The Zoo Revealed: A Novel of Further Disasters and Disclosures From Monkey Island in the Indian Ocean

By Keith Brown

How can Brett James discover what lies behind the persistent police enquiries at The Zoo? Will the leaders of the small coastal community reveal any more mysteries to Brett, the inquisitive teacher? And at what further cost to him? Will he suffer any more attacks if he pursues his enquiries?

He hopes the eccentric characters will continue to accept him. But, beyond that, what are the chances that the diverse residents can restore their relationships and experience a deepening faith?

Brett would be wise to simply appreciate the beauty of The Zoo, continue to relish the satisfaction of his teaching work, and stop asking questions! But that is not in his nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228829454

Keith Brown

Keith Maurice Brown and his wife, Pauline, were born in England during the Second World War. They have travelled through Fifty countries, and lived and worked in education for extended periods in England, Canada, Kenya, and Indonesia. They now live in British Columbia, Canada. They have two children and four grandchildren.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

The editorial advice and critical input from Pauline W., Linda Whittome, Laura W., and Marie Jordon-Knox were invaluable, and aided in the streamlining of the text. Sue De Vries and Pauline W. provided a careful reading of the final script and supplied numerous helpful insights. Their devotion of many hours of careful review is very much appreciated.

I am thankful for the advice and support of many friends. The following people provided encouragement and valuable information from their own areas of interest and expertise: David Anonby, Erik Anonby, Tim Block, Patricia Boswell, ADB., Richard Cavalier, Don Craig, Marion Fuller, Jim Fuller, Randy Hoffmann, Peter Mitchell, John Potts, Jen R., Tom Rathjen, Paul W., Richard W., and Cliff Warwick.

However, they bear no responsibility for the words or opinions in this fictional account of some imaginary characters dwelling in a mysterious community near the mythical East African town of Mwakindini.

Maps

Prologue

The records of ancient explorers, nautical charts, and written texts indicate that human settlements along the Kenyan coast date back at least 2,000 years. No doubt, humans have lived there for much longer, but the first identifiable records come from traders exploring the African coast. Twice a year, the trade winds across the Indian Ocean reverse direction, providing reliable wind for ships loaded with valuable cargoes to sail between East Africa, the Middle East, and the Indian subcontinent.

Arab traders and Portuguese explorers brought their customs, religions, and languages, intermingling them among the local tribes. History tells of violent battles, periods of reconciliation, mutually beneficial trade, and peace. The Indigenous peoples made adjustments to different invaders. These, along with continuing strife among the inland tribes, produced the varied culture that was seen on the coast in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

The Sultans of Zanzibar ruled a large area of the Kenyan and Tanzanian seaboards from 1856 until 1963. They also controlled many trading routes into the interior of the continent. During their time in power, until Zanzibar received its independence from the United Kingdom, the rulers would assign parcels of land to the local people for charitable and community needs.

The area of land which included the Zoo was presented to the inhabitants by the Sultan of Zanzibar. They were permitted to develop it for cultural, religious, and educational purposes, along with the required services and residential facilities. A multicultural community grew up, spearheaded by the Emersons.

During his sixteen months at the Zoo, Brett James learned a lot about the history of the community from the long-term residents. Some of his questions had been answered, but he still had lingering doubts about the sources and stability of the Zoo’s finances. Also, his curiosity over the complex relationships between several prominent individuals was far from satisfied. Would anyone reveal any more to him?

The Zoo founder’s wife, Louise Emerson, had been frank with him; but how much more was she able to draw him into her confidence? There was the ever-present clown, Miles Jolly, who had befriended Brett, but how far could Brett trust him, after the attack that Miles had orchestrated?

Brett had not forgotten the warnings from Peter Lancaster, the no-nonsense security officer. He was friendly, but did not reveal much. Brett also respected the Executive Officer, his Kenyan friend, Boniface Chengo. But even the affable giant, Chengo, was under police investigation, so how open would he be with Brett, who he saw as inquisitive foreigner?

Brett felt that his place in the Zoo was secure, but he had heard sufficient faint alarm bells to sensitize him to the dangers of probing too deeply into areas where his enquiries were not welcomed.

