The Horns of the Buffalo (23 page)

Alice breathed deeply and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I quite understand all that you have said, Mr Cornford, and I am grateful to you for seeing me and for explaining the situation so frankly. But I must be frank with you, in turn.' She smoothed her dress and sat bolt upright. ‘I am determined to become a professional journalist on one of the great newspapers of this country - even, perhaps, one day becoming as great and powerful an editor as you.'

Cornford inclined his head and smiled, more with amusement than appreciation of the flattery, but he listened attentively as Alice continued.

‘I have fixed my mind on reporting on great matters from abroad. If you will not have me, then I shall try
The Times
and the other newspapers in London until I find one that will allow me to exercise my talents. However, the
Morning Post
suits me well. Perhaps I am not fully supportive of its political stance but I do feel that I have a small, shall we say, investment in it as a result of my articles. Indeed,' Alice's eyes held those of Cornford, ‘I believe that I may claim even to have built up a modest following among your readers.'

Cornford gave a gentle acquiescence with his head. ‘That may well be so, my dear.'

‘And so, Mr Cornford, I have a proposition to put to you. The North West Frontier may perhaps not be for me at this stage. But why can I not go to a less active theatre, which has news potential but where you are not already strongly represented and where, so to speak, I might win my spurs before going on to greater things?'

Cornford raised his eyebrows. ‘Such as?'

‘From my readings of the
Post
you do not have a strong representation in Cape Town. You only have there a stringer, if I have the terminology correct?'

‘Both your terminology and your presumption are correct.'

‘Good. Then I propose, sir, that I become your accredited correspondent in South Africa, with the task of reporting upon all of the developments there, from the Cape to the Transvaal to Zululand, and covering matters political, economic and military.'

Cornford made to speak but Alice went on quickly. ‘Of course, I would prefer to be in Afghanistan, and South African affairs are undoubtedly of less importance to your readers. There is no Russian threat there, for instance. But I sense that this land dispute between the Boers and the Zulus could be the catalyst that could make the Cape of greater interest to us back home. And I have studied the matter, as you may know from my last piece.

‘You mentioned that your representative in the field must have contacts. Well, I am a brigadier's daughter and he served in the 24th Foot, both regiments of which are out in South Africa at this very moment. If war did break out there - and even if it didn't-I would have the most splendid contacts among them which I would have no hesitation in exploiting in reporting on events.'

A smile had now spread completely across Cornford's face, lifting his whiskers and bringing a mischievous twinkle to his blue eyes. Alice, however, failed to notice. Engrossed in the urgency of her argument, her eyes fixed on his waistcoat buttons as she concentrated, she ploughed on.

‘Now. I accept your point about my inexperience and I appreciate that you would be taking a risk with me. I do not think, therefore, that it would be fair for you to shoulder the not inconsiderable expense of my steamer fare to the Cape and back. I have modest means of my own and such a cost is well within them. So I am prepared to meet it. But that is the only indulgence I am prepared to allow. I must be paid whatever is the fair rate for a junior correspondent, together with the necessary allowances for living expenses, travel within the country and so on.'

Alice finished with a rush and the room fell silent, except for the crackle of the coal in the fireplace. Cornford stroked his beard reflectively, the smile still in his eyes.

‘I confess, Miss Griffith,' he said, ‘that I don't quite know what to say to you. I have never met so, ah, determined a young woman before. You make a good case. But what of your parents? Forgive me, I do not wish to pry, but you cannot be very old. I presume you live at home. Would your parents give their consent?'

Alice's heart leapt slightly. Was he relenting? Then she frowned at the condescension. ‘My age, Mr Cornford, has nothing to do with it, except that I assure you that I am over the age of consent. I do not need my parents' permission to work for you, but if I did, I am sure that it would not be withheld. I am an only child and I am determined to make my own way in the world.'

