by D. D. Mayers
Then slowly in my gaze, on the horizon, there seemed to be a figure. I went on staring. It was a figure, it was a Maasai, his skin covered in red ochre, his hair braided with fat and ochre, falling to his shoulders. He was carrying his long sharp spear and wooden knobkerrie, his long knife in its red leather sheath around his waist. He stopped right in front of the buggy, threw the blunt end of the spear into the ground to lean on, he said, ‘Sorba (hello).’ I said ‘Sorba.’ He said, ‘Habari (How are things).’ I said in Swahili, ‘I can’t start my engine.’ ‘Ah,’ he said and continued in Swahili, ‘let me look.’ I lifted the cover off the engine, we both bent over looking into it, like two men anywhere in the world, ‘Ah,’ he said again. He pulled his spear out of the ground, turned it around, and carefully threaded the long sharp blade down to a little screw on top of the carburettor. He gave it a small, gentle turn and said, ‘Jarribu (try it).’ I turned the key and the engine burst into life.
Without another word, he got into the buggy next to me and pointed with his spear where he wanted to go. After a little while we approached his Manyatta (a collection of rounded huts made of dung). A crowd of little children, all completely naked, poured out of all the huts, screaming with laughter, running to greet us. They were laughing so much they could hardly stand up. As the Moran stood up to get out, the children, still doubled up with laughter, formed an orderly little queue. They moved one by one, towards the Moran, bowed their little heads, while he gently laid the flat of his hand on each one. We shook arms goodbye, and amid gales of laughter, from jumping, waving, naked little black bodies, I sped off into the fast approaching gloom.
I was slightly worried about my reception. Dusk was just beginning to come down. I’d been away quite a long time. I drove into the parking area and up to my chair. I transferred out of the buggy, into the chair and gingerly pushed myself on to the veranda. Everyone was there, merrily chatting away. I got a warm greeting from all the family, and a kiss from My little wife, ‘Hello, hello, have you had a lovely time?’ ‘I’ve had a wonderful time.’
This moment, and its reaction was very significant. It meant I was getting back my independence. No one was trying to take away my independence, but inevitably, I’d become mollycoddled and it was now up to me, to show I could stand on my own two feet, so to speak.
It must have been on this visit to my family in the Valley, we were driving into Nairobi when an incident took place with a traffic policeman. A new flyover had been built over our usual road, to relieve the incredible volume of traffic that had come about since we were last here. I made a stupid mistake and started to come down off the flyover into the oncoming traffic. Very quickly I realised the mistake and backed up, but two or three cars had to weave their way around me. Only a couple of minutes from joining the dual carriageway, a policeman stepped forward with his arm up in the air and the other vigorously waving me to the side. He was furious, ‘What do you think you were doing?’ he shouted in his thick Kenyan accent, ‘You could have caused a grave accident,’ ’I’m very sorry Officer, you see the last...’ ‘No, no, no, no,’ he shouted waving his finger in my face.‘Do not make excuses to me’, then pointing to his badge on his cap, ‘You have not got a leg to stand on.’ I paused and said, ‘Do you know Officer, you’re absolutely right.’ He stood back and puffed up, ‘So... I am right.’ ‘Yes Officer, I’m very sorry, I shall never make that mistake again.’ He paused and half shouted, ‘OK, this time I will let you go, but if I ever have to stop you again, I will throw the book at you, now go.’ I went.
Rotherhithe
I later reflected on what he’d said. He was right, of course, not only literally but in any other sense as well. I think this must have been about 1983, seven years after the accident. We were living in our beautiful warehouse in Rotherhithe, just below Tower Bridge in South-East London. So why did I still have this terrible sense of nothingness, pointlessness, uselessness. It’s not as though we’d done nothing for seven years; and yet every morning I would wake up feeling sick; I would retch and retch until my stomach muscles ached. We’d borrowed a lot of money to convert the warehouse, but we paid it all back just by selling one floor, completely empty, twenty feet by sixty. In those days we still had bank managers. They would guide and advise and would look back through your financial record, and would let you extend your overdraft, as long as you let them know first. In this case he said, ‘I expect you’re going to have to do a lot of hard talking.’ We both said, ‘We think it’ll speak for itself.’ We picked him up in South Kensington, drove him over Tower Bridge, through all the huge derelict warehouses, to the Mayflower pub. The Mayflower ship did actually set sail to America from here, and our little warehouse nestled between two other monsters which soon would succumb to the developers. We pointed it out and he said, ‘Oh I see,’ and that was it. We drove him back to South Kensington.
