Jungle Out There

by William Stafford

  “Y - your ladyship?” Carl took on the expression of a stunned fish, although the word I would have taken exception to was ‘schmoozes’. I offered him my hand. He took my fingertips in his and kissed my knuckles in a terribly self-conscious and considerably damp manner.

  I have noticed since early childhood the effects a title can have on people and not just the hoi polloi. All in all, I prefer to win people over with my charm and strength of character but I am not above letting the class system work to my advantage when the occasion presents itself. You may think it’s a particularly British thing but I have observed in the jungle social hierarchies and pecking orders among all sorts of beasts and birdies. Take your silverback gorilla, for instance -

  “Your ladyship?”

  I became aware the security man was waving his hefty hand in front of my face.

  “Oh, dear,” I blushed, “I’m afraid I drifted off into contemplation of the complex structures of gorilla society.”

  “Er -“ said Carl, a man clearly unused to such musings.

  “Let the tour begin!” I said heartily. I offered him my arm to link through his. He eyed me with suspicion, so we walked at some distance apart along a line of bottles of vivid liquids with pictures of taps, sinks and toilets on the labels.

  My attention was seized by shelves stacked with cans bearing labels of their contents: tomatoes, chopped or not as the case may be; beans of many kinds - red kidney, butter, black eye... The range on offer was awe-inspiring. I wouldn’t know where to begin and wasn’t listening to a word my escort was saying - although I doubt he was saying much at all and nothing of import.

  We came to another aisle, also crammed with cans but here the labels bore portraits of furry faces, cats and dogs. I was horror-stricken. When I was last in this country, these creatures were considered domestic pets, honorary members of one’s family. What new fad was this?

  Sensing my consternation, Carl ceased his ramblings and asked if there was anything up with my ladyship. I gestured weakly at the labels.

  “Oh, yes,” Carl seemed to take professional pride, “we have an extensive range in jelly or in gravy.”

  I felt sick. In the jungle I have eaten many things that most people might consider exotic, to say the least, but everyone has their limits. “This one has tuna in it,” I observed. “Is the cat meat so unpalatable it has to be flavoured?”

  Carl laughed. The callous hound.

  “Oh, no, your ladyship! It’s not cat meat. Well, it is, but it’s meat for cats.”

  I felt stupid in the extreme and my cheeks flushed a fetching shade of vermillion, I am sure.

  “So, they don’t eat pets in this country?” I had to make certain.

  “Oh, no! Ooh, yuck,” Carl pulled a face to demonstrate his disgust. “Although a while back they did find horses in the lasagne.”

  “Goodness!” I placed a hand to my throat, remembering my own Trotsky the Valiant and wondering what had become of him. Had he finished up in some pre-packaged facsimile of Italian cuisine?

  “They eats them in France, I believe,” Carl continued. “Horses, I mean. And there are countries where they’m partial to our furry friends.”

  I gazed at the rows of cans in dismay. “It’s bizarre, isn’t it? Absurd, when you think about it. Some animals are deemed companions and others are doomed to be comestibles. Why, in the jungle, I -”

  I was about to launch into a tale about trying python for the first and only time when we were interrupted by the hurried arrival of a man dressed identically to Carl but of smaller stature and whose shirt buttons did not appear to be under as much strain.

  “Carl! Carl!” he panted. Then he saw me and his eyes travelled up and down me from head to foot and back again before coming to rest in my chest area. The poor fellow was quite distracted and Carl had to nudge him out of whatever thoughts were occupying him.

  “What’s up, Steve?”

  “He’s back,” said this Steve, returning to his senses. He gave a slow nod, the significance of which was not lost on Carl.

  “Where?” his eyes darted in every direction.

  “Electronics.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Dave and Tosh are keeping an eye.”

  Carl pulled a face from which I gathered that Dave and Tosh were not his ideal choices. Carl scratched his chin.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to take a detour, your ladyship,” he said regretfully. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not in the least,” I clapped my hands. “Where are we going?”