Cornford coughed. ‘I can quite see that, madam.' He rose to his feet. ‘Do you know, I am rather taken by the idea of being the first editor formally to employ a woman as an overseas and, possibly, a war correspondent.' He chuckled. ‘Perhaps it is the
only
thing for which I shall be remembered.' He held out his hand. ‘Very well, young lady. I accept your terms. If you prove a success - and I must be the judge of that - then the
Post
will reimburse the cost of your fare to and from Cape Town. If you fail, then it shall remain your cost.'

Alice rose to her feet. She felt that her cheeks were burning bright red. ‘Oh Mr Cornford,' she said, ‘I am so very grateful to you for giving me this chance. You will not regret it, I promise.'

‘I do hope not, my dear. Certainly my colleagues, when I tell them, will feel that my judgement is failing in my old age.' He smiled genially. ‘But somehow I think I shall prove to be right. Now, I shall write you a formal letter of appointment and you must respond agreeing to my terms - we won't discuss them now but I think you will find them satisfactory. Please consult the steamer schedules and let me know the earliest time you can leave for the Cape. Bear in mind, however, that we shall need you in the office here for a few days before you embark, working with the foreign editor and so on to learn some fundamental ropes. He will advise you on the sort of kit to take, though . . .' his eyebrows rose in further merriment, ‘I don't suppose for a moment that he will have much idea of what advice to give to
you
, my dear.'

He ushered her to the door. ‘Can you be back here in, say, a week's time?'

‘I certainly can, sir.'

‘Then best of luck to you, Miss Griffith. Please don't make a fool of me, there's a good young lady.'

 

The journey back home on the Great Western Railway, changing trains at Cardiff on to the branch line to Brecon, was one of the happiest of Alice's young life. Her heart sang at her success. She had embarked on the interview quite convinced that she would fail. There was no precedent for her appointment and she had only her previous articles and the force of her personality to support her. She had had no real faith in either. But she had won!

Of course, she mused, South Africa was a backwater compared with Afghanistan and she had exaggerated to Cornford the importance of the border dispute. It would probably fizzle out and become just another footnote to the story of South Africa's growth. But the posting would enable her to gain experience: of recording events as they happened, rather than interpreting them from afar. It was much more exciting - and she might even see Simon!

She stared unseeingly out of the rain-streaked window. Not once in the talk of South Africa had she thought of him. Not even when she was boasting so grandiloquently (and rather falsely) about her contacts within the army at the Cape. Well, it would be good to see him again, if that was possible - why, he might even be useful to her in her work! Alice smiled at the thought. She had no idea of where Simon would be. There had been no further news since a rather boring and short letter had arrived from Durban. She gave a shrug. It was of no real import. She had far more important things to think about now - not least the difficult task of explaining to her parents that she had suddenly become a foreign correspondent for a newspaper. She smiled again. She could do that. It might take all her skills but, after convincing Cornford, the task of winning over her mother and father would be comparatively easy. She pressed her nose against the cold window pane and began to hum to herself.

At roughly the time that an apprehensive but excited Alice was boarding the vessel in London Docks that would take her to Cape Town, Simon was lying disconsolately on his bed in John Dunn's kraal. Late winter in Zululand had brought some relief from the humidity but it was boredom and a feeling of frustrated inadequacy that accounted for his discomfort now. It was four weeks since Jenkins, his arm bandaged, his hair freshly slicked back and Simon's letter stitched into the lining of his coat, had set off with the cattle to the border. There had been no news of him since, except that the boys who had accompanied him had returned and reported that the cattle had been safely delivered to the army pens in Durban. Jenkins had disappeared without trace.

