Blood Ties Page 7

  Chapter 7

  The State of Haryana was not beautiful – and not clean, inside or out. She plied regularly between Bombay and Mombasa via the Seychelles carrying cargo and passengers. The first class passengers enjoyed relative comfort in private cabins, all with portholes facing the sea. Second class passengers bunked in dormitory cabins which stank day and night. Deck passengers slept on the aft deck, which was hard but did not stink.

  Kirsty stood in the doorway and surveyed her tiny cabin with apprehension. It contained a small table and chair under the porthole. A cupboard to her left and, on the right, two narrow bunks, one above the other. There was a cockroach on the table. She pointed at it and the Indian steward grunted, put down her suitcase and swatted it with his hand. Two weeks earlier she would have been disgusted, but such a time in Africa can bring fast adjustments.

  Having been carefully briefed she tipped him ten shillings and told him that she was going on deck for an hour and when she returned she wanted to see the cabin sparkling clean and kept that way throughout the voyage. He bobbed his head and grinned and she turned away down the passage and on to the slightly cooler deck. It was mid-afternoon and the ship was two days late sailing, which apparently was customary. She stood at the rail looking down at the gangplank as the last of the passengers came aboard. They were mostly Indians, poorly dressed, many of them carrying fibre suitcases and bundles wrapped in brightly coloured cloth. She watched as they jostled and argued for position on the afterdeck, quickly spreading their possessions to stake out territory. Here and there were whole families ranging from grandmothers to infants. As soon as they settled they opened baskets and began distributing food. They did not look unsatisfied and she wondered at their stoicism in enduring a three thousand mile journey in such conditions.

  Her attention was drawn again to the gangplank. A very tall, very blond young man was coming up, lightly balancing a canvas duffle bag on one shoulder. He was dressed in faded denim jeans and a tee shirt and on his feet were highly polished cowboy boots. They did not look incongruous. She bad seen him earlier in the Customs shed and they had exchanged glances. He had bright blue eyes contrasting vividly with blond hair and a tanned face — a face at once strong yet vulnerable.

  He reached the top of the gangplank and lifted his head, and again she was looking into those eyes. They held her for a moment then he nodded slightly and moved forward out of her sight. She turned from the rail and started walking the deck which surrounded the saloon, cabins and dining room. This deck was exclusively first class and as yet there were few other strollers. She passed a middle-aged Indian couple. He dressed in a conservative business suit, she in an orange sari, bare at the midriff. Then an elderly European man in a safari suit, who nodded at her pleasantly- She guessed that she would spend many hours walking this deck during the coming days. It was the first time she had ever been on a ship and she was looking forward to the voyage with a mixture of interest and trepidation. She did not know if she would get sea-sick or could endure four days of what she had been warned would be indifferent curry for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  But she had noticed a change in herself during the past two weeks. In one sense she was still inexperienced, naive and timid, constantly reaching back to the mental security of her past life. Familiar places, familiar faces, understood customs and behaviour. In another sense from inside her shell she had observed a new world and had not been overly frightened. She had seen poverty and dirt, travelled with dust in her throat and bathed in water with dead bugs floating in it. Slowly she had realised that despite a life of predictable routine she had the ability to adjust and adapt. Africa had done that. Africa and her new friends, the Godfreys,

  She had stayed ten days with them and they were a good introduction to East Africa; both enthusiastic and knowledgeable about the country. At the weekend they had all driven up country to Mikumi, a new game reserve, a hundred miles inland. They had slept in tents and travelled in a Land-Rover scores of miles each day. She had seen lions and elephants, impalas and hyenas.

  On the second night it rained heavily and lions had come into the camp seeking shelter under the surrounding umbrella trees. The English game warden had chased them away with loud thunder flashes. The next clay the Land-Rover got stuck in deep mud and they had to walk back five miles to the camp, past herds of buffalo and giraffe, and a solitary rhino which eyed them suspiciously. Only the warden carried a gun and later, back at the camp, he admitted having qualms about the rhino and explained how it is one of the few beasts of Africa that will charge unprovoked.

