скачать книгу бесплатно
Ben examined it. The bed for the gem was substantial.
‘About a thousand dollars,’ he said regretfully. ‘Counting cutting, and so forth.’
Helen sighed. ‘Forget it …’ She looked at the empty ring sadly, then put it back on her finger. She went on: ‘So – how long have you been in Australia, Ben?’
‘A couple of months. Landed in Perth. Covered the west coast, then crossed the Nullarbor Plain. Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, et cetera. Then up here into Queensland.’
‘Landed in Perth? Where from?’
‘Africa. Came across on a freighter, with my bike.’
‘Africa?’ Helen sounded envious. ‘Where were you in Africa?’
‘I sailed from South Africa, but I was all over the place. Crossed from Gibraltar into Morocco, then made my way down along the western bulge to Nigeria, Ghana, et cetera. To the Congo. Got on a steamer up the Congo River into Zaire and crossed over to Uganda and Kenya. Then down through Tanzania and Zambia and Zimbabwe, et cetera, into South Africa.’
Helen smiled. ‘“Et cetera”, huh? And, before Africa?’
‘Well,’ Ben said, ‘I went round South America, then crossed to the Far East. Japan, Hong Kong, then got a freighter to Thailand. Did a side trip by air to the Philippines and Indonesia, then rode the bike over to India.’ He smiled. ‘Decided against trying to ride across the Middle East – not the healthiest place for a Jew. So from Bombay I got a freighter through Suez to Greece.’ He shrugged. ‘Went around Europe for a while, then crossed over into north Africa.’
Helen was fascinated. ‘Wow. How wonderful! And where’re you going from here?’
‘Brisbane. Then up through northern Queensland to Darwin, see that Northern Territory.’
‘And from there?’
‘Back down to Perth. And then back to South Africa. I want to make a base there, then go off and do my thing.’
Helen echoed: ‘South Africa again? Why there?’
‘Great country.’ Ben shrugged.
‘But what about the politics?’
Ben shrugged again. ‘Great things are happening.’
Helen snorted. ‘Is there going to be democracy?’
‘That’s what the negotiations are all about.’
‘What’s there to negotiate?’ Helen demanded. ‘Why not good old-fashioned democracy? Is there going to be One Man One Vote or not?’
‘I believe so, but they’ll work it out to suit the local conditions.’
‘You mean the white man’s conditions?’
Ben shook his head. But he didn’t want to argue about it – people who hadn’t been to Africa just didn’t understand. ‘However, the reason I’m going back there is not for the politics, interesting though that is, but because of the animals.’
Helen was disarmed. ‘The wildlife?’
Ben sat back. ‘Oh, the wildlife out there is wonderful. And it’s being butchered out of existence. Not in South Africa, but in the rest of the continent.’ He shook his head. ‘There’re only three black rhino left in the whole of Kenya, d’you know that? In ten years the only wild animals left north of the Zambesi will be in isolated pockets, unless a great deal more is done. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to join the guys who’re trying to do something about it.’
‘Like who?’
Ben said: ‘I’m a life-member of Greenpeace and the World Wide Fund for Nature. But there’re various outfits you can join who believe in fighting fire with fire, and they’re the guys I want to team up with. As a foot-soldier.’
Helen frowned at him. ‘Foot-soldier? And what does a foot-soldier do? Shoot people?’
Ben smiled. ‘There’re more ways of killing a cat than stuffing its throat with butter. Like destroying their infrastructure. Destroying their camps, their weapons, their snares, their vehicles. Their routes. Their products. Raiding the warehouses of their middlemen down on the coast in Mombasa and Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar and Maputo – generally knocking the living shit out of them.’ (Helen blinked – she didn’t like that familiarity.) Ben shrugged. ‘But if it comes to shooting the poachers themselves, why not? Those bastards shoot game rangers all the time in Africa.’
Helen sat back. And folded her arms. She didn’t know what to make of Mr Ben Sunninghill, jeweller, from New York. On his motorbike. Foot-soldier? ‘Have you ever had any military training?’
‘Sure, I was in the National Guard. That’s the States’ militia. Volunteer basis.’
She thought, Volunteer, huh? ‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘Sure. Most of the time. And nice to get away from the shop.’
‘And they trained you in … weapons and all that?’
‘Yeah. I was in the infantry.’ He smiled. ‘Never killed anybody though. I was too young for Vietnam.’
She said. ‘What’re you – about thirty-five?’
He took her aback by saying: ‘Right, and you? Forty-ish?’
‘You might have been gallant and said thirty-nine-ish!’
Ben gave that smile. ‘But forty is a beautiful age for a woman.’
Helen managed to return his smile, though she somehow didn’t like the comment. ‘Well, I’m forty-two, actually. That is hardly a beautiful age for this woman.’
‘But you are beautiful.’
Helen certainly didn’t like that forwardness. Oh no, she thought – not one of those, and him a guest in my house for the night! She sat up and said brightly:
‘Well, we better have something to eat, it’s getting late.’
Ben said earnestly: ‘Don’t worry about me, I had supper just before finding your gate.’
That was fine with Helen. ‘Some coffee, then?’
‘No, it’ll keep me awake.’
Well, that gave her an opening. ‘Yes, you must be tired. I’ll show you to your room. I’ll put you in the foreman’s cottage, it’s empty. It’s just half a mile over there.’ She pointed.
