Beneath the Lemonwood Tree: Buried, but not forgotten.

By Diana K Robinson

The Sequel to the Popular Winds of Change

The Lemonwood tree stands proud at the highest point on Chanting Clover Thoroughbred Stud in the heart of the picturesque KwaZulu Natal midlands of South Africa. It is a place where the Whitaker family gravitate for times of intimacy, introspection, and restora

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana K Publications
• Release date: Oct 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805414230

Diana K Robinson

Diana K Robinson was born on a farm in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, in 1958, and in 1980, moved to South Africa at the end of the country’s civil war. Robinson now lives with her husband in England and has two sons. One is a farmer in Zambia, and the other spends his life embroiled with saving wildlife matters in South Africa. Robinson has two grandsons who live in Zambia.

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Beneath the Lemonwood Tree

Sequel to the bestselling Winds of Change

Beneath the Lemonwood Tree

Buried, but not forgotten.

By

Diana K Robinson

Will the truth be revealed?

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Diana K Robinson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Contact [e-mail]

Diana K Publications – https://dianakrobinson.com

First paperback edition

Book design by Publishing Push

ISBNs

978-1-80541-424-7 (paperback)

978-1-80541-423-0 (eBook)

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

The Tangled Reins of Fate

Also by Diana K Robinson

Fiction

Winds of Change

Don’t Blame Me

Non-Fiction Reference

Connect–An Equus Soul Technique

Don’t give your son money; as far as you can afford it, give him horses. No one ever came to grief through riding horses. No hour of life is lost that is spent in the saddle.

Building slow destroyers! One might as well breed slow race horses.

There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.

Special thanks to Sir Winston Churchill for these wonderful quotes.

And special thanks, as always, to my very precious husband.

Introduction

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Melonie Whitaker, nee Johns, was the target of a vicious vendetta. Spawned during the bush war in a small, landlocked country known then as Rhodesia. White farmers, as the Whitaker family were, became the frontline. Gun-bearing husbands and wives with their children. Melonie, an only child, was a 16-year-old teenager when she experienced the very worst any war could serve up. She survived the first attack on the farm homestead, which was repelled. But the terrorists returned to the farm a few months later and abducted her, taking her deep into Mozambiquan territory to a terrorist camp. She escaped, but her escape bred the vendetta that followed her to South Africa.

Melonie’s passion for horses began as a child. The passion grew when they left war-torn Rhodesia and settled at Chanting Clover Stud. The stud belonged to Melonie’s maternal grandmother, Iris Paige.

Iris and her husband, Fergus, left a successful coffee farm in Kenya during the Mau-Mau uprising. They had to leave and decided to settle in South Africa. They had bought the farm in the Natal Midlands to breed sheep. However, Iris’s love of horses led her to breed racehorses as a hobby. Iris did nothing in half measures and soon became one of South Africa’s finest Thoroughbred breeders.

Getting on in years, and after her husband, Fergus, had died, she and her trainer, Hector Willis, found it hard to cope. Iris was sympathetic to what her daughter, Margaret, was going through in Rhodesia and persuaded them to sell and join her at Chanting Clover. She suggested they take over the existing flock of sheep and manage the farm so she could concentrate on the horses.

Melonie, despite her youth, dominated the activities at the stud. She was a natural. At her first Durban July in 1979, Iris’s home-bred horse, Wind Power, won. Iris had finally done it. This was a major milestone. Tragically, Iris collapsed and died directly after the race. Melonie, under Hector’s tutelage, became the de facto successor.

Melonie’s success in her first ten years at the stud was admired, revered, and envied. She fell in love with Gary Whitaker, a successful Johannesburg racehorse trainer who took the job as an assistant trainer to Hector. Together, with their home-bred horses, they won many Group One and Group Two races. Continuing with the same mantra Iris Paige had preached—keep it small—breed quality, not quantity, Chanting Clover stud remained one of South Africa’s best.

