Читать книгу An Unsuitable Woman - Kat Gordon - Страница 12

Christmas arrived a week later. I woke with the sunshine falling across my face. ‘Auntie’, the white-haired proprietor of The Norfolk, had arranged for stockings filled with oranges, nuts and chocolate to be hung on each guest’s door, and we ate the food with the shutters and garden doors wide open, the sky blossoming above us into a rich, cloudless blue. Ten feet away a group of white-bellied-go-away-birds gathered, bleating to each other on the branch of a mango tree. It was a world away from Christmas at home.

Down in the lobby, the staff had decorated the Christmas tree with bells and coloured candles, and guests were drinking glasses of champagne, fanning themselves in the heat. My parents joined them while we went for a swim, staying on the edge of the other groups of children, then we took a rickshaw to the Carlton Grill on Government Road.

By the time we arrived the place was almost full. Other families were already seated and pulling crackers, and the smell of herbs and woodsmoke billowed through the room. My father ordered us mutton chops cooked on an open fire in front of us, the juiciest meat I’d ever eaten. Afterwards, we had Christmas pudding, then climbed back into rickshaws for a ride around town. Coloured lights had been strung up along 6th Avenue, and a man dressed as Father Christmas was standing on the corner, handing out candy canes to passing children.

‘Take one for me, Theo,’ Maud said. I stretched out my arm as we passed and Santa threw a cane to me.

It was dark by the time we returned to the hotel. A pianist was playing carols in the lobby, and glasses filled with port stood in rows on the bar. Auntie moved between the various groups dotted around the room, smiling, asking after relatives and telling stories of her own. Maud and I gave our mother a tortoiseshell comb, and our father a book. Our presents from them were a pair of new shoes and a whistle each, and when Maud wasn’t looking, my father slipped me a few banknotes.

‘Isn’t this fun, children?’ he said, and winked at me.

Maud hung her whistle around her neck. ‘It’s so shiny.’

‘It’s not a toy,’ I said. ‘It’s to scare away animals if you come across them in the wild.’

‘They won’t hurt us,’ she said. ‘Animals only attack if they’re frightened.’

‘Quite so,’ my father said, looking around. ‘Can you see if they’ve run out of the port?’

‘What if they’re angry?’ I asked Maud.

‘Animals don’t get angry. Only people do.’

I shrugged, looking away. Several of the other boys staying at the hotel had been given airguns, and were running around the garden with them. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, trying not to give away how much I wanted to join them. My mother must have noticed however, because she took my chin in her hand, digging her fingers into my jaw.

‘I hope you’re not going to leave us,’ she said. ‘Christmas is family time.’

‘Oh good,’ my father said, holding up his empty glass. ‘They’re bringing it round now.’

The next few days were hot and humid, with no sun in sight behind a wall of clouds. The flowers were already wilting at the breakfast table when Freddie appeared beside us. He smelled of pomade and oil, and I guessed he’d just driven into town. He shook hands with my father and me, and kissed my mother’s and Maud’s hands.

‘I hope you’re still in the market for a guide,’ he said. ‘I hear the first race today is a good one.’

‘Actually,’ my mother said, folding her napkin on the table. ‘I’m not sure we can attend. We’ve been invited to lunch by the Griggs. I’m very sorry to put you out.’

‘Ah – our illustrious Governor,’ Freddie said. ‘Well that’ll certainly be a more dignified afternoon.’

There was a silence, and in that moment I hated my parents, and the dull way they lived their lives, even in Africa. If they’d driven him away, I’d never forgive them, I told myself. I wanted to tug the tablecloth off and break everything on the table.

‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast then,’ Freddie said after a while. ‘But you’ll come and visit when you’re settled in Naivasha, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ my mother said.

‘Well that’s something.’ He winked at me, and I realised with relief that he wasn’t angry. He said goodbye and we went back to our breakfast, although I’d lost my appetite and I pushed my porridge away.

‘Can I go into town?’ I asked my mother. ‘I want to see if the market’s open.’

‘Don’t you want to go swimming?’ she asked.

‘No.’

She narrowed her eyes at me.

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Why not?’ my father said. He leaned closer to me. ‘Maybe you can go to the bank, too? Look into some investment opportunities?’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said.

‘If you’re only going that far you should be back in two hours,’ my mother said. ‘I don’t want a repeat of last time.’

I looked at a point just past her left ear. ‘I told you I got lost.’

‘Don’t get lost again.’

As I was turning left out of the hotel gate, I heard someone call my name. Freddie was sitting in his car a few yards down the road, smiling at me. The car was huge: a dark green, open-top Hispano-Suiza with a long shiny body at the front and high wheels.