When it was finally finished and friends came to visit, it had the same sort of effect as people had when they first saw Kedong. It took their breath away; at any time, day or night, the tide, in or out, people’s jaws would drop.
I should tell you of the immensity of the task upon which we’d just embarked. The owner of the warehouse was a friend of Marriott’s called Angelica Garnet, whose husband David wrote the book Aspects of Love, subsequently made famous by Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s musical. She asked £45,000 which even then, in 1981, was an incredible, out-of-the-blue, opportunity, to save us from my overriding depth of worthlessness, of my life, not serving any purpose. There was no point in having a survey; the building was a burnt-out, London stock brick shell, with no roof. The thick brick walls were built sitting directly on the clay London is built on. It was probably built in about the 1850s when the London docks were at the peak of their worldwide trading network. But modern building regulations stipulate brick walls must sit on concrete or a similar material as a solid foundation. This seemed to me to be an impossible demand, least of all because the building had happily stood there, with no movement for more than a hundred years. But our very clever new friend and architect, Colin White, who lived opposite us in Marriott’s mews, worked out an ingenious, relatively simple way to solve the problem. The clay had to be cut out in arches underneath the brick walls only two at a time, then the arches filled with concrete and allowed to set for a few days. This tiresome procedure was carried out until the whole building was sitting on the top of all the new concrete arches. The rest of the clay, between the arches, was then dug away and filled with concrete. The entire structure of about 100ft deep, 50ft wide and three stories high now sat comfortably, on its new foundation of 300 tons of spanking new concrete.
The design of the interior could now materialise. My wife has a natural eye for design and so has Colin. Two cooks in the kitchen is a recipe for conflict. But they managed to steer gingerly around each other for the next three years it took to create, and the outcome was spectacular.
We had all this and had done all I’ve described, and yet we were both on the edge. I can see clearly now why it was my poor little wife was in such despair. But then, when I found her curled up on the end of the sofa, sobbing her heart out, I said, ‘What’s the matter?’
I was so immersed, enveloped in my own deep misery at being cut in two, tied for the rest of my life to this primitive, cursed contraption of a wheelchair. I couldn’t see the devastating effect I was having on the people closest to me. I’d started to drink a bit too much whisky. After a very nice supper with a bottle of wine, we’d watch television, then maybe turn off all the lights and watch the nightlife on the river. My little wife would go to bed and I’d stay in the sitting room, with a glass of whisky, listening to very loud music on my headphones. On the very first night in the warehouse, having moved away from the womb of our wonderful Marriott’s house in Notting Hill Gate; the vicar of Rotherhithe arrived, with a bottle of whisky, to welcome us to his Parish. He stayed and stayed and I happily drank and drank. When trying to transfer out
of the wheelchair into bed, I collapsed on the floor and, without knowing, my leg snapped in two just below the knee. My exasperated but forbearing little wife, struggled, with all her might, to lift my deadweight back into the chair and on to the bed. It wasn’t until the morning, when I pulled back the duvet, the sight of my massive, swollen leg, caught me unaware, causing me to almost pass out.
The ambulance drove me to A&E at St. Thomas’ Hospital. There they decided to plate it together, rather than put me in plaster, because of the possibilities of pressure sores. The bane of a paraplegic’s life. This whole procedure required a week’s stay in the hospital.
It was not possible for my battered, bruised, and now desperate little wife to be completely alone for a week in that warehouse. There was no alternative but to retreat to the safety of Marriott’s home in Notting Hill Gate.
