The hut boys sprinted along the runway, shouting and waving their arms to scare off a family of gazelles. The animals fled in alarm, kicking up their heels in the way they always did – as a show of nonchalance, intended to convince predators that they were not easy targets.
Mara stood nearby, looking up at the plane as it circled overhead. It began its descent as soon as the boys reached the end of the runway. Mara scanned the crowd of villagers that had come down to the grassy plain to watch – she hoped they understood the need to keep well away until the plane had stopped. Shifting her attention to the runway, she began to worry that there might still be some stumps or rocks left behind. Then she dragged her gaze away. There was nothing she could do about it now.
She thought, instead, about Lillian Lane – would she be as beautiful in real life as she was onscreen? And what would she be wearing? Mara half-imagined her appearing in a long gown, a stole draping her shoulders. But in reality, she knew Lillian Lane would most likely be outfitted in the same style as the other women who came to stay at the lodge. Almost invariably, they arrived wearing safari suits that had been tailored impractically to show off their figures, and bush hats they’d bought in Nairobi or Dar – the kind that came ready-made with a band of leopard-skin around the crown.
The first glimpse of the famous face appeared in the small round window of the plane as it taxied to a standstill. Even from a distance, and shrouded with the dust thrown up by the wheels, there was no mistaking who it was. Mara felt a flutter of nervous excitement as she waited for the propellers to slow down.
She saw the pilot jump out and open the passenger door. For what felt like a long time, nothing else happened. Then Carlton climbed from the cabin, stretching his limbs as if relieved to have escaped the cramped space. Moments later, a foot appeared, elegantly shod in a yellow suede boot laced to the knee. It hovered in mid-air before coming to rest on the metal step. A second foot followed. Then the rest of Lillian’s body came into view as she took Carlton’s outstretched hand and stepped down onto the ground. She paused, looking around, before giving the onlookers a small wave. In response, the Africans drew nearer. A child stepped from their midst, holding out a huge bunch of white native lillies.
Mara moved closer as well, trying not to stare. Lillian Lane was dressed, as expected, in a khaki safari suit. But rather than consisting of a pair of tailored trousers and a close-fitting shirt, hers had been made in one piece like a jump suit and was gathered at the waist by a leather belt. She did not wear a hat, and her hair was tied back in a low chignon. Her mouth, painted scarlet, stood out against her fair skin.
Instead of moving away from the plane, Lillian stepped aside, then turned immediately to look into the cabin. It occurred to Mara that she might have brought her boyfriend with her – the one who’d stood with her on the deck of the yacht. Luckily, there were two beds in Lillian’s rondavel. They could easily be pushed together and a double net brought in …
But the person who climbed out of the aircraft next was an African. From his red beret and green uniform, Mara identified him as the ranger from Arusha. Reaching back into the dim interior, he pulled out a heavy-gauge double-barrelled rifle. While Carlton and Lillian looked on, he broke the breach and took two cartridges from his chest pocket and loaded them. Only then, with the ranger at their side, did they venture from the shadows cast by the wings of the plane.
Carlton kept an arm on the actress’s elbow. He steered her towards Mara, his portly body moving awkwardly over the uneven ground, calling out introductions as he approached.
‘Lillian – this is Mrs Sutherland. Mrs Sutherland – Miss Lane.’
The actress smiled warmly, her bright lips hugging the line of her teeth. She wore no other make-up yet still managed to look utterly glamorous. The turned-up collar of her suit brushed the tips of a pair of drop pearl earrings.
‘Call me Lillian, please,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ Mara said politely. ‘My name’s Mara.’
‘Mara,’ Lillian repeated. ‘What a pretty name! I’ve never heard it before.’ There was a look of intense interest on her face.
Mara smiled, feeling pleased, as if she’d chosen the name herself.
Lillian leaned towards her, putting a hand on her arm. ‘I’m so glad to be here,’ she confided. ‘I hate small planes, you know. I have a fear of heights.’
‘Oh, poor you,’ Mara responded. She was touched by Lillian’s friendly manner – it wasn’t what she’d expected. ‘Why don’t you come straight up to the lodge and have a cup of tea?’
‘That’s very sweet of you,’ Lillian said. ‘But I don’t drink tea. Or coffee.’
‘Well, have a lemonade, then,’ Carlton broke in. ‘You have to drink something in this heat.’
Lillian didn’t seem to hear him. She turned towards the little girl with the flowers. Bending to accept the offering, she laid one hand on the child’s curly hair and looked straight into her eyes. Mara recognised the same intent gaze that had just been lavished on her. Perhaps this was how famous people behaved, she thought, parcelling out their attention in small, careful pieces.
They set off along the path that had already been worn between the runway and the track that led up to the lodge. As they walked – the ranger hovering nearby, his gun cradled in his hands – Lillian leaned close to Mara again. There was a waft of floral perfume: a light, innocent scent.
‘What I’d really like,’ she said, ‘is a gin and tonic with ice.’
Mara fought an impulse to look down at her watch; it could not be much later than three. ‘Of course,’ she replied in a confidential tone. ‘I’ll have the house boy bring one to your room.’
‘Thank you,’ Lillian responded. ‘You’re an angel.’
