Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  “English? I’ll kill the English.”

  “He can hear what you’re saying, Ten. He wants to hear your story about being a king.”

  Ten Eyck Noecker looked up at Valentine and sneered. He picked up the half pint of beer in front of him and drank it down.

  “Would you like a drink, Mr Noecker?” said Valentine.

  “I will accept a drink from an Englishman.”

  Ouderkirk took the glass from his hand. “I will fetch the drink, but you are paying Mr Englishman. Why don’t you and Ten get to know each other?”

  Valentine sat down on a chair on the other side of the table and looked across at Noecker. His eyes focused then wandered vaguely before refocusing.

  At one of the focused moments Valentine said. “Mr Ouderkirk said you were going to go away.”

  “The lies of Englishmen.”

  “What man?”

  “Roberts. Captain Roberts he said his name was.” Noecker leaned forward conspiratorially. “He didn’t want to tell me about the colony, but I made him tell me.”

  “Colony?”

  Noecker looked around then hissed “Australia” so loud that everyone in the bar could hear him. Valentine pretended he had whispered it.

  “Australia?”

  Noecker nodded. “Going to take me and some others.”

  “I thought you had missed it.”

  Noecker’s face fell. “Missed it?” He seemed to be examining himself, his memories. “Missed it. I missed the boat.”

  Ouderkirk returned with a pint for Noecker. He hadn’t bought anything for himself or Valentine. Noecker grabbed up the drink and swallowed noisily. Some of the beer escaped his mouth and wetted him down the front of his shirt.

  “Why did they want you, Mr Noecker?”

  “Always room for good men and women he said.” Noecker had both fists wrapped around the glass and he clung to it. “Missed it. Couldn’t find the place. Saw it go up though.”

  “What did it look like?” Valentine tried to hold back his excitement; if he was right he knew exactly what it would look like.

  Noecker seemed to fade out.

  “He’s gone,” said Ouderkirk.

  “Like timber,” said Noecker.

  Valentine frowned. “Timber? What do you mean?”

  “Like wood, square chopped short.”

  “I wasted your time, Mr Crier,” said Ouderkirk. “Let’s go.”

  “No, he’s right, I’ve seen one as well. That’s exactly what they look like.” Valentine was delighted. There was one last thing. “Where did you have to go to take the ship?”

  Noecker looked surprised, as if no one had asked before. “Eikenhof.”

  Valentine looked at Ouderkirk, he nodded. “Hill with trees, not many people.”

  iii

  “Amita, I need you to find Ray Jennings.”

  Maliha sat at the table in the sitting room of Barbara’s suite. The door to the bedroom was open and Maliha had moved the table so she could see Barbara on the bed. Lunch had come and gone. Valentine wouldn’t be back until the evening at the earliest. It was possible he would be gone all night. She shivered at the thought. She did not want to spend the night alone.

  Amita had not responded but nor had she moved. She looked as if she wanted to protest.

  “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “You do not like Jennings, sahiba.”

  Maliha could be wrong but there seemed a subtle change in Amita’s demeanour. Though she was strong and had more than once used that strength to defend Maliha, she had always been almost mouse-like in temperament. Uncertain. She did not like to draw attention to herself because of what she was. But now she seemed to express more confidence, and a readiness to argue was apparently a symptom.

  “No,” said Maliha. “He is an appalling little man.”

  “And you want me to fetch him.”

  “I don’t mind whether you bring him here or I can give you a message for him. There is something he can do; it will confirm my promise to make him part of something bigger if he doesn’t use those pictures he has.”

  “I will take message. He should not be here with mem sahib so ill.”

  Maliha glanced in at Barbara. She barely moved but the doctor insisted she was mending. He had listened to her heart and was sure there was no permanent damage. Maliha knew how uncertain such a diagnosis was, but did not mention it.

  “Very well, let me write a letter for you to take.”

  She spent twenty minutes composing her instructions. She appealed to his better side and asked for his help in determining when and where the black babies had disappeared. She explained that the locals thought it was an evil spirit. She contemplated mentioning her goddess aspect, he might get better information if he was working for a goddess, but decided not to. It would be something more he might use against her in the future. She did not trust him any further than she could throw him—under normal gravity—but he would act in his own self-interest so ensuring that his desires aligned with hers was all she needed.

  Finally she gave Amita the address of Ray’s hotel. It could be a bit awkward Amita turning up at a hotel to talk to a man but Ray was not likely to be in a very respectable place anyway. She trusted that Amita would be able to deal with any problems.

  Amita had only been gone a few minutes when the telephone rang.

  The bell made a considerable racket and she was concerned it might disturb Barbara. She jumped to her feet, crossed the floor and pulled open the twin doors. She lifted the earpiece from its mount which cut off the ringing. The mouthpiece horn protruded a little too high for her, and she had to stand on tip-toe. She located the earpiece correctly and said “Hullo”.

  “Miss Anderson?” The voice of the female operator had almost no trace of accent and was very clear if tinny, like on a phonograph.

  “Yes, this is Miss Anderson.” Maliha made sure she spoke clearly.

