A Lion by the Mane Read online

  ‘It’s obvious you have never seen any of our towns.’

  ‘But there’ll be a doctor?’

  She didn’t get the answer to that because the policemen indicated that they were ready to leave, and Margaret got to her feet to fetch the medical box.

  ‘If you are going to be bumped and shaken over rough ground for the next few hours or so, I’ll have to give you more morphia.’

  ‘Not another of those cattle injections!’

  ‘How much pain can you stand?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he surrendered meekly, ‘but before you operate will you fetch my stuff from the cockpit? There’s a canvas bag with the cargo manifest and all relevant documents. It also holds my pilot’s licence, my wallet, and several other things I always carry with me.’

  She found the square satchel and put it with her handbag.

  ‘You look pretty done-in,’ said Jan when she returned to him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ she replied shortly, taking the second ampoule from the box and filling the syringe before the goggling eyes of the policemen. They backed when she crossed to the man on the floor, bringing a faint smile to her face.

  ‘What cowards men become when faced with a needle!’ She squirted a little of the liquid into the air to test the syringe, then took his upper arm in her hand searching for the muscle.

  ‘I assume it was you who undressed me,’ he murmured, ‘because care was taken to observe the proprieties.’

  The needle jabbed into his flesh bringing a tightening of his jaw and a martial look to her eye. ‘One of these men will help you to dress if you prefer it. I will renew the pad on your leg. That will be two nightdresses you owe me.’

  ‘You don’t really wear those things, do you?’ he taunted through gritted teeth. ‘In this country we sleep as nature made us.’

  She withdrew the needle angrily. ‘Nature hasn’t made a very good job of you! This is not a jolly little adventure. While you have been sleeping-off the effects of that first dose, I have been alternately scared, roasted and parched. The next time you buy a white elephant which falls apart in mid-air, risk only your own neck, will you? I dare say I could sue you for taking me as a passenger against your partner’s orders in a machine which was not airworthy.’

  He stared at her speechlessly for some moments while a slow flush mounted his face, and his eyes hardened with anger.

  ‘My God, that’s what they’ll all think! It will be their natural reaction.’ The handful of hair he clutched seemed in danger of being pulled from his scalp. ‘What a heaven-sent opportunity for them to preach and bring home long-standing charges of incompetence and irresponsibility! How they’ll wallow in their self-righteous assertions that they knew all along that I would fly too high and come a cropper. And Chris . . . Chris will be magnanimous and offer to absorb some of my losses in the company funds, but I shall see the same look on his face as on all the others. It will be a complete waste of time to tell the truth. The odds against a plane’s being struck by lightning are so high it would only increase their pity if I attempted to use it as an excuse for what happened.’ His eyes flayed her. ‘They brainwashed you well! You condemn me out of hand.’

  Margaret bent her head over the task of re-binding his leg wound but her hands began to shake. She hadn’t known the reason for their forced landing, but he was right in believing she had had no faith in his judgement and too readily thought the worst of him. Her brave words to Helen that it was time somebody tried to understand him expressed a hollow intention, it now seemed. Of course Chris would never believe that the elements had played such a vicious trick on his brother, and Jan would not bother to convince him. This incident would be a fierce blow to his esteem and also his finances. He had impetuously vowed to pay for the Dakota himself – now he could add a repair bill to the price. All she had suffered was a few hours of discomfort, but he stood to lose face with his fellow-men, and most of his wealth . . . and she had accused him of thinking this a ‘jolly little adventure’.

  There seemed no way of bridging the gap caused by her accusation, so she remained silent instead of apologizing. He would not want her pity. She finished the bandage and helped him dress. The nights could be chilly, she knew. The Africans picked him up carefully and made their way through the fuselage towards the door with Margaret hovering beside them. She was impressing on them that the first essential was to get Jan to a hospital, and was so engrossed in this she missed the look which crossed Jan’s face when they stepped to the ground.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he breathed, looking at the Dakota. ‘I didn’t bring her in that way . . . I know I didn’t. There’s no way the . . .’ He broke off and gave Margaret a sharp look. ‘Did you touch any of the controls?’

  ‘I may have. My dress caught on a lever while I was climbing across to you and I had to fiddle with my elbows to try to release it. It wasn’t easy with medical stuff in my hands, and to make matters worse, the plane suddenly collapsed. Have I done something?’

  He didn’t answer except to tell the Africans to carry on, but he closed his eyes as if in anguish and left Margaret to worry.

  She didn’t accept the offer to sit in the cab with the driver. One of them helped her into the back where they had laid Jan amongst the crates, and the truck set off. Although she had cushioned the leg with her clothes to protect it from the worst of the jolting, there was no doubt he was in considerable pain, at first. Mercifully, the morphia took over before they had been long on their way and Margaret was left to gaze from the back of the truck.

  Soon, a cool breeze persuaded her to pull on a light coat and, in moving, she dropped the canvas satchel which Jan had asked her to bring. The flap opened, spilling the contents, and for several seconds papers flew about in the vortex until she and the policeman succeeded in catching them. The neatly-typed lists, folded documents and several licences in plastic covers didn’t surprise her, but what did was a gun in a webbing belt, and a supply of bullets. The policeman examined the gun with professional curiosity, then handed it over, showing a flash of white teeth. Margaret put everything back in the satchel then locked it in one of her suitcases. It would be safer there.