Part One: Disasters

The fictional characters in Part One

(in order of mention)

Characters Introduced in Part One

Brett, Bretton Morris James, mechanical engineer, teacher

Louise Emerson, Henry’s wife. Nurse

Tony, Reverend Anthony Colburn, Alliance Community Fellowship, UK

Jane Colburn, Tony’s wife. Reading, UK

Vi, Violet Ridge-Taylor, Thomas’ wife

Hamisi, Kenyan fisherman

Tili, Brett’s maid

Steve, Reverend Steven Brandon, Anglican priest, CPK, Kenya

Miles, Miles Tiffin Jolly, retired colonial administrator, investigator

Coreene Brandon, Steve’s wife, expert on world religions

Marie-Anne Moore, Len Moore’s wife

Len, Leonard Moore, retired water engineer

Matthew Fletcher, retired sheep farmer

Esther Fletcher, Matthew’s wife

Kaleem Butt, supervisor of Central Stores

Mrs. Lal Butt, Kaleem’s wife

Brigadier Thomas Ridge-Taylor, retired brigadier and farm manager

Peter Lancaster, Zoo founder, retired military and police officer

Wejiha, nurse in the Zoo clinic

Boniface Chengo, Executive Officer

Hamud Sita, accounts clerk

Alan Emerson, Louise’s son in Australia, with wife and three children

Henry Emerson, Zoo founder, now deceased

Simion Katana, Principal of polytechnic

Mr. Badr, former assistant bank manager, Mwakindini

Ochieng, Malindi police detective

Faiz, assistant Imam

Mjuhgiuna, Louise Emerson’s manservant, Tili’s uncle

Kinyanjui, Mwakindini police sergeant

Mr. & Mrs. Tej Singh, owners of Excel Auto garage in Mwakindini

Kelsey McNeil, American anthropologist

Muzhere, Miles Jolly’s maid

Taran Sembhi, antiques store owner, Mombasa

Ruth, Graham, and Andrew, Steve and Coreene Brandon’s children

Geoffrey Matherton, Principal of Matherton & Son, lawyers

Patrick Lancaster, Peter’s son in England

Julie Lancaster, Peter’s daughter in England

Khadijah, housekeeper in guesthouse. Tili’s sister

Mwangi, Joram Mwangi, Peter Lancaster’s man

Njuguna, Onesimus Njuguna, Ridge-Taylor’s man

Ponda, Police Inspector from Malindi

Jim Gossard, Brett’s friend in Nairobi, retired optician

Mary Gossard, Brett’s friend in Nairobi, retired teacher

1

Was there any significance to this? Did it signal a warning? Brett wondered.

Brett sensed he was back in England. Friends were surging around him, asking why he was returning to Kenya. Weren’t there too many dangers? What possible satisfaction could he find there? England was safe. What about the wall? The wall? The Wall? The words echoed in his head. Louise Emerson was in the group, warning him to stay away and ‘Stop asking questions!’. Somewhere on the periphery, he sensed that Tony and Jane Colburn were also there, challenging him. He recognized Violet Ridge-Taylor. It was all terribly confusing. A dark, all-engrossing mugginess was stifling his breathing. Slowly, the scene morphed into a cave-like tube. He was trapped in a tunnel, with heat and weight pressing in from every side. He struggled and kicked out violently. English voices were shouting at him: Why? Why? Why? Sharp pricks pierced his left arm. Stop, stop, stop!

Suddenly, he woke up. He was sweating and panting. He lay still, unable to move. He realized he was caught in his mosquito net and hanging over the side of his bed like a giant grouper trapped in a strong mesh. He quickly untangled himself and was amazed that the net’s hook in the ceiling had held the pull, although there were several tears along the sides of the net. His head was spinning; his breath came in short gasps. Then he noticed his left arm, enflamed with red welts. Where he had lain against the side of the net, the mosquitos had been feasting. He was covered in bites all along his arm and across his shoulder.

He went to the bathroom and saw in the mirror the side of his face was swollen and irritated. It was still dark, at 5:20am. He quickly rinsed off in cold water and applied salve to his itching skin. He studied the swelling bumps, grateful that he had been taking his antimalarial tablets regularly. He decided to swallow another one. He had no idea if that would be extra effective, but he thought, The pill has such a horrible taste that no self-respecting malarial parasite would hang around with that bitter medicine in my bloodstream.