  “There is a woman in the lobby who would like to speak with you.”

  “What is her name?”

  “She says her name is Ulrika Putnam.”

  “I don’t know her. Did she say what it was about?”

  “She said it was about a baby.”

  “Send her up. I am in Barbara Makepeace-Flynn’s room.”

  Maliha put the earpiece back without a goodbye. Then realised they already knew which room she was in from the telephone call. No matter.

  She found herself quite excited; Ulrika Putnam must be white otherwise she would not be in the hotel. And about a baby.

  She glanced around the room, it was all in good order, good enough to receive a visitor. The power cable across the floor looked odd but never mind. Maliha went into the bedroom and checked that Barbara was still breathing. She pulled the door to her room a little more closed when she came out.

  The expected knock on the door came a few minutes later.

  “Come in.”

  Ulrika Putnam was barely five feet high and at first glance looked no older than perhaps fifteen. But she carried herself with such an air of tiredness and despondency she seemed much older. She had pale skin and blond hair. Though small she walked with her shoulders hunched as if trying to hide her generous endowment. She had no wedding ring and was alone. Her clothes were of good quality and clean but had seen better days.

  Maliha smiled. “Please take a seat, Miss Putnam.”

  The woman sat on the sofa indicated. Maliha took her seat at the table and glanced in to Barbara who had not moved.

  “You are Miss Anderson?”

  “I am.”

  “The investigator?”

  Maliha would have become annoyed if she were not used to it. “Yes, I am she and I am barely twenty years old if that matters to you.”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “No, I was...”

  “Expecting someone older. A spinster of a certain age.”

  The girl looked embarrassed and nodded.

  “Miss Putnam. Your father is Afrikaans, and your mother is,
what, Swedish?”

  The woman looked wide-eyed and nodded again.

  “You, however, are not married yet and found yourself with child. For which your father threw you out of the house. You have somewhere to stay but no money.

  “You were told that if you got rid of the child you would be allowed back into the family and so you gave your child to someone who promised to look after it for a sum of, what, the equivalent of say ten pounds sterling per month, with some extra at the start. Which your mother has probably paid without your father’s knowledge.

  “You have provided the money in good faith but the promise of being able to see your child again has been denied you and now the person looking after your child has vanished. You have heard the great detective Maliha Anderson is in Johannesburg and you have come to ask me to find your child.”

  The girl burst into tears.

  Maliha stole another glance into Barbara’s bedroom. Her arm had moved, Maliha was certain of it. The delight of that was tempered by the certainty that Ulrika Putnam’s child was probably dead; while some people did provide proper adoption the fact Ulrika had been denied access did not bode well. Still, it did provide an interesting possibility that had not occurred to her before.

  The girl got control of herself. “How...?”

  “You look like a Viking, have a Scandinavian Christian name but have a Dutch family name. You wear no wedding band but your breasts are heavy with milk and are, I imagine, causing you some discomfort.”

  “But how do you know about my family?”

  “No magic. You have decent clothes but you’ve been wearing them for several months. So, no money and no home. The Dutch are sticklers for propriety and would not want the slightest shame attached to them so out you go. But your mother was not brought up in their tradition so she would not abandon you.”

  “But how did you know I was unable to see him?”

  A boy. “Because you’re here.”

  “No magic, then,” Ulrika said. “Can you find my baby boy?”

  Maliha sighed. “Are you sure you want me to?”

  “Please.”

  “You might not want to know the truth.”

  “You are saying he might be dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to know, and if he is then I will light a candle and mourn him.”

  “Very well.”

  Despite the obvious padding at the front of Ulrika’s bodice Maliha saw a slight darkening where it was becoming wet.

  “I may also be able to do something about your other problem.”

  “My other...oh.” The poor girl looked mortified when she realised what was happening.

  Maliha looked through to the bed again. Barbara’s arm had definitely moved. She turned back to Ulrika who was heading for the door. “Wait, don’t go that way.”

  The girl stopped, confused.

  Maliha went to the door that led through to her suite. “Come along,” she said.

  Timid as a mouse Ulrika followed. The nurse was sitting on a straight-backed chair reading a book.

  “This is Ulrika,” Maliha said to her. “She will act as wet-nurse for the time being.”

  “The baby does not need a woman’s milk, madam.”

  “No indeed, but I doubt she will object. More importantly, Ulrika has lost her baby and needs help.”

  The nurse understood and went into the bedroom to wake the baby. Maliha turned to Ulrika. The stains were bigger but there was one more matter to deal with. “Miss Putnam, I am sure you are a sensible young woman but I should probably tell you that Baba is not a white baby.”

  “She’s yours?”

  “Well, as to whether she is mine is perhaps a philosophical question, but no, I did not give birth to her. Little Barbara is black.”

  Ulrika hesitated. “Black?”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  There was a pitiable cry from the other room. Maliha could almost see the natural reaction of a mother to rush to a child in need. Though even Maliha knew that was just a niggly little cry. No real upset.