  “This way, your ladyship.” Carl led me at a faster pace towards the rear of the establishment where a nondescript door opened onto a small room that contained two wheeled chairs and row upon row of television screens.

  Little Steve joined us. I’d wager he had travelled at a slower pace in order to enjoy the view of my posterior but I have been wrong before.

  “Where?” said Carl, dropping his bulk into one of the chairs. Little Steve pointed at one of the screens. I saw then that each one was displaying a view of a different part of the supermarket from a high angle. It was like standing on different tree branches all at the same time and seeing different aspects of the scene below all at once.

  Carl’s attention became focussed on a particular screen that showed a section of the shop where devices of all kinds were on offer - the sort of thing I’d seen the Lyons girls holding. Clearly these things are highly prized in contemporary society - prized enough to entice some unscrupulous fellow to endeavour to purloin them. So I gleaned from the security men.

  “Thing is, we can never catch him,” said Little Steve.

  “He’s never got the goods on his person,” added Carl. “He knows where the blind spots are, you see.”

  I didn’t see - but I suppose that’s the thing about blind spots. I peered more closely at the screen. The gentleman in question had a lean and hungry look - what I could see of him, for on his head he sported both a cap and a hood. There was something about the way he loitered and loped around with his gaze darting hither and yon that was oddly familiar.

  “Monkeys,” I said.

  “I beg yours?” said Carl, without taking his eyes from the screen.

  “Back home,” I explained, “there is a certain type of monkey - cheeky blighters, the lot of them - who will steal the food from off your leaf right in front of you. And the thing about this particular species, gentlemen -”

  My exposition was abruptly curtailed by an exclamation from Little Steve.

  “What the - ?” he pointed at a neighbouring screen. There appeared the image of my Baby and the Lyons girl! Baby was standing in the trolley among the selection of wares and Rebecca was endeavouring to shove the trolley hard and fast. “Bloody kids!”

  “Er...” said Carl, flashing me an anxious glance. Evidently he had recognised Baby too.

  A couple of Carl’s co-workers appeared within the frame, giving chase. Rebecca pushed Baby and the trolley off the edge of the picture, to appear at a slightly different angle alongside the lean and hungry fellow. He was cornered. Baby sprang from the trolley like a pouncing panther, bringing the fellow to the floor. Devices showered from the thief’s pockets. The security men also pounced but Baby was too quick for them. Pronking like an antelope, he left the thief in the care of the guards and bounded out of the picture.

  “Where has he gone?” Carl, Steve and I scoured the screens until we spotted Baby; he was pelting towards a moving slope that descended towards the exit. As he passed a display of fresh bread, he snatched a long, thin loaf and levelled it like a javelin or assegai - Man had taught him well. With arm straight and true, Baby hurled the makeshift spear. His target was a woman who was hurrying down the bloody escalator. The long loaf, too light to knock her down I assume, tangled between her ankles. The woman toppl
ed and rolled all the way to the bottom where another of Carl’s colleagues was waiting to intercept her.

  “Hurrah! Well done, Baby!” I cheered at the screen. I became aware that Carl and Steve were staring at me, mouths agape. “That’s my boy!” I beamed proudly. The men seemed steeped in befuddlement. I felt an explanation was necessary. “You see, gentlemen, the thing about the particular monkeys to which I was referring is that they work in a team. As soon as one pinches the food, he passes it on to a crony who passes it on to another and on it goes, and while you’re trying to chase the first monkey, another sneaks up and steals something else. It’s quite remarkable. You have no hope of getting your banana back.”

  Carl and Steve blinked in unison.

  “There was more than one thief,” I said slowly and deliberately.

  “Oh,” they said and then, with more animation, “Oh!”

  “He was palming off the goods to his accomplice in the blind spot!” said Carl.

  “Quite so,” I agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should like to join my son who seems to be being feted as some kind of hero.”

  I nodded towards the screens, on which Baby was being carried around the supermarket on the shoulders of security men.

