Monkeys in My Garden

by Valerie Pixley

  “Yes, why not,” I replied.

  Seven, as this young man was called, turned out to be a surprisingly good worker. A treasure, actually. He ironed our clothes beautifully, even though it was with the old-fashioned and cumbersome charcoal burning iron we had to use and he also turned out to be very useful when it came to watching our pots on the stove to see that they didn’t run out of liquid. This left us free to do other more important things, such as reading or going for walks.

  One morning, while Seven was keeping watch over her pots, Eileen went down the stairs to the cook hut and this time it was her turn to scream. I was working on the Forestry Register at the time and the sound made my pen jerk, leaving a squiggle on the page. What now? I wondered. Had she fallen down the stairs? Been bitten by a snake?

  Before I could get up and put my head out of the window for a look, she came panting up the stairs and burst into the room. “You’ll never guess what I’ve just found Seven doing!”

  All sorts of hideous ideas came into my mind and I braced myself. “What, tell me.”

  “Well, I went down to the cook hut to check on things and I noticed a strange pot not belonging to us, bubbling away amongst all of ours. I looked inside it …” here Eileen’s voice quivered with pent up emotion “… and do you know what I saw?”

  I shook my head. “No. What? What?”

  “I saw … MY ONLY GOOD PAIR OF CANVAS SHOES BOILING AWAY IN THIS POT!” Breathing heavily, Eileen sank down onto a chair. “I’d told him to clean them this morning but I hadn’t realised that he thought they had to be boiled in a pot of water to be cleaned. Oh, I hope he hasn’t ruined them! I don’t have the money to buy new ones!”

  Although I’d never been poor, I was beginning to get a pretty good idea of what it was like to be down and out and my heart went out to Eileen who, as usual, was dressed in one of her washed out and shapeless old shift dresses and wearing a pair of old scuffed black canvas shoes on her feet.

  “Perhaps you caught him in time,” I said hopefully, knowing that buying Eileen a new pair of canvas shoes would be last on the list of O’D’s priorities.

  “Oh, I hope so!” Eileen cried, still trembling from the shock of her discovery.

  Luckily, Eileen’s shoes survived their boiling and turned out to be undamaged. “You must never, NEVER, clean shoes by boiling them in a pot of water on the stove, Seven,” she admonished him. “Do you understand?”

  Downcast by the deep emotions he had aroused in the ample bosom of one of the women he worked for and by her loud and alarming reaction, a subdued Seven hung his head and replied “Yes, Meddem.”

  Although O’D and Chuck tried very hard to keep all the equipment under lock and key, things started disappearing. Losing our diesel and petrol to thieves was infuriating but it was the theft of their tools that caused the most anguish in O’D’s and Chuck’s hearts. Not only were all these screwdrivers and O’D’s American Snap-on spanners expensive and impossible to replace in a country like Mozambique but they were also vital for the maintenance of our vehicles.

  Larger items vanished into thin air too. Not long after my arrival, we discovered the brazen theft of one of the batteries for the brand new 180 kva Kohler generator that we hadn’t even begun to use yet! Where were we going to find another of these batteries?

  It didn’t take much brainpower to work out who was responsible for all this criminal activity. We employed forty workers, most of whom appeared to be people without consciences and who thought that the only bad thing about stealing was … getting caught.

  “You know what I think?” I asked O’D one afternoon after he had ranted over the disappearance of an expensive screwdriver David had given him for a present one Christmas.

  “I have no idea what you think,” O’D told me irritably.

  “I think you should change your name. You should call yourself Ali Baba Pixley because you have Forty Thieves working for you.”

  O’D hadn’t been at all amused by my suggestion. Apart from the fact that he and Chuck often had to resort to making their own home-made tools now, we were also losing quite a lot of money because of these thefts.

  Questioning and threatening our workers with dire consequences if they didn’t own up produced no results. They all looked at us with completely blank, expressionless faces, revealing no evidence of guilt or even a glimmer of remorse that they were stealing from the hand that was employing and feeding them.

  Then, one evening, even Mitzi disappeared!

