Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  The sight of the woman’s halting step made Maliha flinch. It had been a while since her injury had bothered her enough to make her limp, but the sight of Auntie Flo moving in hesitant jerks caused Maliha’s old injury to ache in sympathy.

  Auntie Flo smiled. It was a convincing smile, and her teeth were in good condition.

  “Sit down, dear, and we’ll talk about your problem.”

  She pointed to the chairs by the table. Maliha crossed to the table and took the chair nearest the door; it also afforded her the most complete view of Auntie Flo’s lair.

  Auntie Flo sat with a groan and pushed herself back into the chair so her twisted back was supported.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  Maliha shook her head. The crypt had no hearth, though it was not cold, but there were four sets of wrought iron fire tools lying by the partition. As her eyes adjusted more she could make out dozens of baby pictures lining the walls.

  “All the children I have helped,” said Auntie Flo. She conjured a stained glass from somewhere beside her, along with an open beer bottle. She emptied the contents of the bottle into the glass. Maliha cast her eyes down as if she had been caught out being bold.

  “Can you help me, Auntie Flo?”

  “Of course,” she said with her wide toothy grin. “But I have to ask you some questions, but I don’t want you to be upset. All right?”

  Maliha nodded.

  “Is your baby a boy or a girl?”

  “She is a girl.”

  “And what colour was the father?”

  “He is Indian like me.”

  “Hmmm,” said Auntie Flo in a disappointed tone.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not a lot of call for Indian girls,” said Auntie Flo. “You know how it is with your people. Boys are a blessing and girls only a burden.”

  “Yes,” said Maliha sincerely. “I do know. Does that mean you cannot help me?”

  “Oh no, not that I can’t help you, no,” she said and grinned again. “It just means it is harder. Might take a bit longer. Might cost a bit more.”

  “I do not have much money,” said Maliha.

  “I wish with all my heart I did not have to ask for money, little one.” Auntie Flo’s face became the epitome of sadness and sympathy. She stretched across and rested her fingers on Maliha’s hand. “I know this is hard; you have to give away your heart; that is so much more difficult than giving away money.”

  Maliha said nothing but allowed herself a sob. She imagined that Ulrika would have been crying like the monsoon by this time. It was hard to imagine how she could even have got this far. The terror of her father must have exceeded the pain of giving away Henry, or seemed to have exceeded it, at first.

  “What’s your little girl called?”

  “Sita.”

  “And how old?”

  “Three months.”

  “So she is not yet weaned?”

  Maliha was aware that her body would not pass that test. It was clear she was not feeding a child from her own breast. She sobbed. “I was not able. I could not...”

  “So you found someone.”

  Maliha nodded then jerked her head up. “How will you feed my Sita?”

  Auntie Flo smiled comfortingly. “You see how many children I have helped, there’s always someone to be a wet nurse. You don’t have to worry on that count.”

  “So you can help me?”

  “Of course I can. I said I would and I will,” she said. “But there are expenses while I find someone.”

  “I understand,” Maliha slipped off a plain silver ring and placed it on the table between them. She could see Auntie Flo’s eyes light up. “I hope this will be enough.”

  The woman almost snatched it up as if Maliha might change her mind and take it back.

  “That will do for beginnings,” said the woman. “There will be a fee for feeding and clothes.”

  “Can I see her afterwards?”

  Auntie Flo’s smile could not have been bigger and more generous. “Of course, it is important for you to see your little one.”

  “Thank you.”

  Auntie Flo climbed off the chair. “Don’t you worry, sweetness, Auntie Flo will make everything right for you. You’ll be able to go back to your family with your head held high and see your Sita whenever you want to.”

  Maliha stood and went to the door. “Thank you.”

  “Give it a good pull, sticks a bit,” said Auntie Flo indicating the door.

  “How will I know when you’ve found someone?” said Maliha then sobbed again. She hid her face in her hands.

  “I will place an advert in the personal columns of the Johannesburg Gazette and address it to Sita’s father. There will be an address and a time. You bring Sita.”

  “How long?”

  “I will make enquiries immediately and we’ll see what we can find.”

  Auntie Flo gave Maliha a final goodbye and pushed the protesting door closed behind her. Maliha climbed the steps and blinked in the sunshine. She went out through the gates but could not see Izak or Lilith anywhere as she turned back the way they had come. She heard the sound of children playing and glanced into the cemetery. Her two spies were chasing the others around the gravestones. Maliha caught Izak’s eye and he nodded.

  Maliha headed into the city.

  v

  The rooms were in uproar when Maliha returned. Amita was issuing orders in the middle of a confusion of cases, trunks and hotel staff. When Maliha entered Amita smiled at her and shouted at a young maid who happened to have stopped packing.

  Maliha made her way across the room to where Amita stood with her arm in its sling. “I understood the ship was not leaving until tomorrow.”

  “It is so, sahiba,” Amita said. “But the Sky-Liner lifts early in the morning. We must be aboard this evening.”

  Maliha nodded. “You are packing for everyone?”

  “Yes, sahiba,” then she frowned, “is that not correct? You are travelling also?”

