Miss Emily’s Smile – By Paul C Venter – Chapter 20

Twentieth and final chapter

There are two kinds of leopard (Oom Schalk Lourens said) in the Groot Marico bushveld. The most aggressive kind has more spots than the other kind. Of course, when you are so close to a leopard you can see your death in its eyes, you probably forget to count its spots.

     The corridor of the second first-class carriage sported a long row of windows. Through them Gerrit Johannes, Emily and Manny Porra had an almost panoramic view of what was happening outside. They saw a man running with a rifle through a dust storm of bullets striking the ground around him. They saw him somehow survive the shooting and reach another man lying dead on the ground, still holding a plunger box with a wire running towards the railway track. From their angle at the corridor windows they couldn’t actually see the track because they were speeding along on it. But they didn’t have to see it to figure out the wire must be connected to dynamite on the track.

     Emily used a number of extremely bad words.

     “Ja-nee,” Manny Porra agreed grimly.

     Gerrit Johannes didn’t say a word, he was too busy leaning out the nearest window and using both hands to aim the stolen FN pistol. He aimed at the running man, the more dangerous one who was obviously trying to reach the plunger box and set off the explosion.

    “You call that shooting?” Emily snorted after the FN pistol’s second shot went nowhere.

    Gerrit Johannes snarled like a leopard and took aim again. The third shot did it. The running man stopped running.

    From their position behind rocks, Captain Wellington and his policemen saw the whole thing.

    “Great shot!” Wellington shouted, shaking a fist in the air. “Well done!”

    The steam engine flashed past, dragging the coal wagon and the two first-class carriages after it. Everyone thought the danger of an explosion was over, thank the Almighty.

     Everyone except Knocky Koch. He lay almost on top of Peet Jansen’s body, the sand stuck to his bloody face making him look like a breaded schnitzel. The FN bullet in his forehead was draining his life away, but he wasn’t quite dead yet. He realised the first uncoupled part of the train had gone through the cutting by now, safely on its way to Frere, but he could see the last uncoupled part still heading for the cutting. From his ground level position it appeared to be coming straight at him, with no intention of slowing down. Knocky was also aware of armed soldiers and a massive bearded man, wearing a conductor’s uniform. They were standing on the landing that was now the front of this part of the train. Their guns and bitterly grim attitude told Knocky they were guards, protecting something of great value.

     “Ons is nog nie klaar nie, Peet,” he grunted.

     He was saying We’re not done yet in Kitchen Dutch, making a solemn promise to Peet.  His right hand crept to the box still in Peet’s dead grip, and he firmly depressed the plunger.

      The front of this part of the train, the army wagon landing upon which the conductor and armed soldiers stood, was passing over the dynamite when the electrical spark from the plunger box flashed through the wire and blew up the railway track.

      To make a hundred percent sure, Peet Jansen had overpacked the dynamite charge. So in death he managed to achieve an explosion of spectacular proportions. It tore the army wagon to pieces and one of the burning pieces landed right on top of Peet and Knocky. We can only hope and pray Knocky had passed by then. For his young widow’s sake. She didn’t know it yet but she now owned the local undertaker’s business, and burying what was left of Knocky and Peet would probably be her responsibility.

     The explosion hurled the back part of the army wagon as well as the conductor’s wagon high into the air, and returning to earth the massive wreckage crashed into the side of the cutting and started a rockslide so huge it completely buried the railway track and cutting.

     Wellington and his men watched in stunned silence. Smoking rock fell to the ground near them and bounced past. They hardly noticed.

     Wellington tried to say something. His taut throat muscles refused to work. He had to try again.

     “No-one survived this,” he croaked.

     His men understood: No witnesses. Whoever they found moving in all that wreckage and rubble, were unfortunates who would have to stop moving. Their captain would inform them later what had actually happened, and no blame would fall on them.

     Wellington also worried about the first part of the train. There was no way he could control what those on board would end up saying. He quietly and sincerely begged his Maker to let their speed carry them past Frere and out of his jurisdiction. Jesus, please, just let them fuck off and become someone else’s problem.

     Gerrit Johannes and Manny Porra, ears still hurting from the explosion in the cutting behind them, had the same idea as Captain Wellington. Those well-armed police strongly suggested to them that they give Frere a firm miss, since stopping there could very well end up with them dead or in prison.