  Chapter Six

  In which we learn what Man and Uncle Mjomba have been up to

  The rest of our visit passed by in a blur. Someone who introduced himself as the duty manager said we must fill our trolley with whatever we wanted and he would accept no money for it. I told him that was good because I hadn’t any money, and when I offered him my so-called gold card, he declined that as well. I can’t say that I blame him; it seems such a tacky, worthless thing. Then Rebecca explained that we were getting our shopping for free as a reward for the capture of one of their most notorious shoplifters. That made sense.

  The manager summoned a taxicab to convey us home. Carl and his workmates loaded up the vehicle with our provisions, which comprised mainly of fresh fruit and vegetables and several large plants in ceramic pots, and we arrived back at Edgar Street before we knew what was happening.

  Baby was keen to get out and recount his tale of derring-do to his father and could barely wait until the conveyance had come to a complete halt. He sprang from the carriage like the darting tongue of a chameleon and hurried around to the rear of the house calling, “Dad! Dad!” all the way.

  “I’ll help you get this lot indoors,” said Rebecca from somewhere among the plastic bags and boxes.

  “Hmm?” was my response - I was consumed by thoughts of pride for my brave boy.

  “The shopping. Some of it needs to go in the fridge.”

  She got out, loading herself up with as much as she could carry. The taxi driver was giving me a stern glare via his mirror. I smiled as sweetly as I could in the face of such atrocious manners.

  “If you’d be so kind, my good man,” I adopted a helpless tone. It took that and a couple of sighs before the silly man got the message. Muttering something I didn’t catch, he got out, slammed the door shut, before opening another so that I might alight. I stepped out, like liquid elegance. The street beneath my feet felt all the rougher after the cool smoothness of the supermarket floor. Barely had a minute passed before the taxi driver was carrying the rest of our things up the garden path and into the house, wobbling like a precarious termite mound fashioned from provisions. A termite mound with legs, that is. And - oh, well, I hadn’t time to improve the ill-considered simile because Rebecca’s mother, Mrs Lyons, appeared in my way like a cloud obscuring the sun.

  “You’re back,” she observed keenly, barely moving her jaw as she spoke.

  “And you’re correct.” I smiled but it was ineffective against her frowning face.

  “Just in time, too.” She folded her arms as if that made her any more formidable. “I’ve phoned the police. They’re on their way.”

  “The police?” I gasped. “Oh, my dear Mrs Lyons! Why? What has happened? Are you all right?”

  Mrs Lyons sniffed. “All this carrying-on.” She was still too vague for to be comprehended.

  “Mom?” Rebecca had emerged from the house and must have overheard our exchange.

  “Get in the house, Rebecca love,” Mrs Lyons ordered without so much as a glance at her daughter.

  “But, Mom!”

  “Now, Rebecca!”

  The child sent me an apologetic look and advised me to keep the fridge door closed so that things didn’t get spoiled, then she obeyed her mother’s command.

  “Thank you, my dear!” I called over her mother’s shoulder because you don’t need a gold card for good manners. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  My politeness seemed to infuriate Mrs Lyons. It’s funny how that works sometimes, isn’t it? One goes out of one’s way to frame one’s words carefully to cause the least amount of offence and people become enraged with you all the same.

  “May I?” she managed to force out between her teeth. I began to suspect lockjaw or something of that nature. Perhaps she had been bitten by something with paralysing venom - I made a mental note to investigate the insects of Dedley. Mrs Lyons was gesturing towards the side gate and the back garden beyond.

  “Lead on,” I smiled again, hoping to make a dent in the armour of her outrage. I followed her up the garden path. I could hear Baby’s voice, his words spilling out in a rush of excitement, and the occasional grunt of encouragement and enjoyment from my husband.

  “What’s all this about?” I asked the back of Mrs Lyons’s head. Given the grim expression she was wearing on the front of it, this was the better view.

  “Noise!” she barked. “And nuisance!”

