The Bonds of Matrimony

by Elizabeth Hunter

  It was hotter than ever. Hero began to wish that she had stopped for a cup of coffee with the priests at the church. They would have told her all the local news and have pumped her gently about her own affairs, but, because she had not been married in church and was almost sure that they would already have been told about that, she had avoided seeing them, telling herself she would go back later with Benedict and leave it to him to

  explain why they had got married in a register office.

  Her heart thumped uneasily as she thought about her husband, and she didn’t see the three Turkana warriors standing on the road, their spears in their hands, until she was almost upon them. She braked hard and the Land-Rover skidded to a halt. She wish she was not alone as she waited for them to come up to her. They had no cattle with them, nor any of their other possessions, and she could only hope they were not a war-party out for vengeance for some imagined wrong which they would take out on her.

  They came quite close, weighing their spears dangerously in their right hands. Hero lifted her own hand in a gesture of peace, licking her dry lips and hoping they wouldn’t scent her fear. She had been told that their sense of smell was as unspoiled as any wild animals and, looking at them, she could believe it.

  ‘Jokera,’ she forced out the traditional Turkana greeting.

  Three left hands went slowly into the air, ‘Ijok.’

  She waited in silence while they stood there looking at her, their eyes as impassive as black stones. Then they gestured towards the Land-Rover, showing her that they wanted to get in. One of them who spoke a little Swahili made a halting explanation to the effect that they wanted to see the new bawana mkubwa at the farm. He would rescue them from the great drought that was killing their animals and would shortly kill the weakest of their people.

  How had they heard about Benedict already? How did anyone hear anything in Africa? She glanced uneasily at their spears and nodded her consent to their climbing into the back of the vehicle. ‘I can’t promise the bwana will be able to do anything for you,’ she warned them.

  ‘He will see us when he sees we come with you!’

  She shook her head. ‘That doesn’t mean he can help

  you.’

  The Turkana men settled themselves on the back seat, moving her packages on to the floor in front of them. They managed to look very dignified, although it was probably the first time any of them had ever been in a car. ‘He will see us because you are his wife,’ the one who spoke Swahili said, moving his spear a few inches closer to her head. He used the more derogatory term of mwanamke, implying that the marriage was an irregular one, instead of the more usual mke. Hero tried to tell herself that it was because the man’s Swahili was not very good, but she couldn’t help wondering if he didn’t know as much about her marriage as she did herself, for she doubted that he had intended to insult her.

  When they reached the farmhouse, she nearly fell out of her seat in her anxiety to find Benedict, but in the end she didn’t have to, for he stepped off the verandah to meet her, holding her close against his side.

  ‘Visitors?’ he asked, his voice so normal that she almost laughed.

  ‘Turkana,’ she whispered.

  He gave her a push towards the house. ‘Go and wait inside, Liebling. I’ll find out what they want and find them somewhere to spend the night.’

  She was surprised to notice that night was almost upon them. ‘But how will you understand what they say?’ she asked him.

  He gave her another firm push towards the house. ‘I’ll

  manage!’ he said.

  She went with a marked reluctance, aware of the superior masculine smiles the Turkana were giving Benedict. They, too, would be glad to see her go, for their discussions were not for women’s ears - what did women know of valuable cattle? Their ivory lip-plugs which they slipped in and out of holes made in their lower lips, made their faces look like masks when she turned to take a last look at them from the verandah. Even their ostrich-feather headdresses and leopard-skin cloaks, which did little to hide their nakedness, added to the illusion. Usually they were worn only for ceremonial occasions, which showed how serious they were about their meeting with Benedict. Hero couldn’t ever remember any of the Turkana coming to the farm before and she thought it was another pointer to the importance Benedict had and which he wore so lightly.

