Short Story: Dinner With Alice

Short Story: Dinner With Alice

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Posted suddenly I travelled in my Land Rover up twisting dirt roads of the Rift Valley escarpment and arrived at Pencil Slats, my new police post, after dark. Next morning I stood enthralled in crisp clean highlands air to watch beautiful dawn creep across the vast plateau. Sunrise sparked off clear white snow capping Mount Kenya and in one exhilarating moment, I fell in love with the place.

My unexpected home seemed a concoction of old bits of wood held together by rusty nails and mud. A year ago my predecessor and twenty police askaris struggled up in a lorry loaded with ancient planks and a couple of hammers. The askaris nailed the whole lot together, filled in the cracks then balanced a sloping tin roof. They ringed the contraption with barbed wire and formed three small cages to act as cells. It seems haphazard but in those early days of The Emergency, a chain of police posts needed right across the highlands, were built any old how. Mine seemed typical; dumped on a patch of flat earth between the Aberdare forest and Laikipia plateau farmland stretching across to Mount Kenya.

I spent several careful days planning how to run my two thousand square mile policing area then set off on a series of four-day Land Rover safaris along dirt roads, farm tracks and dangerous narrow trails zigzagging up and down forest escarpments. Taking two askaris and my cook I visited European farms across the plateau and African villages along the forest edge. Exhilarated and entranced by beautiful days, clear cold nights and the thrill of camping under black star sparkled skies, I almost regretted time spent under a roof at my police post.

The strong-minded European farmers, well armed and able to defend themselves against night-roaming terrorist gangs slinking from the forest seemed more worried by marauding elephant. African villages, though, surrounded by deep ditches lined with sharpened stakes, were possible havens for forest gangs. I sat many hours debating security with Kikuyu elders, promising regular visits and night ambushes.

I patrolled the far reaches of my area for almost three months, leaving nearer farms and villages to my Nandi sergeant, who never mentioned a European woman living alone nearby and I found Alice by chance.

On a dirt road ten miles from home I almost missed a tiny name-board half hidden in long grass. It announced, ‘The de Courcey Estate. Keep Out!’ I turned into a lane so narrow my Land Rover barely scraped between thick bush scratching and squealing along my paintwork. After half a mile I entered a large area of well tended lawn, dominated by a typical upcountry Kenya farmhouse – low slung, built mainly of wood and covered by multi-coloured bougainvillea dripping from the roof and glowing in the last roaming rays of setting sun.

With Kenya’s startling short dusk turning to night I hopped onto the veranda and banged at the door. A deep contralto voice called, ‘Come in,’ so I pushed and entered, expecting the usual upcountry farmhouse jumble of rough-built furniture, sagging armchairs and ancient book-laden shelves. Instead I saw an amazing elegance of glossy dark-wood furniture, comfortable chintzy settles surrounded by display cabinets and shelving filled with shining silver cockerels, bulls and prancing horses along with dainty figurines and porcelain I recognised as Dresden and Limoges.

Beneath a large chandelier in the room centre stood a slender young woman, framed in a theatrical cone of soft light and holding a glowing cigarillo – one of those expensive brown things with pungent smoke and a sense of elegant drama. Wearing a long white dress of material so sheer her slim figure showed through in vague outline, she posed, head tilted, nostrils flared, fierce dark eyes looking down a long nose. She snapped, ‘Who the hell are you?’

Completely stunned I stared; for a moment certain I had somehow stepped out of Africa and into an old movie, a feeling intensified by the hint of America in her voice. I tried to reply but my throat gummed up so she snapped ‘Answer me, damn it. Who the hell are you?’

She stepped forward, gown swirling. Out of the spotlight, her face changed from young and pretty to quite old and heavily made up and – thank God – her figure faded from view. I managed to get my throat working and stuttered, ‘Your local policeman.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘You’re too young.’

Then in a complete change of mood she relaxed and said, ‘Would you care to stay for dinner? We have fish tonight and I haven’t had a young man here for months.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘No. It’s not possible. I’m on duty. And I’ve been away five days and must get back to my station.’

‘Have a drink then.’

‘No time. I only dropped in to see if all is well. Do you have any problems?’