‘I thought you might change your mind,’ he said, when I reached him. ‘My old man was always trying to force me into that world too. Foreign Office engagements with lots of government bores. So …’ He smiled at me. ‘Still keen to see the races?’

‘Yes please.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never been before.’

‘And your parents? They approve of you attending with me?’

‘Yes.’

He looked at me closely, and I tried to keep my face neutral. He laughed. ‘Hop in then.’

I climbed into the passenger seat as Freddie started the engine. The leather was blood-red and soft as butter. As he pulled away from the kerb I turned to face him. Close up, and in the daylight, his skin was smooth and creamy. I had an urge to reach out and run my finger along his cheek, feel the smoothness for myself.

‘I like your car,’ I said, raising my voice above the noise.

‘A wedding present from my wife.’

‘It’s a very nice present.’

‘She’s very rich.’

He pressed his foot down on the pedal and we shot away. I leaned back in my seat and felt my body relax.

The sky was a steel grey by the time we arrived at Kariokor race course, although it was still bright and Freddie shaded his eyes as he searched for rain clouds.

‘It almost flooded the first time we came,’ he said. ‘Thank God they built the grandstand a few years ago.’

‘I thought it never rained in Africa,’ I said.

‘In the rainy season it rains a lot,’ Freddie said. ‘As a farmer, I’m very thankful.’ He looked down at me. ‘Would you like to see the stables?’

I nodded.

He led me to a wooden shed with five stalls within. A stable boy looked up from sweeping the yard and nodded at Freddie. ‘You want to see the horses, Bwana Hamilton?’

‘Who’s the favourite in the first race?’

‘Chongo.’

‘We’ll see him,’ Freddie said, then stopped. ‘Is Wiley Scot running?’

‘Yes, Bwana Hamilton.’

‘We’ll see him then – he’s a distant cousin of mine.’ He kept his face completely straight when he said it and the stable boy didn’t react. I wondered if he’d understood, or if he just thought that Bwana Hamilton was mad.

It was gloomy in the stall, with only a small window high up in the wall, and it smelled like damp and a mix of leather, grain, sweat and peppermints. I felt suddenly trapped, being in such a close, dark space, and I closed my eyes for a moment. I could still hear a rustling, snorting sound, and when I opened my eyes and peered around Freddie’s back I could make out a dark chestnut stallion picking restlessly at straw in a feeder. He was tall, with an extremely broad, glossy chest and a heart-shaped patch of white on one thigh. I knew horses were designed for speed and grace, but I found it hard to imagine as we stood in the stall – all I could see was the mountainous torso, the knobbly knees and delicate ankles, and I wondered how his legs didn’t snap underneath all that bulk.

Freddie moved forwards and patted Wiley Scot on his muscular neck and the horse threw his head back and began stamping his legs. My heart was hammering.

‘Be good now,’ Freddie said quietly. The horse breathed out loudly, then stopped stamping.

‘He’s a beauty,’ Freddie said. ‘Do you ride?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Never?’ He looked back at me. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a city boy.’

‘I’m not.’

Freddie laughed. ‘You’re very mysterious.’

He turned to face the horse again. He looked so natural in these surroundings, but then he’d looked easy and confident wherever I’d come across him. I could picture him at school, mobs of admiring boys following him down the lane and laughing at his jokes. I felt a smile form on my face – I would never have got within five yards of him there, and here we were now, alone as friends.

‘Introduce yourself,’ Freddie said.

I went to stand next to him, and ran my hand along the horse’s flank. I could feel his muscles trembling under his coat, and smell something coming off him that was almost bitter, like the taste in the back of my throat when my mother was on the warpath. The phrase, ‘His blood is up’, was circling my brain – this must be what that means, I told myself, and realised I was trembling too.

I placed a finger on Wiley Scot’s nose, between his wet, dilated nostrils, and stroked downwards. He rolled his eyes until they were mostly white, then shook me off.

‘He’s nervy today,’ Freddie said. He pushed his hat back on his forehead, and I followed the bead of sweat that trickled down from his temple to his collarbone, until it disappeared beneath his shirt. I felt sweat start to form in sympathy on my upper lip, and brushed it away quickly with the back of my hand. ‘Let’s leave him to it.’

As we were leaving the stables, a few jockeys were walking in our direction, and they greeted Freddie, slapping him on the back and nodding in my direction.

‘Better watch out, Freddie,’ one of them said. ‘You might have a contender here for the ladies in a few years. He makes you look as ugly as the rest of us.’ Little flecks of spit hit my face as he laughed.

A second one prodded me in the stomach. ‘What sort of little gentleman are you then, sonny? Baron? Earl? Little lord?’

‘I’m not a gentleman.’

‘Good to hear it – a new order for a new world.’ He grinned at Freddie. ‘No one’s told the toffs yet, though.’

