Girl with the Golden Voice (29 page)

For Rebecca the experience was not as she had imagined. Between matches she and Tom had taken the path down into the plantation and the steep muddy banks of the Trickle. The area was crowded with little family camps, each set up with its own patch of shade. She was surprised by the number of people who knew Tom and who wanted them to stop for a drink and a chat.

‘My fiancee, Rebecca Kamau.' The first time Tom introduced her down there, her heart missed a beat, but her eyes were sharp and sensitive, on the lookout for the merest flicker of disapproval. When none came in this first and subsequent brief meetings, her apprehensions began to melt away. She relaxed and any who might have had well-hidden doubts about the idea of ‘mixing the races' had these doubts swept away by the beauty of her radiant smile. Any fool could see that this was a marriage that would work. But down here on the camping ground they were amongst parents and children who were happy and excited to be sharing a few precious hours together. They were well disposed to optimism. A sterner test awaited them in the Opie Pavilion.

There are seven prep schools in Kenya that follow an English curriculum and take the long-established common entrance exam. During the academic year, each hosts a big sporting event. Pembroke enjoys a reputation for lavish hospitality and there was the usual crowd of visitors in the upper part of the pavilion. Most had collected their lunches and were chatting at their tables.

As she climbed the iron staircase ahead of Tom, Rebecca felt the apprehensions return. Why was it, she thought, that those who spoke as if they had half a dozen marbles in their mouths always had the loudest voices? As she stepped onto the balcony floor, she turned to wait for Tom. She picked up the brief break in the chatter, but she did not see the dozen or more heads turn to look at the young stranger. She would have found it hard to believe that the emotions that stirred the curiosity were admiration and envy.

Tom, fully aware, put his arm behind her waist and steered her towards the table where the Londiani party were already tucking in.

‘Sorry, Mother, a bit late. Been trying to teach Rebecca the intricacies of the scrum. I think she's more baffled than ever!'

‘Thomas, get yourselves some plates. The savoury table's over there. Then come and sit down. Your father wants to talk to you.'

Alex narrowed his eyes briefly. He had no idea what his wife was talking about.

The cream of the little world of the prep school was enjoying its lunch up there in that elevated place, gazing at the views north and east over the rift and quite glad that all the panes of glass intended to shelter against wind and rain had been stolen within a week of the opening of the building.

For Rebecca this new experience sent scores of disconnected thoughts crashing and tumbling through her mind. ‘Change brings pain.' She recalled again the words of her father, spoken to her after her first unhappy week away from home in boarding school in Nairobi. She was aware of Tom's anxiety for her. He was his normal joking self, but this time she was on the inside of the family, listening, not looking on from the edge. The only black faces up there with hers were the kitchen staff acting as waiters for the occasion. She wasn't ready to stare down any scornful looks they might have for her.

Fortunately for her she was unaware of what was being said from one table in the far corner. The four women sitting there were having a field day as they sipped at their glasses of Pimms and swapped comments on this unwelcome newcomer to the Pembroke scene. They were smart, handsome women, all married with children at the school, but it pained them to see that one of the most eligible young bucks had gone native in his search for a wife.

‘Well, I must admit that she's got a figure.'

‘Why else do you think he's interested? Wait till she piles on the flab. He'll be out looking for new sheets to slide under.'

‘I suppose you're hoping they'll be yours. After all, you only live down the road.'

‘You know she was the wash girl down there, don't you? Ted and I reckon she's got a bun in.'

‘But that's no reason for marrying the thing!'

‘You don't know the McCalls. Scottish Presbyterians. Do the right thing in all circumstances. Bloody stupid!'

The only one of the quartet who lived in Nairobi had waited to make her contribution. Around the leafy lanes of Karen, she was known as a keen bridge player and delighted in trumping her opponents' aces.

‘You all know the Rubais, right?'