  “Let’s go out on to the balcony.”

  Amita paused at the French window to allow Maliha to go out and then followed. The traffic levels were increasing at last as the pressures of trade and life forced scared people out of their homes to deal with those matters that would brook no further delay.

  Maliha switched to Hindi so their conversation would not be understood even if it were overheard. “We will pretend that I and Mr Crier are accompanying you back to India. However we will not be.”

  “Then I must stay with you.”

  “No. You must go,” said Maliha. “You must look after Barbara, Ulrika and the baby.”

  “Ulrika is coming?”

  “She can’t stay here.”

  “But her child?”

  “If Henry is alive I will bring him,” said Maliha. “But he isn’t.”

  She did not add that, even if he was, she feared something terrible was being done to him.

  “But I am your maid, sahiba. You saved me; I cannot leave your side.”

  Maliha smiled and put her hand on Amita’s. She squeezed it gently. “You have been a most wonderful maid, and also a good friend. But that must come to an end.”

  Amita’s expression turned to fear. “You are releasing me from your service? Have I done something wrong?”

  “Of course not,” said Maliha. “I am promoting you.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “What you have been doing here,” she waved her hand towards the hustle and bustle in the suite, “and the responsibilities you have been taking. It is time for it to be official. You will receive an increase in wages, of course.”

  “Sahiba, I do not care about wages. I only want to serve you to the best of my ability.”

  “And your abilities are far greater than you consider them to be.”

  Amita fell silent as if she were absorbing this new idea.

  “What will be name of my position?”

  Maliha smiled again. “That is an excel
lent question. Housekeeper is entirely the wrong idea, although you will be responsible for that as well. In the very big houses they have a House Steward but I do not have a large estate nor many staff.”

  Maliha got the impression that Amita’s head was spinning with such terms and none of them fitted. She needed to think of something more suitable.

  “You would also oversee Naimh O’Donnell and the new school.”

  “You want us to return to Pondicherry, not Fortress?”

  “Yes. That would be best, I think.”

  Maliha paused and watched as Amita took it all in. Then she could see a suspicion growing.

  “Why do you need me to do this?” said Amita. “You will be there.”

  “I want someone who can ensure I am not bothered with day-to-day concerns,” she said, and convinced herself it was not a lie. If she gave even a hint of the truth she would never be able to persuade Amita to leave. “Perhaps if we just call you my Executrix.”

  “Executrix?”

  “A woman who gets things done,” said Maliha. “I will write letters for you so you have the necessary administrative and financial control.” And I will write my will. Ray can witness it; he’s used to keeping secrets.

  “You are too kind to me,” said Amita, dropping her eyes and turning away. “I do not deserve this reward.”

  “I cannot think of anyone I trust more.”

  Amita sniffed. Maliha handed her her handkerchief.

  “Have you thought about how we will move Barbara?” said Maliha switching to English.

  Amita nodded and wiped her nose. “Yes, sahiba. A Faraday wheelchair has been ordered. It has been measured and will fit in the lift.”

  “Good, is she awake?”

  “She was awake before you arrived.”

  “Good.”

  Maliha entered Barbara’s bedroom where two trunks lay open on the floor and some clothes had already been packed away.

  Barbara had been lifted into a sitting position on the bed and was surrounded by pillows to support her. Her eyes were open. Maliha felt the tingling border of the Faraday field as she sat on the edge of the bed angled to face Barbara. She looked so old and tired; it was as if Maliha was seeing her for the first time. Perhaps the last time.

  Barbara twisted her body and her left hand came up and then down, landing on Maliha’s. Maliha felt her eyes burn with nascent tears. She wiped them quickly.

  “You’re recovering well.”

  “Too slow,” Barbara said. The words were slurred and the consonants lacked force but she was understandable. “Didn’t see lions or zebra.”

  “Nor me.”

  “Dead babies.”

  Maliha nodded. She did not know where to look. The more she thought about it the angrier she became.

  “The police are still looking,” she said. “There have been no reports in the press but I know they will have found more.”

  “How many?”

  “Five, ten, twenty. What does it matter?” Maliha brushed away the tears that now just hung on her eyelashes; the reduced gravity was insufficient to force them to detach and roll down her cheeks. “I want to kill the people who did this,” she said almost in a whisper.

  “You should.”

  “I want truth, not judgement,” she said. “I just want to shine the light on them, bring them out of the shadows so everyone can see. But I do that and people riot. People die because of the truth.”

  Barbara did not answer immediately. Maliha looked up to make sure she was still awake and met a pair of eyes that defied the illness and paralysis.

  “You are Durga Maa.”

  Maliha wanted to shout her protest but Barbara was ill.

  Instead she whispered. “I am not.” Though even as she said it the consequences of all her enquiries and investigations came to her mind. All the murderers, save one, dead or incarcerated.

  “Perhaps you need to be, daughter.”

  vi

  “You cannot take Ulrika Putnam, Miss Anderson.”

  The chief detective had arrived while the trunks were being wheeled out by porters. Barbara was about to be relocated into the bulky Faraday wheelchair, running on battery power for the time it was inside the hotel. Its compact diesel motor would be started up once they were outside.

