on to Wayne. And he had saved Tara, found a path through for her when Wayne had been unable.
He loved his dad even more for that, even if he had kept it a secret from him.

‘You need to get over that prejudice, Bev, South Africa will soon be ruled by a black government. Then what are you going to do? There's nowhere further south for white people to run. Except go overseas, if you want to do that.'

Bevin was shaking his head vigorously. ‘Hey, Wayne, I don't hate the blacks. Not at all. It's just this man, Jamison, he's different to all the rest. I keep wanting to know what his ulterior motive is. I know my aunty Rose has … had,' he corrected himself, ‘a profit-share scheme, but I keep thinking that surely he wants more than that. Like if he loved the farm so much and she put it up for sale, why didn't he try and buy it?'

‘You don't know if he tried to or not.'

‘True, but there is just something about him. I keep wondering why would he do these things to help an old white woman.'

‘Perhaps he likes your great aunt. Perhaps it's just a friendship that is different to what you've experienced. I think it's wonderful. What else did they do to the farm?'

Bevin harrumphed, blowing air through his teeth and lips. ‘Aunt Rose paid some hot shot conservationist to come to the farm and help them to create natural bush as quickly as possible. They regenerated huge tracts of land with natural bush plants, and spread grass seeds so that when their fence was finished they could close the gates. They began to travel together, the old white lady and the black man, to collect wild animals, attend auctions, and buy in game. Zebra, giraffe, eland and wildebeest. She even organised him a passport so they could go down to South Africa on buying trips.'

‘They sure wanted game. Weren't there like, restrictions bringing it through the border?'

‘Sure, but they got permits and things, and drove on through Beit Bridge and came on up to Mashonaland. Jamison driving the big cattle truck they bought and modified, and my aunt Rose sitting next to him.'

‘Bet the border post on the South African side just loved that.'

‘Oh she's a firecracker, my aunt. My dad didn't want Jamison sleeping in the second bedroom of the cottage at the bottom of our garden, insisted that Jamison should sleep in the
ikhaya
the maid uses when she's there. But Aunt Rose read him the riot act about his bad behaviour and how Jamison was their guest too and she'd leave if he left. Guess who won?'

‘Aunt Rose.'

‘You bet. And after they had visited the first time, there were many more, and Jamison always used the second bedroom.'

‘That's quite telling …'

‘No, telling is that just two years after those two began their project, they opened their first safari camp. They worked like Trojans to get this place into what it is today. It wasn't only the money, it was the raw ambition behind getting it done quickly. I take my hat off to Jamison, I just don't understand where the drive to succeed comes from within a black guy, as I've hardly ever seen it so strong as with that man.'

‘That's not true. What about Isaac, and Majoda? Those trackers practically lived with us, and although they weren't Recces, how many times did one of them save our necks?'

‘That's different. They weren't in it for money, they did that to survive.'

‘What makes you think that Jamison isn't doing just that?' Wayne asked.

Bevin shrugged.

‘So if they are doing so well, why sell up? Why's she moving to your folks' house permanently?'

‘Aunt Rose fell off her horse. Something spooked the animal and she fell badly. Although she's alive, she was pretty broken up, ribs broken, lungs punctured, legs both broken, and a hip had to be replaced. She's slower than she used to be. The doctors said she needed more than a maid with her twenty-four-seven, she needed to be in a frail care home. She refused, but Jamison managed to convince her that it was the right thing to do to sell most of the farm, because it was time
and she needed to enjoy her retirement. He's crafty though. He told her to split the farmhouse and a small tract of land around it from the title of the farm so she had a home after the sale. I tell you, he's one clever black man. He thinks like a white man, seriously.'

‘That's a compliment, coming from you.'

‘I do admire him. I just want to know his reasons, that's all,' Bevin conceded. ‘So a few months back, she put the farm on the market. She sold the tobacco side and the safari camps with all the game.'

‘But not her home?'

Bevin shook his head. ‘That's about it. When she sold, she still refused to move into frail care, saying she was going to die on her farm. But she hasn't healed as well as she should have. She's become more frail. The fall seems to have taken a lot out of her. When she had the accident, Jamison helped her upgrade from a maid to two full-time qualified nurses, and he insists that they stay. My mother has been on the phone with her constantly, asking her to come live with them, and after another fall, this time in her living room, she's at last agreed to move in with my folks. She'll still have nursing staff, but being with relatives will be so much better for her than out here in the bush with only the blacks to keep her company.'

‘What an amazing old woman!' Wayne said.

‘They breed them tough here in Zimbabwe.'

Wayne smiled. That was true.

His Tara was a born and bred Zimbabwean, and he was hoping that tough spirit had been passed on to their son. When they found each other again, then he was betting that it would be that toughness that would help them to create a real family.

They stopped at a huge security gate.

‘This is it,' Bevin said, ‘I hope she remembered to switch the electricity off in her fence.' He got out to open the gate.

The old woman standing at the top of the stairs was dressed for church on a Sunday. Her clothes were neat and pressed, a matching
long cotton skirt and jacket of a natural linen colour, complete with white court shoes. She wore a small pill-box hat with a little veil that she hadn't bothered to pull down, and she rested heavily to the right-hand side on a walking stick.