‘Don't be silly, dear. Everybody …'

‘Well, I can't name my source, but I promise you that this story is kosher. That sweet charmer sitting over there with her future in-laws is soiled goods. Shagged by another, Junior Rubai, alias Julius. Happened a couple of weeks before Christmas, in her own bedroom. Daddy Rubai was furious when he heard. Couldn't have his boy messing around with a maid. I kid you not! Now I think, I really believe that girlie there got to know about Daddy's anger. We all know what happens to people who get on the wrong side of Abel Rubai. They sort of melt into the air. Girlie panicked and ran off to the coast and then skipped the country, went to the US. She's got friends there, believe it or not …'

She was interrupted. Two latecomers appeared over the top step and turned the heads of everyone once more. They were tall, athletic black men in expensive dark suits, dressed for a day in parliament or the law courts. They looked around briefly then made straight for the McCall table. Tom rose to greet his two lunch companions at the Nairobi Club two weeks before. He was puzzled to see them at a rugby tournament in Pembroke. Their arrival presented a new talking point. What were these two new men on the national political scene doing up in this up-country backwater? Why were they bothering with Tom McCall?

Paul Miller was a rugby fan and Daniel Komar had a nephew in the senior Banda team, enough excuse for the pair of them to call on Mr McCall so soon after their first meeting. And they had been doing some checking. When Tom straightaway introduced, ‘My fiancee, Rebecca Kamau,' the men exchanged smiles of wide-eyed pleasure before launching into a bout of effusive congratulation which seemed to most of the curious onlookers at other tables as silly exaggeration.

Chairs were rearranged around the McCall table and soon the two guests were tucking in. Alex and Bertie were surprised and pleased by Paul Miller's knowledge of rugby.

‘Mr Briggs, don't you think that there's too much muscle power around these days, not enough flair?'

Bertie took his chance to weigh in on one of his favourite sporting topics. ‘Yep. Barry John, Mike Gibson, Gareth Edwards … Ever heard of those guys?'

‘Sure. Star boys of the 1971 British Lions, my best team ever.'

‘How would they survive today with all these muscle-bound wardrobes flying around? When did you last see a fly-half making a clean break?'

‘That's why I'm here today. Love watching kids play. So enthusiastic before the cynicism gets through to them.'

‘How is Banda doing?' Daniel Komar wondered if he would have anything to report to his sister about David's play.

‘Banda? I think they've got a great chance. They're playing Turi in the semifinal. I tell you, your wing can shift.'

‘Do you know his name?'

‘Afraid not. Don't even know the Pembroke names any more.'

Tom put in a word. ‘Come back in ten years, gentlemen, and watch Ewan Briggs pick up the cup. Bertie'll know all the players' names that day.'

For all his real interest in watching the boys play, Paul Miller was keen to have a private chat with Tom McCall. So, with the first semifinal just twenty minutes away, three would-be spectators were to be seen walking under the railway bridge and up the single track Nyharuru line. They were soon on one of the fairways of the Gilgil Club golf course moving slowly along the springy turf. Rebecca, especially, was enjoying the emptiness and the quiet.

‘We're hoping to get registration in the next month. I'm pretty sure there'll be a safe judge for our appeal.'

‘Safe?' Tom was almost sure how Paul Miller would explain his adjective, but he wanted to hear it from the lawyer's mouth.

‘Yes, well, they say everyone has his price. Don't believe it myself, but as things are in this country just now, this is how it goes. Aid money comes in, World Bank or the US, say. The government filter gets to work so eighty per cent finds its way into private bank accounts. Our leaders are whiz kids at this trick. And … one part of this little fund is called Judicial Holdings. Sounds good, doesn't it? This cash subsidises big town houses, farms, cars, you know. In return the government runs the law.'

‘But, Mr Miller …'

‘Paul.'

‘Paul, what's this got to do with us?'

‘We thought it was just you. We're thrilled to see that there are two of you now.'

‘So?'

‘Nakuru South covers Gilgil and Naivasha mainly. Think about being a candidate.'

‘You're kidding! For a start, I know zilch about politics.'

‘Great advantage …' Miller was smiling broadly.

‘And, to put it bluntly, I'm the wrong colour.'

‘No. I know it's a bit of a cliche, but we, too, have our dream. We're starting something here that's going to change our people's lives for the better. A real rainbow nation. It's got to work. You name me a country on this whole continent that's not in imminent danger of going down the pan. Tom, Rebecca, let's leave the details for now. You're off to New York tomorrow.'