  Dark descended quickly. To Margaret it was a night of luminous stars and animal sounds which blended with weird dreams every time she dozed off so that, afterwards, she was never sure which was the sleeping or waking part. A terrible chill had invaded her bones and it set her teeth chattering. The temperature had dropped considerably, but it was more a fever brought on by her hours spent in the broiling heat of the aircraft than the coldness of the present. To a girl reared in Norfolk, an African night was not at all extreme.

  A jolt brought her awake with a small cry. The night outside was broken by a pale halo of light which hung above a doorway in a low white-walled building. The policeman, who had travelled in the back of the truck with her, had jumped down and joined the driver who was pushing open the double doors. Clutching her coat around her she slid along the seat until she was peering round the edge of the canvas. An odour of antiseptic and a cross on the door told her they had reached a tiny hospital and she breathed her thanks to whoever was there to listen.

  The policemen had an Indian in a white coat with them when they re-appeared, and he looked at the girl’s face carefully before introducing himself in clipped English.

  ‘Good evening. I am Doctor Gavascar . . . head of this clinic. I am told you require urgent treatment for your husband.’

  ‘Yes, he does need treatment . . . but we are not related. He was flying me to Myala when we were brought down in a storm.’ She scrambled to the ground and smiled an apology. ‘Please forgive me, Doctor, but I don’t seem able to collect my thoughts at present.’ She went on to describe Jan’s injuries and how much morphia she had administered, until the doctor stopped her.

  ‘But you surely do not need my help, madam. You have medical qualifications.’

  ‘Only for animals, unfortunately.
This man’s leg needs quite a few stitches in it, and he has already lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Indian thoughtfully. ‘I must warn you first that I have no white staff in my tiny clinic.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ said Margaret, quite missing the point.

  ‘Your voice tells me that you are English. Is the pilot, also?’

  ‘No, he is . . .’ Rather late in the day she got the implication and flushed hotly. How long would it take her to get used to the ways of this country? She indicated the black policemen.

  ‘When these two men turned up at the crash we were both very glad to see them and grateful for their help. I don’t think the situation has changed in any way, Doctor Gavascar.’

  He gave her an understanding look. ‘Thank you, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Ward.’

  ‘. . . Miss Ward. I will make arrangements to bring the patient in.’

  Jan was awake but vague as the stretcher men carried him into the building which, to Margaret, resembled not much more than the small utility extensions which were added to mansions in England during the war to house public offices. The floors were scrupulously clean and the tiny room into which Jan was taken held two hospital beds with white covers like the ones she had seen at home. Margaret followed automatically and stood beside the bed as though there were nothing strange about being there. Dr Gavascar, recognizing a knowledgeable person when he met one, made no comment on her presence and set about instructing a Bantu nurse to uncover the wound.

  The journey had done Jan no good. He was in a semi-comatose state and his cheeks had bright fever spots which flared beneath the dark-ringed eyes. There was no doubt the three-hour ride had taken its toll of his fortitude, and the anger brought on by her careless words to him had not helped to ease his mind. The doctor made arrangements to stitch up the gash at once, then he turned to Margaret.

  ‘You look completely exhausted, dear lady, and somewhat feverish yourself. While I am dealing with this patient, a member of my staff will give you food and a sedative. In the morning you will feel better able to decide what to do.’

  A loud altercation appeared to be going on in the corridor, and an orderly burst in to explain the problem in a fast native language to the doctor. The difficulty was being caused by the crates which the policemen had started to unload into the clinic. There was just not room for them inside the building and Dr Gavascar endorsed the orderly’s warning about leaving them outside all night. Margaret was asked what the crates contained, but she merely knew Jan was delivering supplies to the Reserve. Whether it was food or veterinary supplies she couldn’t say – probably both.

  The situation reached a stalemate. Dr Gavascar refused to have his corridor blocked by a dozen sizeable crates, yet would not take the responsibility of leaving them at the mercy of thieves outside. Margaret, conscious that Jan had already lost a valuable aircraft, felt extremely protective towards the cargo and insisted that the crates be put under lock and key somewhere, so with combined pressures being put upon them the policemen said they would convey the stuff to the police station in the town of Alwynsrus, five miles away. They then became adamant that the owner should go with them to fill in the necessary forms and accept a receipt. The sergeant would insist, they said.

  Five minutes later, Margaret was back in the truck with the crates, bumping along the sand road to the police station. In view of Jan’s condition, the policemen had reluctantly allowed her to take on the responsibility for the merchandise. They were plainly unhappy about the whole episode and sat in reassuring unity in the cab, leaving Margaret alone with her thoughts and a raging headache. Although she knew Jan was in good hands, a strange reluctance to leave him had invaded her the minute she knew she must go. Why had she not apologized for her doubts on his professional competence? Knowing how deeply affronted she would be if a layman had doubted her own ability in the field of animal medicine, she could at least have assured him she would support the truth about the cause of the accident. But then a man like Jan would not care to rely on a woman to convince his family of his worth. He would let them fling their opinions at him and say nothing.

