In my wanderings over the summer I met the people who lived on Grandfather’s estate and paid him rent for their cottages. There was Mr. Garth, who kept bees. I stayed at a distance as he put in the trays of comb that would soon be filled with honey. “Oh, Miss, you can come as close as you like. You couldn’t ask for a friendlier bunch of bees.” But I remembered the stings of the wild bees in Africa.
Many of the farmers grew hops for the making of beer, others grew nothing more than grain for their chickens and straw and oats for their horses. As I walked along the paths, the tenants would greet me and sometimes the mistress of the house would invite me in to see her children and have a cup of tea.
The cottage might be messy with tumbled beds, unswept floors, and grimy children, their mouths smeared with jam, their noses needing a good blow. More often the cottage would be tidy, the floor swept, the beds made, and the children scrubbed. Wherever I went, tea would be set out, weak tea where money was scarce. Plates of scones or biscuits where all was well, and thin slices of bread and butter where money was wanted.
Often the tenants would discuss their problems with me, knowing I would pass them along to Grandfather. “The chimney wants rebuilding,” one tenant said. “It smokes so we daren’t have a fire even to cook a meal.”
I told Grandfather, and he issued an order to have the chimney repaired. When I reported sickness, he saw to it that Mrs. Bittery made up a basket of nourishing food and I would carry it to the sick tenant’s cottage. Sometimes he sent his own doctor to check on an ill child or an elderly tenant. At times I recognized the illness and sometimes even suggested something to make the patient better, but I never mentioned my interference to Grandfather. Often the message I would carry from a tenant to Grandfather would be a plea for the wait of a month or two for rent. Grandfather would complain and talk of idleness and spendthrifts, but in the end he always agreed.
Again and again the tenants would tell me of neighboring landlords who threw their tenants out of their homes for any little thing, or landlords who charged exorbitant rents. “There aren’t many like your grandfather,” they said.
Bird by bird, flower by flower, tenant by tenant, I came to know and love Stagsway. Yet always in the back of my mind was Tumaini. Everything in England seemed pale and tame in comparison to Africa. The flowers and birds were not as colorful; no lion or leopard lay in wait in the fields, only a sheep and a cow or two. I missed the beating of the drums and the stories I used to hear in the Kikuyu shambas. I missed the smell and the glow of the evening campfires and the sound of the lions at night. I missed the bustle and purpose of the hospital and the satisfaction of seeing patients carried sick and even dying into the hospital and then watching as the same patients left to return to their village, well and healthy again.
At the end of July I came upon a bit of Africa in Hampshire. I had seen birds with familiar names but different coloring; now I saw a bird that looked and sounded like birds I had known at Tumaini. I was in the orchard when suddenly a pair of hoopoes settled beneath one of the apple trees. They had the same cockade of feathers, tipped in black, sticking out of their heads as the African birds, and the same long, sharp bill. They had the same elegant walk. For a moment I thought I was seeing things, that I had imagined them because I wanted so much to be at Tumaini, but they were real. I stood there for nearly a half hour, not daring to move. The moment they flew away, I ran to Grandfather, bursting into his room. “Hoopoes!” I said. “I saw a pair of hoopoes. I am sure of it.”
Grandfather was as excited as I was. He said, “I once heard a tale from Duggen’s father, who worked here, of a pair of hoopoes. Tell Duggen no one is to go into the orchard to disturb them. What a sight we will have for Pernick.” Mr. Pernick was the director of the Royal Bird Society. He called upon Grandfather each summer.
Grandfather said, “Now you must tell me about your African hoopoes.”
“They are common in Africa. They were always about.”
I was happy when Grandfather encouraged me to tell him not only of African birds but of all my memories of Africa. In the telling, it seemed I was back there once more. I told him of the lion that had carried away small children and how the lion had been hunted down and a mask made of his mane and a great ngoma held to both celebrate and mourn his death. Though the Africans feared the lions, they never questioned the lion’s need to kill.
