Mark did not want to go to him, he wanted to delay the moment, but then there was a stir across the hall. Mark saw Peter Botes scurrying across to where Dirk Courtney stood, and his face was bright scarlet with excitement. He spoke rapidly, gesticulating widely, and Dirk Courtney leaned forward to listen eagerly.
Mark could not delay a moment longer. He hurried forward and Sean saw him coming. Well, my boy, come and sit a while. They tell me the voting is extremely close so far, but we'll have the result before noon. Then he saw Mark's face. What is it? he demanded harshly.
Mark stooped over him, his mouth almost touching the General's ear, and his voice croaked in his own ears. It's just come in on the telegraph, General. We have lost Johannesburg Central, Doornfontein and Jeppe, They were all solid safe Smuts seats, they had been South Africa Party since Union in 19 10, and now they were gone. It was a- disaster, a stunning catastrophe. Sean gripped Mark's forearm as if to take strength from him, and his hand shook in a gentle palsy.
Across the hall they heard the wild gloating cheers start ringing out, and Mark had to hurry. That's not all, sir. General Smuts himself has lost his seat. The nation had rejected them, the coalition of the Labour and the National Party under Hertzog were sweeping; into power. My God, muttered Sean. It's come. I didn't believe it possible.
Still gripping Mark's arm, he pulled himself to his feet. Help me out to the car, my boy. I don't think I can bring myself to congratulate the new member for Ladyburg. But they were too late. The announcement came before they reached the door. It was shouted in a stentorian voice, by the chief scrutineer from the platform at the end of the hall.
Mr Dirk Courtney, National Labour Party: 2683 votes.
General Sean Courtney, South Africa Party: 2441 votes. I give you the new member for Ladyburg -'And Dirk Courtney leapt lightly on to the platform, clasping both hands above his head like a prize-fighter. Well. There was a twisted grin on Sean's face the skin had that greyish tone again and his shoulders had slumped. So, exit the Butcher of Fordsburg, and Mark took him out to where the Rolls waited in the street.
The champagne was aDorn Perignon of that superb 1904 vintage, and Sean poured it with his own hands, limping from guest to guest. I had hoped to toast victory with it, he smiled. But it will do as well to drown our sorrows. There was only a small gathering in the drawing-room of Lion Kop homestead, and the few attempts at joviality were lost in the huge room. The guests left early. Only the family sat down to dinner, with Marion in Storm's old seat and Mark between her and Ruth Courtney. Well, my boy, what are your plans now? Sean -abruptly asked in one of the silences, and Mark looked up with genuine astonishment. We'll be going back to Chaka's Gate, of course. Of course. Sean smiled with the first spontaneous warmth of that dark day. How foolish of me to think otherwise. But you do realize what this, Sean made a gesture with one hand, unable to say the word defeat, what this could mean for you? Yes, sir. But you still have enormous influence. There is our Wildlife Society, we can fight. We have to fight to keep Chaka's Gate. Yes, Sean nodded, and there was a little sparkle in his eyes again. We'll fight, but my guess is it will be a hard, dirty fight. At first there was no sign of the gathering clouds to darken the tall blue sky above Chaka's Gate. The only change was that Mark was submitting his monthly report, not to Sean Courtney, but to the new Minister of Lands, Peter Grobler, a staunch Hertzog man. His reports were acknowledged formally, but although his salary was still paid regularly by the Department, in a short official letter Mark was informed that the whole question of the proclaimed areas was now under consideration at Cabinet level, and that new legislation would be promulgated at the next session of Parliament. His appointment as game warden was to be considered a temporary post, without pension benefits, and subject to monthly notice.
Mark worked on doggedly, but many nights he sat late in the lantern light writing to General Courtney. The two of them were planning at long distance their campaign to awaken public interest in Chaka's Gate, but when Marion had gone off to bed in the next room, he would take a fresh page and cover it with the small cramped lines to Storm, pouring out to her all his thoughts and dreams and love.
Storm never replied to his letters, he was not even certain that she was still in that thatched cottage above the beach, but he imagined her there, thinking of her at odd hours of the day and the night, seeing her working at her easel, or walking the beach with baby John tottering at her side. One particular night he lay awake and imagined her in the tiny shuttered bedroom with the child at her breast, and the image was too vivid, too painful to allow him sleep.
He rose quietly, left a note for Marion as she slept heavily, and, with Pungushe trotting at Trojan's head, set off up the valley.
Marion woke an hour after he had gone, and her first waking thought was that if there was still no show on this morning then it was certain. She had waited all these weeks for that absolute certainty, before telling Mark.
Somehow she had been afraid that if she had spoken of it too soon, it would have been bad luck.
She slipped from the bed and crossed the still dark room to the bathroom. When she returned minutes later she was hugging herself with suppressed joy, and she lit the candle by her bedside, eager to see Mark's face when she woke him to tell him.
Her disappointment when she saw the empty rumpled bed and the note propped on the pillow was intense, but lasted only a short while before her usual gentle placid nature reasserted itself. It will give me more time to enjoy it by myself, she said aloud, and then she spoke again. Harold, Harold Anders? No, that's too common. I will have to think of a really fine-sounding name. She hummed happily to herself as she dressed, and then went out into the kitchen yard.
It was a cool still morning with a milky pink sky. A baboon called from the cliffs of Chaka's Gate, the short explosive bark ringing across the valley, a salute to the sunrise that was turning the heights to brazen splendour.
It was good to be alive and to have a child growing on such a day, Marion thought, and she wanted to do something to celebrate it. Mark's note had told her that he would be home by nightfall. I'll bake a new batch of bread, and, She wanted something very special for this day. Then she remembered that it had rained five days previously. There might be wild mushrooms coming up from the rains, those rounded buds with sticky brown tops; the rich meaty flesh was a favourite of Mark's and he had taught her when and where to find them.
She ate her breakfast absentmindedly with Mark's copy of The Home Doctor propped against the jam jar, re- reading the section on The Expectant Mother. Then she began on her housework, taking a comfortable pride in the slippery glaze of the cement floors and the burnish which she had worked on to the wood of the simple furniture, in the neatness and order, the smell of polish, the wild flowers in their vases. She sang as she worked and once laughed out loud for no reason.
It was midmorning before she tied her sun bonnet under her chin, put a bottle of Chamberlain's Superior Diarrhoea Remedy into her basket, and set off up the valley.
She stopped at Pungushe's kraal and the youngest wife brought the baby to her. Marion was relieved to see that he was much improved, and Pungushe's wife assured her that she had given him much liquid to drink. Marion