  At night, lying alone on her canvas cot, Kirsty had listened to the night sounds of Africa: the constant hum and clatter of insects. The sharp cries of night birds, the intermittent coughing roar of a distant lion and the chilling, cynical laugh of the hyena. She had been a little frightened, especially when the lions had come into the camp, but the warden and the Godfreys and the African servants had all been so matter of-fact about it that her fear soon disappeared. The mornings had been the best. The hot coffee at dawn, then an hour in the Land-Rover watching the sun light up the trees and rolling scrub. And the great herds of animals: the graceful, leaping impalas; slightly comical zebras; cantering giraffe with long aloof necks; a lone kudu, nervous and beautiful with majestic sprawling horns. The warden had been excited, for kudu were rare so far south. He had tried to edge closer while Howard took photographs, but the kudu lifted its nose, smelt the wind and bounded off into the bush.

  The evenings too were magic. First the hot bath in a canvas tub letting the warmth ease legs pleasantly aching from unaccustomed exercise. Then cool drinks in the mess tent under hissing lanterns and dinner of guinea fowl, or yellow neck; or tangy gazelle chops; and the conversation: the anecdotes and lore of East Africa, its animals and its people.

  Slowly New York and Larry and Irving Goldman had all receded in her mind. But Garret was ever present and her fascination and curiosity was constantly overlaid by impatience in having to wait to continue her quest.

  She spent four more days in Dar es Salaam, meeting some of the Godfreys’ friends and swimming a lot in Oyster Bay.

  At a reception one evening she had a stroke of luck. She was introduced to an Indian businessman who had offices throughout East Africa. He was shortly to fly in his own light aircraft to Mombasa. He would be delighted to give her a lilt. This saved her a tedious dog-leg journey back to Nairobi and then the railway to the coast.

  She had left the Godfreys with regret and enormous gratitude, hugging all three at the airport and fighting back tears which finally came as the twin-engined Cessna lifted off.

  She sat behind the pilot, next to the Indian and once she had composed herself he pointed out the features below. They passed directly over the islands of Zanzibar and Pemba. They looked idyllic in a setting of blue seas and sandy beaches, palm-thatched houses and neat plantations. But the Indian spoke eloquently of the savagery and death which had occurred only months before, and how the present leaders were still persecuting the Arabs and forcing twelve-year-old Asian girls into marriage. It was revenge for a thousand years of slavery, a revenge that turned the revolutionaries into animals.

  The journey had taken an hour and a half and in the latter stages the Indian had changed the subject and talked about the State of Haryana. He had travelled on it several times to visit family in Bombay. It was, he explained apologetically, not a very nice ship. The food was bad and monotonous. He gave her several tips. Take a good supply of bottled drinking water, plenty of biscuits and fruit and so on to eat in her cabin. Insect repellent to be liberally sprayed around the cabin and toilet paper because that often ran out or was stolen.

  It should have made Kirsty nervous but she reasoned that having been separated from a lion by a strip of canvas only a few nights before, the thought of a few cockroaches was not going to bother her.

  In Mombasa she got the news that the ship was delayed. The Indian arranged for her to stay at a good hotel near the beach for
a very low rate. He also invited her home for dinner but she politely declined. She felt the need to be alone for a while. She swam and went sightseeing and shopping, but in her impatience the time went slowly and it was a relief when the agent phoned and told her the ship would sail at six in the evening and she could board any time after three. Minutes later Howard had phoned from Dar es Salaam. He had heard from his contact in the Seychelles. As of that morning the J aloud and Danny Lascelles were still at the Yacht Club.

  Now, as she circled the deck, she decided that the State of Haryana was not as bad as she had envisioned. Certainly it was less than clean but it was much bigger than she had feared and the decks were spacious and she had the privacy of her own cabin.

  The ship’s horn sounded twice and she walked to the rail and watched as they swung in the gangway. She felt the deck throbbing under her feet and other passengers were at the rail, waving to friends on the quay below. The warps were cast off and she turned to see a small, black tug boat on the seaward side, its stern churning up a foam.

  Slowly and with a belch of black smoke the State of Haryana eased away from the quay. Kirsty walked back towards the stern and stood watching the docks with their huge cargo cranes looking like the praying mantis insects she had recently seen in Mikumi. To the left an Arab dhow sailed past, its great lateen sail dwarfing the hull. A group of white-robed Arabs sat in a circle on the poop.