Melonie survived a murder attempt by Solomon Tlale, the terrorist who had abducted her. And years later, she survived yet another direct attempt on her life. Otherwise, she and her new husband, Gary, enjoyed years of peace and success. But there was one continuous menace, the ever-present threat that hung over their heads, like an octopus hiding in a dark cave with its tentacles reaching out for them. However, Melonie is a survivor and gets on with life, driven by her remarkable ability to see the best in people.

They have two handsome sons, Garth and Bradley, who, like their parents, adore horses. They are gifted boys, gregarious and energetic, academic, competitive, and brilliant athletes. But the vendetta against their mother taints all their lives. It affects their friends, business associates, and even their horses in various ways.

In his desperate attempt to end Melonie’s life, Solomon Tlale’s bitter revenge continues unrelentingly. In Zimbabwe, this man had become a feared Colonel in Robert Mugabe’s tyrannous regime. He cannot forget or forgive how Melonie keeps escaping the many attempts he makes on her life.

As she gets older, the constant threats begin to sap her vibrant energy.

Chapter One

Melonie woke with a start. Her heart was racing, and she was sweating profusely. It had been a terrifying nightmare. She lay, looking up at the ceiling, wondering what had triggered it. She had not had one so vivid and so frightening for months. She glanced at her watch; Gary would have been at the gallops for two hours already. It was just after seven a.m. The nightmare had been violent, with an intensity that she’d not experienced since the last attack on her life, and it left her feeling exhausted. The images kept flashing in and out continuously—even with her eyes open. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and stretched her legs. She couldn’t shed the images of the rope hanging from the rafters in their garage, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Blinking rapidly, hoping that would help divert the visions, she sat up. Her heart was pounding, knocking up against her ribcage. She leaned back against the headboard, trying to clear her thoughts—it was only a dream. Blinking wasn’t helping. She’d never forget the fight she had put up to prevent Funani from killing her: the rope, the rafters, a makeshift hangman’s gallows. The image of that noose would stay with her forever. Fixed in her subconscious mind, stuck like glue. It had been her life or his, she reminded herself. Palpitations gripped her chest. Then she remembered the deep breathing exercises her psychologist had provided after the attack. They had helped calm her. Melonie took a deep breath, so deep she could inhale no more, and then she exhaled loudly through vibrating, open lips. After each deep intake of air, she felt the aftereffects of the nightmare subside. Why, out of nowhere, was it all coming back to haunt her?

The sheet beneath her and her nightie were damp from sweat. It had been almost two years since that terrifying afternoon. A date imprinted to memory, the 3rd of August 1995, somewhere around four o’clock in the afternoon. She sat wondering when she’d finally get a handle on the PTSD. Trembling hands was one of the symptoms. Her hands were shaking now, more vigorously than they had for months. Melonie pushed back the bedclothes and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. They were hot and clammy in contrast to the dampened sheet that had suddenly gone icy cold. While she sat cooling her body and breathing deeply, she placed a hand over her heart—it was beginning to regulate. She knew about pulses, especially the pulses of fit racehorses. She timed how long hers returned to normal. When she was fit, her resting pulse hovered around forty-nine to fifty-one beats per minute. The recovery time was what was important.

It was time to change out of her damp, cold nightie. Standing up, with her arms raised above her head, she stretched her frame again. Physically she felt better, but the nightmare images clung like a baby monkey to its mother’s chest.

Standing in front of her closet, a thought struck her. She’d been watching a documentary about Nelson Mandela’s release from jail. It must have been that which had triggered the memories. Memories of taking their farm staff to the polling stations. How excited everyone was. The excitement had been infectious, everyone felt it, but that must have led to the thoughts of Funani.

Funani, the man who had tried to kill her, was on one of those trips. Many of his family were still living in South Africa. The thought made her shudder. Could they be planning a revenge attack on her under the guidance of her nemesis, Funani’s father, Solomon Tlale, living in Zimbabwe? Solomon Tlale had tried to take her life. Not once, but twice. Was his objective still the same? Using external operatives or other family members just like Funani? She wondered how many more Funani’s he had at his disposal.

As a result of the Funani attack, undercover security was a greater constant at the stud after the attack. At first, she hated the thought; it was an invasion of their privacy. She remembered Gary saying, ‘Over my dead body will anyone harm my wife again or get to my children.’

