Talk to Me Tenderly, Tell Me Lies - John Davis Gordon

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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?’

      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,

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