Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  Tom tried to find neutral, inoffensive words. ‘My first time … haven’t been up to the tree. This time last night I was freezing up on the side of Mount Kenya.’

  Her gush of words was back, but she delivered them as if she were alone. ‘Just now I was thinking about Santa Maria.

  I love the Signora for trusting me. But perhaps a boy would have been better.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘How stupid! That red dress and breaking the soup dish. Like I’m a different person. A kind of wildness has gone out of me.’

  ‘I love the wildness!’

  She almost smiled. She shook her head, incredulous at her own calm, the absence of anguish. ‘There is a convent attached to the school.’

  ‘Don’t even think it. Don’t!’

  ‘I never thought I’d leave Londiani. All my family. And the girls in the town are still so friendly.’

  Tom pushed his way in. ‘Look, let’s get it straight. I should have spoken when I had the chance. Then I lost my cool when I should have shut up. Rebecca, we can get over this.’

  ‘Most of them, all they want is a baby to carry around on their backs. They don’t even care about the father. They want to prove something to … someone. I tell them to be careful. Those truck drivers who stop for the night. They can give the sickness.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m just glad that we’re together.’

  They had come no closer than two metres. At last she was looking at him and their locked gaze lifted his hope. She broke off first. She turned to kiss the tree softly and casually like a bored priest touching a sacred relic with his lips. She stepped past him and hurried nimbly down the path.

  ‘Rebecca, wait.’

  She lifted her arm. ‘Thomas, be patient with me. I have my hope, too.’ She did not wait; she did not turn. He watched her hurry ‘round to the front of the house where Luka and Erik were slipping back into a doze.

  Next day Tom was out early. Four days to Christmas and he had promised to take Lucy to Nairobi. She was going to help with last-minute presents and on the way home they were to load up with supplies from the Sarit and the ABC.

  As they bumped up the driveway to the South Lake Road, he made his intention clear.

  ‘I feel lucky today. I think I can break my record.’

  From the moment when his wheels touched the tarmac until he turned off Wiaki Way into Westlands hardly a word was spoken. He was lucky with the traffic and only the week before Chinese engineers had finished work on the bottom road that made the surface the smoothest it had been in years. Minus seatbelt he sat up close to the wheel and kept his foot down hard all the way. Even on the snaky bends on the climb up to the dual carriageway he did not flinch from the smallest chance to overtake.

  ‘Forty-three minutes and a bit.’ He looked down as he snapped his stopwatch. ‘We’ll have to get a new vehicle!’

  ‘Did we do it?’ A relieved Lucy was happy that the unspoken embargo on words was broken.

  ‘Just,’ he grinned his reply. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be as sedate as a funeral on the way back.’

  Everything else he did that morning was at speed, but his consideration, his generosity, his endless patter of stories made it all an exhilarating experience for Lucy. After leaving Barclays Bank in Muthaiga he took her into the club for a quick tour.

  ‘That book you’re reading, White Mischief, Erroll’s last night, the Happy Valley crowd, they all came here. And, probably, we’ll be staying the night here on our way down to the coast. Sort of tradition. For now we’re off to Charlie’s for lunch, on the way to the Blixen place. You must have read that one. Finch-Hatton, Robert Redford … “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills”. Well, it’s all yours, my dear.’

  Lucy spent a long time in the little farmhouse with a guide.

  She returned to Tom who was thoughtfully contemplating the low line of hills. She was weeping happily.

  On their way back into the city, she touched his arm. ‘Pull over a minute.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘This is a heavenly area. I’d love to have a place named after me …’

  ‘Hmm, let’s see. “I’m building a house.” “Where, old chap?” “Out in the hills. Place called Lucy.” But why do you …?’

  ‘Look at that place. Huge, but why pink? Disneyland comes to Nairobi.’

  Tom glanced across. His tone lost its humour. ‘I know it. It’s new. The Rubais. Another mansion. Let’s drive on.’

  ‘The people who visited?’

  ‘Yep.’ He took off with a scattering of earth from the tyres. The red dust flew up from the murram. He was singing at the top of his voice.

