Shilo's Secret Read online

  “Shilo!” Dorianne’s commanding tone resounded through the car.

  “Honestly, Aunt Dorianne, what has it got to do with him?” Shilo insisted.

  The reprimand then forced Shilo into a sulky silence, much to Stratt's relief. Soon they drove through a place called Middelburg. Stratt pulled into a gas station with a Quick Shop and bought a few Cokes. As he dished them to the sweltering ladies in the back of the vehicle, he said sarcastically: “Do you think you can slum it and drink out of a tin? They were out of straws.”

  Shilo flashed him an angry glare and watched as he opened the tin and downed the contents in four greedy gulps. She watched the muscles in his throat move up and down as he swallowed the refreshing liquid with his head tipped back. In her circles men sipped their drinks slowly and noiselessly, yet, paradoxically, there was something paradoxically alluring about his boorish actions.

  “If I had known you were going in to buy cold drinks, I’d have asked for a diet one,” Shilo mumbled, as she flipped up the cap reluctantly. She went to great trouble to remove a sanitizing cloth from her hand bag and wiped the top of the can carefully whilst sneaking Stratt annoyed glances.

  “For goodness sake, Shilo,” mumbled Dorianne. “You are really being a little over the top.”

  “Oh, it’s really a pleasure… no trouble at all,” muttered Stratt sardonically as he wiped his mouth, crushed the can in one hand, chucked it into a nearby garbage bin, climbed into the Land Rover and started the engine.

  And then they were driving past orchards of fruit and quaint little farm stalls, and into more hilly country, lush and green, with plantations of pine and fir trees, blue gums and wattles, which flanked the highway up steep slopes. What amazed Shilo was the number of black people who were along the roads, in the fields, in the small towns they past. Women with babies strapped on their backs and bags or buckets on their heads; boys on rickety bicycles and playing with toys made from old cool drink tins and bits of wire; men walking far away from the nearest town, with a long stick in one hand. It was an alien world to her. There was just so much space!

  “We’re in paper country now,” said Stratt to Dorianne once they were off the highway, as she seemed to be the only one who showed any overt interest in the ever-changing landscape. “Most of these plantations belong to the big paper companies.”

  The Land Rover slowed somewhat as it negotiated a winding pass. More quaint towns flashed by, and Michaela fell asleep - weary from the flight, the long journey and her delicate condition. Her head lolled back on the seat, her mouth was slightly open. They really were quite pretty girls, thought Stratt to himself.

  They climbed a rugged pass steadily and then they were suddenly off main roads and on some sort of plateau. The landscape was a little browner, a little drier than before. Then Shilo saw a rustic sign post bearing the name “Malabane Lodge”, with the skull and horns of a buck at one end. Underneath in smaller print, it read “Luxury Game Lodge. Private – No Entry!” The jaunty vehicle turned off the road, through the ranch-style gate and along a primitive double track flanked by umbrella trees, and occasionally thorn trees adorned with feathery yellow flowers. Shrieks of wild birds sounded through the now reopened windows. The narrow road was bumpy, dusty, but obviously maintained, and Michaela felt rather uncomfortable jogging up and down on the back seat. The ladies’ faces were flushed with the heat and glowing with perspiration, and Shilo, although in awe of the paradise that was unfolding before her, was irritable, hot and bothered. More than that, she was silently seething at their incorrigible diver.

  They rounded a gentle corner on a rocky rise, and suddenly the ground dropped before them into a magnificent valley: It was a gigantic crater which stretched for miles. A green oasis in the brown veld. There were grasslands and forests, silver rivers that meandered lazily across this magnificent landscape and a shiny mirror of a lake, with a pink cloud of flamingoes at one end. The crater was flanked on three sides by steep inclines and cliffs, but the fourth side was open and led into some other vista of purple mountains, the tail end of the mighty Drakensberg. What prehistoric earth movement or volcano had caused this gigantic hole in the middle of this plateau? Or was it a giant meteorite that had smashed here eons ago? Shilo marveled at the beauty of this unfamiliar panorama.

  “Here we are,” said Stratt proudly, “welcome to Africa at its finest!”

  The road wound precariously downwards, and Shilo held her breath as they seemed to be driving far too close to the edge. It was a sheer drop of a few hundred feet into the wooded area below.

  “Do you have to drive so close to the edge?” she inquired through clenched teeth, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the seat.

  “Would you like to drive, my good lady?” Stratt replied in the same frantic tone tinged with sarcasm, “I think I’m out of control here!”

  Shilo remained silent.

  “I can see you two are going to get along famously,” laughed Dorianne.

  “Aren’t they just!” Michaela added.

  Then the lodge came into sight. First the perimeter fencing (to keep out the wild animals, Stratt had joked) made of a lattice of gum poles bound together. In the large enclosure there was a fabulous main building built of natural stone and with a thatched roof set amongst a myriad banana palms, tree ferns, giant elephant’s ears and other lush and tropical greenery. A beautiful bougainvillea crept up the side, spilling its magenta blossoms over the huge wooden front door. Set a little way back from the building were several thatched rondawels² made out of the same rough stone. A crystal clear swimming pool, set amongst more greenery, reflected the azure sky. Sun beds lay in clusters around this inviting coolness and an open-air bar counter, also covered in thatch, was visible at the far side. There was a tennis court to the left, several water features and quiet, shady corners with ornate wrought iron benches. At a first glance, the place looked rather satisfactory to the foreign women.

