“Oh, Mom,” the girl rolled her eyes. “It’s one of ours.” She held up the fruit to display a little blue badge.
“Well, really!” Mrs Lyons had something else about which to be indignant. “Breaking into our house! Stealing our bananas!”
She snatched the item in question from her daughter and stomped back inside, slamming the door behind her.
“Lion woman upset,” Man said what we were all thinking. He took Mjomba’s hand.
“It’s an understandable mistake,” Mr Lyons took it upon himself to explain away Uncle Mjomba’s faux pas. “These houses all look alike and how was he to know which door was which?”
“Quite,” I said. “Mjomba never makes the same mistake twice.”
Uncle Mjomba spread his long arms in a shrug.
We stood there for a moment. The neighbours seemed to find the silence awkward but then they are used to bombarding their senses with constant and mostly unnecessary input. In the jungle too, one’s senses are forever assaulted and one is always on the alert but one learns to filter; there are moments of extreme tranquillity. Man and I - and Baby too, of course - can spend whole days in companionable silence.
It was not long before Mr Lyons spoiled the moment. “I expect you’ll be keen to get into your new home and explore.” He nodded towards our house as if to remind us where it stood.
“Oh, yes!” Baby enthused. “Shall we, Mother?”
The Lyons girls tittered for some reason. One might think they had never heard a handsome lad in a loincloth speak English before.
“Come on, girls,” Mr Lyons attempted to steer his daughters away. “We’ll leave you to get settled in, in peace.” He seemed to remember something. “Oh, and there’s a few things in the fridge and that. Milk, teabags, loo roll. Just a few bits.”
We were all nonplussed but I guessed he expected to be thanked for this utterance so I thanked him.
“Just to help you settle in. Nothing like a nice cuppa, is there? Only I didn’t think you’d have chance to pop to the shops.”
I assured him he was very kind and extremely thoughtful and gave his upper arm a squeeze. I must have squeezed him harder than I thought because his face flushed a deeper shade of red. Blustering something to his daughters, he ushered them into their house.
“Lion man like Lady,” Man pronounced. I waved this away for the fiddle-faddle it undoubtedly was.
“Come on, Mother!” Baby tugged at my arm. “Let’s go inside.” He almost pulled me up the path in his keenness to explore the interior. Man and Mjomba stayed where they were, holding hands, but I’m not entirely sure who was comforting whom.
“Man stay. Keep watch.”
Mjomba tapped his own chest and pointed at the ground.
“Of course, darlings,” I sent a smile of understanding. “Come on, Baby; it’ll be like exploring a new cave.”
“Stop calling me Baby,” Baby complained.
We went in.
Chapter Two
In which we explore our new home and make the best of it
The back door led us to what I assumed was the kitchen for I recognised the taps and the sink. There was a table and chairs - they were easy enough to determine- but as for the white boxes I was at a loss. Baby was drawn to them right away.
“Look, Mother!” He stroked one of the boxes that sported a circular window. “Isn’t it marvellous? What is it?”
“I believe that’s the television,” I replied, trying to muster as much confidence in my voice as I could.
“Then what is this?” He pointed to a smaller box with a rectangular window. “Another television?”
“Er...” I faltered momentarily. “We shall be able to watch more than one show at a time.”
Baby marvelled at this wonder of the modern age.
Uncle Mjomba ambled in with a grunt. He sprang onto a counter top and began opening and closing cupboard doors. Seconds later, he had climbed up and was swinging from door to door. With each circuit of the room he gave us glimpses of the contents of each cupboard. Items of crockery, pottery and pans, boxes and packets of foodstuffs... I barely had time to register these provisions, kindly supplied by Mr Lyons no doubt, before Mjomba did another pass.
Baby, meanwhile, was occupying himself with the tallest white box which bore no window at all and so I could not claim it as a third television. My clever son found out how to operate the door that formed the entire front face of the box. He opened and closed it repeatedly, laughing merrily at the light that shone from within.
“A light box!” he named it but Man, who had been standing uneasily on the threshold all this time strode over to our son and slammed the door shut. He shooed Baby away and cautiously opened the door himself. The light from within played on Man’s chiselled features and well-defined pectorals; I could have looked at him forever like that.
“Cold,” he declared. “Light box cold.”
He reached in and withdrew something: a flat object that was pink and slippery. He dropped it on the kitchen table and we gathered around to stare at it.
I read the largest word on the label. “Bacon... ”
Man frowned.
“You know: pig.” I gave a couple of oinks to illustrate. Man nodded.
“Pig,” he said. He rubbed his angular chin. “Pig dead.”
“I’ll say!” said Baby. “And where’s the rest of it?” He opened the light box again and took out another similar packet.
Man’s brow was furrowed in the particular way that indicated he was thinking something through.
“Pig sacrifice,” he concluded. “Offering to box. Box give light in return.”
I kissed his cheek. “Well done, darling. That must be it.”
“Put back.” Man thrust the packets of pig towards Baby, who did as he was told. He left the light box door open so we could enjoy the illumination it gave. I saw there were other offerings inside: eggs, bottles of liquids white and orange. The light box was a demanding god.