He switched on the kettle and made a large mug of tea. He needed to get out into the fresh air. He covered himself in insect repellant, took along a tube of anaesthetic ointment, grabbed a towel, and carried his mug outside – as he loved to do. He was wearing swimming trunks and a tee shirt, with sandals. He walked to the sea’s edge, thinking, What was that dream all about? Crazy! Ignore it. He stood looking across the calm, mirrored surface of the water. There was not a breath of air. No movement. The trees behind him were motionless.

A bird tweeted. It was a harsh call. Would that be the night jar? he wondered. Few other birds sing at night here. It felt good to be awake, alert, and free of the pressured thoughts in his dream. He said a prayer of thanks for all the blessings he had been receiving, and asked the Father for divine guidance in the months ahead.

Then he caught another faint noise: the call of the muezzin from the town across the water, Mwakindini. Other captivating sounds drifted across the bay: some soft banging, the muffled roar of a vehicle. A rooster crowed. He detected the slight aroma of seaweed from the beach. The call from the mosque continued. From his left, towards the mangroves, came another sound – perhaps someone splitting a coconut husk or firewood with a bush knife. He simply sat and absorbed everything: the sounds, the sights in the gloom, and the subtle smells. He felt alert, in tune with nature, and alive.

From the palm trees above him, he heard the raucous cries of crows as they began their day of senseless quarrelling. Suddenly, in the half-light, one flew down onto the sand and, in an instant, grabbed a scurrying ghost crab in its large beak and flew back to the tree branch. It was the first time Brett had seen that. Good luck eating it. It can’t offer much nourishment, he thought.

He finished the tea, and allowed thoughts of the dream to surface. The first few days of 1986 had been peaceful in his cage, so why would a dream like that strike at this relaxing holiday time? Normally, he gave no credence to dreams, dismissing them as a jumble of disjointed images, but this one troubled him. Was there any significance to it? Did it signal a warning? Brett was aware of his vulnerability in some areas – particularly a tendency towards arrogance. He had to be alert to misunderstandings and the impressions he gave people.

Again, he heard the wavering tones of the muezzin’s chant, knowing that, for the devout, it was the first of five calls to prayer that day. Admiringly, he imagined the Muslim men making their way to the centre of worship, removing their shoes, performing the obligatory ablutions, and bowing in rows with others of the faith to recite the memorized prayers, in faithful submission to the injunctions of Islam.

He savoured the luxury of time, without having to keep checking his watch. He thought about his identity. It was well established at the Zoo: Mr. James the teacher, a respected and well-understood role. The settling-in at the Zoo, sixteen months ago, had been smooth for him. It had felt like coming home – at least until the unsettling police interview. The concept of the Zoo, with small individual dwellings called ‘cages’, and the central facilities with the controlled administration, was familiar now. Even the eccentric personalities with their troubled relationships seemed natural, and he regarded most of them as friends.

He recalled his crisis of confidence when he first arrived in Kenya six years previously to teach in the central highlands. Everything was so different from England; it had seemed that many of the social norms were reversed. It had taken a long time – and some patient guidance from his Kenyan colleagues in Nyeri – before he felt he fitted in. Now he thought he knew his role at the coast; but the dream had unsettled him. More disturbing memories surfaced: the accident, the arrests, the attack on him, the warnings, and a few unsatisfactory conversations. He knew from experience that, suddenly, everything could be thrown into doubt where nothing made sense any more. Once again, he realized he was an outsider. Will I ever understand this society, and truly feel I belong?

A flick of sand caught his attention. A fiddler crab was digging a hole, carrying excavated scoops of sand and scattering them on the seaward side of the slope. He saw its large single claw resembling a fiddle which gave the creature its name. Be careful little crab… he advised, other eyes in addition to mine are watching you. He looked around, feeling rather sheepish, and thinking, Goodness, this is bad. Now I’m talking to the crabs!

He noticed it was getting light. A flock of terns swooped low across the placid water. He sensed a stirring vitality as he felt the first soft breeze off the water. The sting of the bites was irritating him again, so he removed his shirt, and walked to the edge of the water. Keeping on his sandals for fear of sharp objects or – worse still – the deadly stone fish, he slid into the water, grateful that there was sufficient depth. He wallowed around and made his way out to a familiar tidal pool, relishing the sting of the salt water on his itching skin. The salt will do it good, he thought. He floated on his back and looked across the peninsula. The spiky palms were almost silhouettes against the lightening sky. The beauty of the morning was being revealed. Another perfect day, he thought. He retrieved his towel and slowly returned to his cage, looking forward to a shower.

