Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  ‘How, Thomas? What could I tell you? You would have told me that I was being a silly little girl. What do we have between us?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you. You are my life. But we cannot tell anyone. We’re afraid. What hope is there?’

  ‘God almighty. I’ve brought all this on you!’

  ‘No, that’s not true.’

  ‘You seem so calm.’

  ‘I am not calm. Inside … my mind will not be still. A thing has happened. I cannot change it. I came to do the washing. It helps. I thought I would be alone.’

  Tom was impatient. He hoped for the tiniest sign that healing was possible. There was a long silence and a stillness, too, when they looked away from each other. Rebecca was turned away when she spoke again.

  ‘I feel the hands on me and I shudder. See the eyes full of anger, smell the drink on him. I speak these things. I want to vomit them out of me.’

  Out of the mess of emotion that held him in thrall, one clean, clear fear was rising. He had not anticipated it. He could lose her.

  ‘Rebecca, we’re going to come through this. You know that, don’t you?’

  Her solemn gaze was fixed on the hot, foamy water. Her eyes were weary and resigned.

  ‘Thomas, perhaps this is not meant to be. Perhaps God is speaking to us.’

  For the first time in his life, Tom McCall experienced terror, a few seconds of terror. At one and the same time he was possessed by numbness and a hot, rushing confusion of thoughts, a realisation that this time it was out of his power to return to a satisfactory status quo. His own weakness and fear had killed his chance of happiness.

  ‘Rebecca, I’m going. Perhaps I haven’t given you enough time. I love you more at this moment … I promise I’ll keep out of the way until you are ready, however long it takes. I’m learning to understand. Be patient with me.’

  He forced himself to move away. The distant sound of the Cruiser’s engine reminded him of his father and the world of work.

  ‘Thomas!’ He swivelled. ‘Is it possible?’

  He stood transfixed, five, ten, fifteen seconds. At the end of those silent moments he nodded his head, half a dozen times. He managed a croaked farewell. ‘Darling, it’s going to happen. I think God wants it.’

  Chapter Six

  t was evening and the fields all over Londiani were quiet. The last truck had set out for the airport and the night flight to Amsterdam. It had been a busy time around the lake — fresh vegetables and perfect flowers for the Christmas tables of Europe.

  Tom tapped on the open door of Stephen Kamau’s office. Embarrassed by such deference, Stephen ushered his guest towards the single armchair in the room. He called it his meditation seat.

  There was a chilled Tusker on the table for the boss’s son and a soda for himself. Stephen felt all sorts of awkwardness about this meeting. It was easy to guess the kinds of things Mr Tom wanted to talk about. He himself had strong opinions but did not want to offend the young bwana.

  Tom had been a year old when he and Angela first arrived in Londiani. He had enjoyed working for Mr Don and was even more fulfilled by the extra responsibility that Mr Alex gave him. One day he expected to be playing the role of elder statesman to the muscular young man occupying his blue chair on that late afternoon. This boy with his mother’s bright eyes and his father’s fair hair had always been a good friend.

  The two men faced each other in the half-light.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh, busybodying as usual, just like her Mama.’

  Stephen was a very big man, tall, not obviously muscular but immensely strong. His voice was deeply resonant, and when he spoke the sound was mellow, as if it would be as easy for him to sing as to talk.

  ‘I think she is scared for me. You know how it happens in this country. I’m riding up to town on my bicycle. Some strong fellows bundle me into a van. Next thing they find me in tiny pieces on Eburu. Unless the jackals get to me first.’

  ‘Are you afraid this could happen?’

  ‘Shame’s a pretty big problem with some people. A Kelenjin boy humiliated by a Coastie like me. They won’t forget. Sure hope I don’t ever have to ask Mr Rubai for a job.’

  Stephen’s chuckle was calm and melodious.

  ‘I want to marry her, Stephen.’

  Stephen winced. ‘Well, I must say I wasn’t expecting to get so far down so soon.’

  ‘I’ve held back too long. But what do you say?’