Mara ushered Lillian into the rondavel ahead of her. The actress turned in a slow circle. There was a small smile of pleasure fixed on her lips. Mara had watched it settle there as they’d walked in under the elephant tusks. It had not wavered as they’d crossed the brown lawns and walked down the path beside the half-dug swimming pool hole. Mara watched that smile, now, as Lillian studied her surroundings. Carlton stood in the open doorway, motionless, as if holding his breath. The quiet seemed to stretch out, becoming thin and taut. But then, suddenly, Lillian spoke.
‘I just love it – it’s gorgeous!’
As tension eased from the air, Mara relaxed and began her hostess speech. ‘I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here. It’s one of our best rooms. As you can see, the floors are made of earth.’ She pointed to the ground near her feet; the surface had recently been re-sealed with a shiny film of beeswax and cooking oil. ‘It’s much better than the wooden floors we have in the tin huts; nothing can get in and live underneath it. The only thing you have to be careful about is white ants. They’ll eat anything you leave on the ground, so please keep all your belongings up on the trunk stand or on the spare bed. Then, of course, there are drawers for you to use as well.’ She waved her hand towards the dressing table – the one that had been brought here from her own bedroom.
Mara noticed Lillian looking with a puzzled frown at the small jars that had been placed beneath each leg of the two beds. ‘They contain kerosene,’ she explained, ‘which stops anything like ticks or bed bugs crawling up into the bed when the mosquito net’s not in place.’
She pointed to the place where Bwana Stimu had modified a light fitting to create a power point. ‘That’s for your hairdryer,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that wire. It isn’t dangerous.’
Carlton entered the space as though drawn by the word. ‘What’s dangerous?’ he demanded. He frowned at the trailing earth wire. ‘Don’t touch it,’ he instructed Lillian. ‘I’ll get Brendan to check it.’
‘That’s really not necessary.’ Mara felt a flash of indignation on Bwana Stimu’s behalf. ‘I’ll ask our own electricity expert to come and demonstrate it for you later, when the generator’s running.’ She crossed the room and leaned into the toilet annexe. She could smell the freshly cut grass the hut boys had used to line the four-gallon tin that sat beneath the wooden toilet seat. ‘This is the chow hut. Sprinkle with ash after use to discourage flies. It will be changed each day.’
Mara’s gaze lingered on the set of towels that hung from the hooks. They were – as Carlton had instructed – all in a matching shade of mauve: handtowel, face washer and bath towel. The lodge linen closets did not contain any full sets of towels – these had been a wedding present. Mara’s Auntie Ade had hand embroidered them with His and Hers. She’d given them to Mara in the kitchen – surreptitiously, as if they, like Lorna’s wedding dress, were a coded expression of rebellion against the rules of the world the women inhabited. Mara had deliberated over whether or not the towels should be placed in here – they were, after all, meant only for her and John. Now she’d met Lillian she knew she’d made the right decision. If the towels helped the actress feel more comfortable here, Mara was happy to let her use them.
But when she leaned back into the main room, she saw that Lillian’s smile had gone, and she was now eyeing her surroundings with alarm. Mara hid her dismay, reminding herself she’d seen this reaction before. What she had to do was add the final piece of her speech – the bit designed to help guests take a positive view of the facilities. She adopted a bright tone. ‘Of course, it’s not what you’re used to. It’s not like home. This is Africa. The real Africa!’
She watched the familiar struggle playing out on Lillian’s face – the battle between the person a guest knew themselves to be, and the one they wished they could become.
‘The real Africa,’ Lillian repeated the words. ‘At last …’
Mara saw Carlton close his eyes with relief as he stepped quietly away, disappearing in the direction of the other huts. With the doorway now clear, the hut boys began bringing in Lillian’s luggage. The first boy carried a large battered suitcase in one hand and a bulging tapestry shoulder bag in the other, and the second appeared with three more suitcases – all in matching red leather – piled on top of his head.
‘Would you like them to help you unpack?’ Mara asked.
‘I’d much rather you stayed,’ said Lillian. ‘If you can spare the time …’ She was already waving the boys away.
Mara hovered near the cases, ready to receive instructions. But Lillian gestured for her to sit down. Then Lillian opened the first of the cases and took out a bottle of perfume. As she dabbed some of it onto her wrists, the same light floral scent Mara had already smelled on her drifted into the air.
‘My favourite perfume,’ Lillian said. ‘L’Air du Temps. Don’t you just love the bottle?’
She handed it over, so that Mara could see the distinctive frosted glass stopper, cast in the shape of a pair of kissing doves.
Next, Lillian brought out a framed picture and held it at her waist. She stood still, gazing fondly down. Then she showed it to Mara.
Mara’s eyes widened in surprise. She’d expected to see a photograph of a man – perhaps the one she’d seen in the magazine picture. Instead she found herself looking at an image of an Alsatian dog.
‘That’s Theo,’ Lillian said. ‘I miss him terribly. Usually he travels everywhere with me.’ She sighed. ‘I seriously considered not taking the part of Maggie because I couldn’t bring him here. But it’s not every day you get the chance to work with the Miller brothers. They’re making such interesting movies compared with the studios.’ She flashed a smile at Mara. ‘You know, they wrote the part with me in mind.’