After breakfast, he walked to the polytechnic to start preparations for the new term and attend a staff meeting. That morning, he had time to go past the central buildings to buy a newspaper. On the way, he saw a fisherman walking towards the north beach. He recognized him as Hamisi who operated a small fishing boat with his brother. He was carrying a mast wrapped in a sail, and he waved with a cigarette in the other hand. He glanced at Brett’s face, but said nothing.

Brett was pleased the newspaper seller was still outside the main building, with some papers left. He greeted a cleaner as she swept sand and coral dust from the front entrance of the main building. She looked at Brett and asked, How is you? What is the matter? I see your face. It is somehow red.

He smiled and replied, Mosquitos. Many mosquitos!

In the corridor behind her, he saw a second lady cleaning the floor using a large, grey, wash-cloth. She manoeuvred it on the ground with her bare feet to save her back. She called out to him, Where have you been? Why are you so quiet? What have you been doing?

Brett knew those were not serious questions, just polite greetings, so he gave an acceptable reply, Just working. How about you? and continued his walk to the college. In the Muslim area to his left, he heard the sorrowful braying of a donkey. It was a familiar sound which he liked to hear.

The day went well, with sympathy from teachers and staff who saw his face and arms, along with offers of proven balms, favourite lotions, and suggestions of traditional remedies – supplemented by recommendations of further precautions against mosquito attack. He thought that Tili, his part-time house-helper, would have some suggestions too.

As the polytechnic students returned in January 1986, Brett felt rested and ready to face the new term. He had stayed home during the holiday and done more reef exploration and painting. He had taken advantage of many snorkelling and windsurfing opportunities, mostly with the vicar, Steve Brandon and his family. He had treated himself to several sessions on the Hobie Cat catamaran which was hired out by the hour at the boat-rental shop, north along the beach towards Mwakindini.

He had made several phone calls from Steve’s office to his family in England. He also telephoned his friends, the Colburns, in England and spoke to Tony and Jane. Tony revealed that he was facing the possibility of a thyroidectomy as his cancer had been confirmed. Brett could tell he was concerned, but playing down the risks.

The new year was just underway when word went around the Zoo that Miles Jolly was coming up to his 65th birthday. Coreene Brandon and Marie-Anne Moore had been hoping to spring a surprise party on him. When Louise Emerson heard about it, she advised them not to, as she knew he hated surprises like that. He’s a compulsive schemer himself, and likes to be in control of things. So they decided on a small gathering in the private air-conditioned room at the rear of the restaurant.

On the Friday evening, Len and Marie-Anne Moore were joined by Matthew and Esther Fletcher, along with Brett James, Louise Emerson, and Steve and Coreene Brandon. The group also welcomed Mr. and Mrs. Kaleem Butt who had been invited to the party. Brigadier Thomas and Vi Ridge-Taylor were feeling too tired to join them. Peter Lancaster told Coreene he was unavailable, but she guessed the real reason was his enmity towards Miles.

Len said, Let’s get started. Miles will be joining us shortly. This is going to be fun. He’s 65 this week, so I thought we’d subject him to some ritual public embarrassment.

Or we could just sing ‘Happy Birthday’, suggested Esther, mildly.

No, no, that’s far too tame. He’s been getting above himself recently and, now he’s become so old, we need to make a spectacle of him, joked Len.

Poor fellow. But I’m sure he’ll love the attention, particularly as he’s prepared for some teasing, said Louise, just as Miles entered.

Quick, let’s change the subject and try to look happy, called out Len, grasping Miles’ arm and steering him towards the central chair. Welcome old fellow. What’s your poison?

Who’s paying? asked Miles, with a twinkle in his eye.

I am, Len assured him.

Well, in that case, I’ll have an expensive double-scotch please.

Miles took his drink and waited for silence. He said, Well, you are probably all wondering why I called this meeting…

Len stood and said, Ladies and gentlemen – oh, and Miles – I have, at great personal expense and inconvenience, invited you all here for…bother, I’ve forgotten why I did invite you! Oh, yes, I remember, for a party for Miles. He’s now reached that awkward age, between midlife crisis and death. That is, 65.

Don’t rub it in, mate, interjected Miles.

Shush, said Esther, don’t interrupt or you’ll be sent home, you naughty boy!

Let’s try to be nice to Miles, suggested Matthew.

