Boss Takes All

by Carl Hancock

  ‘There you are, Rollo!’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘If you want to know about nerves, you should be asking Rebecca.’

  ‘Can’t do that until you’re married and she’s my sister. You are still going to be my sister, Rebecca.’

  Maura was regretting leaving the vehicle where the conversation was almost civilised.

  ‘Rebecca, sweetheart, don’t answer that. The only way to shut morons up is to starve them of oxygen. Took me years to work that out.’

  * * *

  Their arrival at Pembroke was perfectly timed, just fifteen minutes before lessons for the day ended. In the shade of the line of pepper trees close to the Prefects’ Lawn the tables for the afternoon tea break were being loaded with cakes and biscuits and slabs of honeyed bread. All three McCall boys had boarded for seven years in this the second oldest English prep school in the country and this afternoon break and release from lessons ranked equal top for their best time at school. Just as much they loved the Sunday evening chapel service. Another week had passed and the whole school came together in their greys to sit quietly in that time when outside half light merged into full darkness.

  The headmaster’s study overlooked the Prefects’ Lawn from the opposite side to the children’s tables and the four oldest of the new arrivals were able to have a more private tea and yet watch what their young companions got up to. Of these, only Lydia had not been to the school before. It had been the first place outside Naivasha that Tom and Rebecca had visited after their first engagement. Tom was ever the hero after his amazing escape from captivity and almost certain death in a hut in a remote part of the Kakamega Forest. But it was Rebecca who held their hearts. Through the windows of the main school block two classes of eleven year olds had seen her arrival and promptly lost interest in their Geography and English lessons.

  When the chapel bell clanged to signal the end of lessons, the noise in that tree-lined triangle of greenery was so loud that it drew staff from their offices and the house to see what was going on. Nothing could calm the excitement until Rebecca climbed onto a low stool and charmed them into rapt silence. First she gave them ‘The elephant and the buffalo’, the only comic song that Toni Wajiru had ever been able to finish. Then she surprised them.

  ‘I hear that you have a new school song, written by two of your clever teachers. I know this song, all three verses. Thomas tells me that you must go to your places to change for your games. Please, if we hurry, we can sing this song together.’

  And they did, loud enough for the goats on the top of Big Hill to be disturbed by the sound, especially when they came to the last two lines of the little chorus: ‘O, Africa, O, Africa, I take my stand in thee. And the peaceful paths of Pembroke are ever dear to me!’

  The children went on their way, the hubbub died away and the real business of the afternoon began. Rebecca and Tom stayed in the study while the rest followed the children to the playing fields. There was something for everyone down there. The twins had golden memories revived when they watched the senior boys batting and bowling in the cricket nets. Bertie and Alex took Ewan over to a corner pitch where the youngest boys were chasing a football with noisy enthusiasm.

  For the ladies, the setting offered the best reward of all. Rafaella and Maura had strolled around these flat, grassy fields hundreds of times when they came to watch their three boys at school matches.

  ‘Lydia, this is the paradise within a paradise. Why do all these children have to rush around so madly like this and miss all this magic around them?’

  ‘Maura, I once suggested to Eddie and Rollo that, for a change, they put down their bits of wood and the rest of the stuff. “Just sit on the mound there for half an hour and look around you. Do you more good than getting sweaty and having your legs kicked.”’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘Lydia, they looked at me then looked at each other, smiled at their idiotic grandmother and told me that I must speak to Mister Wilson or Mister Williams, the games fundi. See them over there. They love this place. I think they understand now what I was trying to tell them.’

  * * *

  ‘You know that we would love you to have the marriage service in the chapel. Five weeks time?’

  ‘Well, Bill, we’ve had a bit of trouble lately, but headmasters are used to bits of trouble, aren’t you?’

