A Brief Splash of Joy and Other Stories

By Robin Whales

Transport yourself to the heart of South and Central Africa with this collection of short stories about ordinary people. Aged between 18 and 50, these characters find themselves entangled in situations that lead to tragedy, dishonesty, and betrayal.

In one story, an older man takes advantage of his publishing manager friend’s goodwill and sells a business sponsored by the manager behind his back for his own profit. In another story, an unpopular man in a company becomes a ‘hero’ after being attacked on a staff fishing trip on the Zambezi River, leading to his promotion and a change in attitude towards those who invited him on the trip.

Other stories follow the desires of ordinary people, such as a man who searches for a married woman he met years ago in Malawi, a successful business owner who starts doing good things for others before taking a wrong turn, and an 18-year-old schoolboy who falls for his friend’s girlfriend.

Each story takes you on a journey of human nature and the consequences of our actions. Tragedy, dishonesty, and back-stabbing await in this compelling collection set against the backdrop of South and Central Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398418523

Robin Whales

Robin Whales was born in Zambia in 1931. When his father died, his mother and her three children moved to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. He attended Milton School and then St Patrick’s in Kimberley. After matriculating, he graduated with a BA from the University of Cape Town. He taught at Milton; married Dawn Norvall, a farmer’s daughter and a teacher; and later moved to Johannesburg to work in publishing. They opened and ran a publishing-related business before moving to Knysna (1999) where his wife ran a self-catering business. They retired to Kronendal Village, Cape Town, in 2016. His wife died in September 2022. Robin Whales continued to contribute to the literary world until his peaceful passing in February 2023.

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About the Author

Robin Whales was born in Zambia in 1931. When his father died, his mother and her three children moved to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. He attended Milton School and then St Patrick’s in Kimberley. After matriculating, he graduated with a BA from the University of Cape Town.

He taught at Milton; married Dawn Norvall, a farmer’s daughter and a teacher; and later moved to Johannesburg to work in publishing. They opened and ran a publishing-related business before moving to Knysna (1999) where his wife ran a self-catering business.

They retired to Kronendal Village, Cape Town, in 2016. His wife died in September 2022.

*Robin Whales continued to contribute to the literary world until his peaceful passing in February 2023.

Dedication

To Dawn, my late beloved wife of 61 years, who comforted, supported and cared for me during our life together, and encouraged me throughout the writing of this book. She read all the stories again and again, and gave valuable and sensible guidance, insight and contributions. And to our son, Christopher; our daughter, Sally; and our grandchildren, Nick, Joe and Jessie Whales, and Amy-Rose and Annabelle Forde.

Copyright Information ©

Robin Whales 2024

The right of Robin Whales to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398418479 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398418523 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

To my son, Christopher, who spent many hours putting it all together in good order, and spotting and correcting inconsistencies and other blemishes. To my son-in-law, Andrew Forde, for closely reading the completed manuscript to limit grammar slips, typos, etc., to present a clean document. To my granddaughter, Amy-Rose Forde, for her encouragement and support.

A Brief Splash of Joy

Mountains, forests, mists and perennial streams, friendly people, and an inland sea of beauty and storms. That was what Malcolm Smith remembered about Malawi, the land of the lake. The reason he was returning – some eight or nine years on – was to see if he could find out if Joyce Blackburne still lived there. Memories of her were disturbingly fresh although it had only been a 24-hour stopover.

Hope of tracing her was fading. No one in Blantyre had heard of the Blackburnes, or Peter Fletcher, Joyce’s brother, or Pogren. Malcolm drove to twin city Limbe then further north to Zomba, the English structured colonial capital of alpine beauty. Still nothing.

There had been a moving population in mid-century Central Africa with thousands of British immigrants and others seeking better lives in undeveloped countries in British territories in Africa after World War II. During the ten-year period of a political federation of protectorates Nyasaland and Northern Rhodesia and self-governing colony Southern Rhodesia, millions of pounds were spent on development. Schools were built, telephone systems extended and roads re-tarred between towns and cities and to white-owned tea and tobacco plantations.

Malcolm drove to Mangochi, name-changed from Fort Johnston when the Federation broke up into independent countries, black-governed Zambia and Malawi, and Rhodesia, a self-governing colony. John Pogren gave him a lift on that visit and the pub they had stopped at was no longer there, and he couldn’t find Joyce’s house, so he booked into a lodge on the Lake.

*

In the late sixties, Malcolm Smith had sold his bookkeeping business settled the house and half the cash on his ex-wife when they parted. After spells in Durban, East London, Salisbury and Lusaka, he was moving again, this time through Malawi with the talkative John Pogren.

She’s irritating, John said. You’ll see. So coy about her squiggle.

What’s the surname?

Blackburne. Mike and Joyce Blackburne.

What does he do?

Recruits for Witwatersrand mines. He picks guys up on the lake shore, gives them clothes, rations and papers, and sees them onto the train to the Golden City.

Interesting work.

There’s lots of accounting work around the country, you know.

Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. I love it here.

I can’t see Mike staying with us. He’s a drifter. Peter Fletcher fixed him up with this job when Mike married his sister.

In Blantyre, quarry-owner Fletcher had arranged Malcolm’s lift with Pogren and Malcolm did not expect to like Fletcher’s sister. Pale blue eyes, tanned face and parading clipped English speech, Fletcher spent his time moving between Johannesburg, Rhodesia and Malawi controlling his businesses along the way.

He fixed Mike up with a wife as well, John said, shifting his eyes between Malcolm and the road.