‘Don’t mind them,’ Freddie said to me. ‘All the jockeys out here are Englishmen, God save them, so they’re not very bright.’ He was smiling, but his voice was cold. I kept quiet, and the jockeys went on their way, cackling to themselves. When they’d gone Freddie looked me up and down. His expression made it seem as if he’d just thought of something unpleasant.

‘Have you seen enough yet?’ he asked eventually. ‘Not everyone gets to come back here, you know.’

‘Thank you.’

Freddie looked irritated, and I wondered if he’d started to find me dull. I was reminded again of school, and suddenly wanted to go back to the hotel and crawl into my bed.

Freddie shrugged. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

The race course was two miles in circumference, with a rickety grandstand near the finishing line, and a small, peeling bandstand in the middle. A band was already playing – the King’s African Rifles Band, Freddie told me – and people were mingling in front of them. As the morning wore on the air became increasingly damp and sticky. Small insects darted through the grass, biting whatever exposed flesh they could find, until I felt as if my ankles were on fire. Freddie found us two glasses of pink gin and I had to stop myself from pressing mine against my forehead to cool down. I was amazed that no one was passing out from the heat.

We drank the gin as Freddie pointed out the officials – the timekeeper, the clerk of the scales and the clerk of the course. The drink was less refreshing than I’d hoped, and following what Freddie was saying became quite difficult. His good mood had disappeared completely, and his eyes were constantly scanning the crowds as if he were looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

‘There you are, Freddie,’ someone said after a particularly long silence between us. ‘Edie left – she said to tell you she was too hot and too pregnant.’

A tall, blue-eyed man wearing a beautifully cut suit had appeared at Freddie’s elbow. He had a gentle face with slightly prominent ears and his voice was gentle too, with a hint of an accent.

‘Nicolas,’ Freddie said. ‘This is Theo Miller – I believe you’ve heard of him.’

Nicolas bowed, and I wondered, sluggishly, why he would have heard of me.

‘And where’s your charming wife?’ Freddie asked.

‘Sylvie? She’s been captured by that brute, Carberry.’

I had to look down at my feet to stop myself from staring wide-eyed at him; so this was the Comte de Croÿ, my fat, old Frenchman who spoke no English.

‘Another admirer?’ Freddie said. ‘Theo, you’ve got company.’

My cheeks burned to hear how obvious I’d been. I wished I could laugh it off, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘More accurate to say we all do,’ Nicolas said.

‘You French are so damn philosophical.’

Nicolas bowed again and I caught sight of Sylvie over his head.

She was walking in our direction. A dark-haired couple were walking behind her, the man looking at Sylvie’s behind. I didn’t like his expression, or his skull-like face. His hairline was receding, and his eyes were small and close-set. The brunette with him had a rather large nose and pointy teeth, but nice eyes and an open smile, which she turned on me as they approached.

‘A word of warning,’ Nicolas said quietly to me, ‘John Carberry is the devil. Don’t listen to a word he says.’

‘Hello, boys,’ Sylvie said, and I got a wave of her perfume.

‘Hello, darling,’ Nicolas said.

‘Hello, trouble,’ Freddie said.

Sylvie shook her head. ‘It’s hard to be troublesome when you’re sober.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Surely yes.’

‘Let me save you,’ Freddie said, but Nicolas held up his hand.

‘That’s my cue, Freddie. You stay here and look after Sylvie.’

‘Thank you, darling,’ Sylvie said.

Nicolas gave the dark-haired couple a half-bow and left. I was sorry. Freddie and Sylvie were smiling at each other now in a way that felt exclusive, and when he kissed her hand I felt a shiver run along my neck.

I looked over at the two strangers. The man had on a mocking smile.

‘Another husband bites the dust, Freddie?’ he said. His voice was flat and had an unusual accent.

Freddie straightened up and Sylvie rolled her eyes. Neither of them looked at all embarrassed.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Carberry,’ Freddie said, then turned to me. ‘John and Bubbles, this is Theo Miller.’

‘Maia Anderson,’ Carberry said. ‘Bubbles is a stupid name.’

Sylvie turned away with an angry expression on her face, and I guessed she had the same reaction to Carberry that I had.

‘Where’s Roderigo?’ I asked her.

‘Edie took him to The Norfolk,’ she said, and smiled wickedly. ‘He kept stealing all the ladies’ hats.’

‘And wearing them,’ Maia said. ‘The worst of it was he looked better in mine than me.’

‘Baloney. You look lovely.’

‘You’re too sweet, Sylvie.’

‘You know what to do with monkeys who steal?’ Carberry said.

‘What?’

‘Chop their paws off. Same with the natives, they won’t do it again.’

Sylvie looked sickened. Freddie raised an eyebrow.