  Eileen was sitting in one of the old Morris chairs near the window, reading a book, when the gong struck half past four and work came to an end for the day. When Chuck came in from the workshop to wash his hands and to drink a refreshing cup of tea, he looked around the room and asked, “Where’s Mitzi?”

  “She was lying outside the front door, the last time I looked,” Eileen replied.

  “Well, she’s not there now,” Chuck told her.

  Throwing down her book, Eileen hurriedly left her chair and rushed outside, Chuck following closely at her heels.

  Although they looked all around the house, and then inside the house, Mitzi was nowhere to be seen. Becoming more and more distraught, they extended their search and with the help of Avelino, Pocas and Seven, they went further out, scouring the bushes and the long grass.

  Dusk fell and when O’D returned from a fuel-buying trip to Chimoio, he joined in the hunt.

  Stopping only for a bite to eat, the search went on but there was no familiar snuffling sound or even a stray paw print in the dusty ground to give us a clue as to what had caused the disappearance of a small Pekinese dog.

  The hours ticked on until finally, towards ten o’clock, Chuck stopped shining his torch in the bushes and Eileen stopped calling her name. Like so many of our other things, Mitzi had vanished into thin air!

  Eventually, Chuck and Eileen had their baths and went to bed and although they turned off their light, I’m sure that neither of them slept a wink that night … because I never heard even the slightest snore coming from out of their room.

  We woke up the next day to a lovely morning. High above us, two eagles rode on air currents in the pure blue sky of an African winter’s day and somewhere to the east of us and not far from the house, baboons barked in the trees.

  At roll call, O’D and Chuck questioned our workers about Mitzi, asking if they had seen or heard anything but they all shook their heads. Seven examined the long grass and bush around the house again and Alberto, the gardener, explored the area down by the dry Nhamacoa River, two hundred metres from the back of the house.

  “Looking for Mitzi in this bush,” O’D told me, “is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  As the day wore on, Eileen grew quieter and quieter and began to give in to her darker thoughts. At half past four when a worker struck the gong and Chuck came into the house for a wash and a cup of tea, she said, “Something terrible’s happened to Mitzi. I can sense it, Chuck!”

  “She’ll turn up, old girl,” Chuck said, trying to reassure her, “I’m sure she will,” he repeated softly, trying to reassure himself as well. He gulped down some tea. “I’ll go and have another look for her in a minute.”

  “The baboons …” Eileen’s face crumpled as she gave voice to the unthinkable and her worst fear of all “… the baboons may have torn her to pieces, Chuck.” Tears welled up in her eyes and began to pour down her face like a rainstorm. She pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket in her dress and bowing her head, sobbed into it. “Torn her to pieces … and eaten her … oh, Mitzi … Mitzi … oh, my poor little Mitzi.”

  Supper, during Mitzi’s second night of disappearance, was a gloomy affair. Chuck and Eileen barely ate anything, which for two people who loved their food so much, showed the extent of the anguish they were feeling at the loss of their beloved little dog.

  We were drinking coffee when Chuck suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair.

  “What is it, Chuck?” Eileen asked.

 
“Listen,” he told her.

  In the stillness of the night, we all listened and all we heard was the hooting of the owls and the high-pitched noise the cicadas were making in the long grass.

  The next moment, Chuck leapt up from his chair and rushed out of the room.

  Eileen looked after him, an expression of desperate hope in her red and swollen eyes. “Perhaps …”

  Within seconds, Chuck was back in the room, holding a small furry, orangey creature in his arms.

  “Mitzi!” Eileen cried.

  Mitzi snuffled happily at us.

  Hardly able to believe the safe return of her little dog, Eileen jumped out of her chair and took Mitzi from Chuck, hugging her tightly to her chest and mingling tears and kisses onto the top of her head. “How did you know, Chuck?”

  “I heard a faint noise which I thought sounded just like Mitzi and then when I went outside, there she was! Just sitting calmly only a few yards away from the front door.”

