“Beryl, why can’t you stand still?” Miss Seccombe asked peevishly.
“Sorry,” Beryl muttered. Standing straight, she bent the other leg in front of her; her fingers busily unlaced her shoe.
Another flash and the photographer released them. The cast began to move away. Beryl straightened her shoulders, kicked her shoes off, and gathered herself for a giant leap. Like an eagle, she rose in the air and flew over Mary. Glancing behind her, she grinned at Mary’s stunned face.
She landed in front of the class. Everyone stared at her. She began to leap in place. Hopping, then levitating. No longer imprisoned in the ill-fitting shoes, her feet in white stockings felt like tiny wings propelling her higher. Her skirt swirled around her, and the pinafore floated up like a cloud. Higher and still higher. If she tried just a little harder, she could fly.
Dos clapped her hands in delight. “She’s jumping higher than her head. I knew she could.”
Sonny’s face showed a reluctant respect. Mary sulked in the back of the crowd.
Beryl stopped suddenly and glared at everyone standing in the circle around her. “So there,” she said.
Mrs. Seccombe’s nasal voice broke the silence. “Beryl Clutterbuck, what exactly do you think you are doing? This is no place for ballet leaps.”
Beryl could see it in the others’ faces; they understood it was not ballet. It was the training that a young Nandi received to become a warrior, just as Beryl had claimed. From that moment, Beryl would always have the upper hand with Mary.
LOCATION: New York City, New York
DATE: 7 September, 1936
Now I know how Alice felt stepping through that looking glass.
When we land in New York, five thousand people are waiting to see me! I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so many people at one time. At first I can’t make out what they are chanting. Then I realize these odd New Yorkers are saying, “Hello, Blondie!”
I put my arms above my head and bow deeply from the waist. “Salaam!” I shout.
The crowd goes wild.
Amidst the deafening sound of thousands of car horns hooting, I am escorted by a troop of police motorcycles to the Ritz-Carlton. The next day, I go to the mayor’s reception. Mayor La Guardia is a rumpled little man. I tower over him. He is sweating and mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Hot, isn’t it?” he says.
I agree politely, but honestly, I grew up in Africa!
There’s a stack of telegrams and tributes from the newspapers. From Peru, my father said, “Beryl’s a grand girl. I knew she would triumph, but in spite of my faith in her abilities, yesterday was the most anxious day I have known.”
There was even an interview with my mother, who has—irony of ironies—returned to Nairobi. She said she never had any doubts that I would do it. “My daughter,” she said, “has always been extremely self-confident and full of pluck from the time she was a tiny tot.” I wonder what the papers would say if I told them I barely know her?
Amelia Earhart said she was “delighted beyond words that Mrs. Markham should have succeeded in her exploit.”
And Tom Black? Dear Tom, the master of under-statement. He said, “Amazing! I thought she’d do it, but the weather, on what is always a tough crossing, seemed appallingly bad.”
I’m not sentimental as a rule, but I think I might keep these scraps of paper forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHATTERING LIKE MACAWS, MISS SECCOMBE’S CLASS ENTERED the foyer of the New Stanley Hotel. All the British settlers preferred to stay here in Nairobi’s finest hotel. Beryl glanced around at the tall columns and the marble expanse of the lobby, familiar to her from visits with her father. Miss Seccombe arranged the annual outing as an opportunity for the girls to practice their social skills at a very ladylike tea.
Beryl drew Dos to one side. “Dos, my head itches!” she whispered, picking at her mane, which had been tamed into a demure bun.
“I told you to wash your hair last night.” Dos elbowed her hard. “Beryl, I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. If you make a scene, I’ll…I’ll tell Sonny Bumpus you like him!”
“That shrimp? I don’t think so.”
“Then behave!”
Miss Seccombe beckoned the girls to follow her into the dining room, where three tables were waiting for them. Beryl hung back, knowing she wouldn’t be missed for a few minutes. She slipped into the dark lounge, which was filled with men smoking cigars. The smell of fine whiskey permeated even the upholstered furniture. Reminded of her father’s office, Beryl smiled.
She walked to the bar and slapped the counter like her father did on their visits to Nairobi. The barkeep looked around and behind her, searching for her chaperone.
“You don’t belong in here, young lady,” he said.
“Don’t you recognize me?” she asked. “I haven’t been here for a long time, but you used to give me fizzy lemonades.”
The bartender looked closer. Then his face lightened and he smiled broadly. “If it isn’t Captain Clutt’s daughter!” His eyes darted around the room. “Where’s the Captain?”
“I’m here on my own,” Beryl confided. “I’m supposed to be in the dining room on a school trip.”
He winked. “Your secret is safe with me. What can I get you?”
“Do you have a newspaper I can look at?”
“Certainly.” He pulled out a much-read paper from under the bar. Then he poured her a glass of fizzy lemonade. “On the house,” he said.