Carberry jerked his thumb in my direction. ‘Speaking of natives, don’t you think this one here could almost pass for one of them? He’s got the thick lips and the crafty eyes.’

‘Is that meant to be an insult?’ Sylvie said icily. She put her hand up to touch her thick, dark hair, and I wondered if anyone had ever made the same comparison with her.

Carberry leered at me. ‘I bet I know what happened. Grandfather probably fucked a slave-girl.’

I’d heard this sort of thing from boys at school, but never from an adult, and my ears burned in shock. I saw Carberry’s face crease up with laughter. Maia looked embarrassed.

Freddie put his hand firmly on my shoulder. ‘See you around, Carberry.’

There was a moment of silence. I could feel Freddie’s fingers gripping me hard.

‘Pompous Brits,’ Carberry said at last. He took Maia by the elbow and steered her away. She looked back at us and mouthed ‘sorry’ over her shoulder. I felt Freddie relax.

Sylvie swung around to face us, eyes black in anger.

‘I know, I know,’ Freddie said, although she hadn’t said anything. ‘I feel sorry for Bubbles.’ He took his hand off me, and I felt a surge of relief – Freddie was still my friend, he’d saved me from Carberry.

‘Are you alright, Theo?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Is he alright?’ Freddie said. ‘I had to physically restrain him, or he might have beaten Carberry to a pulp.’

I looked down and saw my body was shaking, and my hands were in fists. I hadn’t even realised.

The races started just after one pm, by which point my head was pounding from the gin and the closeness of the air. I’d no idea what excuse I could give my mother for staying out so long – that was a problem some other Theo would have to deal with. This Theo sat between Nicolas and Freddie in the grandstand, with Sylvie on Freddie’s other side. First up, Nicolas told me, was the divided pony handicaps. I could barely watch. The thundering of the horses’ hooves as they swept past made my headache a thousand times worse, and I closed my eyes so their blurred forms wouldn’t make me feel too sick. I desperately wanted some water, but no one had offered me any, and it seemed childish to ask.

Next was the jumps racing. Nicolas and Freddie argued good-naturedly over whether it was called steeplechasing or National Hunt racing. I dozed off in my seat, and woke even thirstier than before.

The feature race was the Jardin Lafitte Cup, a 1400m course. Wiley Scot was running.

‘What about a bet on him, Theo?’ Freddie asked. ‘A simple win-bet?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, still sleepy. ‘What are the other horses like?’

They laughed.

‘Very smart,’ Nicolas said.

‘A disgusting level of pragmatism,’ Freddie said. ‘Where’s your faith?’

‘Will they let me bet?’ I asked.

‘I’ll place it for you,’ Freddie said. He stood up and held out his hand. I gave him the notes my father had slipped me on Christmas Day. Freddie counted them, then slapped me on the back.

‘You’re either a bloody idiot or a confident genius,’ he said.

Sylvie leaned over and put her hand on my arm. My skin tingled where she was touching me. ‘Don’t do it if you don’t want to,’ she said.

‘It’s just a bit of fun, darling,’ Freddie said to her.

‘It’s fine,’ I said.

She moved closer to me to let Freddie pick his way out of the grandstand, and her thigh came to rest against mine. I prayed I wouldn’t make a fool of myself, and tried to think of distracting images – suet pudding, my grandmother’s bunions, my father in his undergarments.

‘I hear you had a run-in with Carberry, Theo,’ Nicolas said on my other side.

‘I don’t think he liked me.’

‘He was despicable as usual,’ Sylvie said. She took out a cigarette and Nicolas lit it for her.

‘Maia’s pregnant, you know,’ he said.

‘Oh God. The poor woman.’

‘What did he say to you?’ Nicolas asked me.

‘He was talking about my appearance.’

‘He did that to me as well,’ Nicolas said. ‘The first time we met, he insinuated I was a closet homosexual. I said, if only I were that interesting.’

He smiled at me and I returned it.

‘You’re a hundred times more interesting than John Carberry,’ Sylvie said.

Their easy conversation confused me, knowing what I did about Sylvie feeling trapped. Nicolas was the nicest person I’d met, I thought, and I wondered what it was about him that was wrong for her.

Freddie returned with more pink gin for everyone and a ticket for me. ‘They’re leading them on now,’ he said.

I looked over and saw the eight horses being walked onto the course, saddled and draped with rugs to keep their muscles warm. I recognised Wiley Scot immediately. Even from a distance he seemed to be quivering.

‘Bonne chance,’ Nicolas said.