Mara smiled back, nodding – unsure what to say. It was not as if she were used to taking part in this kind of conversation. Lillian pulled a pair of satin pyjamas from the case and tossed them behind her onto the bed. Mara knew she should be insisting on doing something to help, but the truth was, she was enjoying just sitting here, listening to Lillian. The women who came to the lodge usually didn’t bother to talk much to Mara. In fact, they often seemed disappointed that she was there. It spoiled their romantic view of John, the hunter, to see him with a wife.
Lillian picked up the shoulder bag. The sound of metal clinking against metal came from inside.
‘This is my kit,’ she said. ‘When Katharine Hepburn was on location in the Congo – making The African Queen – she always made sure she had her own essentials.’ The contents of the bag spilled out onto the bed: a torch with spare batteries, a compass, some bandages.
Mara raised her eyebrows as an enamel pot appeared – the bottom half of a double boiler. ‘What’s that for?’
Lillian picked it up, turning it around to view it from all angles like an unusual antique. ‘That’s in case there’s no chamber pot, or commode, or whatever you want to call it. Hepburn was very particular about being able to go to the bathroom whenever she needed to. Her father was a urologist, you see.’ She waited for Mara to nod, before she continued her unpacking. ‘I haven’t had to make use of any of these things yet, of course. But now we’re way out here – who knows?’ She turned to look through the window. The feathery foliage of a thorn tree was framed against a distant background of burnt grass, and a blazing blue sky. ‘Are there lions down there?’ she asked anxiously.
‘There are – but you don’t have to worry,’ Mara answered in a reassuring tone. ‘They very rarely come up off the plains. When you need to leave the lodge grounds, the ranger will always be with you.’ Mara was glad to see that the tension was draining from Lillian’s face. ‘Then you will be quite safe – I promise.’
‘Oh, I’m not really worried,’ Lillian said. ‘I like lions. Did you see that film Born Free? The girl was all wrong, of course – the man wasn’t much good either. But the lions were adorable.’
Mara tried to find a suitable response. All she could think of were savaged carcasses of zebras and wildebeest, and bloodstains on the oat grass. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to help you unpack this,’ she said eventually, pointing at the largest suitcase – the odd one out.
‘Not yet,’ Lillian replied. ‘That’s the wardrobe. Make-up’s in there as well. It depends where the dressing room’s going to be … I suppose Carlton will speak to you about it. Or Rudi, perhaps. There’s no one here from those departments. Peter and I have agreed to do our own dressing. It’s a very unusual situation. Everyone’s just pitching in – to help save the picture.’ She glanced towards the window and lowered her voice before continuing. ‘The schedule is shot to pieces. The budget’s gone way over.’ She turned back to her suitcase and lifted out a silk kimono. ‘But the rushes are fabulous. It’s a masterpiece in the making. You’ll see it one day – and then you’ll understand why we all care about it so much.’ As she moved to hang the gown on the back of the door, she passed close to Mara. She stopped, and looked straight into her eyes. It was the intense gaze Mara had seen before – like a light being switched on. She felt herself being drawn to its brightness. ‘It will be one of those movies you remember for the rest of your life.’ The words seemed to linger in the quiet room, as if they held the weight of a promise, or a curse. Then the moment was gone. Lillian smiled at Mara. ‘I’d love that gin and tonic, by the way.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mara said, jumping to her feet. ‘I’ll send Kefa over with it straightaway.’
Mara sat near the head of the main dining table, in the place that was always reserved for John. As she glanced around the room, she felt a glow of pride. All the tables had been set ready for the meal. Glittering wine glasses and freshly cleaned silver cutlery were laid out in rows along the ebony tables. Ranks of starched linen napkins, folded into triangles, stood out in contrast to the dark wood. The impressive display was made complete by vases of white, apricot and pink bougainvillea. The whole scene was subtly lit by candles and hurricane lanterns, even though the generator was still running.
Kefa was directing people to their seats, making sweeping gestures with his hands. The hut boys – now outfitted in long white caftans and red skull caps – were helping him. Near the end of Mara’s table were the two Nicks – the director of photography and his young assistant – identically attired in white lounge suits. They were too far away for Mara to greet, so she just waved. As she did so, she became aware that Carlton, Leonard and Peter were approaching her table. Kefa pulled out chairs so they could take their places. The seat to Mara’s right was reserved for Lillian. The two brothers filled the spaces beside it and Peter sat down to her left. Mara stole a sideways look at him, registering his fine, even features and unusual blue-green eyes. She tried not to think back over their previous encounter. She couldn’t imagine, now, how she’d managed to mistake him for a member of the crew.
Suddenly, she realised he was looking at her.
‘Is everything all right in your room?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he responded. ‘It’s a great room.’
‘Good.’ Mara searched for something more to say – something intelligent, sensible. ‘The net’s okay?’
‘Yes. It hangs beautifully.’ There was a hint of a smile on Peter’s lips. ‘I like sleeping under nets – it reminds me of going to our shack as a kid.’
Mara looked at him with interest. She was about to ask him where his family shack had been – up in the bush or by the sea. But then she realised Leonard was leaning across the table towards Peter, seeking his attention.
‘I’ve been thinking about that line in scene forty-seven,’ he said now. ‘The one about Maggie and the phone call. You should be really definite about it. Make it strong.’