  ‘It would be a mistake. I really think it would. And you know the reasons.’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t.’

  ‘Mostly it’s just people.’ Stephen sighed. ‘On both sides. They can’t help it. Fear, that’s the bottom of it.’

  ‘Forget about others. What do you think?’

  ‘You’ve got to live in the world. Perhaps if you had a shamba up in the north, in the desert.’ He chuckled again. ‘It would probably be tough up there, too. The Pokot and the Turkana would give you a hard time.’

  ‘And you’re sending her down to Malindi. She’ll be safe from me down there.’

  ‘No, I’m not sending her. The Father gave us free will. And I would not stop her marrying whoever she chooses.’

  ‘As long as he’s black.’

  ‘No, sir, as long as she wants him and can be happy with him.’

  Time for a long pull on their drinks.

  ‘Rebecca needs time away from the village. This has hit us all hard. Gives me some very ungodly thoughts. She will go after Christmas.’

  ‘Boxing Day. We’ve got two cars going down. My father will be taking the plane. You know how he is about the farm. Rebecca could come with us. Don’t worry, she could travel in the other car. Drop her off in Malindi. We’ll be miles away down in Diani.’

  Stephen hesitated.

  ‘Angela’s coming, as usual.’

  ‘All my women leaving me. Mr and Mrs Shah are coming up for Jane and Martha for a few days in Langata. Twenty years and they still love Angela like a daughter.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be sorry for me. I’m planning to take a few of the village boys on a long bike ride, down Longonot way, perhaps to the edge of the Mara. Four or five days. We’ve got people who will give us food and water, a place to sleep.’

  Seventy-two hours after Julius Rubai had entered Rebecca’s bedroom, Stephen and Tom were learning to contain the shock of it, the sense of angry outrage. Already the emotions were being stored away in compartments. The two men were able to smile, to shake hands, to feel pleasantly weary at the end of a hard day’s work.

  For Rebecca, back home and alone in that bedroom, those minutes with Julius had lost none of their horror. The feel of the sweaty hands on her body, the weight of the damp flesh pressing down, every frantic grasp and thrust, they were all there. Wherever a line of thought began, it always led her back to the scene. She was looking down on the girl who was her startled self, drowning under the fury of a man made savage by the intoxicating thrill of lust. But, even now, there were short moments of relief, as brief as a scattering of raindrops on a dusty plain.

  Stephen returned to a subdued village and a quiet household. After supper he was surprised when Rebecca insisted that he tell a story to the families.

  ‘And I will sing with you. Jane will play her pipe.’

  ‘But, Rebecca, I only know one tune!’

  ‘I know, Jane. “Dream Time”, that’s what I want to sing.’

  There was a big audience for the Kamaus that night, most of them curious to see Rebecca, to study her. Stephen felt drawn to tell the story of The Drunk, the Angel and the Pastor. It was a tale from the coast and it involved him moving about and changing roles constantly. His performance was inspired, driven by manic energy. There were continuous rolls of laughter, especially for the jokes of the drunk who had the best lines.

  In the aftermath, the chattering and the noises of eating and drinking were stilled when Rebecca rose to sing.. Her p
eople were overwhelmed by the controlled outpouring of anguish in the song. Some of the filth and shame which clogged her heart was loosened, if only briefly.

  All the Kamau family slept more peacefully that night. Angela prayed her thanks that the exorcism had begun.

  Tom returned to a bubbling Londiani. The twins were excited and showed it with their noise. They were home, there was to be a party and they had just heard that the following morning Tom was flying Lucy and them up to Nyambani Farm.

  They set off in the first glimmerings of the pre-dawn. Once out over the lake, Tom swung the Cessna towards the north-east and into the lightening sky. They were above the Kingankop when the dark slate-blue sky began to unpeel dramatically. A jagged, vivid lining of red wavelets of cloud soon shifted into pastel shades and relentlessly the light came on until full morning surrounded them.

