by Paul Twivy
‘Well, Ralph, anything you can do…’
‘What do you mean, Minister?’
‘Anything you can do to make matters worse for Germany can only help the British cause and benefit British trade.’
Freddie could see his father take a deep breath and grip the sides of his chair before replying.
‘I will not use matters of this importance to win us trade favours, with the greatest respect, Minister. It would be unforgivable.’
There was another ominous silence. Freddie could see his father’s team shift uncomfortably in their seats.
The voice on the speakerphone was quiet and menacing.
‘I suggest, High Commissioner, you reconsider your position.’
Freddie had rarely felt such pride in his father. He could not understand the detail of what had been said but he knew the spirit of it. He would have rushed through the open door and hugged his father, were it not for the fact that it would have revealed his eavesdropping.
‘How can you bear to read in this heat?’ Li asked.
Hannah looked up at her father as he mopped the sweat from his brow. She’d always noticed how sensitive his skin was. It was an exact barometer of his feelings. When he drank alcohol – usually to ‘de-pressurise’ as he put it – he came out in a rash. This was embarrassing, when they had friends round for dinner. Her own skin was unresponsive most of the time: a healthy shade of brown. Except she bruised easily: a Chinese vulnerability her mother had told her.
‘How can I bear not to read, you mean?’ Hannah replied. ‘It’s the only way I can stop thinking about the heat.’
They were in her father’s makeshift office – hut to be more accurate – on a site being tested for uranium deposits. The hut had a portable air conditioning unit, but it was next to useless as it wheezed away like an asthmatic.
‘Bloody thing,’ Li said as he bashed it for the umpteenth time, hoping it would somehow trigger a higher fan speed.
‘Hitting it won’t help,’ Hannah said, as if dealing with a child.
‘I tell you what, don’t become a mining engineer when you grow up. Do something more civilised. Something you can have some control over.’
Hannah gazed at him. She’d never heard him be quite so damning of his job.
‘It must be exciting sometimes though, Baba. You never know what you’re going to find. At least you’re not stuck in an office all day.’
‘No, I’m stuck inside this blasted Portakabin watching my wall-charts go further and further into the red. We’re way behind schedule. Perhaps it was a mistake to agree to a posting here.’
‘How can you say that? It’s magical here.’
Hannah surprised even herself with the strength of her feelings.
There was a loud banging on the door of the hut.
‘Come in,’ shouted Li.
A helmeted man in heavy duty overalls and a high-vis jacket popped his head round the door.
‘We’ve hit something, boss.’
‘Please tell me it’s something positive,’ Li retorted.
‘I think you need to come and see. It’s … disturbing.’
‘Oh great!’
Of all the words that Li didn’t want to hear at this precise moment in time, these were possibly the worst, as Hannah could tell from the manner in which he tugged on his protective boots and whipped his helmet off the rack, almost tearing the peg off with it.
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said, jumping up.
‘Hannah, it might be dangerous.’
‘I don’t care. I want to be with you, and I want to escape from this heat. At least it will be cool down there in the mine shaft.’
She’d heard his torrent of complaints every night at dinner and was beginning to worry about him. He was so stressed that her mother had insisted on taking regular blood pressure checks with their machine at home.
His company was badly behind schedule with the test digs. His wall calendar ‘looked like a car crash’. His re-calculations were daily, as were the flood of emails from HQ in Shanghai demanding updates on ‘progress’. There was no way Hannah was going to let him face another problem alone.
The outdoor heat hit them both like a furnace as the door of his hut swung open. The light bleached their eyes.
A short walk later, they were at the makeshift lift used to descend to the test shaft. The doors were slammed shut with full force. God help anyone whose hand accidentally got in the way. Hannah had learned the brutal, mechanical world of mining from many previous days spent with her father. It repelled and fascinated her in equal measure. The zig-zag metal patterns of the lift door reminded her of her grandmother’s apartment in the French quarter in Shanghai. She wished they were there now, smelling a New Year banquet ever more vividly as the lift ascended. Instead, they were descending into darkness and cold.
By the time they arrived at the bottom with a metallic clang, Li had mentally filed through every possible disaster: flooding, broken shafts, impenetrable rock. Every possibility except the one he now confronted.
In front of them, under the harsh lights that illuminated the dig, lay a half-exposed, bonfire-sized, hillock of bones and skulls. They were used to finding artefacts and skeletons as they dug ever deeper, peeling back the layers of Time. Finds were usually interesting for a few hours, days even, as they sat in the ring-side seat of History. But then, weeks of frustrating delay followed, as archaeologists and museums, scraped, classified, photographed and boxed the artefacts. This though was different. Its scale was overwhelming.
Hannah stopped in her tracks.
‘This isn’t all of it, boss. There are more skeletons. Hundreds. Maybe even thousands,’ one of Li’s team said. ‘Some of the local men were shaking. I’ve sent them up to the surface to get some air.’
‘How can there be so many?’ Hannah gasped.