  She went into her bedroom, throwing her sweat-damp hat on to the bed. The door into the dressing-room was open and she shut it with a bang, locking it for the first time, her heart pounding against her ribs as she did so. After the way he had kissed her she thought she was more than justified in taking any precautions she could. Supposing, just supposing, that he should decide to take his revenge for the way she had thrown the dust up in his face? She had the uncomfortable feeling that she might have been unwise to take such a liberty with a man like Benedict Carmichael.

  It took her a long time to change out of her jeans and shirt and into a dress as she liked to do in the evenings. She tried out her new make-up and spent a good five minutes brushing the dust out of her hair. Even so, she didn’t hear Benedict come into the house, nor did she hear him go into the dressing-room. But she heard his hand on the knob of the door that led into her room and his angry exclamation when it didn’t give to his touch.

  A moment later and he had walked in through the other door and was holding out his hand to her for the key.

  ‘I prefer it locked,’ she exclaimed.

  He held his hand a little nearer and she placed the key on his scarred palm, watching with apprehensive eyes as he unlocked the door and put the key away in a drawer in his room.

  ‘But, Benedict, what difference does it make?’ she pleaded, running after him to the open doorway.

  ‘There will be no locked doors between us, now or never! Ours may not be the usual kind of marriage, but the door stays open and I shall walk through it whenever I please. We’re man and wife, Hero, as I’ve been trying to tell you all day, and no wife of mine is going to shut any doors in my face.’

  But he didn’t mind shutting it in hers, with a finality

  that sent her spirits on a long, slow dive to her boots.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Betsy stood on the very edge of the verandah, a look of displeasure on her face.

  ‘Heavens, what a dump!’ she said.

  Hero kept her temper with some difficulty. ‘It wasn’t always as bad as this. There used to be roses and a whole host of other flowers. There was bougainvillea over that arch, for instance. It was a glorious splash of colour against the sandy backdrop. And nothing can detract from Mount Kenya. Just look at those foothills, and the

  gorgeous greens of the highlands, and the twin peaks shining white with snow! You must be very hard to please if you don’t find that beautiful.’

  ‘My dear, I simply can’t imagine how you’ve stuck it all these years! I’d be a raving lunatic if I had to spend more than a week or so here. What do you do all day? And who are those dramatic-looking savages who appear to be living in that banda over there?’

  Hero looked where she was pointing. ‘They came to see Benedict,’ she explained. ‘They’re worried about the effects of the drought. He was going to take them home today, but he had to fly down to Nairobi to pick up you and Bob instead.’

  Betsy turned and looked at Hero’s serious face. ‘I thought you wanted us to come?’ she said. ‘You sounded desperate enough for anything in our letter.’ ‘Of course I wanted you to come! I’ve been looking forward to it. But

  I wasn’t sure you’d come. You never

  have before.’

  Betsy’s lips curled into a smile. ‘Benedict wasn’t here before!’

  Hero blinked. That was what she had been afraid of, she thought wryly. ‘You didn’t tell me you met him last year. Why not?’

  Betsy threw herself into the nearest chair, pulling her hat well down over her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t understand, love. Isn’t it enough that I was willing to loan him to you for a w
hile? When is he taking you to England, by the way?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ With an effort, Hero managed to sound bored.

  ‘Poor Hero!’ Betsy cut across her thoughts. ‘He’s too much, isn’t he? Never mind, pet, I’m here now, come to rescue you. You can safely leave Mr. Benedict Carmichael to me!’ She gave Hero a faintly malicious grin and closed her eyes. ‘Did you think I came to see you? Well, I didn’t. I came to look after my interests as far as Benedict is concerned. Remember that, my sweet! The gentleman is strictly on loan as far as you’re concerned! I wasn’t going to have him escape my net two years running and I knew your farm was just the thing to make him stay.’ She yawned slowly. ‘It’s all worked out beautifully!’

  Hero managed a yawn as well. ‘Time will tell,’ she said, as she set off for the shed where her lorry had been garaged overnight.

  ‘You’re late!’ Benedict grunted as soon as he saw her coming.

