The Angels Weep (23 page)

It would take a rider on a good horse three days to ride
around the boundary of King’s Lynn. The home that Zouga had
built for Louise stood on one of those distant hills, overlooking
the wide plain of acacia trees and sweet grass, its thick golden
thatch and burned brick blending with the shading grove of tall
trees, as though it had always been there.

‘This beautiful land will be so good to us,’ she
whispered, her voice husky and her eyes brimming with an almost
religious joy. ‘Vicky will be married today, and her
children will grow strong here. Perhaps—’ She broke
off and a little cloud passed behind her eyes. She had not yet
given up all hope of bearing Zouga’s child. Every night,
after his gentle loving, she would lie with her hands clasped
over her stomach, and her thighs clenched as if to hold his seed
within her and she would pray, while he slept quietly beside her.
‘Perhaps—’ but it would be ill-omened to even
mention it and she changed it, ‘perhaps one day Jonathan or
one of your sons yet unborn will be the master of King’s
Lynn.’ She reached across and laid her hand on his forearm.
‘Ralph, I have his strange premonition that our descendants
will live here for ever.’

Ralph smiled fondly at her and covered her hand with his.
‘Well, now, my dear Louise, even Mr Rhodes himself only
gives it four thousand years. Will you not settle for
that?’

‘Oh you!’ She struck him playfully on the
shoulder. ‘Will you never be serious!’ And then she
exclaimed, and turned her horse out of the procession.

Under one of the flat-topped acacias beside the track, stood a
pair of Matabele boys, neither of them older than ten years. They
wore only the little
mutsha
loincloths, and hung their
heads shyly as Louise greeted them in fluent rippling Sindebele.
King’s Lynn employed dozens of these
mujiba
to tend
the vast herds of native cattle and the fine breeding bulls that
Zouga had brought up from the south. These were but two of them,
yet Louise knew them by name, and their faces shone with genuine
affection as they returned her greeting.

‘I see you also, Balela.’ The praise name the
Matabele servants of King’s Lynn had given her meant
‘the One who brings Clear and Sunny Skies’ and the
two children waited expectantly, answering her questions
dutifully, until Louise at last reached into the pocket of her
skirt and dropped a morsel of candy into each of their cupped
pink palms.

They scampered back to their herds, cheeks bulging like those
of squirrels, and their eyes huge with delight.

‘You spoil them,’ Ralph chided her, as she
rejoined him.

‘They are our people,’ she said simply, and then
almost regretful: ‘here is the boundary. I hate to leave
our own land.’

And the wedding procession passed the simple roadside peg, and
rode onto the land of Khami Mission Station. However, it was
almost an hour later that the mules hauled the coach up the steep
track, through thick bush, and paused to blow on the level neck
of ground high above the whitewashed church and its attendant
buildings.

It seemed as though an army was encamped in the valley.

Jordan jumped down from the coach, shrugging off the cotton
dust-coat that had protected his beautiful dove-grey suit, and
smoothing his dense golden curls as he crossed to his
brother.

‘What on earth is going on, Ralph?’ he demanded.
‘I never expected anything like this.’

‘Robyn has invited half the Matabele nation to the
wedding and the other half invited themselves.’ Ralph
smiled down at his brother. ‘Some of them have trekked a
hundred miles to be here, every patient she has ever treated,
every convert she ever turned, every man, woman and child who
ever came to beg a favour or advice, everyone who ever called her
“Nomusa” – they are all here, and they have all
brought their families and friends. It’s going to be the
greatest jollification since Lobengula held the last
Chawala
ceremony back in ‘93.’

‘But who is going to feed them all?’ Jordan went
immediately to the logistics.

‘Oh, Robyn can afford to blow a few of her royalties,
and I sent her a gift of fifty head of slaughter-bullocks. Then
they do say that Gandang’s wife, old fat Juba, has brewed a
thousand gallons of her famous
twala
. They will be bloated
as pythons and overflowing with good cheer.’ Ralph punched
his brother’s arm affectionately. ‘Which reminds me
that I have worked up a fair old thirst myself, let’s get
on with it.’

The road was lined on both sides with hundreds of singing
maidens, all of them decked with beads and flowers; their skin
was anointed with fat and clay so that it shone like cast bronze
in the sunlight. Their short aprons swirled about their thighs as
they stamped and swayed, and their naked bosoms bounced and
joggled.