Peter gave Mara an apologetic look as he turned to Leonard. Carlton abandoned the cufflink he’d been adjusting, and followed suit, fixing his attention upon his brother. Mara had the impression that this scenario was played out often: when the director spoke, everyone listened.
‘The stakes are high,’ Leonard was saying. He waved his hands for emphasis, bony fingers outspread. ‘I want a serious argument between you and Maggie!’
Peter nodded his agreement, then lifted his water glass to his lips. As he tilted his head back to drink, Mara’s eyes were drawn to the curve of his chin, his throat. Lamplight threw a yellow glow over his face. His skin looked darker against the white linen of his shirt; his eyes a paler green. Soft shadows showed up the bones of his cheeks and forehead. He looked like an actor again – larger than life.
Mara knew she should not be staring. Perhaps Peter would be able to feel her gaze, as some people believed elephants could. John taught his clients only to observe their prey from the corners of their eyes – until the moment they were ready to take aim and shoot.
Peter lowered his glass. As he turned towards Mara, she looked quickly away, pretending to watch with interest as Kefa directed Daudi to the vacant chair beside the red-haired sound recordist, Jamie. Daudi had swapped his brown suit for a simply cut blue shirt with a Mao collar, a style favoured by the president. Mara wondered if he had chosen it specially – a silent rebuke aimed at the gathering of Europeans in their fine suits and ties.
When all the hovering figures had been seated, there was a short hush – then Lillian strolled in. She was draped in a red evening gown that left one shoulder bare. Diamonds shone from her ears and made a sparkling circle around her neck.
She paused in the middle of the room. Suddenly she was the centrepiece, making sense of all the other elements that made up the scene. The flowers seemed to have been placed there just for her; the tables arranged so that everyone could see her arrive. Even the scent of the African night seemed to have crept inside specially to greet her.
Carlton stood up to pull out Lillian’s chair. Everyone else remained seated – they were not like the English, who always stood when a lady entered the room and then hovered upright until she asked them to sit down, or did so herself. With a pang of longing, Mara remembered how endearing she’d found this habit in John. How flattering it had been to be treated so courteously. As if she were someone special – someone like Lillian – and not just the middle child of seven, raised in Mole Creek at the edge of the Western Tiers.
‘I can’t sit there,’ Lillian stated.
Mara looked at her in surprise. Leaning sideways she checked the chair to see if there was something wrong with it, but it looked perfectly fine.
Lillian gave a high little laugh. ‘I just have this thing, you know – I prefer to have my back to the wall.’
Mara sensed Carlton growing tense beside her. She stood up straightaway and offered her own chair. ‘Swap with me.’
‘Thank you, Mara,’ Lillian said with a grateful smile as she took Mara’s place. As soon as she was settled, she called Kefa and asked for a drink. Then she turned towards Peter, laying her hand on his arm. Within a few moments, she was chatting happily to him, and drawing Leonard into the conversation as well.
Carlton watched her for a moment, then he turned his attention to Mara. The expression on his face was friendly, but quite serious.
‘So tell me, Mara,’ he said. ‘How did you come to be a hunter’s wife?’
Mara had often been asked this question by guests. She usually briefly explained that she and John had met by chance in Melbourne. But she suspected that wasn’t what Carlton wanted to hear. She remembered how he’d asked about the elephant skull, the first time he was here, and how she’d said a lot more than she’d intended to in response.
‘When we met,’ she said carefully, ‘John had decided to give up professional hunting. He didn’t want to shoot big game any more. He’d had enough of helping people kill animals just to take home their heads, or their tusks, as trophies.’
‘I’ve heard of that happening,’ Carlton said. ‘I knew a guy who hunted every season in the Yukon. One year he just came back and sold his gun. He said, “I’ve shot my last deer.” And that was it, for him. He never went back.’
Mara nodded. ‘Yes. Well, for us, it didn’t turn out to be that simple. John thought people would come here for holidays – just to relax and enjoy watching the game. But it didn’t work out.’
‘So … he had to go back to hunting?’ Carlton raised his eyebrows, prompting her to go on.
‘Yes.’ Mara knew she should not be talking in this way. But putting the predicament she and John had faced into words was such a relief. And it didn’t matter, really, what she said to Carlton – it was not like betraying confidences to Helen. In two weeks Carlton would be gone and Mara would never see him again. ‘John felt bad about it – he found it difficult. But he did it.’ She sighed. ‘I had to learn how to be a hostess on a hunting safari. There were lots of tasks for me to help with – not just running the camp, but out hunting as well.’ She looked into Carlton’s eyes. Now she felt like someone making their confession. ‘I tried to get used to the killing. After all, I was a farmer’s daughter. Shooting eland or gazelle for the pot was fine. But the big game … I could cope with the buffalo, crocodiles – even lions, usually. I always left the kill before the skinners got to work. But I couldn’t watch them shoot elephants. I just couldn’t.’ She bit her lip. Carlton didn’t want to hear all this, she told herself. But she couldn’t stop. ‘An elephant falls so hard that the ground shakes, you can feel the shock travelling inside you. You just know – it’s wrong.’
‘I can imagine,’ Carlton said.