Unfortunately we only lived at the warehouse for three years. I think it was during those three years I became aware that the agony I was going through was of my own making. If it was of my own making, why on earth would I want to put myself through this misery, this destruction.
Some time ago Marriott told me that my Brother-in-law had said, ‘Of course, he is very selfish.’ I disregarded that as something a brother-in-law might say as a dismissive remark about someone for whom he had no regard. However, it slowly dawned on me during the time we were at the warehouse, everyone around me had done their utmost to make me accept that life was worth living.
I explained earlier, soon after being paralysed, it was as plain as day to me I hadn’t achieved anything, I had no talent, I had nothing to warrant any of the enormous love, care and attention that was being poured upon me. I was so engrossed in my own deep misery, I didn’t realise the effect I was having on the people closest to me. It was in the nick of time the realisation flooded over me. For seven years I’d been creeping through a dark, wet, clammy, stinking tunnel without any reason to make me go forward. My head bowed, my face just above the mud I was hoping would drown me, when suddenly, without any warning, I looked up and I saw this magical scene all around me. The feeling was as though I’d stepped back in time to my childhood, into our beautiful garden I’ve described earlier. Everything was there. Why, why did I ever have to leave. Both my Parents were still alive, my Ayah was still alive, our beloved little pack of assorted four-legged super-friends were still with us. But now I had someone else who’d been with me while I’d been creeping through that dreadful tunnel, not caring, not knowing if I was going backwards or forwards. I didn’t know she was always nudging me forwards
Quite recently, long after we left the warehouse, there was a story in the papers, of a young man who’d suffered exactly the same accident as me. He had decided, very early on, he would not live a life from a wheelchair because he could not accept the compromises he knew he’d have to make. He was told he’d get used to it, he was only eighteen and another world would open up. He said he didn’t want to get used it and he was not interested in ‘another world’ opening up. Somehow he persuaded his parents to take him to Dignitas in Switzerland, where he would take his own life. I only recall that story as an example of the extremes people go through when presented with paraplegia as a way of life. Even now, after all this time, knowing all I know he’d have to go through, I can’t honestly say he made the wrong decision. So here I was, without the option of going to Dignitas. I had to accept all the love and dedication so many people had given me over the last seven years and repay it by ‘trying’, just ‘trying.’ Nobody would ask for more.
***
During the time we lived with Marriott, another beautiful little character came into our lives; tiny in stature but with a huge personality. We both came from dog-owning families and while living in the Kedong valley, our great joy was our little pack. Five, wonderful, very different, assortment of the most beloved four-legged friends, only other dog owners would understand. When we had to leave Kenya, it was as if our hearts were being torn out of our bodies. So when this tiny ball of fluff was deposited on my pillow after Marriott and my wife came back from a shopping trip, there was nothing but instant love. She was a miniature Yorkshire terrier called, on her pedigree, Nonsense Lady Rotherhithe; without her I don’t think my poor little Wife would have retained her sanity. She gave us fifteen years of pure love and utter delight. When she died, I thought my little wife’s heart would break. Before witnessing what was happening to her, if you’d told me someone could die of a broken heart, I would have disagreed with you. But now, I know you can become very ill with devastating grief. Her body was racked with sobbing. Not just for one or two days but for weeks. She had an illness for which there was no consolation. There was no placating, no let-up. We say the love dogs have for their owners is unconditional. Now I know the love some owners have for their dogs, is also unconditional and total.
That little character was with us wherever we went. She’d even sit on my right arm, my accelerator and brake arm when we drove around London. She recognised places where she could go for a run. If we couldn’t stop, she’d look back inquiringly. Because of her we became very close to my Uncle and Aunt who lived in East Sussex; they doted on her. So it was with them she stayed when we returned to Kenya to see my mother in the Kedong Valley. And it was because of her, they wanted us to live close to them. So it was because of her they found an old derelict barn in which we now live, and probably will do so for the rest of our lives.