I made the effort to tear my eyes away from the animals to look at him and offer a smile, although it felt more like a grimace. The blood was thundering through my body as loudly as the horses had sounded earlier, but otherwise everything was strangely quiet. The crowd was waiting, tense. When the grooms removed the rugs and the jockeys sprang up into the saddles, I was convinced I could hear the creak of the leather, and the murmurs as the men tried to calm their mounts. Wiley Scot bucked and did a side-step, looking like he was trying to shake his rider off.

‘He doesn’t want to race,’ Sylvie said.

‘Of course he wants to race,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s all he knows how to do. He’s just picking up on the atmosphere.’

The jockeys were lining up on the other side of the course now like coloured specks of dust; red, green, yellow, and Wiley Scot’s in dark blue. Nicolas handed me a pair of binoculars and I trained them on the figures with wet hands.

‘They’re off,’ someone called. People were clambering to their feet around me and I jumped up too. The horses were all clumped together at first, but soon they separated out and I picked out Wiley Scot in third place.

Now I saw the elegance in the horses’ movements. Their bodies hardly seemed to move at all; heads and chests thrust forward they cut a streamlined shape through the air as their legs curled and stretched out below, each hoof only touching the ground for a fraction of a second before they were flying again.

‘Come on, Wiley Scot,’ Freddie shouted near me.

He was coming up on the outside of the horse in second place. Now they were closer I could see the sweat darkening his brown coat, and his muscles rippling with each stride, and my throat began to close up with a lump of excitement and fear. I was keenly aware of the ticket between my fingers, the enormity of the money it represented for me. The ground was shaking and the wind that had sprung up blew back the jockeys’ jackets like sails. I tightened my hold on the ticket, half-hoping, half-afraid it would be carried away.

Wiley Scot’s jockey kicked at him and he passed the second horse. He was gaining on the horse in first place now, with less than fifty yards to go. I was clenching my entire body, my teeth pressed together as if that would spur my horse on, when I saw the first horse stumble and fall, the jockey rolling off his back right into the path of Wiley Scot. I heard Sylvie cry out just as Wiley Scot leaped gracefully, gathering up his legs to clear the figure in front of him, and then he was galloping past us in a cloud of red dust, his head bent down as if for a charge. I only realised I’d stopped breathing when he passed the finishing post and I found myself gasping for air.

‘You’re rich, young man,’ Freddie said, clapping me on the back as the grandstand erupted around us.

The outside of the Muthaiga Club was pink pebbledash and white stone, turning red and gold in the setting sunlight. Freddie guided me up its colonnaded walkway and paused for a moment so I could lean against one of the ivy-covered pillars. After my win, and with Freddie’s encouragement, I’d had several more gins, and now the ground seemed dangerously unsteady beneath my feet. Any thought of getting home soon had long since vanished.

‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour,’ Freddie said.

We pushed through the glass door into an airy lobby with a parquet floor and cool cream and green walls. Freddie continued towards the back; I tried to follow him without falling, Sylvie and Nicolas walking behind me.

‘Ballroom,’ he said, pointing through a set of double doors. ‘Bar – no tall stools allowed. Squash courts here, and golf course at the back.’ We stepped through a set of French doors onto a covered veranda, and I had an impression of a perfectly manicured lawn, sprinkled with banana plants, ferns, flowerbeds and avenues of eucalyptus trees. Several people were in the middle of a croquet game, and the thud of the mallet meeting the ball carried over to us as we hovered on the step leading down to the garden. I clutched my head and hoped it would stop reeling soon.

‘They call it the man’s paradise,’ Freddie said. ‘No Jews allowed, of course.’

‘Although they’ve had to let women in,’ Sylvie said. ‘The balls were a little lonely beforehand.’

‘I think I should sit down,’ I said.

‘You do that,’ Freddie said. He helped me back onto the veranda and into a deep wicker chair then called a waiter over.

‘We’ll have some coffee,’ he said. ‘And then some champagne.’

I rested my elbows on the table, propping my head up in my hands and massaging my temples with my fingertips. From the ballroom came the sound of a band tuning up.

Sylvie leaned against the pillar to my left and Nicolas came to stand beside her, one hand resting on the small of her back. Her amber smell seemed more powerful than before and my mind was fugged up with it.

Freddie pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. ‘You’ll feel better soon,’ he said, grinning. ‘I remember the first time I got tight – even younger than you. I ended up passing out under my friend’s parents’ bed. No idea how I got there.’

‘I’m sure there was a female involved somewhere,’ Sylvie said, and Freddie laughed.

The drinks arrived and I grabbed at the coffee, then swallowed it in four gulps.

‘That should do the trick,’ Freddie said. I looked up and he grinned. ‘What about a game? Played croquet before?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on then. The four of us versus the four of them.’

I followed him onto the lawn. A waiter followed with our champagne in an ice bucket and placed it at the edge of the croquet court.