  It was a bumpy landing on an earth strip, a narrow cut of brown between fields thick with green rows of runner beans. Vince Allan, general manager of Meru Farms, was waiting to drive them back down to his rambling ranch house.

  Vince was a great friend of the McCall family. He, his farms and his home were under regular inspection by the demanding reps of Tesco and Marks and Spencer who were keen to visit this paradise in the highlands, ostensibly to check on products. He was a PR man’s dream, quietly spoken, efficient, and immaculately turned out.

  There was a party of about twenty for breakfast, most of them looking forward to a long day out on the farm and in a nearby game park followed by an evening barbecue.

  Tom was not going to be one of this number. Shortly before eight, after a chat with Lucy and the twins, he set off alone in a Land Rover. He drove to the Noro Meru gate of the Mount Kenya national park. He had set himself a task.

  The last time he had passed through this gate he was at Pembroke and on the annual half term expedition to the mountain. That had been a leisurely three day job. This was going to be a race against himself. Every minute would count.

  Before nine he pulled on his rucksack and set off. He hoped that the route would not be too wet. The rains tended to linger on these foothills of the big mountain. He set and kept up a furious pace through the scented dampness of the conifers.

  He took his first rest just above the Met Station at ten thousand feet. He draped his wet shirt on a branch that caught the warm breeze while he munched biscuits, an apple and chocolate. He mused on the short bout of light-headedness he had suffered on the last steep kilometre. Altitude sickness was a worry. He decided he must push on hard. The stretch to Makinder’s and on to Minto’s Hut was where the sickness would hit if he pushed too hard. The idea was to drive himself close to exhaustion without freaking out on the side of the trail.

  In an hour he was galumphing up across the dreaded Vertical Bog. The clinging earth forced him to take high steps. He made himself promises of rewards for making it to little landmarks. He had visions of cool streams and the long downward slopes on the homeward run.

  The ache in his muscles and his bones was kept at bay as long as he could keep his sweat and mud stained body on the move. And what was a bit of nausea? So, what about that silly bugger of a buffalo, on his own, a maverick, seemingly waiting for him as he pulled himself out of the last of the bog? Nah, no danger this time. Tom stood his ground on the tussocky grass ten metres from his new, potentially lethal companion. He crouched, head forward, and fixed a concentrated stare towards those two enigmatic eyes set in that magnificent head crowned with the huge menacing bar of rugged horn. Stupid. He bent suddenly as if to pick up a stone. This trick usually worked on kali dogs. Buffalo lifted his front legs and set them down inches further forward. A high-pitched scream and a demented wave of both arms and the beast took half a dozen steps backwards, turned away and moved off.

  Afternoon was well on. The clouds on the summit parted. Normally he would have stopped for a long look at this revelation of beauty. He did not break his stride but as he moved on upward kept his eyes fixed on this sight that he saw as a blessing from the god of the mountain and drew in half a dozen deep breaths. He steadied himself to cope with some moments of hyperventilation and set off, a little unsteadily, on a jog between banks of heather. He was determined not to stop before he reached Minto’s or collapsed with exhaustion. Darkness had just fallen when he fell into his sleeping-bag fully clothed.

  Three-thirty am and he was on the last lap. The stiffness in his body eased as he picked his way carefully along a well-defined path by the light of his torch. Without climbing gear and a lot of skill the top peaks were out of reach but dawn on the easy summit was as thrilling as it had been twelve years before. He was surprised to feel relaxed and at peace with himself. The anger and self-pity were gone for a time at least.

  The glory of the new day came when he looked south-east. Kilimanjaro, three hundred kilometres away, was in full light and the morning was racing across the landscape below, the pure brightness of a new beginning. Purity. Rebecca. A new, deeper realisation of her courage. His own shame and guilt were intact. He wasn’t good enough for her. This had become clear to him on his journey upwards. Physical guts, he had some of that. It was the cheap, easy fear and apathy that had brought him down. Perhaps even Julius Rubai had done her less harm. At least he had been honest in his own way.