‘Who knows? A battle? A plague of some sort? A drought?’ Li conjectured.
‘Excuse me sir,’ a miner said softly ‘Some of the jewellery we’ve found amongst the bodies are from the Herero tribe. I recognise them. My mother is Herero.’
‘Oh my God,’ Hannah said in a sudden realisation that froze her blood. ‘The Genocide.’
Clara was fed up with crayons and her drawing. She looked round her mother’s hospital office, hoping to be inspired. She didn’t find much. There were large posters showing where the muscles and organs of the body were, which would have been interesting if she hadn’t seen them countless times before. There were smaller posters encouraging people to stay healthy and have regular check-ups. A white-board was covered with scribblings about ‘duty rosters’ and ‘beds available by ward.’ Her mum was sitting at a computer, tapping in notes.
‘What is that smell, Mummy?’ Clara asked.
She couldn’t work out what it was. It was something she’d sometimes smelt on her mother’s clothing when she came back from the hospital. Or occasionally in the back of the car when her doctor’s bag had been half-open at Clara’s feet.
‘I don’t know, darling,’ Anne Wilde replied without looking up. ‘I probably smell it every day so it’s hard for me to know. It could be the disinfectant they put on the floors. Or the smell of the laundry, the fresh gowns and sheets.’
‘No, I like the smell of laundry.’
‘Well, I’m not sure then. It could be the alcohol swabs we use before injections.’
‘Would I have smelt that when you gave us our vaccinations?’
‘Yes, darling!’ she said smiling at Clara and hoping to calm her. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
Clara always had to get things settled. She couldn’t be at peace until she’d solved something. She knew that her mum recognised this obsession and found it irritating, but Clara couldn’t stop herself.
Clara didn’t really like hospitals and this hospital was no different. She was aware th
at most of what was going in a hospital was hidden from a child and it made her feel uneasy.
‘When are we leaving?’
‘When I’ve finished my shift,’ Anne said as she sorted through some patient notes.
‘What’s Freddie doing with Daddy?’
‘He’s at the High Commission.’
‘Is it called High because it’s on a hill?’
‘No, darling. Although that would be logical wouldn’t it? The trouble is that not much in Government is logical. That’s why they end up with silly names for things.’
‘Isn’t it boring being in an office?’ Clara asked. She remembered how Daddy had told her he’d spent most of his day in ‘meetings’. But, when he tried to tell her what meetings were, she couldn’t see the point of them.
‘You’ve had a much more exciting time coming here to the hospital with me.’
There was a pause during which Anne hoped for some appreciation.
‘It hasn’t been that exciting,’ Clara observed.
‘Well, you enjoyed meeting the patients. And, I must say, you cheered them up. So, you’ve done a good deed.’
‘What is AIDS, Mummy?’ Clara had been longing to ask her, ever since she heard the nurses talking about it. ‘Is it something to do with hearing aids? Like Grandma’s?’
‘No, darling. AIDS is a horrible disease…’ Anne struggled to find the words to explain the dark shadow that had fallen across so many lives. How was it possible to convey something so devastating to a child? She got up from her desk and walked over to where Clara was sitting on an unused examination table, swinging her legs. She sat down next to her.
‘Yes, but what is it?’
‘Well, AIDS stands for “Acquired Immuno-Deficiency Syndrome”.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘It’s caused by a virus called HIV. It weakens your body’s means of defending itself.’
‘How do you catch it?’
‘Well you usually catch it by having sex with someone who’s already got the virus. Or a blood transfusion. But what is especially tragic is that mothers can also pass it on to their babies, either in the womb, or after they’re born: through breastfeeding them.’
‘You mean that breastfeeding your baby can kill it?’
Clara was horrified and her incredulity made her mother’s throat close when she wanted to speak. The cruelty of this truth seemed unbearable coming from her youngest child who was still so vulnerable. She put her arm round Clara and pulled her close.
‘Only in those circumstances darling. Normally, breastfeeding is the perfect thing to do for your baby. Which is one reason why this disease seems so cruel.’
Clara loved feeling the warmth of her mother next to her and the squeeze of her hand.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
‘Is that why you wanted to be a doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘I couldn’t be a doctor. I’m not a good enough person,’ Clara concluded.
‘Well, first- of- all, you are good…. most of the time. But secondly, you don’t have to be a saint to be a doctor, you just need to be practical and to listen carefully. If you listen carefully, the patient will always give you the diagnosis… usually without knowing it.’
‘How many people are dying of AIDS?’
Anne paused, wondering if Clara needed to know the truth, and deciding that she did.
‘Millions.’
A staff nurse burst into the room, looking agitated.
‘We’ve got another case. I thought you’d want to see.’
Anne got up and swiftly followed the nurse. Unbeknown to her mother, so did Clara… through two sets of swing doors and on to a ward.
A woman was lying almost motionless in bed.
‘We’ve given her a sedative,’ the nurse said as Anne approached the bed, took the patient’s wrist and timed her pulse.
‘Blood pressure?’ she asked the nurse.
