Girl with the Golden Voice (6 page)

The breaking of the tureen had marked more than the ruin of a family dinner service. It signalled the end of Tom's easy days. He, too, was watching Rebecca at work on the floor, the bare feet, the ruined dress, the intense concentration. This was his wife to be and, standing aloof from her, was the girl he had allowed to invite herself to Londiani, his delightful friend, the only woman he had slept with. The mess on the floor was rapidly disappearing. It was going to cost him a lot to clear up the mess that was rapidly revealing itself in his own life.

He had always been able to make comfortable choices, set down his own rules for the games he played. Perhaps he could drift for a while longer, but soon he would have to have the balls to come out into the open. She was already out there fighting.

He looked around the table. Except for Lucy, everyone there had known him all his life. He had fallen in love with a black girl. A black girl had fallen in love with him. Some would have seen that as unfortunate, others as disastrous, yet others as dangerous, yes, but there were ways of getting out of this … mess. Time would help. Money, well, that might be useful, too. Marriage. That was the word that would start the bombs going off.

‘Different kettle of fish, Thomas. Just stay away from it!'

‘But, Bertie …'

In ten minutes he would have been given a dozen reasons, with case histories, why it was such a risky business. Down the years he had heard them all, mostly in conversations that had taken place in that very room. His mother would have felt most but probably said least. She had strong suspicions and the arrival of Lucy would have given a boost to her hopes that the situation could be saved and all the … inconvenience avoided.

Tom had never before felt such self-disgust.

And poor Lucy, to be thrown unsuspecting into this pile of manure on her first day. On her flight out just eight hours before, it had been visions of blue skies and vast plains. Now she was staring down at this beautiful creature, trying hard to hate her but unable to stem great gushes of sympathy.

The floor gleamed damp where Rebecca had been working. She was on her feet, ready to leave the room. Lucy seized her chance.

‘Rebecca, please, I'm sorry I was so clumsy. I've ruined your dress. I promise I'll buy you another. When I go to Nairobi …'

‘Madam, you are forgetting. I am a wash girl. This will clean up.'

By three the red dress was drying in the afternoon breeze. By five it was hanging in the cupboard of Rebecca's room.

By seven the McCalls of Londiani were busy in four different locations. The twins, Eddie and Rollo, were setting out for Heathrow from their uncle's house in Reigate on the second lap of their journey home from Oundle School. Alex and Maura were in the old warhorse 504 turning right along South Lake Road on their way to supper with the Buckles. Tom was parking the Land Cruiser at the Naivasha Club. He and Lucy were invited to join a gathering of Kenya cowboys and their women. It was a twenty-first birthday bash. Look out for noise, high jinks and a dawn finish for those with stamina and the capacity to swill down twenty to thirty bottles of Tusker or White-cap.

Rafaella was sitting in front of a log fire in the lower sitting room. She was in a state of high emotion. Lucy had brought out a present of six Humphrey Bogart videos. Three of them were great favourites,
Key Largo, The Maltese Falcon
and
To Have and Have Not.
She had not seen them since her cinema days.

The tears were flowing freely. She was remembering her early days with Don at Londiani. They would take tea at four then drive down to Nairobi in the red MG. They'd watch a film at the Twentieth Century, have dinner at the New Stanley and afterwards enjoy the leisurely drive home along empty roads. She closed her eyes and relived memories, the huge crusty banks of starlight, the dark silhouettes of the ancient hills, the looming shapes of forest, the rush of cool air on her face and the thrill of the first sight of the bright grey lake as they twisted their way down the Escarpment. The Kenya of those days was a paradise for the settlers.

She indulged herself freely and watched her three favourites back to back. She was happy to allow the bittersweet emotions to wash over her. Half a bottle of Gilbeys and a box of Belgian chocolates, a present from Lucy's parents, helped her survive the dangerous journey into the past.

She went to bed in a state of bliss. For the first time since she had lost him her thoughts of Don were full of hope. She half hoped to be joining him at some time during the night.

