I surveyed the contents of the first aid kit while Ryder filled me in.
“They are Kikuyu. Word travels fast in the bush, and to these people white women mean medicine. There’s not an Englishwoman out here who doesn’t dispense castor oil and antiseptic on her front porch.”
“I thought my farm manager had a wife. Why doesn’t Mrs. Gates take care of this?” I asked, scrubbing irritably at the table with a moderately clean rag and a bucket of hot water.
“Gates doesn’t believe in spoiling the workers. He thinks their native remedies are good enough.”
“Clearly not,” I snapped. I took a deep breath. “Very well. What do I need to know about the Kikuyu?”
“They’re farmers, mostly, with some blacksmithing ability. It’s their handiwork you admired on my truck,” he added with a smile. “But they really are quite skilled. They can fashion whatever you need—keys, knives, that sort of thing. The one thing they can’t do is fight. They’re rotten warriors, and that’s why they’re so attached to the white farms. They work the fields for the whites and tend their own shambas—smallholdings,” he added when I gave him a questioning look. “When the British started settling this area, it meant the Kikuyu weren’t getting slaughtered by the Masai and the Somali anymore. They still skirmish, but nothing like what they used to get up to. You’ll be treating mostly accidents and quarrels and stomach upsets and worms, not the effects of tribal warfare, if that’s what you were afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
He was still laughing when I motioned for the nearest woman to come forward. She placed a small child on the table and I looked her over. She was getting enough to eat; her muscles were sleek and her ribs weren’t visible. But her eyes were listless and a loose, dirty bandage drooped from one arm. I didn’t even have to look under it to know what the smell meant.
Gingerly, I peeled away the filthy bandage to find a small suppurating wound. I rummaged through the travel case Dora had fetched but there was nothing besides the usual assortment of tweezers and lint and antiseptics and digestive aids. Certainly nothing like a scalpel. I turned to Ryder.
“Give me your knife.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clasp knife. “How did you know I had a knife?”
I took it from him and pulled it open. “Your kind always does.”
I held the blade in the fire as long as I dared, and when it was red-hot, I gestured for the mother to hold the child fast. I stuck the blade into the wound and the pus ran freely. The child screamed, but the mother was firm, holding her tightly and murmuring words of admonishment as I worked. The tissue was still wholesome, and I worked fast, pressing a little to encourage the pus to drain faster. The thick yellow fluid mingled with blood, and I wiped carefully, peering at the wound. I took tweezers from the case and went back in, emerging a moment later with a long thorn. I held it up to show the mother and she smiled broadly. Her teeth were white and beautiful, although she was missing a few. The child had quieted completely and did not fuss, not even when I pressed the sides of the wound again to make the blood flow freely. I wanted to make certain the gash was clean, and as the blood ran fresh and bright, I held a cloth over the top to staunch it. After it clotted, I applied an antiseptic powder and bandaged it firmly.
I turned to Ryder. “Can you explain to her that the bandage must be kept dry and clean? I want to see the child back tomorrow.”
He stared at me, a hard appraising stare, and after a long moment, he nodded. He gabbled something at the mother and she ducked her head shyly at me. “Asante sana.”
“What did she say?”
“She thanks you.”
“I probably ought to learn a few words of Kikuyu,” I mused.
“She wasn’t speaking Kikuyu, and I guarantee you wouldn’t be able to learn it even if she were,” he returned. “But most of them speak Swahili and the up-country version is easy enough to pick up.”
“Up-country version?”
“It’s a coastal language,” he explained. “The Swahili spoken down near Mombasa is more formal. Everybody who speaks Swahili up-country uses it as a second language and knows just enough to get by. It’s crude, but effective.”
Rather like the man himself, I thought sourly. “Tell me again what she said. Slowly.”
He sounded out the words for me and I repeated them. “What response do I give her?”
“Just tell her karibu.”
I turned to the woman. “Karibu.”
She smiled again and shuffled off with the child who was sending me venomous looks. I didn’t much blame her.
My eyes fell on the bags of flour that Dora had cleared out of the kitchen to throw away. Suddenly it seemed like an obscenity to get rid of anything that might be useful to these people. I summoned Pierre and addressed him in rapid French.
“Sieve that flour to get rid of any weevils and then make flatbreads. That will be quick and filling. And if there’s any fat that isn’t rancid, make certain to work some of that into the dough. They need feeding up. See if there’s any powdered milk for them, too.”
Dora went with him and I turned to Ryder.
“There ought to be vitamin drops in the milk and a teaspoon of castor oil to build them up,” I said to Ryder. “Could I find such things in Nairobi?”
“Yes. And at my duka if you don’t want to wait for a trip to town.”
“Good. Consider this an order. And I suppose I ought to get a milk cow.”
“One of the natives might sell you one or you could try Rex Farraday’s herd.”
“Thank you—” I broke off. Ryder was staring hard at me again, and it was unsettling. “What?”
He shook his head. “People don’t surprise me. You do.”