  Bending his head, he gave Mitzi’s fur a couple of sniffs. “Someone kidnapped her alright,” he told us. “She didn’t just wander off by herself. There’s a tell-tale smell about her. She smells all smoky as if she’s been kept in a hut. Whoever took her must have had second thoughts about keeping her and sneaked up to the house while we were eating and left her near the door.”

  The thought of unknown people sneaking around a house such as ours, a house without windows or doors - and in the dark of night - wasn’t a pleasant one.

  “Who?” I wondered. “Who do you think snatched her, and why?”

  “Oh, it was probably one of our workers,” Chuck replied, “Probably someone working close to the house.”

  We never found out who had kidnapped Mitzi or why they had taken her. It was a mystery that remained a mystery.

  After this experience, Eileen watched Mitzi like a hawk and when she went off to do something and didn’t take Mitzi with her, she told Seven or Avelino (if he wasn’t busy) to dog-sit and keep an eye on her.

  One afternoon, when I was in the bathroom washing my hands in the enamel basin, I happened to look out of the window and caught sight of Avelino. He was standing in front of the ironing table in the shade of some mango trees and wielding the heavy old charcoal iron over a shirt … and there, as bold as brass, I saw a snuffling little Pekinese dog, sitting as unhygienically as ever - in the laundry basket, of all things - and on top of our newly washed clean clothes!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE BEGINNING OF THE INVASION OF THE NHAMACOA

  Although the blue Gaz performed well in the forest, working with only one vehicle was very limiting. Then, one day, Caetano heard that the Army needed some money and were going to raise funds by selling off some of their old vehicles. As one of these vehicles happened to be a Gaz – a green one, this time – and as O’D had become an ardent fan of these chunky little Russian lorries, he decided to buy it. It would help to push up our production.

  Leaving Eileen, Mitzi and me behind in the Nhamacoa, O’D drove off early on a Saturday morning in the Land Rover, together with Chuck, Caetano, Avelino and Pocas to collect the other lorry. As it was in the port of Beira, a three and a half hour drive from the Nhamacoa, they would be away for the day.

  In the forest, without workers to bother us, the time passed peacefully. Seven kept the fire going in the cook hut to heat the water and Eileen and I ate bread and cheese for lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon reading books.

  When dusk fell, Eileen struck a match and carefully lit our three paraffin lamps, placing them strategically around the sitting room.

  I pulled the black plastic blinds down over the glassless sitting room windows and anchored them onto the wide windowsills with several large stones. The blinds were useless at keeping people out but at least they stopped the bats from flying in.

  “A little music?” Eileen asked.

  “Why not,” I said, and turned the radio on to Zimbabwe Radio One.

  It was Eileen’s sugar bean soup for supper, delicious with a couple of large dollops of Soya Sauce and a slice or two of bread and butter.

  Sitting down at the table, we ate in the glow of lamplight. Two women and a Pekinese dog. In a forest in Mozambique.

  “They’re late,” I said.

  “It’s a slow trip in that old Land Rover,” Eileen reminded me.

  The sound of drums floated through the trees, competing with Nat King Cole’s lovely dark velvety voice on the radio. Boom boomboomboom… boom boomboomboom …

  “I hate those drums,” Eileen muttered.

  “Oh, why?” I asked.

  “Because they’re evil. They’re calling up the spirits.”

  The rhythm of the drums reminded me of the old Western films I had seen years ago where Red Indians hopped around in a circle, gearing themselves up to attack wagon trains ... or remote homesteads … moccasined feet sneaking around in the dark …

  A picture came into my mind, this time of a darker people, a barefoot people, sneaking around OUR house in the dark and looking for things to steal while O’D and Chuck were out of the way. A house with curtains for doors and black plastic for glass in the windows, not to mention the guard dog - a Pekinese who was so useless she had even allowed herself to be kidnapped!

  “Aren’t you afraid to be alone like this, especially at night, Eileen?”

  Eileen looked up from her soup with surprise. “‘Of course not,” she said with a laugh. “It’s only been a day and they’ll probably be back any time now.” She scooped up another spoonful of beans. “Once, while you were in South Africa, Chuck and O’D went off to get something and although they were only supposed to be away for a day and a night, they didn’t come back for THREE days.”