  Bill Foster smiled. He had been in the job for just over two years now. Even behind his desk, those wide shoulders, the easy smile on the sunburned face and the mass of curly grey hair would have made it clear to any newcomer that no child in his right mind would want to upset this man in even the most trivial way. He was a giant of a man when he stood to his full height, sure like a terrifying sight to a six year old in trouble for the sin of tugging a little girl’s pigtails.

  ‘House burned down, farm destroyed, Tom, and that’s a bit of trouble? I don’t know what it was like in your day here, but as far as Susie and I are concerned, Pembroke is as near to paradise as you’d find in any school.’

  ‘Bwana …’

  ‘Hold on! Rebecca, my name’s Bill.’

  She hesitated, found the ‘Bill’ bit too difficult but went on anyway. ‘Does the idea of getting married in a school sound foolish to you?’

  ‘If I was in Tom’s shoes, I’d be ready to marry ten times to make sure I got you signed and sealed.’

  ‘He asked me to explain. The chapel at Pembroke is his only church. “The Christina Chapel”. I know about it. He has told me. The boys built it when the troubles were with us. Long time ago now. The Mau Mau. They were bad times, but a beautiful place was born then. When his time came, Tom was in the choir. On Monday mornings he took his turn to put up the flag. When we set the day for the marriage …’

  ‘Bill, I was happy for the service to be at home, in the garden. My grandmother - you know Rafaella - is a friend of the priests in the cathedral in Nakuru. She’s a Catholic. One of the fathers came when Grandfather Don was killed in, well, nearly three years ago now. So there is a new one. Went to school in England. Father Peter. He’s only about my age. Why do they call them father? Look, I’m not doing a good job of explaining …’

  ‘You are right, Thomas. You are not. There is no garden today in Londiani. Everything was destroyed in the fire. But, tomorrow a new garden will be born. I think in five weeks it will be ready for us, new growing for a new marriage. On Saturday here at Christina. It will be my present to my new husband. On Sunday, at home. The families want this.’

  ‘And so do we. I suggest twelve-thirty. The children will be at early lunch …’

  ‘No, no, they must be there …’

  ‘But the chapel … your guests.’

  ‘Perhaps some of the very young ones and the choir. Next week we will come up again. It will be a wonderful day. I am very excited.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  t the very same time that the McCalls and their friends were enjoying lunch at the table of the chairman of the Rift Valley Club, Abel Rubai and his entourage were travelling under the line of jacaranda into Nakuru. At the roundabout just beyond the railway bridge, they did not take a left towards Kenyatta Avenue but bypassed the town centre on Geoffrey Kamati Road on their way to the tea capital of Kericho.

  Four Mercedes and a Daimler hearse, all black, travelled in convoy, turning the heads of passers-by.

  ‘Hey, I wonder where the funeral is, Zacharias.’

  ‘Yeah, Jonah. Must be some Nairobi bigwig on his last ride up to the family farm.’

  ‘Didn’t read about the death of no bigwig in the paper this morning.’

  The only bigwig in that little procession was very much alive, pleased with two successful pieces of business completed in short order that morning. He had a reluctant Reuben by his side. The boy was not happy. His father had made him miss out on a lunch at Muthaiga with two friends who had recently returned from a month long holiday in the United States and Canada.

  ‘Papa, we’re a ri
ch family. How come we never get to take a holiday in some exciting place?’

  Reuben kept the question firmly in his head. No need to provoke another lecture from his father about the virtues of careful living to go with the one he was presently enduring about smart business practice.

  ‘Know exactly what you want before you start talking. And do precious little of that. Let the other fellow make the running. And always be in …?’

  ‘Control. Yes, but …’

  ‘I’d like it if you could sound a little more enthusiastic, son.’

  ‘Papa, you know that I think you are the greatest man in the country, but what’s wrong with a person my age having a bit of fun sometimes?’

  ‘Let me tell you, Reuben, that there are lots of ways of having fun besides going to clubs to get drunk in the middle of a Monday.’

  ‘But, Papa, we are on our way to a funeral. Where’s the fun in that?’

