A Spear of Summer Grass by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page B

stayer,” I told her, wiping the red dust from my face. “That Johnny was a real stayer.”
    Dodo was done asking questions then, and even if she wasn’t, I was finished answering. We watched the zebra for a while, until they faded back and stood, lathered up, their striped sides heaving as they watched us move farther and farther away.
    Dora reached for the guidebook. “It says here the telegraph wires are on poles that are higher than customary on account of the giraffes,” she read.
    “Tell me more,” I ordered, and she did, reading from the guidebook until her voice was hoarse, reading until the flat, tilted plains of Africa ran us up to Nairobi, reading until I wasn’t thinking about Johnny anymore but about telegraph wires and giraffes and man-eating lions grinding up the bones of the dead.
    * * *
    A little past noon we rolled into Nairobi, a flat town coated in red dust that looked as if it had been scooped up somewhere in India and plunked down in the middle of the African savannah. The streets of Nairobi were teeming gently with people bent on the business of civilisation. There were people of every description—purposeful Indian clerks jostling with the darker–skinned native Africans who moved with slow grace through the throng. Here and there were white faces, most meticulously guarded from the equatorial sun by double terais or sola topees. The white folks were the only ones who strode freely, keeping to the fitful shade of the blue gum trees that lined the street, as the Indians and Africans all stepped quickly out of their way to walk in the sun. It was nothing new to me. I had spent too much time in Louisiana watching the black folks carefully keeping out of the way of the whites.
    The streets were paved and there were electric wires hanging high overhead where colourful birds perched and monkeys swung hand over hand. There were plenty of motorcars, but the streets were choked with oxcarts as well, and rickshaws scuttled by, leaving the pushcarts to trundle in their wake, slogging through mule dung and rotting fruit. The air was pungent with both, and they combined with woodsmoke and the gum leaves and the sunburned red soil to give Africa its own unique perfume. I inhaled it deeply until Dora dragged me back from the window, scolding that I would make a spectacle of myself.
    I combed out my hair and powdered my nose and lacquered on a fresh coat of lipstick as we pulled into the station. I could hear a commotion on the platform, and Dodo darted a glance at me, her eyeballs rolling white.
    “There can’t be reporters here waiting,” she muttered. “There just can’t.”
    “There can and there probably are,” I retorted. “Oh, Dodo, I know they’re a misery, but just put your head down and carry on. They’ll stop when they get a picture.”
    I handed off everything except my handbag to her and smoothed out my silk skirt. I had decided upon white for my arrival in Nairobi and everything was the same arctic shade, from my suede shoes to the fur stole I draped over my arm. It was far too warm to wear it, but the fur was simply too sweet to pack away. I straightened my stockings and squared my shoulders as I stepped from the train, bracing myself for the onslaught of cameras and reporters.
    Just as I set foot on the platform, Mr. Wickenden also emerged from the train. He gave me a cool smile.
    “Miss Drummond.” He lifted his hat.
    “Mr. Wickenden. I hope the invitation to visit still stands. I would hate to think we couldn’t be friends.”
    I arched a brow, and he hesitated, then grinned. “Africa’s a big place, Miss Drummond, but it’s entirely too small for grudges. We shall be neighbours, after all, and we must stick together out here.”
    He lifted his hat again and moved to offer his hand.
    Before I could take it, I heard a roar over the gathered throng. It must have been a hell of a roar, too, for me to hear it over the chaos of the Nairobi station, but in that moment everything