The Diamond Hunter Page 16

  ‘Very good, sir. Consider it done. And we shall look forward to your return to the Kimberley Club.’

  Reggie smiled and hoped the man did not see his insincerity. He had no intention, not a smattering of desire, to visit this forsaken land again, the fine club notwithstanding.

  They parted company, and now all Reggie had to do was pack up his few belongings and keep his patience in check. Everything was set. All he could focus on now was the arrival of Clementine . . . carrying her favourite toy.

  13

  Joseph One-Shoe had suggested Clementine not say goodbye to any of the folk she had come to regard as extended family. ‘It will only upset you further,’ he had counselled, regarding her eyes, red and burning from too many tears.

  A man from the Kimberley Club had recently arrived bearing an unsealed envelope and confirming that he would not leave without Mr Grant’s niece. Joseph had told Clementine the man might as well be from the police, or from the royal court of Her Majesty Queen Victoria in England, given the power the wealthy men of the Kimberley Club wielded. The man had offered to read the letter, but Joseph had asserted that he would prefer not to have it read aloud.

  Clementine stared upwards, watching Joseph’s eyes moving slowly but steadily as he absorbed the contents. She was certain he made his careful way through it twice and assumed he wanted to be sure he understood it fully. As he read his gaze became leaden. Clementine could see in the slope of his shoulders and the way he bent down to her – something he didn’t often do – that it was all bad news.

  ‘Do I really have to leave you?’ she said, unable to wait for the patient man to find the words that would land mostly kindly upon her.

  ‘Your uncle loves you, Miss Clementine. He wants you to see your mother’s mother before she is lost to you.’ He blinked, perhaps realising he was being oblique.

  Everyone she loved seemed to die anyway. ‘But you’ll be alone.’

  ‘I promise I shall be strong, Miss Clementine,’ he said, and she saw in his crooked smile that he was a true Zulu warrior because he was being brave when he wasn’t feeling it.

  ‘I won’t know how to live in England. I only know how to live here with you and Daddy.’

  ‘You will learn. I learned the white man’s way. You will learn the gentleman’s way . . . not that your father wasn’t a gentleman, Miss Clementine.’

  ‘It’s all right, Joseph. I know my daddy let us down, but we loved him.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And the angels took him to be with Mummy because she’s lonely.’

  She watched his large, expressive lips curl slightly as though trapped in an awkward thought. ‘Yes. They are together.’

  ‘But we are being pulled apart.’ She couldn’t keep the tears from falling any longer. Her courage failed and she was disappointed to let him down.

  ‘Miss Clementine. We are never apart.’ He risked holding her close and the man from the club shuffled, either embarrassed or dismayed by the show of affection. She clung tighter, then it occurred to her that maybe Joseph One-Shoe might be punished for his tenderness, so she forced herself to let go.

  Joseph’s gaze held hers and he looked proud of her. ‘Good girl, Miss Clementine. Find your strength. It’s always there. It will never fail you if you know where to look.’

  She wasn’t sure what that meant but it sounded brave and she wanted to be strong for him. She sniffed. ‘When will I see you again?’

  He pointed upwards. ‘Look to the night sky and I’ll be there right behind you. I have changed my mind. You are now Sirius. I am your faithful friend and I will follow you always as Little Dog.’

  Glistening tears spilled again. ‘When I grow up, I’m going to come back and I will find you.’

  He risked hugging her again. ‘And I will wait to be found, Miss Clementine.’ Close to her ear he whispered, ‘Your uncle loves you and I believe it, but he doesn’t always tell the truth. Never forget that.’

  She stared into his face and saw a river of sadness. They held a silence and to her it felt like they’d made a secret pact.

  ‘She is to bring some of her favourite things,’ the man reminded Joseph, sounding bored by the emotional scene.

  ‘I can read,’ Joseph One-Shoe replied.

  ‘Don’t get testy with me, One-Shoe. You forget your place.’

  Clementine scowled. ‘I’ll get my things. You can wait outside, Mr Whoever-You-Are.’