There was another fire blazing on the Londiani estate that evening. In the centre of the open ground between the eight rondavels two off-duty askaris were squatting before it, enjoying the lick and hiss of the flames. They exchanged amused grins to see Rebecca hurrying, almost racing back from Big House. As she disappeared through her front door, the very last rim of the sun dipped behind the long, dusty green of the distant Eburu. How could they know that she had just watched Bwana Tom drive off with that English girl? Off for a night out and happy to be going.

‘Ohhh, that girl's been looking mighty serious today,' grunted the gravel voice of Luka.

‘Mighty sour. All her big ideas about Bwana Tom up in smoke. Poof! Did you see the new girl?' There was a note of satisfaction in Erik's voice.

‘Sure, sure. Got a nice Kikuyu bum. Perhaps she'll let me show her good time. She could tell her folks about a real adventure in Africa!' his brother guffawed.

‘Luka, why you not get married? You're such a horny person. Never stop talking about your dick!'

‘Do you think that ‘Becca'd have me now? Bwana Tom got himself a new hole to hide in.'

‘Too educated …'

‘A wash girl?'

‘Wash girl!' Erik mocked. ‘Five years in that fancy school, sings like a night bird, looks like a film star … Luka, what a hope! Besides, you know who's coming tomorrow … afternoon? We'll see them out in the garden socialising.'

‘Who's that?'

‘Abel Rubai.'

‘That crook!'

‘That very rich crook. He's after more land. You know that. ‘Spect he'll have his boy with him, Julius. Daddy wants the land, the kid wants the girl.'

‘Okay, Okay, that's enough!' Luka, an African dreamer, could not take the discomfort of having his fantasies, however crazy, chilled by doses of cold reality.

People were beginning to gather on the patch of well-loved ground. They were a small community who treasured this place and protected it. Some brought out chairs and a table in the evening. Most used the sitting places made over the years, slices of tree trunk, stones, turf, all cut and shaped for comfort. Children played their games here. It was a place for Bible reading, parties, quiet, late evening conversations around the dying embers, formal meetings and for settling disputes. It was the comfortable heartland of the African part of Londiani.

Stephen and Angela Kamau appeared along the path from Crescent Island. They were deep in conversation. If Angela was Maura McCall's treasure, Stephen had become something very special to Alex. He was the boss's right-hand man, even though his title described him only as senior foreman on a farm that employed five hundred workers, most of them in the flower fields and tents.

They were both refugees from the east of the country. Angela Ngoro was a lithe, handsome Somali, neat, always immaculately turned out in bright, flowing clothes. She had run away from the family farm near Auliban. She had gathered her few belongings into a bundle and took a night matatu to Nairobi. She'd rather take her chances on the streets of the big city than become the fourth wife of Ahmed, the richest man in the district. She had two pieces of luck. The Shahs of Langata wanted a good Muslim woman to work in their mansion. She had met them on her first visit to the mosque.

Six months later she changed her faith, seduced by the Presbyterian street preaching of a Mijikanda man from the coast. He, too, had broken away from his family, too many of whom were steeped in witchcraft and superstition.

Stephen Kamau was a giant who turned eyes wherever he went. He had a gentle nature and loved nothing better than dancing or singing in his fine baritone. Watching him perform a story or a sermon was to experience total theatre.

The gathering on the patch was a buzzing, squeaking, squealing crowd waiting for a story from their headman and friend. Stephen was late coming out. He had been praying. Angela at last had unburdened herself completely about Rebecca. His first thoughts had been for his wife and for the pain she had carried alone for so long.

‘It's my turn now, Angela. The Lord will show us the way. I only wish I was a little faster in understanding what He is trying to tell us. We got to trust a little harder just now.'

Stephen Kamau's ways were always gentle, always respecting the decisions of everyone, even the youngest, even when he thought a mistake was being made.

For now he must be with all the Londiani people. It was good to feel the cool evening air on his face.

‘Joshua, how old are you?'

‘Eight, Bwana Kamau.'

‘Ah, just right. You choose the story tonight.'

Joshua swelled with pride and self-importance that it was his turn to get big Stephen to do his bidding. He closed his eyes and wiggled his tongue to show that he was in deep thought and taking the job seriously.

