Then again, my family was hungry. Mjomba and I shared an instant of eye contact. We shrugged in unison and ransacked that cold, white shrine like grave robbers in a long-dead chieftain’s tomb.
We carried armfuls of plunder out to the garden where Man and Baby had cleared a patch of ground and had got a fire going. Instantly, I felt more at home. There’s something about a nice open fire, isn’t there?
I handed Man a packet of bacon. He glanced at it and then at me and a smile curled the corner of his mouth. He didn’t believe in the white box god any more than I did but sometimes he tells Baby these stories - it is how he explains the ways of the world. Which is what religion is, isn’t it? An explanation.
He skewered the packet on the end of a stick and held it over the flames. The rest of us sat around in a circle. Our first meal at our new home! Such a special occasion.
The bacon began to give off an odour and not a pleasant one. Certainly not the sweet smell I remembered from childhood breakfasts. Plumes of smoke rose from the packet. Baby coughed and choked. I rubbed and patted his back. Uncle Mjomba jumped around, screeching in alarm.
“Wrong,” said Man with a quizzical look at the end of the stick. Wild thoughts stampeded through my mind of returning the bacon to the white box in a bid to appease the light god...
“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” came a strident voice from the other side of the fence. Mrs Lyons’s face could have given Mjomba’s mask a run for its money.
“Good evening, Mrs Lyons,” I got to my feet and greeted her. “Won’t you join us for some pig meat?”
“I will not! Look at the smoke! And the smell!”
Man chuckled, “Look at smell!”
Baby laughed but our neighbour was about as far from amused as we were from Africa. Her husband materialised at her elbow.
“Good evening, Mr Lyons,” I turned my hospitable smile towards him, the softer option.
“Never mind the good evenings,” Mrs Lyons interrupted. “How can you call this a good evening? Tell them, Brian. They can’t do this. This is a smoke-free zone.”
Mr Lyons tried to pacify his wife by patting her arm. It didn’t work.
“Er...” he smiled weakly, “I think you may have left the polythene on.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The plastic wrapping. You’re supposed to take the bacon out before you cook it.”
Mrs Lyons sent a sharp elbow to her husband’s ribcage. “That’s not the point, Brian. They’re not supposed to be cooking outdoors at all.”
Mr Lyons pulled an uneasy face. “I don’t know, love; everybody likes a barbecue.”
Mrs Lyons’s face looked like it might burst into flames. “This - this isn’t a barbecue! This is arson!”
“Our son,” said Man, pointing at Baby. He can be very droll.
Mrs Lyons let out a sound like a constipated warthog. Her husband flinched as though she might hit him or use him as a missile.
“You need to put out that fire at once,” she blustered, her face now the exact hue of a baboon’s backside. “I’m sure there are bylaws that prohibit it.”
Man stood up and approached her. He towered over her and she was eye-to-nipple with his perfect pecs.
“Lion woman eat raw?” he asked. “Uncivilised!”
Mrs Lyons puffed out her cheeks like an embarrassed bullfrog. “That’s not what I mean at all. Tell him, Brian. It’s the smoke I object to. It’s pollution.”
One of Man’s eyebrows raised in an arch. “Lion woman hate smoke.”
“At last!” Mrs Lyons cheered. “He gets it. Yes! Lion woman hate smoke. Hallelujah.”
“Why Lion house full of smoke?”
“I beg your pardon.”
Man nodded over Mrs Lyons’s shoulder. She looked; we all did. Thick, black smoke was billowing from the back door and ground floor windows of the house next door. Mrs Lyons let out a squawk.
“Barbara!” Mr Lyons held her back. “Did you leave the chip pan on the hob?”
These words meant little to any of us but Mrs Lyons’s next utterance galvanised Man into action. “It’s the girls!” she cried. “They’re upstairs!”
Man vaulted over the fence and sprinted into the burning building. Uncle Mjomba climbed onto the fence, squealing in agitation. I put my arm around Baby’s shoulder and we all watched and waited.