  Abel chuckled. ‘When I was your age, I was a father and I was financial adviser to the president, no less. I had my fun by keeping my eyes open, watching how the big people did things. Soon enough I became one of those big people myself.’

  Beaten into submission yet again, Reuben withdrew into himself and willed the day to hurry along. They were beginning to climb out of the valley floor. The countryside was beginning to green up. He tried focusing on what he could see out there through the window on his side. Fence after fence, field after field. All the fault of those early pioneers, those Europeans who had killed off the wildlife, the native African animals to set up their boring farms. So, after perhaps half a minute staring out into a nothing landscape, his head swivelled ‘round and he was forced once more to fix his eyes on the back end of that extra wide hearse carrying Patrick Uchome and his wife home for the last time. In spite of himself, he visualised the couple flat out in their separate coffins, dressed in their smartest clothes, their bodies juddering in uncontrolled response to their vehicle hurrying along that rough road. He shuddered. He was desperate to see a few lions running about. Okay, that was impossible, but what about some rain, a downpour to cheer things up?

  In less than twenty minutes his second wish was granted. Rain fell on the tea plantations as it did every afternoon, another short, sharp shower to feed the tea bushes and keep the rolling ridges green. The downpour was heaviest as they travelled along Moi Highway and for a few seconds it overwhelmed the windscreen wipers with its ferocity. The meeting place was just beyond Hospital Road where the highway veers down to the right en route for Kitale, Kisumu and the lake.

  One of the boys in the leading cars came back to report to Abel.

  ‘Boss, this old fellah up ahead says he is Patrick’s uncle. He’s got a bike. Knows the place. Mile, mile and a half, mostly good road.’

  ‘Mostly? Don’t like the sound of that. Reminds me of my village and the red mud when the rains came. Tell him to ditch the bike and climb in with you or it will be dark by the time we get there.’

  Now when he looked through the car windows to the left and right, Reuben saw nothing but an apple green landscape.

  ‘Papa, I never knew there was a place like this in Kenya. Like being in a different world.’

  ‘Perhaps we should buy a place up here. Your mother likes her tea. Just down the road, sugar plantations. Plenty rain, too. No, I think I prefer it down south these days.’

  Abel was pleasantly surprised when they turned off the metalled road. The murram was firmer than he expected and they soon covered the distance to the Uchome place. He was glad to get down to stretch his legs and look around. He soon discovered that Patrick’s extended family owned three large plots in the area, all producing tea. There was a big turnout for the funerals and he and Reuben were led through the crowd to a small group of well-built stone houses. To one side of a large vegetable garden heavy with crops, he could see the two graves with the mounds of earth stacked neatly all around. Just beyond, and in the fields, stood a large, open shed, a simple structure of pine poles topped with a thatch of reeds and straw. On working days the pickers brought their baskets here to be weighed. Today it was transformed into a gathering place for family and friends. Abel groaned.

  He had known that there must be a service but had not given much thought to how it would be. He would have liked a simple but speedy farewell. This set-up suggested something more elaborate and, more important, longer. Regular churches made him feel uncomfortable. On the few occasions when he had been obliged to go along with Sally to the cathedral or one of the other big Nairobi churches, he had his technique worked out. He let Sally belt out the hymns or spill the overflow of emotion while he let his thoughts wander or, better still, fixed his concentration on a minor problem. In those places he found that he could work without distraction.

  Here he knew he would be a focus of attention. Eyes would be on him. He would be expected to react … properly. He had seen to the Nairobi side of the arrangements, had the bodies removed from the morgue before there had been a full autopsy, paid for the expensive oak coffins, hired the only double hearse in the country. To the casual observer, these might have seemed to be the actions of a considerate friend anxious to demonstrate his compassion and his sympathy for the bereaved family. In fact, they were little more than a mask to protect his own interests. He wanted Patrick in particular safely under ground as quickly as possible.

