Kat Gordon - The Hunters

My mother came down the steps. ‘Good afternoon, Countess de Croÿ.’

Sylvie straightened up again. ‘Oh – call me Sylvie, please.’ She looked at Lady Joan, who was still sitting on the porch. ‘It’s nice to –’

Lady Joan cut her off with a wave of her hand. ‘No introductions necessary. Are you still with the Hamiltons?’

‘We’ve bought our own place actually – I’m here to invite the Millers to tea.’

‘How kind of you,’ my mother said. She didn’t move, and I realised she hadn’t offered Sylvie a drink, or invited her inside, or even shaken her hand. Behind me, I could sense Maud fidgeting, and Fairyfeet still whimpered softly, but otherwise a silence had descended. My mother crossed her arms in front of her chest; Lady Joan raised an eyebrow.

I looked at Sylvie. She’d turned pale. It made her seem much younger, somehow, and helpless, and I felt a wave of anger on her behalf.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ I asked.

My mother caught my eye and shook her head, subtly. I hurried on. ‘We don’t have champagne. I don’t know if Abdullah knows how to make whisky sours – you like those, don’t you?’

‘You remember.’ Sylvie smiled at me, and the colour came back into her cheeks. She looked as if she was about to refuse, then Roderigo broke the ice, jumping out of her arms and onto Maud’s shoulder.

‘He knows me,’ Maud said excitedly.

Sylvie laughed. ‘He always chooses the prettiest person to sit on.’

‘Actually,’ I said. ‘We were going to ask your permission for Roderigo’s hand in marriage. Maud’s game.’

‘Theo,’ my mother said, frowning.

‘Maud shouldn’t be thinking about marriage yet,’ Sylvie said. ‘Not for a long time.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind Maud’s ear. ‘You’ve got much more to offer the world, haven’t you, darling?’

There was another pause. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mother draw herself up as if she had something important to say.

‘Sylvie,’ she said. ‘Won’t you join us on the veranda? What would you like to drink?’

Sylvie drove with one hand on the wheel and the other in her lap. She was constantly looking over her shoulder to talk to Maud and drifting across the road, or skidding as we turned corners. Freddie had driven too fast, but at least he’d seemed in control.

Cedar trees whisked past in a dark blur, and golden stalks of corn bowed their prickly heads in our wake. Fairyfeet and Roderigo trembled in Maud’s lap. We were driving towards the mountains, and I had visions of Sylvie tunnelling straight through them. She was telling us the story of their journey to Africa from France, but her words were snatched away by the wind, so I caught only a haze of dances and sea-sickness and misunderstandings.

Then she was slowing down, turning a last corner and Nicolas was waiting to open a gate in the long hedgerow for us. We drove through and parked sharply, while Nicolas fiddled with the gate, trying to shut it again. I looked around. We were at the edge of a lush expanse of countryside, around six hundred acres or so, with a few thatched huts, gently smoking, dotted here and there in the distance. The Aberdares reared up to our right, a silvery waterfall cascading down their sides, and close by on our left the river moved sluggishly around a bend, where a deep pool had formed.

‘Welcome.’ Nicolas was walking towards us now, and it was only then that we noticed the smallish ball of yellow fluff, with large, ungainly feet, trotting next to him.

‘Is that a lion ?’ Maud asked.

‘Our surprise,’ Sylvie said, turning in her seat. ‘Samson the lion cub.’ She looked at me, and I felt somehow she’d wanted to show him to me in particular.

‘Say hello to him if you like,’ Nicolas said, opening the door for Maud. Fairyfeet took the opportunity to escape, and bounded into the bushes. ‘He’s very tame.’

We carefully approached Samson, who was sitting a few feet from the car. He was no bigger than a domestic cat, but stockier, with shorter legs. His fur was sand-coloured, and there were brown spots on his head much like a leopard. His eyes were wide and black, and his mouth was open, tongue hanging out pinkly, giving him a quizzical expression. His teeth looked sharp enough.

I felt myself breaking into a smile, just looking at him. Here was a real, live predator. A man-killer.

‘Where does he like to be stroked?’ Maud asked.

As if in answer, Samson flopped onto the ground in front of us and rolled over, exposing his belly.

‘He’s a flirt,’ Nicolas said, slapping him playfully on his flank. Samson growled, and wriggled from side to side, scratching his back on the rocky surface of the drive.

‘We’ve been cursed with all the naughty animals,’ Sylvie said, picking Roderigo up from the back seat of the car. ‘Now come see the plans for the house. We’re living in the manager’s house in the meantime.’

The manager’s house was smaller than ours and painted white with green shutters. There was a narrow porch along the front of the house with a table and four chairs set up. Inside was white as well, with red tiles on the floor, and stacks of unopened boxes in the corners. No paintings hung on the walls, but there was some needlework above the fireplace, proclaiming ‘Home, Sweet Home’.

We sat around a coffee table near the open front door while Sylvie flitted about trying to find the plans, and Nicolas ordered us a jug of lemonade. Roderigo scampered up a tall armoire, and perched on the top, surveying us calmly.

‘Here we go,’ Sylvie said, unrolling a sheet of paper on the table and tapping a dark line that snaked across the page. ‘It’ll face Satima Peak, in the Aberdares, and the back will face the Wanjohi River.’

‘Sylvie insisted we live near water,’ Nicolas said. ‘I don’t know what it is about people who grow up in the city. They always worry if there’s no water nearby.’

Sylvie stuck her tongue out at him. ‘And people who grow up in the countryside worry if they can’t see the horizon.’

‘If you’re talking about your monstrous skyscrapers –’

‘Much more practical than your draughty old castles.’

‘Our castles – exactly. We need to see the horizon to see who’s coming to attack us.’

Sylvie waved a hand. ‘Who wants them? Anyway, I love water. I used to think I’d like a burial at sea.’

I remembered the times I’d planned my own funeral as a boy, whenever my mother had been angry with me, imagining myself finally beyond her reach and how sorry she’d be. I knew it was wrong to think about it, even sometimes wish it, so it was surprising to hear Sylvie talk so openly about the things I dreamed about in private. I felt a thrill run through me at the thought of everything we shared, and how brave she was.

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