  Maliha gave an exhausted sigh. She glanced over to where Amita was waiting. “It’s all right, Amita, just get everybody out.”

  “Perhaps you did not hear me, Miss Anderson,” said the chief detective. “Miss Putnam remains here; I will return her to her family.”

  It seemed as if she spent half her life on the balcony in this damn hotel, Maliha thought to herself. She looked outside to where rain was drenching the city. The pouring rain did nothing to relieve the temperature; it just made the atmosphere stifling.

  “Come with me, Chief Detective,” she said. “Let us find somewhere a little more private.”

  “You cannot distract me,” he said. “My men will not let her leave the hotel.”

  “I assure you that thought did not even enter my mind. Now if you will come with me.”

  She did not wait for his response but crossed to the door that linked through to her rooms which she knew had already been cleared. There was a flash of lightning as she entered her lounge area. The electric lights in the hotel flickered in response. The crash of thunder rolled through the building and she thought she could feel the floor vibrate.

  She closed the French window to keep the noise of the rain out. The chief detective closed the door behind him. She turned and faced him.

  “How many more babies did you find?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Half a dozen so far.”

  “In various states of decay.”

  He nodded. “You seem remarkably calm about the matter,” he said. “For a woman.”

  “Do I?” she said. “I suppose I could break down in tears. I could weep and throw myself about the place just satisfy your antediluvian concept of how a woman should be.” She paused for a breath. “But that would hardly bring the perpetrator to justice, now would it?”

  “You’ve done your part, Miss Anderson,” he said ignoring her insult; but she could see by the glint in his eye that her barb had struck home. “You should leave the rest to the police. Let us do our job.”

  She let her head drop to one side and allowed the scorn to seep into her voice. “You haven’t done much of a job up to now have you?”

  Turning her back on him before he could reply, she went to the drinks cabinet and poured herself some water. She did not offer him a drink.

  “I did not come here to discuss the case.”

  “No,” she cut in, still with her back to him, “you have come here because the mayor ordered you to retrieve his daughter before she could reveal his nasty little secret.”

  She faced him and could see from his expression she was right.

  “Yes,” he said. “The mayor wants his daughter back. Of course he does.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure that’s true,” she said sitting down at the table and crossing her legs, revealing her ankle and calf. She noted with satisfaction that he could not prevent himself from looking. “After all, he must be getting quite frustrated.” She emphasised the last word.

  “Yes, he wants his daughter back.”

  “And why is that, do you think, Chief Detective?”

  He frowned. “She’s his daughter.”

  “Who made the mistake of having a black baby by a black servant.”

  The chief detective looked very uncomfortable. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands and finally landed on rubbing the fingers of his left hand with his right.

  Maliha smiled with a malicious glint in her eye. “He told you not to believe anything I or she told you. Didn’t he?” She nodded. “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. But has it not occurred to you, Chief Detective, to ask yourself why he would say such a thing?”

  Vandenhoek looked past her at the French window and the rain beating on i
t.

  “Clearly she has already told her lies to you,” he said, regaining some confidence.

  Maliha stood up and placed the glass of water on the table. “You strike me as an honest man, Chief Detective Vandenhoek.”

  He puffed out his chest. “Of course.”

  “If short-sighted and half-blinded by your antiquated views.”

  “Miss Anderson, that is quite enough!” he strode to the table and loomed over her. “You will desist from insulting me at every turn.”

  “The child that Ulrika Putnam had was the product of a union between her and her father.”

  He barely paused. “I cannot accept that.”

  “There are dead babies in the sewers because you wouldn’t believe children were being stolen away either,” she shouted up at him. “When will you stop denying the truth that is as plain and as large as the nose on your face?”

  He looked about to explode but she saw him focus and suppress the rage. He took a deep breath and withdrew to the exit.

  “Miss Anderson,” he said. “Perhaps you are right. However, Ulrika Putnam is not of age; her father is her rightful guardian. I cannot deny his wish to have his daughter returned to him.”

  “Even if all he’s going to do is misuse her?”

  “If she wishes to state her grievance I will listen.”

  Maliha smiled but she felt no pleasure or humour; it was more a reflection of the sad faith that he had for the system of justice under which he lived. In a land that considered all women chattel, subservient to men and the source of evil according to their religious beliefs.

  “I’m sorry, Chief Detective,” she said. “But I forbid it.”

  “And I too am sorry, Miss Anderson, but you are in no position to dictate my actions.”

  “I will keep this simple,” she said. “If you take Ulrika Putnam back to her father, the world’s press will carry the story about his behaviour.”

  He stared at her. “You cannot.”

  “I can, and I will.” She settled herself on a sofa and arranged her dress demurely over her legs. “And it will be made quite clear that you abetted him by returning his daughter when you knew what would happen.”

  “That is blackmail.”

  “There are four possible situations, Chief Detective. Let me enumerate them for you: I am right, or incorrect. He abuses her, or he does not. The choices where you return her weigh far more on your soul, and her well-being, than if you let me take her with me.”