Taller Than Trees: Or the Search for Order

By Roger Young

Willows by the water glittered, rustling in the blowing breeze.

Mirrored in the limpid distance, silver gilt between the trees, bands of amber streaked the surface, gently rent the shroud of night, freed the sovereignty of darkness, put the dying clouds to flight.

For Willoughby, it was the silent time.

Profiled at the misty margin, contemplating whence she came, bent a water nymph in study, rapt and tranquil, lovely, lonely; a film veiled her slender limbs, limned softly by the suns first flame.

Head lifted, she began to straighten, circling arms began to rise, fingers languidly caressed the tresses. Washed with light, she closed her eyes. A vision only, but not wholly, she is very like anothers form: gorgeous daughter of the morning, born into the warmth of dawn.

It always seemed she might be waiting, though never as she seemed so now . . .

Fastening her glowing hair, she drifted to the liquid lip. There, letting fall the gossamer, she slipped to mingle with the ripples. Grey eyes turned to smile a greeting, and white hand lingered in a parting wave . . .

And she was gone.

In the rushes at the lakeside, the dreamer, dreaming, gave a sigh. Could he make the scene substantial? Should hedare heeven try?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524618537

Roger Young

The author served with the police force concerned in the 1950s and 1960s. He presently lives in Europe.

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Taller Than Trees

or

The Search for Order

Book Three

Roger Young

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Published by AuthorHouse 07/26/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1854-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1852-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1853-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016911322

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To my sister

Vicky

Book Three

QUEENSTOWN

DAY TWENTY

Sunday, 12th April 1914

Willows by the water glittered, rustling in the blowing breeze.

Mirrored in the limpid distance, silver-gilt between the trees, bands of amber streaked the surface, gently rent the shroud of night, freed the sovereignty of darkness, put the dying clouds to flight.

For Willoughby, it was the silent time.

Profiled at the misty margin, contemplating whence she came, bent a water-nymph in study, rapt and tranquil, lovely, lonely; filmy-veiled her slender limbs, limned softly by the sun’s first flame.

Head lifted, she began to straighten, circling arms began to rise, fingers languidly caressed the tresses, washed with light she closed her eyes. Vision only, but not wholly, very like another’s form: gorgeous daughter of the morning, born into the warmth of dawn.

It always seemed she might be waiting; though never as she seemed so now…

Fastening her glowing hair she drifted to the liquid lip: there, letting fall the gossamer, she slipped to mingle with the ripples. Grey eyes turned to smile a greeting, white hand lingered in a parting wave…

And she was gone.

In the rushes at the lake-side, the dreamer, dreaming, gave a sigh. Could he make the scene substantial? Should he – dare he – even try?

It was a while for dreams.

Here and there around the town the light saw other early risers, isolated figures strolling; or stopped and looking at the ground, or scuffing at it with a booted foot; or simply standing still and gazing up. Pride of ownership: for most it was the first land they had ever really had. Of course, that sold them by the Company was satisfying; but it was theirs already by the fact of being there. It wasn’t new. The land one had to fight and pay for, represented more.

It did to him; and Muldoon might have grinned, and hailed them as he passed, but he did not. He hurried by, heading for the glinting water of the dam, dreams clouded by a nightmare of foreboding.

Arrived, he paused, addressed its beauty with a short and unpoetic phrase, then turned. Now his look was anxious: eyes darted as he started back. All quiet. Smoke was rising from the Police Camp kitchen. There were voices, the clatter of a horse’s hooves, the tinkle of a chain… And there he was! a second’s glimpse before the khaki figure vanished in the shadow of that mammoth nag.

Muldoon went by, letting go a breath of loud relief. Willoughby was safe, bless Heaven! – though curse that any circumstance should have him so concerned about the fate of a policeman…

Sunday was a day of rest; nonetheless, the transport must be fed and groomed and watered: four horses, a colt, Robby’s pony, the two station mules. To compensate, it was an anyhow-parade, members in mank-order. Robby half-dressed and half-asleep, pawed vaguely with the brush; the sergeant silent and preoccupied; Dube lethargic. Only the two labourers, Tandabantu’s wards, and Washaya, busy with the mules, showed any life. Tichawona was absent, assembling his effects for transfer to Bulawayo on the morrow (plus request for his replacement, the rule being that if you didn’t ask they would assume you didn’t want, in which case you most surely wouldn’t get). Kupara was due back from leave today.

Shadreck, too, was absent from parade: pains all over his body, the sergeant said. Booze, possibly. Willoughby hoped it wasn’t of the kind that came in square-faced bottles: ‘The Queen’s Tears’, as the Zulus referred to gin. An open town saw much of that, at first. Of course, a lot of it was novelty, especially to juveniles like Shadreck, but in the long run society found means and measures of discouragement should it really become necessary. Monday was a holiday: Shadreck had better be fit for duty Tuesday morning, that was all…

Thoughtfully he bent to his task: Horse grunted acquiescence.

A new station, settling down, routines, procedures, all in the process of establishment… The sergeant he could trust completely; also Dube; Shadreck less, and rather immature. Washaya was good, and plucky, too; Kupara had yet to show what he could do. Problems should not be many. The town was quieter, lines of patients at the Clinic, nil. Could he? Should he? It was a long time that he’d thought of any woman in this way, not since… since…

Ilse.

Chiefly he liked her for having realised the embarrassment, not just of her position but his too, and the woe it could have caused (and damn near did), and circumvented it so charmingly. But there were other reasons: the friendly nature of her letters; the memory of her voice, rather dark, more a woman’s than a girl’s – which, when she spoke among her friends, was not as harsh as he’d been told the German language was, but soft and rather English in its tone. He wished he’d been able to do more for her, especially to say more – that lack of practice did not find his tongue so tied and superficial-sounding.

He went on brushing, remembering the warmth and softness of her skin against his cheek. He saw her, not as a vision by a lake but as a woman standing naked on the sands of the Zambezi, looking up at him: the lift of her head, the slim neck framed by clinging hair, the firm breasts and hardened points, the body flowing to its dark conclusion, down between her thighs…

And then, drenched by a desire so sudden, so great, of such longing and affection, fierce hope, he leaned against his horse’s shoulder, overcome. Dare he meet his dream again? He closed his eyes. He must – he must!

Willoughby had leave plans of his own.

