bloody lucky we were?’ he asks. ‘We lived in Eden and didn’t know it.’
‘It’s gone for ever.’
‘Gone,’ and I hear my own voice, like a Messenger come to announce defeat in battle.
‘Gone. But sometimes I see my python in those rocks over there. It’s the first I’ve seen in years. There are so many dogs around here and they give the snakes a bad time. They have all gone. But my python is there. And there are a couple of duiker, too. Sometimes they come around at sundown. And you can see them in the early morning grazing. One night I saw them grazing in the moonlight. Two duikers! Do you remember? We might see a dozen duiker in a mile’s walk?’
We stand looking at the pile of rocks where the python lives, but the creature decides to remain out of sight.
Then we walk disconsolately home, while the dogs run around us, coming to put their noses into our hands.
‘Time for a drink,’ he says, back on the verandah. But it is too cold there, and we go in to a big fire. He pours himself an exact measure of brandy, with an exact allowance of water. His mouth is compressed as he watches his hands at work. His movements are slow, deliberate. Like my father’s. Everything in slow motion.
There is a large meal, soup, meat and vegetables, pudding, cheese. Now, as we talk, Do you remember, Do you remember, we both avoid a subject that we are afraid will put an end to this good feeling.
‘Do you remember that ridiculous time when you were thinking of working for a bank?’
‘ I work in a bank! ’
‘Just after the War. And you even had a spell of thinking you would sell insurance.’
‘I sell…never.’
‘Don’t you remember you came to see me and said you’d rather die than live your life inside four walls?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Funny thing, that I don’t remember. I think there’s a lot I’ve forgotten. Someone came to see me the other day and got quite angry with me when I didn’t remember…it was Jeremy. Do you remember him? He went on a holiday to Madagascar. He came to see me and said he had left the hotel and gone wandering into the bush and then found he was crying. It was because of the bird songs, the butterflies. The insects. He said to me, “It was like old Southern Rhodesia, when we were children. Full of wild life.” He hadn’t realized how badly everything has changed. And it is getting worse all the time. Suddenly you think, I haven’t seen such and such a bird for some time and then you realize, it’s gone. Extinct, probably. Butterflies,’ says my brother miserably. ‘Bees. Insects. Chameleons. Lizards. We do them all in with our spraying. We destroy everything, you see.’
‘Do you remember how we used to shoot when we were children? With the old .22? They gave you the .22 and you went out and shot everything you saw.’
‘I would never have done a thing like that.’
‘When they gave you your first air-gun you went out to the banks of the river–that was on Chappell’s farm, and you came back with a pillow case full of birds.’
‘I couldn’t ever have done that…are you sure?’
‘If we saw a porcupine, we killed it. If we saw a wild cat, we shot it. Whatever we saw.’ He is most dreadfully distressed. ‘That is how all us children learned to shoot. We shot everything.’
‘But we used to go through the bush pulling out the bird traps the natives put down, and breaking up the game traps.’
‘That was later. When we became reformed criminals. That was when we shot for the pot, just shooting what we needed.’
‘Why didn’t they stop us–Mother and Father?’
‘Because it was that time–it was the end of the Raj. The upper classes used to shoot everything they saw and the middle classes copied them.’
‘Well, the Affs killed animals and birds.’
‘They killed to eat.’
‘Look at all the black kids now, out with their catapults, killing everything.’
‘Just as we did.’
His look at me says if he is not
‘It’s gone for ever.’
‘Gone,’ and I hear my own voice, like a Messenger come to announce defeat in battle.
‘Gone. But sometimes I see my python in those rocks over there. It’s the first I’ve seen in years. There are so many dogs around here and they give the snakes a bad time. They have all gone. But my python is there. And there are a couple of duiker, too. Sometimes they come around at sundown. And you can see them in the early morning grazing. One night I saw them grazing in the moonlight. Two duikers! Do you remember? We might see a dozen duiker in a mile’s walk?’
We stand looking at the pile of rocks where the python lives, but the creature decides to remain out of sight.
Then we walk disconsolately home, while the dogs run around us, coming to put their noses into our hands.
‘Time for a drink,’ he says, back on the verandah. But it is too cold there, and we go in to a big fire. He pours himself an exact measure of brandy, with an exact allowance of water. His mouth is compressed as he watches his hands at work. His movements are slow, deliberate. Like my father’s. Everything in slow motion.
There is a large meal, soup, meat and vegetables, pudding, cheese. Now, as we talk, Do you remember, Do you remember, we both avoid a subject that we are afraid will put an end to this good feeling.
‘Do you remember that ridiculous time when you were thinking of working for a bank?’
‘ I work in a bank! ’
‘Just after the War. And you even had a spell of thinking you would sell insurance.’
‘I sell…never.’
‘Don’t you remember you came to see me and said you’d rather die than live your life inside four walls?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Funny thing, that I don’t remember. I think there’s a lot I’ve forgotten. Someone came to see me the other day and got quite angry with me when I didn’t remember…it was Jeremy. Do you remember him? He went on a holiday to Madagascar. He came to see me and said he had left the hotel and gone wandering into the bush and then found he was crying. It was because of the bird songs, the butterflies. The insects. He said to me, “It was like old Southern Rhodesia, when we were children. Full of wild life.” He hadn’t realized how badly everything has changed. And it is getting worse all the time. Suddenly you think, I haven’t seen such and such a bird for some time and then you realize, it’s gone. Extinct, probably. Butterflies,’ says my brother miserably. ‘Bees. Insects. Chameleons. Lizards. We do them all in with our spraying. We destroy everything, you see.’
‘Do you remember how we used to shoot when we were children? With the old .22? They gave you the .22 and you went out and shot everything you saw.’
‘I would never have done a thing like that.’
‘When they gave you your first air-gun you went out to the banks of the river–that was on Chappell’s farm, and you came back with a pillow case full of birds.’
‘I couldn’t ever have done that…are you sure?’
‘If we saw a porcupine, we killed it. If we saw a wild cat, we shot it. Whatever we saw.’ He is most dreadfully distressed. ‘That is how all us children learned to shoot. We shot everything.’
‘But we used to go through the bush pulling out the bird traps the natives put down, and breaking up the game traps.’
‘That was later. When we became reformed criminals. That was when we shot for the pot, just shooting what we needed.’
‘Why didn’t they stop us–Mother and Father?’
‘Because it was that time–it was the end of the Raj. The upper classes used to shoot everything they saw and the middle classes copied them.’
‘Well, the Affs killed animals and birds.’
‘They killed to eat.’
‘Look at all the black kids now, out with their catapults, killing everything.’
‘Just as we did.’
His look at me says if he is not
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