There were two men and two women already in the game, and introductions were made, although I only remembered Hugh Cholmondeley – Lord Delamere – who had a large nose that overshadowed all his other features, and a high forehead covered in papery skin. He looked to be in his late fifties, frailer than my father, but still authoritative.

‘Mind if we join?’ Freddie said.

‘We’ll start again,’ Delamere said. ‘Only just got going, anyway.’

He tossed a coin and Nicolas called correctly. Freddie handed me a mallet. ‘We’ll be blue and black,’ he said. ‘Association rules here. You know them?’

The coffee was mixing uneasily with the contents of my stomach but at least it had cleared my head. ‘I think so.’

‘Good. You play first. Start with the south-west hoop.’

The court was rectangular, with a peg driven into the grass at the centre, and three hoops on either side. Four of the hoops stood almost at the corners of the rectangle, with the two inner hoops on each side slightly closer to the peg. I vaguely remembered having to follow a pattern of the outer hoops first, then the inner hoops, then playing another circuit in semi-reverse before you could hit the peg. My hands felt hot and slippery with sweat. It was a long time to keep upright and sober.

Freddie placed both our balls on the ground near the south-west hoop. I gripped my mallet and swung gently at the blue ball. There was a thunk as it made contact, and I felt a momentary wash of relief, but the ball rolled uselessly to the side of the first hoop.

‘Never mind,’ Freddie called out behind me.

I turned around, face burning, and handed the mallet to Nicolas, then went to stand with the other players, a few yards away from the first hoop.

Lord Delamere took the first turn for the other side and the red ball sailed through the hoop. ‘I hear Black Harries was at Kariokor today,’ he said, lining up for a continuation stroke.

‘I didn’t see him,’ Freddie said. ‘And I’m surprised – I thought he never left Larmudiac.’

‘He sounds like a pirate,’ Sylvie said, lighting a cigarette.

‘He looks like one too – he’s got one hell of a black beard. And he’s probably the strongest man in Africa.’

‘They say he killed a leopard with a single blow to the head,’ Lord Delamere said. The red ball continued its path towards the second hoop, but stopped just short. Nicolas took the next turn and hit the black ball so it stopped just before the first hoop, dead on; Freddie grinned at me and I tried to return it.

‘He loves horses,’ he said, ‘but he doesn’t tame them. He has acres and acres of land, and he lets them roam around, but he doesn’t geld them or break them in or feed them.’

‘What happens with the horses if there’s a drought?’ Sylvie asked.

‘They starve.’

‘He sounds cruel.’

‘But they’re free.’ Freddie caught my eye. ‘Don’t you think animals prefer to be free, Theo?’

‘But Harries isn’t an animal,’ Sylvie said. Her lips were white and pressed together. ‘He knows they’ll starve and it’s in his power to do something about it.’

‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ Lord Delamere said. He nodded at the ice bucket. ‘What if we distribute some of that champagne, eh?’

The champagne was poured, candles were lit on the veranda and suddenly it was my turn again. I stood to the side of the first hoop and lined up the shot more carefully this time. I managed to get the ball halfway through the hoop but when I went to tap it again Delamere called out, ‘No continuation stroke – you haven’t run it through.’

I handed the mallet over. ‘I’m not helping much.’

‘You’re helping us,’ one of the new women said kindly. She pointed at my glass. ‘Here – have a top-up.’

We all moved to stand in a line along the west boundary now, watching Delamere’s play. The red ball was already through the second hoop, and he took it through the third and the fourth before his turn was up.

‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said.

Sylvie had gone quiet since the argument about Black Harries, but now she swore. ‘Fucking goddamn it. Not twice in one day.’

I felt the mood change before Carberry reached us, and my heart sank. The conversation died out. Only Freddie looked comfortable still.

‘Ill met by moonlight, Carberry,’ he said.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Carberry said. ‘Talking about Johnny Bull.’

‘You’re British too,’ Freddie said. ‘Or Irish, at least. Have you forgotten, Baron Carberry?’

Carberry took out a cigarette. Sylvie was at the end of the line, and he leaned towards her, taking her wrist in his fingers. ‘May I?’

She shrugged, but I felt the revulsion coming off her. I took a long drink of my champagne.

Carberry lit his cigarette on hers, then stood back. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said, blowing smoke out in a cloud. ‘But I got my American naturalisation papers six years ago.’

‘I hear they were revoked,’ Lord Delamere said. ‘For bootlegging.’

‘Finally,’ Sylvie said, crushing out her own cigarette in the grass. ‘Something interesting about you.’

Carberry nudged the yellow ball with his foot, sending it back towards the start. ‘I can’t wait to see your faces when your little Empire comes crashing down.’

Lord Delamere turned purple. ‘Look, Carberry –’

Carberry snapped his fingers at a waiter on the veranda and called over, ‘Bring me a whisky, boy. And don’t bother trying to cheat me on the chit – I can read.’