* * *

That’s an elegant black eye you have this morning, Mr Ernest.

Thank you, ma’am.

And Mr Jolly’s forehead shows an interesting lump.

Ahem.

I heard the noise from your room. I hope it wasn’t serious…?

No wonder Tristram blushed and fidgeted: she was a most good- looking woman, Felix thought. She stood by their breakfast table, looking down at them, smiling in that way reserved by older women for a younger man. She probably had children of her own.

We were talking about sport, Mrs Jones, he said.

Boxing, perhaps?

Er, cricket, actually.

Eyebrows lifted. Oh, dear! A disagreement between gentlemen?

Tristram made a bursting noise behind his hand: Felix coughed.

In a manner of speaking, ma’am. Her skin was perfect, too.

I hope you have resolved it. Her smile grew quizzical. "But perhaps I should prepare you: this town is one for disagreements."

Not half, it ain’t… Felix, lounging in the shadow of a gumtree, aware of his assorted hurts and in particular this latest ‘Angebinde von liebe Hand’, tenderly touched his throbbing eye.

What irked him more, though, or the possibility that Tristram might be right, was the implied connection between ‘gentlemen’ and ‘sport’. Why should sport have anything to do with class? And yet, to be honest, undeniably it did, revealed in what, perhaps on purpose, Tristram had left out: that jousting, or horseback combat, was the pastime of nobility. Honour was the code they lived by then, at all their levels and in all circumstances: Chevalier, horseman, Norman French, from whence the English ‘chivalry’; therefore, logically, it would apply as much to anything they did for fun. They would ‘play fair’. Thus it followed, as directly, that how one ‘played the game’, not the result, was the essential – the adverb, not the verb, the main concern.

Players… were ‘gentlemen’.

Felix nodded. Herr – Kavalier – Feiner Mann – Mann von Stand und Bildung – every culture had its understanding of the good. But how was it best loosed, passed down and handed onwards, from the highest to the lowest orders of society, and maintained? What ‘method’ could one use? Just sport. No wonder, then, the English in general thought themselves as the elite: no other race had this direct connection.

But why (the hell) should one accept the English definition?

When last night’s scuffle quieted and tempers were restored, Tristram, by the use of logic, had explained.

‘If I begin a game with you, tennis, ludo or whatever, and halfway through inform you that I’m going to let you win, because a) it doesn’t matter to me, but b) it plainly does to you; what would your reaction be? I’ll tell you: you’d object. ‘I want to beat you!’ you would say.

‘But you can’t, not without my full co-operation. It is therefore I who set the rules, not you. Thus, if you want to play at all, you must abide by them – and they are English.’

He added, ‘It’s also how you deal with a consistently bad loser: politely tell him that you’re going to let him win. And you do so, and you go on doing so, until he learns: lose gracefully. Which eventually he will because a game is a logical pursuit which, logically, one can’t illogically pursue.’

It was a neat if indigestible conclusion, which Felix signalled with a raspberry-tart: then he paused as he unpursed his lips. He’d had thoughts on Queenstown, relevant to this, before: ‘A classless society, starting at the top, from which, by low behaviour, one could only fall’. But what constituted ‘low’ behaviour? No answer, and the lack had marked the end of thought. But now he had one, ready-made: low behaviour was ‘unsportsmanlike’.

How valid was it? Take some society, remove the only means to bend the rules – force, fraud, and constitutional privilege – put in a referee whose word was law; and what emerged was a society constrained in day to day affairs by no alternative but fair and honourable conduct. Queenstown must become the first society of sportsmen, i.e. gentlemen. There was actually no other way, for the common man by definition couldn’t be a gentleman.

Felix looked upon the motley throng. Still idealistic? Less so than before. The X in this equation was the referee, who knew the rules and kept the play and players in their place; and were he Willoughby, or General Gough or Major Kincaid, or anyone of equal power and probity, then there was no way out, no way the rules could fail to be observed. Every common-law-abiding man would be a gentleman.

‘Be he ne’er so vile,

This place would gentle his condition’.

He paraphrased; and no, it wasn’t fanciful; and still less speculation, for paramount was not the obvious of whether a society made free of government could function economically: it could and did. But the same could be said of any band of brigands. More cogent was to know if such could function socially, possessed or could decide upon a conduct-code secure enough to govern intercourse in other fields with other individuals. A bare interdict on force and fraud was not enough, nor yet the rules of plain trade in the market-place. That they were clearly right was only because the alternative was so clearly wrong, and more was needed than a simple negative. Why were they right and all the others not? Religion had answers in the past; but besides being mystical, one-sided, partisan, myriad in number and interpretation, mutually antagonistic to the point of bloodshed, and that fewer now believed them anyway, a free society was free of any interclusion, politically or religiously inspired.

‘Honour’ and/or ‘chivalry’ admittedly was more explicit and particular, also more perceptible; but at the same time it was esoteric and exclusive: the code of and applied to the nobility. But find a way, a medium, to transmit a code like this to every member of society, which he could comprehend and share and practise – the sport ethic – and there was no reason why its definition shouldn’t body forth, commanding ‘fair and honourable behaviour’ from each participant.

Still fanciful? Felix looked about him with his crooked smile.

Play up, and play the game! he said, adding, to complete its new significance, Or else!

* * *

The burly, bearded railwayman pushed through the crowd, young Jones on crutches swinging alongside.

Muldoon, observing them, nearly bit through his cheroot.

Yes, there was the connection, the explanation of how Falk’s fair successor came to know the true price of the hotel. Of course she hadn’t been to Evans: he’d been to her! What an idiot, not to have recognised: that charged by someone as well-organised as this financier, his agent wouldn’t fail to check both sides of every deal. He should, in fact, have smelled the rat when Evans had not asked him for the name of his loan-applicant.

Rich men don’t get richer by mistake.

Muldoon drew on his smoke. It was the timeliest reminder, to stimulate as much as sober him: that as big as Queenstown purposed was the business and the money – and the men! – that would accomplish it. Three thousand on the nail was no penny-ante: you didn’t fool with that. Neither did they. Just one suggestion of chicanery, double dealing, even petty, and they’d ruin him. He knew that as a certainty, for so would he in their position do.

No mercy – no Queenstown – no future any more. Willy-nilly, he was in the big league now: shape up, or weigh anchor and ship out. He’d had a narrow squeak. It cost 150 quid; but the more you lost the more you learned. Whatever didn’t kill you, taught you something.