They were travelling fast and Malcolm was studying birds’ nests on the telephone wires.

"Mike’s wife Joyce is Peter Fletcher’s sister," John stressed.

Beard nests, Malcolm said.

What?

Sorry, my thoughts were wandering. You say Peter played Cupid for his sister. So what?

Nothing, I’m just saying. They live in one of our big company houses on the Lake where the previous tenant kept the Fort in veggies and eggs, one price per pound for anything. If Mike sticks around, Joyce could get that going again. They could do with the money.

The pont crossing the country’s great Shire River had delayed them by a few hours when the rope pullers demanded more money because there was only one car that late in the day. Malcolm was in a hurry so he and Pogren had scratched around to come up with more, and even added a tip to the laughing and clapping rope pullers taking them across. The Shire is a leak out of the southern tip of the lake where water had broken through after heavy storms from the north year after year.

The delay meant it was dusk when they drove into Mangochi, near the lake. They drew up at the SS Khomo and could hear laughter inside. Hurricane lamps lit the entrance and thick ropes hung criss-cross in the dimly lit foyer.

Mike’s truck is here and he’s expecting me, but I don’t feel like a drink, Pogren said.

Nor do I.

Good. I’ll make an excuse. He set off for the Blackburnes’ house ten kilometres further on. Joyce will be pleased to have company.

Why doesn’t she go with him when he goes for a drink?

She never has done and there’s no chance she would now with Squiggle.

On the back veranda, Joyce was standing in the light of a single bulb looking quizzically at John’s car and Malcolm.

Hullo, Joyce. John climbed out. Is my iced tomato ready?

Oh, it is you, John. Yes, it’s ready. She closed the car door for him. Justin’s here.

John introduced her to Malcolm and Justin and the other Malawian in khakis greeted the bwanas and set about taking their things inside.

Malcolm could see in Joyce her brother’s blue eyes, set further apart, and she was tall like himself and mid-thirties, he estimated. Features attractive on a man are not necessarily so on a woman. She looked cold and unfriendly. If it had not been for the absence of makeup, her awkward movements, brittleness and seemingly permanent frown, he would not have liked her.

I appreciate your putting me up, Malcolm said.

We get so few visitors here in the wilds of Africa. Where are you going?

Just travelling.

He’s on his way to Mvuvu on Lake, John said.

A friend of a friend farms nearby and he arranged a fishing trip for me, so that’s how I come to be in your beautiful country. My shack has a wood stove, a bed and a cook, no electricity or phone.

I used to see it from the boat a little way up the Lake when I rowed past. Quite a long time ago, Joyce said.

In Joyce’s house, the large sitting room was dimly lit by bamboo-shaded lamps and the furniture, made from cane and wood, was scattered around the cement floor, some pieces sitting on grass mats plaited with palm leaves. A black clay pot of wild orchids was suspended from the ceiling by thick red ropes and lake reeds with tufts as fine as chipped silk stood erect in a chunk of driftwood. This is a different Joyce, Malcolm thought.

What will you have to drink, Mr Smith?

Whisky, please. Can’t we use first names in the wilds of Africa?

John laughed. She’s from the old school. Johannesburg northern suburbs and Rhodean High School and university for special young ladies.

Don’t listen to him. Malcolm, then.

He stood up to take his drink but John sat smoking with a leg over the arm of his chair.

How’s my big brother? Joyce said.

You know Peter. He flits around like a butterfly, checking his businesses.

A smiling Justin brought in a box of lettuces, carrots, tomatoes and apples. Joyce jumped up.

How nice, John.

Not me.

Peter?

No, Malcolm.

Thank you very much.

You’re welcome. He thought it would have been better if it had not come from a stranger. My ex-wife couldn’t stop at a fresh foods shop without coming out with a sack full.

How is Squiggle, John said.

Squiggy and I are on a wholesome diet. Joyce patted her flat stomach.

A truck pulled up outside with a skid and its lights threw frenzied shadows into the room.

There’s Mike. He’s been to Cherinda. Joyce made for the door.

She was about to spew out more news about this famous pregnancy.

Give her a break, John.

Only joking. He followed Joyce out.

Hey, John! Mike called. What’s your car doing here?

No drinks left for you, I’m afraid, John said.

Mike laughed. I had a couple waiting for you at the pub.

Only a couple? Joyce joined in the fun.

Why should it be more? Mike snapped. Joyce hurried back in, avoiding looking at Malcolm and went to the passage.

We didn’t see your truck when we passed, John said as they came in. How many Cherindans for the Golden City?

A few. The fetcher let me down. Mike was about forty, slight, with thinning fair hair and a small nose and mouth on a lined face.

When he saw Malcolm, he looked away and mumbled a greeting as John introduced them.

I’ll go and wash. He detoured around the chairs to avoid Malcolm.

A long day knocking off at this hour, Malcolm said.

Sometimes he’s away three days. He mistakes hours away for work.

But he gets the job done, doesn’t he?

Yes, he’s quite a good supplier.

It must be tough on Joyce with him away so much.

I suppose so. They’ve only been here about a year.

Can’t he take Joyce on his trips?

Not with Squiggy now. Anyway, having her with him would be too much.

He seemed a bit put out so perhaps there’s a room at the pub. I feel we’re intruding.

No! They never see anyone. Mike’s all right. Whenever I’m here, he yaks away.

Quite an upheaval for her coming here.

"She had a good job in Joburg, then suddenly married Mike and came here. He’s from the UK and