  The man grinned and it wasn’t pleasant. ‘No, I was told to wait with you. Hurry up, little girl.’

  She was in her new dress. Joseph tied a ribbon at the bottom of each plait before he handed her the only bonnet she possessed and never liked to wear. He gave her a soft glare. ‘You will look very pretty in this.’

  ‘I don’t like pretty.’

  ‘You will,’ he said. He closed the carpet bag that easily held all her worldly goods.

  ‘Where’s Gillie?’

  ‘Here. Keep him very safe.’ He fixed her with a gaze that wasn’t his soft, affectionate one. This was filled with intensity, as though passing her a message. ‘Very safe.’ He glanced back at the waiting man watching them. ‘She’s ready.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I want Joseph One-Shoe to come as well.’

  ‘There’s no point. He is not permitted on the club premises.’

  ‘I’ll follow. I will leave when she is delivered to her uncle.’

  ‘Suit yourselves.’

  They left as a strange trio. Clementine felt no obligation to walk alongside the gruff servant sent to fetch her. She defied him by staying at Joseph’s side. The man didn’t seem to care, so long as they were all moving towards the Kimberley Club, a place she had never seen and didn’t care about. Joseph carried her bag and she understood that she was not permitted to place her small hand in Joseph’s large one, even though she wanted to more than anything. So she clutched her ragdoll tight, finding his strange weightiness a comfort.

  The diggers were all at the Big Hole but many of the wives stepped out of their tin shacks and tented hovels to wish the little girl well. Infants clutched their mothers’ petticoats and the women wiped hands on aprons, or shielded the sun from their eyes as they gave encouraging words and soft farewells.

  ‘Godspeed, Clem.’

  ‘Blow a kiss to England for me, Clemmie.’

  ‘You’re going to break some hearts, child.’

  The voices followed her and she gave a few waves to the women. Some of the younger children skipped alongside her for a way before peeling back at the sound of their mothers’ calls.

  ‘Joseph —’

  He didn’t let her express whatever fresh fear was coming. ‘Be strong, Miss Clementine. Not far now.’

  She said no more but she could sense Joseph’s pride that she’d found a stoic silence and purposefully followed their escort.

  The double-storey building reared up in front of them. She looked at the sweeping arches of the colonnade that formed the verandah, and through an open pair of wide, stained-glass double doors; inside she could see the vast polished handrail of a staircase.

  At the gate, sentries wearing the Kimberley Club’s special uniform guarded the comings and goings of its members.

  ‘No further, Zulu,’ the man said, and they all paused. ‘Come on, little girl. Mr Grant is inside waiting for you.’

  ‘Can you fetch him, please? I wish to say something to Joseph. It’s private.’ And now she did defy him by wrapping her arm around Joseph’s leg.

  Their escort let out an audible gust of vexation. ‘Do not move from here, Joseph One-Shoe.’

  Joseph said nothing but glanced at Clementine. They watched the man whisper something to one of the sentries, who nodded, and then he disappeared through the gates and headed deep into the heart of the club itself.

  She could see men on the verandah, seated in cane chairs reading newspapers, sipping from cups or having quiet conversations. No one bothered to look up.

  ‘Joseph, will my d
addy be buried . . . near Mummy?’

  He nodded. ‘I promise, Miss Clementine, although your uncle might have already made arrangements.’

  ‘I should be there to watch him being buried, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I think you should remember your father as he was when he used to make you laugh and tell you things about the world beyond Africa. I don’t think you need to remember him at his grave. He wouldn’t like it any more than you.’

  ‘I’m coming back, Joseph.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t forget me.’

  ‘Never.’ He touched his heart. ‘You are here forever, and inside Gillie is a very special part of Africa. It belongs to you now.’

  She thought she understood what he was saying; he was giving her a message without actually speaking the words.

  She jumped and he caught her and she wept into his shoulder. It was unseemly but even Joseph didn’t seem to care. Now the men on the verandah were taking notice of them. There was an angry rustle of newspapers and baffled, inquiring voices.