Cheap at the price, he muttered.

He watched as they crossed the market-place, heading down towards the Camp. His eye grew colder and he puffed more rapidly. Now what in hell… would they be wanting there?

Take control of Uvelani!

Uh-huh.

When?

Now.

What ... what am I supposed to do?

Run it. Show a profit. Make everybody happy.

Will… will I be paid?

Of course. Twenty-five a month.

Vivian gulped: the Welshman was as intimidating as the proposition.

But who owns it? I mean, who am I responsible to?

To me, for now. You’ll meet the owner of the land, Evans stressed the ‘owner’, sooner or later. What you make of it is up to you.

Vivian was still flustered. But it’s a tremendous job! There are thousands of them there! What can I… Do you think I can do it?

Wouldn’t ask you otherwise.

"Do you think you can do it?"

Willoughby, seated at the desk, spoke for the first time, the first direct question. Its quiet change in emphasis resolved the issue properly, and the boy’s hands ceased their agitation.

He glanced from one man to the other. Of course I can, said at last, Why not? He looked at him very straight. I am. I can. I will!

There was no movement from the trooper: just a softening of the eyes. He nodded.

Come on, said Evans, Let’s go and look it over.

Any ideas?

They stood where the ring road joined the Gap, their company augmented by the chief Kumalo; but before Vivian could answer there was a stir amid the throng and seven men ran out, to halt and shuffle into line in front of them.

Who the…? came from Evans, in amazement.

Your new watch committee, said the trooper. Head man Mpofu.

Well, damn me! You’ve got it organised already!

Just the principles. Willoughby could be as brusque.

Nonplussed, Evans looked about him. Well, he said, you won’t be needin’ me then, will you!

Nope. Drop by in about a week.

Right, then, it’s all yours. Chuckling in his beard, wagging his head, the railwayman shook their hands, returned a cool salute from Tandabantu, and took leave. Good luck!

They watched him go.

You make it sound very easy, said Vivian. Is it really?

I am, I can, I will. Apart from that, the principles are all you need to know.

Patel was also mulling principles. Carducci’s to one side, Macaluso’s opposite, meant competition: but he had an advantage: he came cheap. Indian food was easy to prepare, ingredients inexpensive; herbs and spices he had all in stock; his labour cost him nothing; and with that extra money from his hopes of Uvelani… well, it should be used for something.

He called his cousin, issuing instructions: benches, trestles, boards for table-tops from Grunewald’s… linen, cutlery, oil lamps, again from stock, assembled in the space between his store and Uvelani, set back a little from the road with corner-posts and cross-members to take a bamboo roof. Keep it simple, keep it good and keep the prices low – lower far than Macaluso’s or Carducci’s…

And let the public know! Muller’s beer tent was a warning: his tariff- board should be well-displayed. And beer must be available: curries were hot stuff; besides, It was extra revenue…

But then he would have to see about a liquor licence..

Patel caught himself with a grunt of irritation. No licences of any kind, no permissions, inspections or requirements any more: it was an odd sensation, incorporating, yes, an ancient, faint disquiet. Where would the standards be? Dan Jones had a point. Or had he? Surely, an eating house was just like any other business? – standards set by the law of the free market: what a customer required, by what he was supplied, and the prices he was charged. What made a restaurant any different?

There was risk to the customer, it was true: he could be served bad food; but besides the reassurance that normal business didn’t want or try to poison customers, a free market of no licences, requirements or tax, meant that prices could be more competitive. It was as broad as it was long – but always more convenient for everyone.

Patel took out a cigarette. And what about the customers, his clientele? Should he do as Dan Jones wanted, and have it inter-racial: humanitarian ideals against the plain facts of reality? He laughed. Native diet was of the very blandest: the first black man to sample, say, a good Phall curry, would blast off like a rocket to the moon. Hard European liquor had the same effect, could provoke a new Rebellion, why governments forbade experiments like inter-racial bars. The pigment of a drinker’s skin was of less concern than what alcohol could work upon the rest of him…

But suppose Dan Jones was able to establish a bar where strong drink was as available to black as to the white: who would answer for the consequences? – the drunkenness, the riots and fights? Not Daniel Jones, who would disclaim responsibility. Not Peres, who would only look forlorn and shrug. And not the cynics, either, the exploiters, who would come from everywhere to sell the natives rot-gut liquor at rock- bottom cost, and care nothing of what happened. How could they resolve a problem of that magnitude, without power to stop by nipping in the bud? Of what use miners’ meetings, or the Arbitrator’s Court?

Restrictions weren’t all bad: one could see their reason. They did make sense – except that Queenstown didn’t have them.

Patel puffed. It was the same old story, which three weeks had made very old. No nipping any buds: people could do anything they pleased. Only when what they did crossed into force and fraud would something happen. He glanced at the Police Camp.

He hoped he wasn’t present when it did.

"May I come too, Inkosi?"

Progress in saddling was slow, mostly because Tandabantu had requested Robby, personally and specifically, to exercise his mare. He was, he said, too occupied with Vivian and Uvelani; which put the youngster in a dithered ecstasy of combing, shining, soothing, accompanied, inevitably, by equal solicitude towards the colt…

And now Dube, appearing nonchalantly out of nowhere, in clean white shirt and trousers, putties and black boots, leading his waler by the reins…

Are you a cricketer?

"No, Inkosi: but I can hold the horses while you watch."

Fair enough. Probably the order came from Tandabantu, keeping a second eye up on his precious mare.

Willoughby grunted.

The chief’s attitude to Robby was ambiguous, for while with Vivian he was considerate, his rank to complement the youth’s intelligence, with Robby he had caught him sometimes with that little smile of his: not tolerant, as one would think, at Robby’s wayward temper and irreverence, but rather more perceptive – frankly, a copper’s look for an old lag with a lame excuse.

The chief had Robby’s number it was plain, though exactly what it was he wasn’t sure. At any rate he trusted him, at least sufficiently to ride his mare to Bulawayo and back.

Willoughby shrugged, impatient at the passing time.

All right, he said to Dube; then to Robby. Come on! Let’s hike!

We missed something last night, you know, said Felix to his friend across the railway carriage.

What was that?

A knife-fight at the Portuguese’s place.

Go on! A good one?

