Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  Moving off brought a double relief for Lucy. Up on the ridge they caught some of the cool breeze moving in from the lake. And she was free from the uncomfortable presence of that house girl.

  ‘Tom, this is more beautiful than you told me … But why do you think that woman hates me so much? She’s never set eyes on me.’

  ‘It’s not really all that deep, even out in the middle. But it’s fresh water, the lifeblood of all the farms around here. We look after it. They say it dried up completely about a hundred years ago. When I was a kid, I was always asking what happened to the hippos. They need a lot of mud to wallow about in. I never found out. Now, if you go back to the last ice age …’

  ‘Have you shagged her?’

  Tom, still staring out over the waters of the lake, stroked his nose. Lucy wondered if he was sizing up the most convincing lie to shut her up. At last, he fixed her with an infuriating, amused grin.

  ‘No,’ delivered very flat. He shifted ‘round to meet her agitated glare full on.

  ‘More fool you, then. That girl would give you anything.’

  ‘Look over there.’ He pointed to a dark smudge on the far horizon. ‘Tomorrow we’ll take a ride right ‘round. There’s a road, a bit grim in parts. Four wheel drive or a motorbike. That’s Suswa Farm. We could have lunch.’

  She could not work up an enthusiasm for anything while this block lay between them. ‘Will we see any wild animals?’

  ‘The local word is game, Luce. And we’ve got plenty of it right here.’

  ‘I know! I’ve just seen her! I thought she was going to strip off!’

  ‘You don’t understand how an African woman thinks. They can be a bit, well, direct, raw for London tastes.’

  ‘I thought African men liked a bit of flesh on their women.’

  ‘But I’m not a proper African.’

  ‘You mean you’ve never lain under the stars and gasped out your pleasure?’

  ‘Are you writing a romantic novel or something, Luce?’ Tom wanted to put an end to the mounting tension and start again. ‘And, Luce, you’re the only one I’ve gasped my pleasure out with and if you remember it was a bit cold for being under the stars.’

  ‘I suppose it would be a black kid.’

  At last she struck a spark.

  ‘The only way I’d get to lie with Rebecca — as she would put it; her father’s a preacher — would be in a double bed on the night of our marriage. She’s a virgin!’

  ‘Lucky woman. Most of us …’

  ‘No luck involved!’

  ‘Okay, I admit it. All this negative crap pouring out of me, I hate it, too. I’m amazed I’ve let this bitch get to me. Perhaps it’s all the excitement. Perhaps I’m just knackered. You know she’s crazy about you. And I guess I’m the supposed threat.’

  ‘What a gorgeous threat!’

  ‘Stop bollocking around, Tom. You’re right, I’m not used to people being so direct. I can tell you I felt threatened back there. Those eyes. I’ve never seen such passion. Like she was ready to slice me up or whatever people like that do these days.’

  ‘Rebecca?’ Tom was incredulous.

  ‘Serious, Tom.’

  ‘Okay, I’m a witchdoctor. You’ve got a bad case of Naivasha nerves. I have the cure. If Madam will just follow me to my office.’

  ‘Witchdoctors have offices?’

  ‘This one does.’

  Tom led her down the other side of the bank until they were well below the level of the ridge.

  She gasped under the press of his mouth on hers. Eyes shut and tongues writhing, they tumbled to earth where the grass was thin and spiky under a pepper tree. They rolled and shifted on the stony ground. They broke off into a burst of hysterical laughter and words spoken mouth to mouth through saliva and hot breath.

  ‘Enchanting bottom. I’d almost forgotten.’

  Lucy expected his hands to move from kneading her buttocks to loosening her slacks. Instead, Tom rolled onto his elbow and gazed down into her puzzled face. She was disappointed.

  ‘Just when I was thinking there’s never a boring moment in Africa — anticlimax. Ah, well!’ She shrugged but made no effort to move.

  Tom poked the air with his index finger. ‘Listen. Rule number two in the handy guide to Kenya traditions says whenever you find yourself in the great outdoors — and often indoors — remember that somewhere not far away a pair of dark eyes will be spying on you.’