  It was Uncle Reggie’s voice that broke their spell. ‘Ah, now, come along, Clementine. Let’s behave well, shall we?’

  She slid down Joseph’s body as he carefully lowered her back to the ground. Uncle Reggie was beaming, although she sensed his discomfort when he glanced back over his shoulder at the club members, now all watching them.

  ‘Let’s not make a scene, eh?’ He nodded at Joseph and smiled wider for her. ‘There’s a good fellow.’

  Joseph let go of Clementine and the world she knew was rent from her. There was no physical sensation and yet she felt a searing pain – worse than losing her parents. They’d both left her. But Joseph One-Shoe was here and he was being forcibly wrenched from her, out of duty but mostly because his skin was black and hers was white.

  He’d been the best parent a child could want. Why couldn’t anyone see that?

  ‘Joseph . . .’ She sounded panicked.

  He bent and whispered close to her ear. ‘I want you to be me today, Miss Clementine. Be a warrior. I know it lives in you. You are brave in the face of all danger. Be fearless, Miss Clementine. Be Zulu!’ He whispered something in his language that she couldn’t understand but the words melted around her like the soft blanket of comfort they shared when they watched the stars.

  When he pulled away, he nodded once. ‘Goodbye, Miss Clementine. Remember what I warned you about.’

  She was weeping but those were simply tears of emotion; she was not dissolving or losing her ability to function or think straight. Today, she was Zulu.

  ‘Goodbye, Joseph One-Shoe. I love you.’

  He lifted something from his pocket and she saw that it was a tiny beaded panel. She knew what this was – had touched it and spoken with him about it before. He had threaded the minuscule beads himself into a panel just a few inches wide. She had counted the familiar Zulu bead colours, knew there were five, but it was the bright blue of the African sky that dominated the pattern of diamonds. The blue diamond was outlined with beads the colour of blood and outlined once more with beads the colour of Joseph’s skin. The geometric diamonds that linked, tip to tip, sat against beads the colour of her skin. It was she and Joseph One-Shoe beaded together in one of the Zulu love charms he’d told her the men made for the women they felt a deep connection to. He pressed it into her hand. As he backed away from her, Joseph One-Shoe spoke in silent Zulu and she lip-read him saying I love you – words he had taught her in his language.

  ‘Clementine, let me take your bag,’ her uncle said in a kindly voice. ‘Oh, it’s not very heavy, is it? I think we need to get you some things when we reach Cape Town. Come on now, darling, we have to leave shortly.’

  One last look at the man she loved most in the world and Clementine Knight turned bravely away and followed the other man she knew she had to learn to love. Through the gates she moved, listening to the clang of the metal closing behind her, keeping Joseph and his kind out; keeping Clementine and her kind in.

  She turned but he’d gone and she knew it was for the best.

  ‘That beading is very pretty,’ Uncle Reggie said. ‘Is that something important?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking on Joseph’s manner.

  ‘Well, you hang on to that and keep it close because I can see that it means a lot to you.’ He smiled at her. She tried to find a smile of her own, and hoped it worked. ‘Here,’ he continued gently. ‘Let me take your ragdoll for you. I’ll keep that very safe for you while we sort out our departure. I’ll give it back a bit later, all right?’

  Clem hesitated. She wanted Gillie close, wanted to keep him safe like Joseph had told her, but it didn’t really matter. Her parents were dead. She was being forced apart from Joseph. She was being taken to England. Nothing mattered any more. She wanted to cry, but Joseph had asked her to behave like a Zulu warrior. For him, she would be strong. She handed over Gillie.

  ‘Good girl. We are going to make a very special and wonderful life together, you and I, Clem. May I call you Clem?’

  Uncle Reggie clutched her ragdoll tightly as though it was as important to him as it was to her. She curled the beaded panel in her fist; this Zulu love letter had now become more important than Gillie. This truly was Joseph One-Shoe travelling with her, and Clementine vowed to herself that she would never let it out of her possession . . . not as long as she lived.