  As the ship passed out through the harbour entrance Kirsty felt the deck lift slightly as it met the first swell rolling in from the Indian Ocean. She turned and headed for her cabin, deciding that the first thing she would unpack would be the Kwells sea-sickness pills.

  In the passageway, as she was about to open her door, the door to the next cabin opened. The blond giant came out and looked momentarily startled to see her. Close up he was younger than she had first thought. He collected himself and muttered “Good evenin’ ma’am,” then turned and walked down towards the bar. She doubted that she had ever seen a more masculine or handsome man. As she closed the door behind her she mused that he could not be a great deal older than her own son.

  At first she was nervous at dinner. There was the ritual of the steward showing her to a table at which were already seated five strangers. There were the middle-aged Indian couple, whom she had seen earlier on deck; another younger couple, dark but Caucasian. He small and wiry, she slender and attractive, with long black hair. The fifth was an Indian, about forty, wearing a white uniform. He stood up and pulled her chair out, saying, “Welcome, Mrs Haywood. I am First Officer Pandit Desai.”

  She sat down and he sat next to her and gestured across the table. “Mr and Mrs Muran, passengers to Bombay; Mr and Mrs Savy, passengers to Seychelles.”

  The next few minutes were mildly painful for her. She had thought that she would sit alone, but glancing around she noted that all the sixty odd passengers were grouped on tables of four, six and eight. Uniformed officers were sprinkled around. She saw the tall blond across the room sitting with the European in the safari suit and two young Indian men. The passengers were predominantly Indian, with a scattering of European and African faces.

  Slowly conversation picked up. It turned out that Mr Muran was an accountant from Nairobi. He and his wife were returning to India for the marriage of their eldest son. They were polite but reticent. The Savys were Seychellois of French extraction. They had been in Kenya on holiday. She learned that they owned and lived on Bird Island, sixty miles north of Mahé. It was only two miles square but had a vast colony of sea birds – sooty terns. They lived alone apart from half a dozen plantation workers who picked coconuts for copra. But they were planning to open a small hotel both for bird-lovers and fishermen. The waters around the island were teeming with tuna, wahoo, marlin, sailfish and many others. She liked them. He introduced himself as Guy and his wife as Marie-France.

  The food arrived, a variety of dishes, all curried. She only picked at it; although the sea was calm she was wary of sea-sickness.

  Throughout the meal Desai paid her close attention. He was tall and heavy-set in a tight fitting uniform. He affected a black moustache which he constantly stroked with a thumb nail. He asked her the purpose of her trip and, after hesitating, she replied that she was going on holiday.

  After dinner they moved to the saloon, Kirsty being obsequiously escorted by Desai. There was a bar in the corner and groupings of chairs around coffee tables. The Murans had gone to their cabin, leaving the four of them. They had just sat down when the Englishman in the safari suit approached with the tall blond in tow. He greeted the Savys warmly and said:

  “A pleasure. I didn’t know you were on board. Guy, I’d like you to meet Alistair Cady. He’s on his way to the Seychelles to do some game fishing . . . he wants a sailfish . . . I told him you were the man to talk to.”

  The Englishman’s name was John Stevens and he signalled the bartender, who came over – a hulking Indian dressed in khaki shorts and a dirty tee shirt. After he had taken their orders and shambled off Stevens said to Desai: “Pity you can’t do something about that.” Desai shrugged and explained to Kirsty. “We lease out the bar for every round trip. It makes it easier because if we put our own staff in they cheat like hell . . . and get drunk half the time.”

  The talk turned to fishing. Stevens, a tea-planter on Mahé, was very keen and knowledgeable and so was Guy Savy. From the conversation it appeared that Cady had only recently tried it off the coast of Kenya and become addicted. He had been told of the spectacular Seychelles fishing and a day later caught the ship, thankful for its delay. As Stevens and Guy exchanged anecdotes he listened avidly, but every so often his blue eyes would glance at Kirsty. She found it disconcerting and finally had to make a conscious effort not to look at him. Meanwhile Desai, sitting close behind her, was talking to her about ships and the problems of officers being away from home for so long and how pleasant it was to have nice passengers on a voyage. Every once in a while he patted her arm and moved his leg to brush hers, which was trapped against the table leg. He smelt of cheap deodorant and hair oil.