It doesn’t have to be for long, added Marie-Anne, reaching over and patting Miles’ knee.

Len cleared his throat and said loudly, As I was saying, he’s at the age where some of us are not sure whether we see the glass half empty or half full…

I’m so weak, I can’t even see the glass, called out Matthew.

Continuing… said Len patiently, what can I say about Miles Jolly that hasn’t already been said about…seasonal allergies? Everyone laughed. Len continued, They are unpleasant, irritating, best avoided, but will go away eventually.

Miles was laughing. "Thank you, Len, for those kind words. I’m not sure about the half-empty glass analogy, but I can say I now find I’m living half-way between Why not? and Why bother?"

That’s very profound, Miles, Louise complimented him. The idle discussion and good-natured teasing continued for some while.

Eventually, Miles said, This has been a lovely party. Nice place you have here. I think I’ll tell all my friends about it – and some of my enemies!

Matthew couldn’t resist: Telling all your friends shouldn’t take long! and slapped him gently on his shoulder.

Then Esther slapped Matthew on his shoulder, saying, That’s not nice, Matthew.

I think… Miles hesitated, Oh dear, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.

This has obviously been a good party, then, said Brett.

Miles said, It’s wonderful to celebrate such a special event – may I say a Miles-stone – with all of my friends – and Len too, of course. I feel much younger already. It’s been nice to have been entombed with you all for the last hour or so. Oh, by the way, I lied about feeling younger: I actually feel a lot older!

Suddenly, amid the laughter, Louise noticed Nurse Wejiha standing outside the door in the corridor. She was beckoning to her. Louise went out to see what the emergency was. In a minute she returned, looking ashen beneath her tanned face.

The group was silent as they stared at her. Louise swallowed and stated, Boniface Chengo has committed suicide.

2

Could there be other pressures behind the scenes?

More than likely. In any case, it’s all speculation. But now we have a huge vacancy and we need an Executive Officer.

The Reverend Steven Brandon returned to the notes for his long essay. As a vicar in a small congregation within the Church of the Province of Kenya, he had few outlets for expressing his deepest concerns. Encouragement from colleagues had given him the motivation to continue his analysis. ‘The roots of much of the strife in the world now – during the mid 1980s – can be traced to the European explorers of earlier centuries, and the exploitation of many Indigenous cultures through colonization.’ Pausing, he tried to define what was currently wrong in the world, as he was observing it. He thought, The story of exploitation is the same the world over: successful, functioning societies destroyed by the invaders who also brought diseases…then the demand for cheap labour led to the abominable slave trade and the destruction of whole societies…much of the world still suffers from the effects of this exploitation….

Steve stood, walked to his open window, and looked at the lush vegetation outside. The gentle breeze rustled the palm trees above. He could not concentrate. He was distracted by thoughts of Boniface Chengo’s tragic suicide. It had affected him deeply and he wrestled – as he always did over an untimely death – with the hopelessness and finality of it. The loss of the Executive Officer was a huge blow, but what lay behind the tragedy troubled Steve even more. That was still undefined, but it certainly involved the shady accounting system.

He resumed his writing: ‘The industrial revolution was fuelled by the slave trade. Racism was developed as a justification for this, with the newly espoused theory of evolution providing an unfortunate vindication. Then came colonialism and the carving up of nations into merely resource-based production fields.’

His writing continued as ideas came to him: ‘It is true that some countries have won political independence, but the damage to their ways of life continues, and their original, viable, and natural societies can never be restored…’ He asked himself: How can I relate this to our present situation here? Kenya is a prime example of the successes and failures of colonial developments….

He stood and stretched. Glancing down at his papers on the desk, he added a brief note: ‘The geography, altitude, and rainfall largely determine the commercial activities of a region. In Kenya, these are supplemented by the favourable terrain, available labour, efficient transport, and effective communication facilities.’ Steve acknowledged that the last two were, ironically, the products of colonialism. He had seen and experienced some of the varied crops during his years in the country. Enough analysis for today! he thought as he stepped out into the bright sunlight.

At the same moment, Brett and Louise were enjoying one of Kenya’s major products – the excellent Arabica coffee – as they sat in her downstairs reception area that third Saturday morning in January. Naturally, just two weeks after Chengo’s death, they were discussing their personal loss and analyzing the reaction to the tragedy in the community. People had liked Chengo, and many were devastated by his suicide. He had been buried in his home village at the coast, with few Zoo residents being aware of the arrangement until it was all over. The general feeling was that he was innocent of embezzlement, but was under considerable stress.

