“You,” he said. She had given him a fright. He left the wagon and clattered past the jugs, upsetting one. He saw she held a full paper bag against her chest.
“I had to see you,” she said. “I’Ve missed you.” Munday said, “Oh, my love, my love,” and embraced her, kissed her and split the bag of apples. Caroline dropped her arms and released it. The apples tumbled to their shins, fell between them, plopping at their feet, making bumps as they hit and their skin punctured and bruised on the bam floor. Munday stepped on one, skidding on its flesh, ancj hugged Caroline for balance. The apples rolled in all directions, gulping as they bounced.
15
It was a custom among the Bwamba to let their hair grow after a member of the family had died. During this time of mourning their hair sprouted stiffly in a round bushy shape, like a thick wool helmet pulled over their ears. This hair, with their sparse beards, made their faces look especially gaunt, like the pinched ones of defeated men driven into hiding in deep jungle. After a suitable period, and when the affairs of the deceased were settled—all the debts apportioned—the hair was cut with a certain amount of ceremony.
Silvano’s hair was uncut, and Munday was sorry his self-consciousness had prevented him from welcoming the African on the platform. A mourner deserved better than to arrive at a country railway station and to find his own way to the exit. Munday had driven to the station and parked, and he stayed in the car until the other arriving passengers had been met and driven away—visiting friends with expensive luggage; weekending couples; the tall son rather formally introducing the smartly-dressed girl to his parents, pipe-clutching father, beaming mother; the yawning wife meeting her husband in her station wagon, two children in the back seat, kisses all around and the wife sliding over and letting the husband take the wheel. Then Silvano. And Munday was ashamed of himself when he saw the African, smaller than he remembered, and not black but gray—the gloss was gone from his face. He emerged awkwardly from the station exit after the other people, with a large suitcase and the long hair, looking worried and overwhelmed in the English setting.
Seeing Munday get out of the car, Silvano brightened and called out a Bwamba greeting, “M’okolel” Munday replied softly, “Bulunji,” and was glad there was no one around to hear him. He took the suitcase —it was surprisingly light—and offered his condolences.
“No one is dead,” said Silvano. “Everyone very fit —I got a letter just the other day.”
“But your hair—”
“Oh, that,” said Silvano, and he pushed at it with his hand. “Only the new style. London style, so to Cn,, »
“Of course,” said Munday. “Very fashionable.” He noticed that Silvano was wearing a new pin-striped blue suit, a maroon velvet tie and pink shirt, pointed shoes; Munday had never seen him in anything but gray drill shorts and molded plastic sandals.
In the car, passing through Mosterton, Silvano said, “So—grass on the roofs!” and Munday explained the thatch. Silvano said, further on, “Very narrow road,” and Munday replied, “It’s perfectly adequate. By the way, have you had your lunch?”
“Yes, on the train,” Silvano said. “Chicken-something.”
Munday saw him looking out the car window. They were driving along a stretch of road that ran for about half a mile between some hills and then opened on a prospect of the southeast, an uncluttered sweep of landscape, plowed fields and pastures. It was early afternoon and still sunny; the clouds were beginning to gather, rising against the sun, giving height to the sky and dramatizing the mottled fields. The visibility was good, and for miles Munday could see hills like overturned bowls, and forested hollows and severe hedges dividing the farmland. Past a man plowing, surrounded by flights of wheeling seagulls, layered shadings of green and tweedy winter brown marked the distances.
“Look at that,” said Munday. It was a vista of country so open and empty he wanted to stop the car and march directly across it and lose himself in that expanse.
“Cows,” said Silvano.
“Where?” asked Munday. Then he saw them, at the roadside, cropping grass.
Silvano settled back in the seat and lit a cigarette. He said, “I didn’t know there were so many cows in England.”
“They keep them to pay bride-price,” said Munday. “I had to give half a dozen to Emma’s father when I married her.”
“I think you’re playing, Doctor Alfred,” said Silvano.
“You’re too quick for me.”
“Postgraduate,” said Silvano, and held up his smoking cigarette to examine it.
