by Fiona Shaw
Meg shook her head.
‘Of course you’ve been in already today. Lost your boy and found him again.’
‘Yes,’ Meg said. And she thought: I can’t open the letter on my own too. I can’t bear to.
Meg had made her garden just out of sight of the house, where the land dipped down to form a small hollow. A cluster of juniper trees and wild fig gave some shade and she’d made flowerbeds and what she thought of as a glade with English flowers: daffodils and jonquils, harebells and tiny violets that flowered suddenly, rapidly, once the long rains came. In one corner there was a small pond and it was dense now with yellow flag irises and water lilies. Sometimes she’d see a frog, submerged to its shoulders, and she’d watch the frog and the frog would watch her back, unblinking, unmoved. In the flowerbeds she had planted roses and lavender, hollyhocks and pansies, not with any great design, but because they were the flowers her mother grew and so they were familiar.
The sun was fierce now. She could feel the press of it through the sleeves of George’s old shirt, through the brim of her hat. Later, once the children were in bed for the night and the air was cooler, she would carry down watering cans. She thought perhaps she’d read her mother’s letter there then, if the lantern gave enough light. But for now there was weeding and deadheading to do, and she would cut some fresh flowers. She bent down and pushed her fingers into the earth. It was so warm and so dry. This piece of garden was hers. It was her own place where she need not pretend to anything. Sometimes she would talk to herself amongst these English flowers. She’d tell herself that she’d been a fool, or that she’d been wise and all would be fine. Sometimes she was very sad and she’d find herself crying, the tears lost in the dark soil.
Jim. This was the only place she’d allow herself to think of him. The only place she’d name him. Jim. Jim. Jim. Again and again, till the name was no more than a sound. She wondered if he were alive; she’d looked for his name in the lists, but she could have missed it. And if he were alive, she wondered whether he was married now. That gave her a stab, like catching her thumb on a rose thorn. She wondered if he had a child; if he had another son. Sometimes when Will laughed, she saw Jim’s grin and Will had a way of remarking, already, that was so like Jim that it shocked her: ‘Phew,’ he’d exclaim, or ‘Wow,’ and it must have been in the gesture he made that she saw Jim standing there, on her cabin floor, and she would turn away.
What if George suddenly remembered the soldier from the lifeboat who watched them, who watched her, when the others had turned away again? What if he remembered her looking back as they left the quayside, the last of all her looking, her longing over those endless days on the endless sea; and the way that the soldier lifted his head to her, eyes steady, then lowered his glance again?
Meg cut white roses for the bowl in the dining room. Her fear was absurd. But she still looked at her son and saw another man’s child. Will had been born full term, a dark-haired scrappy bit of a baby. This surprised the doctor because long fingernails and flaky skin were a sure sign of an overdue baby, but the parents were quite sure about the conception date, and the baby was healthy and the mother was fine, so he didn’t enquire further.
‘The spit of you,’ he only said to her, and lifted his hat.
Then carefully Meg bit down each of her baby’s nails, and gently she rubbed baby lotion into his dry skin. And when George came home later, they looked together at their sleeping baby, and George laid his hand on his forehead like a blessing.
Once she had filled the basket with roses, Meg walked back up to the house. Henry still slept and she was loath to wake him after his fever, though she hoped this didn’t mean he would be awake during the night. In the kitchen the air smelt sweet with Victoria sponge. Will knelt on a chair at the table and stirred a bowl of butter icing with a wooden spoon. Elbow hooked out, head down so he could bring all his small boy strength to bear, he looked like he was stirring with his life.
Standing behind him, Meg made a circle in his fair hair with her finger.
‘Crown fit for a king,’ she said.
Will kept on, intent with his task.
‘Kibaki found a snake inside the house,’ he said after a moment.
‘Did he?’ Meg said. ‘What kind?’
His hair turned clockwise at the crown, twisting like a whirlpool. She followed the thread round with a finger.
‘A python,’ Will said. ‘A young one, only as long as I am.’