He asked about the illnesses that were treated in the hospital. “I suppose your little friend Rachel would tell you of such things,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, and described for him the terrible fevers and chills of malaria, and the children who suffered from worms, and how thorn wounds could become infected, and all the old people who were blind until their cataracts were removed. I told of the time there was a cholera epidemic and of the illnesses that came from bad water. “But there were never enough medicines,” I said. “Everything had to be sent from England, and it took forever.”
“Did the nurses come from England as well?”
“Oh, no, they were all Kikuyu. The nurses started in as sweepers in the hospital and the doctor would see which ones did the best work and who always came on time. Those were the ones he would train to become proper nurses.”
“Rachel’s father must have been an exceptional man,” Grandfather said.
“Yes,” I said, and turned my head so that he should not see my tears.
“And did Rachel’s parents live in a large comfortable house like your parents?”
“Their house was made of mud-brick walls and an iron roof. The floor was earth that had been tamped down and covered with grass mats. The roof leaked when it rained. Kanoro would have to climb up on the roof and move the sheets of iron about.”
“And wasn’t such a life hard for your friend and her parents?”
“I don’t think they thought much about it. Her father was too busy at the hospital and her mother had the school to attend to.”
“And Rachel?”
“Well, she helped out at the hospital, but she was outdoors as well. She liked to visit the Africans’ shambas.”
“Shambas?”
I explained. “That’s what we called the small African farms.”
“Ah, I see. Like our lodges. And if Rachel were here, do you think she would go about to the lodges, taking tea and settling problems as you are doing?”
I was about to smile, taking Grandfather’s remark as a little joke, but I saw that Grandfather was looking closely at me. Why was he comparing me with Rachel, pointing out how we were doing the same thing? I felt my face burning and could think of no easy answer.
He reached over and patted my hand. “I only meant that had I known her, I am sure I would have liked your Rachel. Now, tell me again how many tortoiseshell butterflies you saw on the rosebush this morning.”
The end of August Mr. Pernick alighted. He was a slight, slim young gentleman who, like his beloved birds, moved about so quickly and lightly, his feet seemed barely to touch the ground.
After introducing me, Grandfather said, “I have assured Pernick that you have seen and heard the Hylocichla guttata pritchardi. Your description could not be mistaken, and it matches mine to the last feather. There is no eye ring.” He gave Mr. Pernick a severe look. “There can be no doubt that this is a new subspecies. It is high time it was adequately recognized.” Grandfather turned to me. “Pernick and I are in the habit of going about together to see the birds,” he said. “Since I can’t accompany him this year, he will have the pleasure of your company, my dear. You are as familiar with the whereabouts of the birds at Stagsway as I am. I have also told him you have a special treat for him today.”
Mr. Pernick was a lively companion. “Today is St. Bartholomew’s day,” he said. “It is said, ‘Bartholomew brings the cold dew.’ Autumn is on its way, and our friends the birds will soon be leaving us.”
His words sent shivers up and down my spine, for I knew that like the cold dew, the Pritchards would soon arrive to make eve
rything chilly. At that moment a gros-beak flew out of a rowan tree and Mr. Pernick caught at my sleeve in his delight.
Though we did a great deal of sneaking about among the trees, I could not find the Hylocichla guttata pritchardi for Mr. Pernick, but I assured him I had seen it. “Don’t you think you could convince the Royal Bird Society to accept my grandfather’s discovery of the bird? His heart is set on it.”
“How I wish I could, Miss Pritchard, but science cannot do just what it wishes. If it could, we would all have a bird sporting our name. I promise that the proper committees are looking into it.”
The words proper committees did not have a promising sound.
“Now, Miss Pritchard, what is this special treat you have for me?”
I led him to the apple orchard and, signaling him to be quiet, pointed to where I had seen the hoopoes. They were still there, hopping under the trees, pecking at the insects that buzzed about the fallen apples that lay rotting on the ground. We stood there frozen and silent until the hoopoes flew off.