“Actually, England’s still heavily agricultural,” said Munday. Silvano remained silent, and Munday felt all his old weariness return in the effort of making conversation with -an African, commenting on what was most obvious, spelling out the labored joke. Munday would have preferred to speak in the Bwamba language to mask his insincerity. Somehow, things sounded less trivial spoken in the local dialect. Munday spoke the language well, he used the idioms with ease. He had often said that he knew more about the Bwamba than the Bwamba themselves—it accounted, he thought, for his depressions and their unreasonable cheer.
“Is this your first time out of London?” asked Munday.
“First time,” said Silvano. “So much work to do— always writing and more writing.” Munday said, “Pressure of work.”
“Yes,” said Silvano. He added gravely, “And I have a girl friend.”
“Lucky fellow,” said Munday.
“Young men need to have girl friends,” said Silvano. “Otherwise!” His laughter was full of teeth and greed. Munday knew that Silvano was thirty-five years old; he had a wife who worked in his sizable garden; he supported a pair of aged relatives; he had a bicycle, a short:wave radio, and four children.
“Which reminds me,” said Munday. “How’s your wife?”
“Quite all right,” said Silvano. “Expecting number five.” He continued to smoke calmly. They were passing The Rose and Crown in Broadwindsor. Silvano said, “Are the pubs open?”
“They close early around here,” said Munday. “Two-thirty.”
“We have time for a pint,” said Silvano, looking at his watch. Munday saw that it was a new one. “I always have a pint at this time.”
“I never do,” said Munday.
“There was no beer on the train.”
“I really think we should be getting along,” said Munday as he accelerated past the pub. “Emma’s expecting us. Besides, there’s plenty to drink at the Black House.”
“The Black House,” said Silvano. “Is that a pub?”
“No, no,” said Munday, and he realized that he had spoken the name aloud for the first time. It was like an admission of his acceptance—he had said it quite naturally. “That’s what the locals call my house, don’t ask me why.”
“Interesting,” said Silvano.
Munday explained the English practice of naming houses, illustrating it with the signboards they passed, until, much to his annoyance, Silvano began to call each one out. Munday hoped he would stop, but he kept it up. “The Thistles,” he was saying, “Ladysmith, Aleppo, Bowood House.”
“We’ll let Emma open the door,” said Munday. “She likes the drama.”
“Ah, Silvano,” said Emma, opening the double doors one at a time. “So good to see you.” She had changed into her wool dress and wore a wooden Bwamba brooch, one of the ineptly carved curios they had started to make in the last years of Munday’s residence, to sell in the mission craft-shop.
“He’s eaten,” said Munday. He saw Mrs. Branch lingering at the scullery door, unable to suppress her look of astonishment at the black man chatting in the kitchen. “And this is Mrs. Branch.” She hesitated; in her nervousness she traced a water stain on the wall with her finger. Then she came forward in halting steps, twisting her hands. She said, “Pleased to meet you.” Silvano smiled and put his hand out, but Mrs.
Branch didn’t take it. She locked her fingers together and continued to stare.
“Doctor promised me a beer,” said Silvano. He laughed, trumpeting his hilarity with a wide-open mouth.
“So I did,” said Munday. “It’s too early for me, but have one yourself.”
“Let’s go into the other room,” said Emma. “Pauline’s made a fire. It’s lovely and warm.”
“I’ll fetch his case from the car,” said Munday. “Won’t be a minute.” He carried the suitcase upstairs to one of the larger bedrooms (Emma had put flowers in the vase, and a hot-water bottle and towel on the bed), and on an impulse he opened it. It was a large suitcase, heavy cardboard with two leather straps around its middle, the kind that was sold in Indian shops in Uganda. But it contained surprisingly few things—pajamas, a string vest, a sweater, a paperback with Nigger in the title, shaving equipment, several deodorants in aerosol cans (Body Mist, Ban, aftershave lotion). And a picture in a small metal frame. It was a slightly blurred photograph of a rather thin and not young English girl smiling sadly on a bench in a public park. There were thumbprints on the glass. Munday’s first emotion was embarrassment, then great rage at the foolishness of carrying such a picture. But he recognized his anger as unworthy and he returned the picture to the case feeling only pity for the girl, and pity for Emma, and against his will feeling a bit ridiculous himself, as if the glimpse of another man’s desire had devalued and exposed his own.