‘No.’ Mara shook her head slowly. ‘You can’t imagine.’ She looked down at her hands, grasping the edge of the tabletop, her knuckles white with tension. ‘Anyway, the last straw came when John had to shoot an elephant calf. A client had disobeyed him and killed the mother by mistake. I know the baby wouldn’t have survived – shooting it was the right thing to do. But it was so terrible, watching my husband do it … After that, I stopped going on safari with John. And that’s when everything started to go wrong.’ She could feel her throat closing up, her voice becoming thin. ‘And, the trouble is, once things start to go wrong they just seem to get worse and worse. You can’t go back and change them. There’s nothing you can do.’
She broke off, aware she was not even making any sense. But Carlton nodded as though he’d understood every word.
‘Believe me, I know,’ he said. ‘In the movie-making business, we have a saying – if it can go wrong, it will. And it will again. And again. But you know what?’ He leaned towards Mara. His round face was warm and kind. ‘Nearly always, it works out in the end. You can’t see how it will – but something happens when you least expect it. And suddenly, everything’s all right again.’
Mara found herself clinging to Carlton’s words. There was such a confident, comforting tone in his voice … Then she reminded herself he was a film-maker. It was his job to make people believe in fairytales.
The serving of the meal proceeded smoothly, with the hut boys making surprisingly efficient waiters. The only tension arose when Lillian sent her main course back to the kitchen, asking for each portion of it to be served on a separate plate so she could see exactly what she was eating. Mara waited anxiously for a response from Menelik, and was relieved when Kefa appeared with a tray bearing a collection of little sundae bowls, each containing a small serving of a different dish. Now, most of the guests were just finishing their dessert and the hum of contented conversation flowed around the tables. Mara would have felt almost relaxed, except she had one more task to undertake before the evening was over.
When the coffee had been served, she told Carlton that before anyone left the dining room she needed to give a talk about safety. It was something John always did when new guests arrived. As well as being necessary from a practical point of view, it was one of the ways he asserted his authority. He adopted a manner that was very firm, yet kind and calm; his voice was that of a parent – someone to be respected and obeyed. It was vital to establish the right relationship with clients from the beginning or there was no knowing what they might do out on the trail, when faced with danger, or when tempted to a make a kill that was illegal or immoral – or both.
‘Are you sure it’s necessary?’ Carlton glanced at Lillian. ‘Can’t you just tell me and I’ll pass the word around?’
Mara hesitated. She was certainly not looking forward to playing the part of the Bwana. She wasn’t sure who she felt more self-conscious about performing in front of – the film people, or her own staff.
But she got to her feet, shaking her head. It had to be done properly.
She positioned herself so that she was looking at everyone, and no one. In a voice that she knew mimicked John’s, she delivered her speech.
First, she listed the more serious potential dangers in this part of Africa: getting bitten by malaria-carrying mosquitoes; coming down with dysentery after drinking water straight from the tap; being attacked by a rabid dog or monkey; encountering a lion or leopard or elephant; or stepping on a Green Mamba, the local snake whose bite was always fatal.
She outlined safety precautions in what she hoped was a comforting tone. She reassured her listeners that wild animals normally prefer to leave humans well alone – but made it clear that nonetheless, as a precaution, guests should never leave the lodge grounds without being accompanied by a member of the staff. After all, whereas people accustomed to living in Africa might be able to assess levels of danger, a newcomer could not afford to take any risks. She paused, to let this point sink in. Then she moved on to less serious issues. If guests left food in their rooms, bats and monkeys would find a way to get in – and they were very untidy visitors. If people walked around outside with bare feet they might pick up hookworm or a jigger. If they dropped their watch or wedding ring into the pit latrines, there would be no way of retrieving it.
Mara was conscious of tension growing in the room. She understood that she just didn’t have the reassuring presence of the Bwana – the white hunter. She didn’t have the belief in herself.
She was glad when at last she was finished. A hush fell over the room as she sat down. She picked up her table napkin, occupying herself in spreading it over her lap. She kept her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the white linen square as she twisted it into a knot.
‘How did you remember all that?’ Peter’s voice came to her softly, kindly. ‘You didn’t even have notes.’
Now that the quiet had been broken, a murmur of conversation started up.
Mara smiled gratefully at him. ‘Oh, I’ve heard it a few times before.’
‘Speaking of safety precautions …’ Lillian drained her glass, before looking around at her companions. ‘Did you know that Bogart drank gin all the time when they were making The African Queen? And I mean all the time! Well, it’s true.’ She stood up, waving to attract Kefa’s attention and holding her glass out as he drew near. ‘And guess what? He was the one who never got ill. So from now on, I’m going to think of gin as medicine.’
‘Medicine,’ Kefa repeated. He turned to Mara, repeating the word in Swahili to see if he’d understood correctly. ‘Dawa?’
Mara gave a non-committal shrug. The translation was correct, but she didn’t want to seem to be endorsing Lillian’s comments. Some people believed the quinine in tonic water helped keep malaria at bay – but she’d not heard of gin protecting against tropical illnesses.
When Kefa returned with her drink, Lillian announced she’d take it to her room. She stifled a yawn, pressing smooth, manicured fingertips over her mouth.
‘It’s been a long day.’ She held out a hand towards Peter. ‘Darling, would you be an angel and walk me to my room? It’s awfully dark out there.’