Melonie’s lawyer had won the court case for her. She had been accused of murder. Yes, she had killed Funani—it had been his life or hers, and lucky for her, she’d survived the brutal attack. The court case had left her utterly depleted. More undercover security became a vital necessity, and every staff member was checked and re-checked. This was to ensure that no one employed at Chanting Clover had links to the late Funani, Colonel Solomon Tlale, or Zimbabwe. To date, this security was not only comforting but has proven effective. But Melonie still found it difficult not to live on a diet of fear and anxiety. Fear had become all-consuming. Shortly after the attack, Gary had insisted she consult with a psychologist. At the time, Melonie believed she could deal with the trauma alone. It proved too difficult, and she finally gave in. Now she was grateful she had.

Tony Brink was his name. His practice was situated in Pietermaritzburg. When Melonie first met him, she was dubious: she hated regurgitating horrid memories to a person she didn’t know and was even guarded with people she did know, but she had resonated with Tony’s warm, straightforward, and logical approach. The biggest draw for Melonie was that Tony had a great sense of humour. Just as her late grandmother had always said, ‘Laughter is the best medicine.’ Tony had said the same.

Over the months, the nightmares, the visions of the fight to save her life, and the associated fear dissipated—until now. She often reminded herself that if her past calls, not to answer it. But it was impossible not to, especially under these circumstances. There was still a good chance that it may happen again. The threat always lingered—nightmares like the one she’d just had brought that reality racing back.

Even though Nelson Mandela, ‘Madiba,’ as he was affectionately known, was proving to be the statesman Melonie had thought he would be, there were sadly even stronger connections with Zimbabwe now. Being the last two countries to cast off colonialism gave them a kinship, and access was easier for Zimbabweans to move into South Africa.

Was her nightmare a premonition, or was she being paranoid?

She took another deep breath. Though she was grateful she was living under Madiba’s leadership and not the tyranny of Robert Mugabe, her fears were still inextricably linked to Zimbabwe. Solomon Tlale’s face and Funani’s were as clear in her mind as if the last attempt on her life had been made that morning.

It was time to get dressed, get warm and stop harping on about the nightmare. She chose to dress in fleece clothing; not only was it cold outside, but her body temperature was back to normal. She shivered as she dressed, but soon the soft, cosy feel of fleecy garments against her skin comforted her, but she couldn’t stop the visions from haunting her. Her thoughts drifted back to the documentary. There had been brief footage of violent eruptions. Clips of white radical groups causing disruption, culminating in the assassination of Chris Hani, a senior ANC leader. This violence had almost brought the country to the brink of civil war. It must have been the violent footage that triggered her nightmare. ‘No more watching violence. Silly girly flicks and animal movies from now on. Except,’ she paused in thought, ‘animal movies make me bawl my eyes out’. Silly girly flicks didn’t appeal to her either.

Cosy and warm now, she wandered through to the kitchen. The sharpness of her troubled sleep began to subside as she thought of the pain of sitting through a mindless, gushy romance comedy, and suddenly she laughed aloud. ‘A romance comedy might do me good.’ She’d invite Synthia round—she loved those movies. The smell of rich, brewed coffee drifted up her nose. Melonie glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to eight.

Angelina, their much-loved housekeeper, who’d been with the family for years, would be in shortly to make breakfast. Melonie walked through to the dining room, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, warming the palms of her hands. She popped a slice of homemade whole wheat bread into the toaster and sat down. She’d left a list of horses in training for this year’s Durban July on the table the night before. She glanced over it again. Four of their home-bred horses were registered for the prestigious race. Three other horses belonging to businesspeople in Durban were also running. Gary and his team were doing an amazing job. She was still looking at it when he returned for breakfast, ravenous and rubbing his hands from the early morning cold.

Morning honey, what’s up? Gary asked, noticing how pale she was. Are you feeling okay?

Feeling rattled, that’s all. I had a dreadful nightmare.

Oh no. Poor you. You haven’t had one for months. What brought that on?