  The drinks came and were consumed and Guy ordered another round. Then, in a half whisper, Desai informed her that he would have to make his rounds and check that everything was in order. He implied that the Captain was mildly incompetent. Later would she like to have a look around the ship?

  She demurred. She was tired and would he going to bed soon. Perhaps some other time.

  He was not deterred. He would check back with her later to see if she was still about.

  She glanced at Cady and saw him watching them. With Desai gone the atmosphere lightened. Marie-France talked to Kirsty about the islands and their history and creole cooking. In the morning she would talk to the chief steward and rearrange the seating pattern so they joined Cady and Stevens, then she would try to get into the galley and bribe the chef and cook a couple of meals herself for their table. Anything for a change.

  Kirsty laughed and found herself relaxing. She decided it was time that she bought a round and she caught the bartender’s eye and signalled. They were the only ones left in the saloon and he gave her a sour look, but he mixed the drinks. When he brought them over Cady looked up in surprise and then tried to pay for them, but Kirsty insisted and counted out the money.

  Fifteen minutes later Cady, determined to get in his round, called out good-naturedly, “Hey ol’ buddy. Circle the wagon here will ya?”

  Kirsty started to protest and so did Marie-France but their voices were stilled by a rumble from the bar. They looked up to see a rusty metal grill slam down on to the counter. From behind it the bartender said belligerently:

  “Bar’s closed!”

  Silence, then Cady looked at his watch. “Hell man, it’s only ten forty. Bar’s s’posed to close at eleven.”

  The bartender had his hands flat in front of him. He leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the grill. Looking directly at Cady he said:

  “Bar closes when I say.”


  Silence, then Cady stood up, an ever-darkening shadow clouding his young face. Very slowly he walked to the bar. With each step the heels of his cowboy boots thumped the deck ominously. He reached the grill and looked down and through it. The bartender, although not short, had to crane his neck. Their faces were a foot apart.

  Cady spoke very quietly, almost casually but every word sounded like a gun being cocked.

  “Tell you a story my friend. This ol’ farmer had a mule which he sold to his neighbour for a hunnerd dollars. Told’ im it was a good ol’ mule . . . do anythin’. Next day the neighbour complained that the mule wouldn’t move . . . wouldn’t budge. Farmer, he goes over there an’ sure enough that of mule was standin’ like a frozen rock. Farmer he picks up a piece of two by four . . . big piece of wood. He stands back an’ wacks that old mule right between the eyes . . . then he says ‘move!’ That ol’ mule moved right along. Farmer turns to his neighbour and says: tol’ you he was a good ol’ mule . . . do whatever you tell him . . . but first you gotta catch his attention.”

  His nose moved an inch closer, his fingers gripped the grill and his voice dropped a decibel.

  “Now ol’ buddy. If I have to catch your attention this bitty piece of chicken wire ain’t gonna help you none.”

  A long silence while the bartender looked up into the narrow eyes. Slowly he wiped his palms down his tee shirt, then he murmured.

  “That was three beers, two gin tonics and a vermouth . . . Sir?”

  Chapter 8

  As Kirsty undressed she was happy and a little drunk. She could not remember when she had last drunk too much. Three more rounds had followed the re-opening of the bar. The incident had not marred the atmosphere. Cady had shrugged it off as nothing and the bartender had taken it surprisingly well. Even accepting a drink as well, and keeping open well past eleven. She had found the Savys easy to talk to. They had been married only a year. Both came from old French colonial families. Marie-France explained that the British in the nineteenth century intercepted many slave trading vessels between Zanzibar and Arabia. The slaves were set free in the Seychelles. Inter-marriage and cohabitation with the original French settlers and the freed slaves created a multiracial society. It was not unusual for a blond boy to have a black cousin and be quite content with it. Those families who remained permanently white were referred to as ‘Grand blancs’ Although the British had taken over the islands in 1815 they were too small to bother much with, so for the next thirty years they left the French Governor in charge. Hence the language and food was creole, and Bastille Day was still celebrated with more fervour than the Queen’s birthday.