  ‘And what’s rule number one?’

  He rose to his feet quickly and pulled her up with a single heave. He pointed to the grass just a few feet from where they had been lying. A thick column of red and black was on the march. It trailed as far as they could see in both directions, relentless and menacing.

  ‘Saifu. Safari ants! Rulers of the earth. If they get hold of you, they’ll chomp you to bits. Look at them, all spindly legs, razor teeth and mean tempers!’

  ‘Charming! I don’t think I’ll bother to unpack. If the tigress in the house doesn’t get me, this lot will have me for Christmas dinner!’

  ‘No tigresses in Africa.’ Tom smiled.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody pedantic, Thomas McCall! And are you sure you haven’t shagged her?’

  Chapter Three

  hen there was the business of the red dress. Rebecca had bought it in a Thursday market in town. It was the most expensive garment she owned. She had taken weeks to find it. Every Thursday she was over there early, hunting through the racks of a dozen dukas before she found the perfection she wanted — right size, right style and, above all, right colour, deep venous red.

  There had been a new delivery from the Bonanno go-down in Mombassa. Stella told her that one rack was full of designer dresses and suits, special stuff from Europe with special prices.

  ‘Tourist stuff, Rebecca. Rich woman prices. I’m taking big risk … The red one? Well, I’ve always thought it. You’ve got the eye, girl, but you won’t have the cash. Five hundred. No haggling!’

  The crowd of young teenage girls hanging about around the stalls giggled as they watched Rebecca pressing the dress against her this way and that, trying to get a decent view in Stella’s hand mirror. They gasped when the girl from the lake farm counted out five one-hundred shilling notes — no haggling.

  One of the girls stage-whispered to nobody in particular, ‘I know where that one gets her money. I’ve got cousins living out there.’

  Stella, afraid of losing a good deal at the last moment, shooed them off with a broom.

  Rebecca refused to show her prize to anyone, even Rafaella. ‘I’ll put it on for a special occasion. You’ll be the first to see it.’

  Maura tinkled her silver bell. The guests were ready for the first course. There were eleven for lunch. Five were Maura’s friends travelling to their up-country homes. They were in high spirits and full of chat after five days in London and looking forward to getting back to their queendoms after a hectic week in frosty, midwinter England.

  Being a hostess was Maura McCall’s favourite role. Down the years she had made her dining room one of the cosiest and most inviting rooms in the upper Rift Valley. One end opened out on to a veranda. From here steps led down into a lawned garden. From the table guests had a view to the lake along an avenue of jacarandas. People ate well and tended to feel good about themselves as they drove away along the murram back out onto the South Lake Road.

  It was customary that when there were more than ten guests Rebecca would join her mother to serve at table. Their task was to be efficient and unobtrusive. On this occasion Angela had been unable to prevent what happened and afraid to warn the memsahib.

  Rebecca strode in carrying the tureen of Spanish avocado soup. The clack of the high heels on the polished wooden floor of the passageway was a surprise, but it was the sleeveless, red dress with the low neckline that halted the conversation. Every eye followed the serving girl’s progress towards Signora Rafaella.

  Maura was furious but instinctively knew what the least damaging reaction should be.
A scene would be embarrassing and useless. Even a quiet reprimand would ruffle the atmosphere of bonhomie too much for her tastes. No, Rebecca would serve the soup and leave. After a discreet interval, she would be followed by a mistress who just had to check on something in the kitchen. There would be no second appearance of the red dress or its wearer. If necessary, questions would come later.

  But, for now, Maura smiled charmingly and organised topics of conversation. She quite enjoyed domestic problems from time to time as long as they did not get out of control.

  ‘Love the floorshow, Maura. Should do it more often.’

  Maura shrugged girlishly at Bwana Bertie Briggs. Even in her state of mild shock she grudgingly admitted to herself that the red dress was perfect for that magnificent body.

  Rafaella accepted her usual single ladleful. Rebecca and the red dress were an unexpected bonus at this heavy time of year. She enjoyed the way the up-country girls raised their eyebrows in unison. Those half-suppressed smiles betrayed them. They were relishing the prospect of watching Maura in action again. Meanwhile there was the girl to look at, that stunning figure, the poise in the beautiful head and neck. They could not decide whether they wanted to cheer or to scratch out the brazen hussy’s eyes.