Peter got to his feet straightaway, excusing himself to Mara, Carlton and Leonard. ‘Of course I will.’
Lillian slipped her arm through Peter’s as she led him away. Mara found herself watching them as they moved through the room. At first, she thought she detected a slight reserve in Peter’s manner, but then he turned side-on – shepherding Lillian past the other table – and Mara saw him laugh in a relaxed and comfortable way. Lillian rested her head on his shoulder in a brief, yet intimate gesture. For a moment, Mara was surprised – almost shocked. But then, why wouldn’t they be close, she asked herself? They’d been living and working together for weeks. Not only that, she realised, they could well be playing the part of lovers, onscreen: the leading lady and the leading man usually did.
The two stepped out onto the verandah. Moths drawn to the light above the doorway fluttered like golden confetti above their heads. As they disappeared into the night, it suddenly occurred to Mara that they might even, in fact, be lovers. Perhaps that’s how it was, for people like Lillian Lane and Peter Heath. Each new film brought a new love affair. Then they moved on. They were sophisticated enough – strong enough – not to let anything matter too much …
Moonlight shone through the window, adding a cool blue edge to the glow of the kerosene lantern. Mara had hung the lamp high on the wall so that it cast its soft light broadly over the room. She stood by the window in a short nightdress made of plain white cotton. In her hand she held the note she’d been given by the mission radio operator. Smoothing out the scrap of paper, she reread John’s message. She knew that radio messages always sounded blunt: they were designed to be clear and brief. But even so, she felt the coolness in the words – a remoteness from her.
Folding the message again, Mara looked out into the night, staring into the distance beyond the dark shapes of the garden. Somewhere out there – half a country away – lay the Selous Reserve. And somewhere in that ten thousand square miles of wild bushland, was John.
She pictured him sitting by the campfire, resting his elbows on his knees, a tin cup cradled in his hands. He would be quiet, letting the chatter of his companions and the singing of porters on the other side of the camp wash over him. He’d be relaxed in the knowledge that he’d chosen his camp well – in an open space, protected by a few solid trees. Nevertheless, his senses would be constantly focused on the sounds of the bush, listening out for the telltale crack of a tree limb, or the quiet cough of a leopard.
Mara could almost smell the fragrant smoke of the campfire, blending with insect repellent and dried sweat. She could hear the hiss of the Tilley lamp and the faint crackle of insects roasting on the hot glass of the chimney. What had they eaten for the evening meal, she wondered, these foot safari clients.
And who were they?
She tried to cut off the thought – snapping it like a piece of cotton and picking up another thread. But still, she found herself imagining the circle of faces gathered around the fire. The eyes flashing bright in the glow of the flames, cheeks washed with orange. Rugged men’s faces, sunburnt and tough. Their voices blending into a low rumble. Then another voice rising above theirs, high and silvery. Slender legs moving past the fire, lit from behind …
Women don’t take foot safaris into the Selous, Mara told herself. It’s tough even for men.
But still, she felt drawn to the idea – like a moth fluttering towards the light, not stopping, even as the heat begins to singe its wings.
Perhaps, there was a woman there – a daughter, perhaps; or a wife who didn’t love her husband; or even one of those female zoologists people admired so much. Mara had met a group of them once, on their way to join Jane Goodall – they were tough, independent; interesting and attractive.
Mara told herself to put these thoughts from her mind. Not to give in to them.
Instead, her hands pushed her away from the window. Her feet carried her across the room. The next moment, she was standing by John’s chest of drawers, searching blindly amongst the piles of ironed shorts and socks rolled into pairs …
And there it was – the old bush vest folded up at the back, no longer used.
From the chest pocket she took out an envelope. Slowly she drew out two pictures, holding them one behind the other, the top one tilted towards the lamp. She tried to view them as items of mild curiosity – the way Carlton had examined the photographs on the wall in the sitting room.
The light played over the matt surface of the first picture, picking out the larger-than-life tones of Kodachrome colour. It was an image of a tall woman with long fair hair, standing beside John. They were close together, their bodies meeting shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip – no dead animal at their feet, coming between them. With matching hair and eyes, they looked like brother and sister. And the way they stood, so relaxed and at ease – they might have been companions for years. There was none of the seductive posing or fake bravado typical of the client and hunter image. The woman’s gaze was level and frank.
She looked like someone you would want to meet. She looked nice.
Mara closed her eyes, the ache of jealousy spreading out from the pit of her stomach, invading her body.
But still, she drew out the second photograph.
This one was only of her.
Matilda.
Mara mouthed the name. It sounded light, pretty; yet it carried with it a certain weight and gravity.
Matilda was standing on the steps of the Muthaiga Club, dressed for dinner in a long silver sheath with a matching stole. In the light of the camera’s flashbulb, the garments gleamed; Matilda looked like a goddess, wrapped in moonshine. She wore a subtle deep red lipstick and had her hair piled high on her head. Standing there, poised and beautiful, she could have been a film star – like Lillian Lane.
Mara drew a folded sheet of paper from the envelope. Her fingers were poised, ready to open it out. But the truth was, she could recite every word by heart; she already knew the shape of each hand-drawn letter, arranged in long sloping lines across the page.
