The Hunters. Kat Gordon

and woodsmoke billowed through the room. My father ordered us mutton chops cooked on an open fire in front of us, the juiciest meat I’d ever eaten. Afterwards, we had Christmas pudding, then climbed back into rickshaws for a ride around town. Coloured lights had been strung up along 6th Avenue, and a man dressed as Father Christmas was standing on the corner, handing out candy canes to passing children.

      ‘Take one for me, Theo,’ Maud said. I stretched out my arm as we passed and Santa threw a cane to me.

      It was dark by the time we returned to the hotel. A pianist was playing carols in the lobby, and glasses filled with port stood in rows on the bar. Auntie moved between the various groups dotted around the room, smiling, asking after relatives and telling stories of her own. Maud and I gave our mother a tortoiseshell comb, and our father a book. Our presents from them were a pair of new shoes and a whistle each, and when Maud wasn’t looking, my father slipped me a few banknotes.

      ‘Isn’t this fun, children?’ he said, and winked at me.

      Maud hung her whistle around her neck. ‘It’s so shiny.’

      ‘It’s not a toy,’ I said. ‘It’s to scare away animals if you come across them in the wild.’

      ‘They won’t hurt us,’ she said. ‘Animals only attack if they’re frightened.’

      ‘Quite so,’ my father said, looking around. ‘Can you see if they’ve run out of the port?’

      ‘What if they’re angry?’ I asked Maud.

      ‘Animals don’t get angry. Only people do.’

      I shrugged, looking away. Several of the other boys staying at the hotel had been given airguns, and were running around the garden with them. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, trying not to give away how much I wanted to join them. My mother must have noticed however, because she took my chin in her hand, digging her fingers into my jaw.

      ‘I hope you’re not going to leave us,’ she said. ‘Christmas is family time.’

      ‘Oh good,’ my father said, holding up his empty glass. ‘They’re bringing it round now.’

      The next few days were hot and humid, with no sun in sight behind a wall of clouds. The flowers were already wilting at the breakfast table when Freddie appeared beside us. He smelled of pomade and oil, and I guessed he’d just driven into town. He shook hands with my father and me, and kissed my mother’s and Maud’s hands.

      ‘I hope you’re still in the market for a guide,’ he said. ‘I hear the first race today is a good one.’

      ‘Actually,’ my mother said, folding her napkin on the table. ‘I’m not sure we can attend. We’ve been invited to lunch by the Griggs. I’m very sorry to put you out.’

      ‘Ah – our illustrious Governor,’ Freddie said. ‘Well that’ll certainly be a more dignified afternoon.’

      There was a silence, and in that moment I hated my parents, and the dull way they lived their lives, even in Africa. If they’d driven him away, I’d never forgive them, I told myself. I wanted to tug the tablecloth off and break everything on the table.

      ‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast then,’ Freddie said after a while. ‘But you’ll come and visit when you’re settled in Naivasha, won’t you?’

      ‘Of course,’ my mother said.

      ‘Well that’s something.’ He winked at me, and I realised with relief that he wasn’t angry. He said goodbye and we went back to our breakfast, although I’d lost my appetite and I pushed my porridge away.

      ‘Can I go into town?’ I asked my mother. ‘I want to see if the market’s open.’

      ‘Don’t you want to go swimming?’ she asked.

      ‘No.’

      She narrowed her eyes at me.

      ‘I won’t be long.’

      ‘Why not?’ my father said. He leaned closer to me. ‘Maybe you can go to the bank, too? Look into some investment opportunities?’

      ‘I’ll do that,’ I said.

      ‘If you’re only going that far you should be back in two hours,’ my mother said. ‘I don’t want a repeat of last time.’

      I looked at a point just past her left ear. ‘I told you I got lost.’

      ‘Don’t get lost again.’

      As I was turning left out of the hotel gate, I heard someone call my name. Freddie was sitting in his car a few yards down the road, smiling at me. The car was huge: a dark green, open-top Hispano-Suiza with a long shiny body at the front and high wheels.

      ‘I thought you might change your mind,’ he said, when I reached him. ‘My old man was always trying to force me into that world too. Foreign Office engagements with lots of government bores. So …’ He smiled at me. ‘Still keen to see the races?’

      ‘Yes please.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never been before.’

      ‘And your parents? They approve of you attending with me?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He looked at me closely, and I tried to keep my face neutral. He laughed. ‘Hop in then.’

      I climbed into the passenger seat as Freddie started the engine. The leather was blood-red and soft as butter. As he pulled away from the kerb I turned to face him. Close up, and in the daylight, his skin was smooth and creamy. I had an urge to reach out and run my finger along his cheek, feel the smoothness for myself.

      ‘I like your car,’ I said, raising my voice above the noise.

      ‘A wedding present from my wife.’

      ‘It’s a very nice present.’

      ‘She’s very rich.’

      He pressed his foot down on the pedal and we shot away. I leaned back in my seat and felt my body relax.

      The sky was a steel grey by the time we arrived at Kariokor race course, although it was still bright and Freddie shaded his eyes as he searched for rain clouds.

      ‘It almost flooded the first time we came,’ he said. ‘Thank God they built the grandstand a few years ago.’

      ‘I thought it never rained in Africa,’ I said.

      ‘In the rainy season it rains a lot,’ Freddie said. ‘As a farmer, I’m very thankful.’ He looked down at me. ‘Would you like to see the stables?’

      I nodded.

      He led me to a wooden shed with five stalls within. A stable boy looked up from sweeping the yard and nodded at Freddie. ‘You want to see the horses, Bwana Hamilton?’

      ‘Who’s the favourite in the first race?’

      ‘Chongo.’

      ‘We’ll see him,’ Freddie said, then stopped. ‘Is Wiley Scot running?’

      ‘Yes, Bwana Hamilton.’

      ‘We’ll see him then – he’s a distant cousin of mine.’ He kept his face completely straight when he said it and the stable boy didn’t react. I wondered if he’d understood, or if he just thought that Bwana Hamilton was mad.

      It was gloomy in the stall, with only a small window high up in the wall, and it smelled like damp and a mix of leather, grain, sweat and peppermints. I felt suddenly trapped, being in such a close, dark space, and I closed my eyes for a moment. I could still hear a rustling, snorting sound, and when I opened my eyes and peered around Freddie’s back I could make out a dark chestnut stallion picking restlessly at straw in a feeder. He was tall, with an extremely broad, glossy chest and a heart-shaped patch of white on one thigh. I knew horses were designed for speed and grace, but I found it hard to imagine as we stood in the stall –