A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,56

my chair to finish my lemon squash and cigarette. I had bought a cow, terrorized the farm manager, and offended the neighbours, I reflected. Not bad for a morning’s work.

* * *

My afternoon meeting with Gates was less than productive. He had apparently decided on a tactic of unctuous cooperation—at least on the surface. Whatever I suggested he approved enthusiastically, and then a few minutes later, he would casually drop in every reason why what I wanted wasn’t feasible. Then I would remind him who had the whip hand and he would fall in line before starting the whole process over again. It was exhausting, but by the time I’d finished with him, he had set a few of the Kikuyu to reinforcing the barn and building a rudimentary henhouse.

I was arguing with him over the size of it when Ryder appeared with a small dead antelope of sorts draped over his shoulders. “Dinner,” he said.

“Thank God. We haven’t gotten around to replenishing the stores and it’s been nothing but flatbreads and boiled eggs.”

He carried the antelope to the kitchen while I dismissed Gates, who scurried off with ill grace.

“I don’t think he likes you much,” Ryder observed.

I grinned. “Good.”

Ryder didn’t answer my smile. “Be careful. He can be a nasty piece of work.”

“Does he beat his wife like your friends do?”

“Anthony Wickenden is not my friend,” he said flatly. “And no, that’s one sin you can’t drop at Gates’ door. But he does like to harass the Kukes.”

“Why specifically the Kikuyu?”

“Because I’ve told the Masai to stay out of his way.”

“He would treat them worse?”

“Everybody does. The Masai are the lowest on everyone’s list, white or African.”

“But why?”

“You saw how they live. Mud huts and cow’s blood to drink. It doesn’t get more primitive than that.”

“Ryder, I am accustomed to indoor plumbing, feather beds, vintage wines and fast cars. This is all primitive to me.”

He grinned again. “Touché. Now, let’s finish getting your storeroom sorted.”

But rather than heading towards the house, he took the path leading to the road.

“Where are we going?”

“To my duka. What I brought was for the Kikuyu. Now it’s time to lay in supplies for you. I have everything you need. Including chickens.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. The little shop was almost an hour’s walk from Fairlight, but well worth the journey. A tin roof housed the shop and its deep porch, and on the porch in the shade of that tin roof, a small, plump Indian man with a turban sat at an elderly sewing machine. The fabric flew through his hands as he worked the treadle, and a small monkey perched on top, supervising. When we approached, the man jumped up and shouted into the building as he came to greet us.

“Mr. Ryder! And the lady of Fairlight!”

“Makes me sound like something out of Tennyson,” I murmured to Ryder.

Ryder introduced me properly to Mr. Patel and the fellow pumped my hand and bowed several times as he escorted us into the building. It was far more than a shop; it was Ali Baba’s cave. The walls were crammed to the ceiling with boxes and barrels and tins of food and supplies, while the counter was hung with a sign proclaiming it was an official post office. A small bar ran along one wall, and tucked in a corner were a few small rattan chairs fitted with chintz cushions. More chintz had been hung over the narrow doorway that separated the shop from the living quarters behind. Mr. Patel yelled through the curtain and in a moment a slender Indian woman wearing a pink sari appeared with a tray of glasses and a plate of small pastries. She was small, not quite my height, with heavy black hair that she had bound into a plait that swung like her hips whenever she walked.

Mr. Patel introduced me to his wife and told her to serve us. The glasses were full to the brim with very sweet tea and the pastries were stuffed with pistachios and drizzled with honey. She handed them out in turn with a smile that showed pretty white teeth against her dusky skin.

“Delicious,” I told her. I didn’t know if she spoke English, but she smiled anyway and hurried back through the curtain. The monkey had a glass as well and he drank politely, wiping his mouth after every sip. I looked up and saw that the curtain was very slightly parted, and only the gleam of one dark eye showed through. It wasn’t