‘By God, Jordan, have you ever seen such a fine
display?’ Ralph teased his brother, well aware of his
prudish and reserved attitude to all women. ‘That pair over
there would keep your ears warm in a blizzard, I
warrant!’

Jordan blushed and quickly made his way back to join his
master, as the girls crowded about the carriage and the mules
were reduced to a walk.

One of the girls recognized Mr Rhodes.

‘Lodzi!’ she called, and her cry was taken up by
the others. ‘Lodzi! Lodzi!’

Then they saw Louise. ‘Balela, we see you. Welcome,
Balela,’ they sang, clapping and swaying. ‘Welcome,
the One who brings Clear and Sunny Skies.’

Then they recognized Zouga, and they cried, ‘Come in
peace, the Fist.’ And then to Ralph, ‘We see you,
little Hawk, and our eyes are white with joy.’

Zouga lifted his hat and waved it over his head. ‘By
God,’ he murmured to Louise, ‘I wish
Labouchère and the damned Aborigine Protection Society
could be here to see this.’

‘They are happy and secure as they never were under
Lobengula’s bloody rule,’ Louise agreed, ‘this
land will be kind to us, I feel it deep in my heart.’

From the back of his horse, Ralph could look over the heads of
the girls. There were very few men in the crowd, and they hung
back at the fringe of the press of black bodies. However, a face
caught Ralph’s attention, a single solemn face amongst all
the smiles.

‘Bazo!’ Ralph called and waved, and the young
induna looked at him steadily, still without smiling.

‘We will talk later,’ Ralph shouted, and then he
was past, swept along by the throng down the avenue of tall dark
green spathodea trees with their flaming orange blossoms.

When they reached the lawns, the dancing black girls fell
back, for, by unspoken accord, these were reserved for the white
guests. There were a hundred or so gathered below the wide
thatched veranda. Cathy was there, for she had ridden out three
days before to help with the preparations. She was slender and
cool in a dress of yellow muslin and the straw hat upon her dark
head was wide as a wagon-wheel and loaded with artificial flowers
of bright-coloured silk that Ralph had ordered from London.

Jonathan let out a shriek when he saw Ralph, but Cathy held
his hand firmly to prevent him being trampled in the crowd that
surged forward to engulf the bridegroom in a storm of greetings
and good cheer. Ralph left his horse, and came through the crowd,
and Cathy almost lost her hat in the violence of his embrace. She
had to snatch desperately at it, and then she froze and the
colour drained from her face.

The door of the mule coach had opened, Jordan jumped down and
set the step.

‘Ralph,’ Cathy blurted, clinging to his arm.
‘It’s him! What’s he doing here?’

Mr Rhodes’ bulk had appeared in the doorway of the
carriage, and a shocked hush fell upon them all.

‘Oh Ralph, what will Mama say? Couldn’t you have
stopped him?’

‘Nobody stops him,’ Ralph murmured, without
releasing her. ‘Besides this is going to be better than a
cock-fight, any day.’

As he said it, Robyn St John, drawn by the commotion, came out
onto the step of the homestead. Her face, still flushed from the
heat of the stove, was radiant with a smile of welcome for her
latest guests, but the smile shrivelled when she recognized the
man in the doorway of the carriage. She stiffened, and the flush
receded from her face, leaving it icy pale.

‘Mr Rhodes,’ she said clearly in the silence.
‘I am delighted that you have come to Khami
Mission.’

Mr Rhodes’ eyes flickered as though she had slapped him
across the face. He had expected anything but that, and he
inclined his head with cautious gallantry, but Robyn went on:

‘Because it gives me a heaven-sent opportunity to order
you not to set a foot over my threshold.’

Mr Rhodes bowed with relief, he did not like unresolved
positions over which he had no control.

‘Let us grant that your jurisdiction reaches that
far,’ he agreed. ‘But this side of that threshold,
the ground on which I stand belongs to the BSA Company of which I
am Chairman—’

‘No, sir,’ Robyn denied hotly, ‘the Company
has granted me the usufruct—’

‘A fine legal point.’ Mr Rhodes shook his head
gravely. ‘I will ask my Administrator to give us a ruling
on that.’ The Administrator was Doctor Leander Starr
Jameson. ‘But in the meantime, I should like to raise a
glass to the happiness of the young couple.’

‘I assure you, Mr Rhodes, that you will not be served
refreshment at Khami.’