“Don’t just stand there, Brian,” Mrs Lyons swatted her husband. “Phone the fire brigade!”
Mr Lyons fumbled something from his cardigan pocket, held it to the side of his face and spoke into it. (Oh, I know about telephones; I’m just not accustomed to seeing people carrying them around everywhere without great trails of cable dragging behind them).
The sounds from inside the house were not encouraging. There were crashes as things fell over and whooshes as the fire surged and pursued its rampage of destruction.
Perhaps I’m over-dramatising. If you’ve seen square miles of rainforest ablaze and hundreds of animals teeming away in desperation for their lives then you know you’ve seen a proper fire. But I suppose this one, from the Lyonses’ point of view, was bad enough.
A terrible silence fell, during which we all held our breath. It was broken by the searing cry of sirens as a bright red vehicle pulled into the street, but before the fire-fighters could even alight from the truck, Man appeared from around the front of the house, carrying a Lyons daughter over each of his shoulders. Mrs Lyons gasped and put her hands to her cheeks. She hurried to intercept.
“Put them down, you brute!” she insisted. Man stooped to release the girls into the relieved embrace of their parents.
“Thank you,” said Mr Lyons, freeing one hand from the familial huddle. Man shook it. He came to Baby and me and hugged us.
Then it became a matter of watching a battle of the elements as water conquered fire and air.
When the hurly-burly was done, one of the firemen approached to address the Lyonses. He told them they had been very lucky and there was no structural damage and it was nothing a bit of redecorating wouldn’t sort out and they should be more careful about leaving pans of oil unattended.
Mrs Lyons simpered and thanked him. She sent a pointed look in the direction of her daughters, whose father’s arms were still around them. “What have I told you about leaving the chip pan unattended?” she scowled. The girls seemed to know better than to protest their innocence. Mr Lyons planted a sideways kiss on each of their foreheads.
Man and I exchanged significant glances. Man pulled Baby towards him just as the boy’s mouth opened to say something on the girls’ behalf.
“You should get them checked for smoke inhalation,” the fireman advised. He winked at the elder daughter who coughed right on cue. Mrs Lyons dismissed him, saying her daughters were fine, thank you, and had learned a valuable lesson. The fireman backed away. He paused to give my family group an appraisal and seemed to find us astonishing.
“That was a brave thing you did, big man.”
“Just ‘Man’,” Man beamed.
“But also very stupid,” the fireman continued. “Next time, leave the heroics to the professionals, eh?”
Man’s smile didn’t falter but I could feel him tense up. Of all the countless heroic rescues he had performed, none had been called stupid. I patted his arm. The fireman joined his team and away they rode, with less fanfare than they had arrived.
“Well,” said Mr Lyons. “Marvellous service.”
We stood around for a while, looking at the house.
“Well,” I said, “You’re welcome to stay with us. We have plenty of space.” This was an exaggeration given we were accustomed to boundless open air and unwalled jungle. Mrs Lyons looked as though I’d slapped her in the face.
“We’ll go to a hotel.” She elbowed her husband. “
Get us booked somewhere nice.”
“Eat,” said Man, gesturing towards the fire.
“Oh, yes, wonderful idea, darling! Yes,” I entreated, “you must eat with us first, before you go to your hotel.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs Lyons. The other members of her family had a different view. Already the girls were teaming up with Baby who was showing them how to skewer vegetables and whatnot on sticks and hold them over the flames.
“Come on, Mom,” the younger daughter urged. “It’s fun! Come on, Dad!”
Mr Lyons, it appeared, could refuse his daughters nothing. Gingerly, he lowered himself into a crouch, in imitation of my husband’s steadier stance. Mrs Lyons remained where she was with her arms folded.
“Half an hour, Brian,” she said. “I’ll put some things together.”
