by Carl Hancock
‘Sorry, Mother, a bit late. Been trying to teach Rebecca the intricacies of the scrum. I think she’s more baffled than ever!’
‘Thomas, get yourselves some plates. The savoury table’s over there. Then come and sit down. Your father wants to talk to you.’
Alex narrowed his eyes briefly. He had no idea what his wife was talking about.
The cream of the little world of the prep school was enjoying its lunch up there in that elevated place, gazing at the views north and east over the rift and quite glad that all the panes of glass intended to shelter against wind and rain had been stolen within a week of the opening of the building.
For Rebecca this new experience sent scores of disconnected thoughts crashing and tumbling through her mind. ‘Change brings pain.’ She recalled again the words of her father, spoken to her after her first unhappy week away from home in boarding school in Nairobi. She was aware of Tom’s anxiety for her. He was his normal joking self, but this time she was on the inside of the family, listening, not looking on from the edge. The only black faces up there with hers were the kitchen staff acting as waiters for the occasion. She wasn’t ready to stare down any scornful looks they might have for her.
Fortunately for her she was unaware of what was being said from one table in the far corner. The four women sitting there were having a field day as they sipped at their glasses of Pimms and swapped comments on this unwelcome newcomer to the Pembroke scene. They were smart, handsome women, all married with children at the school, but it pained them to see that one of the most eligible young bucks had gone native in his search for a wife.
‘Well, I must admit that she’s got a figure.’
‘Why else do you think he’s interested? Wait till she piles on the flab. He’ll be out looking for new sheets to slide under.’
‘I suppose you’re hoping they’ll be yours. After all, you only live down the road.’
‘You know she was the wash girl down there, don’t you? Ted and I reckon she’s got a bun in.’
‘But that’s no reason for marrying the thing!’
‘You don’t know the McCalls. Scottish Presbyterians. Do the right thing in all circumstances. Bloody stupid!’
The only one of the quartet who lived in Nairobi had waited to make her contribution. Around the leafy lanes of Karen, she was known as a keen bridge player and delighted in trumping her opponents’ aces.
‘You all know the Rubais, right?’
‘Don’t be silly, dear. Everybody …’
‘Well, I can’t name my source, but I promise you that this story is kosher. That sweet charmer sitting over there with her future in-laws is soiled goods. Shagged by another, Junior Rubai, alias Julius. Happened a couple of weeks before Christmas, in her own bedroom. Daddy Rubai was furious when he heard. Couldn’t have his boy messing around with a maid. I kid you not! Now I think, I really believe that girlie there got to know about Daddy’s anger. We all know what happens to people who get on the wrong side of Abel Rubai. They sort of melt into the air. Girlie panicked and ran off to the coast and then skipped the country, went to the US. She’s got friends there, believe it or not …’
She was interrupted. Two latecomers appeared over the top step and turned the heads of everyone once more. They were tall, athletic black men in expensive dark suits, dressed for a day in parliament or the law courts. They looked around briefly then made straight for the McCall table. Tom rose to greet his two lunch companions at the Nairobi Club two weeks before. He was puzzled to see them at a rugby tournament in Pembroke. Their arrival presented a new talking point. What were these two new men on the national political scene doing up in this up-country backwater? Why were they bothering with Tom McCall?
Paul Miller was a rugby fan and Daniel Komar had a nephew in the senior Banda team, enough excuse for the pair of them to call on Mr McCall so soon after their first meeting. And they had been doing some checking. When Tom straightaway introduced, ‘My fiancee, Rebecca Kamau,’ the men exchanged smiles of wide-eyed pleasure before launching into a bout of effusive congratulation which seemed to most of the curious onlookers at other tables as silly exaggeration.
Chairs were rearranged around the McCall table and soon the two guests were tucking in. Alex and Bertie were surprised and pleased by Paul Miller’s knowledge of rugby.
‘Mr Briggs, don’t you think that there’s too much muscle power around these days, not enough flair?’
Bertie took his chance to weigh in on one of his favourite sporting topics. ‘Yep. Barry John, Mike Gibson, Gareth Edwards … Ever heard of those guys?’