Either a psychic warning or that documentary we were watching. I can’t think of anything else. Gary looked at his wife. A psychic warning? Did she possess a sixth sense? A chill ran down his spine.

Have you done the PTSD breathing that Tony showed you?

Yes. It took a while, but it eventually worked. I’ll be alright. Have you seen Bradley this morning?

No, I haven’t. I’m sure he’s around terrorising someone. Gary joked. That vision made Melonie laugh, and she instantly felt better. Gary sat down and began telling her about the successful morning gallops. The combination of heart-warming images now replaced the sordid ones of her nightmare.

‘It is time to get more involved at the gallops again. That would help ground her.’ Not that Melonie was ever particularly ungrounded. Nightmares like the one she had just had, did unground her. Shortly after the attack, she experienced severe migraines and often had unexpected blackouts. The doctors had said they would go, and they had, but Tony and their family doctor had warned against training racehorses for at least six months. Though she hadn’t been banned from taking slow leisurely rides, both doctors knew the value of that therapy for Melonie. The trauma, combined with the terrible blows she had taken to her head and body, would undoubtedly take time for her to recover fully.

A blackout at full gallop might take your life. The family doctor had warned, and that message had stuck in her head. But now, it was time to get back on a racehorse. Time to restore her life.

Melonie looked down at the piece of toast she had buttered. She stopped fiddling with the knife and looked across at Gary.

I woke up feeling I’d just fought off the attack again. I reckon that getting back into the saddle and galloping down the track again will help. Plus, I hate being so unfit.

That was music to Gary’s ears. Yes, but not before a full medical check-up. I want nothing more than to have you back on the track.

Melonie nodded. She would make an appointment to see their family doctor. Gary got up, stepped around the side of the table, and gave Melonie a comforting hug.

We have missed you at the track. It’s been too long. Riding racehorses has always been part of your best therapy, hasn’t it?

Just then, young Bradley came tearing into the dining room, huffing and puffing. He’d smelt breakfast cooking and overheard something about a ride.

Can we go for a ride this morning, Mum?

Hey, big boy, where are your manners? Gary frowned at him.

Oops. He scrambled off his chair, rushed around the table, said good morning to his father, and then hurried back to his mother.

Good morning, you little rascal. To answer your question, yes, we can ride this morning. I am going to ride every day now. After breakfast, run down to the stables and ask Thomas to saddle up Peanut for you and Tropical Sun for me. How does that sound? We will leave at nine-thirty. It will be warmer then. Don’t forget to tell Thomas what time we want to go.

Cool. Thanks, Mum. Can I have some Rice Crispies?

Only if you have some scrambled egg after your cereal.

Aaaaw, Muuuum, Bradley grumbled.

Come on, Bradley, do what your mother says, please. No scrambled egg, no ride, Gary warned his youngest son. Bradley put on an exaggerated pout and folded his arms across his chest. But hunger got the better of him, and he was soon gobbling up his breakfast, eager to get to the stables.

Bradley had been home since Tuesday that week. He boarded with Cheryl Williams, Melonie’s friend. She had called, saying Bradley had a cold, and asked if Melonie could collect him. Melonie had insisted on bed rest and medication, and by Friday, he was fine. Later that afternoon, they drove to the school to collect Garth for the weekend.

Wrap up warmly, Melonie warned him, I don’t want you getting sick all over again. Bradley walloped down his breakfast and was soon on his way to the stables, grabbing his jacket on the way out. He adored the famous show pony, Peanut, made famous by being the rare survivor of a Thoroughbred twin.

Melonie sat for a while after everyone had vacated the dining room. Peanut and her beloved equine soulmate, Tropical Sun, will be going with the boys to school in the new year. The school offered equestrian sports as an extra-curricular subject. They encouraged children to bring their horses to school during the term. She’d miss them both, but it would be good to be in the saddle again today. She hadn’t had a quiet hack with her youngest son for ages. Once they got back, she would make the appointment, but in the meantime, she would make the most of gentle hacks on Tropical Sun before he went.

