The Drowning Lesson (12 page)

‘Why would Alice say Teko spoke to her?' We were in the sitting room later; the paraffin lights were lit but the room was full of shadows. ‘I didn't want to confront her tonight but it was clearly untrue.'

‘Maybe they talk in Setswana.' Adam was looking out of the window. The darkness was more intense than usual; clouds had been gathering for days. Everyone hoped for rain. ‘Does it matter? At least they're communicating and she's found a friend.'

‘She should understand we can recognize when she's lying.' I sat down on the sofa. ‘How else will she know when to stop?'

‘She's a clever girl.' He glanced at me. ‘She'll work it out for herself.' He turned back to the window. ‘Remember that orange glow from traffic and streetlights at home? I love the pure emptiness of the dark here, knowing there's no one else for miles and miles.'

He bent forwards, peering intently through the glass. I didn't tell him I missed the orange glow. I missed people and streets; I even missed cars. When I woke to feed Sam at night, the darkness didn't feel empty to me but full of unnamed menace. In the mornings when the sun rose, flooding the world with
light and warmth, my thoughts seemed childish even to me.

The next day, the Internet was still down. I scrolled through my phone contacts, looking for Francesca's number, and came across Claire Stukker's. She'd been friendly. She'd told me to keep in touch. Perhaps she was lonely sometimes. I could drive over and we would have lunch. She might even know about jobs.

Hi, hope you are well. We're settling in.
My fingers hesitated
. I'm looking for a job! Maybe you could advise? Would be good to meet up, Emma
.

Her message came back in seconds:
Will keep my ear to the ground
.
Good luck!

I read it several times, trying to make it say more than it did; at least she'd replied. I put the phone down and walked to the door, looking up at the sky. She must be run off her feet with so many children. The clouds were larger than usual, grey-streaked and heavy. Perhaps I was simply missing Megan. We'd emailed and texted but it wasn't the same. I walked back to the table, pulled out my box of papers and sat down to read, glad now I'd printed them out.

The next day Kabo phoned. They were short-handed in the clinic at Kubung: a nurse had gone on maternity leave. Did I have the right documents?

I found the certificate I needed jammed in with
other papers in a box under the table in the garage. As I smoothed it out, I had the feeling that if I turned quickly enough I might catch my father standing in the shadows, smiling at me.

The garage doors were wide open. From here I could see Josiah as he worked near the pram, singing in his growly voice. The dog lay close, greying muzzle settled on his paws. From time to time Josiah put the hoe down and pushed the pram a few times backwards and forwards, nodding. I could hear the answering coos from several metres away.

Alice lay on her stomach on a rug, surrounded by books. She pushed her homework into Simon's hands every day as he arrived, flushing with pleasure when he congratulated her. I'd noticed how close she sat to him; and how she followed him to his car. If she had a little crush on Simon, it was harmless, part of growing up.

Zoë was running about with jam jars, catching cicadas for the reptiles in her zoo. My eyes flicked automatically to the girls' feet: I hadn't forgotten Claire's warning about snakes, but we'd seen none so far.

The rains had finally arrived, and the garden was
glistening, the scent of grass reminding me of England, though there would be a different sort of rain at home: a cold drizzle might be falling from a dark sky; there would be muddy lawns and bare branches.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Hello

The Internet is working. Finally!

How is Andrew, and work? More difficult or easier without my husband?

Things have improved here. I'm working. Clever Megan, you knew. I'm doing a nurse maternity locum, in Kubung, part time. The full-time nurse, Esther, tells me what to do and I comply. Most of the cases are straightforward: kids with diarrhoea or chest infections …

Should I tell her about Baruti? Would she be able to put Esther's story into some kind of perspective? Baruti had come to the clinic with a chest infection. His mother had brought his twin, Ibo, as well; they were six years old and had hacking coughs. I'd advised antibiotics and review, but she'd brought only Ibo back and refused to discuss Baruti. Later I'd gone to find Esther, who was tidying the box of bandages
in her lunch break. ‘Mrs Munthe didn't bring Baruti back with Ibo. She wouldn't talk about him.'

‘That's because she doesn't know where he is,' Esther had whispered, glancing around. ‘A neighbour asked him to help search for some donkeys two weeks ago and he never came back.'

A young child missing for two weeks in England would have caused uproar, but I'd heard nothing. ‘What do the police say?'

‘No point asking them. It's election time.'

‘What have elections got to do with a missing child?'

‘They get taken from the bush,' she murmured, eyes darting to the door. ‘You know … for medicine.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?'

She put down her bandages, got up and closed the door, then pulled the window shut. ‘Power,' she said quietly, sitting down again. ‘Politicians and business-men buy medicine for power. The police do nothing. They're frightened of the
boloi
. Everyone is.'