‘Sure. Star boys of the 1971 British Lions, my best team ever.’
‘How would they survive today with all these muscle-bound wardrobes flying around? When did you last see a fly-half making a clean break?’
‘That’s why I’m here today. Love watching kids play. So enthusiastic before the cynicism gets through to them.’
‘How is Banda doing?’ Daniel Komar wondered if he would have anything to report to his sister about David’s play.
‘Banda? I think they’ve got a great chance. They’re playing Turi in the semifinal. I tell you, your wing can shift.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Afraid not. Don’t even know the Pembroke names any more.’
Tom put in a word. ‘Come back in ten years, gentlemen, and watch Ewan Briggs pick up the cup. Bertie’ll know all the players’ names that day.’
For all his real interest in watching the boys play, Paul Miller was keen to have a private chat with Tom McCall. So, with the first semifinal just twenty minutes away, three would-be spectators were to be seen walking under the railway bridge and up the single track Nyharuru line. They were soon on one of the fairways of the Gilgil Club golf course moving slowly along the springy turf. Rebecca, especially, was enjoying the emptiness and the quiet.
‘We’re hoping to get registration in the next month. I’m pretty sure there’ll be a safe judge for our appeal.’
‘Safe?’ Tom was almost sure how Paul Miller would explain his adjective, but he wanted to hear it from the lawyer’s mouth.
‘Yes, well, they say everyone has his price. Don’t believe it myself, but as things are in this country just now, this is how it goes. Aid money comes in, World Bank or the US, say. The government filter gets to work so eighty per cent finds its way into private bank accounts. Our leaders are whiz kids at this trick. And … one part of this little fund is called Judicial Holdings. Sounds good, doesn’t it? This cash subsidises big town houses, farms, cars, you know. In return the government runs the law.’
‘But, Mr Miller …’
‘Paul.’
‘Paul, what’s this got to do with us?’
‘We thought it was just you. We’re thrilled to see that there are two of you now.’
‘So?’
‘Nakuru South covers Gilgil and Naivasha mainly. Think about being a candidate.’
‘You’re kidding! For a start, I know zilch about politics.’
‘Great advantage …’ Miller was smiling broadly.
‘And, to put it bluntly, I’m the wrong colour.’
‘No. I know it’s a bit of a cliche, but we, too, have our dream. We’re starting something here that’s going to change our people’s lives for the better. A real rainbow nation. It’s got to work. You name me a country on this whole continent that’s not in imminent danger of going down the pan. Tom, Rebecca, let’s leave the details for now. You’re off to New York tomorrow.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘Nothing sinister. Same people who are sure that you can take Nakuru South for Serena.’
‘Paul, I’m not interested in politics. And there’s a farm to run. A family of our own.’
‘And a country to help save. A second chance. Look at what we’ve got and then think of what we could be.’
‘But we’re a bit young …’
‘Remember your history lessons! Alexander the Great, Octavius Ca
esar …’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘Sorry! I just get carried away. There’s a lot of anger in me. This country’s well on the way to ruin. Our good young people are getting out. Don’t think that you’re immune. Your farm, they’ll be after that. They can do it legally. They’ve got the money.’
‘One has already tried …’
‘Rubai?’ and he added hastily, ‘Just a guess this time!’
‘Got it in one.’ They were on the long third fairway. Tom gazed up at the flag on the distant brown. The rain earlier in the week was bringing out a rich green on the course. In his scores of rounds up here he had never managed better than a five on this hole. He took Rebecca’s hand and smiled. ‘Peculiar stuff.’
Rebecca smiled back. ‘You mean this life business?’
‘Yep. You think you’ve got things sorted, but you never have. ‘Becca, what do you think of all this politics stuff?’
‘There’s not a lot of room in here for another big thing.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘The men talk about it in the village. Same down the coast. They’re thirsty for change, Mr Miller, Paul.’
‘We have a lot of women joining us. We’ve been wasting half our brain power for too long.’
‘You’re talking revolution, Paul.’