  A dusty, loaded, hot Land Rover pulled into Londiani at 4.35, forty minutes and some from Westlands.

  Mary and Terry were down from Gilgil for tea. Mary and his mother were composing lists.

  ‘Planning another party for New Year’s Eve, girls?’

  ‘I wonder how much stuff you’ve forgotten to pick up.’

  ‘Not a single thing. Lucy had the list and the big, red pen. Went everywhere, saw everything.’

  ‘Been drinking, Tom?’ Alex frowned.

  ‘Half a gallon of water. So hot down there.’

  Having Mary for tea cheered Tom up and calmed him down. He postponed his challenge match with Eddie and Rollo. Mary was the nearest thing he had to an aunt in Kenya. She was the person that everyone ran to in a crisis. She had the gift of being able to listen with deep intensity. Having those dark-blue eyes fixed on you when you were pouring out your troubles was enough to give the spirit a lift. Yet so many of the locals were ready to hang on her the name of chief witch of her up-country meditation group.

  Seeing her had sparked a bright idea. He wanted to keep it a secret and he took his chance as Mary and Terry were going out to their car. He managed a few sentences. It was enough.

  Many weeks would pass before Rebecca and Tom met again under their special acacia.

  The days leading up to Christmas had come to follow a loose pattern for the lakeside Europeans. They honoured the ways of the northern homelands. The men eased back on the work and the women of the households increased theirs. Homecoming students and travellers, escaping the cold of winter, were glad to be rid of the rush and noise of the shopping malls and the television stations. There was a mass exodus from Nairobi to the home villages and farms. Coach and matatu companies hiked their fares. The Eldoret Express, the Kisii Executive and the rest packed them in tighter than ever and flew over the potholes at their usual breakneck speed.

  Londiani was situated just south of the equator and they were in the warmest time of the year. Life was an outdoor business. From the veranda breakfasts to the last embers of party nights, groups, large and small, merged, melted and merged again in pursuit of fun, relaxation and the lost arts of the good life. Teenagers, released from school, frantically chased after the not so elusive great night. They were more frightened by the swift passing of time than those old beauties with shrivelled skin and the once wild boys who had become rickety old boys.

  Tom was as frantic as any of his younger companions. Morning, noon and night he made Lucy work hard at creating memories of her first visit to Africa.

  ‘Of course, you don’t have to come, Luce, but I think you’ll enjoy …’

  He gave her the bumpiest ride of her life, once ‘round the lake on a 650 Triumph Bonneville. The ride on bikes to Hell’s Gate was slow and sedate, but after the march up and down the dry gully, the claustrophobia, the overwhelming heat exhausted her and Rollo was summoned to transport her weary body back to the farm and the luxury of a long soak in a bath.

  The nights brought her a different kind of revelation. She’d been to more parties than she could count, formal ones, wild ones, mostly in and around London. They happened indoors, even on summer nights. Sometimes the neighbours had complained and once or twice the police had come ‘round to calm things down.

  Out here many of
the ingredients were the same — the loud music, the drink, the powerful drive to have the best time ever. But there were freedoms which made these parties fresh and invigorating for newcomers like herself. On each of the three nights they trooped off to a different farm along the lakeside. Each place was lit up close to the house by lamps and lanterns. In this pool of light there was the food, the drink, the music, the dancing. Immediately around was the ring of darkness, the garden and the bush into and out of which drifted couples and little groups. Old liaisons were revisited, new ones were tried out.

  Beyond this were the lake, the hills, the stars and, unseen but not far away, African neighbours who listened to the night noises and enjoyed them. Lucy had heard about the Happy Valley crowd and their outrageous ways. Now very close to the Djin Palace itself, she pondered. Sixty and seventy years ago the pioneering of the land was gathering speed, hard work with many failures on the way. Among these new settlers was the amorphous group of the well-off who soon realised that they had landed in a paradise where the rules and restraints of England need not apply. They were pioneers with different agendas, searching for the perfect way for humans to enjoy themselves. Two and three generations later, much of this early spirit was still strong and the traditions not forgotten.