She strode into her wet and blackened house. Mr Lyons shrugged her off and did his best to get into the spirit of things. Uncle Mjomba clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a long thin stick and a banana. Mr Lyons uttered uncertain thanks. He nodded towards the charred packet of bacon on the ground.
“You should probably get shot of that,” he advised. “Taste bad,” he said deliberately.
“Lion man bring rest of pig,” Man suggested.
“Eh?”
“My husband is a little presumptuous, Mr Lyons,” I interceded, “but perhaps you might see your way to providing another cut of the animal... ”
“Eh? What animal?”
“The pig the bacon came from. Perhaps you have a leg you can spare? Or is it all gone?”
I waited patiently while the poor man fathomed the meaning of my words and I began to wonder if he might be a little slow.
“Oh, no, love - er, your ladyship - there is no pig. I mean, there was a pig - obviously, there was a pig at some stage, but I never met it. It wasn’t my pig, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Whose pig?” Man looked all around, as if hoping to detect signs of pig-keeping among the neighbours.
“I don’t know. A farmer’s, I suppose. And he sold it to the supermarket and I bought a few pieces of it. I’m not sure exactly how it works but you get the gist of it.”
“And what part of the pig is the gist, Mr Lyons.” This was Baby - always inquisitive.
“Er... ”
“Now, Baby; don’t tease Mr Lyons. He’s our gist - I mean, guest.”
“Lion man not hunt pig.”
“Er - no.”
“Lion man hunt what?”
“What? Oh, no! No, no. We don’t go in for that here: hunting. Not for food, at any rate. Or pleasure either. Hunting is banned in this country.”
Man looked stricken. “Need hunt for food.”
“Ah, you see, we do things differently here. A very different way of life. And, a word to the wise: that knife of yours. I’m afraid you won’t be able to walk around in public with such a deadly weapon.”
Man looked even more stricken. He clutched the hilt of his knife as though he suspected Mr Lyons might try to snatch it away.
“No hunt. No knife. Family starve.”
Mr Lyons laughed. “No, you won’t starve, you daft bugger! Food is readily available, you -” He gave up and turned to me. “You know about shops and money and all that, don’t you?”
“Of course!” I smiled, although I dearly hoped he wasn’t going to test me.
“You’ll get used to it,” Mr Lyons assured Man. His banana fell into the fire. Uncle Mjomba rested the chin of his mask on Mr Lyons’s knee in consolation.
“Brian!” Mrs Lyons called in a clear, strident voice that would have carried across the Serengeti. “The bags are packed. Bring the girls.”
“Oh, Mom!” the Lyon girls chorused in disappointment.
“May they stay a while longer, Mother?” Baby was pouting in that irresistible way of his.
“If it was up to me, darling,” I said helplessly. Mr Lyons got to his feet with the aid of a steadying arm from Uncle Mjomba. He had stood up but was not going to stand up to his wife.
“Come on, girls,” he sighed. “You’ll see your new friend tomorrow.”
Reluctantly, the girls said their goodbyes. The elder took one last photograph with her camera, which we had come to understand was also a message-conveying device and even a telephone, rather than a life-support machine that she must never relinquish.
“See you, Sonny.” She linked an arm through her father’s.
“See you... Alison,” said Baby, pleased to try out their mode of speech.
“Ta-ta,” said the younger sister, returning her stick to Baby. She linked her father’s other arm and with a last wistful look at the fire, they trudged off to meet Mrs Lyons at the family car.
When they had driven away, I asked Man what was troubling him.
“No hunt,” he shook his head. “How to live?”
I stretched my arm around his narrow waist and lay my head against his chest. His heartbeat, like jungle drums conveying a message in a more traditional manner, was my favourite kind of music.
“We shall live as these people do, darling. We shall become civilised at last.”
I laughed but Man didn’t. Uncle Mjomba shook his masked head sadly and poked at the embers with a twig.
“I think it’s exciting,” said Baby cheerfully. “It’s a chance to learn new things and experience another culture.”
“That’s right, darling!”