  His personal ordeal was about to begin. He and Reuben led the Rubai contingent on the walk to the tea shed. There was plenty of give in the grassy verges. He did not enjoy the suck of the mud pulling at his shoes as they squelched towards the waiting family. The bottoms of his trousers were soon saturated, making his ankles feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Bwana Rubai, my name is David. I am Patrick’s brother. My mother and father want me to tell you how grateful they are to you for your kindness to them in bringing their boy home and coming yourself …’

  Abel was switching off. Twenty years on the political scene had helped him hone the art of presenting an interested face to company, to filter away the parts of exchanges that had no relevance to him and to be alert and attentive when it suited.

  So the ritual began. The coffins were carried in, the bodies inspected and grieved over painfully. Words were spoken impassionately, songs were sung interspersed with prayers. The big man looked on with an impassive expression. He cast an eye out into the rolling fields and noticed that the afternoon was far gone. Just when he was wondering if the burial would take place in the dark, everything stopped abruptly.

  There, directly in front of him and supported on her husband’s arm, stood Sophie Uchome, Patrick’s mother. And he who was no friend to her son, who had been wishing himself a hundred miles away, looked into that beautiful, old face and wept, sobbed with total sincerity. He was overwhelmed by a sense of loss. This unexpected reaction stunned Reuben and shocked his men, but in Abel there was only a feeling of release. He reached out to grasp the two old people in front of him and held them in a tight embrace. The room might have been totally empty to judge from the silence of the two hundred people gathered there. Every one of them heard the whispered plea from Abel’s lips.

  ‘I am so sorry!’

  The seconds ticked by and the moment was passed.

  Half an hour later, the powerful motors of the four Rubai cars were started up. By now the hearse was well on its way back to its Nairobi yard. On the short journey back to the main road, they caught up with Patrick’s uncle on his way to retrieve his bicycle and Abel invited him to sit by his side. For the last few metres Abel got down and walked with the cheerful man who had such an impressive zest for life.

  ‘Do you have a lamp on the bike, Shadrack?’

  ‘Bwana, why would I need a lamp? I have been living in these plantations for sixty-five years and more. Even on the darkest night, there is some brightness up there. On my way home tonight I will be singing because I am happy. Bwana Rubai has brought honour to our family.’

  ‘But how will you find your bike now? You have c
ome too late.’

  Reuben, riding in the car that was moving at walking pace, was watching his father with curious interest. Since the outburst of emotion in the tea hall, some of the sharp edge had left him. He was giving time to people he would normally have ignored. Listening in to the conversation with the Uchome uncle and seeing his concern for the old man’s bike, he would not have been surprised if his father had pulled out his wallet and handed over a few thousand for a new machine.

  ‘To find it, that will be easy. Ah, we are close now. I left it near that pile of stone just where we turn onto the big road. They are special marble, paid for by businessmen in Nairobi. I expect you will know them.’

  ‘And why would they do that?’

  ‘A Kericho stonemason will soon be building a place where we will remember the good doctor. They found him just there. They had killed him with knives, left him naked by the entrance to the big plantation.’

  Abel snapped back into his old self in seconds. His system had been struck by a second shock, this one unpleasant and totally explicable. Without another word, he left the old man to look for his cycle and slid into the seat next to Reuben.

  ‘I have changed my mind. We will not go to the farm to spend the night. The road through Kakamega Forest can be dangerous. I know that the President will not be at State House Nakuru. I will phone ahead. Obi, pick up the speed!’

  He was regathering his composure.

  ‘Yes, yes, a much better plan. I can get in some practice for when my time comes. I should have thought of it before. Yes, Reuben, when you are elected, you will come and visit. Perhaps you will bring your family.’

  ‘If they elect me.’

  ‘I don’t like that little word. You will be the chosen one.’

  It was Abel’s turn to will the journey to pass more quickly. He would like to have had some interesting conversation to distract him on the way. He was well aware that Reuben was not up to the mark on this score. There was not much common ground of shared interests.