She’d found the envelope by chance, rifling through John’s drawers in search of an old shirt to wear. The task of putting away the Bwana’s laundered clothing was the responsibility of the kitchen boy – and when Mara had found the old vest, tightly rolled up and stuffed in behind a pile of khaki shorts, she’d almost called the boy in to explain why it was there, and not hanging in the wardrobe. But then she’d glimpsed the corner of the envelope protruding from the pocket.
The photographs had not immediately concerned her. It was not unusual for clients to send prints of their photographs here – their African safari loomed large in their minds, and they imagined themselves to have held a unique place in the story of the lodge. Usually, the pictures were pinned up on the corkboard behind the bar, for other clients to see. Occasionally, an image was framed and added to the collection on the wall.
But John had hidden these ones away. And the envelope they were in had just two words on the front – for John. There was no address or stamp; it had been delivered by hand.
Then Mara had seen the letter. Before the questions even had time to form in her mind, she’d opened out a single sheet of paper printed with the letterhead of Raynor Lodge.
The words had swum before her – phrases appearing in stark clarity, then being swept away in a haze of shock.
One night to treasure forever … Though we’ll never meet again, I’ll always remember your hands on my body, your lips in my hair … Let’s not say love, for we are strangers still – and yet there will never be anything so precious, so true …
She’d stood there, the paper trembling in her hand, the words refusing to stay still – their meaning so huge. She felt the air being squeezed from her lungs. Strength drained from her legs. Pain shafted deep into her soul, like the strike of a sword.
It had been five months ago. Five months, three days and a night.
Countless times since then, Mara had relived each step in the unfolding nightmare. First, she’d hidden behind disbelief. It seemed impossible that John would have broken his golden rule, the one Raynor had taught him mattered most – that you rent out your services as a hunter, but you keep yourself to yourself. There is a line that must never be crossed.
But he had. He had …
Then, she’d begun looking back, replaying scenes in her mind, trying to reinterpret them in the light of what she now knew.
She remembered Matilda’s arrival at the lodge, in the company of her father. Mara had been able to tell that they were English, even before they offered their opening greetings. How do you do? How do you do?
There had been the dinner at the lodge, the night before the safari. Mara had expected Matilda to appear – as guests usually did – in an evening gown. Instead, she’d worn a simple knee-length dress, which had somehow contrived to make her look even more glamorous.
Most of all, Mara remembered the morning Matilda and her father had left with John on safari. It was just after first light. The trees surrounding the lodge were dark cut-out shapes set against a deep pink sky. It was the quiet time, in the moments before the sunrise. Soon the sun would emerge – a ball of gold, shedding light over the plains. The air was filled with the subdued excitement of people preparing to leave on safari. Menelik stood near the Land Rover holding his collection of cooking utensils and looking on while Dudu brought load after load of supplies – bottles, sacks, buckets and tins – from the kitchen. Kefa hovered close by, counting camp beds, tent bags, nets, bedding, lamps and washbasins. The gunbearer worked his way along a line-up of firearms, examining them one by one, then securing them in place on the vehicle’s gun racks.
Matilda had wandered into the scene, still eating a hot biscuit from the breakfast buffet. Her father followed. He was fidgeting with the epaulettes on his bush shirt, and in his taut movements, Mara recognised the tension of a man torn between excitement and fear. He was an experienced hunter, and he knew what lay ahead.
Mara had smiled as Matilda approached her. She could smell the clean fragrance of Matilda’s soap.
‘I don’t know how you can bear to stay behind!’ Matilda had said. She had the same accent as John, and the same way of shaping each word individually before letting it go. ‘Don’t you wish you were coming?’
‘Well, of course,’ Mara had said. ‘But I’ve got a lot to do around here.’
She hoped the question would not be pursued. She couldn’t imagine explaining to someone like Matilda – who had described to John the pleasures of stalking deer on the family estate – that she was not prepared to stand behind people holding guns, watching them take aim at an elephant grazing, or a lion yawning at the sunset. That she couldn’t be sure she would not shout out a warning. Or how, if she found herself waiting back in the Land Rover while hunters covered the last mandatory yards on foot before making their kill, her hand would be hovering near the horn.
And she couldn’t explain that she was still haunted by the screams of a small pale baby, his trunk waving frantically in the air as he tried to wake his mother from her stillness. And by the silence that had enveloped the land, draining the air of oxygen, after John had pressed the barrel of his gun against the little head, and squeezed the trigger …
John had appeared, then, neatly dressed to match his freshly washed vehicle. Mara had watched him check the blackened tyres and bend down to look underneath the chassis. Then he was ready to go.
While Matilda and her father climbed into the Land Rover, he’d come to stand in front of Mara.
They’d swapped goodbyes, their smiles edged with tension, an unspoken question hanging between them. Did his wife wish him luck – or a futile safari?
John had leaned to kiss Mara goodbye.
As she’d brushed her lips against his cheek, she’d imagined she could already smell on him the fresh open air of the plains, the herbal tang of wild sage being squashed underfoot. The gun-oil and the blood …
She’d met his gaze and seen a flicker of defiance there. Had he known, already, she now asked herself? Had Matilda? Perhaps it had been so inevitable that even Menelik, looking on, had understood what was going to happen?
Mara pushed the letter and the two photographs back into the envelope and carefully replaced them in the vest pocket. She rolled the vest into a ball – exactly as she’d found it that first time – and put it back in its hiding place. She didn’t want John to realise it had ever been disturbed.