She became haughty again and snapped, ‘No; none at all. Go if you must. I don’t care a fig whether you stay or leave.’ She stepped back under the chandelier and became again young and beautiful. I stumbled from the house and ran to my Land Rover. With a wide grin my driver said, ‘I see you have met the Memsahib Mericani.’

‘Shut up and get me back to Pencil Slats.’

Next morning a runner arrived with an imperious note on scented paper. “Dinner tonight at eight. Black jacket and white tie. Alice de Courcey.”

Is the woman mad? I returned an apology, “No jacket, no white tie and away in forest on night ambush”. In a fit of foolish good manners I added, “Some other time perhaps.”

That night after bumping into an armed gang I spent a week, tracking through mountainous forest. My askaris, employing great skill and energy, trapped and eliminated three nasty specimens. Within a few hours of my return to Pencil Slats another note arrived. “Dinner tonight at eight. Dress optional. Alice de Courcey.

This one ended, ‘Please come.’ In a surge of sympathy for the poor woman, all alone in her farmhouse, I replied, ‘Not tonight. I’ll come tomorrow at eight.’ I didn’t bother to say I’d been living rough for seven days; she probably had a spy in my camp and knew already.

Giving my driver instructions to return at eleven I trotted onto her veranda, ducking a trail of bougainvillea. She went through the same act as before; the contralto instruction to enter, the chandelier pose in a semi transparent gown – light blue this time – the dramatic cigarillo and the stepping forward with a snapped question, ‘Do you like eating kanga?’

Again taken aback at her abrupt welcome I said, ‘Sure. Yes. I don’t mind.’

‘Just as well,’ she said, ‘Because that’s what we have tonight. What’s your name?’

I told her and she said, ‘I am Mrs Alice de Courcey and you may address me as Alice.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Head tipped head back she aimed her imperious nose at me in a haughty stare, all Gloria Swanson ready for the camera. ‘Come on then. Dinner is ready. Take my arm.’ In a stately glide she led me to a dining room filled with gleaming dark-wood furniture and decorated with more expensive silver and porcelain. A succession of well trained servants in starched white robes served a perfect dinner of soup, kanga and a dessert the like of which I had never experienced. I usually found guinea fowl tough and dry but her cook had some way of softening the muscular meat to a melting softness and flavour. ‘You have a great cook,’ I said.

‘Not great to begin with,’ she said in her deep voice. ‘I taught him everything he knows and now he’s a chef, not a cook.’

Until then she had hardly spoken, concentrating on eating, drinking and drinking and drinking. She went through two bottles of wine before the kanga course ended and turned to sherry with her cheese and coffee. The drink seemed to have no effect until she observed, ‘You don’t drink much.’

This seemed to start a motor in her mind because her voice dropped an octave and her eyes took on a glaze. She said, ‘Oh for the early days here when men were proper drinkers, proper lovers and real characters. And we women matched them all the way.’

She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘How thrilling were the thirties when first I came to Kenya with my husband. He had so much money we could do what we liked and we did, darling, we did.’

From that moment on she never again said my name, calling me always ‘darling’. At the time I supposed that meant acceptance, although I think it may have been the first stage of attempted seduction.

With closed eyes she continued; words tumbling out thick and fast, conducted by grand sweeps of her cigarillo. ‘That first visit seemed like heaven and changed my life absolutely. I loved safari in the bush, sleeping rough in those awful tents and watching the men shoot those poor animals. They were all so strong and virile – the men, not the animals – and such wonderful lovers. I couldn’t get enough of them. After my husband died in Texas I collected his fortune and hurried straight back to buy this place and build my own place in paradise.’

She raised her arms and stretched; shoulders back, chest out. Her eyes shot open and flashed me a hot glance, full of meaning. Alarmed, I jumped up and squeaked, ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening. I must go.’

Her eyes glazed over again and I saw the wine and sherry take command. She stood and swayed for a moment before taking my arm and leading me to the main room to peck my cheek before pushing me towards the door. ‘Nighty-night darling. Sweet dreams. Come again.’

I turned to say goodbye and she had taken up position under her chandelier and become, again, a young woman, her whole stunning figure in full display through the filmy material. I must say she looked damned attractive.