  “Oh, how awful!” I said, imagining how I would have felt in her situation, left completely alone in the bush without money, without a phone or a car and not knowing what had happened to them. I would have disintegrated with fear, panicking and imagining all sorts of terrible things. “That must have been really worrying!”

  “Oh, not at all,” Eileen told me. “I knew they’d be back.”

  They didn’t come back that night, so Eileen and I blew the flames out of the paraffin lamps and went to sleep with the black plastic blinds crackling and the curtain doors flapping in the breeze that always blows in the Nhamacoa.

  They didn’t come back in the morning either. Then, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, we heard the sound of a vehicle and leaned expectantly out of the east-facing sitting room window for a look down the forest track.

  A dirty white 4 x 4 hurtled past us in a cloud of red dust and we caught a glimpse of several men crammed inside it. These were not men we knew and my heart gave a lurch. Bandits! I knew it … I just KNEW it!

  Seven ran behind the vehicle, to question and to interrogate its occupants. Oh, what could one young boy do to bandits?

  Still leaning over the windowsill, we watched as Seven returned, bringing one of the men with him. The man was incredibly handsome and very light-skinned for a Mozambican. The reason for this, I knew, was because his grandfather had been a Belgian.

  “Oh, hello Milton!” I greeted the Head of the dreaded Secret Police, and smiled the false smile we always give to those in Africa who hold the power of life and death over us.

  I had met Milton during our Tabex farm days. Once, he had invited O’D and me to his house in Chimoio. Although the invitation had supposedly been for supper, it hadn’t taken long for the real purpose of his hospitality to be revealed.

  The evening had turned out to be rather bizarre, to say the least. After handing each of us a beer in his extremely over-furnished sitting room, Milton had waved a hand towards a table set only for two. “Eat! Eat!” he had commanded us. Obeying, we had sat down and helped ourselves to spaghetti and some kind of meat mixture and while we had eaten, Milton’s heavily pregnant wife had joined us, and sitting down on a sofa, had retched agonizingly into a bucket.

  During the meal, Milton had ta
lked to O’D about a terrific money-spinning idea he had thought up - a partnership in a brothel in Chimoio!

  Naturally enough, O’D had turned down Milton’s offer but Milton had still managed to inveigle a ‘loan’ out of him.

  Now, smiling a smile to match my own, Milton came towards us. Forgetting my name but a quick thinker on his feet as befitted a Secret Policeman he made up a title for me on the spur of the moment. “Aah, the Lady of the Forest!” he greeted me in return.

  We all shook hands. “And where is your husband, O’D?” he asked me.

  “He went to Beira,” I told him.

  “And they’ll be coming back any minute now,” Eileen informed him. “Any minute!”

  “You shouldn’t be here on your own,” Milton told us sternly, “two women, with only one young boy to guard you.”

  “Oh, we’re not afraid,” Eileen said with a laugh and speaking for herself. “Nothing will happen to us!”

  Milton’s eyes took her in, wondering at her foolishness. He knew better than anyone what lay in mankind’s heart and what it was capable of doing. After all, he was the head of a police department at the Cabeca Velha jail, a jail that had underground rooms for interrogating people.

  “This is a very dangerous place,” he told us and without giving us any explanation of his unexpected visit, turned to walk back to his 4 x 4. “You must get yourselves a proper guard - an armed guard.”

  From our position at the window, we watched the white 4 x 4 drive away, more slowly this time.

  “That was funny,” I said.

  “Mmm,” Eileen agreed, “the Head of the Secret Police … now I wonder what they wanted.”

  “Well, whatever it is, at least we have nothing to fear from them,” I informed her. “O’D loaned Milton some money about a year ago.”

  “Really? And how on earth did he manage to get O’D to do that?”

  “Oh, he used a form of torture,” I said, remembering Milton’s wife throwing up while we ate.

  “Hmm …” Eileen said thoughtfully, “perhaps he came today because he wanted to pay the money back.”