     Emily didn’t disagree, but felt they were not really thinking this through. “The driver and stoker, you do know they’re the ones running this train?”

     Gerrit Johannes nodded darkly, then looked at Manny Porra. “How would Johnny Zulu handle shit like this?”

     Manny just gave him a shrug, eyes suddenly wet.

     Emily felt Manny’s pain, wanted to touch him, didn’t.

     “Right now,” she said gently, “unless I’m very wrong, Johnny would be climbing over the coal on his way to the steam engine, pick-axe in hand. To persuade the driver and stoker we’re on the same side.”

     Manny looked at her and smiled sadly.

     Grootjan and Kleinjan followed the officer of the guards to stables half a mile from the prime minister’s residence. The stables, made of red brick and guarded by two army troupers, were in a thick copse of dusty blue-gums, partly hidden from view. You had to be close to the stables before you actually saw them.

     Father and son felt good, task done, convinced the great stone was now in Botha’s hands, and money from its clandestine sale would launch the great Boer rebellion. They were looking forward to seeing the four horses Botha had promised them as their reward.

     The horses were inside the stables, munching hay. Four full-blooded Arabians, one stallion and three mares, beyond beautiful.

     “Dear Father in heaven.” Kleinjan had tears in his eyes. “Please grant Louis Botha a long and healthy life.”

     “Amen,” his father said. “May he lead us back to freedom.”

      Standing behind them, the two army troupers silently raised their Lee-Enfield rifles. Off to the side, under a blue-gum tree, the officer of the guards stood talking to Grootjan and Kleinjan. Very friendly and relaxed. He was saying he would need their farm address for the delivery of the horses.

     Grootjan started replying. Then the three-oh-three bullet of a Lee-Enfield rifle entered his brain from behind, killing him instantly. Shocked, his son started turning. Another three-oh-three bullet from another Lee-Enfield hit Kleinjan just above the left ear. It sped through his head, doing dreadful things to his brain. Exploding from his head on the other side, the smashed bullet took a thick chunk of bloody bone and brain matter with it. Kleinjan died with less than half a face, a truly gruesome sight; hopefully his widowed bride would later remain unsuccessful in her search for the unmarked grave holding him and his father, no-one needs to see a loved one like that.

     In his private office, listening to the little Jewish jeweller, Louis Botha heard the Lee-Enfield shots but only dimly.

     “It does have a resale value,” Sammy Appelbaum was saying from a comfortable chair so large his feet didn’t quite reach the floor, “but not anywhere near what you expected. Because, obviously, it’s not a real diamond.”

      “I don’t wish to sell it.” Botha offered Sammy a cigar but didn’t take one himself. “I don’t want anyone to know it’s fake.”

      Sammy lit the smoke with his own matches, obviously uncomfortable, and the big cigar made his head look smaller. “I can’t confirm it’s a blue diamond in writing, sir, my good name could suffer.”

     “Your name as a jeweller?”

     “Mister Prime Minister, your name is all you have.”

     Botha smiled kindly. “Sammy, what if you don’t have to be a jeweller? You can if you want, but it won’t strictly be necessary.”

     “I, uh, don’t understand, sir. How on earth would I make a living then?”

     “You simply won’t have to. You can play gentleman farmer, ride horses, shoot Kudu, travel, whatever you feel like doing.”

     Sammy was shining with perspiration now. “Mister Prime Minister, I live down the road in Church Street, I don’t own a farm. Who told you that? Someone’s been talking scheisse.”

     Botha chuckled. “No-one’s been gossiping, I promise you, your wife just mentioned to mine you both dream of your own farm.”

     “Ach, yes, but unfortunately you can’t eat dreams, they leave a bad taste -”

     Botha interrupted him. “Stop being obtuse, Samuel. Waterfall Estate is a hunter’s paradise with part of it under citrus. Half an hour from Pretoria, you can still run your business, should you really want to. The house is a palace, my friend, your wife will need a least twelve servants and she shall have only the best. My treasury will foot the bill and pay you a retainer as my advisor on gold and diamond mining. The dream is yours for free, in your name, in ink and signed by me.”

     The little jeweller went very quiet. Botha stopped next to Sammy’s comfortable chair and patted his arm.

     “Sammy, If this stone had been real, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Fate, God, whatever you believe in, is forcing me to change my political plans. It could still be of value, of course, but only if it’s shining in the crown of the English king with a signed document on file, saying it’s the one and only real Gibson diamond.”