He shook his head with an irritated shrug as if an insect were annoying him.
She thought: he’s the age I was then.
‘And we gave him some milk,’ he said.
‘You gave him some milk,’ she said, and she thought: he’s still nearly a baby. I was nearly a baby still.
‘Don’t you want to know the story why?’ Will said. Ducking away from her hand, he turned around and looked up at her. ‘Kibaki told me.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said.
She sat at the table and took the wooden spoon from him and dipped it into the butter icing.
‘Perfect,’ she said.
‘It’s because if a python comes into your house, then it’s a spirit really. So you have to look after it.’
‘A spirit?’ Meg said.
She wondered where Kibaki was, and she decided she would wake Henry up in half an hour’s time.
‘Kibaki said it’s your ancestor’s spirit and you have to be nice to it.’
‘You have to be nice to it?’ If she woke him soon, he’d probably sleep tonight, she thought. He was a good sleeper generally.
Will nodded his head. ‘Yes, so it will talk to God and keep you safe from bad things.’
Meg looked round at Will. ‘Was there really a python in the house?’ she said.
Will nodded his head vigorously. ‘I told you that already. Ask Kibaki,’ he said.
‘And where is it now?’
Will waved his hand, a miniature parody of adult nonchalance. ‘It’s gone out, of course, because it finished up the milk, so you won’t be able to see it.’ He stood up. ‘We can put the icing on the cake for Daddy tomorrow.’
Now Meg was frightened. She shouted for Kibaki, for Sita. Telling Will to stay where he was, she took a broom and ran to the children’s bedroom. Henry slept peacefully. Carefully she checked beneath the cot, beneath the bed, behind the curtains, ruffling the mosquito nets to be absolutely sure. No snake; nothing lurked, and she closed the door securely behind her. Her snake was not sacred. It was a malevolent creature that could make its way silently into her house and threaten her family.
‘Kibaki!’ she shouted again. She would not have him feeding milk to a snake in her house, and she would not have him teaching Kikuyu stories to her son. She had her own stories. A python could swallow a goat or a pig, or a deer or a child. Mrs Pritchard knew someone whose little girl was snatched.
‘Sita!’ she shouted.
Where were they? There was too much danger in this country, too much to be frightened of, and she could feel the panic rise in her, and she knew she must sit down. Pulling out a chair, she sat at the dining room table, laying her arms flat on the dark varnished wood. It felt cool and un-urgent.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Breathe. Nice and deep.’
And as her racing heart slowed, she made herself take stock. She had two healthy children and a good husband. A house and garden she could never have dreamed of. Henry’s fever had broken and Will was not lost. There was the letter, but how bad could the news be? She had made her life here now; it would be sad if someone had died, but not so sad: Mrs Gilmore, or Reverend Rogers. Probably it was a piece of news like that. Probably it was, and she pushed the thought of it away from her because whatever it was, she would wait till George was home. And Yusuf could bring the tea out to the veranda and she could praise Will for making such a beautiful cake. She opened the French windows. She’d call him now, and have Sita wake up Henry.
Walking along the veranda was like being on a ship’s deck an
d she stopped in her tracks. She almost thought she could hear Mrs Richardson’s voice, its higher pitch than hers. ‘Come and join me,’ she’d be saying. ‘Come here.’ But Meg didn’t want to think about the ship, or Mrs Richardson, not when she was on her own; never on her own. She looked out over the plain with all its browns and reds, to the far hills. They looked softer in the afternoon light, more inviting, as if you could take a gentle walk in them, like walking through the English countryside. Perhaps they could go on a safari, her and George. It was what people did. They said they saw sights they’d never forget. Never want to forget. And George could tell her all about things. He’d like that. He knew so much about the country now. She thought: he’d have known what to do about the python.