‘How could you know that?'

‘Nothing sinister. Same people who are sure that you can take Nakuru South for Serena.'

‘Paul, I'm not interested in politics. And there's a farm to run. A family of our own.'

‘And a country to help save. A second chance. Look at what we've got and then think of what we could be.'

‘But we're a bit young …'

‘Remember your history lessons! Alexander the Great, Octavius Caesar …'

‘Oh, come on …'

‘Sorry! I just get carried away. There's a lot of anger in me. This country's well on the way to ruin. Our good young people are getting out. Don't think that you're immune. Your farm, they'll be after that. They can do it legally. They've got the money.'

‘One has already tried …'

‘Rubai?' and he added hastily, ‘Just a guess this time!'

‘Got it in one.' They were on the long third fairway. Tom gazed up at the flag on the distant brown. The rain earlier in the week was bringing out a rich green on the course. In his scores of rounds up here he had never managed better than a five on this hole. He took Rebecca's hand and smiled. ‘Peculiar stuff.'

Rebecca smiled back. ‘You mean this life business?'

‘Yep. You think you've got things sorted, but you never have. ‘Becca, what do you think of all this politics stuff?'

‘There's not a lot of room in here for another big thing.' She tapped her forehead. ‘The men talk about it in the village. Same down the coast. They're thirsty for change, Mr Miller, Paul.'

‘We have a lot of women joining us. We've been wasting half our brain power for too long.'

‘You're talking revolution, Paul.'

‘Yes, Rebecca.'

‘And revolution in Africa always means a lot of bloodshed.'

‘Paul,' Tom stretched out his arm towards Rebacca, as if he were putting her on display, ‘here's your candidate for Nakuru South!'

Paul Miller sighed and smiled wanly. ‘You two lovely people, I think we've had a pretty good chat, wouldn't you say? Please, turn all this over in your minds. Maybe we could meet again when you come back. And good luck with the singing, Rebecca … Oh, this time it was Toni Wajiru. He says you were sensational on the west coast. His very word. We still keep in close contact after a lot of years. We grew up together. Scholarship boys, both of us. I want hundreds of scholarships for boys and girls. We can afford it. See, I can't stop myself. That's how it is with dreams.'

By the time they returned to the playing fields, the second semifinal was coming to an end. In the time they had been away, two brand new Mercedes had parked in the shade of the gum trees on the railway track side. Banda were completing their victory over Turi. A single voice was raised above the general hubbub of the supporters.

‘Go, David! Go, boy!'

On the pitch a small black figure was scorching towards the Turi posts. The three of them recognised the voice and they soon spotted the line of Rubais looking down on the match from the vantage point of the track. No need to ask the name of the speedy wing and captain of Banda!

Paul Miller smiled. ‘What a mixture! Look at him up there cheering like a schoolboy.'

‘I suppose you know him well. Lawyers, doctors, accountants … the Nairobi elite. They call it the establishment in England.'

‘He's just a bit older than Dan and me. He had the reputation of being the best mathematician in the country. Now, next to the boss man, he's the richest. His lucky break was being born a Kalenjin, same tribe as the vice president. When Molu took over the top job, he needed a man he could trust to take over the books, not as finance minister, the public face politician. Abel Rubai knew all the scams, invented most of them. He directed the money to the proper places. He has bank accounts in nineteen countries. Those are the ones that we know about.'

‘Handy man to have in Serena.'

Miller covered his face with his hands and broke into a long, deep chuckle. He shook his head vigorously and gathered himself.

‘The day we are voted in, Mr Abel Rubai and family will fly out of Kenya in a private jet … Canada, America, Britain. But I'm told he doesn't like the climate in those places.'

When the final kicked off, the touch lines were thick with spectators. Banda had a lot of supporters, but they were shouted down by the assembled mass of Pembroke parents. Rebecca looked around in amazement at the passionate encouragement given by these well-off and seemingly sane groups of people. The fourteen players were in a frenzy of their own. She had never seen this kind of concentrated fury on a games field. Her memories of sport at Santa Maria were of running around and laughing a lot. There was no fun here, not in the way that bodies kept getting knocked to the ground and skidding along the hard surface of the pitch.