More to the point, Simon realised sadly, he also missed Nandi. She had disappeared too, on the morning of Jenkins's departure. After two days, Simon had casually enquired about her and Dunn had told him gruffly that she had gone up-country for a few days to stay with her mother's relatives. It was clearly a banishment for her part in the Jenkins fracas. Dunn, too, was rarely at home and Simon's frustration stemmed from lack of meaningful activity as much as loneliness. His horsemanship improved considerably as a result of daily rides near the farm, but they brought him no information about the King's intentions towards the British or his possible preparations for war. All he saw were cattle, herdsmen, dongas and scrub. No warriors. No drilling impis. As a spy he was worthless! Yet he dared not ride towards the Zulu heartland, for he was useless without an interpreter. If only Nandi . . .

As if on cue, there was a gentle knock on the door of his room. ‘Simon,' called a soft voice.

He sprang from his bed and opened the door. There she was, dressed in that familiar white shift, small white teeth gleaming, a wild orchid tucked into her hair, her whole manner radiating youthful happiness. ‘Nandi,' he cried. ‘Where have you been?'

She pulled a face of lugubrious misery. ‘I have been in disgrace because Papa said that I had caused the fight between Mr Jenkins and Nkumo. So he sent me to stay in Mama's village in the north.' Her eyes widened in youthful innocence. ‘But Simon. It was not my fault. I was not encouraging them, you know.'

Simon frowned momentarily. He was quite sure that she had played the coquette on that evening. She was a flirt, there was no doubt about it - but he needed her. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘Sit down.'

Nandi shook her head. ‘No thank you. Papa says I must not go into your room. I called because I thought you might like to ride and . . .' she grinned, ‘start your lessons in the Zulu language.'

‘What a good idea, but what about your father? He has said precious little to me over the past few weeks and I fear that I am becoming an embarrassment to him.'

Nandi shook her head. ‘No, I don't think so. He left early this morning for Durban; something to do with this Boundary Commission which has been meeting at Rorke's Drift for a long time now. I asked him last night and he said that if you really wanted to learn, then I could begin teaching you.' The smile came back, seeming to tilt her nose and illuminating her brown face. ‘So, you see, it's all right. I have the horses saddled.'

They rode, as before, along the track that led to the shaded pool, and sat together on the mossy bank. Nandi stretched out luxuriously and put her hands behind her head. ‘Isn't this a wonderful place?' she said. Then she stretched out a languid hand. ‘Simon . . .'

‘What about my lesson, then?'

Nandi sighed and sat upright, resting her chin on her knees and looking at Simon through her lashes mischievously. Simon thought that he had never seen anything so lovely. She had tucked a cotton scarf around her neck and its bright orange seemed to make her skin more lustrous, her teeth whiter. ‘All right, then. You are my pupil. You must listen carefully.'

‘No textbooks, ma'am?'

‘No. We don't have a written language, Simon. Although we do in a way.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, we can communicate by colour. By sending you certain beads on a string, I can say things to you. Basic things, but you would understand - just like a letter, really. For instance, if I sent you a string of beads painted white, I would be speaking of love.' Unusually, she betrayed just a touch of embarrassment. ‘If they were black I would be yearning and thinking of the night. Yellow means a house and a family, green is domestic bliss . . . and so on,' she finished rather lamely.

‘How fascinating,' said Simon. His eyes drifted to her cleavage, where the ends of the scarf were tucked into her shift. She was wearing nothing underneath again. Oh God! ‘What, er, what about the language, then?' he enquired weakly.

‘Yes, Simon. It will not be easy for you.' She curled her legs underneath her like a schoolgirl and her face wore that air of innocent concentration that reminded Simon of the Sunday school teachers of his youth. ‘We have no books so I will have to teach you by mouth, so to speak.'

‘How charming,' murmured Simon.

‘What? Oh yes.' She grinned. ‘But not by kissing, Simon. You said that there were rules about that. No, be serious and listen. The first thing is for you to learn how to make the sounds that are very different from English. For instance, we have three sorts of clicks. Look.' She threw back her head and opened her mouth wide.

‘One is made like this, so.' She made a sound like the English tut-tut, by pressing her tongue to the back of her front teeth and pulling it away sharply. Simon came closer, moved his head down and looked into the roof of her mouth.