     Sammy touched a handkerchief to his glistening forehead. “What if the king finds out? He must have all kinds of experts – ”

     “Who’s going to reveal the man on the throne doesn’t really own the greatest diamond ever found? The emperor’s new clothes, Samuel. No-one will ever admit the truth, everyone will protect his or her position, including his majesty himself. And he will owe Louis Botha many political favours because Louis Botha shall keep his mouth shut as well.”

     Sammy coughed softly, placed his smoking cigar in a tall ash-tray made from an elephant’s foot. “Yes, indeed, I know people like that, sir, especially in Amsterdam and Paris. Duped into buying fake stones, they keep pushing the prices up because it proves to the world the fakes are real, who would do such a thing if they knew they were dealing in fakes?”

     Botha grinned. “We have an understanding, Sammy. Send me the signed confirmation of the stone’s value tomorrow, shall we say it’s now worth…what? One and a half million pounds?”

     This time Sammy didn’t hesitate for a second. “One and half million, thank you, sir, and naturally the value will increase every year.”

     Botha patted the little man’s arm again. “My friend, you are going to enjoy Waterfall Estate so much I’ll never see you in town.”

     “Oh no, Mister Prime Minister, I will visit whenever – ”

     “You don’t understand, Sammy.” Botha was no longer smiling. “After this it will be prudent if we never see each other again.”

     Sammy stopped looking at Botha. “Of course, sir, I understand, thank you.”

     Botha offered Sammy his hand, and when the little Jew took it Botha pulled him to his feet. “See yourself out, Samuel. And tomorrow morning, first thing, on my desk, I want to see your seriously impressive confirmation of value. Even the paper must smell real.”

     “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best, sir.”

     “That’s the spirit.” Botha patted him on the shoulder. “Have  good life, old friend.”

     And he turned his back on Sammy, dismissing him.  The small man nervously hurried out, clicking the door shut behind him.

     Ten months later King Edward of Great Britain invited Prime Minister Louis Botha and his English wife Annie to Buckingham Palace. Together with other dignitaries they attended a royal ceremony in which his majesty was re-crowned, so to speak, this time with a glittering new star set among the others in his crown.

     In a press release the palace referred to the diamond as the Gibson from Pretoria.

    Winston Churchill, in his cups at a pub meeting of the Union of Bricklayers, suggestively called the stone Emily’s Smile. When the press got hold of the story, they completely bungled it by identifying the lady behind the name as the lovely daughter of a bricklayer who helped Winston build walls at his home in Kent.

     When the real Emily read this on the other side of the world, she burst out laughing.

     At a private informal meeting King Edward asked Prime Minister Botha if there was any truth in the gossip. Did mining millionaire William Gibson really think offering the stone to the throne would help him become a knight?

     “Yes!” the real Emily shouted when she read this.

     Botha assured the king it was idle gossip. He then told his majesty the investigation into the disappearance of William Gibson was entering a critical phase, and he hoped to make an announcement soon.

     “Botha’s been saying this for months,” the real Emily snorted. “Where’s Neef Berg? What happened to his pedophile bodyguard?”

     King Edward asked Botha if there was any truth in the entertaining tale of the diamond’s train journey to Durban and from there by boat to England. Smiling, the king said it did rather sound like an adventure from the imagination of H Rider Haggard.

     Botha insisted the story of the train journey was deliberately planted to put diamond thieves off the track. While the thieves were trying to find the train and make off with the stone, the real Gibson was on its way to England in the ordinary mail.  His majesty offered his warmest congratulations on the clever ruse.

      The real Emily enjoyed reading all this bullshit.

     To Botha’s relief, the frightening spectre of a Boer rebellion was not raised at the informal meeting with the king. An uprising was indeed imminent, Botha later admitted to Winston Churchill, a threat he could not ignore and one a growing number of South African newspapers were blaming him for. He kept saying he knew nothing of a plot to overthrow his union government, and the reporters kept shouting that was a lie and he knew it.    

      “Can’t someone please shoot Louis Botha?” the real Emily snarled when she read a revealing piece Churchill later wrote about the so-called Boer rebellion.

     Jannie Jacobs, train driver, first class. Derek Swanepoel, stoker, second glass. Both resigned from the South African Railways after that train journey to Durban.