  These days there was no special group. Let everyone in the community be together, from the creaking old to the bright-eyed newborn. Remember the one golden rule: in the morning, when the sun brings back its light to this Great Rift Valley, your neighbour will be your partner, your companion. You will depend on each other for prosperity and life.

  Tom, the physical dynamo of daylight hours, became the extrovert fun lover of the night-time. Lucy wasn’t sure whether he was wholly enjoying the fun or keeping up the manic burning of energy to shut out painful thoughts and feelings. Eddie and Rollo looked on uneasily as they watched their brother crawling along lines of upright empty wine bottles. The muscles of his arms and back strained relentlessly. His shirt became sodden with effort. He celebrated victory by downing another Tusker in a single gulp. Time to go home, but they knew that they had no chance of persuading him.

  For all the beer that Tom poured down his throat, Tom was never less than a considerate escort. Lucy had several of her opinions about him confirmed. He was something of a hero to the regular cowboys. Women had a soft spot for him. A lot of them, attached and unattached, would gladly have gone off with him for a romp in the bush. One day soon, somewhere in this Rift Valley, there would be one of the special Kenya weddings. Many of the around twenty-something girls, home on holiday from the outside world, enjoyed fantasies of a life as the future mistress of Londiani. Lucy might have fancied the idea herself except for the thought of the crazy house girl with the red dress. Steal my man and you’ll pay big price. She’d stop at nothing. Lucy had seen the white-hot passion smoulder shamelessly in the laundry garden within an hour of arriving at the farm.

  Tom was heavy on the Tuskers but never mixed his drinks. Two o’clock and he was ready for his bed. On the first two nights he drove them sedately back along the empty road to Londiani. On the second he stopped near a bush trail and shut off the lights and engine.

  ‘Listen to that!’

  ‘What? Can’t hear a thing.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Africa sleeping. Bloody marvellous! Look over there!’ He pointed to a clearing on Lucy’s left. Two dozen waterbuck were picking their way down to the lake.

  ‘Out on a midnight feast. Bloody marvellous!’

  ‘It’s past two.’

  ‘Well, they like their parties to go on a bit.’ He started the engine. ‘Let’s go. I’m knackered. And we’re sailing in the morning.’

  On the third night, Tom was too heavy on the Tuskers. Lucy drove them home. Six times he asked her to stop, switch off and listen. The last stop came less than five hundred metres from the house.

  ‘Let me take over. Can’t have a woman driving me home. Sends the wrong signals.’

  ‘I’ll walk, then.’

  ‘No, no, can’t. The leopard may be around.’

  ‘You said leopards don’t attack humans.’

  ‘Yes, but if it’s a good-looking woman — with blue eyes. Just a minute. Your eyes are blue aren’t they? Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Yes, they are blue, stupid. You couldn’t see in this light anyway.’

  ‘I want to check.’

  So it began. Tom knelt on his seat and leaned over until he had a hand on each of her shoulders. He peered in close, eye to eye. Soon it was mouth to mouth and, seconds after that, falling on to the back seat and a frenzied tearing at zips and straps.

  ‘Useless!’ One word from Tom and the door of the Cruiser flew open and two clinging forms, half-naked, slid comfortably down onto the spiky, brown grass on the dusty verge.

  Lost in their own noise, they had not heard the stealthy approach of two very alert askaris. Erik and Luka had been counting the cars in. This was the last, but why had it stopped short of the house? They were looking forward to a long, safe doze.

  They came very close when they heard the groaning and gasping from the vehicle of Bwana Thomas. After one long stare Luka took off for the circle of rondavels not fifty metres away. As he turned to go, he whispered, ‘She won’t be asleep. She must see.’

  Erik leaned forward from his kneeling position. He had often seen white folks at it under these dark skies. He saw it as a bonus for having a job that kept him out in the open all night. His big eyes shone with amusement. He was sure that a good girl like Rebecca should witness this playtime. Then she would be a sensible girl as well.

  She came reluctantly, unsure what it was that Luka wanted her to do. She stifled a horrified gasp. ‘Why did you lie?’ Her vicious whisper through clenched teeth should have been audible to Tom and Lucy, but the drama on the ground continued unchecked.