Nicolas stepped onto the court and picked up the yellow ball, returning it to its old spot. ‘Lucky for us I have a photographic memory. Excuse us while we continue play, Carberry.’

‘Which team are you on?’ Carberry asked Sylvie. ‘I’ll join you. One of the only good British exports, this game.’

She looked away.

‘It’s my turn,’ Nicolas said. ‘Take it if you want.’

Carberry took the mallet Nicolas was offering, held his cigarette in his teeth, and hit my blue ball cleanly through the first hoop and all the way through the second.

‘Good shot,’ Delamere said reluctantly.

We stayed on our boundary line, watching as Carberry played the blue ball through the third and fourth hoops and hit Delamere’s red ball. On either side of me, Delamere winced and Freddie murmured, ‘bad luck’. I went to take another mouthful of champagne and noticed my glass was empty.

Carberry lined up the next shot more deliberately than any of his others, taking several practice swings to test the angle before smacking his mallet so hard against the blue ball that the red bounced completely out of court. The blue ball rolled forwards to rest in front of the fifth hoop. Carberry looked up at us, smirking.

‘Sorry, old boy. It’s just so easy to teach you all a lesson.’ He puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Strutting around as if you owned the place.’

‘We built the place,’ Lord Delamere said.

Sylvie took his arm. ‘Don’t listen to him, darling.’

Carberry snorted. ‘You and your bunch of amateurs. Most of them went back home with their tails between their legs, if I remember rightly.’ He came towards us and stopped just in front of Sylvie. ‘They’ve told you about J.D. Hopcraft, of course.’

‘Should they have?’ She crossed one slender leg in front of the other and I noticed the men’s eyes following her movements, especially Carberry’s.

‘He applied for land on the west side of the lake,’ Freddie said. ‘But unfortunate things kept happening to his surveyors.’

Carberry put his hand on Sylvie’s other arm, smiling unpleasantly. He was close enough to smell the sickly sweetness of booze mixed with tobacco on his breath. ‘His first surveyor, or the second, went swimming in the Malewa River,’ he said. ‘A python took him while he was in the water – held him with its teeth and wrapped its body around him, and killed him.’ He inhaled, flaring his nostrils. ‘Some people think that constriction breaks your bones, but it doesn’t. I’ve heard two theories: the snake holds you just tightly enough to prevent you from taking air into your lungs, and you slowly run out of oxygen and suffocate. Or the pressure from the constriction raises the pressure inside your body until your heart explodes.’

He pinched Sylvie’s arm then withdrew his hand. An angry red mark appeared on her skin, but she didn’t react; no one else along the line spoke.

‘Either way,’ Carberry said. ‘The man was gone, and his report went with him, and Hopcraft had to find another surveyor.’ He smiled again, showing his pointy eye-teeth.

I turned my head to face the garden. The lawn was blue in the moonlight, and rippling gently. The automatic sprinklers had come on, and the soft hiss of the water soothed my ears. I breathed in the scent of eucalyptus, frangipani, fuchsias, lilies, far stronger now in the cool dark than during the day.

‘Why did he go swimming with his report?’ I asked Carberry.

‘What?’

I raised my voice. ‘Why would he take the report in the river?’

Carberry narrowed his eyes and started to say something, but Lord Delamere drowned him out with a roar of laughter.

‘By God, he’s got you there, Carberry,’ he said, and clapped me on the back.

‘No one believes the story anyway,’ Carberry said, waving his hand dismissively.

‘You seemed to believe it,’ Nicolas said.

‘Just trying to scare the ladies.’

‘More champagne for the boy genius,’ Delamere said.

Carberry’s hands were gripping the mallet so hard they’d turned a greenish-white. ‘Don’t spoil the brat.’

‘You’re just jealous,’ Freddie said. He and Nicolas and the two nameless ladies raised their glasses to me. Carberry threw the mallet down and stalked off, looking disgusted.

‘Our saviour,’ Sylvie said to me. She came round Delamere and kissed my cheek, sending a shiver up my spine.

We left the croquet court and sat back down at our table. They toasted me, my head spinning, then we toasted the Muthaiga Club, then Kenya, then the King. The champagne seemed never-ending. The nightly ball started and the ladies, laughing, disappeared to change into their ballgowns. We moved to the bar. More men joined us, more names I didn’t catch, and a friendly debate started. Freddie was asked to weigh in, held up his hands and made a joke. I noticed the men all laughed loudest at his jokes. Nicolas draped his arm around my shoulder, and one of the new men gave me a cigar. Delamere was in good spirits, and demonstrated it by shooting at the bottles of spirits on the shelves with his revolver. The bar staff didn’t protest; they handed him a fine on a club chit and went back to serving other drinkers.