Bevin wrapped her in a bear hug, then her gently lifted her off her feet in both his arms, holding her under her knees and around her shoulder. Spinning her around a few times, he set her back down.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, which she dashed away quickly. ‘Now, Bevin, I'm getting too old for you to do that to me,' and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Wayne couldn't help but smile at the reunion. Despite the generation gap between them, they were so obviously close friends, and for a moment Wayne hated that the SADF had kept these two apart. There was love and affection there, and he could now better understand Bevin's concern for her bossboy having such a huge part in her life. Bevin was jealous that it had been Jamison who got to spend the time with his aunt.

‘Mrs Crosby, lovely to meet you,' Wayne said as he shook her hand.

‘Just call me Rose, honey,' she said. ‘Any friend of Bevin's is a friend of mine.'

Wayne grinned.

‘You keep flashing those dimples at me, I'll die a happy woman,' she said.

Wayne laughed.

‘Come, sit, Elise will take care of your bags and put them in the guest rooms. It's been too long since your last visit, Bevin. You have grown. My boy is now a man,' she said as she smiled with affection at her great nephew.

‘How are your folks?' she asked as she limped back into her house. Bevin was immediately by her side, holding onto the arm that didn't wield her cane.

‘They send their love and said to tell you that they are looking forward to you coming down. The renovation of the cottage is almost done. So by the time you get there, everything will be ready for you.'

‘Your mother has always been a good person, the best thing my nephew ever did was marry her. I've always thought that she has a heart as big as Kariba. She's behind them asking me to stay,' Rose said as she sat back down in her rocking chair. She rested her walking stick next to her against the small table.

Wayne noticed that a groove had been cut into the table to stop the stick from falling over. He wondered who would have done such a thing for her if her family were sparse on visits, and then it dawned on him.

Probably Jamison.

From what Bevin had told him, the man was as close to the old girl as a good friend could be. He was no longer just the bossboy.

Bevin sat close to her, pulling another old but functional chair closer. Wayne sat opposite on the couch. He looked around.

The room was old world, with overstuffed furniture that didn't look like it would break when a man sat down. There were no trophy heads hung on the wall, and no skins on the floor. Instead there was a large round reed mat, and on the walls were paintings in heavy frames of pioneer days. Teams of horned oxen pulled heavy covered wagons through bushlands. Black overseers cracked whips, and dogs ran alongside. He stood up to get a closer look.

‘My great grandfather's trek here, into Southern Rhodesia,' she said to him. ‘His brother painted those, he was in his teens at the time. My grandfather was a
laat-lammetjie.
He was born under that wagon while they laagered during an assault by the Zulus. His mother was killed. You see the black woman in that picture.' She pointed to another one next in the frieze. ‘That was his wet nurse, and the woman who raised him until he was sent back to England to attend high school and university. My great grandfather never remarried.'

Next to the painting was a beautiful certificate: Rhodesian Pioneer Society. The name Rose Crosby (nee Wilde) was on it, and a number.

He wondered if Bevin realised how lucky he was having proof of such close links to his ancestory.

‘Such a rich history,' Wayne said aloud.

‘Progress and colonisation, that was the motto then. It's a time gone by …'

The maid walked in with a tray of tea, complete with a knitted tea-cosy on the teapot. The fine bone china cups looked too delicate for him to use. The maid put the tray on the table.

‘Should I pour the tea, madam?' she asked.

‘Thank you, Elise,' Rose said, ‘these days even the weight of a teapot is too much.'

Elise was obviously used to the routine of pouring tea, as she put milk into one cup, then added the tea, and finally she used tongs to drop in two lumps of sugar from a silver dish. She added the teaspoon to one side of the saucer, then she placed it carefully down next to Rose.

‘Milk? Sugar?' she asked Bevin.

‘Both, thank you,' Bevin said.

‘Me too,' Wayne volunteered before he was asked and watched as Elise drew two more cups of tea and placed them on the little tables near each of the men.

Then she drew another, and placed it next to the spare chair near Rose. ‘Jamison will be here soon,' she said to Rose in explanation.

‘That's good, it's time he met Bevin and his friend Wayne. He'll help us pack.'

Elise had pre-cut huge slices of vanilla cake with a sweet icing, and these she put on plates which she set out, again making sure that one was put aside for Jamison.

‘Thank you Elise, that will be all for now,' Rose said. ‘We can serve ourselves if we need more.'

Wayne watched as Elise did a small curtsey and left the room.

He looked at Bevin, who was tucking into his cake.

The dogs barked outside, but in a happy greeting, not in warning, and Wayne heard someone stamping their feet on the veranda to remove the dirt.

‘That will be Jamison,' Rose said.

A black man wearing green overalls filled the doorway and both Bevin and Wayne stood up. Jamison looked much younger than
Wayne had expected, although his closely cropped hair was showing small flecks of grey at his temples. He was also taller than Wayne had imagined him. He wasn't as tall as Wayne's six-foot-three but he had to be only a smidgen off six foot. He was well built and would have been an equal match for Wayne if they were to be in a fight. The muscles in his arms bulged as stuck his hand out to shake Bevin's. ‘Good to meet you, Bevin,' he said. ‘Your aunty talks about you constantly.'