‘Yes, Rebecca.’
‘And revolution in Africa always means a lot of bloodshed.’
‘Paul,’ Tom stretched out his arm towards Rebacca, as if he were putting her on display, ‘here’s your candidate for Nakuru South!’
Paul Miller sighed and smiled wanly. ‘You two lovely people, I think we’ve had a pretty good chat, wouldn’t you say? Please, turn all this over in your minds. Maybe we could meet again when you come back. And good luck with the singing, Rebecca … Oh, this time it was Toni Wajiru. He says you were sensational on the west coast. His very word. We still keep in close contact after a lot of years. We grew up together. Scholarship boys, both of us. I want hundreds of scholarships for boys and girls. We can afford it. See, I can’t stop myself. That’s how it is with dreams.’
By the time they returned to the playing fields, the second semifinal was coming to an end. In the time they had been away, two brand new Mercedes had parked in the shade of the gum trees on the railway track side. Banda were completing their victory over Turi. A single voice was raised above the general hubbub of the supporters.
‘Go, David! Go, boy!’
On the pitch a small black figure was scorching towards the Turi posts. The three of them recognised the voice and they soon spotted the line of Rubais looking down on the match from the vantage point of the track. No need to ask the name of the speedy wing and captain of Banda!
Paul Miller smiled. ‘What a mixture! Look at him up there cheering like a schoolboy.’
‘I suppose you know him well. Lawyers, doctors, accountants … the Nairobi elite. They call it the establishment in England.’
‘He’s just a bit older than Dan and me. He had the reputation of being the best mathematician in the country. Now, next to the boss man, he’s the richest. His lucky break was being born a Kalenjin, same tribe as the vice president. When Molu took over the top job, he needed a man he could trust to take over the books, not as finance minister, the public face politician. Abel Rubai knew all the scams, invented most of them. He directed the money to the proper places. He has bank accounts in nineteen countries. Those are the ones that we know about.’
‘Handy man to have in Serena.’
Miller covered his face with his hands and broke into a long, deep chuckle. He shook his head vigorously and gathered himself.
‘The day we are voted in, Mr Abel Rubai and family will fly out of Kenya in a private jet … Canada, America, Britain. But I’m told he doesn’t like the climate in those places.’
When the final kicked off, the touch lines were thick with spectators. Banda had a lot of supporters, but they were shouted down by the assembled mass of Pembroke parents. Rebecca looked around in amazement at the passionate encouragement given by these well-off and seemingly sane groups of people. The fourteen players were in a frenzy of their own. She had never seen this kind of concentrated fury on a games field. Her memories of sport at Santa Maria were of running around and laughing a lot. There was no fun here, not in the way that bodies kept getting knocked to the ground and skidding along the hard surface of the pitch.
The play lasted ten minutes each way. Rebecca could not believe it when the man with the large, heavy legs blew his whistle to signal the end of the match. Tom had to explain to her that Pembroke had lost by a single point. She still did not understand how it had happened.
The semicircle of parents and children gathered for the presentation. Maura stood behind the trophy table in her smart blue dress. She had to keep one hand on her large, white hat. A breeze was up and gathering. Locals knew that rain was on the way, sweeping down from Ol Kolau. Pembroke kids knew, too. They had noticed the long lines of safari ants on parade in the early morning sunshine, a sure sign of a storm.
The ex-Harlequins player who had been asked to say a few words before the presentations was not familiar with Gilgil meteorology. He enjoyed his chance to share his memories at a leisurely pace, oblivious to the heavy clouds racing down the valley towards Pembroke fields. The first spots were falling when, at last, Maura began hanging little medals around the necks of the junior winners and runners-up.