     Jannie then bought a fine dairy farm in the Rustenburg district, started raising pigs as well, later grew tobacco successfully down by the river and did so well he never had to step onto the footplate of a locomotive again. But where the hell did a lowly train driver get the money to buy a beautiful farm? Everybody had a pet theory, yet no-one could prove anything.

      The stoker Derek bought race horses, cars and women. He had a knack for casino gambling, at first making quite a bit money at the tables but later Lady Luck deserted him and he lost heavily.

     When the money finally ran out, Derek spent most of his days in pubs, cadging drinks and telling outrageous stories. In one of his favourite stories he was a stoker second class who helped diamond thieves steal the front bit of a train,  and dodge a police ambush at Durban station. Apparently young Derek also helped the thieves sell a huge diamond through an Indian dealer in Durban. The thieves then paid Derek a thousand pounds in cash and simply disappeared off the face of the earth.

     The family of the late Bernardus van Aswegen heard about stoker Derek Swanepoel’s stories, and with the aid of a private investigator tried to use him to find the diamond thieves. Nothing came of it, because every time they paid Derek he got hopelessly pissed and then disappeared.

     Alice Springs, Northern Territory, another fiercely hot day in the fucking oven of Australia.

     Jerry forced down his lukewarm beer, paid for it, called the barman a cunt for still not fixing the icebox and walked out into the boiling day. The sun was doing what it usually did in Alice Springs, burning paint off buildings and skin off people.

    He found Manuel in the broken shade of a blue-gun tree, holding the buggy horse by it head. Sweat was running down the sides of Manuel’s nose. Jerry gave him a beer with the cap still on.

    “Ja-nee,  thank you, I was really looking forward to a hot beer,” Manuel said.

    “Fuck you,” Jerry said. “Emma and Tammy still in the shop?”

    “And they still hate it. They feel Alice needs a bigger shop and we should build it.”

    “Orright, but let’s do it with their money.”

    They heard a baby fuss. It was Manuel’s two-year-old riding on his mother Tammy’s back. He was hot and not a happy child.

    “Ay, ay, relax, John,” Tammy said.

    She tended to say the name John in a hushed, almost biblical voice. When he was smaller she called him Johnny, but she stopped when she saw how sad it made Manuel. Raised in a traditional Aboriginal family, Tammy attended a mainly white Australian college and then turned Catholic. She refused Manuel sex until he married her before a priest. They were expecting their second child and everyone hoped it would be girl.

    Emma lifted little John off Tammy’s back. “My turn, monkey boy.”

    She loaded the beautiful boy onto her back and pretended to drop him, making him chuckle from deep inside his tummy. It was infectious and they all chuckled. In time John would realise how lucky he was: Emma and Jerry didn’t have children of their own, so he actually had two sets of parents and it was difficult to choose which set loved him the most.

     Manuel helped Tammy onto the buggy seat and climbed up beside her, taking the reins. Emma and Jerry climbed into the back of the buggy.

    “Shop first, Manuel,” Emma said. “We have to pick up lots of groceries.”

    “Did you buy the whole shop?” Jerry teased.

    She gave him a look. “You want to ride into town halfway through the month? When we ran out of chutney you nearly had a stroke.”

     “I still say send one of the stockmen,” he said.

     “Who will get severely pissed and barney everyone in the bar, dear. Next time you ride in and pay the bail, orright?”

     “Yes, dear.”

     Manuel clicked his tongue and the buggy took off at a brisk pace.

     The four of them, Jerry, Emma, Manuel and Tammy, were full partners in a large and very successful cattle station twenty miles out of town. On the partnership contract the three South Africans used their real names, Tammy just signed her married name: Tammy Porra.

     Were they happy in the Australian outback? Yes, you could say they were happy most of the time, especially since Emma’s family announced they hated the bush and the flaming cattle station, would she mind if they moved down to Sydney and started a sweet shop? With Tammy’s money, of course.

     No-one was happier than Jerry to see Emma’s family go. She showed more interest in adopting an orphan now. As an orphan himself, Jerry whole heartedly supported this.

     On the way to the cattle station, set in a stunningly beautiful but very wild part of the Northern Terrritory,  Emma fell asleep with her head on Jerry’s lap. She woke up when they reached the gate and Jerry slipped off the buggy to open it. At the side of the gate there was a wooden sign with the name of the cattle station burnt into it:

     Emily’s farm.    

                                                                           THE END