For my own part I felt entirely useless. I never took Domestic Science or Home Economics or whatever it is they call it. I was always too busy learning how to walk with a stack of books on my head (a useful skill, I suppose, if one turns out to be a particularly busy librarian) and, of course, at home I never ventured down to the kitchens. I was not allowed. All of that was left to the servants and so, now that I found myself with a house and kitchen of my own, I was hopelessly ill-equipped and under-qualified.
Perhaps I could befriend Mrs Lyons next door and glean from her the knowledge I would need... Not that she struck me as the befriendable type. It was going to take time. Time and flattery and charm, I supposed.
Uncle Mjomba tired of swinging from cupboard to cupboard and hurled himself through a rectangular hole in the wall, landing in the room beyond.
“Mjomba!” Man was alarmed. He dove through the hole like a knife plunged into water. Baby followed but I held back. I had seen this kind of hole before; it was a serving hatch, I was sure of it, rather than the entrance to the next room.
I exited via the kitchen door and traversed a short hallway that contained a staircase to the upper storey, the front door and, following the sounds of my family’s voices, a door on the right, which I pushed through and joined them in an empty space. A window looked out onto the front garden and the street, but that was it.
Uncle Mjomba was swinging from a cable that hung from the centre of the ceiling. A light fitting without a bulb - I am not a complete stranger to civilised living, just unused to it. Man and Baby watched him, encouraging him to describe circles in the air and to spin faster and faster.
They have always been adept at making their own entertainment.
They would have watched Mjomba spinning around for hours if I had not interjected a reminder that there was a whole other floor o
f the house as yet unexplored. Baby clapped his hands and held out his arms to catch his uncle but Mjomba mistimed the moment; he released the cable too soon and flew directly through the hatch and back into the kitchen.
“Bravo, Uncle!” Baby clapped his hands in appreciation. Mjomba leapt onto the kitchen table and took a bow.
“Come on, darling.” I took Man’s hand and led him to the hallway. I could detect reluctance in every inch of him. “What’s wrong?”
He looked around with such pain in his eyes and his glance took in the hallway, the stairs, the walls, the ceiling and all the rest of it. I squeezed his fingers.
“We’ll get used to it,” I promised. “You know: the old adapt and survive.”
He remained tight-lipped. Baby and Mjomba joined us.
“Our very own stairs, Mother!” Baby gasped.
“All mod cons, the advertisement said. We shall have little need of your rope-ladder fashioning skills, darling.”
Baby seemed put out by this but soon cheered up again when I suggested he should be the first to try out these miracles of civilised living. He was cautious at first, planting one tentative foot on the lowermost step. I nodded in encouragement. He lifted his other foot and placed it alongside its twin. Uncle Mjomba screeched in delight and performed a back flip. Man watched Baby intently. Baby adopted a determined expression and looked at the rest of the flight ahead. There were twelve steps still to go, the top three hidden from view as they wound around a corner.
I have witnessed my son climb the tallest trees and scale the rockiest precipices but I have never seen him so proud and so resolute than he was to face this present challenge.
He tackled the next four or five steps as slowly as he had approached the first, then his confidence grew and he took the next five at a faster pace, working out that one only need place a single foot on each step in order to propel oneself upwards. He reached the bend and paused to look back. From the foot of the staircase, Uncle Mjomba raised a hand in a slow wave.
“Man’s son.” My husband was clearly as proud of Baby as I was. Baby waved to us before turning away. He swallowed - fear, perhaps - and resumed his ascent, disappearing from our view.
Man, Mjomba and I exchanged brief glances before tearing up those stairs in seconds flat. I had tackled such installations before, of course. So had Man - he’s battled with creatures and men in no end of ancient ruined temples - and Uncle Mjomba, well, he’s the most agile and adaptable individual I have ever encountered.
Baby was waiting for us on the landing and seemed surprised at the speed of our arrival. We jostled through each of the four doors in turn. Three of the rooms were empty and one was considerably smaller than the other two. The fourth room contained a sink, bathtub and a lavatory upon the lid of which Uncle Mjomba perched himself at once.
“Another kitchen, Mother?”
Man ruffled Baby’s hair, amused by his question.
“Er - no, darling,” I searched for words to finish my explanation.
“Watering hole,” said Man, jumping to my rescue as is his wont. “Inside watering hole.”
“Yes! Darling, that’s exactly what it is.” I applauded my clever husband’s perspicacity. Baby didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he looked more than a little perplexed.
“How lucky,” he said but his frown suggested otherwise. “How lucky we are to live so near to the watering hole. We must be the envy of our neighbours.”
I grasped his error right away. “Oh, no, darling. This is for our use only. The neighbours will have their own bathrooms, I expect.”
“Barth... rum...” Baby tried the syllables carefully. “But where is the water, Mother?” He glanced at the ceiling. “How does the rain get in?”
Man’s eyes followed Baby’s upwards and his handsome features clouded.
“It doesn’t,” I said, “Or rather, it shouldn’t. Here!”