“That must be the high point of my many visits to Stagsway. What a pleasure it has been to have you accompany me. What a treasure this place is, and how generous your grandfather is to promise it to the Royal Bird Society. I assure you we will treasure it. It will remain just as it is so that people may come from far and near to enjoy its beauty.”
After Mr. Pernick left, having first said many kind things about me to Grandfather, Grandfather and I had a quiet dinner together in his room. The windows were open, and the curtains fluttered in the evening breeze. “Tell me, my dear,” Grandfather said, “what do you think of my idea of giving Stagsway to the Royal Bird Society?”
“I think it’s a fine idea, but what would happen to your tenants and to Mr. Duggen and the rest of the people who work for you?”
“That would all be taken care of. And what would you do if you were to have a great deal of money?”
Without thinking, I said the first thing that came into my mind. “I would find a way to rebuild the hospital at Tumaini.”
“Yes,” Grandfather said, “I believe you would.”
NINE
The Pritchards arrived in a chilly September rain. Grandfather had been cross all day. “What a miserable exchange,” he complained. “All my birds leaving and my wastrel son and his wretched wife descending upon me. I told Grumbloch to keep them in the city, but they won’t do as they are told. I won’t have them here. They can pitch a tent outside.” For all his complaining, Grandfather instructed Burker to ready a set of rooms for the Pritchards.
I hardly recognized the Pritchards. Gone was Mr. Pritchard’s white suit and Mrs. Pritchard’s flowered hat. Bundled up from head to toe in dark woolen cloaks, mufflers, gloves, and hats, they were complaining to Mr. Grumbloch as loudly about England as they had complained about Africa. In the vastness of the great hall, they didn’t see me at first and began to load up poor Burker with their hats and scarfs and coats until the man nearly crumpled under his burden.
I wished that I could disappear, but Mr. Grumbloch said in a voice that seemed to be filled with irony, “There is your daughter.”
At once they rushed at me. The two sides of Mrs. Pritchard’s cloak fell over me like bat’s wings, suffocating me. Mr. Pritchard nearly knocked me over in his haste to embrace me.
Mrs. Pritchard cried, “Valerie, dear, how we have missed our precious girl.”
“We couldn’t remain away from you for another day,” Mr. Pritchard said.
I suffered their greetings and managed some few words of welcome, all the while noticing how Mr. Grumbloch stood aside and watched the Pritchards’ performance. There were remarks on Mr. Pritchard’s part about how pleased he was to be home again and on Mrs. Pritchard’s part about how well I looked.
“I see that this life agrees with you, Valerie, dear,” she said. “I suppose you are getting used to so comfortable a life.” She gave me a quick, malicious look.
I could only nod my head and smile weakly. It was all I could do to keep from shouting that I was not their Valerie and had no wish to be. All the loathing I felt for them was turned against myself, for hadn’t I let myself become a part of them? I had been led to believe Grandfather had only a short time to live. I had thought my deception would be for only a few weeks. But Grandfather was stronger. Mrs. Bittery had said, “It’s all your doing, Miss Valerie. The old gentleman has something to live for now.” After hearing that, how could I tell Grandfather that I had deceived him?
I suffered the Pritchards’ embraces, saying little.
“We must go to Father at once,” Mr. Pritchard said, but Burker stopped him.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but your father is feeling unwell. He left strict instructions that he was to see no one but Mr. Grumbloch. I believe he looks forward to a visit with you tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Pritchard said. “We have come halfway around the world. Why is it that Mr. Grumbloch is to see him and we are not?” For a moment I thought he was going to rush up the stairway.
Mr. Grumbloch quickly said, “I have a bit of business with him that will take no more than a moment.”
Mr. Pritchard shrugged and turned away. He had grown up at Stagsway, and in no time he was stamping about up and down stairways and in and out of rooms. While he was examining the house, Mrs. Pritchard took me aside. She peered closely at me. I might have been some odd species of beetle. Though no one could have heard us, she asked in a hushed voice, “How often do you see your grandfather?”
“Several times a day,” I said. Had I known what was on her mind, I would have kept silent.