Perhaps it was Will’s voice that had brought Mrs Richardson to mind; because as she walked round the house, she could hear him clearly, speaking nineteen to the dozen, his voice high and excited. Then she heard Sita, and Yusuf, and finally a fourth voice, a man’s, and this voice was familiar and unexpected. Quickening her step, Meg came round the side of the house, and there he was. He was home a day early, and just hearing him she could steady herself and feel things become plainer and more solid again. The letter from home became simply a letter from home.
He had his back to her and was giving an instruction to Yusuf, while beside him Will hopped from foot to foot with excitement.
‘George!’ she said.
Yusuf gave a short bow and hurried off and George turned.
‘You’re home early,’ she said, and he smiled.
She felt his glance take in her face and her clothes and she was glad that she’d changed out of his old shirt and put up her hair again. These things mattered to him.
His clothes were coloured pink with red dust and his skin was grimy, the pale hair on his arms and legs and at his neck matted into webs. His eyes were red-rimmed, though whether from the dust or lack of sleep, she didn’t yet know. Bending towards her, he kissed her on the cheek and she smelt sweat and an oily, rancid smell she knew from the town, and which he always had when he came home from these trips.
‘What’s for tea then?’ he said, which was his way of saying how glad he was to be home.
‘Will?’ she said. ‘Tell your father what is for tea. Lucky it was done a day early.’
‘I made a cake, Daddy,’ Will said.
‘What, all by yourself?’
‘With Kibaki’s help,’ Meg said, reminded already of how exacting, how ungenerous George could be with Will.
‘And where’s the little fellow?’ George said.
‘He’s sleeping,’ Meg said.
‘He’s usually awake at this time.’
Will tapped at his father’s elbow.
‘So you can have some, because you’re back beforehand,’ he said.
George looked down at Will as if only just noticing him.
‘One says early, not beforehand,’ George said. ‘I’ll go and wash up before tea.’
And he picked up his valise and went inside.
Meg could feel Will’s disappointment.
‘Did you see how dusty your father was?’ she said. ‘He’ll feel better when he’s changed into fresh clothes and had a wash.’
Meg busied herself and ten minutes later the tea was laid on the veranda and Henry sat on Sita’s lap, dopey-eyed but properly dressed, drinking a bottle of milk. Will’s hair had been combed and Meg had tidied herself. When George came out in fresh-pressed shirt and shorts, his shoes polished to a high shine, she nudged Will and he approached his father with his hand out.
‘Welcome back, Father,’ he said. ‘We are very pleased to see you.’
George gave a short smile and he took Will’s hand.
‘I hope you’ve been a good boy,’ he said. ‘Obedient to your mother.’
There was a pause, like a breath held, and then Will nodded vigorously. George studied him.
‘Shall we ask her?’ he said, and he turned Will round to face her, manoeuvring the little boy by his shoulders like a wind-up toy.
Meg looked at her son. There was panic in his face and his blue eyes looked wide, unseeing.
‘Go on,’ George said, giving Will a tap. ‘Ask her: “Have I been a good boy?” I’ll expect her to give a truthful reply.’
‘Have I been a good boy?’ Will’s voice was a monotone, and he looked straight ahead so that he seemed to be directing his question at Meg’s waistband. She saw him bite his lip and shut his eyes. She looked over at George, waiting for her to answer.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You have, actually. You’ve been a fine little man, while your father has been away.’
‘Good,’ George said, sitting down, matter-of-fact, inquisition over. ‘Glad to hear it. So now let’s have some tea. And what about the little fellow?’
George was full of questions about his younger son. How had he been eating? Any teeth coming through? Was she sure this fever was just a passing malady? Let him have a hold; Sita would trust him not to drop his own son? This last a joke he made each time he took the baby. And maybe it was simply because Henry was still so small; or it was because George had been away for a while, but Meg didn’t think so. Because he had never held Will in this way, or gazed at him like this. He had always been correct with Will, but with Henry he was tender.