No, a bad one. Felix was reproving.

Better still. How come we missed it?

We had a fist-fight of our own, if you remember. Felix was even more reproving.

Jolly laughed. Ah, yes! Cries of anguish, howls for mercy. He shook his head. I can’t think what’s got into you! It must be something in the water, or because it’s been forbidden…

What has?

"Force! I’ve never seen a place like it! Everybody thumping every-body else… And you’re as bad as any! Getting to be quite a punchy little chap, actually. Next thing, you’ll be knifing me!"

Felix gave his most reproving cough. The place is still settling down, he said, After such an upheaval, and with so much at stake, you must expect feelings to run high.

Should we take you as an example?

I’m serious! and Felix was. He leaned forward. After things have sorted themselves out, d’ you think it’s possible this place could make a go of it?

But Jolly, seated by the window, gave no heed to such a trivial question: something had caught his eye outside and he was trying to get a better view.

Talk of the devil…

Eh?

Look!

It was a flat brown plain they were traversing, criss-crossed with trails, studded with a few mimosa trees and thickets of acacia, with darker sections where the water-courses lay. Three horsemen close beside the track and parallel, were coming into view…

You’re right! That’s Willoughby! ... three horsemen at a comfortable canter, two behind and one ahead.

Felix watched. There was always significance as well as normal curiosity, in observing someone of importance engaged in the mundane. It supplied a new and recognisable dimension, ‘human interest’ in professional terms: how good, or bad, was he at doing things that others did? At any rate, he looked damn’ good. The solid figure, deeply in the saddle, very straight, moved easily with the motion of the horse: his hands were low, reins gathered in one fist…

Rides like a dragoon, he commented.

"He is a dragoon, you duffer: the police here are mounted infantry. But be hanged to that! breathed Tristram, Look up front – the youngster on the chestnut! What a gorgeous animal!"

They were drawing level. Felix sighed. As usual, Tris had missed the point. His horse has a kicker’s badge. He saw the flash of red.

So should its owner.

But smoke from the engine was plainly troubling the mare: she broke and chassayed, tossing her head as they passed by. Looking backwards now they saw the policeman give a grin, white teeth against a dark brown skin, and a sign that plainly told the clinging rider, ‘Let her go!’

The lad whooped, throwing himself forward; then the pair of them were surging alongside… and Felix saw the beautiful extended line of flowing movement, the arching body, flying mane and pounding hooves, not captured in an instant’s flash as at a racecourse, sweeping by to disappear as soon as seen, but caught and held in a continuum of movement by the matching motion of the train, as in a cinematograph: an extraordinary, exhilarating spectacle…

Then the rider’s heels were on; and in that instant it seemed to Felix that the chestnut dropped a foot in height, to flatten out and pull away in a tremendous burst of speed. He heard Tristram give a gasp, and shout, On! On! and she was gone, like an arrow through a cloud of dust. Now the other two were steaming into view in a gallant, hopeless chase, Willoughby’s black squire bent low; but Willoughby himself as straight as ever, legs perhaps a little longer in the stirrups, even at full gallop giving the impression of unhurriedness.

Then they, too, pulled ahead. Felix saw the trooper’s hand lift in a small wave as they passed the engine, and heard the whistle shrill in answer – and were gone, sweeping in a wide curve out onto the plain.

He settled back, aware from muffled cheering in the other carriages that they were not the only witnesses.

Tristram heard the noise as well. Playing to the gallery! Felix shook his head: in spurring on, Willoughby, he was sure, had no thought else than to avoid the smoke, if not the public view. But that he should be so popular ... was unusual.

Incredible! Tristram exclaimed, sinking back onto the seat. What’s a horse like that doing in a place like Queenstown?

What’s Queenstown doing on a place like planet Earth? Felix made an effort to regain his subject.

There was no answer for a moment; then Tristram said:

Queenstown isn’t new.

It took as long for Felix to absorb the meaning as the tone. It isn’t?

The other day you used the term ‘pie-powder’ to describe the arbitration sessions, Tristram said. Do you know what pie-powder courts are? Or were?

So he was going to spring another gem on him: Felix scowled.

Hobson-jobson, he said at last. "Pied-poudré, French for dusty foot: rough-and-ready justice, from the Middle Ages very likely; but that’s all I know. Did I get it wrong, or something?"

No, except that justice wasn’t rough-and-ready. Pie-powders were properly conducted fairground courts, to settle differences and minor criminal offences on the spot.

Why fairgrounds?

Because they weren’t what they are now, swings and roundabouts. They were meeting-places where opposing armies could suspend hostilities and engage in trade without being interfered with: in other words ‘ground’ that was ‘fair’. ‘Fair play’ has probably the same origin, with the free, unfettered market-place. Queenstown, therefore, is a pretty accurate revival of what used once to be quite common, even to its Arbitration Courts.

Well, I’m damned! said Felix.

’There’s nothing new under the sun, Watson, Tristram winked. ’It’s all happened before. He grinned. Make a go of it? Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Willoughby’s here! said Oldknow in suppressed excitement as he took his seat beside the major in the members’ enclosure.

He was here yesterday. The rejoinder took awhile.

They came on horseback – and you should see ’em!

What, that Clydesdale, or Percheron, or whatever it is he rides?

The other two, Dube and the Mazunga kid, the one with the pretty French mother.

Ah, yes. Kincaid, busy with the cricket, was behind his glasses. Captain Murray said their horses were exceptional.

Exceptional! exclaimed the young lieutenant. I know every bit of horse-flesh from Limpopo to Zambezi; but I swear I’ve never seen the animal that youngster’s mounted on. She’s spectacular!

Must be that mare of Tandabantu’s. He showed me papers some time ago. Dube’s and Shadreck’s, too.

Where did they get them?

From some hunter, during the patrol.

Stolen?

Kincaid shook his head. I checked. No record.

How much did they pay?

Six head of cattle each, I believe.

Bargain! The mare’s a thoroughbred, or I’m a Dutchman. I’d love to ride her! But talking of thieves…

No shop.

"Bahadur’s up and about. I saw him on his stoep this morning."

Hmm.

Do you think we should advise Willoughby?

What for?

Bahadur’s a vindictive man. He could be plotting some revenge.

If he tries, he’s probably in more danger than his victim.