  The police station was not as large as the clinic, and was one of no more than a dozen buildings edging the road which formed the town. The word had naturally conjured up in Margaret’s mind thoughts of neat rows of bungalows or houses, a shopping centre, hotels, and a population of at least several thousand. Alwynsrus, as far as she could see, was merely a hundred-yard stretch of road which provided the essentials needed for people passing through . . . but maybe darkness hid the remainder!

  Inside, the bare walls and unscrubbed fustiness of the room showed her its official status as an office, but a door standing open at the far end allowed her a glimpse of house furniture and rugs on the floor. At a call from one of the Africans, scuffling was heard and a man’s voice from the room caused the two black men to roll their eyes. Then the owner of the voice appeared at the doorway. He almost filled it! This man was as tall as the Schroeder brothers, but his girth was triple theirs. The waistband of his trousers had to be content to lie below the spread of his stomach, which left his shirt buttons straining against his paunch without much success. Two were missing, and pale flesh was visible through the gap. He scratched at this gap with one hand while the other pushed greasy fair hair from his eyes.

  ‘Julie is laat!’ he accused the men and belched, then he saw Margaret. ‘Wie is u?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I might ask the same question. I was under the impression this was a police station.’ Her cool cultured tone made him flush with anger.

  ‘English, are you? What do you want?’

  The two Africans broke into a nervous explanation, and the white man came further into the office as his interest grew. Margaret had a quick view of a woman’s face peering from the room he had just left, and the little she saw persuaded her the woman was not his wife.

  The policemen were despatched in no uncertain terms to bring in the crates and he turned to the girl. ‘They are lazy bastards at the best of times. What’s in the boxes?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. The pilot has a cargo manifest with the rest of his papers. Supplies for Myala I was led to understand. Why?’

  He shrugged his vast shoulders. ‘Curious, that’s all.’

  Margaret found him difficult to understand. That thick Afrikaaner accent combined with a touch of alcoholic incoherence sounded like a foreign language to her dulled senses. As the crates were carried in he showed increased joviality, although he made no attempt to do any of the carrying. His manner changed from aggressive through conciliatory to downright pleasant, and the wide smile he eventually produced showed her he must have been a striking man not so many years ago. Now, he was in his forties – the prime of his life – and had let himself go to seed.

  ‘Are you in charge?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Have been for ten years. Sergeant De Wet is well-known around here – ask anybody.’ He leant towards her, expelling a beery gasp as his stomach was flattened against the desk. ‘When I first came, many people, including me, thought this was the end of the road. One little mistake . . . and a posting to a dump like Alwynsrus where I would serve out my time as a forgotten man. For several years I bore a grudge against the person responsible, until I discovered how rewarding a job like this can be. A man is his own boss out here. Like the local pastor, I have my flock and look after its interests. In a city I should be a mere Sergeant; here I am a Brigadier.’ His deep blue eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Now you are part of my flock, so you had better tell me what you were doing in this freight aircraft.’

  ‘I am on my way to take up an appointment at Myala. I shall be studying there for the next six months, maybe more.’

  Sergeant De Wet leered. ‘A flerric like you up there with Craig Barker! I can guess what you will be studying!’

  Margaret assumed what Jan had called her cool, d
ispassionate forbearance, and asked whether she might have her receipt since the crates had all been unloaded. One of the Africans was entering details in a thick ledger; the other had disappeared. The blond sergeant pulled a scrap of paper towards him and scrawled a signature on it before handing it to the girl.

  ‘There is nothing on here but a name,’ she protested.

  ‘I can’t state what I have received because none of us knows.’

  ‘I have no intention of accepting this as a receipt. Jan . . . Mr Schroeder . . . would demand something more official.’

  The aggression was returning now. ‘Whether you accept it or not is up to you. I am not compelled to take those boxes in. I am doing it as a favour. Officially, I am off duty, so it is only because I live on the premises that you were not left to do what you could about this stuff.’ He cocked a thumb at the cargo. ‘I could remind you that the alternative would be to leave them at the mercy of diewe. There are plenty of them about in a country like this. They rise up out of nowhere, and the stuff vanishes into thin air.’

  ‘Despite the care the “Brigadier” takes of his flock? You surprise me!’

  Her taunt angered him further, and he turned on his heel, leaving Margaret standing with the paper in her hand. Jan would be furious! This signature meant nothing, but it looked as if she would have to take it or leave it. She waited until the African had finished writing in his ledger, but when he made no move, said. ‘Who will be driving me back to the clinic?’

  He looked astonished. His clearly-defined duty had been to get a sick man to a hospital, then lock up some valuable items. This had been carried out to the letter. The sergeant had given no orders about the woman; she was no responsibility of his. Besides, he was now on the first shift of night-duty and unable to leave his post. He kept silent, hoping she would go away, but Margaret knew how to play the same game and they fought a battle of endurance. The African won. Behind him were generations of men who knew when it was best to keep a still tongue. Margaret in no way surrendered, however, she merely shifted her attack to a more familiar adversary.