  Ulrika’s nature was at war with her nurture. Nature won and she went through into the bedroom without another word as she fumbled with the cords that held her bodice.

  iv

  Amita found the hotel without any difficulty. It was towards the west, in the direction of the Klipspruit. The hotel’s exterior looked as if it had once been ornate but it had taken a great deal of damage from guns and bullets.

  There was no doorman. There was a clean and pressed suit behind the counter, unfortunately the man inside it was dirty and looked as if his thinning and greying hair had never been washed. He scratched himself.

  “Ray Jennings,” she said.

  “Room three-ten.”

  “I know.”

  “You can go up.”

  “Send someone to fetch him.”

  There was a moment of reassessment: clean skin and hair, beautiful sari, perfect manicure. Not a prostitute, at least not one anyone staying here could afford. Amita loomed.

  “I’ll send someone to fetch him.”

  The someone was a cook who argued but was eventually persuaded. Amita stepped away from the counter and took in the dreary interior of the hotel lobby. Wood stained dark, black tiles, cream painted walls which seemed to be turning yellow. The intense smell of stale tobacco and other smells that Amita was familiar with from her previous existence.

  This was the sort of place she had frequented in those days.

  She heard the two men come stumbling out of the stairwell. There was a lift but it looked as if it was never used.

  She turned to face Ray Jennings and was surprised to realise that even he looked better than this place. She held out the letter from Maliha which he took and read. Twice.

  “She thinks she can figure something out from that?”

  “My mistress is cleverer than everyone.”

  “And you’re coming with me?”

  “She thinks women make people talk more.”

  “Yeah,” he said and glanced around at the clerk at the desk. Ray got closer to her. “But you ain’t a woman, are ya?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Amita punched him in the solar plexus. Ray dropped to the floor wheezing to catch his breath. The clerk stared.

  “No insult ... intended,” squeaked Ray with his face in the dust.

  * * *

  Amita stood outside in the sun. It was the hottest part of the day and she found some shade against the wall of the building opposite. She disturbed a box and half a dozen rats ran for safer cover.

  Ray finally emerged from the hotel with his camera and other gear. He squinted but apparently did not see her in the shade. She stepped forward into the light. He jumped then made his way across the road avoiding a bicycle that shot past.

  Amita smiled pleasantly. “You are not better than me, Ray Jennings. But Miss Anderson is better than you or me.”

  Ray frowned then shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “Listen to me, Ray Jennings,” she said, still smiling. “Miss Anderson is good person. She thinks if she help you then you leave her alone.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He shifted the weight of the bag on his shoulder.

  “But I know you, Ray Jennings. I know men like you. If you hurt my mistress I kill you.”

  “Kill me?”

  “Dead.” Amita put her head on one side. “You think I not do it?”

  He appeared to be giving her comment serious consideration. “Yeah, all right. If I hurt her, you’ll kill me.”

  Amita nodded and changed the subject. “Where do we go?”

  “Well we need someone who actually knows something about the black kids going missing.”

  “Mama Kosi.”

  “Yeah? Who’s she then?” Ray rummaged in his bag and pulled out a straw hat with a wide brim. It was crushed from being in the bag but he straightened it out until only parts of the brim drooped and then crammed it onto his head.

  �
�She is Africa witch,” said Amita and pulled a loop of her sari over her head.

  “Great,” said Ray. “You know which way to go?”

  “This way,” she said pointing down the street. “It is not far from here.”

  Amita set off with long strides that had Ray almost running to keep up. It amused her that the man was following the woman.

  “So...” said Ray when he eventually caught up with her and came alongside. “Can I ask about you without you hitting me?”

  “You ask, I decide.”

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you make a good-looking woman but big,” he said it cagily and kept his eyes on her as if he were ready to dodge if one of her arms came swinging out at him.

  Amita said nothing. She had never been questioned like this before. Ray seemed genuinely curious and not disgusted. The people who did not know what she was treated her like a woman which was what she wanted. Those who found out fell into two groups. Those who accepted her, mostly the other hijra, but sometimes people like Maliha. Barbara and Valentine were aware but Amita knew they only tolerated her for Maliha’s sake.

  And there were the others who would stone her to death given the chance. Men, women, British or Indian it did not matter, they hated her for what she was. The women were the worst.

  Now there was Ray. “You have question?”

  “I dunno really, just interested,” he said. “When did you realise you wanted to be a woman?”

  “I do not know. Never asked.”

  Ray was quiet for a while as they laboured through the roasting streets. The buildings had shrunk into the small one and two room residencies Amita had seen before. The number of trees increased. She stopped under one of them. Ray was panting and sweating.

  “I am sorry to go so fast.”

  Ray brought out a bottle of water from his bag, unscrewed the lid and drank. “Can’t decide whether India is worse than here or the other way round.” He paused gathering his breath. “Either way I’d be happier back in London.”

  “Your home is in London?”

  Ray nodded. “Yeah, Limehouse. It’s not a quality place but it’s where I was born. Where I grew up.”

  “Where you want to die?”

  Ray looked at her. “Something like that.”