Let’s hope so. But isn’t it possible he’ll start the same racket he had in Queenstown? the lieutenant asked.

I should think it more than likely.

Perhaps we should have charged him with assault on Native Constable Washaya: put him away for a while.

In that case we’d have to do the same to Willoughby, and we don’t need publicity like that. Just leave it as it is, Mr Oldknow. Given time, Bahadur will overstep himself again. That kind always do.

Very good, sir. And Willoughby?

There was a silence.

Miserable shot. The major, watching the ball drilled neatly to the boundary, refocused his glasses.

I think a spot of leave would do him good, he said at last. Suggest it to him next time he comes in. For now, keep an eye on Bahadur.

The house in Fort Street was piled high with merchandise: boxes, hampers, bales and crates filled every room: untidily, for it was a shabby, dirty place.

But there was money. Such furniture as could be seen, badly kept, with no regard to taste or harmony and carelessly accommodated, was of the expensive kind: chairs of leather, tables made of inlaid wood, ornaments of brass and ivory, a velvet settle trimmed with gold lamé, a Indian rug with cigarettes burned in where newspapers lay scattered. Sunlight came in little streams past curtains of brocade.

Six men occupied the big front room: six silent, sullen individuals, bound and bandaged, seated, watching while the seventh, a small and yellow man in spectacles, briskly packed his doctor’s instruments.

All in order, he announced, Very clean, no danger. Much rest, no strenuous activities. I will come in one week’s time. Thank you.

Here’s your money, the biggest and heaviest of his patients growled, throwing some coins onto the table. Now get out.

Even when he had departed, no one spoke: Bahadur was in no mood.

Jakin, he said presently. Any news? His jaw was taped and wired, muffling the words.

No, sir, someone answered. All his friends have been arrested, and he has disappeared completely. Probably, he has run away.

The shebeens have gone too, another was encouraged to supply.

What shall we do now? Start another business here?

The reference wasn’t to the quantity of kaffir truck, pushed against the walls: Bahadur’s eyes, switching from speaker to speaker, rested on him. The man moved uncomfortably.

There are more police here. They will try to stop us.

Bahadur’s eyes switched again.

In Queenstown, the European market now is very big, another offered, The native one is even bigger.

I heard there is no law. Do whatever you like.

I also heard it, and it will stay. People will not want to change.

A good place for us, then.

"Not while he is there."

But he is just one man, no more.

Now they were all watching their employer, crouching in his chair: the bloodshot eyes looked back at them in turn. Bahadur did not know fear: when he spoke, his voice rumbled deep within his chest.

Leave him to me, he said.

Leave – Vacation Leave: what hopes, what fears the term inspired, especially for the single man. It meant, perforce, a step out of his narrow world and ‘into something rich and strange’, places, people, jobs, and was not without risk. Often he came back to put in for his discharge, or with a wife, or fiancée, or to find himself transferred to God knew where. It was a turning point, a roulette wheel, what happened a matter of blind chance. Stay put, and you would know with average certainty how you would be on any future date: take leave, and at its end be sure you would not return the same as when you started out.

Sagely, Willoughby nodded to himself. It was also possible to talk oneself into anything, hope or fear or just plain funk. How should he word the invitation: cool and casual? ‘How about a spot of leave in Beira, just down the coast from you? I thought we might join up and tread the light fantastic…’ Ugh: not his style, and this was not to be a cool and casual meeting anyway. ‘I’ve missed you a good deal and would like to see you very much’… heavy, steamy, and too egotist. Why should she care how much he missed her?

What would she prefer? That was how he must regard, and word it. What could he recall of her? Nothing more than that she seemed: an honest, down-to-earth, straightforward sort of person, the kind he liked; and nurses and policemen were said to have a lot in common (usually by who weren’t either). It shouldn’t be difficult to write in such a vein; and were she what he hoped and thought she was, she would agree.

It would be a confirmation, too, not only of her strength of character but also her affection. Time was getting short, for both of them: the coming war, that he could feel within his bones and that van Rooyen prophesied, would place their mutual countries out of bounds.

He put his hands behind his head, tipping his hat forward, frowning at the cricket pitch. In any case, supposing she agreed, would they let him go? After all, he’d only just arrived. And yet, why not? The station was practically self-running; by the time he’d written and received reply and could apply for leave, it would be more so.

And the town? – that penny-dreadful settlement, hauled squirming to the path of righteousness? He’d no real fears in that regard, having seen the same thing happen in the past, his past, i.e. with no surprise, that given the same circumstance the same thing reoccurred. The great majority, in fact, desired no more than to be left in peace, and would employ whatever means obtained it. The anti-socialites were the minority, even in a place like Queenstown.

The real trouble, and the danger too, was that too many means to peace were offered, made available, too many fingers allowed to fiddle with the works. Vivian had struck the nail square: its source was in misinformation, wrong understanding of the rights and powers possible. But its remedy was also of the simplest: close the workshop door and shoot the bolt. No need to shoot reformers, or for them to shoot each other; not even rap their eager little knuckles…

No, with the auction past, the Location, Uvelani and everybody settled, Queenstown was over the worst of its beginnings: he could apply for leave with conscience clear… If Ilse agreed. It all depended upon that.

I say, you’re awfully fidgety today! That’s the third time you’ve kicked me in the ribs! Robby looked up from his magazine.

Sorry.

Willoughby was beginning to feel panic.

Tandabantu walked in silence at the young man’s side, Mpofu paced behind. As a policeman he had many times been present when bad news was passed; not often when the news was good; though in this case it wasn’t wholly good. Twenty-five a month was a satisfactory salary, normal for a European storekeeper; but normally included was a place to live, a house, a garden to grow food, staff, and a boy to cook and clean. Vivian’s salary included nothing.

He watched him from the corner of his eye as they passed the native market, along each perimeter, through the centre, then from side to side. He was to run it all: but how? What would he do? Where would he begin?

Had Willoughby given him instructions, as he had Washaya of the Location? Uvelani was a vastly different thing. Suppose Willoughby had given the responsibility to him, as chief: what would he do? He couldn’t run it as he ran his Lines: their purposes were different. Nor could he as the European market-place next-door, for Uvelani was a single enterprise, not many separate ones. Nor would he run it as in Bulawayo, for he had heard the traders grumbling and seen how many came to Queenstown. Bulawayo did not provide a good example for young Vivian.