Next morning I took half a dozen prisoners down to court in Gilgil. Returning four days later I found another note summoning me to dinner that night so, dressed in my best uniform, skipped onto Alice’s veranda at dusk to be summoned inside for a display of almost transparent yellow chiffon sweeping from shoulder to floor. Transfixed, I stared. She allowed the show for several seconds; breaking the spell by growling, ‘Why do you always come for dinner in uniform?’

‘It’s all I have.’

She shrugged, floated forward, took my arm and led me to another wonderful dinner,. We went through the same charade as before, eating in almost silence until she felt oiled enough to move to a large settee in the front room and resume her history. ‘I used to be a ballet dancer. Trained in New York and met my husband while touring Texas. He fell for me on sight during Swan Lake’ She hiccupped and giggled. ‘I thought him an ugly old devil but found his money really-really attractive. We married a month after meeting and I’ve been rich ever since.’

Leaping up she said, ‘Look at how I’ve kept myself in dancing trim.’ She threw her arms high and swept into a twirl, her skirt swirling high to reveal tight muscular legs. In sudden excitement she cried, ‘Come on. Let’s dance,’ and rushed over to an old wind-up gramophone, shuffled through a pile of records and put on a gentle dance tune. ‘Hold me, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Hold me and dance.’

Oh God, I didn’t know what to do. There I am in full police uniform, backing away from this crazy half-dressed woman wondering how to get out of the place. In a flash she grabbed me into a really interesting embrace. I couldn’t help relaxing against her and moving to the same rhythm. I must admit I found it pleasurable – six months or so alone in the bush changes some of your perspectives, including, in this case, age difference.

I managed to escape unscathed around midnight when she slipped a damp kiss onto my cheek and whispered some drunken mumble I didn’t catch. Called away on a three week patrol I returned, exhausted, to find a note demanding I attend dinner next day and come properly dressed. A parcel on my side table contained four shirts and two pairs of trousers. Sitting on my hard bed I agonised; should I go or not? Staring at my dirt floor and mud walled living quarters helped my decision. Why shouldn’t I take some of the luxury on offer? At the very least I could thank her for the shirts and trousers. So – feeling fully justified – I presented myself on her veranda dressed in perfectly pressed blue shirt and trousers.

This time Alice opened the door before I touched the handle. She stood framed by light wearing a short filmy dress. ‘Hullo, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m dressed twenties style tonight. Do you like it?’

Like it? She looked fantastic. Curiously bewitched I stood enthralled, unable to break the spell she cast and discovered that after my six months in the bush older women start to look remarkably young. ‘Don’t just gawp,’ she growled. ‘Come in. I have much to tell you.’ There followed our usual routine, dinner, drink, drink and drink then talk, talk and talk, though in my case listen, listen and listen.

It seems true that when you spend regular time with someone you allow yourself to fall into their pattern. For the next several months I found myself drinking more and becoming quite entangled in her tales, her food and her increasingly deep stories, allowing her to slowly change the rules in a way so subtle I did not at first notice.

‘My first husband – oh what a cruel man, just like my father,’ she groaned, brushing away tears. ‘Both beasts; absolute beasts. So when I found freedom here with the lovely bronzed young farmers and hunters I felt in paradise. You’ve probably heard of the Happy Valley crowd and that was us. We gathered for all sorts of naughty parties that went on for days and nights, all swapping partners and drinking and dancing and playing wicked and quite sinful games – oh darling, such hilarity; such happiness.’

At first it sounded light-hearted fun but as I began to know her a darker tone emerged, partly I think because I managed to resist her increasingly obvious advances. One night she wore so little she could have been nude and I left early. ‘Why darling? Why not stay the night and keep me company?’

‘I have to stand to with my men at dawn.’

With a deep and dirty chuckle, she growled, ‘I’ll help you stand to at dawn, darling.’

I backed out the door followed by her gurgling laugh. For a week I ignored an invitation a day but finally, drawn back to this strange woman, I surrendered and returned to find her in a mood so deep and depressed I feared for her sanity. In the fading light of sunset she led me outside to a well tended plot under a jacaranda tree. Pointing, she said, “I’ll die soon and be buried here.” After a superb but silent dinner we went to the lounge and sat in deep soft chairs by the fire sipping large glasses of brandy. Eventually very drunk, she wept and whispered, ‘I’ll never be able to forget some of the awful things I’ve done. My trouble is I fall in love too easily.’ Leaning over she pulled a tiny pistol from a drawer and waved it in the air.