The stables and facilities provided by the school were of a high standard. The children who took up equestrian sport learned a variety of ridden disciplines and were encouraged to represent their school in Pony Club and provincial competitions. Melonie would miss her four-legged soul mate. Tropical Sun would allow the highly competitive young Garth to excel in his show jumping. Apart from once being a Group One racehorse, Tropical Sun had settled into being a family hack. He’d become a skilled jumper, and if Garth had his way, the horse would have lived in his bedroom too.

Melonie erected an arena for the boys to practice their show jumping skills. The cross-country fences Melonie had built were designed to increase confidence in novice horses and their riders. Tropical Sun had taken to the cross-country jumping like a duck to water. This gave Garth bucket-loads of confidence which he’d show with vigour at school.

The two horses were ready and waiting when Melonie got to the stables. Bradley was already sitting on Peanut, irritated by having to wait for his mother. But the moment they moved off, a smile stretched across his face, and his eyes sparkled. Melonie’s heart melted. She strapped a lead rein around her waist in case Peanut got a bit strong for Bradley to handle when they turned for home.

Bye, Thomas, Bradley turned in his saddle, called out and waved to the groom. The big grin was still plastered across his face.

Sssta, Thomas clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then laughed. All the staff were devoted to the exuberant young Bradley.

Bradley and Garth had been taught to ride from an early age. To their parent’s delight, they loved being around and on horses. Bradley had perfected the rising trot at four years old and wanted to perfect the canter.

Mum, please, he begged. He hadn’t been out with his mother for ages.

Bradley, wait. The horses need to warm up first. We will canter up the long hill to the top of the farm; that distance will give you lots of practice. You can’t take a horse out of the stable and expect it to canter and canter. It’s not fair on the horse.

But if I can’t properly canter before I go to big school, they will all laugh at me.

Now Melonie was laughing. No, they won’t. There is plenty of time to learn, silly. She reached over and squeezed his cheek affectionately. Besides, there will be lots of children your age who will not even know how to trot. The important thing to remember, young man, is that the health and comfort of the horse come first. Always. Never forget that. Bradley nodded, and they started to trot. That put a smile back on his face.

The yearling paddocks were up on their left—Melonie pulled up to walk. She’d noticed some of the yearlings had been alerted by the clip-clop of hooves on the dirt road. They took off, tails in the air. Melonie and Bradley stood by and watched until they had settled. Melonie loved watching the youngsters move when startled. It was the best time to see them show off their natural cadence. In instances like this, she wished she still had her wonderful, faithful old mare, Spindle, for Brad to ride. The mare had been moved to South Africa from the Blue Winds when they were forced to leave the farm. Spindle was bombproof and would have taken no notice of the yearling’s high jinks. Peanut, though tiny in stature, was a racehorse by birth, and she had pranced around a little, unnerving young Bradley, but not for long. Melonie had attached the lead rein while they waited. Shortly after passing the yearlings, they cantered up to the top of the hill.

Do you remember what I taught you? Melonie asked. Bradley nodded vigorously, excited.

Are you ready? he nodded again, eager to start. Melonie quickly explained the motion again. Bradley kept nodding—he wanted to go. Peanut had an enviably comfortable canter, and it wasn’t long before Bradley was sitting into her rocking chair movement like he’d learnt the movement long ago! By the time they reached the summit, his face was flushed the colour of a pink moon, and it shone as brightly. He’d got it.

Well done, my boy, Melonie praised her fearless little boy. That was beautiful. They had cantered a little under two kilometres non-stop. Bubbles of perspiration rose on his nose while he squeaked with delight, breathlessly proud of his accomplishment. They walked toward the lone Lemonwood tree that grew at the top of the hill. The tree marked the northern tip of the farm. Grandfather Ivan had once held that the tree was native to the area, but then he read somewhere that it was native to New Zealand. Still today, no one has confirmed that, but the tree was thought to be about two hundred years old. It had always radiated a special kind of energetic wisdom, gnarled as it was with age.

Two hours later, mother and son arrived back at the stables. Bradley was still giggling, amused by the sideways jogging from Peanut the closer they got to home. His achievements burst from his mouth as he saw Thomas.