Perhaps when Henry too became a little boy, then George would become firm and distant with him. It might be something he thought it necessary for a boy to learn from his father, if he was to advance in the world. Or perhaps, she thought, she just didn’t know how fathers should be. Her father had disappeared so early that she had only a few memories of him: shaving in the morning; standing at the stove with hot bricks; and sometimes it was just a smell, like a flick in the air, on a busy street and she didn’t know what it was she remembered, but always then she thought of him: a big, dark-haired figure who stood strong as a rock in front of her, and was gone.
Husband and wife sat on as the sun dropped low.
‘See how close the hills appear?’ George said. ‘As if you could just step into them, like stepping into the next room. The rains must be very close, thank God.’
‘The wind is up, too,’ she said. ‘Always a sign.’
Yusuf had cleared the tea things and Will had been released from the table. Sita was seeing to his boiled egg supper in the kitchen and preparing some ground rice for the baby.
The cicadas struck up and the first bats came out to dance.
‘How was the trip?’ Meg said.
‘Fine. All fine.’
George didn’t like being pressed about his work, but she felt it was polite to ask.
‘You?’ he said. ‘Any news?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘A letter from my mother last week with the usual. And Kibaki’s daughter continues to be ill, and Yusuf said his brother is doing well in his cattle trading. I had lunch with Joyce Bromley today and she said that John is looking forward to your business venture.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m going to nip down now and have a quick word with him. There’s time, before dinner?’
Meg nodded, and said no more about her day. She didn’t mention that Kibaki had fed a python with milk in the house that afternoon, nor did she mention Will’s disappearance, or his game in the trees with the totos; nor did she mention the second letter from her mother, still unopened in her bag.
Dear Meg,
It is the evening at last and soon I will go to bed. Dr Fanshaw has given me some pills but I don’t think I will sleep. I am sorry for this news and it is difficult to write down, but until I have done so and put the letter in the post, I will have no chance of rest.
Yesterday I was visited by a policeman. Not Sergeant Millar, who you may remember, but another from the town. He held his helmet in his hands so I knew he came with news.
A body was found in the woods near Merestead. They were dragging the lake to make it deeper for fishing, and they brought up the skeleton of a boy. I don’t know how they knew it
might be Will after all this time, but they did. It was the right size for him. There was a St Christopher medal around its neck. I knew it was him when I saw the medal. I put it there the morning he went.
They have dragged the lake in case of another, but there isn’t one. God only knows about your father.
Everybody has been very kind. Mrs Rogers has sat in with me. She says she will help with the funeral. It will be next week after they have finished with him.
It is terrible to know this for sure though I have feared it for many years. But it is a comfort to be here, so close, and to have the support around me of people who knew him too. I am sorry you are so very far away and that you cannot bury him with me. I will be glad to have him laid in the earth to rest at last.
It will perhaps be even harder for you in that strange country amongst people who never knew him. Your own sons must be your comfort, and George, of course.
Soon I will go to the place, to see where my boy has been all these years. Perhaps you will think this funny, but I’ve been expecting that knock on the door for so long and now it has come I feel relieved.
Meg folded the letter up.
‘Breathe,’ she said. ‘Nice and deep.’
In a few minutes, when she could, she would stand up. Then she would leave the bag and the letter in her bedroom, shut the door firmly and go to the kitchen. With George home, she’d make an omelette for supper, in place of the boiled egg. George would drink a beer. Afterwards, she expected, he would read one of his farming books and smoke a pipe and she would go and water her garden.
He’d been lying there all those years in the cold and the dark. While she’d been growing bigger, growing up, he’d been getting smaller and smaller, shrinking to nothing more than bones, a small boy’s bones, and the St Christopher medal around his neck to bring him safe home. The day had stopped dead for him, and for her it had never ended.
And what about her father? Strong as a rock, she remembered him. There, then gone. What had happened to him that day?
She felt a pause in her body; or was it in the room? Then rage. It didn’t come from nowhere; it wasn’t new, but she’d never turned towards it before. It was like facing into a wind so strong that it forces the breath from your mouth and the tears from your eyes.