Fire on the horizon, p.18
Fire on the Horizon, page 18
‘Ons sal julle nie vêrder steur nie,’ he shouted. ‘On your way.’
Amber watched them move off, happiness and despair tearing at her heart, then she looked into the face of her captor for the first time. ‘Take me to General Cronjé,’ she said confidently.
• • •
T
he Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town was built to flood its elegant rooms with light in the mornings. Saffron woke and stared at the ceiling. Ryder’s place in the bed next to her was already empty and cooling. The thought of her husband and the frigid politeness with which they had treated each other since he had beaten Leon made her miserable. She had to do something to heal her family – somehow reconcile with Ryder and bring him and her son together. But what? Leon’s snubs over the last few weeks had eroded Ryder’s patience. Still, he should not have lost control of his temper. She knew, deep in her heart, that Ryder knew that he was in the wrong and was angry with himself. He was just too proud to admit it.
Leon’s behaviour was more of a mystery to her. Her son had always worshipped anything connected to the military, that was true. She remembered how he had hung on stories of battle even as a small child in the mining camp. Cairo, with all those men in braid, the parades, the pomp and swagger of Empire, had made it worse, but something had changed in him, though she could not place exactly what it was. His love of the military had been untainted by contempt for his father’s work before they came to Cape Town. Perhaps he was simply reaching the age when children needed to demonstrate their independence from their parents? Saffron and Ryder, having lost their parents young, had never had to face such a struggle. Maybe that was what made it so difficult for them to understand their son. She would have to spend time with her son, just the two of them, and see if she could get to the core of what was causing Leon’s behaviour.
Now she had the beginnings of a plan, Saffron began to hum one of her favourite songs as she brushed her hair. In the main salon, she found Penelope at the breakfast table, buttering toast while she read the newspaper. She ruffled her daughter’s hair and stole the piece of toast she had just buttered, taking a bite and swallowing greedily.
‘I am going to take Leon out today, the two of us, but is there something you would like to do?’
Penelope rolled her eyes, then began buttering her next piece of toast so the entire surface was covered in a thin layer right up to the corners.
‘Mrs Weil told me that she had riding lessons when she was my age,’ she said. ‘Do you think Kahruba and I might take riding lessons? Proper ones? I asked the hotel manager and he said that he would send up a list of reliable teachers in the area.’
Saffron poured herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the counter and drank it, her eyes bright with amusement, proud of her daughter’s resourcefulness. Penelope was always, quietly, two steps ahead of the rest of them.
‘You wish to learn to ride? But, of course, my darling,’ Saffron said. ‘Just make sure that you get references for those teachers before you start. I am sure that you have already told the manager to add all the charges to our bill.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’ Penelope stood and went to hug and kiss her mother. ‘I promise you, Mama, Kahruba and I will become exceptional horsewomen. You will be so proud of us.’
Saffron set down her cup. ‘I am certain of it. Now, where are the others? Why is it so quiet this morning?’
‘Kahruba is still asleep, and Nazeera has taken Matthew down to the hotel kitchen. The chef lets him make animals with the leftover pastry after the early breakfast rush.’
‘And your eldest brother?’
Penelope just shrugged her shoulders.
Saffron stood up, kissed her daughter’s forehead and then went to Leon’s room. These days she knocked before opening his door – you never knew what kind of mood he might be in and Saffron had learned the hard way that it was best to test the water first.
There was no reply, so Saffron opened the door and let herself in to Leon’s room. The first thing that she noticed was that his bed was unmade, and she would have reprimanded him, except that there was no sign of Leon. She hurried out, heading for the room which Penelope and Kahruba shared, slamming open the door with unexpected force.
‘Have you seen Leon?’ Saffron asked Kahruba.
‘No,’ Kahruba said, slowly sitting up in bed and yawning.
Saffron looked swiftly around the room and left without saying anything more.