You are too clever, Mr Bradley. Thomas praised. Bradley beamed; he thought so too. Thomas lifted Bradley off Peanut and helped untack her with Thomas’s help. Once the two horses were in their stables and taken care of by Thomas, mother and son returned to the house for a long, cool drink. Minutes later, Bradley fell into a deep sleep on the veranda couch. Melonie left him sleeping until lunch, and that was why she had not insisted he helped cool Peanut off. Thomas gave her the thumbs-up sign that he understood.

How was that? Gary asked as he reached over the back of the couch and woke Bradley.

Hey, Dad! He jumped up, as one does at that age. The evidence of sleep was gone in a heartbeat. It was great. Ask Mum how well I did. I can canter now. he announced, brimming with pride.

Well done! After that, I bet you are hungry.

I’m starving.

Go and wash your hands. Tell me all about it at the table. Bradley dashed off and returned, wiping his hands on his jodhpurs, desperate to tell his father about his achievements.

Bradley will be showing all his age group how to canter next year, Melonie said happily as she pulled out her chair.

That thought appealed to Bradley.

Yesss, he said, stabbing the air with his little hand balled into a fist. And… and Peanut got all frisky on the way home. She pranced sideways. That was really cool, but only after Mum put the lead on. I could sit to that jog, Dad. I’m going to show Garth what I can do during the weekend. Hey, Mum?

Of course. Melonie looked at Gary. They smiled. For Gary, this was more than the triumphant canter achievements of his youngest son, Bradley, but Melonie being eager to be back in the saddle regularly.

The famous Durban July race, and Chanting Clover’s favourite event of the year, was upon them. Only two weeks away. At this track in Greyville, they had had their most outstanding achievements, showing off some of their hand-picked bloodstock and their ability to breed and train some of the most superb Thoroughbreds in the country.

It always fell within the southern hemisphere’s winter school holidays, and as the two boys grew older, the more they appreciated the races’ significance to the stud. Garth spent much time with his dad, beginning the day at the gallops; it was his favourite place. He wanted to be a trainer like his father, while Bradley loved the broodmares and playing with the foals. It had been a few years since the Chanting Clover stud had a horse win the Durban July. They were all hoping it would change for them at this 1997 fixture. Perhaps even commence the history of Durban July wins again. Gary hoped to better their records of the 1980s, and since Melonie had joined him at the gallops again, it was a distinct possibility. No one could feel a horse better. She could generally pinpoint a problem just by her feeling, long before it was visibly noticeable or felt by others.

Vision Quest was the stud’s 1997 hopeful. A four-year-old colt who’d had some impressive wins to date, beginning with breaking a track speed record at Clairwood. He had his mother’s temperament and his father’s striking presence. He was the third foal of the stud’s brilliant mare, White Jewel—a champion racehorse in her time who had won the Durban July feature race herself.

Down at the track, Melonie’s eyes were glued to Vision Quest. Not even Bradley’s shrieks deterred her focus.

Look, Dad. Look, Mum, I’m smoking, Bradley chuckled while blowing out steamy condensation from his mouth.

James Khumalo was riding the striking, dark bay horse, a combination that Melonie was not happy about. James had begged Gary for the ride, and he had agreed.

He wants to ride him in the feature race at the July.

Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not had the experience, Gary. Melonie had chastised her husband’s decision. He won’t cope with such a strong-willed horse. He is our July hopeful, and it’s only ten days away. No! This is crazy. She moved away and stood further down the railing so as not to be disturbed. Garth and Bradley looked up at their father and screwed up their faces. Their hands covered their mouths, desperate to giggle, but they didn’t dare.

Melonie lifted her binoculars, but the sun shone into her face. She’d lost sight of Vision Quest through the swirling dust and the sun’s rays. She moved the binoculars away from her eyes and shouted. Where is he? I can’t see with the darn sun in my eyes and all the dust. Why haven’t they wet the surface this morning? She barked irritably.

Mum, he’s right at the back, Garth interjected, wondering why she was so snappy. It wasn’t like her.