Emma handed .Munday a cup of coffee when he entered the living room. She said, “Silvano’s telling me about his flat in Earl’s Court.” Munday moved in front of the fire, warming his back. “I thought you had a room at London House.”
“Yes,” said Silvano. “Then I moved. I’m sharing with some other chaps—fellow Ugandans.”
“I should say you’re damned lucky to have a flat,” said Munday. He said peevishly to Emma, “I think of Alec with his bedsitter in Ealing.”
“A flat’s more comfortable,” said Silvano.
“A flat’s more expensive,” said Munday. “But, then Alec’s not on a government grant. His money’s frozen in a Uganda bank account.” Silvano had spoken inoffensively; he was eager to please and impress. But Munday felt a growing resentment against the hair, the new watch, the stylish suit —Silvano plucked at the creases in his trousers—the casual mention of the girl friend, the flat. He was a villager who had for years shared a one-room, grass-rooted hut with his large family. He had served as a subject for one of Munday’s monographs on Bwamba agriculture—he was typical enough for that: a herd-boy, then a clearer of elephant grass, then a family man, indistinguishable from any of the forest people except that he was less quarrelsome, more intelligent, and didn’t drink beer. When Munday first met him, Silvano was convinced that God intended him to be a priest, and it was on the mission’s motorcycle that Silvano went to his extramural classes in Fort Portal. Munday persuaded him against joining the priesthood and, tutoring him privately, got him a place at Makerere. Silvano married; Silvano switched from the School of Agriculture to the English Department; Silvano wrote poems; and on his holidays, when he visited Munday at the Yellow Fever Camp, he had a sharp muhoro in the belt of his drill shorts, and he carried, as a proof of his literacy, a geography book with a faded, soiled cover which gave off the hut smell of dirt and wood-smoke.
“I thought we might go out a bit later and drive to Whitchurch Canonicorum,” said Emma to Silvano. “There’s an English saint buried in the church, and it’s a charming village. We could have a cream tea on the way back. You don’t want to come all this way and miss a cream tea.”
“That sounds super,” said Silvano.
“It doesn't go very well over beer,” said Munday. “But I never miss my tea,” said Silvano.
“Really.”
“I know Alfred wants to take you around the village.”
“There's not an awful lot to see,” said Munday. “I’m sure we’d be more comfortable right here.” But the visit was unavoidable. They drove to the village of Whitchurch shortly after, found St Candida's altar with the three openings, and Munday explained how it was thought that a diseased limb could be cured if it was inserted in one of the holes. Emma was over at the baptismal font. Munday said in a low voice to Silvano, “Or I daresay you could stick your tumba in, if circumstances required.” Silvano giggled and said, “That’s interesting!”
The coarse joke was for the African, and it made Munday view the next days with dread. In Uganda he had been friendly with Silvano, and Silvano had informed part of his research; the relationship had been an easy one. Munday was grateful for that; he had recommended Silvano for a Commonwealth scholarship. But here, and really from the moment Silvano had said, “Only the new style. London style—Munday had viewed him as someone of ponderous weight whom he had managed easily enough in Africa but whom he would struggle with in England—like the gliding sea-animal which becomes insupportable out of water. It wasn’t Silvano's fault, but Munday saw him posing problems to the smallest venture; he was like an invalid guest whose affliction had to be carefully considered before any move could be made. And even then he would remain helpless; he had to be shown things—this church, that house, that view—and for this Munday was required to carry him. Munday was newly conscious of Silvano’s color, and while feeling a prompt sympathy for the African, he knew he might have to defend that color to the villagers. He did not relish the possibility; he wanted to hide him.