Displaying a level of confidence I didn’t entirely feel, I reached for the controls above the tub. Drawing on my memories of showers I had taken in my pre-jungle, pre-elephant days, I twisted a dial so that its pointer indicated the wide end of a blue wedge-shaped hieroglyph. I stood back.
Nothing happened.
I stared at the showerhead, willing it to work.
“Rain dance?” Man suggested. I doubted there would be enough space in that small bathroom but was willing to give it a try when Uncle Mjomba literally sprang to the rescue. He launched himself from the cistern in a bid to swing from a length of string suspended near the door. His weight pulled the string down by an inch or so and a light came on on the control box and, miraculously, water rained from the showerhead. Man and Baby clapped and jumped up and down, congratulating Mjomba on his success.
We watched the bathtub slowly fill. Man and Baby, tentatively at first, held their hands under the steady spray. Before long they were sticking their heads in it and larking around. I left them to it and withdrew to the largest of the empty rooms where the window overlooks the front garden and the street.
Not for the first time I asked myself if we had done the right thing. Oh, I know we had to leave the jungle; there was no alternative to that course of action. But, coming here, to this place of all the places we could have chosen...
Ah, choice! What a word that is!
Perhaps I should have held out for more money and a better deal. Perhaps I should have instructed Mr Lyons (or whomever) to seek us out somewhere more rural where the clamour of civilisation would not be overwhelming. Perhaps -
Perhaps is another word.
For the time being we were here, in Dedley, and we would have to make the best of it. And if he’s one thing (and indeed he is many things) my husband is adaptable. He survived without human contact for years before I met him. I had no doubt he could adjust to life surrounded by humans here.
I caught myself chewing at my lower lip as if I lacked the courage of my convictions. I stopped it at once and joined my family. They were enjoying themselves immensely, splashing around in our very own indoor watering hole.
Chapter Three
In which we have a meal of sorts and Man comes to our neighbours’ rescue
It was not long before our bellies commanded our attention. The joys of the indoor watering hole were abandoned and we reconvened in the kitchen where Man was examining a set of knives, housed in a wooden block. He found each one wanting in some respect: too short, too thin, too heavy, too light... In the end, he shoved the block aside and withdrew his most trusty companion that was not me: his knife. This blade has been with him his entire life and he has yet to tell me how he acquired it. He has used it to perform many tasks - some of them grisly - including his daily shave.
“Hunt now,” he said and headed for the back door.
Oh, dear!
“Wait, darling! It’s - it’s late to go hunting. And Mr Lyons has gone to such trouble to leave us all these provisions.” I made a gesture that took in the entire kitchen. For illustrative purposes, Uncle Mjomba held up a brightly coloured box with a drawing of a monkey in a hat and the label Rice-o-Pops - whatever that may mean.
Man hitched his knife back into his loincloth. He nodded towards the garden.
“Make fire,” he announced and out he went. “Son help,” he added without looking around. Baby leapt at the chance to be outdoors with his dear old dad and to be engaged in familiar activity. He looked to me for permission as if he needed it. I assured him that this was our home now and he could come and go as he pleased - he’d gone before I reached the end of my sentence.
“Well, Mjomba,” I put my hands on my hips and he aped the gesture (for want of a better term), “it looks like it’s down to you and me to make dinner.”
Mjomba’s masked head dipped sadly. My guess is he would have preferred to be in the garden with the others. I proceeded to open all the cupboard
doors and pulled out everything I could find. We would have had a veritable banquet on our hands had the metal cylinders not baffled me utterly. I knew about canned goods - of course I did - and I knew one required some kind of device or utensil to open them, but what form that device or utensil might take, I could not begin to fathom. Mjomba presented me the wooden block of knives but that was no help whatsoever. And so, cans were off the menu for this evening at least. There were packets of rice and dried spaghetti; I knew about these, having dined in all the best restaurants and studied a thing or two about nutrition in my days at Finesse. In the jungle we were unaccustomed to carbohydrates and I attribute my lean figure and my husband’s muscular frame to our protein-rich diet.
Mjomba took my hand and led me to the tall white box; its door was still open and the light god was still spilling his beneficence upon the goods within.
“What are you saying, Mjomba?” I watched him perform a mime about taking items from the light box and eating them. “Do you think we ought?”
Now, I don’t know about you (of course I don’t) but I’m not what you might call a religious person. I respect people’s beliefs and local customs, however odd or foolish they may appear - I learned the hard way after sitting on someone’s hand-carved totem. Quite by accident, you understand; and Man had to come to my rescue yet again before the people I had offended could tie me to the two trees they had bent to the ground and bound with vines. What happens, you see, is they slash the vines and the treetops are released. They spring back to their upright position and tear the poor unfortunate tied between them (which would have been me in this instance) in half, flinging body parts into the sky over some considerable distance. It might sound perfectly horrid to us as outsiders but well, as I say, one ought to respect the beliefs of others.
I was reluctant to take goods from the light box - not because I believed it would anger the little god inside it, provoking him into plunging the kitchen into darkness, but because I didn’t want to upset Mr Lyons. He had been so good to us and so very helpful, I didn’t want to offend his religious sensibilities.
Jungle Out There Page 2