Aah, I see him now. Thanks, Garthy, she responded, softening her tone.

James was an eighteen-year-old, second-year apprentice. He was not a strong youngster, but as Melonie watched, she realised she was wrong. She had to agree he had a lovely, gentle way with horses, no matter what they threw at him. Vision Quest was a difficult ride. Melonie remained silent as she watched James manage the frisky horse and scrutinised the young jockey’s skills. She was impressed. Vision Quest was comfortable and relaxed by the time they got down to the start. James allowed the horse to take off first. Ebony and Ivory followed, then two others tucked in behind. Ebony and Ivory was being ridden by Siyanda, the head work rider.

Gary had joined Melonie on the rails, and when the four horses had done their training gallop down the 2000-metre track, she allowed the binoculars to drop from her eyes. She turned to her husband. I take everything I said back. You are right. James has got what it takes. I am suitably impressed. She jabbed her husband gently in the side and laughed.

So, does that mean Dad’s not in trouble anymore? Garth joked.

You wicked child, she teased and turned back to Gary. Did you know that Garth and James were up playing with Lego until after eleven last night? Garth quickly hid behind his dad, chuckling. Knowing this added to my concern that he may have been too tired to hold such a strong horse.

Gary gave Garth ‘the eyes’ as the boys described his silent reprimand.

James was the only son of a single lady who worked for the Edgars fashion house in Pinetown, near Durban. James was a bright young lad, and though he’d had a tough upbringing, his mother had managed to get the Academy apprenticeship fully sponsored by the Lotto—the South African state lottery. So, when he’d begged for the ride, Gary gave it to him. Gary was keen to see if the eager, talented young jockey could manage a horse like Vision Quest, although he had never doubted James’ ability. He did admit to himself that he was worried he may have over-horsed the lad, but young James had proved them all wrong.

If James takes the race this year, it will launch his career, which is exactly what we strive for. Isn’t it? Plus, there are no outstanding Black jockeys on the circuit yet and watching James today, he has what it takes to become outstanding. In addition, having him ride for the stud will be good for our reputation.

It will also prove that even after all the horrific attacks on your life, you cannot be accused of being racist. You and I like to see talented people excel, no matter their colour. Gary looked at his wife tenderly.

There’s that too, but public opinion on that score is not what I care about. Our actions tell our story. As you know, I object to elevating people to positions they can’t cope with because of their colour. Apart from being pointless, that’s racist. Just like any other jockey, James must still earn his stripes. Whom do you think we should put Kgabu on?

Not sure yet. He’s been riding Green Mists and was on her earlier. See what you think tomorrow morning, Gary suggested. You know that mare is a super-bitch from hell, but she listens to Kgabu. He gets more out of her than any of our other work riders. I’d like him to ride her in her maiden race.

I’m starving, Mum, Bradley piped up, pulling at his mother’s jacket to get her attention.

Okay. Come on, boys, let’s get home for breakfast.

After breakfast, the two boys went fishing with their grandfather, and Melonie went on another hack. She would stop by the river to see how the fishing was going. When she got to the river, Bradley was sitting on the bank with his shoulders hunched.

What’s the matter, Brad? She called out.

I’m still too short, he said sadly.

Ivan explained he kept getting tangled up in the line, so there he sat, casting every now and again, watching the red and white float bob up and down as it drifted gently in the currents of the river.

Moments after returning to her office after a relaxing ride, she got an urgent call; Kgabu had been badly kicked.

She ran down to the stables to find Kgabu lying on the lawn, writhing in pain. Though grooms surrounded him, no one was bold enough to step in and help. ‘What the fuck did we pay first aid training for?’ Melonie thought, then expressed her thoughts.

Don’t just stand there. You have all done first aid, or didn’t they teach you anything? They still stood by in helpless fascination.

My leg, my leg, Kgabu was saying as Melonie knelt beside him.

What happened, Kgabu?

I… I was… tacking off, Ma’am. Suddenly Mists swung on me and kicked out, Ma’am. She’s… she’s broken my leg.

