Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw Chris lean against the uneven post-and-rail fence, which enclosed her grass paddock.
“Sit up,” she shouted at the ten-year-old African boy who was tilted forward over the neck of the grey pony he rode.
He slapped his legs against the pony’s side and flapped his elbows.
“It’s a pony, not a wind up car. Kicking madly and waving your arms about won’t make him go any faster. Now sit up and push him forward with your bottom,” she instructed.
The boy sat up and began pushing his bottom into the saddle.
“OK, now you can give him a kick.”
The boy hit the pony’s sides with his heels, and it jumped forward into a canter.
“Good. Sit up and look forward. If he starts to slow down, push with your bottom and squeeze him forward with your legs.”
The boy and his pony completed a lap of the paddock.
“Well done,” called Rose. “Bring him back to a trot. Do you want to just have a ride around for a few minutes?”
Rose strolled across to Chris.
“Who’s your young pupil?” he asked.
“Kipto’s grandson. He’s actually quite good, but like most boys, he’s more interested in speed than style.”
The boy trotted quickly past them with his reins slack and hanging in a loop down the pony’s neck. The pony stopped abruptly by the entrance to the paddock where Kipto stood, beaming proudly. A stout African man slid a high level wooden pole out of its slot and lowered it to the ground. He stepped over and caught hold of the pony’s head.
“Where did you get the pony from?” Chris asked.
“It was sent to me by the KSPCA in Nairobi. They rescued it from beside the Ngong Road where, despite its young age, it had been ridden. I’m afraid it was in a terrible state with its back rubbed raw from an ill-fitting saddle, and a hole in its withers from who knows what. We’ve only just been able to start riding it, but it’s still very nervous.”
They turned away from the paddock and walked towards the house, followed by Rose’s black and tan terrier, Potto. They entered the cottage through the rear kitchen door. Kipto had returned and was tipping potatoes onto a wooden counter.
“Kongoi, Mama. Chumba loves riding the pony. He not very good with work at school but he feel much better after his ride.”
“I’m so glad. And he’s a good kid. What are we having for supper?”
Kipto began peeling the potatoes. “Beef stew and smash potatoes with cabbage.”
Rose frowned. She presumed Kipto meant mashed potatoes, and she hoped she wouldn’t boil the cabbage into submission.
Chris had already moved through into the living room and out onto the patio.
Rose followed him, but stopped in the living room as she heard him say, “Five across. Ten letters. Occurring after death. Well, that has to be ‘posthumous’.”
Craig answered. “That’s correct.” There was a pause before Craig said, “You do realise I’m dying. And it won’t be long. It’s as though I can feel parts of my body begin to falter.”
Chris answered, “I was here when you had your mini stroke, remember, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to die anytime soon. People can live for years after suffering one.”
“I know,” responded Craig. “But it’s not just the stroke. This polio thing is eating away at my body.”
She and Craig had discussed his illness, and they had both accepted he would no longer be able to participate in such activities as officiating at the Rhino Charge or the Lewa Marathon. But this was the first time she had heard him talk so frankly and openly about his death.
“But it’s not me I am worried about,” continued Craig. “I’ve been very fortunate to lead a full and varied life. My crippled leg could have stopped me, but it didn’t. Especially out here where people are far less judgemental and encourage one to embrace life. No, it’s your mother I am worried about, as she’ll be left alone. I do hope she’ll be allowed to keep this house with its shamba, so she can grow her herbs, and the paddock and stables for her animals. But what if she has to move?”
There was a pause before Chris responded. “I’ve told you before, I will help her, but my life is in the UK and hers is here. She’d hate moving to London, as it would be such an alien environment to her with all the buildings, people and noise. And as I told you, I’m away a lot, so it wouldn’t be very practical. If she wants to go anywhere, she would be better off with Heather.”
“Your sister has her girls to look after.”
“Well, I still think Mum is best here amongst her friends and people who care about her. Also, it’s far cheaper to get help in Kenya than in the UK. Can you imagine if you were back there now with a full-time carer, or if you’d had to move to a nursing home? You’d hate it and the cost would be horrendous.”
Craig’s voice increased in pitch. “But if you’re travelling around so much, why don’t you come and live here? There are lots of people based in Nairobi, and even Nanyuki, who travel abroad a lot for work.”
Rose heard Chris sigh. “I really don’t want to fall out about this, but you do need to understand. My home is in London and I am staying there.”
Rose felt torn. She understood Craig’s concerns but also realised that Chris’s life, and home, in the UK were important to him. The last thing she wanted was for her son and her husband to fall out over her. She stepped out onto the patio.
Chris was walking away in the direction of the guest cottage, his shoulders hunched. She knelt by Craig, who had covered his face with his hands.
“Were you listening to any of that?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she replied gently.
“I only want to protect you. I can’t understand why he’s so stubborn,” pleaded Craig. He removed his hand and looked at her with tear-filled eyes.
“He is right.” She bent over and hugged him.
Back on her knees, she grasped his hands. “I have friends here and a support network. This is my home and I don’t want to leave it to be cared for elsewhere, especially in England. And London is Chris’s home. Please try to understand. And you two arguing only makes it harder for me. I will need his support and I won’t have it if we drive him away again.”