Master of the Game

Madam Agnes prided herself on her understanding of men, but Jamie McGregor was a puzzle to her. He visited often, spent money freely and was always pleasant to the women, but he seemed withdrawn, remote and untouchable. His eyes were what fascinated Agnes. They were pale, bottomless pools, cold. Unlike the other patrons of her house, he never spoke about himself or his past. Madam Agnes had heard hours earlier that Jamie McGregor had deliberately gotten Salomon van der Merwe’s daughter pregnant and then refused to marry her. The bastard! Madam Agnes thought. But she had to admit that he was an attractive bastard. She watched Jamie now as he walked down the red-carpeted stairs, politely said good night and left.

When Jamie arrived back at his hotel, Margaret was in his room, staring out of the window. She turned as Jamie walked in.

‘Hello, Jamie.’ Her voice was atremble.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I had to talk to you.’

‘We have nothing to talk about.’

‘I know why you’re doing this. You hate my father.’ Margaret moved closer to him. ‘But you have to know that whatever it was he did to you, I knew nothing about. Please – I beg of you – believe that. Don’t hate me. I love you too much.’

Jamie looked at her coldly. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it?’

‘Please don’t look at me like that. You love me, too …’

He was not listening. He was again taking the terrible journey to Paardspan where he had almost died … and moving the boulders on the riverbanks until he was ready to drop … and finally, miraculously, finding the diamonds … Handing them to Van der Merwe and hearing Van der Merwe’s voice saying, You misunderstood me, boy. I don’t need any partners. You’re working for me.… I’m giving you twenty-four hours to get out of town. And then the savage beating … He was smelling the vultures again, feeling their sharp beaks tear into his flesh …

As though from a distance, he heard Margaret’s voice. ‘Don’t you remember? I – belong – to – you … I love you.’

He shook himself out of his reverie and looked at her. Love. He no longer had any idea what the word meant. Van der Merwe had burned every emotion out of him except hate. He lived on that. It was his elixir, his lifeblood. It was what had kept him alive when he fought the sharks and crossed the reef, and crawled over the mines at the diamond fields of the Namib Desert. Poets wrote about love, and singers sang about it, and perhaps it was real, perhaps it existed. But love was for other men. Not for Jamie McGregor.

‘You’re Salomon van der Merwe’s daughter. You’re carrying his grandchild in your belly. Get out.’

There was nowhere for Margaret to go. She loved her father, and she needed his forgiveness, but she knew he would never – could never – forgive her. He would make her life a living hell. But she had no choice. She had to go to someone.

Margaret left the hotel and walked towards her father’s store. She felt that everyone she passed was staring at her. Some of the men smiled insinuatingly, and she held her head high and walked on. When she reached the store, she hesitated, then stepped inside. The store was deserted. Her father came out from the back.

‘Father …’

‘You!’ The contempt in his voice was a physical slap. He moved closer, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. ‘I want you to get out of this town. Now. Tonight. You’re never to come near here again. Do you hear me? Never!’ He pulled some bills from his pocket and threw them on the floor. ‘Take them and get out.’

‘I’m carrying your grandchild.’

‘You’re carrying the devil’s child!’ He moved closer to her, and his hands were knotted into fists. ‘Every time people see you strutting around like a whore, they’ll think of my shame. When you’re gone, they’ll forget it.’

She looked at him for a long, lost moment, then turned and blindly stumbled out the door.

‘The money, whore!’ he yelled. ‘You forgot the money!’

There was a cheap boardinghouse at the outskirts of town, and Margaret made her way to it, her mind in a turmoil. When she reached it, she went looking for Mrs Owens, the landlady. Mrs Owens was a plump, pleasant-faced women in her fifties, whose husband had brought her to Klipdrift and abandoned her. A lesser woman would have crumbled, but Mrs Owens was a survivor. She had seen a good many people in trouble in this town, but never anyone in more trouble than the seventeen-year-old girl who stood before her now.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes. I was wondering if – if perhaps you had a job for me here.’