He peeped again. What was he thinking? charged with that responsibility – and all that money – for not much had passed between them, only pacing, as on beat, eyes everywhere.

Vivian had only spoken once. ‘Mpofu,’ he enquired, ‘how much money do you make in Uvelani?’ ‘Four pounds, Inkosi, in this one week.’ ‘Do others make more or less?’ ‘Some make more and some make less; but I am pleased because next week I think it will be more.’

More than anything was Tandabantu curious. No, he was sure that neither Willoughby nor Evans had given Vivian instructions. What he did would be his own decision, beginning with – Tandabantu looked about severely – those who genuinely came to sell, of which, to judge by numbers, there were actually not many, and those friends and relatives and hangers-on, visitors and children of the sellers, whose attitude to Uvelani was as of some enormous feast or festival, and who swelled the total far out of proportion.

Which could be solved a dozen ways, beginning with a wholesale kicking-out; but even were there not that strange resemblance physically, he sensed the presence of van Rooyen: through Evans, Willoughby, through the great sum of money paid which only he could have afforded, and through the non-coincidence of Uvelani’s ancestry; and he guessed that whatever Vivian finally decided it would be like all of them; as well as another dislocating piece of left-hand thinking.

Three things for the moment, chief, said Vivian at last, stopping in the road. "People here must be informed that while they have right of way to the river to fetch water, the trees belong to the owners of the land and so they may not touch them. They must therefore bring wood for their fires from somewhere else. Also they must build latrines, immediately: I will show you where. I will hold an indaba here tonight, at eight o’clock. Will you tell them?"

He nodded: no more, no less, would he have said himself…

Well, well! a voice boomed in their rear. Am I right, young feller, in assumin’ you’re the new boss here?

It was Muldoon, hands on hips, regarding them with no great friendliness.

What’s going to happen with Uvelani? Robby asked.

Eh? Willoughby was startled from his reverie. What d’you know about Uvelani?

Everyone was talking about it at the ragtime concert on Friday; and Tandabantu told me this morning it was sold. Who’s going to run it?

Willoughby hesitated. Vivian Jones.

What! Robby dropped his magazine. Him?

Why not?

I dunno. After a moment the boy shrugged. No reason why not. It’s going to put Muldoon’s nose out of joint, though, he grinned. Someone said he had his eye on it himself.

Humph.

I wonder what he’ll do.

Vivian? That’s up to him. He can leave it as it is, if he feels like it.

I was thinking about his job at the hotel.

What job?

Cook, of course. Do you think I could take his place?

You? Willoughby looked blankly at the figure scrunched against his legs, half hidden under a now-shapeless boater: a pair of dark and slanting eyes looked back at him.

Why not? Just for the hols. It’s better than going back to the ranch.

What about your parents?

They won’t mind. I often stay in Bulawayo for the holidays.

Well, you’d better talk to Mrs Jones. Willoughby was cautious.

I could stay at the Camp, couldn’t I? Those eyes were pleading now. It’s only for a couple of weeks.

Ah, well, yes, um, ahem, Willoughby cleared his throat.

I can fetch my clothes from school tomorrow.

Why not? Willoughby shrugged inwardly. It was nice, having company around, especially for the evening’s solitude; and Robby’s was acceptable enough. Also, he’d promised Vivian he’d find a cook…

All right, he said, then added, But since you’re going to be a kitchen-hand, let’s have no more cracks about policemen not being gentlemen, eh? One had to score with Robby where one could…

The boy’s face wore the happiest of smiles. A policeman is only a policeman; but a chef is a gentleman’s profession!

… though not always successfully.

Anything else? asked Kincaid, after an hour of concentration.

I spoke to Hay the auctioneer just now. One or two surprises yesterday in Queenstown, it appears.

Surprise me.

The native location was bought by Sarn’t Tandabantu, acting for the villagers. It’s theirs now, but they’ve asked Willoughby to manage it. A Chinaman bought Bahadur’s old store for a thousand…

Who bought the native market-place? Kincaid’s gaze hadn’t left the wicket: he knew the priorities.

"Chap named Evans, not from Queenstown: three thousand cash."

There was a contemplative silence.

Evans, eh. Do we know him?

Several, it’s a common name; but none with that kind of money.

It’s a lot for a patch of bush. Now the Company can pay off its debts. Four overs passed. "How would you run a native market, were it dropped into your lap?"

No idea, sir, came the prompt response. Like London’s Covent Garden, I suppose: rules and regs, with the Bow Street cop-shop just across the way.

Kincaid’s comment was entirely silent.

How are you going to run the place? Have you decided yet?

No.

Of course, since your employer owns the land, there’s no reason why you can’t play God and be a little government all by yourself.

God and governments are not required to show a profit. I am.

How much is he paying you?

Sufficient, thank you.

Tandabantu watched them narrowly. No doubt Muldoon was displeased that Uvelani should have gone to one so junior; that now, instead of treating him as hitherto, he must as Queenstown’s single most important businessman. Less obvious was whether Vivian were equal to it. Muldoon would be a hard opponent.

We’ll be watching how you handle it, you know.

Silence.

Tell me, Muldoon black-browed the young man up and down, just to satisfy my curiosity. How did you land this job, eh?

Vivian smiled, not at Muldoon but himself, gazing round the sprawling mass of Uvelani. Ask me that in three months’ time, he said; and still he wasn’t looking at Muldoon.

Do you see that fellow over there, talking to the mayor?

Kincaid didn’t move. Well-dressed? Grey hair? Rather short?

That’s the one. He’s an American, believed to be a millionaire.

What’s he doing here?

Said he had a ‘yen’: I met him at a sundowner the other night.

Too many tales of Darkest Africa.

He wants to start a factory, making farm machinery.

Good luck.

Doesn’t seem to be having any. Too much red tape, he said.

I’m not surprised. This isn’t Darkest Africa any more.

Would you like to meet him, sir?

Not unless he breaks the law, said Kincaid, after an even longer pause. What’s his name?

"I have his card: ‘Aloysius Oakman Keene’. Nice chap, I thought…

Late afternoon.

Therapeutic. Do him good, was the doctor’s only comment on Vivian’s appointment after Muldoon had ceased grieving to him.

First back from cricket, he was (not) enjoying a drink at the saloon. What else happened here? he asked.

Patel’s starting up an eating house, next to his store: Indian food.