  ‘Am I? Are you waiting for me?’

  ‘I am!’ His bright eyes looked her over thoughtfully.

  ‘I thought Betsy might keep you chained to her side all day.’

  She shook her head. ‘She isn’t interested in me,’ she told him.

  ‘No, probably not,’ he agreed.

  She peeped at him through her eyelashes. ‘Why did you wait for me?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to do something else today?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wanted to speak to you about something else. You don’t learn easily, do you?’ He put out a hand and pulled her close against him, running his fingers through her hair as though he liked the feel of her short, dark locks. He even smiled when she tried to shake her curls back into some kind of order. ‘You’re my wife, and a casual nod to me at the breakfast table isn’t what I expect from my wife when we have guests here watching everything we do. Don’t you think you could bring yourself to offer me a nice affectionate kiss every now and then?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Hero said with resolution.

  His fingers fastened on the nape of her neck. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ she repeated, feeling quite weak at the knees at the thought. ‘Whatever would Betsy think!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Betsy again,’ he observed. ‘Those pretty ears of hers must be getting quite red.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re at all kind to use me to make her jealous!’

  ‘I kissed you before she came,’ he reminded her. “Don’t you want to kiss me sometimes now too?’

  She pursed up her lips. ‘I don’t think so!’

  He chuckled. ‘Only think, Hero? You don’t sound very sure.’

  She took a deep breath, determined to convince him, cost what it may, but the words refused to come out as she had intended. ‘I’m not. I mean, I don’t like it when you come the heavy husband!’

  ‘ You shouldn’t make it so irresistible/’ Hero digested this in silence. She couldn’t see that she had done anything to

  make him want to tease her. ‘I still don’t like it!’ she maintained.

  ‘Ah, but your likes don’t come into it,’ he argued with an arrogance that took her breath away. ‘The only question is whether you can bring yourself to do as I ask, or whether we’re going to have a battle about it. It won’t make any difference in the end,’ he added with the same amused smile, ‘because kiss me you will, every morning and every night, and sometimes, like now, in between whiles, because that’s the way I want it!’

  ‘I won’t!’ she declared, feeling agitated.

  He stroked her cheek with a gentle hand. ‘I think you will,’ he said. ‘To please me you will!’

  He took a step away from her, his hands dropping to his sides. ‘I’m going to take the Turkana home to the other side of the Samburu Game Reserve,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Hero, and leave the trucking till this afternoon!’

  The smell of a Turkana inside the narrow confines of the aeroplane was pungent and all-embracing. Their badly cured leopard skins mixed their scent with the strong smell of perspiration that emanated from their bodies. Hero watched them doubtfully as they sat down, plainly uncomfortable in a position they seldom adopted of their own accord, preferring to stand, or squat, or even to lie down. She thought they might be afraid, travelling for the first time in the metal bird that streaked across the sky, but they showed no sign of it if they were. They were as impassive as they had been when she had given them a lift in the Land-Rover. How much easier it would be, she thought, if she could accept whatever fate brought with the same calm acceptance that they displayed.

  ‘Got them strapped in?’ Benedict told her as she went up front.

  ‘Well, no,’ she admitted.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Wouldn’t they let you?’

  ‘I didn’t try. They don’t think very highly, of women - at least, they don’t think very highly of me!’

  ‘Oh? What makes you say that?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything much,’ she said.

  ‘But it was something?’

  They don’t think I’m a proper wife to you,’ she said as calmly as she could.

  ‘What an interesting conversation you seem to have had with them!’ he observed. ‘I’ll have to use you as translator when we get to their encampment. I can’t understand anything they say to me!’

  ‘He was speaking Swahili. He called me your mwanamke!’

  ‘And that’s bad?’

  The colour rose in her cheeks. ‘It’s irregular and not very polite.’

