Read 1982 - An Ice-Cream War for Free Online

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    He wheeled the ox-team off the Taveta-Voi road and followed the meandering track south towards Lake Jipe that led to his farm.
    He was only about ten minutes out of Taveta when his attention was caught by the sight of a saddled, riderless mule trotting round a bend in the road, followed, some seconds later, by a tall lanky figure in a white drill suit and solar topee, brandishing a riding crop and screaming foul insults at the animal. As soon as the figure saw Temple and the ox-cart he stopped at once, straightened his suit and dusted it down. Saleh grabbed the halter of the mule as it trotted past.
    “I say, thanks a lot,” the white suited figure shouted and strolled over. Temple hauled on the reins and the oxen stopped at once. The man sauntered over, for all the world as if he were enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll.
    “Ah, Smith,” he said, raising the brim of his topee in greeting. “Pleasant day.”
    It was the ADC from Taveta, called Wheech-Browning. He was very young, about 25 years old, and very tall, about six foot three or four, Temple calculated.
    “Hello,” said Temple; he found it difficult to address Wheech-Browning by his preposterous name. “Having trouble?”
    “Yes,” Wheech-Browning confessed. “I bought this bloody mule from a Syrian in Nairobi, for three hundred rupees, and he assured me the beast was broken in. He trotted out well enough, but then suddenly seemed to go raving mad.” He turned to look at the animal, standing motionless now it was attended by Saleh.
    “Oh,” Wheech-Browning said. “Seems quiet enough now, but I can assure you the little beast bucked me clear off his back.” He paused. His face above his collar and tie was bright red and sweat trickled from beneath the brim of his topee. Temple found it extraordinary that this awkward, innocent youth sat in judgement over murderers, thieves and drunks every day in his sweltering tin courtroom, but he seemed to accept his duties unreflectingly. Temple had been in court once as prosecution witness against one of his own farm boys who’d stolen cattle from a neighbouring farm. He had seen Wheech-Browning sentence the quaking man to six months hard labour. A murder case had to be referred to the Provincial Commissioner’s court at Voi but it was obvious to Temple that Wheech-Browning could happily have condemned the accused to death and then gone out for a game of lawn tennis with the police inspector without a qualm.
    Wheech-Browning patted the pockets of his jacket, and loosened his tie.
    “Would you mind awfully if I cadged a ciggie off you, Smith? I must have lost mine when I was thrown.”
    Temple took out a packet of cigarettes and offered him one.
    “Dumb animals, eh?” Wheech-Browning said, exhaling smoke and looking at his mule. “Thought I’d got a real bargain. And talking of bargains,” he said, noticing the crates in Temple’s waggon, “what’ve you got there?”
    “Coffee seedlings,” Temple said.
    “Coffee? Here? Think they’ll grow, old chap?”
    “Well, we won’t know till we try.”
    “Got a point there, I suppose. Where did you get them? Nairobi? Nakuru?”
    “No. I got them in Dar.”
    “German East? Good Lord, how fascinating. Tell me, what’s it like? I’m hoping to get down to Dar for the exhibition thing in August. Our consul there was at Cambridge with a cousin of mine. How did you find the wa-Germani?”
    “It’s a nice place,” Temple said. “Clean and neat. Efficient too—in Dar, certainly. But it was like an armed camp. Soldiers everywhere.”
    “What you’d expect, really. Typical Hun mentality, always marching about.” He paused. “Well look Smith, mustn’t keep you. Thanks for catching my mule. Let’s hope the beastly thing’s more tranquil on the ride home. Don’t want to land on my arse again.”
    He walked over and mounted the mule, an operation that was, for him, as easy as getting on a bicycle. When his feet were in the stirrups they were only six