  On entering the vaulted foyer, Shilo smiled to herself. Africa was not as primitive as she had imagined. The lodge was luxurious to say the least. It was not the Ritz or the Hilton, but had a décor suitable for an African theme. The floors were cool, varnished stone slabs with large hand woven rugs thrown across it. The furniture was rattan and the walls were adorned with hunting trophies and ethnic masks. There was no ceiling, one just saw heavy beams supporting the thatch, and a huge wicker fan spun from its suspension. All fabrics on the armchairs and couches, and the drapes were an animal print. Huge carved giraffes and wooden hippos and other crafts stood in the corners and other strategic points. Large brass buckets contained arrangements of various dried grasses and twigs, and a hefty basket containing ostrich eggs stood on the reception counter.

  An elderly man, quite handsome for his age, with steel grey hair and an equally superb tan met them with exuberance as they entered the foyer.

  “I’m Philip Ogilvy. You must be the Deluccis! Welcome!”

  Shilo recognised the name from her mother’s brief pre-flight exposé:

  “I met him at Oxford years ago,” she had said, “they are very wealthy. Part of the family that owns Anglo-Africa Gold. The game lodge is a hobby. It is only to attract the rich and famous from overseas and give them a taste of Africa. He lost his wife to cancer several years ago, so he runs the place alone.”

  “I see you met Stratt,” Philip said, indicating to the tall frame of their contrary chauffeur who was disappearing through an archway to the dining room.

  “To say the least,” Shilo muttered under her breath.

  Her sister elbowed her disapprovingly.

  They were shown to their rooms. Each had their own rondawe¹l next to each other. Once again Shilo was pleasantly surprised by the plush and luxurious interior. The room was D-shaped, due to the dividing wall which separated the bathroom from the bedroom. A gigantic oval bed stood against the curved wall with a quilt of animal prints. Mirrors adorned another wall above a wicker dressing table, which matched the headboard and ca
ne and wicker armchairs. The floor was covered in a thick-piled tan carpet with a minute pattern of animal footprints over it, and this extended into the bathroom. This small semi-circular room had a Jacuzzi bath set in the same rugged stone with tropical plants looming behind it and the shower was through a small door. It was a bamboo enclosure with no roof. Shilo stared open-mouthed at this novel African experience. An open-air shower! It was a miniature paradise … and suddenly she felt almost at home.

  There was a knock at the door, and when she opened it, there stood their ‘chauffeur’ almost completely filling the doorframe.

  “Hi,” he said, without the respect that Shilo apparently demanded. “Here is your luggage.”

  She stood back as he entered the room with a case in each hand and one under each arm, like some Conan figure, and dumped them at the foot of the bed.

  “By the way,” he continued, “I’m Stratt. I didn’t really have the chance to introduce myself properly.”

  He held out a massive hand and his green eyes flashed. Shilo looked at him and ignored the gesture. In fact she recoiled from him, but his green eyes held hers captive for an extended moment, until she forced them away.

  “I’m Lady Shilo Delucci … and I don’t fraternise with the help. You are very impolite and disrespectful – and I am not used to being treated like that.”

  “Excuse me?” said Stratt in disbelief; “did you say ‘the help’?”

  But Shilo had already turned her back on him and started to open her suitcases and take out neat piles of expensive designer clothing and lay them on the bed. Stratt Ogilvy left the room fuming. What a woman! How was he supposed to get through the next few months with condescending attitude? He had never in all his days met such an arrogant, supercilious bitch, such a rude and abrasive woman. She “never fraternised with the help!” Who exactly did she think she was? The Queen of England? He strode across the neatly manicured lawn towards the main building and towards the office of Philip Ogilvy.

  “Come in Stratt,” he said.

  Philip was dressed in khaki bush clothes, and often reminded visitors of an English colonel with his upright posture and his tone of voice. He spoke in a very British way, compared to the average South African, like some remnant of the Empire, a last pillar of the colonies. He was a weathered brown and sported a very military moustache and always dressed in khaki bush clothes.

  “I can’t believe these women, Dad. Especially that bloody redhead. Ever since I met them at the airport, she’s done nothing but bitch and complain, reprimand and talk down to me like I’m some sort of servant. Do you know she just referred to me as ‘the help’?”

  Philip burst out laughing: “Remember, Stratt,” he said as he stretched in his chair, “they’re part of the so-called British aristocracy … probably hob-nobbing with the Queen. They’ve got servants at their beck and call. They are treated like royalty where ever they go.”

  “Not here, they’re not,” chirped Stratt.

  “Just remember they are our guests.”

  “But I don’t have to take that attitude from anyone,” Stratt answered stubbornly.

  “Carina and Henri Delucci have advanced me a great deal of money for their stay here. Just humour them. It’s a case of a little privacy for Michaela away from the prying eyes of the British media. She’s pregnant, you might have realised, and unmarried,” Philip said in low tones, as if it was a national secret. “It would be quite a scandal in her circles.”