His secret had become hers.
If John had been away when she’d made her discovery, perhaps Mara might have packed a suitcase and left. But where would she have gone? Even if she’d had the money to return to Australia, she would not have contemplated it. She could not go back and admit to her father that he had been right all along. Nor could she bear to tell Lorna that their shared faith in the power of dreams had proved unfounded. And what kind of life would Mara have as a divorcee? She had never even met anyone whose marriage had ended. In the farming communities of Tasmania, the bonds of matrimony were as solid and reliable as the boundary fence-lines that marked out one farm from another.
As it was, the day Mara found the envelope, John had been right here at the lodge, working outside. After standing motionless in the bedroom, anger building inside her as the meaning of what had happened seeped in, Mara had gone to find him.
There was an air of unreality in the way her feet moved one after another so normally; finding their way through doorways and over steps as though nothing in the world had changed.
She found him at work in the swimming pool hole, digging steadily. At the sight of him, she froze, prickles running up her spine. Part of her wanted to run to him, asking for comfort – as if the pain she felt had been inflicted by an enemy. John would defend her, help her, comfort her.
But it was so much more complicated than that.
Mara retreated behind a frangipani bush, her heart thumping in her chest; the heavy perfume of the pink blooms stirring the sickness inside her. Through the screen of leaves and branches, she watched him.
John was stripped to the waist and grimy with dust. As he swung the shovel, muscles hardened in his arms, his chest, his torso.
She stared at his body – the same body that had been touched by another woman.
The body that was no longer hers …
Sweat ran in streams down his face. There was a sense of desperation in his labour, as though everything depended on the hole growing bigger and bigger, the pool being finished. His lips were pressed together in the grim line of someone fighting pain.
Mara stood there, motionless. She’d come to confront him, but now, when she tried to think of how she would begin, words refused to come to her. She felt unnerved by the expression on his face – he was like a stranger to her. She couldn’t guess how he would react.
Tears filled her eyes. Her anger dwindled away, becoming thin and useless. Uncertainty and confusion grew up in its place. And a cold thread of fear. The consequences of this moment would go on forever. Time could not be wound back.
It occurred to her, then, that it might be better just to try to forget what had happened. Matilda had said in her letter that she and John would never meet again – everything she’d written had suggested it was a one-night affair. Perhaps Mara should not let it become more important than it was.
She knew that if she were to ask one of the wives in the village what they’d do in her situation, they’d just laugh at her. ‘Is he throwing you out of your house?’ they would ask. ‘Is he giving this other woman babies and depriving you?’ They might even suggest Mara demand that her husband marry this second woman – then there would be two Memsahibs to share all the work of running the lodge.
Mara also knew that if she were one of the ‘Kenya wives’ living in Happy Valley – where singles and couples alike indulged in wild house parties – she might not take John’s unfaithfulness too seriously either.
And surely, that was the most practical way to move on.
But ‘moving on’ had not been that simple. Mara began avoiding any kind of intimate conversation with John, in case the secret might have to be addressed.
And, she kept looking in the mirror, evaluating her appearance. John had been her first lover, and she had been his. On their honeymoon night, they had been equal in their ignorance. Now, Mara was haunted by the realisation that her husband had someone to compare her with.
She tortured herself with questions. She was dark where the English woman was fair. Did John prefer the delicacy of light-coloured hair? Did his wife’s body seem blemished, now – crudely marked with black? And what were the secrets of the other woman’s body?
If John touched Mara, now – or if he didn’t touch her – she couldn’t help wondering if he was wishing she were someone else. Someone who looked like an angel and spoke with the voice of a queen …
As the weeks lengthened into months, Mara told herself that she understood why her husband had been unfaithful to her. She knew he felt that her refusal to join him on safari was a personal rejection. She was also aware that while it was true he’d expressed a wish to stop trophy hunting, John found his wife’s abhorrence of his work deeply hurtful. Hunting big game was the thing he did best in life – his finest skill. And it was tied up with his admiration for his beloved mentor, Raynor. And then, there was the stress of the failing business. The financial pressure. The endless hard work.
So many reasons for a man to be tempted by warmth and laughter and the admiration of a beautiful woman …
But however much she might have understood the reasons for the affair, Mara had not been able to counter its effects. She could feel all the unspoken words, the embraces she had held back, forming an invisible wall that enclosed her in a cold and lonely place. With each day that passed, the barrier grew higher.
She could not imagine any way, now, that the wall could be breached – that something could break through, and touch her.
Mara lay on one side of the bed, keeping her arms close to her body – as if John were not hundreds of miles away but there beside her, taking up the empty space. Small sounds punctuated the quiet of the evening: the murmur of voices, the bang of a door, a cough, a laugh. These were not the usual night noises of the bush, but the sounds of a place inhabited by many people. Mara reminded herself that this was what John and she had dreamed of – Raynor Lodge, humming with people, life. But it meant nothing, now. Nothing mattered any more.
She shifted her head on the pillow, trying to ease the tension in her neck. The exhaustion she’d felt earlier on had abandoned her. She lay rigid, kept awake by her thoughts. They circled in her head – whining, angry – like hungry insects hunting in the dark.