‘
Boloi?
'

‘Witch doctors, the worst kind.' She pulled her chair closer to mine and her voice sank to a whisper: ‘They make medicine from parts of a child – eyelids or hands or testes. Arms and legs.' The words poured out in a compressed rush, water through a broken dam. ‘The screams make the medicine stronger.
They take the child out in the bush before they start the cutting. It has to be an open place, or the magic doesn't work so well. Then –'

I stood so quickly my chair fell backwards. Esther's hand went to her mouth: she hadn't meant to tell me this; it couldn't be true. Barbarism happened in wars, not deliberately, for money. This must be a fairy tale like ‘Little Red Riding Hood' or ‘The Babes in the Wood'. The content of fairy tales was irrelevant. Everyone knew that. The real story here was about the importance of children or, perhaps, the power of belief.

Esther left the room. I picked up the chair, the clinic started again and we didn't talk about it any more. I wouldn't involve Megan – there seemed little point. It might stir up the dark sediment from her own past.

The children are fine. Sam is putting on weight. You'd hardly recognize him now. He smiles constantly …

His face seemed to melt when he saw me. I'd think about that smile all day and hurry through the house to find him, making up for lost time. I didn't like the mark, but it didn't get in the way any more. When I looked at Sam now, I could see him properly.

The girls live outside. Zoë is in her element. She loves everything. Alice

Teko had come out since I'd been typing, and was lying on the rug next to Alice. She had brought a little bag of dried pods with her and they were threading them on a string to make a necklace.

Alice is happier.

Was that true? She followed Teko everyhere and lived for her sessions with Simon. She helped Zoë with the zoo. I watched her smiling at Teko as she held up the growing necklace. I tapped quickly:

Much happier
,
picking up Setswana …

She was shy of trying it out in front of us, but she talked to Teko, in whispers so we couldn't hear.

You wouldn't recognize Adam. He's almost normal. His desk is a mess!

Just then Kabo's jeep came up the drive. The best part of the day was about to begin.

All in all this is turning out to be a very good gap year.

Love to Andrew, lots to you from all of us,

Emma x

Adam and Kabo came into the garden. The evening
ritual began; covering his eyes, Adam started counting down from ten loudly and slowly. Zoë squealed and ran to hide under the mass of red bougainvillaea around our window. Alice slipped behind a tree.

‘… three … two … one. Ready or not, here I come.' Adam threw his jacket onto the grass, took Sam from Teko and, holding him tightly against his chest, strode theatrically around the garden, bending low to look under every bush.

Elisabeth came out of the house, balancing bottles of beer on a tray. ‘Join us, Elisabeth.' I took the tray from her. ‘Have a beer.'

She shook her head and hurried back into the house. A warm smell of curried chicken drifted into the garden. Kabo drained his bottle and joined in the hunt on his knees, growling loudly as he approached each tree.

The children were flushed out of their hiding places and rushed, shrieking, across the lawn. I took Sam from Adam and went inside to run water into the basin in our bathroom. He was almost too big to fit and laughed his chuckling laugh as I nuzzled his tummy while his soapy fingers clung in my hair. He fell asleep quickly after his feed but I walked about the room for a while, holding him against me.

Kabo stayed for supper; his wife had taken her mother to the doctor; they would have a long wait and would return later.

‘Where's the surgery?' There seemed so few in Botswana.

He shifted in his seat. ‘No surgery, just a small hut. He's a traditional doctor, herbs and roots and so on. Most people go to them for help.' He pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘If I get a stomach ache, I go along too – it always works. My wife went last week for a charm. She's worried that the neighbours could be jealous because I have a good job and wanted to keep us safe.'

Kabo, an educated scientist, believing in charms? He nodded at me as if he could read my thoughts and was agreeing with the paradox.

‘How do witch doctors fit in?' I kept my voice quiet but the children had already moved to the sofa and were listening to Adam describing owls; he was demonstrating their swooping flight with Alice's knitted one.

‘There's a whole spectrum of doctors here,' Kabo replied. ‘
Ngaka ya setso
, the good healers at one end. At the other, the boloi.' His voice lowered. ‘They are the ones who make terrible spells …'

Zoë's head turned at the familiar word.

‘Kabo's been telling me a fairy story.' I stood up. ‘So, babies, how are we going to find some owls for Daddy?'

Later we played Monopoly on the veranda; the swallows shot past us, skimming so low that Alice ducked and Adam laughed. Kabo smiled as he
gathered up his winnings; he was getting very good at this game. It was hard to remember the weighty texture of life in London now, the rushed evenings and the exhaustion at the end of the day. Finally we were living the life I had imagined.