What’s wrong with that? – for the Irishman did not look radiant.

Have you ever eaten curry?

Certainly! It’s very good, especially after a night out on the tiles.

You should know. It’s deadly stuff! Muldoon cut the interjection. Does all kinds of things to your insides if you’re not used to it – an’ he hasn’t even got a proper lavatory!

His customers can buy trousers at his store.

Very comical! Can’t you see the effect it’s going to have on business? Long lines of visitors to Queenstown, rushin’ to the bog, clutchin’ their behinds… stop grinnin’ like an ijiit, will you!

He can sell ’em paregoric, too.

Bah! Grumbling, Muldoon swabbed the counter-top. Coolies, dishin’ up their filthy food, children runnin’ an important business, no supervision anywhere… dunno what the place is coming to.

Wait until it gets there. Hamilton was soothing: then he wasn’t. And leave young Jones alone with Uvelani, d’you hear! Yours won’t be the only opposition, or bright ideas on how to run it that he has to listen to. Just leave him to his own devices, huh?

Muldoon made some unpleasantry, then: D’you see patients on a Sunday?

No.

Nor do I. But someone was knocking on your door a while ago.

Thanks for telling me! Hamilton slammed down his glass. Most considerate! Who was it?

Muldoon smirked.

Keep the best till last: she looked a really classy bit o’ goods! ’Tis elevated company you doctors keep, no doubt about it…

I haven’t decided yet, said Vivian, taking his place at table. There’s someone I must speak to first.

"But who is this man, this ‘investor’? his father was still open-mouthed. It can’t be Evans: you said he’s just a railwayman!"

He’s representing someone else. I don’t know who.

Did Evans have anything to do with the hotel? Dan Jones turned suddenly to his wife.

She nodded. Muldoon was acting as the go-between.

"You mean there were two go-betweens?"

I don’t know the details.

I don’t understand! Dan Jones was bewildered. He could have put that money to better use elsewhere! Why Queenstown? What does he hope to gain from a place like this?

The same as we do, I imagine. Niobe’s eyebrows lifted, Only being richer, he has more money to invest.

"But why has this family been selected for such generosity? That’s another thing I don’t understand."

I wasn’t ‘selected’, she answered, I applied. Vivian was selected.

But why?

Why not? Vivian asked. It has to be someone: why not me?

I’m very glad for your sake, don’t misunderstand me, Dan Jones smiled away the implication. But I do think there are better qualified.

Everyone is better qualified, Vivian said dryly. You only have to ask him. But with so much quality about, that one gets it while another doesn’t means that luck must be involved. I was lucky, that’s all.

Do you have a contract?

I’ve my first month’s salary. Vivian patted his pocket. After three months, I shall ask him for one.

Why three months?

I have to prove to myself as well as him, that I can do it.

Did he give you any money for expenses? You’ll need an office, you know, equipment, staff, telephone, all kinds of things. There are at least a thousand people out there…

He gave me nothing. That’s how I have to prove myself.

Dan Jones looked at him. The boy’s self-deprecation was not cynical, but as real as the honesty that saw and the fortitude that battled his short-comings. He leaned across and lightly gripped his hand.

I think your employer is luckier to have you, than you are him, he said, and his love showed clearly in his eyes, And I’ll be more than glad to help you in any way I can.

It’s a question of organisation, he said later, looking across the site of the new latrines where a small army seemed to be engaged in digging, with always the overriding question: ‘What is fair?’

How does one know that? asked Vivian

I recommend you do a survey, to determine the value of each product. When you’ve done that you can stabilise its price: no one can charge more, or less. That way, there’ll be no unfair competition, no complaints, and everybody will be happy. No one could ask for any more than that!

"You’ll be happy, Vivian remarked, but will they?"

One solution is to make it into a co-operative, his father didn’t seem to hear, starting with proper education. Robert Owen, the first and greatest socialist, is your example. His co-operatives, in America and England in the middle of the last century…

…which all failed…

"…were wonderful ideas: pooling their resources for the general good. Here, too, you have to think of people’s welfare first: are they comfortable, well-provided for; do they have enough to eat; is the sanitation adequate; are they protected from the cold? I suggest that as soon as possible you talk to your employer about permanent block- houses for their pitches, and a supply of running water.

You’ll also need a department for inspection of their produce, to make sure no one tries to sell anything sub-standard or a danger to the public… Vivian was looking at the ground, nodding to himself as his father made the points. "Then there’s the question of the women and children. You’ll have to form a committee to oversee their health and hygiene; and you must start a school for the older ones. There’s so much for you to do…"

Dan Jones’ voice had taken on a warmer tone and his mild eyes shone with pleasure. He stood with folded arms above the yawning pits, regarding the activity around them.

It’s such a challenge, he said seriously. People need help, especially these, and you can give it to them in a way they never had before. Help them organise, make something of themselves, lead better lives. With fairness as your principle, you can introduce them to the kind of life that leads to true prosperity, peace and harmony: mutual trade to mutual good! Of course, you’ll have to introduce some pretty stringent regulations… What’s going on there?

He pointed where a crowd was watching and applauding something.

Pat Duffy. It’s a Dressing Competition.

"I don’t think having whites is such a good idea. Don’t you…"

He stopped. Oakshot, in flannels, blazer and a boater, fresh from cricket, was rolling up to them. Behind, were two young men who in the dusk he didn’t recognise.

What’s all this! the butcher rumbled cheerfully. Taken over management of Uvelani, I hear – and your old man filling you with notions of the public good, I’ve no doubt. He winked at Vivian. Don’t pay no heed, young feller, he went on beerily, "Profit’s what it’s all about: the money! Don’t lose sight of that!

No trouble here, anyway… He gestured widely, teetered and nearly fell into the pit. "Just organise it like our market-place: skim off your percent, kick their bottoms if they shuper you, and you’ll be laffing!"

Vivian didn’t laugh, attending as gravely as he had his father. His Mercury stood to one side, bouncing on his toes and humming.

Now Dan Jones fell silent. In ones and twos, their comments and guffawing loud amid the quiet encampment, in a long and straggling line that had its start in Muldoon’s bar were more of the town’s experts in town planning and market management – the ‘better qualified’ – making their way purposefully through the twilight towards them.

He groaned.

The surgery door closed with a soft click.