‘Let’s have a rickshaw race,’ Delamere’s son said, or at least that was what I thought he said. Everything was becoming strangely muffled, and the ground had started to move underneath me again. The ballroom doors were open, and through them I could see a blur of colours and movement – pink faces, blue gowns, yellow gowns, black tails, waiters in white carrying silver trays of honey-coloured whisky and golden champagne.

‘Boy Genius doesn’t look like he’ll make it,’ Delamere said.

‘Jack’s gone to get a rugby ball,’ someone said. ‘We’ll have a game in the ballroom.’

‘Not before I dance with my wife,’ Nicolas said, hiccupping. ‘I promised her we’d dance.’

‘Well I’m down a wife,’ Freddie said. ‘So I think maybe I should take our young friend home.’

My head, which had been getting heavier by the minute, finally became too much for my neck and I dropped it onto the bar in front of me.

Water was brought, and hands tipped my head back and held the glass out to me. For a moment I thought I was back in the dormitories at school, and I started to struggle, but then I remembered I was in Africa, among friends, especially Freddie.

The water tasted strange. There was a cry of alarm, then I was looking at the floor and there was a puddle of red and yellow on it that smelled like the inside of my mouth.

‘Put it on my chit,’ Freddie said, then he was steering me through the bar, while the other men laughed and clapped. I was going to tell him that I was alright, and I wanted to stay and see Sylvie in her ballgown, but I was strangely sleepy, and I must have drifted off while he was loading me into his car, because the next thing I knew I was back at the hotel, sitting in an armchair in the lobby, and Freddie was talking quietly to my mother, who must have waited up for me.

‘It’s my fault, completely,’ he was saying.

‘Thank you for bringing him home,’ my mother said. Her eyes were rimmed with red, as if she had a cold.

‘He’ll be fine – maybe a little delicate tomorrow, but he’s tougher than he looks.’

‘We’ve been beside ourselves all day – he said he was just going out for a walk.’

‘I’m afraid he’s been at the races,’ Freddie said. ‘I almost forgot.’ He rummaged around in his pocket and brought out a handful of notes. ‘He made a bit of money, actually.’

‘Well.’ My mother took the handful. ‘This might soften the blow for his father a little.’

Freddie laughed. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘Thank you again.’ She put out her hand and he shook it. ‘Really.’

When Freddie had left, my mother stuffed the money into my trouser pocket, then leaned over me, her hands resting on my knees. I had a burning sensation in my throat, and tried to keep my mouth closed to stop the smell of sick escaping.

‘Can you walk?’ she asked me.

‘I think so.’

‘Good.’

She walked next to me all the way to our rooms. I noticed that I was taller than her now, when she didn’t have her shoes on.

At the door she turned me to face her. I flinched as she ran the back of her hand along my jaw-line.

‘I suppose you think what you did was daring,’ she said.

‘No.’ I put out my hands behind me to prevent myself from falling. The door was cool under my touch, or maybe I was hot all over. I wished she would let me go into my room.

‘You can have a good life here, Theo. I don’t want to send you away again – and your school doesn’t want you back, either. You know why.’

Beads of sweat gathered along my hairline. I didn’t like to think about that afternoon, or the boy – Mark Hennessey – who’d followed me around all year, tripping me up, taunting me. Once he’d made me drink water from the toilet bowl. After the fight, none of the boys would look me in the eye, even the few friends I had. It didn’t matter that he’d had me cornered, or that all boys fought. I’d gone too far. I’d been happy when the headmaster had suspended me.

I wondered if I was going to be sick again. ‘Can I go to bed now?’ I asked.

My mother drew back her hand and hit me across the face. At the last moment I turned so it caught the side of my head, and the jolt seemed to go right through to my brain. I looked at her in time to see her hand fly towards me again and this time I caught it and held it tight, digging my fingers into her wrist.

‘Don’t,’ I said.

Her face was just below mine, her eyes wide open. Both of us were breathing heavily. I wondered if another guest, looking out of their bedroom, would think we were about to kiss.

I let her go and she stayed exactly where she was, arms hanging loosely at her sides now. A few strands of hair had escaped her plait and formed a copper haze around her face. I wanted to apologise, or laugh it off, but the longer the silence went on, the more tongue-tied I became.

‘I’m going to bed,’ I said, eventually.

‘No, it’s not too late,’ she said. I thought she must be talking to herself because I didn’t understand her words, or her voice – gentle, and sad and flat. She hesitated, then reached past me and opened my bedroom door.

I went through it and shut it behind me. My head was thumping and my body felt clumsy with shock. I thought Maud was asleep, but as I slipped under my bedsheets she rolled over.

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said.