Gradually the shadows crept across the lawn and the mosquitoes began to bite. We stacked away the game, picked up our glasses and, shepherding the girls ahead of us, went inside and shut the door.

Adam had got up early and was folding clothes into a case for the AIDS conference in Gaborone. He would be away for a couple of days.

Birdsong came through the window, Sam was snuffling in the cot next to me. I opened my hand wide in a patch of sun: back-lit, the edges of my fingers were translucent, as though light were trapped inside. I leant from the bed to stroke Sam's hair, it was thicker now and stuck up in glossy twists. I'd always thought happiness belonged to children or the faintly stupid, that it was pointless to strive for something so illusory; I must have changed or been changed. Now it seemed that the silky texture of happiness was just within my reach.

Teko was waiting in the kitchen. I had grown fond of her. She had hardly learnt a word of English but it didn't matter: she seemed to know what I wanted before I told her. Though I invited her to join us at meals she always refused, seeming content to be on the edge of things, watching. Perhaps life had taught her to be wary.

She took Sam and bent her head to his face. She was close to him, that was all that mattered.

Elisabeth's plimsolls made a soft slapping sound on the wooden floor as she stepped backwards and forwards while sweeping the sitting room.

Adam caught my expression. ‘What's the problem?'

‘Just … guilt. Elisabeth does everything.'

He poured coffee from the jug into two mugs and passed one to me, the steam curling in the morning air. ‘She seems content. She's paid for the job she does.' He took a sip of coffee, his gaze following a blue starling as it waddled on the lawn. ‘Does she really need your guilt?'

How could I not feel guilty? Sitting down as Elisabeth worked around us felt wrong, though when I offered to help she shook her head, looking away as if embarrassed. At work my guilt intensified: most of the illnesses were due to poverty, but at the end of the clinic I walked away to plenty. I drove home wondering whether I was helping the patients I saw, or helping myself to an illusion; since my conversation with Kabo I realized most of my patients saw traditional doctors as well.

Oddly, with Josiah I felt none of this conflict. After work I lay in the hammock under the gum trees, Sam hiccupping and wriggling on my stomach. Josiah worked nearby, his eyes resting on Sam, his battered hat pulled low, the faithful dog somewhere near. I'd
watch the smooth swing of the hoe hitting the ground and I wouldn't feel guilty at all.

As if my thoughts had conjured him, Josiah walked past the veranda, giving the children a little salute.

‘His dog's not there,' Zoë announced, with surprise, as she hung over the balustrade, her legs in the air. She was right: for once there was no lolloping animal at his heels. I watched the old man walk slowly towards his shed, a small bag of biltong strapped to his belt. I'd seen him share the strips of meat with the dog: he wouldn't be far away.

‘Asleep, I expect, Zoë. Put your feet down, darling, or you'll fall off.'

‘He's yucky. I hope he's gone and never comes back,' Alice muttered.

Adam put down the paper he was reading and looked at her. He must have noticed the dark smudges under her eyes at the same moment I did. ‘Do you need a fan at night, sweetheart? You look as if you've hardly slept.'

She stared at him. ‘It was you who kept me awake, creeping around, banging into things.'

‘Did I?' Adam pushed back his chair. ‘Sorry, Ally.'

‘You were breathing outside my door. I heard you whispering.'

‘Sorry.' He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I don't remember. Maybe I got up for a drink – or
perhaps I was sleepwalking.' He winked at her, but she turned away.

‘What do you mean the dog's yucky?' Zoë's eyes filled with tears. ‘He's nice, I want him back.'

Alice shrugged, got down and walked out without answering.

‘She's only teasing.' I wiped Zoë's eyes, wishing Alice wouldn't exert her power over her sister; it was so easy to reduce Zoë to tears. ‘I'll ask Elisabeth – she'll know what's happened.'

Kabo arrived after breakfast. As he waited for Adam to gather his things, he leant against the door to listen to the radio. Local elections, diamond trading, new rural roads planned. ‘That would be good, if only I could believe it.' Kabo sounded resigned. ‘The roads are worse than ever.'

His grumbling was good-natured. It was hard to imagine Kabo upset about anything. His bulk matched his kindness. Even Alice relaxed with him, trying out her Setswana, laughing when he teased her about her accent.

The men left, Kabo's head bent to Adam's as they walked, studying the sheet of results for their presentation. Adam swung round as they reached the car to wave at the girls, who were straddling the veranda. Zoë waved with both hands. Alice nodded. They jumped down, Alice running swiftly to the zoo, Zoe following slowly, stopping to inspect the ground as she went.