  “At least she knows how to be civil. And the aunt is wonderful. It’s just that Shilo woman – she’s, well, she has an air about her that I detest. Do you know that she introduced herself as ‘Lady Shilo Delucci’?

  “Well, that’s her name. Like I said: Just humour her,” Philip repeated, “if you are always nice to her, she’ll come around. She’ll have to if she’s to survive here.”

  Stratt shrugged and headed upstairs for a refreshing shower before dinner. By the time he had washed away the irritations of the long drive, Shilo was almost forgotten.

  *

  Philip had done a double take when Shilo had entered the foyer. It was Carina thirty odd years ago. He remembered when he had first seen her some years after their friendship at Oxford: It was in the bar at the Savoy in Paris. She was alone and exquisitely beautiful, her red hair swept up in a French roll and her eyes lowered at the bar counter in front of her. She was on honeymoon with Henri Delucci, but he was at a business meeting. They had chatted and she had allowed him to buy her a drink. She was devoted to Henri, but was a lonely bride. They had met several times over the following week … sometimes accidentally, sometimes he had sought her out: By the pool, on the Champs Elysees, in the hotel lounge …. There was a subtle yet unspoken attraction between them, but both fiercely guarded their loyalty to their respective spouse. Philip idolized and loved Catherine deeply, and Carina was smitten with Henri … but the attraction couldn’t be ignored. On the last evening in Paris, before Henri whisked her back to the high life in London, and Philip flew back to Johannesburg, she had stood closer than normal to him in the elevator. The electricity between them was all-consuming, and neither could restrain themselves any longer. He had clasped her in his arms, and kissed her long and deep. She had responded and groaned deeply for those few stolen seconds, and they then had wrenched themselves apart as the elevator doors opened on her floor. That was it. It was an unspoken, unfulfilled passion that even after all these years still aroused him. They had kept in contact via post for some time, the letters becoming fewer and further between until they had eventually stopped. Then she had called him out of the blue to arrange this sojourn to Africa for her girls … and those memories had come rushing back. And then there stood Shilo – her mother’s double and it was like being in Paris all over again.

  *

  That evening around the rustic bar next to the illuminated swimming pool, Stratt sat and idly chatted to Michaela. A flickering lantern was between them. She was warm and had a wonderful personality, very unlike her sister. Her dark hair was loose, and although she was not quite as beautiful as her sister, she was certainly attractive and something about her made one hang on every word she spoke. She opened up to Stratt about her predicament, thinking it was better that way. Her physical condition could not be hidden any longer under layers of winter clothes… and it was really going to show sooner or later, so what was there to hide? But at least she still had a sense of humour. She was not going to let this baby get her down; in fact, she was quite looking forward to it even though she knew it would be whipped away immediately after it was born.

  “It honestly wasn’t planned – It was a complete accident. It was a brief erotic encounter – an impulse. My parents are absolutely devastated, humiliated, as you can imagine. They cursed me and scolded me about ‘a girl of my calibre’ and what I was going to do to the precious family name.”

  “They were not excited about the prospect of a grandchild?”

  “No! My mother would sooner die than be a grandmother. And also it is all about appearances … about what people would say.”

  “Tell me about the father,” said Stratt, looking into her big, brown, doleful eyes, “Does he know?”

  “Oh no,” she replied with a smile, “he doesn’t know. It was no one really … just a guy I met at a club one night. We’d all had too much too drink and we’d popped a few pills… One thing led to another…”

  “And your sister?” Why is she here?” Stratt asked.

  “So it won’t appear odd – you know, me disappearing alone…?”

  “I take it she does not really want to be here … “ Stratt mused.

  “Not particularly,” Michaela answered, flicking her long, dark hair over her shoulders, “Shilo is a bit of a socialite. She loves parties and high society functions, shopping malls and the like.”

  “Well, she is not going to find that here,” Stratt laughed, his green eyes sparkling, “in fact it is the complete opposite. We have the gift shop in reception and a d
ance every Saturday… and sometimes bingo and other games. That’s about as social as it gets. Here one can enjoy the isolation of the bushveld and of being at one with nature.”

  Michaela smiled and shifted uncomfortably on the tall wooden barstool.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but how come you’re so dark and Shilo … well, you’re so unalike for sisters?” he continued, momentarily glancing at Shilo.

  Shilo sat at the other end of the bar counter with her back to them, conversing with her aunt. Her hair was glowing in the artificial light of the lanterns that lay at intervals along the bar, and on a few tables around it. Why did he keep noticing that hair, he chided himself.

  “My father is of Spanish decent and my mother is thoroughly English. She’s the English rose and I’m a bit more like my father.”

  “Pretty thorny for a rose,” smirked Stratt; “She hasn’t said one civil word to anyone since she arrived.”

  “That’s Shilo for you,” Michaela giggled, her hand absent-mindedly on her swollen belly. “Wait until she comes down from her high horse – she really is a lovely person. You’ll see. She just has this front that she puts on for strangers. I think it’s because of something that happened to her a long time ago.”