By the time the senior trophy was being handed over to the captain of Banda, the raindrops were drumming hard on the two dozen or so umbrellas of those mostly parents of players who were determined to do their best to ignore the downpour. Abel Rubai was on the mound, recording every second of his youngest son’s triumph. Water was running down the boys’ legs and pressing their hair flat, but Abel made the teams link arms for a joint photo. He squelched his way back towards his car. He was barely recognisable as, for a few seconds, he stood alone in the middle of the pitch in the gloom of the merciless deluge. He looked into the thick, grey sky and whispered, ‘Julius, Julius, if only …’
Chapter Sixteen
hat rugby cup plonked down on the middle of the dining table the evening before had given Julius a final push. He was going to change and he was going to take some strong action. He would show his father he loved David and he enjoyed his triumph, especially as it involved upsetting Pembroke house, but their father seemed intent on using one son’s victory to remind another of his failures. All through supper Abel tormented Julius with his praise of David; what speed, what a leader. So many white folks had approached him to say how they had never seen a better player in the Londiani Sevens.
Julius had booked his flight days before and sitting in his seat in the first-class part of that 1020 British Airways flight to London, he was impatient to put miles between himself and Nairobi, Kenya and, above all, his father.
Through a chink in the curtain from first class, he had watched Rebecca and the white punk board the plane and disappear in the direction of the cheap seats. He returned to his own seat and ordered another Famous Grouse. He visualised them squeezing along a narrow passageway trying to find Row x,y,z or whatever. How long would it take her to understand what it meant to be looked after by the Rubai family? Desperation was driving him into thinking too much, presenting him with too many bad scenes. But the cocky farmer boy was not going to win, whatever it took. Hate, Julius revelled in it for the energy it fed him. Energy created ideas and helped to bring back his confidence, for a time.
Mama offered him some of her green tablets every time he set off on a long flight. She always took one. It made the journey pass quickly. Previously he had refused the offer, but now he looked down at the cylindrical shape and thought of his mother’s warning.
‘Julius, no alcohol after you swallow this clever little pill! Promise me.’
He kept his promise. He drained his glass before he slipped the tablet onto his tongue and waited. Soon a relaxed heaviness hit him hard. He loved this brand new feeling. As he slid down
into a deep sleep, he smiled. He had another five of these magic bullets stashed away at the bottom of his briefcase. Great!
In their less plush seats towards the rear of the plane, for Tom and Rebecca the journey passed quickly.
‘Thomas, do you think I am a dusky maiden?’ Rebecca’s eyebrows were arched and she wore a naughty smile.
‘Strange question to ask your husband-to-be, just as we’re rushing down this runway. But, yes, you’re as lovely as any evening I’ve ever seen.’
‘Oh, clever boy! When we were younger Papa used to call us his dusky maidens. “The Song of Solomon.” That was his way of wooing Mama. She told me this one day when we were in the laundry garden. He knows it off by heart.’ She became less light-hearted.
‘I think he is not unhappy that we have come away. Mama, too.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘He is more troubled that you are the boss man’s son than anything else.’
‘But you’re my boss. After all, you’re the one who knows all about this America!’
She dug him in the ribs.’ Oh, sure …’
‘There you are! You speak the language already.’
‘New York will be different for me, too. Four weeks …’
‘Yes and, while you’re singing and stuff …’
‘You’ll be getting better. What do you call it? Convol …’
‘Convoluting.’
She dug him in the ribs, harder this time, then stroked the spot where she had hit him. ‘Sorry, sorry, I am so stupid sometimes.’
‘I love it.’
‘I will tell the girls. They’ll take care of you while I’m rehearsing and stuff.’
‘Oh, yes, the band ladies.’
‘You’ll love them, just you wait.’
‘Sorry, no love to spare. It’s all promised to a dusky maiden!’
Julius was roused as the plane was crossing above the German-Dutch border. For breakfast he drank two bottles of Evian. By the time Rebecca and Tom were finding the gate for their flight on to New York, he was in a taxi on his way to the centre of London. He had planned three days of fun with a little very important business thrown in. He had plenty of contacts in the city and he would not be needing the help of the magic green bullets. By the time he moved on to New York he would be ready to put his plan into action. Contacts. His father was always preaching to him about making and fostering his contacts. ‘Well, Mr Abel Rubai, be ready to be surprised! Your little boy has his contacts and next time you see him, you will know for sure that he is a son to be proud of. Very proud.’