  The mountainside was still in semi-darkness as he plunged down the shifting waves of scree. He didn’t give a damn any more. Those long, sliding strides took him down helter-skelter, fast. That was all he cared about. To hell with views, to hell with mountain sickness. So there were tumbles, cuts, bruises. The surge of adrenalin drove him on.

  None of the wardens at the gate believed that he had been to the top. This young, muscular white man was very strong, perhaps very fast. Yes, he was filthy with muck, slime, sweat and blood. His matted hair, his red-rimmed eyes, they told them something, but, no, up and down in thirty hours; that was impossible.

  Vince was shocked by the sight of him. He called Sophie to run a bath while he helped Tom onto the veranda.

  ‘You went to the top, didn’t you? Bloody idiot! You could have done for yourself. And I gave you the Land Rover. Come on, let’s get these boots off.’

  A warm bath and three hours of loafing about later and Tom was very relaxed in mind even if his body was stiff and aching. He was anxious to be back at Londiani that night. He set himself a six o’clock deadline for them to be airborne. Leaving later and he would have to land in full darkness.

  Vince radioed ahead and returned to the garden in time to watch the white aircraft in a beam of sunshine dip its farewell directly above the house.

  ‘Soph, you remember, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I was there.’

  ‘Two years to the night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Don dipped in the exact same spot. I should have tied him down. Rafaella will never forgive me.’

  The evening on the lake was still. Rafaella sat in the lower sitting room, waiting. At the first sound of the engine, her body tensed and her prayers quickened. She closed her eyes until the drone stopped. The sound of young laughter reached her through the open window. She relaxed and remembered the pain of her old grief.

  The communal business of the evening at Londiani finished early. By nine-thirty everyone had gone their way, a quiet end to a long day.

  Rafaella postponed the last of her Bogart treats. Up in her room she pulled out their old gramophone and played half a dozen of Don’s favourite seventy-eights. She listened with eyes closed. It was easy to imagine that Don was there close by. The chansons of Charles Trenet and Tito Rossi excited a bitter-sweetness that was powerful enough to carry her back to the impossibly happy times of their years together. She kept their special favourite until last. Leslie A Hutchinson, the Hutch of the immaculate, white suit and the polished sophistication, was the only one of those charmers they had seen performing in the flesh. In his later years he had come to Kenya to ease health problems. Past his best, he still had the magic to send the
audience at the Muthaiga into raptures. She played ‘Begin the Beguine’ five times before letting herself drift off into sleep.

  Lucy was writing letters, the twins had returned to their chess wars, Alex was at the bookwork and Maura checking menus and shopping lists in preparation for the festival. She was on the phone to the house on the coast. Five more days and they would be on their way on the annual trek south.

  After his second soak of the day, Tom stood by the window of his darkened room and looked out. A mile down the lakeside Oserian had switched on its banks of night lights. He did not welcome the huge bright rectangles up to their work of fooling the flowers by pretending to be the sunlight of early morning. All the farms had to do it. Their glorious climate was a little short on daylight hours.

  He smiled to see Luka and Erik peering up and down to check if any of the family were still around. It was time for the nocturnal protectors of Londiani to take the first of their naps. Half an hour later and Tom was miles away from sleep. He put on his white towelling dressing-gown and went downstairs. Perhaps he could have some fun at the expense of the askaris.

  He left the house by the back door. He had to cross the laundry garden. The smell of the wood fire in the village was on the air. As he passed the washing troughs, he let his hand drift along the cool concrete.

  From her vantage point under the acacia, Rebecca first heard the sound of voices and laughter and then saw the white dressing-gown moving about the garden. When she knew that Tom was coming towards her, she had ample time to set off home and keep out of sight. If she had wanted to.

  ‘Rebecca!’ His voice was warm and excited. ‘So there was something drawing me up …’

  Her smile was uncomfortable.

  ‘Thomas, you said we would smile and … go.’ She remembered how the words used to gush out. Had she changed forever?