Kahruba blinked into the morning light and realised that she was ravenous. Springing out of bed, she padded to the bathroom, then dressed, adding a scarlet shawl she had borrowed from Saffron a week or two earlier to her outfit, before going in search of sustenance. Penny looked like an illustration out of a magazine, Kahruba thought, when she saw her sitting and reading the newspaper. One of those stories about young noblewomen doing good works among the poor, only Penny’s feet didn’t reach the floor. As Kahruba hauled herself into the chair next to her cousin, she wondered what sort of story she’d be in herself one day when she grew up. She hoped it was the sort of story she wasn’t allowed to read yet. She reached for the toast and jam and the tassels of her shawl trailed across Penny’s plate.
‘Kahruba!’ Penny whined, exasperated.
‘Sorry! What’s happened to Leon?’ Kahruba asked, gesturing to Leon’s empty chair.
‘I hope he’s in the kitchen with Nazeera and Matthew. Mama went downstairs to look for him. Papa will be furious if he’s gone to watch the soldiers again.’
Kahruba ate her toast and stared out of the window, thinking about her future. ‘Penny, when we are old, like Amber and Saffron, what shall we do?’
‘I shall run Papa’s company, and you shall be a dancer with loads of famous friends from all around the world and we shall live together in a big house in London,’ Penny replied with absolute certainty.
Kahruba had seen pictures of London in magazines and it seemed to have plenty of theatres and shops. She loved her cousin’s plan and accepted it happily.
‘What about Leon and Matthew?’
‘Leon will be a soldier, no matter what Papa thinks, and Matthew . . .’ Penny pondered. Her younger brother was too small to be of much interest to her, but he always tried to throw himself into the shrubbery whenever they went on walks with Nazeera. ‘He will be a great, intrepid explorer like my grandpa. He will send us exciting presents from faraway places – gold, diamonds and emeralds from India . . . Spices and pearls from Ceylon. Silk from China . . .’
‘Or maybe just some monkeys from Africa.’ Kahruba laughed, but her laugh was cut off by Saffron’s return.
Ignoring the two girls, she ran straight to Leon’s room. When she emerged a few seconds later, she looked heartbroken. ‘Girls, my girls, Leon has taken his knapsack. Oh, God! I think he has run away.’
She came to the table and sat down, putting her head in her hands. Penelope slid from her chair and tucked herself under her mother’s arm. Saffron kissed her daughter on her forehead and held her tight to her chest. ‘I am worried about him, my loves. If either of you knows anything, please tell me . . . I don’t know what might happen to him. He has never had to take care of himself. I know secrets are important, but I also know that you wouldn’t want him to get into trouble.’
Saffron’s voice was shaking with fear. Kahruba felt a strange and uncomfortable stab behind her ribs, a feeling such as she had never felt before. Maybe it was because she had never seen Aunt Saffron in such a state. Her aunt was always one thing or another: alive and bright and full of adventures or deadly serious, angry with them – though only ever for a very short time – or delighted with their noise and nonsense. But she was never scared, never afraid, and Kahruba did not like it. She got down from her chair and silently padded to Leon’s room.
When Kahruba had given Leon the chocolates the previous day, she had seen him hiding letters under his pillow and recognised the thin, sunset-yellow paper Ahmed used to write to her. His letters had arrived regularly since they left Cairo. They were delivered to her by Nazeera, who always received fat bundles of correspondence from the city. Ahmed’s letters to his sister were exactly two full sides of homilies and bitterness in excellent Arabic. She read them, then threw them away without giving them another thought.
Kahruba did not know why those letters from her brother to Leon might have something to do with his disappearance, but she had noticed how Leon had become angrier with his father lately, and she knew, too, that Ahmed hated Uncle Ryder. Something bitter and poisonous had trickled into the blood of her happy family, and Ahmed’s letters to her were so full of bile, Kahruba wondered if they might be the source.
Kahruba went straight to the pillows and found the pages, which Leon had hidden there. She picked them up, returned to the breakfast table and dropped them on the table in front of her aunt.