Beryl thanked him, sat down on a barstool, and opened the sporting pages. The headline read, “Night Hawk Wins the St. Leger Stakes.”
“The St. Leger? But that’s run in mid-September,” Beryl said. The racing calendar in England and Nairobi was the only calendar she ever cared about.
“Every year,” the barkeep agreed. “Night Hawk was the odds-on favorite.”
“So the race ran already?” Beryl asked. “What day is it?”
The bartender laughed. “It’s the sixteenth. I guess they don’t teach you about horse racing at that school of yours.”
Beryl gulped down her sweet drink, said good-bye, and raced out of the lounge into the dining room. Her abrupt arrival drew everyone’s eyes. The girls from the school group were sitting at their tables in the corner. Miss Seccombe was nowhere to be seen. Beryl rushed over to Dos.
“Where did you go?” Dos asked. “Miss Seccombe just went looking for you.”
Beryl shrugged. “Let her. It’s my independence day!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Actually, it’s two days past independence day! My year was up the day before yesterday. It’s time for me to go home.” Beryl laughed at herself. “I was so busy trying not to think about how long I had to wait, I lost track of the date!”
“You’re leaving now?”
The other girls hung on Beryl’s every word.
“There’s not a moment to waste! The train station is just up the street, right?”
Dos nodded, but her face was full of concern. “You can’t just leave! Shouldn’t you wait for your father to come get you?”
“Ha!” Beryl exclaimed, silencing their corner of the busy dining room. “He wouldn’t bother. He knows that I’ll get home on my own. It’s been grand getting to know you. Come visit any time! Good-bye!”
She turned to leave, but Dos grabbed her wrist. “What about your things?” she asked.
“Keep them! Who wants all those scratchy dresses and tight shoes?” Beryl said happily. Then a thought struck her. “But there is one thing…”
“What?” Then Dos remembered the only possession that Beryl cared about. “The lion’s paw.”
“I have to go back to school to get it.” Beryl looked through her battered purse for change to pay for a rickshaw. “Oh, bother. I don’t have enough money. Can I borrow some?”
“I won’t let you take a rickshaw by yourself,” Dos said. “I’ll come, too.”
Beryl was unpi
nning her bun. She shook out her braids. “Dos, I’ve hunted lions and warthogs. I don’t need an escort.”
“I insist,” Dos said.
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
Grinning, Dos shook her head. “Not with you to blame, I won’t!”
Beryl shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’d better go before Miss Seccombe comes back.”
“Wait for us,” one of the other girls said.
“I don’t want to be here when Miss Seccombe realizes that Beryl has done it again!” said another.
Before Beryl could protest, the entire class, with the exception of Mary Russell, followed her out of the dining room. Glancing behind her, Beryl couldn’t help but compare the colorful procession of girls in fancy dresses wielding purses and parasols to a parade of Nandi warriors. Outside in the street, she commandeered enough rickshaws to carry them all back to the Nairobi School for European Children.
Dos sat with Beryl as their driver panted up the hill. “Mary must be having a fit,” Dos giggled. “I’m sure she’s told Miss Seccombe everything by now. They won’t be far behind us.”
“Let them!” Beryl said. “I won’t take long.”
The seven girls clattered up the wooden stairs and brushed past the confused servant who opened the front door. They hauled out Beryl’s trunk and began to pack it for her. Beryl grabbed her rucksack and went to Miss Seccombe’s office. The headmistress kept all the contraband locked in a desk drawer. Beryl wasted no time; she forced the lock with her knife. She burrowed through the confiscated items: liqueur-filled candy, love letters, and Parisian fashion magazines. Finally she found a cloth bundle she recognized. The paw! She tucked it away carefully in her rucksack.
As she returned to the dormitory, she stopped short. Miss Seccombe stood in the doorway, her face flushed and angry. Mary hovered behind her. The rest of the girls were standing against the wall as though they were facing a firing squad. Only Dos would meet Beryl’s eye; she winked.
“Beryl Clutterbuck, this is the last straw!” Miss Seccombe cried. “When I found the girls were gone, I knew it was you, even before Mary told me. Ever since you arrived, you’ve been nothing but trouble.” She extended one bony finger in blame. “It was you who backed up the drains! And set fire to the rubbish dump. And don’t deny that you put the beetles in my washbasin.”
“Yes, that’s right.” With her sentence up, Beryl had nothing to lose.
“If you think I’ll tolerate this sort of behavior at my school, you are sadly—”
“I quit!” Beryl interrupted.
“You are in my care. You cannot quit.”
Beryl stared at Miss Seccombe without troubling to conceal her loathing. “I’m leaving on the afternoon train, and you can’t stop me.”
“I shall, even if I have to physically restrain you!” Miss Seccombe slapped Beryl across the face. Dos and Beryl’s other friends gasped. Mary stepped back, out of reach.