‘A hundred and forty-five over a hundred.’
She read the patient’s name from a clipboard at the end of the bed.
‘Mrs Onwate? How are you feeling?’
The patient turned her head with the slow, patient movement of a tortoise crossing a hot lawn.
‘I’m feeling better now, thank you, doctor.’
Anne found her humility and patience heart-breaking.
‘Do you mind if I examine you?’
Mrs Onwate shook her head.
Clara watched intently, as her mother gently turned down the sheet and lifted the patient’s gown. It reminded her of how gentle her mother always was, whenever Clara herself felt ill.
On the woman’s stomach were several scorch marks. It looked as if she had been burned by boiling water.
‘Have you burned yourself at all? While cooking?’
‘No, doctor, they just appeared in the last few months.’
Anne looked significantly at the nurse and vice versa.
Same as the others, the nurse thought to herself.
‘But she must have been burned,’ Clara blurted out.
Her mother spun round, aware of Clara’s presence for the first time.
‘Clara, I told you not to follow me on to the ward. You shouldn’t be seeing things like this at your age.’
‘Why? At what age should I be seeing it?’
Clara’s question seemed to floor her mother.
Later that evening, when they were back at home, Clara had drawn a picture of hundreds of people running into a fire. When her mother saw it, she shrieked.
‘That’s hideous, Clara.’
She tore the picture into several pieces and threw it into the bin. Clara burst into tears. Later, Anne felt shocked at her own reaction, went into Clara’s bedroom and lay down next to her, holding her hand, until they both went to sleep.
Selima felt ambiguous as she walked up the gravel path to the Chiang house in Swakopmund.
It was a relief to get away from home. Her mother and father had been bickering for most of half-term. Her mother couldn’t get over the deceit that Darius had been working for an American hotel company without telling her, especially given the location of the dig.
On the other hand, she also felt awkward going to see her special needs teacher. Teachers should never be seen outside of school grounds. Their private lives should remain invisible. It was bad enough bumping into one of them in a supermarket. Going to their home added a whole other dimension of embarrassment.
She rang the bell.
‘Hello, Selima. Do come in,’ Sarah Chiang said.
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘We’ll just go through here, into the sitting-room.’
The house seemed quieter and darker than her own. There was a sense of emptiness that Selima couldn’t quite fathom. Everything was arranged beautifully: books stood like soldiers in alphabetical order; Chinese silk paintings were hung in perfect symmetry; Shanghai Tan fans were spread open and delicately nailed to the walls; photographs of former homes from around the world stood neatly spaced on shelves. How different to the colourful mess of her own home!
They entered the living-room and sat opposite each other. Sarah shut the door and sat in a chair with a notebook open in front of her. Selima sat alone, bolt upright, on a three-person sofa, feeling small.
‘How are things?’ Sarah asked, determined to try and relax her stiff pupil.
‘Fine,’ Selima said.
‘Are you feeling any more confident with your school-work?’
‘I think so. I still have to read lots of things through several times.’
‘Do the letters still float around?’
‘Yes. But your suggestions have definitely helped.’
‘Have you tried wearing the coloured glasses I lent you?’
‘No, Miss. Will it really help?’
‘It helps some people.’
Sarah paused, gauging Selima’s mood and pondering how to find a way into her trust.
‘Don’t get me wrong when I ask this, Selima, but do you get irritated with yourself?’
Selima felt grateful for the understanding these words betrayed.
She nodded vigorously, catching sight of a Chinese lucky cat with a nodding head and up-raised paw in the mirror. It seemed almost to be mocking her.
‘How much attention did the school pay to your dyslexia, before I arrived?’ Sarah asked.
‘I had one special teacher before you. But she didn’t really explain it to me. Not in the way you have.’
Sarah felt gratified she’d had some impact.
‘Look, Selima, dyslexia is much more common than many people realise. It was often missed in the past. As many as one in ten people suffer from one form or another. It can make people feel stupid or slow. But some of the cleverest people who have ever lived, were dyslexic.’
‘Such as…?’
‘Well, Einstein for one. He was fired from his first few teaching jobs for appearing to be stupid. Then he invented the theory of relativity. It just goes to show. Dyslexics often have special talents. They are great musicians or engineers or architects. They can see or hear things most people can’t. They need to experience things though, be hands-on, not just be taught through words.’
This all chimed with Selima. Long ago she had forsaken books for the great outdoors. Books were too hard and so sand dunes and trees had become her words, landscapes her stories. She also loved tinkering with things. One day her mother went ballistic when she’d discovered Selima trying to take the washing machine apart. Her father had just laughed, in fact seemed to be rather proud of her.
‘Can I be cured, Miss?’ Selima asked.
‘You mustn’t think of it as an illness, Selima. Think of it as having a special set of eyes and ears that see and hear things differently.’
‘What if I just want normal eyes, Miss?’
Sarah’s heart broke inside for this vulnerable girl, who, like all other dyslexic young people, simply wanted to blend in. She paused.