  We turned the corner and I was able to see for myself the probable cause of her complaint.

  Uncle Mjomba was squatting on the roof of the shed. He was holding a length of garden hose and drenching the ground below. I saw there was a trench, about four inches deep, running the length of the garden. It certainly hadn’t been there when I left this morning. The ground within this trench was slick and muddy. Man and Baby were standing nearby but were absorbed by the tale of the morning’s heroics.

  Mrs Lyons must have perceived the little frown that signalled my confusion.

  “You don’t know about this?” There was an accusatory tone to her voice that I didn’t much care for.

  “I can assure you -” But before I could assure her of anything, there came an almighty shout and a misshapen figure that seemed to be comprised entirely of mud, ran up the trench with a whoop of delight. This mud man threw himself forwards, sliding on his not inconsiderable belly to the rut’s end. Man and Baby paused in their storytelling to give the mud man’s progress an appreciative nod and even a smattering of applause. Uncle Mjomba chattered and screeched in approbation.

  Mrs Lyons was aghast. The mud man peeled himself off the ground and stamped his way toward us, wiping mud from his eyes, leaving streaks of pink among the brown.

  “Hello, your ladyship,” said Mr Lyons, for it was he. “How did you get on at the supermarket?”

  “Hello,” I grinned. “It was a triumph.”

  It wasn’t the answer he might have expected.

  “Brian Lyons,” his wife was incandescent. “Get in that house this minute and get in the shower.”

  Mr Lyons looked deflated. He reminded me of Baby when I tell him bedtime is now and not in five minutes. He tried a different tactic.

  “You should have a go, love. It’s brilliant!”

  “Brian!” Mrs Lyons squawked like a macaw on fire. “How can I complain to the police about the neighbours disturbing the peace when you’re out here joining in with them?”

  Mr Lyons opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. As far as his wife was concerned, his name was already mud.

  “And you dare traipse muck up my stair carpet...�
�� she warned him, leaving the dire consequences to the imagination.

  “Hello?” said a voice from the gate.

  “Hello, hello?” said a second.

  The heads of two police officers had appeared. I recognised them at once.

  “Hello, hello, hello,” I welcomed them to my garden.

  “Hurrah!” said Baby, leaping over the trench in a single bound to join us. The policemen shook him warmly by the hand. To the utter bewilderment of Mrs Lyons.

  “Excuse me,” she struggled to get their attention, “but I phoned up to complain.”

  The policemen barely looked her up and down. One of them ruffled Baby’s hair.

  “Regular little hero you’ve got here, your ladyship,” said one.

  “I reckon anyone would be proud to live next door to such a brave little soldier,” added the other with significant emphasis on the ‘anyone’.

  “Of course you don’t know, Mrs Lyons: my brave boy defeated a shirt-lifter.”

  “Shoplifter, your ladyship.” The policemen stifled a giggle, for some reason.

  Mrs Lyons was dumbstruck. It suited her. The policemen gave the trench their appraisal.

  “Water slide, is it?” ventured one.

  “Best water slide,” said Man. They shook his hand. He put his arm around me. I could tell Mr Lyons thought he should perhaps do the same to his own wife but Mrs Lyons shot him a don’t-you-dare look that could probably be seen from the moon.

  “May we?” said the policemen in unison. Man made a magnanimous gesture and they began to pull off their boots and peel off their socks. As they rolled up their trousers, Mrs Lyons let out a roar of disgust and stormed back to her house. She encountered her daughter coming the other way and when she saw Rebecca was sporting a swimsuit and carrying a towel, she fell suddenly silent.

  Mrs Lyons went indoors, probably to sit and stew in her fire-damaged kitchen and, as I joined in the slippery, sliding fun with the others, I couldn’t help thinking the set of her jaw and the dip of her forehead reminded me of an idol I stumbled upon once carved from stone. Kisasi, god of vengeance, he was called. Given the choice between him and my new neighbour, I know whose wrath I would rather face.