But, do innocent men commit suicide? Brett asked.

Louise replied, It depends on the degree of pressure. Some may see it as a way out if the situation becomes intolerable. She explained that Chengo had left a note exonerating the accounts clerk, Hamud Sita, who had been imprisoned for operating a double receipt-book scheme and hiding multiple cash transactions. The details Chengo wrote were sufficient for Steve to contact a lawyer in Malindi, and an appeal had been sent to a magistrate. There was hope that Sita’s conviction may be quashed, and the authorities would release him. Louise noted, Chengo did not implicate anyone else – maybe for fear of reprisals against his family if others are involved in the accounting irregularities.

Could there be other pressures behind the scenes?

More than likely. In any case, it’s all speculation. But now we have a huge vacancy and we need an Executive Officer.

Louise located a package and removed some photographs. Changing the subject, this is from my son, Alan, in Australia. By the way, I sent him a photo of the brass plate commemorating Henry’s life. Alan appreciated it, and asked me to thank you for your help with that. Here are some snaps of the three grandchildren. She pointed out the names of each. They want me to visit sometime. I don’t know… She glanced down at her faithful old dog, Kali, and then she stared out of the window towards the southeast.

A week later, Brett and Simion Katana, the Principal of the polytechnic, were reviewing the contents of Brett’s second annual report. They were sitting in Simion’s office and he asked to be reminded who Brett reported to officially. He explained that a copy of his report went to his UK funding agency, The African Educational Foundation; another copy was for Tony and Jane Colburn’s Alliance Community Fellowship in Reading; and the third one had been sent to the National Christian Council of Kenya, the NCCK, in Nairobi.

Simion outlined the measures which were being introduced at the Zoo to deal with the gap left by Chengo’s departure. I will be the temporary Administrator, with Mr. Badr, the assistant manager from the bank in Mwakindini, to be appointed as interim Financial Officer. We two will work with Mr. Lancaster and Mrs. Emerson to form a new Executive Council.

Simion Katana was unable to provide any details of Boniface Chengo’s suicide, but Brett met Steve Brandon outside the college and he heard more about Chengo’s death. Steve was involved in the affair as he worked with the police investigation. Chengo had drunk a bottle of concentrated household disinfectant, and had died a few hours later in hospital. He left a letter for Steve, explaining how Sita had been framed and made the scapegoat for some of the financial irregularities that were being unearthed by Detective Ochieng’s enquiries. Chengo had alluded to larger forces at work behind the scenes, but he revealed no details.

As they walked to the church office, Steve confessed his disappointment at the way the situation in the Zoo was deteriorating. But he was encouraged that, during the challenging times, some people were asking how their faith could provide comfort and guidance. Brett nodded as Steve continued, I know Peter Lancaster and Louise Emerson are raising personal concerns – particularly after Mr. Chengo’s death.

And Miles Jolly was asking perceptive questions about the practical application of Christianity in his life – in his obscure way! Steve smiled, and Brett added, I have learned a lot from your preaching.

Steve nodded his thanks, but said, Yet, many who are asking questions are not in church!

But your messages help us know how to reply. We simply need to be prepared to answer people’s questions, said Brett spreading his hands in a gesture of solicitude.

Steve sighed. As you know, in my teaching I always try to set forth the truth, as presented in the Bible. I’m convinced that’s what people need in order to give them a defence against the many false doctrines–

…and the strange notions floating around these days, Brett completed Steve’s sentence.

Yes, but how can we be effective and approach these dear people in a humble way – and make it relevant to their lives?

Steve’s question hung in the air, and remained on Brett’s mind for the rest of the day.

During one of their coffee-morning chats, Louise told Brett she had agreed to remain temporarily in a management role. But when the others had become more firmly established, and a new Executive Officer was appointed, she intended to withdraw. Below the executive, the existing committee structure continued to operate as previously, including the Committee of Elders. Later in the discussion, Brett was delighted when Louise invited him to visit her late husband Henry’s research station with her.

After a few days, at the agreed time, Brett drove over to her cage, carrying all the necessary equipment, including his stout stick and a large jug of water. Louise beckoned him upstairs and closed the door. "We’ll use the