Saffron looked puzzled, then began to read. Ahmed had chosen to write to his cousin in English. The voice in his letters was warm and understanding, indignant on Leon’s behalf, designed to enflame the boy’s resentment and sense of injustice. Saffron felt a chill creeping through her veins as she read.
I cannot write the name of Penrod Ballantyne without pain. I know you will understand and forgive me for that, cousin. He killed my beloved father and took away from me the warm sunlight of his love, but even so, I think you are right to seek his protection, whatever dangers you must face and whatever obstacles your father places in your way. Penrod is, at least, a warrior as my father was, a man so skilled in the arts of battle he could defeat even Osman Atalan. I can never forgive him, but I must respect him. How could any young man, with the vision of such a noble warrior in front of him, live in a shadow of those dirty hagglers, their hands greasy with coin from the souks and bazaars, or the banks and offices? Still, it will take great bravery and resolve to separate yourself from the tendrils of Courtney’s money, and instead live a free and honourable life under the protection of a true soldier. I do not know if you have that courage, though I think perhaps you do. It might be safer, wiser even, to wait until the conflict with the Boers is over before you escape the counting house and find a new guide through the noble endeavour of your life, but those tendrils might have wrapped themselves around your throat by then, or your father might succeed in destroying your noble dreams and leave you fit for nothing but a stool in a clerk’s office, adding up columns of scratched out numbers until you are half-blind . . .
There were pages and pages of it. Saffron stood up, backing away from the letters as if a living cobra had fallen onto the tabletop.
‘Did he write to you, too, Kahruba?’ she said, with a shiver of revulsion.
‘Yes, Aunt Saffron, but I never listen to Ahmed.’
Saffron looked at her now, her honey eyes ablaze. ‘But Leon did?’
Kahruba felt uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Saffron turned away from them. She was used to an enemy she could see but she did not know how to fight this malice which had found its way into her home like damp in a grain barn, and rotted out the heart of it.
‘I am going downstairs to telephone Ryder. When Nazeera and Matthew come back, you may tell her what has happened.’
Saffron left the suite and went into the busy lobby of the hotel to place her call. She had to fight her way through a throng of newspaper correspondents and army officers newly arrived in the country on the Dunottar Castle, a pushing, shouting, noisy crowd of men unable to contain their excitement at the prospect of war, all laughing too loudly. She loathed all of them.
• • •
E
ssie arrived at the Courtney Manufacturing Offices early every morning. She liked to greet the workers on her way through the yard, then settle herself at her desk in the outer office she shared with the other clerks while it was still quiet. Already she had developed a ritual. After greeting Mr Yusuf – who was always already in his office when she arrived – she would make sure her desk was neat and the inkwell full, blotting paper, scrap paper and order sheets laid out in front of her, then she would close her eyes and put her hands together and offer up her prayers. She prayed for her son, and asked him to watch over her from heaven. She prayed that her daughter would work hard at the mission school, and then she prayed for the Courtney family. Lastly, she would ask for the wisdom to do her job well.
This morning the roads had been clogged with troops and army carts, so Essie almost didn’t stop at the yard to say good morning, but then she remembered that they had shipped out the latest consignment of camp kettles to the front by train late the previous evening, and she was anxious to know that they had been sent off safely and to hear if the railway porters had been helpful and efficient.
‘They are good boys in the yard for the most part,’ the foreman reported. ‘Helps Mr Yusuf sent me with a little grease,’ he rubbed his fingers together, ‘and a crate of beer for them to enjoy after their work. I promise you, goods from the Courtney Works will be carefully handled up the line.’
Essie was pleased. The crate of beer had been her idea. She had worked at the hotel long enough to see that the guests who tipped generously could rely on their luggage being treated with care. She was about to go on her way, when the foreman added some muttered remark.
‘What did you say, Mr Abercrombie?’
The man shrugged and scratched his chin.