‘Bwana, I would like the story of Babu.'

A murmur of approval. Stephen was always ready to spin a brand new story, but usually his audience called for one of its old favourites. The tale itself was only part of the pleasure. After all, they were listening to one of the finest speaking voices in the country, even if they didn't know it. Then there was the singing, the miming, the dancing and the audience involvement. Total theatre.

‘Babu, the youngest son of a fisherman of Malindi, leaves home in search of the end of the rainbow. He journeys across deserts, across rivers alive with snapping crocodiles, plains where he is chased by lions and cornered by a maverick buffalo. Always the close calls, the near misses. He meets a talkative but forgetful woodpecker who accidentally leads Babu into the den of the wicked witchdoctor of the north. Always there is the breathless climb of Ol Doinyo, always the fall from the snow-capped peak into the swirling lake, always the struggle between the Spirit of Good and the Spirit of Evil, fighting over his soul. The climax of the storm roars until Babu wakes to find that he has found the very root of the rainbow in a corner of his father's shamba.'

Stephen Kamau was born for telling stories. He did not do it for acclaim. It was his gift of love to whoever wanted to listen. When he had finished this story, there was the euphoria, the warm feeling of goodwill towards him and his world. There were a hundred smiling faces calling out and whooping their delight. Rebecca, his eldest daughter, the one he often called Child or our Firstborn, was sitting close to him. He wept to see her smiling up at him. The thought came to him again that he and Angela had brought to earth a special child.

And Rebecca would sing. In her days in Santa Maria her best friend was Mary Wajiru. Mary was in boarding school because her daddy was spending a lot of time in America with his African jazz combo. Toni Wajiru was a big man in the west coast music business. She and Mary had sung together so often. At night in their room they would listen to tapes of Toni and his boys. At concerts they would sing Toni's songs. Mary had been with her father for three years now. Twice she had returned to Kenya and travelled to Naivasha to try to persuade Rebecca to join her and the band.

”Becca, come back with me. With your looks to go with that voice, you'd make heaps of money in no time.'

* * *

Lucy was on her third White-cap. ‘Tom, I can't get her out of my mind. I'm scared of her, scared of what she could do to you. She gives me the shivers. She's my idea of a witch.'

‘Funny you should say that. Stephen, her father, is a Majikinda. They're from the coast. Supposed to be into witchcraft. But he's a really great bloke, like everybody's favourite uncle.'

* * *

No one moved while Rebecca sang. She had chosen a blues song, one she had written the words for. Even the youngest child sitting around that fire recognised that she was listening to the voice of a spirit breaking loose, unashamed to let anyone look upon the pain of her heart. She was desperate to be true to her deepest self whatever she found that self to be.

As she sang, Angela grasped the hand of her husband very tight. Jane and Martha snuggled up to their parents. Their eyes were fixed on their big sister's face. They enjoyed the beauty in the voice, but why did she seem so far away from everyone there? They knew something about Rebecca's feelings for Tom and, young as they were, saw the foolishness of it. They were afraid that punishment was close by.

The meeting around the fire was finished by nine o'clock and the rondavels were quiet by ten. Erik in his askari uniform returned every hour to put more wood on the fire.

Sleep would not come to Rebecca. Just after midnight she was gliding along the smooth path towards Big House. She skirted the cei-apple hedge and stood for a time in the laundry garden. She had been trying for hours to become calm enough to visualise again the events of the day, her encounter with Signora Rafaella, the moments with the English woman in the garden and in the dining room. She was searching for some clue about how others were thinking. Were they laughing at her or, worse, feeling sorry for her?

It was on to the acacia. There was stillness on the lake and silence in the mountains and she could not share them. She sat against the tree and looked back to Big House. She drew the thick woollen shawl around her shoulders. The frustration would not leave her. This white girl could fight in the open. She would have the community with her, even her own family. She, the one born here, was the stranger. And she herself was already getting used to having this Lucy around. How long before her stomach melted with hot pain to be hearing the announcement of Tom's engagement? And she would get used to that too. That was so often the way of it for Africans.