  ‘Memsahib …’ Luka was wasting his time.

  Rebecca bit hard on her hand and sank to her knees in shock at the sight of the flailing buttocks, the grasping arms, white buttocks, white arms. Horror, riveting horror. Luka had gone to her with the tale of an accident to Maura McCall. This was his way of knocking some sense into this girl. One day she would thank him

  Only straightaway he knew she wouldn’t. Even in the darkness he could not mistake the massive tension that was holding her in check, the fierce power radiating from her eyes, the arms held tight across her stomach, pressing in the agony, making her tilt forward in an attitude of prayer. He had stumbled into emotional territory that was too rich for him and he sidled off towards Big House with his brother treading softly behind him. They had thought that the sight of Bwana Thomas thrusting himself into the body of his blonde visitor would have brought Rebecca back to a proper way of thinking. Wrong! The initial shock she had felt soon melted into desire, lust. She longed to be where Lucy was, locked on the ground with her naked back writhing in the dusty grass with Tom pressed down onto her and into her. She was angry with herself that it was two white legs and not her own that were being splayed five metres from where she knelt in the undergrowth.

  Tom and Lucy finished their pleasure and continued their journey to Big House. It was a long time before Rebecca pulled herself up and dragged her weary body back to her bed.

  She lay dazed. A longing had risen from a deep place within her and was shaking her whole spirit. She was not ashamed.

  Chapter Seven

  hristmas Eve was a quiet day on the lakeside farms. It was a holiday for the workers, but many of them turned up to spend a few hours in the flower fields. They did tidying jobs and made doubly sure that there would be enough roses and carnations ready for the next shipment to Europe in three days time.

  The kitchen at Londiani was busy from early morning. There were to be forty guests for Christmas lunch, a record number by five. By four o’clock pots and pans were back in their cupboards. This gave Maura an hour to get bathed and dressed. At six she and the rest of the family would be part of the gathering around the Prefects’ L
awn up at Pembroke House, time for the local carol service. Every European in the district turned out in their seriously smart outfits.

  Out of habit, Tom had awakened from a deep sleep at six-thirty am. He slid from his bed just as the sun newly risen from behind the Aberdares was spreading light across the dark waters of the lake. He made his way unsteadily to the open window. A few deep breaths and his head began to clear. His first thoughts were guilty ones. It was tempting to blame the drink, but no one had been forcing the stuff down his throat. Shame, self-disgust smashed him hard.

  He returned to his bed and vented his rage on his pillow. He screamed inwardly. His old mates at Oundle would have been in stitches. All this guilt crap over one little shag. ‘Get real, Thomas, old chap! Did you enjoy yourself? That’s all you should be worrying about!’

  Thank God, Rebecca would never find out. He wouldn’t have the guts to tell her. And surely Lucy wouldn’t. He had never felt so badly about himself, but he knew, too, that all this stuff wasn’t worth a dead rose. Being a shit was no enjoyable experience, but wallowing in the self-pity of it was worse. His best friend at Oundle, Todd Tremlett, was a Catholic and used to bang on about going to confession. ‘Fantastic, Tom. It sort of cleans you out.’

  ‘Yeah, Todd, wipes the slate clean so that tomorrow you can start dirtying it again.’

  Fair play to old Todd, he never lost his cool, never got drunk, seemed to enjoy life better than anyone Tom knew. Pity he couldn’t try a bit of confessing right there and then. It sounded a quick way to a bit of peace of mind. But two betrayals in five minutes would not be easy to set aside. And he had his own simple way of trying to beat a heavy dose of the blues.

  He shook his head vigorously and went off to the bathroom. While he was giving his teeth a merciless brush, he decided on his next move. Soon he was downstairs and stamping his feet into his boots. In the stables he was planning to saddle up old Tuba. The tough grey gelding enjoyed his hikes along the lake shore. Before he could switch on the light, he banged his knee on something hard and sharp. In the half-darkness, he recognised one of the twins’ mountain bikes. He gave it a kick and it clattered to the floor. Wincing and cursing, he picked it up and wheeled it out into the bright, cool morning. He pedalled up the driveway and turned right on South Lake Road.