  Rafaella whispered her own bravo. Rebecca struggled to retain her fixed smile. She had sung solos in front of thousands of strangers in the bomas, but she had never felt as exposed as she did here, holding tight to this piece of crockery in front of a dozen people who were all familiar to her.

  Rafaella spooned her ladleful and touched the girl’s wrist with an encouraging pat. ‘Worth waiting for, my dear. But, please, not so serious!’

  Rebecca was already moving on with her tureen, ladle and white cloth. Up-country women are never fazed for long and as the maid moved between them their conversations soon stuttered back to life. But their focus did not shift completely from the girl in the red dress.

  At last, Rebecca was standing at Lucy’s shoulder. Mary from Gilgil and Sheila from Baringo, two of Maura’s dearest friends, immediately picked up vibrations of conflict, fear and resentment centred on the two young women. They exchanged glances and fixed their concentration on the scene being acted out across the table from them.

  Strong negative emotions had both girls in a tight grasp. With a great effort Rebecca held out the tureen. The custom was for guests to serve themselves, but a mix of self-pity and anger was sucking out Lucy’s energy. She hardly dared grasp the ladle for fear of trembling. Rafaella tried to ease the tension.

  ‘Lucy, we could go over to Naivasha market. You’ll love it. Such …’

  Lucy smiled, but she was only half aware of what Rafaella was proposing. Everyone heard the crash of the tureen. From their end chairs Alex and Maura had the first sight of the glutinous mess slithering down the lower half of the red dress. An accident. Of course it was. Lucy had turned to serve herself, but the girl was holding the dish too close to her shoulder. One sharp movement and down it tumbled, spilling its chilled contents on Rebecca as it went.

  Rebecca, released from her trance of self-doubt, reached down to pick up the ladle and the two largest of the broken pieces. She looked up at Maura. ‘So sorry, Madam.’

  She slipped off her shoes and was gone, followed quickly by her mother. Seconds later the two servants returned, Angela holding tight to a matching but smaller tureen, Rebecca with a mop, bucket and cloth.

  As a new place setting was being prepared for her, Lucy stood back from her chair and looked down at the black girl removing all traces of the accident. She was troubled that there had been no accident. She had wanted to get back at the shameless bitch who was trying her best to spoil her holiday. And still the moral high ground was with this servant girl who was on her knees, working swiftly and expertly and making a chore look like an act of creation.

  The breaking of the tureen had marked more than the ruin of a family dinner service. It signalled the end of Tom’s easy days. He, too, was watching Rebecca at work on the floor, the bare feet, the ruined dress, the intense concentration. This was his wife to be and, standing aloof from her, was the girl he had allowed to invite herself to Londiani, his delightful friend, the only woman he had slept with. The mess on the floor was rapidly disappearing. It was going to cost him a lot to clear up the mess that was rapidly revealing itself in his own life.

  He had always been able to make comfortable choices, set down his own rules for the games he played. Perhaps he could drift for a while longer, but soon he would have to have the balls to come out into the open. She was already out there fighting.

  He looked around the table. Except for Lucy, everyone there had known him all his life. He had fallen in love with a black girl. A black girl had fallen in love with him. Some would have seen that as unfortunate, others as disastrous, yet others as dangerous, yes, but there were ways of getting out of this … mess. Time would help. Money, well, that might be useful, too. Marriage. That was the word that would start the bombs going off.

  ‘Different kettle of fish, Thomas. Just stay away from it!’

  ‘But, Bertie …’

  In ten minutes he would have been given a dozen reasons, with case histories, why it was such a risky business. Down the years he had heard them all, mostly in conversations that had taken place in that very room. His mother would have felt most but probably said least. She had strong suspicions and the arrival of Lucy would have given a boost to her hopes that the situation could be saved and all the … inconvenience avoided.

  Tom had never before felt such self-disgust.