Mr Rhodes nodded at Jordan, and he hurried back to the mule
coach. In a flurry of activity he supervised the uniformed
servants who unpacked the camp chairs and tables and placed them
in the shade of the tender growth that the spathodea trees had
put out since the locust plague.

As Mr Rhodes and his party settled themselves, Jordan fired
the cork from the first bottle of champagne and spilled a frothy
deluge into a crystal glass, and Robyn St John disappeared
abruptly from the veranda.

Ralph placed Jonathan in Cathy’s arms.
‘She’s up to something,’ he said, and sprinted
across the lawns. He vaulted over the low veranda wall and burst
into the living-room just as Robyn lifted the shotgun down from
its rack above the fireplace.

‘Aunt Robyn, what are you doing?’

‘Changing the cartridges, taking out the birdshot and
putting in big loopers!’

‘My darling mother-in-law, you cannot do that,’
Ralph protested, and edged towards her.

‘Not use big loopers?’ Robyn circled him warily,
keeping out of reach, holding the shotgun with its ornate curly
hammers at the level of her chest.

‘You cannot shoot him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Think of the scandal.’

‘Scandal and I have been travelling companions as long
as I can remember.’

‘Then think of the mess,’ Ralph urged her.

‘I’ll do it on the lawn,’ Robyn said, and
Ralph knew that she meant it. He sought desperately for
inspiration, and found it.

‘Number Six!’ he cried, and Robyn froze and stared
at him.

‘Number Six, “Thou shalt not
kill”.’

‘God was not speaking of Cecil Rhodes,’ Robyn
said, but her eyes wavered.

‘If the Almighty was allowing open season on specified
targets, I’m sure He would have put in a footnote.’
Ralph pursued his advantage, and Robyn sighed and turned back to
the leather cartridge bag on its hook.

‘Now what are you doing?’ Ralph demanded
suspiciously.

‘Changing back to birdshot,’ Robyn muttered.
‘God didn’t say anything about flesh wounds.’
But Ralph seized the stock of the shotgun and with only a token
of resistance Robyn relinquished it.

‘Oh, Ralph,’ she whispered. ‘The effrontery
of that man. I wish I was allowed to swear.’

‘God will understand,’ Ralph encouraged her.

‘Damn him to bloody hell!’ she said.

‘Better?’

‘Not much.’

‘Here,’ he said, and slipped the silver flask from
his back pocket.

She took a swallow, and blinked at the tears of anger that
stung her eyes.

‘Better?’

‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘What must I do,
Ralph?’

‘Conduct yourself with frosty dignity.’

‘Right.’ She lifted her chin determinedly and
marched back onto the veranda.

Under the spathodea trees, Jordan had donned a crisp white
apron and tall chef’s cap, and was serving champagne and
huge golden Cornish pasties to whoever wanted them. The veranda,
which had been crowded with guests before the arrival of the mule
coach, was now deserted, and there was a jovial throng around Mr
Rhodes.

‘We will start cooking the sausage,’ Robyn told
Juba. ‘Get your girls busy.’

‘They aren’t even married yet, Nomusa,’ Juba
protested. ‘The wedding is not until five
o’clock—’

‘Feed them,’ Robyn ordered. ‘I’ll back
my sausage against Jordan Ballantyne’s pasties to bring
‘em back.’

‘And I’ll put my money on Mr Rhodes’
champagne to keep ‘em there,’ Ralph told her.
‘Can you match it?’

‘I haven’t a drop, Ralph,’ Robyn admitted.
‘I have beer and brandy, but not champagne.’

With a single glance, Ralph caught the eye of one of the
younger guests on the lawn. He was the manager of Ralph’s
General Dealer’s shop in Bulawayo. He read Ralph’s
expression, and hurried up the steps to his side, listened
intently to his instructions for a few seconds, and then ran to
his horse.

‘Where did you send him?’ Robyn demanded.

‘A convoy of my wagons arrived today. They will not have
unloaded yet. We’ll have a wagon full of bubbly out here
within a few hours.’

‘I’ll never be able to repay you for this,
Ralph.’

For a moment Robyn considered him, and then for the first time
ever she stood on tiptoe and gave him a light dry kiss on the
lips, before hurrying back to her kitchen.

Ralph’s wagon hove over the hill at a dramatic moment.
Jordan was down to his last bottle of champagne, the empty green
bottles formed an untidy hillock behind his stall, and the crowd
had already begun to drift across to the barbecue pits on which
Robyn’s celebrated spiced beef sausage was sizzling in
clouds of aromatic steam.