But Man and I exchanged a worried look. It was clear to us that Baby - sorry, Sonny - was under the impression that our removal from our jungle home was only temporary.
Chapter Four
In which I make breakfast and experience public transport for the first time
The following morning, I was the first to wake. I sat up and stretched and looked down at my sleeping family. Baby looks so adorable when he’s asleep. So does Mjomba even though he keeps his mask on, and as for my husband - well! I can honestly say I’ve never seen a more handsome slab of man-flesh.
Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I was just in time to see my neighbours’ upstairs curtains close very quickly. Someone had been looking out and hadn’t liked what they had seen. My best guess is it was Mrs Lyons. I suspect she couldn’t wait to get back from her night in a hotel in order to keep an eye on what her crazy new neighbours were up to.
Because what else had changed in the view from her upstairs window in the last twenty-four hours? Only the addition - some might say, embellishment - of my family. Anyone might think she had never seen people sleeping on the roof of a shed.
Perhaps there are some things about other people and the way they live their lives that I will never understand either.
I listened to the distant rumble of traffic: motorcars and what-have-you on the main road. The constant noise and the unnatural smell made the air heavy and unpalatable even in the haven of our own garden. I realised I missed the cries of colourful birds and the chirrups of insects and the rustle of leaves as predators slink after their prey through the undergrowth. I missed the canopy of green that framed the sky. I missed the glory of the sunrise - Here, the sky seemed to swap the dark blue of night for a range of shades of grey before settling on one that would do for the rest of the morning.
I tried to imagine what it must be like for Man who has known nothing but his jungle home his entire life. Baby too was in a similar position although he had the benefit of my experience of the outside world as he went through those important early years. And Mjomba - well, who can tell what’s going on behind that wooden face? It is perhaps wisest not to try to fathom the workings of Uncle Mjomba’s mind.
The sounds of the traffic grew louder as the sky did its best to turn brighter. Man and Baby stirred. They rubbed their eyes. Man sat up and kissed my cheek, which he
does first thing every morning without fail.
“Good morning, darlings!” I hugged them both. “Good morning, Mjomba.”
The mask twitched. Uncle Mjomba extended one of his long arms in what may have been a greeting or indeed a plea for five more minutes of kip. He must have forgotten where we were because the gesture caused him to lose his balance and he tumbled off the edge of the shed.
We all laughed - after we had peered down to see he was uninjured, of course. Mjomba scampered into the house, chattering merrily.
“Watering hole,” said Man.
“I expect so,” I agreed.
Man’s brow dipped in the slightest of frowns. “Lady try watering hole?”
“Well, I...” I could tell a lot was riding on my answer, “- I haven’t exactly tried everything but if you need help, darling...” Of course, I had been brought up with bathrooms - every other room in our house had been a bathroom but one gets used to other habits. I remember an awkward time when Man and I first met and I needed to answer Nature’s call, and Man was so sweet; he showed me, with splendid discretion, where and how to dispose of my waste. A wide circle of holes in the ground around the tree house worked better than any fence to keep the big cats away.
Man looked away. He was accustomed to being the one who helped me out of sticky situations.
“You can show me, Dad,” Baby rescued us both. “It will be an adventure.”
While the men in my life sprang from the shed and went into the house to avail themselves of the facilities, I began to fret about breakfast.
I looked down at the garden. There was not much to it. Some rough grass and some dowdy plants but I didn’t recognise but were probably weeds. (That’s a curious concept when one thinks about it: weeds. Plants one doesn’t want so one rips them out and kills them. The only plant I don’t want is the carnivorous type that stinks like carrion. Man has had to rescue me from those things on more than one occasion. But I won’t go into all of that now.)
Breakfast...
Last night’s fire was all but dead so cooking something was off the menu. I remembered the supplies in the kitchen and the brightly coloured box that boasted its own worth as the ideal meal with which to begin one’s day. Surely, the problem was solved!
Jungle Out There Page 3