‘I fell for a beautiful man, a hunter and gambler, a womanizer and rake but reformed when he met me, or so he said. I adored him and when he asked me to marry him in Paris I felt I thought I’d entered heaven. Three days before our wedding he said he planned to go to India with another woman and jilted me. I insisted on lunch before seeing him off at Gare du Nord. On the way I bought this small pistol and before boarding I gave him a great hug and shot him through the chest. He didn’t die and the French charged me with attempted murder but my clever lawyer argued crime of passion and got me off.’

She stared at me in a hard direct gaze. Gripped by sudden fear I kept my eye firmly on the pistol ready to dive aside if it turned in my direction. Instead, in an abrupt mood switch she screeched with laughter and bellowed, ‘The silly bastard deserved it,’ and tossed the gun across the room. I caught it and checked to find a loaded Colt 38 with delicate pearl inlay handle; the perfect handbag gun. Opening the chamber I tipped out six bullets and slipped them with the gun into my pocket.

Grabbing her glass she gulped a full measure of brandy down her throat in a hit so big she almost passed out; head rolling; body slumping. With great effort she regained control. Turning wet pleading eyes on me she whispered, ‘It’s easy for you. I’m falling in love and you’re not. Please stay with me. Please.’

I admit that for a moment I found it difficult not to be seduced. Here I am; inhibitions badly dented by a fair flood of alcohol, with a quite beautiful woman offering everything and doing her utmost to ensnare me. She drew her legs up; curled into a pretty pose and with a low giggle, murmured, ‘You’re quite safe. You emptied the gun.’

“Did you plan to shoot me if I said no?”

“Possibly. I hadn’t made up my mind.”

With another grip of fear I decided to get out but before I could move she said, ‘You’ve heard of the handsome Lord Errol? Oh what a man. I fell deep in love with him then hated him when he left me for another woman. When someone murdered him that night on the Ngong Road, police questioned me for hours as a suspect. Very exhausting,’

Taking this as one of her over-dramatic stories, I chuckled and said, ‘Did you shoot him?’

She jerked upright. Her black eyes turned to sharp slits and stabbed me with a glare that cut deep into my heart.

She snarled, ‘Do you think I’m stupid enough to tell a policeman? You’ve all tried to trick me into confessing. You’ll never succeed. I don’t want you here ever again. Get out now and never come back.’

I hurried away, tossing her pistol at the jacaranda tree as I passed. Her mood must have changed immediately because within hours I received pleading letters to return. Instead, I arranged a posting to Mandera in the north eastern desert bordering Somalia and Ethiopia. Here I spent two hard years of searing desert heat and danger chasing armed Somali cattle rustlers before transferring to the Hong Kong police from which I retired thirty years later.

One pleasant evening at a recent Colonial Police reunion in London, several of us sat telling stories of derring-do in odd corners of the old Empire. I decided to avoid blood and thunder reminiscences with a gentler tale of the strange character who continues to intrigue my memory. When my story ended, one grizzled ex-officer laughed and said, ‘Dear old Alice. She tried the same trick on half a dozen of us including me. She faked that whole story by taking on the character ofAlice deJanzé one of the Happy Valley crowd in the 30s. Real Alice came from Chicago. Fake Alice came from Reading. She’d never trained in ballet. She danced nude in seaside shows and toured American burlesque theatres. It’s true she married a rich old fool in Texas. When he died on safari she inherited his money and set up the house you saw and became fascinated by Alice de Janzé. Real Alice killed herself ten years before you met fake Alice who wanted to do the same and tried several times. In the end she succeeded and did the whole story rather well and probably believed it herself.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I investigated her death. Just like real Alice ten years before, fake Alice shot herself in a bedroom filled with flowers with that small pistol you threw away. It used to belong to real Alice, so fake Alice acted out the whole story almost precisely from beginning to end.’

Shocked and upset I said, ‘I’m really distressed to hear she died that way. But I suppose by arranging it so carefully she went as she wished.’

For several days after the reunion this final sad story would not go away. Then one night I woke from a dream of Dinner with Alice feeling overwhelmed by her powerful presence hovering nearby. Frightened and needing to speak, I whispered the truth, ‘Alice, darling. Throughout life we meet people we never think of again. But you Alice, I think of always.’