Ben said: ‘I don’t mind sleeping outside in my sleeping-bag, in fact I like it. Pity to use your sheets.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. You deserve a nice soft bed after all the way you’ve come.’ She stood up.
Oh dear, Ben thought. He looked up at her. He said:
‘I hope I haven’t offended you – I mean by saying you’re beautiful. Please don’t think I’m … that I had an ulterior motive.’
Helen was further taken aback. ‘Of course not,’ she said self-consciously. ‘Well, I’ll go in the Land Rover, you follow on your bike.’
Ben stood up. ‘No need to show me the way, just point me in the direction and I’ll find it. There can’t be many cottages round here.’
‘Of course I will. I’ll just get some sheets.’
‘I’ll use the nice soft bed but I’ll sleep in my sleeping-bag. I insist on not using up your sheets – you said your washing-machine’s broken.’
Helen hesitated. ‘But … it seems so inhospitable.’ Then she added: ‘And please don’t think I’m inhospitable in putting you in the cottage. But it wouldn’t be … proper for you to sleep in the house with my husband away.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ Ben said earnestly. He added with a grin: ‘What would all the neighbours say?’
CHAPTER 4 (#)
It was a beautiful morning. The sky was magnificently blue, the early sun cast long shadows through the trees, and the world was old and young at the same time. And on this glorious morning Helen McKenzie had to bury Oscar.
At nine o’clock she drove to the cottage to fetch Ben Sunninghill for breakfast. She found him outside, wearing shorts and singlet, his motorbike engine in pieces. He stood up when he saw her vehicle approaching. His skinny chest was covered in curly black hair, and he was only about five foot five in his bare feet.
‘G’day. Breakfast time,’ Helen said through the window. ‘Then I’ll show you our collection of spanners.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve already found the spanners – went for an early walk and found the barn unlocked, hope that’s okay.’
Again she was a little surprised by his forwardness. ‘Sure.’ She nodded at his motor cycle. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Fine. Say, that’s a nice little airplane you got in that barn.’
‘Would be, if it worked.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Starter set-up, Clyde says. Clyde’s my husband. We’ve got to get spare parts.’
‘Has the engine been stationary for very long?’
‘No, I turn it over once a fortnight to keep it loose.’
‘Ah. Can you fly?’
‘Sure, when I have to.’
‘I’ve got a licence.’ He said it proudly. ‘Went down to Florida one winter and took a crash course. Don’t you enjoy it?’
‘Don’t like heights, and all that radio stuff about winds and weather. But you really need a plane out here. Do you – like flying?’
‘After sex and sailing, it’s what I like best.’
She didn’t like that – ‘after sex’. Far too familiar. ‘So, you’re a sailor too?’
‘An intrepid one. Want me to look at the airplane’s starter motor?’
It sounded a pushy offer, as if he were looking for an excuse to stay longer. ‘Reckon you could fix it, huh? Like you intrepidly kill snakes?’
‘I’m scared of snakes. But I can fix most anything. Does that old VW van in the barn work?’
‘Doubt it, we haven’t started it in a year and it’s as old as the hills. My father gave it to me when the kids were little so they could sleep in it when we went on holidays. Why, want to buy it? Swap it for your bike, maybe?’
Ben smiled. ‘No thanks. But I’ll have a look at it for you, if you like.’
That disarming smile of his. No, she decided, he hadn’t meant to be pushy. ‘Thanks anyway, but better let sleeping dogs lie. What’s wrong with your bike?’
‘Just a split head-gasket. That’s the thing—’
‘Sure, I know what a head-gasket is, helped Clyde put in new ones often enough in twenty-some years. Cuss, cuss, cuss.’
‘Nineteen,’ he smiled. ‘See, I remembered.’
Again, somehow she didn’t like that. Almost suggestive. ‘Okay,’ she said: ‘I’ve put everything on the table, just help yourself. Bacon and steak’s in the fridge.’
He walked towards his shirt. He was even smaller than she’d thought. His legs were wiry and his back was hairy too. ‘Aren’t you having breakfast?’ he asked.
‘No, I had mine hours ago, I’ve got to go’n fetch Billy to dig Oscar’s grave. Billy’s our stockman. If he hasn’t gone walkabout.’
‘Walkabout, huh? Look, I’ll dig Oscar’s grave.’ He pulled on his shirt.
‘Thanks, but I want that grave good and deep so the dingoes don’t dig him up, and believe me that ground’s stony – Billy’s got nothing much to do anyway.’
‘Do you want me to come with you to fetch Billy?’
She sighed inwardly. ‘If you like.’
Her tone made him look at her more closely. Her face was strained, as if she had done some crying in the night. He knew she didn’t feel up to being sociable. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have my own breakfast right here; you go’n see to Billy.’
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s all waiting.’
He fried some eggs and bacon in her kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, but he was sure she would worry about being inhospitable if she saw he hadn’t eaten anything when she came back. She was a sensitive one, all right. He washed his plates, then went out on to the verandah.
Oscar lay under the blanket, and on the blanket was a flower.
‘Oh, dear …’
He pulled the blanket back a little. There lay Oscar’s old-young Boxer head, his worried frown stiff, his tongue clenched between his sharp young teeth.
He returned to the kitchen. He went to the washing-machine, crouched and examined it; then he pulled it away from the wall.
Some time later he heard the Land Rover return; its door slammed and Helen strode into the kitchen. She found Ben sitting on the floor, the washing-machine’s innards surrounding him.
