“What’s D getting you wrapped up in?” I gestured towards the house. From the booming of D’s voice, things sounded fairly volatile.
“I’m afraid to know all of it. Vigilance Committee guff.”
“Ah. Maybe you’d better run.”
D had formed the committee a few months before, part of a new effort to combat the old problem of just who had a right to Kenya, and why. White settlers had always been keen on self-rule, which amounted to something more like total domination of the territory. They saw Indians and Asians as outliers, to be fought off with sticks, if necessary. Africans were fine as long as they remained clear about their inferior state and didn’t want too much land. But recently the British government had issued the Devonshire White Paper, a series of declarations meant to beat back the white settlers’ greedy demands and restore something like order in the colony. We had a new governor, Sir Robert Coryndon, and he was taking the White Paper awfully seriously. Though he was as British as could be, from his starched collar to his gleaming oxfords, he was pro-Asian and pro-African, a loud and fearless champion for both groups, where the previous governor had been malleable and cheerful and benign. Because things had swung in the white settlers’ favour for so long, they could only be enraged now and think of how to fight back, even if that involved force. Not surprisingly, D was the fiercest among them.
“I’m actually relieved I’ve been out of the country for most of this past year,” Berkeley explained. Then he told me how he’d been in London seeing a slew of doctors for his heart.
“Oh no. What did they say?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid. The damned thing’s been troubling me for years.”
“What will you do now?”
“Live until it gives me away, of course. And drink only the best champagne. There’s not time for anything else.” His face was delicate and sensitive-looking, like a well-bred cat’s. He also had rich brown eyes that seemed to want to laugh at the idea of sadness or self-pity. He flicked away his cigarette and cleared his throat. “I’m throwing myself a birthday party next week,” he said. “One of the many ways I’m whistling past the graveyard these days. I’ll bet you’re a grand whistler, aren’t you? Please come.”
—
Berkeley had settled on the lower slopes of Mount Kenya in Naro Moru. He’d built a broad stone bungalow right up against the curves of the mountain, so it seemed to belong there and nowhere else. There were paddocks full of well-fed sheep and a winding river surrounded by thorn trees and twisting yellow witch hazel. Kenya’s crags loomed over everything, looking deeply black up close, full shouldered and imposing and also perfect, somehow, exactly what Berkeley should have looking after him, I thought.
D came along to the party as well. When we motored up, a drove of automobiles crisscrossed the lawn and drive. Berkeley was out on the veranda in a smart white tailcoat, humming snatches of a tune I didn’t recognize. His colour was high and he seemed to be in the peak of health, though I guessed that, like his lovely suit, it was put on. It probably mattered a great deal to him to appear to be the perfect host and dazzlingly well, too, no matter how things really were or felt beneath the surface.
“Your river is gorgeous.” I leaned through a cloud of clean-smelling hair tonic to kiss his cheek. “It was gleaming with fish when we crossed it.”
“Glad you’re keen on the trout. I couldn’t get a proper goose for dinner.” He winked. “Now come get some champagne before Denys swills it all.”
Denys. Though I’d only met him briefly on the street in Nairobi, for some reason my heart jumped at the sound of his name. We crossed the veranda and entered the main room of the house, which was full of people and the sound of laughter. And there he was in a languid slouch against the wall, hands in the pockets of his nice white trousers. He was as tall as I remembered, and just as lovely to look at.
“Beryl Purves,” Berkeley said, “you’ve met the honourable Denys Finch Hatton.”
I felt my face go warm as I reached for his hand. “Long ago.”
“Of course.” He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. But his tone was so light, it wasn’t clear if he remembered me at all, even vaguely. “Nice to see you.”
“Denys has been at home, in London, for far too long,” Berkeley said.
“What will you do now that you’re back in Kenya?”
“That’s an excellent question. I might do some land developing. Tich Miles thinks we can form a legitimate company.” He smiled as if legitimate were a pleasant surprise in this context. “And I’ve been dying to do some hunting.”
“Why not?” D broke in. “The world is clamouring for more great white hunters.”
“You should know.” Denys laughed at him. “You invented the term.”