Beryl stood motionless. She touched her cheek. Then, as though her hand had a mind of its own, her fingers found the back of Miss Seccombe’s cotton dress. She lifted the headmistress a few inches off the ground and shook her hard, like a terrier shaking a rat. Miss Seccombe’s tight hair came undone in bunches. When Beryl dropped her, she sank to the ground.
As if a mouse was squeaking, Beryl heard Miss Seccombe’s voice repeating, “You’re expelled. You’re expelled.”
“You can’t expel me; I’ve already quit,” shouted Beryl. “Good-bye, Dos!” Abandoning every possession except her rucksack, Beryl stalked out and headed for the train station.
Beryl was alone on the train whose whistle had haunted her dreams for the past year. With a sharp, metallic jerk, it began the climb out of Nairobi toward the highlands.
Pressing her face against the smeared glass, Beryl stared out at the dusty plains rolling slowly by. Giraffes and herds of antelope were visible in the distance. A rough hand on her shoulder startled her. She banged her forehead on the glass. She whirled to see the conductor, Nelson. As long as she could remember, he had patrolled the length of the train with his rolling gait.
He pushed his face down toward hers and in a hoarse voice he asked, “So, where’s your father, Miss Beryl?” His voice rasped from decades of escorting the dusty and smoky train.
“I’m to meet him in Nakuru. But it’s fine, Nelson; he’ll pay for my return ticket,” Beryl said, leaning back, away from his tobacco and whiskey breath.
“Oh we don’t worry about tickets overmuch with our old friends,” he said. “School’s not out yet, is it?”
“Not exactly, I’m…I’m just…”
“Running away, are you?” he asked with a knowing grin.
“Oh, no,” Beryl reassured him virtuously. “I tried that before, but they knew I would go for the train and they caught me at the station. This time, I was expelled.”
Nelson burst out laughing. The sound traveled up and down the car, causing the other passengers look up to hear the joke. “Your father will have something to say about that. The Captain doesn’t tolerate people who go against his plans. I remember that time the lad watered the horses too much on the journey down. Unfit to race, they were. I thought the Captain was going to thrash him right there in the horse car.”
“He’ll understand,” Beryl said. “I hope.” She thought about the deal she had made with her father. With a shake of her head, she pulled down the window to look out, but she drew back when sparks flew by her face.
“Miss Beryl, if you are going to stick your head out, you had better wear these.” Nelson handed her a set of goggles. “I’d wager those sparks are from your own father’s forest. He supplies the railroad with the wood for the steam engines. We used to have to carry enough wood up to the highlands to make the return trip. But now we just pick it up from him at Nakuru.”
The train began to climb a steep incline—not as steep as Beryl knew it would be later—and the engine whined in protest.
“That fool engineer didn’t get enough speed to climb the hill. So we’ve…run out of steam.”
Beryl chuckled politely, although she had heard Nelson’s joke many times. She knew exactly what would happen next. The engineer would back up, let the engine cool, and try again.
With a shudder felt through the train, the engine began to reverse. With a relieved hiss, the train began slipping backward down the incline.
Nelson sat down beside her. “We’ll be waiting for a bit. Did I ever tell you about how I helped build the Lunatic Express?”
“Lunatic Express?” Beryl had heard the train called many things, most of them uncomplimentary, but never that.
“That’s what they called this train. To settle British East Africa, the Crown sold the land cheap. Folks like Lord Delamere and your father were the first to come up. But they needed the train to take their crops back down. The line cost millions of pounds and the lives of hundreds of men.”
As long as Beryl could remember, the train to Nairobi had been a fact of life—as much taken for granted as the rains in spring. Without it, there were no settlements. She wondered what would Africa be like without the British. If you soared over it like a bird, there would be no roads, no ugly scars of train tracks, no gas-powered lights to cloud the sky and block the stars. Arap Maina probably remembered how it was. But that would be an Africa that had no place for Beryl Clutterbuck.
“How did you build it?” asked Beryl.
“With British ingenuity,” Nelson chuckled. “The engineers were from home, but we imported the labor from India. I was a young man then.” He sighed. Looking at his potbelly and thinning hair, Beryl found it difficult to believe he had ever been young. “Aye, I was a junior assistant surveyor. We would set up camp ahead of the line and then build the track behind us. Those were the days. If only the lions had left us alone.”
The images of Arap Maina’s clawed chest and her punctured leg rose in her mind.
The train reached a plateau and slowly came to a halt.
“Well, las
s, that’s our cue. Do you want to step outside? We’ll be here for a bit while the engine cools down.”
Beryl followed the other passengers off the train. They had been traveling for only a few hours, but everyone was already sore and dusty from the journey. As she stretched, a movement in the distance caught her eye. “Is that a lion?”
“You’ve good eyes,” Nelson said with approval. “Like I was telling you—lions were a terrible problem when we were laying this track. They would hunt in pairs. More than one man was pulled from his bed. After a while, they stopped eating the men—just killed ‘em for the sport.”
Promise the Night Page 19