More than this (now they had left the churchyard and were driving down a country lane to Shave’s Cross), Munday had the separated lover’s regret, of spending time and effort with people who knew him as the figure he had been in the past, a personality he had outgrown, but one for which they retained a loyal respect: the regret that he was not with his lover, giving her the attention he felt he was wasting on his wife and that burdensome acquaintance. The duties of sentiment and friendship, accumulated obligations, intruded on this secret life. So he drove and he could smell Caroline on his hands and taste the crush of her mouth and breast on his tongue, as pungent as apples.
“Why don’t we give the tea a miss?” said Munday.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” said Emma. “I’m sure Silvano wants one, too. Don’t be a wet blanket, Alfred. You’re brooding so.” Eager to get it over with, he stopped at the first signboard that said Teas. It was a small bungalow of cob and hatch, set back from the road on a stony drive. The cob had been whitewashed and showed large smooth patched places; its windows were set deep in the bulging walls, as if retreating into sockets. It had a satisfying shape, as natural as a ground-swell, and a well-tended look; but dense clouds now filled the late-aftemoon sky, and the gray light on the dark grass that surrounded the dwelling gave it a cheerless air. Smoke billowed from the end chimney, and Munday found it hard to see all that streaming smoke and not think that the bungalow was about to go into motion and chug out of the garden like a locomotive.
A middle-aged woman in a blue smock met them at the door and greeted them uncertainly, avoiding Silvano’s gaze. She showed them to a parlor jammed with small tables. There was a fire crackling in the grate, and two other customers, a man and woman, seated near it. Munday wanted to leave as soon as he saw them. But the proprietor was seating Emma, and Silvano had already taken his place at the table—he was toying with a small oil-lamp which was the centerpiece. The couple at the other table did not look up. The man was wearing an overcoat, the woman a hat, and both were buttering toast with raised arms to keep their sleeves out of the tea.
“Not many customers,” said Silvano.
The woman in the blue smock frowned at her pad. She poised her pencil stub and said, “Will that be three teas?” Munday said, “With clotted cream.”
“Thank you.” She scribbled on the pad, and with deft simultaneous movements of her hands dropped the pad into her apron pocket and pushed the pencil into her hair. She removed the fourth place mat. Emma slipped her coat off; she leaned forward, her arms behind her back, her breasts brushing the table, as
she worked her arms out of the sleeves. Munday had always found this one of the most attractive things a woman could do. He saw Silvano staring.
“Believe it or not,” said Munday, “this cottage is made out of mud. The walls are about two feet thick, of course, but it’s mud sure enough—clay, actually—on a wooden frame. Could be a few hundred years old.”
“Mudded walls and grass roof,” said Silvano. “Just like Bundibugyo!”
“But not as civilized,” said Munday.
“Oh, I think so,” said Silvano, seriously.
“Down here for a holiday?” It was the man by the fire who had spoken, and it was some while before Munday realized the man was addressing their table from across the empty room. The man hadn’t looked up. His hands were still raised, stropping a sliver of toast with butter.
“You might say that.” Munday was gruff; he hated the man’s probing question.
“It’s not a bad place,” said the man. “For a holiday, that is.”
“The weather’s been splendid lately,” said Emma.
“It’s holding,” said the man. “It’s been a mild winter—that’s why everyone’s down with flu.” Now he crunched his toast, and his chewing was like muttering, as if he had more in his mouth that a bite of toast. “It’s going to be a terrible summer—it always is after a winter like this.” He took another bite of toast and sipped his tea.
His wife spoke up: “We’ll pay for these warm days!” She stared at Munday from under her crooked hat.
“Yes, it’s not a bad place for a holiday,” said the man. “But you don’t want to move down here. Take my advice—we’ve been down here for eighteen months.”
“It’s a glorious part of the world,” said Emma.
“Hear that?” said the man to his wife.
The wife leaned in the direction of the Mundays' table. She said, “The people are so unfriendly around here. We’ve had them around to tea, but they never invite you back.”
“Just go their own way,” said the man.
The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories Page 18