Storm and Stuttgart
I find it difficult to place all the episodes I’ve talked about, in order of them happening. I can say though if they happened in a good time or a bad time. So from June the 29th. 1976 until the end of 1987 was a bad, bad time. There were lighter moments of course, but generally I was deeply depressed and couldn’t really find any purpose in living. We did do things. By now we’d moved from our beautiful warehouse and into our derelict barn.It had been transformed into a magnificent four bedroom house with underfloor heating.It was set around a courtyard with raised beds so I could participate in the creation of a wonder. It was only my poor little wife who knew what was really going on. People would say to her ‘He’s amazing how he handles everything.’ She wanted to throttle them. She knew it was only her who kept the ‘show’ on the road. She finally said to me, it was unfair, selfish and deeply wounding to continue with this attitude after everything she, and so many others had done their utmost to make my life worth living. She was right. It was now up to me. I was very lucky, people had put up with me for so long.
So it was 1987, the year of the great storm that swept into the South-East of England, tearing down great swaths of beautiful, mature forest and scattering them about like matchsticks. It was 1987, more than ten years after that accident I seriously began the long fight back to reality and fulfilment. I said to my wife, just the other day, ’how is it we now have so much when we had so little.’ The answer is here with me now and has been all the time. How she waited all that time, I just don’t know.
***
Soon after I was first paralysed, and still in the hospital in Nairobi, it was suggested, to My poor little wife that I should meet another paraplegic. He’d fallen off a horse and broken his back not long ago. He was permanently in a wheelchair, as would I be. I’m not quite sure why it was thought this meeting would raise our spirits. However, he wheeled himself along to my ward, every inch of wall space covered with Jill Retief’s children’s school water paintings and introduced himself. His name was Bill Argent. He was a cheery chap of about fifty. I don’t know why he thought he was there, he had nothing of any hope to say to me, it was quite evident, that was that. Anyway, we both made an effort to chat and it turned out, before his accident, he was Managing Director of Mercedes-Benz Kenya and amazingly still was.
After eventual admittance to Stoke Mandeville Hospital, I found he was well remembered, ‘as the man who never left his job’. Very unusual. He spent hours every morning on the telephone to his office in
Nairobi, running the business from his hospital bed. He’d taken no time to adjust to an entirely new way of living. He didn’t consider he had an illness, he might as well have broken his leg, so he only stayed in hospital the shortest possible time. That attitude might have been a useful tool for the short-term, but I’m afraid for the long-term, or even the medium to long-term, it was to cost him his life.
We chatted quite amiably about all sorts of things, other than what life was like living from a wheelchair. Later I was to realise, nobody ever talks candidly about living their life from a wheelchair. It’s too intimate and awful to relate. Much of the awfulness is centred around incontinence, the ‘telling’ of which, makes normal people uncomfortable. So switch off now, if you don’t what to hear any more!
We came back to our beautiful Kedong Valley, almost a year later. Among the many friends we had to see again, who’d been so wonderful to us during the time I was in hospital, was to contact Bill to see how he was getting on. All the dreadful difficulties I now knew so much about had begun to crowd in, but with his strength of character he coped and somehow managed to continue working. On one of our visits, after extolling the design and abilities of Mercedes-Benz engineering, he suggested it would be possible for him to organise a car to be built for me personally. If I could collect it myself from the factory in Stuttgart, there’d be no duty to pay, so the overall cost would be as affordable as most other well built cars. We’d never entertained the idea of having a Mercedes, they’d always been far out of our reach. My father had bought us a second-hand Peugeot 505 automatic, on which he’d had hand controls built, so I could use it when in Kenya and my mother would drive it when we were in England. We didn’t own a car in England. My mother-in-law had, incredibly kindly, given us the use of her lovely black Daimler with red leather upholstery. I couldn’t drive it, of course, it had no hand controls. Our farm had been confiscated by the government. The circumstances of which I’ll tell you about later. For our part of the investment given to my father, would just cover the cost of a personally built Mercedes 300 D with hand controls. So there it was, all set up, an amazing piece of good fortune, arising out of the worst of circumstances. Since the accident, I’ve come to realise, not soon enough, it’s most important to try to find something positive, out of any misfortune. If you can’t, it’ll weigh you down, and crush you out of existence.