  And poor Lucy, to be thrown unsuspecting into this pile of manure on her first day. On her flight out just eight hours before, it had been visions of blue skies and vast plains. Now she was staring down at this beautiful creature, trying hard to hate her but unable to stem great gushes of sympathy.

  The floor gleamed damp where Rebecca had been working. She was on her feet, ready to leave the room. Lucy seized her chance.

  ‘Rebecca, please, I’m sorry I was so clumsy. I’ve ruined your dress. I promise I’ll buy you another. When I go to Nairobi …’

  ‘Madam, you are forgetting. I am a wash girl. This will clean up.’

  By three the red dress was drying in the afternoon breeze. By five it was hanging in the cupboard of Rebecca’s room.

  By seven the McCalls of Londiani were busy in four different locations. The twins, Eddie and Rollo, were setting out for Heathrow from their uncle’s house in Reigate on the second lap of their journey home from Oundle School. Alex and Maura were in the old warhorse 504 turning right along South Lake Road on their way to supper with the Buckles. Tom was parking the Land Cruiser at the Naivasha Club. He and Lucy were invited to join a gathering of Kenya cowboys and their women. It was a twenty-first birthday bash. Look out for noise, high jinks and a dawn finish for those with stamina and the capacity to swill down twenty to thirty bottles of Tusker or White-cap.

  Rafaella was sitting in front of a log fire in the lower sitting room. She was in a state of high emotion. Lucy had brought out a present of six Humphrey Bogart videos. Three of them were great favourites, Key Largo, The Maltese Falcon and To Have and Have Not. She had not seen them since her cinema days.

  The tears were flowing freely. She was remembering her early days with Don at Londiani. They would take tea at four then drive down to Nairobi in the red MG. They’d watch a film at the Twentieth Century, have dinner at the New Stanley and afterwards enjoy the leisurely drive home along empty roads. She closed her eyes and relived memories, the huge crusty banks of starlight, the dark silhouettes of the ancient hills, the looming shapes of forest, the rush of cool air on her face and the thrill of the first sight of the bright grey lake as they twisted their way down the Escarpment. The Kenya of those days was a paradise for the settlers.

  She indulged herself freely and watched her three favourites back to back. She was happy to allow the bittersweet emotions to wash over her. Half a bottle of Gilbeys and a box of Belgian c
hocolates, a present from Lucy’s parents, helped her survive the dangerous journey into the past.

  She went to bed in a state of bliss. For the first time since she had lost him her thoughts of Don were full of hope. She half hoped to be joining him at some time during the night.

  There was another fire blazing on the Londiani estate that evening. In the centre of the open ground between the eight rondavels two off-duty askaris were squatting before it, enjoying the lick and hiss of the flames. They exchanged amused grins to see Rebecca hurrying, almost racing back from Big House. As she disappeared through her front door, the very last rim of the sun dipped behind the long, dusty green of the distant Eburu. How could they know that she had just watched Bwana Tom drive off with that English girl? Off for a night out and happy to be going.

  ‘Ohhh, that girl’s been looking mighty serious today,’ grunted the gravel voice of Luka.

  ‘Mighty sour. All her big ideas about Bwana Tom up in smoke. Poof! Did you see the new girl?’ There was a note of satisfaction in Erik’s voice.

  ‘Sure, sure. Got a nice Kikuyu bum. Perhaps she’ll let me show her good time. She could tell her folks about a real adventure in Africa!’ his brother guffawed.

  ‘Luka, why you not get married? You’re such a horny person. Never stop talking about your dick!’

  ‘Do you think that ‘Becca’d have me now? Bwana Tom got himself a new hole to hide in.’

  ‘Too educated …’

  ‘A wash girl?’

  ‘Wash girl!’ Erik mocked. ‘Five years in that fancy school, sings like a night bird, looks like a film star … Luka, what a hope! Besides, you know who’s coming tomorrow … afternoon? We’ll see them out in the garden socialising.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Abel Rubai.’

  ‘That crook!’

  ‘That very rich crook. He’s after more land. You know that. ‘Spect he’ll have his boy with him, Julius. Daddy wants the land, the kid wants the girl.’