"Yes, I can see that. There was a horseshoe imprint on Kgabu’s jodhpurs, mid-shin. Gary arrived. There was no doubt the leg was broken; it was swelling rapidly. At the hospital, they would cut off his jodhpurs.

Let’s get you to Gray’s Hospital.

Gary ordered two of the dumbstruck grooms to carry Kgabu to the car, and they helped him onto the backseat of the BMW, and Gary and Melonie tore off.

The Durban July ride was over for Kgabu. That thought almost pained him more than the broken leg.

On the way to the hospital, Gary and Melonie discussed with Kgabu the option of scratching Green Mists from the race. Unfortunately, apart from Siyanda and John, no one else could handle her.

She’s a cunning bitch, that one. I’m ashamed to say we bred her. I jumped on her the other day and felt her back come up immediately, and it stayed up. She was dying to dump me. Gary said. Kgabu feebly agreed. The swelling had filled his loose jodhpur. He was in too much pain to think about Green Mists and who would ride her now. He managed to falter an answer as they pulled into the Emergency admissions bay.

She, she… can be… dangerous, Sir.

Melonie jumped out and quickly grabbed a wheelchair and pushed it up against the car while Gary helped Kgabu into the wheelchair. By that time, the waiting nurse had taken over. Once she’d got him into the curtained inspection area, she quickly cut the leg off his jodhpurs, then raced him to the X-ray department. Gary and Melonie knew the drill and went to fill out the necessary hospital forms. Once that was done, Melonie notified the Jockey Academy of the accident while Gary called Kgabu’s father.

Steven Dube, Kgabu’s father, was the Hillcrest town councillor. Unlike James, Kgabu had a comfortable upbringing. Though Kgabu sometimes appeared arrogant, there was a sensitive side to the young jockey that the Whitakers recognised and liked. He was empathetic with the horses he rode and handled each horse with great care and rode them as individuals. The show of arrogance was a cover for his acute shyness.

While Kgabu was being x-rayed, Gary and Melonie discussed their concern about Green Mists’ temperament. She was developing a bad reputation. This kick had brought it to a whole new level.

When Kgabu’s father arrived at the hospital, he and Gary spoke briefly. Melonie handed over the paperwork the parents had to fill in. She promised to call them that evening, but before she got to make that call, Kgabu’s mother rang.

Good evening, Mrs Whitaker. I want to thank you for getting Kgabu to the hospital so quickly. Horses are so dangerous; I always worry about my boy. Mrs Dube said.

Good evening, Mrs Dube. I was just about to call you. They are not normally dangerous, but these unfortunate accidents do happen occasionally. Sadly, it is part of the sport. How is Kgabu doing?

He’s watching TV, racing, of course. Lying with this plastered leg stretched out across the couch. He is loving that Steve and I are running to his beck and call.

I’m sure he is.

Mrs Whitaker, Kgabu would like to know if we can meet you at the races. Is there any possibility you can get us complimentary tickets into the owners and trainers lounge with you?

Yes, of course. Melonie didn’t hesitate. We’d be delighted to have you with us. It is such a shame Kgabu can’t ride.

It is, isn’t it. However, we are most grateful for your very prompt trip in getting Kgabu to the hospital. Kgabu will be so happy to be at the Durban July and having us with him. Thank you for that. Have a good evening. I will call you next Friday to make arrangements. Mrs Dube said and hung up.

Gary and Melonie still hadn’t decided what to do with Green Mists. Who could ride her? What to do? John MacIntosh would have been the best person, but he was riding Enchantrix in the fourth race and Ebony and Ivory in the feature race. Melonie’s prayers were answered when she called Mrs Dube the following morning. Kgabu suggested a lady apprentice friend whom he thought would manage Green Mists. She was in the same class as Kgabu at the Academy.

A call to the Academy confirmed that Julie Mokoena could ride the filly; she clicked with mares.

Thank you so much. Will you advise Julie I will be through at four o’clock to fetch her?

Yes, certainly. She’s a great little jockey. One of the few ladies who make the grade. Gert, the head of the Academy, advised again.

Melonie