‘Only that the guard was a sour old fusspot. Nothing we can do about him, but I’d swear I saw a pair of boys scrambling into a freight car between us finishing the loading and them securing the doors. A native lad, and a wee blond fellow with a knapsack. Guard wanted to make sure that the train left on time, and I suppose that’s fair enough, but he did no more than glance into the carriage when I told him what I had seen. Then I thought: well, it was only two lads grabbing a free ride, not grown fellows thieving, so I didn’t push him.’
Essie always felt any mention of boys like a hot blade pressed to her skin. She wondered how long she would feel so raw.
‘I’m sure you did the right thing, Mr Abercrombie.’
The foreman looked comforted and Essie was glad. Her life had been a hard scrabble which had started with a poor education, an early marriage and widowhood. As a result most of her days had been a blind panic of trying to earn enough to keep her children fed. Now she had a good wage, a clean room for her and her little girl to sleep in and could even take the time to make Mr Abercrombie feel better.
Essie let herself into the office and hung up her bonnet, greeted Mr Yusuf, and set her table straight. She had enough time for her prayers after all, and set to her day’s work. Mr Courtney arrived and greeted her by name, touching his hand to his forehead as if tipping his hat. He was such a civil man, and handsome, and for a while she worked to the sound of the low rumble of masculine voices next door. The telephone in Mr Yusuf’s office rang, which made her jump, and it was only luck which prevented her from smudging her work, and right at the bottom of the page, too.
The voices next door grew louder, and she heard the rattle of the phone being slammed down. The door opened and Mr Courtney stormed through the outer office. He went straight to the yard door, thrusting it open so hard that it banged against the outer wall and the whole wooden frame of the building shook. Essie could hear him shouting for his horse before the door swung closed again with another crash. She stared at it, her mouth slightly open, as Mr Yusuf emerged from the inner office. Glancing at him over her shoulder, Essie saw that he was looking serious, but not guilty or ashamed. She was relieved – at least the cause of Mr Courtney’s anger was nothing they had done.
‘His oldest boy has disappeared,’ Mr Yusuf said.
‘Again?’ Essie said.
Mr Yusuf smiled and Essie felt herself blush and laughed a little to hide her embarrassment.
‘I fear it is more serious this time, Mrs Taylor. Mrs Courtney just called from the hotel. The boy took his knapsack and some clothes. I do not think it is a case of slipping away for a morning to watch the soldiers on this occasion.’ He shook his head. ‘It is a problem to be the father of sons.’
At once he realised what he had said and stood up, his face a picture of dismay. ‘Mrs Taylor, that was most thoughtless. I offer you my apologies.’
‘Please, do not give it a thought, Mr Yusuf.’ She turned back to her work and the familiar figures, but then went still, her face frowning and thoughtful. A drop of ink fell from the tip of her fountain pen onto the page, and bloomed shining on the paper, but she did not notice.
‘Mr Courtney’s son had a knapsack, you say? He is a blond boy, is he not?’
‘That’s correct. Of course, he has not visited the factory since you joined us.’
‘Do you have a picture of him?’
Something in the urgency of her tone made Mr Yusuf blink. He disappeared into the inner office and returned with a framed photograph which he handed to her. They had taken it when the sign bearing the Courtney name had been hung over the workshop. Under it stood Mr Yusuf, Mr and Mrs Courtney and their children. The boy was not smiling. He looked bored and distracted.
Essie stood up. ‘Excuse me one moment, please.’
She headed to the works shed at a run, still holding the photograph. The noise of hammering and hissing, rolling machines and metal stamps washed over her. She spotted Abercrombie in the western corner of the huge shed. He was with two other men, filling the finished kettles with water and checking them for leaks before emptying them and setting them on the racks to dry.
She scurried across to him, the long hem of her grey cotton skirts snapping round her ankles. The workers glanced up and smiled – it was as if a rare bird had come into the shed and was fluttering between them.
‘Mr Abercrombie?’ she called, holding out the photograph. ‘Was this one of the boys you saw getting into the train last night?’
Abercrombie was surprised by Essie’s presence and her question, but recovered quickly, taking the photograph from her. He examined the image carefully. Then he nodded. ‘That’s the lad.’