“You obviously don’t have much experience with Southern women. My great-grandmother held her plantation against the Union navy when it sailed up the Mississippi from New Orleans, shelling every Rebel house along the way. I come from hearty stock.”
He took an appraising look at my slender body and snorted. “Where did you learn to bandage like that?”
“War hospital in London. I worked as a nurse for four years.”
He was silent a moment, then said in a calm, flat voice, “Three years in the Royal Flying Corps, Squadron 26.”
“Yes, well, if you think we’re going to trade war stories and become fast friends, you’re quite mistaken. I don’t need a battle buddy.”
“No, but you do need a guide. You don’t know this country yet. I’ll be back this afternoon to take you into the bush and teach you some more Swahili.”
Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and beckoned his friend, the tall warrior with the spear.
“This is Gideon. He’s a Masai. He will stay with you to finish up.” Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared.
“Like a bloody ghost,” I muttered. I turned to the warrior. “Do you speak English?”
He smiled, a dazzling smile, and I noticed his teeth were missing on the bottom as well.
“Of course, memsahib. I learned at the mission school.”
“I thought the nuns only taught French.”
“The nuns left and the English came. I learned to speak English there and to know the stories of your Bible.” He stepped forward, shifting his weight as gracefully as a dancer. “Ryder has gone. I will help you now. I speak Maa—my own language, your English, Swahili and a few of the other dialects. I am a learned man.”
His slender chest swelled with pride and I smiled at him. “Very well, Gideon. Let’s get started.”
Dora was moving quietly through the group, dispensing cups of powdered milk and pieces of flatbread still steaming from the pan. They ate and drank and waited to be seen.
I summoned the next patient, and fo
r an hour straight I worked, treating blisters and burns and stitching up the occasional slash wound.
“What is that from?” I asked Gideon softly.
“It is a wound from a panga, memsahib.”
“A panga? What is that? Some sort of animal with tusks?”
Gideon threw back his head and laughed. “No. A panga is a knife.” He reached into his toga and pulled out a long, wicked-looking blade that was slightly curved. It reminded me of a machete, and as I stared at it, I realised what he had said.
“You mean someone did this on purpose?” I asked, gesturing to the scalp I was stitching closed.
“Sometimes men must fight one another,” he replied with a shrug.
I thought of the consequences of the fighting I had seen, the rivers of blood, the broken bones, the scarred lungs and shattered minds. “No, they mustn’t, Gideon. They just do.”
8
I finished up with the last patient just as the milk ran out. I went in the house and washed my hands and collapsed onto the bed. Dora found me there a moment later. She was carrying a plate of thin beef sandwiches.
“You ought to eat. But first you need to change your shirt. It’s a disgrace.” I looked down. Misha’s heavy silk was stained with blood and pus and oil and the powdered red ochre the Kikuyu rubbed into their hair. I sniffed at it.
“It’s a peculiar smell, don’t you think? But not completely unpleasant.”
“Don’t romanticise it. It’s foul.” She rummaged in the wardrobe searching for a fresh shirt. She threw it to me and carried the filthy one away between her fingertips.
I rolled away from the plate of sandwiches. My stomach was strong, but not quite strong enough to spend the morning as I had and still want luncheon. I had lost weight during the war, too. Too many operating theatres, too many torn limbs and broken bodies. As a volunteer nurse I shouldn’t have seen any of it. I should have been rolling bandages and reading aloud letters from home and pouring cups of tea. But war doesn’t care about “should haves.” One of the surgeons noticed that I had steadier nerves and better hands than most of the seasoned professionals. After that he’d made a point of requesting me. I think he thought he was doing me a favour. I was sick three times during my first operation—an amputation that took off a young infantryman’s leg and nearly cost him his life in lost blood. But every time I was sick I wiped my mouth and crept back until the surgeon put that whole leg into my hands and told me to get rid of it. It was heavy, that dead thing in my hands, and I could feel the weight of it still if I closed my eyes and put out my arms. I felt the weight of all of them, every young man who slipped under the ether and didn’t come back, every officer who put on a brave face but clutched my hand until the bones nearly broke. I remembered them all. And in the darkest nights, when the gin didn’t bring forgetfulness and the hour didn’t bring sleep, I counted them off like sheep, tumbling dead over fences in a beautiful green field dotted with poppies.
I woke with a start. I had drifted off thinking of the boys who had never come home again and I had dreamed of them. I was disoriented for a moment, and when I heard a man’s voice my heart began to race. It was a full minute before I remembered that Ryder was coming to collect me.
I dried my cheeks and brushed out my hair. For good measure I added a slick of crimson lipstick and tied on a silk scarf. I was feeling a little more like myself by the time I joined Ryder and Dora in the drawing room. It was absurd. Dora was plying him with cups of tea as if she were presiding over the tea table in a vicarage in Bournemouth while Ryder lounged in one of the easy chairs, looking like an overgrown panther. The teacup was ridiculously small in his hands, but he held it gently, and when he spoke to Dora his voice was low and courteous.