  Part Two

  14

  LONDON

  October 1894

  The skirt of Clementine Grant’s sailor-inspired ensemble swooshed half an inch from the floorboards. She preferred a tailor to make her walking-out suits. Her seamstress would have used thick bands of white to achieve a fashionable look; her tailor had agreed to apply a thin outline of white along the belt and on the edging of the sailor collar to break up the dark fabric. It looked like a grown-up version of a school uniform. Given that she was about to meet children, she felt it might be less intimidating, plus the navy kept the look restrained. She wore no jewellery, no showy hat, and her soft boots made the barest of sounds against the floorboards.

  Her presentation was a contrast to the ostentatious purple velvet and silk affair that she was following down the corridor. Clementine wondered if her host deliberately dressed like a matriarch, her taffeta crunching and complaining at every step. She’d learned that Mrs Collins was a new volunteer, and recently married to one of Britain’s industrialists, who was twice her age and lavished her with everything . . . except intelligence, Clementine decided. If he had, then Mrs Collins would have researched her guest and discovered that Clementine Grant was a regular and generous financial contributor as well as a frequent visitor to the orphanage through which they were presently strolling. She would already know of Clem’s plans for the north.

  They were traversing the hall of a female orphan asylum in the neighbourhood called Saffron Hill, in the borough of Camden. The old mansion had been converted to house five dormitories, which accommodated fifty girls ranging from infancy to fourteen-year-olds. Several rooms had been fitted out as communal bathrooms and lavatories. A large kitchen, parlour and a washhouse had been created within the original house, with private rooms for the women who took care of the large family that was being raised here. Outside there was a yard for the children to play in, as well as a stable. Understandably, the dining hall was perhaps the busiest space of all, and this was where Clementine was headed.

  ‘I’m a little surprised at your interest in the blackamoor children, Miss Grant,’ her companion said over her shoulder, her chin only just visible over voluminous leg-of-mutton sleeves.

  ‘Really? Why do you say that?’ Clementine couldn’t help baiting the woman. They’d only met ten minutes earlier and she was already struggling to hide her disdain.

  ‘Oh, I know they need help, and they’re really so very lucky that the home even takes them in,’ came the haughty reply, ‘but it’s best the boys stick to being shoeblacks and the girls become the lower sort of domestic servant.�
� She tinkled a laugh. ‘At least it wouldn’t show if they worked the coal scuttle.’ Clem had to close her eyes for a calming heartbeat to stop herself shoving Mrs Collins and with any luck toppling her ghastly hat, made in the fashion of a gentleman’s top hat, except in revolting purple. ‘I have it on good authority that their brains are underdeveloped, and they tend to remain dull-witted and placid.’ Mrs Collins had made the fatal error of assuming she was talking to a like-minded woman. ‘You know, like tethered oxen.’

  Clementine bristled but kept her tone mild. She knew all about oxen: intelligent creatures trained relentlessly to do the white man’s bidding. ‘According to whom?’

  ‘Pardon me?’ said the mutton sleeve; the pinched face was now lost to its capacious folds.

  Clementine increased her speed to come alongside Mrs Collins. Yes, she was going to enjoy this. ‘I’m intrigued to know which authority gave you such a notion. I mean, if we’re talking about the children when they arrive here, their quiet manner could be attributed to anything from normal shyness or melancholy at losing their parents, to malnutrition or illness. It is hardly a measure of their intelligence, surely?’

  ‘No, I’m quite certain my husband read somewhere that a scientist said the negro brain is smaller, incapable of the same learning as we are,’ her companion said, as though a vague rumour were more than sufficient evidence. Over the click-clack of Mrs Collins’s heeled boots, Clementine began to think of all things purple to which she could compare Mrs Collins as an insult. Drawing on her fine memory and relentless thirst for knowledge and enrichment, she felt a ripple of pleasure to remember a specimen of an underwater snail she’d seen in London’s natural history museum that emitted a purple stain when frightened. There was a sea slug that wore purple, and a purple frog from India that was also known as a ‘pig nose’. Perfect. She would think of Mrs Collins as ‘Pig Nose’ from now on.