“And does he talk with you about Stagsway?”
“Oh, yes. We talk of it all the time. He depends upon me to tell him about the birds.”
“I hope you haven’t encouraged him in the wild scheme of leaving Stagsway to some bird association. Mr. Grumbloch told us all about it. Your grandfather must be out of his mind.”
“Oh no,” I said. “I think it’s a perfect plan. Everyone will be able to come and enjoy the birds.”
Mrs. Pritchard grabbed my arm. “You little fool. Why do you think we sent you here? To allow you to cheat my husband of his inheritance? Stagsway must come to him, and you must see that it does or you will find yourself locked away in a prison for impersonating our daughter.”
I should have realized that it was an empty threat, for the Pritchards were surely as guilty of deception as I was, but I could think only of my own guilt and how saddened and miserable Grandfather would be to learn of their scheme and my part in it.
Little was said that evening at dinner, for Arthur was at his station while we ate. Mrs. Nessel had gone to a great deal of trouble over the meal. There was her special soup à la reine made with chicken and almonds; baked haddock, roast mutton, and apple tart. While Mr. Pritchard ate huge quantities, Mrs. Pritchard only picked at her food. For myself, I was too nervous to eat even a morsel and signaled Arthur to take away my plate before the untouched food was noticed.
Immediately after dinner the Pritchards made me accompany them into the library, where a fire had been laid and a tray of coffee set out. Burker poured out coffee for the Pritchards, and after handing it about with a shaking hand, he gave the fire some attention, groaning quietly as he straightened up.
The moment Burker was out of the room, Mrs. Pritchard said, “That man should have been dismissed years ago. He’s much too old for the job. Aldon, you must find a butler for your father who will answer to us. The cook must go as well. The dinner tonight was inedible. The responsibility of managing this place is too much for your father. I’m sure he’ll welcome our taking it over and sparing him the concern.”
“It’s not just the house,” Mr. Pritchard said. “I had a talk with one of the tenants. Father is letting the lodges for a pittance. Rents must be raised. Of course, everything can’t be accomplished in a day.”
They had paid me no attention, but now I saw them looking at me.
“We’ll see tomorrow, my dear, just how helpful you can be to us.”
I was alone that evening in my room, once a place of happiness and safety, that now felt poisoned by the Pritchards’ greed and my own part in their scheme. I wanted to run away, but imagining Grandfather’s face upon hearing such news, I quickly gave up the idea. I stood at the window staring out at the moonlit grounds, every inch of which I knew and loved. By the light of the moon I could see the bats darting about, hungry for rare fall insects. Soon they would fold their wings about their small bodies and hibernate for the winter. How I wished I could climb into some opening in a tree and curl up until the Pritchards left. How could I let the Pritchards make life miserable for Grandfather? Yet if I were suddenly to tell the truth, wouldn’t that make him more unhappy? I pulled a blanket from the bed and put it around me. All night I sat up in the chair looking out the window at the grounds of Stagsway that had once seemed so friendly. The dark faded away, and a thin line of pink spread across the horizon. A few skylarks sang, but their song, which had always cheered me, seemed on this early morning the saddest I had ever heard.
When I dressed, I found my arm was bruised where Mrs. Pritchard had grabbed it, but the bruise was nothing compared to the injury the Pritchards had done me by entangling me in their evil scheme. Worst of all was my agreement to be a part of the scheme. Though I had told myself I had agreed out of concern for Grandfather, I knew I had let myself be talked into the deception. I had only myself to blame, and not the Pritchards.
At breakfast Mrs. Pritchard called Mrs. Nessel into the dining room and announced to her, “I am sure you would welcome some suggestions regarding meals. After this you can submit your menus to me each morning, and I will go over them.”
Mrs. Nessel bristled. “I’ve had no complaints from Mr. Pritchard,” she said.
Mrs. Pritchard said, “Of course, my father-in-law is unwell and has not had the energy to see to such things.”
Listening for Lions Page 8