  The look in his eyes mocked her and she blushed more deeply. ‘What do you want me to do?’ Benedict demanded. ‘Knock his block off for him?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘But if the opportunity arises, I thought you might point out to him that I am your mke and not your mwanamke.’

  ‘And are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not either!’ she denied hotly. ‘But I won’t be called names just because of something they’ve heard—’ She broke off. ‘I won’t be referred to as your mwanamke, that’s all. It isn’t proper!’

  ‘What could they have heard?’ He stood up, amusement on his face. ‘Why don’t you tell them yourself if you feel so strongly about it? No, no—’ as she threatened to go back into the cabin and tackle them immediately - ‘You do it! What else are husbands for?’ When he came back he still seemed amused. He bent over her, snapping the buckle into place. ‘They’d heard you weren’t married in the church in Isiolo, it was nothing more than that! The insult you imagined was the fiction of your own guilty conscience!’

  Torn between a strong desire to ask him how he had managed to elicit that piece of information from them when they had no language in common, and the need to defend herself, she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Never mind, my dear,’ he replied easily, ‘I’ll give you plenty of time to work it out in your own way, but don’t take too long - I find it hard going, living in the same house with you!’

  It was a bumpy landing across the grey, rough grass of the edge of the desert. Benedict opened the door and let down the steps while Hero, knowing that she ought to be helping him, found that her fingers were suddenly too weak to undo her belt.

  ‘Come on, mwanamke!’ Benedict’s voice called out to her.

  She appeared, pink-faced, from behind the curtain. ‘I think you’re perfectly horrid!’ she told him.

  His response was to ruffle her hair. ‘I won’t tell you what I think of you right now! Are you coming, or do you want to stay on board?’

  /T/ /

  I m coming.

  ‘Then stay close by, or I may decide to exchange you for a four-legged mule!’

  ‘You can try!’ she said coolly.

  He was obviously amused. ‘Don’t you think they’d take you? Come on, Hero, buck up! I can’t do without you, as you very well know, and if you’re coming, you can do what you can to translate for me.’

  The compound was a very temporary-looking affair. Fenced with a few sticks, interspersed with reeds, any of the
animals-could have knocked down the barriers and gained their freedom, but they showed no signs of doing so. The cattle were painfully thin, and the Turkana complained they were having to travel further and further each day, looking for somewhere for them to graze. Benedict listened to all they had to say with great attention, offering a word of advice here and of caution there. Hero felt proud of him. She sat beside him on the scorched earth, shielding her nostrils as best she could from the dust and the smell of both men and animals, and was overcome by the strength of her admiration for the man who was her husband. He didn’t seem to know the awe that other people felt in the presence of the Turkana, but nor did he patronize them, or think himself in any way superior. He wanted to help and help he did, quietly, efficiently, sharing his knowledge with these untamable nomads on terms that they could understand put to use for themselves.

  She wasn’t able to help him much by translating his words. Most of what he had to say was beyond her strictly kitchen Swahili and, as none of the Turkana spoke it any better than she did, Benedict managed by drawing pictures in the dust and pointing to the different animals he was talking about. Strangely, they seemed to understand him very well, and Hero wandered off by herself, seeking the company of the women with whom she felt more at home.

  She hadn’t thought that Benedict would notice her going, but he came after her almost immediately, tucking her hand into his arm with a look that was more than enough to remind her that he had told her to stay close beside him.

  ‘They wouldn’t do me any harm!’ she protested.

  ‘I’m not prepared to take the risk. If you’re bored—’

  ‘Of course I’m not bored!’

  ‘Aren’t you? Tell me what you know about these people. Could they be persuaded to grow a few crops?’

  She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ She bit her lip, reflecting that before that morning she would have been quite positive that they would not, but she was beginning to think that Benedict could persuade anyone to do anything. ‘I don’t know much about them. Only what people thought years ago, like their being unable to count above five, starting again with the formula five-plus-one, and so on. Oh, and that they’re one of the few African peoples who don’t circumcise their young men.’