“Would you like to come, Miss Dora? Every settler ought to know the country.”
Dora flapped a hand, and seemed to pink up a little under his gaze. “Oh, I hardly think so! I’m not at all outdoorsy, you know, except for gardening. I do enjoy puttering, and it seems as if everything grows so well here. The hibiscus and gladioli are practically rioting, they’re so overgrown and the roses want some very serious pruning. I mean to have a look at what might be done to the patch between the house and the lake, if Delilah doesn’t mind.”
“She doesn’t,” I said from the doorway. I looked to Ryder. “You’re wasting your time. Dodo is too much a lady to go bushwhacking.”
The gallant thing would have been for him to remark that I was too much a lady, too, but of course he didn’t. He merely gave me a slow look and rose to his feet. He was too big in that room. His very presence seemed to suck out all the air. I waved my hand impatiently.
“Let’s get on with it if we’re going.”
He handed the cup to Dora and gave her a courteous nod of the head. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Dora.”
“My pleasure, Ryder. And if I am to call you by your Christian name, I think you must do the same with me. From now on, it’s just Dora.”
She pinked up again and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“As you like, Dora,” he said easily. “I’m sorry you won’t come, but at least promise me you won’t walk around without an escort. You’ve got watercress down by the lake, and elephants love the stuff. It wouldn’t do to surprise one. Make Pierre go with you. He’s useless, but if he sees an elly he’ll shriek and wave his arms enough to give you time to get away.”
He gave her a twinkling smile and she laughed. I strode out without looking backward and nearly ran into Gideon on the veranda. He was standing, one leg folded up, looking like an abandoned toy. “Gideon, why didn’t you get tea?”
Gideon merely shook his head and stepped off the veranda, heading for the path that led away from the house. Ryder fell into step beside me.
“Did I offend him somehow? Did Dora insult him?”
“No, she was very courteous. She offered to send Pierre out with tea, which confused him.”
“Why? Don’t the Masai drink tea?”
“Not in a white man’s house. They aren’t vicars and bank clerks, for God’s sake, taking afternoon tea in the drawing room. They drink milk and cow’s blood and if they find a taste for it, some of them drink liquor.”
“Cow’s blood?” I said faintly.
He started to explain and I held up a hand. “Not today. I’ve seen enough blood for now.”
“That’s Africa, princess. Besides, a Masai warrior would never take nourishment from a white woman’s hand. It’s degrading.”
I opened my mouth to debate the point, but Ryder held up a finger. “Don’t shoot the messenger. It’s their way and it isn’t my place to change it.”
I lapsed into silence, but only for a moment. “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression on Dora. She’s never chatty with strangers. Why are you so nice to her?”
He paused and his pause was heavy. He was feeling for the words. “She’s a nice lady,” he said finally.
“Is she your type?” I teased.
He didn’t smile. His expression didn’t even flicker. “I don’t have a type. Now be quiet. You’ll never learn anything about the bush if you keep flapping your jaws.”
I sulked for the next quarter of an hour. Ryder led the way, and I noticed his walk as he moved through the bush, low-hipped and loose, as if he and the earth belonged to each other. It was the walk of a confident man who knows exactly who he is and doesn’t give a tinker’s damn if anybody else does.
We walked past Kit’s cottage but the place looked empty and I was a little relieved.
“Looks like your boyfriend is out,” Ryder said coolly. His face was in profile, and I noticed his nose. It was strong and straight, a no-nonsense nose. But the nostrils were flaring just a little, and I realised the coolness was just a pose. He had been good and irritated since that morning, and suddenly I knew why.
&nbs
p; I surveyed my fingernails. “He isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Fine. Your lover is out.”
I laughed. “Word travels fast out here.”
“There are two kinds of white people in Africa. Those who work and those who fornicate. Kit’s the latter.”
“Which are you?”
He turned his head and smiled then, a slow smile that might have been an invitation under other circumstances. “Both. I’m the exception.”
“I’m sorry you lost your bet,” I told him. “But let that be a lesson to you, Ryder. I’m no man’s foregone conclusion.”
To my surprise, that didn’t seem to put him off. If anything, the smile deepened, and for the first time I saw the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. His eyes were bright. He was enjoying the game as much as I was. He took half a step towards me, but just then Gideon, who had been walking some yards ahead, halted and raised a hand. He made a series of gestures and Ryder immediately stepped sharply behind me, his back pressed to mine. He cocked his rifle.
“What’s wrong?” I muttered under my breath.
“Fresh lion spoor,” he replied softly.
“And you’re behind me? My hero.”
“Lions tend to hunt in pairs or small groups and when they do, one always circles around behind. Now shut up.” His head swivelled as he scanned the grasses near us. Gideon moved cautiously forward. After a moment Gideon straightened and called out something in rapid Swahili.
“What did he say?”
“All clear. The lions already fed. There’s a zebra carcass just in that thicket. Keep your voice down, though. They’re probably resting not far away.”
A Spear of Summer Grass Page 10