Slowly, Hamilton returned to his desk and dropped into his chair, staring glassily before him. Cruelty to animals, he’d thought once, must be bad. Wrong. That was child’s play: this was infinitely worse.

He moved his head; his eyes roved up and down the bookcases, seeking, in the gloom, some inspiration, while his visitor’s voice, whose quietness couldn’t hide its desperation, recalled their dialogue.

How old is she, ma’am?

Nineteen.

And how long has she been in this ... condition?

About three months.

Can she not marry him?

He has left the country, whereabouts unknown.

I see.

She is also engaged to marry someone else, a family friend, who is due from England in July.

Does her father know?

No. It would break him; also socially. His congregation… I don’t need to explain.

Quite. How is her general state of health?

Fortunately, never better.

Does she want ... what you’re proposing?

Her mother nodded.

And then Hamilton enquired, fearing the answer even as he heard it spoken: Can you tell me why it is you came to me in Queenstown?

I understand that Queenstown is a free society; that things here are permitted which would not be so elsewhere.

Now he closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, feeling the sweat cold upon his brow. No jolly games on the verandah of Muldoon’s jolly bar: if he were wrong – made some mistake with this one – he faced anything from prison and disbarring from the medical profession, to the penalty of death itself.

What was his opinion on abortion? Like most doctors who were not religious: ambivalent. Sometimes it seemed right and necessary, others not. Most doctors took their cue, or ducked responsibility, by referring to the law. Which was not ambivalent at all: abortion was a crime at Common Law.

But was it really? What did it amount to? – removal from the uterus, at the request of the woman, of an organism that she did not want. It was her body, her decision, reference to personal conscience. There was no force or fraud, or ‘rights’ involved. An embryo was not a person, either in fact or law, therefore did or could not have rights of any kind. Was it a question of morality, in plain terms ‘wrong’? or yet another instance of what Queenstown had so firmly set its face against: the arrogation of morality by governments, and its maintenance by force? If the latter, then what the woman had inferred was quite correct: a free society, operating on the principle of Natural Law and individual rights, would disregard the edicts of their governments, and countenance abortion. But if not…

Was it right, or wrong? How did the Natural Law regard it?

Hamilton stirred. As far as his knowledge went, abortion had been ‘wrong’ in every age and culture since the dawn of time – and was certainly so now in all civilised societies. It was, in fact, outside the competence of governments or individuals; which meant that for legislation to decree that it was right ... was just the sort of interference Queenstown would not tolerate.

Which still didn’t supply him with an answer: perhaps it was a crime; but was it criminal?

He muttered in disgust. Here was he, not only as a doctor but also an arbitrator, appealed to on both accounts about what was monumentally important, demanding a response before the morrow’s night when his caller would return and which, if incorrect, would bear the gravest consequences, not just without the means of making one but also even finding one: a cool, clear, educated brain which suddenly and for the first time found itself right out of its depth.

Morally, was abortion right or wrong?

He had only one recourse; and was aware of it as surely as he knew how much he loathed its implication of defeat, and feared its outcome of employ. He must return to source, the origin, the fountainhead.

He must… solicit Willoughby.

Winning is for losers. Willoughby was growing testy at Robby’s fulminations about cricket. It only shows you’re better than another – who may be no damn good at all! And why compare yourself to others anyway? It’s the sport you have to master, and only you know when you’ve done it. Winning is just playing to the gallery in search of praise: doing what others want.

They were homeward-bound.

How well should one do it, then?

Robby was riding alongside. His voice was high with shock.

Well enough to be able to enjoy it. Let kids compete: praise is what they’re always looking for. To adults it shouldn’t be important. Hullo, what’s this!

A young man running at terrific speed across the open veld, was curving to head them off.

In the gloom of early evening, figures milled about a ditch on the outskirts of the native market: ‘Uvelani’.

A tall figure, Daniel Jones, hemmed in by clamorous debate from which came clearly, It should be better organised! Kick ’em out and back to the Reserves! The kid’s got no experience anyway! was unsuccessfully appealing for restraint. Several of the men were frankly drunk, waving glasses, jostling and gesticulating. Two or three, with appropriated tools, had leaped to the bottom of the pit and were digging to loud encouragement and throwing dirt in all directions.

The only silent figure was a boy on crutches, who stood to one side in the manner of one waiting for some distastefulness to pass, his face inscrutable; and a group of native workmen clustered numbly at one end. It was an unpleasant scene, an excessive oafishness peculiar to…

Where’s Muldoon? – Tristram, in an undertone. I thought you said he dealt with things like this.

Like Achilles: sulking in his tent, Felix answered shortly. What could he do anyway? They’re having ‘fun’.

Indeed they were, slapping backs, nudging ribs, some doubled up with laughter. Felix was unamused. He’d heard that sort of merriment before, the vicious, jeering parody of goodwill – once notably in London’s Cheapside on an evening when a gentleman’s barouche had cast a wheel: the roughs who came to his ‘assistance’, ‘accidentally’ freeing the horses, loosening another wheel, tipping the whole thing on its side, then sniggering off into the dark before the bobbies came. He was of their number; and since self-contempt was not a feeling Felix relished he was never so again.

But he knew the sound, and knew what he was hearing now, this time not in class-antipathy but naked envy, its despiséd twin. Let Achilles sulk: the rankest of his rank and file would sully forth to make his thoughts misdeeds…

Bastards, said Tristram with an edge of anger. How long’s this been going on?

Too long.

Felix hid his chagrin. So much for his ‘Community of Gentlemen, Constrained to Honourable Conduct by the Rules of Sport’. Were the referee not at his post, even for an afternoon, the players turned into a simple bunch of ruffians. So much for the ‘natural nobility of common men’. More than anything at that moment, Felix yearned to see the referee return, retake control, remind them of the rules and reaffirm their dire alternative: ‘Or else…’

He’s here!

Tristram’s whisper was exultant: his nudge sent him nearly sprawling. And there indeed he was, looming from the gloom on his enormous steed, behind him his black squire, mounted too; and someone else, a third man – Felix’ sharp eyes spotted him, dressed like a runner in a pair of shorts, holding fast the second horseman’s stirrup-leather…

Willoughby had not just happened by: he’d been waylaid and brought! – and was a very angry man.

What the hell’s going on! he roared. "What are you doing in that pit! Get out of there! Get out! Move