In the kitchen Elisabeth's hands were deep in soapy water. I put the tray of breakfast things by the sink. ‘Josiah's dog wasn't with him just now.' I began to unload bowls and cups. ‘Zoë was worried. Do you know where he is?'

‘He wanders off into the bush sometimes,' Elisabeth said. A look of mild exasperation crossed her face as she shook her head. ‘We never know where he goes but he'll come back when he's hungry.'

Today Simon was earlier than usual. On work mornings I'd have left by the time he arrived. I offered to call the girls, but he shook his head. ‘I came early to catch you,' he said.

I sat with him in the sitting room, conscious of the minutes ticking by. Behind his pebble glasses, Simon's brown eyes were anxious. He cleared his throat. ‘Alice has finished the syllabus in maths already, and Zoë understands addition.'

I watched his larynx move up and down as he swallowed; he pulled his fingers until the knuckles cracked. ‘They're doing well. We're grateful, Simon –'

‘I have to hand in my notice,' he said quickly. ‘My wife has just heard she's in the running for a new job further away. Our son is only six months old …'

‘I see.' My heart sank.

‘I'll sort out a replacement. A colleague is looking for extra hours, and has a degree in biology. I could ask him.'

‘When do you have to go?'

‘Tomorrow will be my last day. We didn't know until last night and she needs to prepare.'

‘The girls have got so used to you, especially Alice,' I said. His forehead shone with a fine film of sweat: he felt bad enough already. ‘But congratulations, of course. Your wife must be excited.'

‘She is.' His hands relaxed. ‘She's standing for election as secretary of the village development committee in Serule. It's important for her, the first rung on the political ladder.'

Just then Alice pushed open the door, her face alight. Zoë followed. I said goodbye. Zoë would be fine, but I dreaded telling Alice.

On the outskirts of Kubung, an old woman walked across her yard as I drove past, a couple of small children staggering in her wake: AIDS orphans. How could I worry about Simon leaving? It was a tiny blip in the children's lives. There were so many broken families here.

Mmapula was the first patient in the antenatal clinic, her pretty face distorted with pain; on examination she was in early labour with a breech presentation. She shook her head when Esther translated my offer to take her to Thamaga maternity unit immediately: her boyfriend had a car, she would call him right now. She disappeared quickly. Two hours
later, when I phoned the unit to check, she hadn't arrived. Glancing at Esther's worried face, I gathered a delivery pack – forceps, gloves, syringes, needles and anaesthetic. Together we hurried down the steps, Esther panting directions as we ran.

The concrete hut was half hidden behind a large thorn tree. As we ran across the yard, chickens scattering from our feet, I could hear groans coming from the door of the hut. Mmapula was lying on a mat just inside. Her face was wet with sweat; she was writhing in agony. Gazing wildly at us, she gasped a few words. Esther, translating, shook her head angrily: the boyfriend had been drunk, asleep in his hut. She knew the man – he was always drunk.

We asked Mmapula for permission to examine her. Even without a torch I could see the tiny buttocks at the introitus. Esther listened to the baby's heart with a Pinard stethoscope; it was slow, there was no time to move her. She held Mmapula's hand while I tore open the delivery pack and wrenched out gloves. I washed the vulva with disinfectant soap from a sachet and injected local anaesthetic. I cut down rapidly, then eased in forceps and tugged, sweating, with each contraction. A few tense seconds passed. Suddenly a tiny male trunk slithered out, the head and shoulders still trapped inside. I loosened the cord around the neck, repositioned the forceps and pulled. On the third tug, the head came free. A
little bloodstained boy lay blue, motionless and unbreathing in my hands.

I heard Mmapula ask a question, and Esther murmur a reply; I lifted the silent child with one hand, thumb over the chest and rummaged for the aspirator, elbowing my hair from my eyes. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the tiny chest heaved and the familiar cat-like cry filled the hut. Shocked, reprieved, eyes burning, I lifted him onto Mmapula's abdomen. Her hand came down to rest on the small back and her eyes closed.

When the cord stopped pulsating, I clipped and cut it, glad the research would benefit this little boy; Esther delivered the placenta and then we helped Mmapula stagger across the room into bed and gave her the wrapped baby. While Esther held the torch I repaired the episiotomy. I had no more local anaesthetic to give her but Mmapula lay completely still, gazing at the tiny boy in her arms.

Esther left to start the lunchtime tuberculosis clinic. I stayed on to check the blood pressure. Mmapula and her son slept. It was dark and quiet; the labour ward in my hospital had high lights, humming machinery, bleeps and drips, scalpels. Masks. I hadn't known my patients' names. They'd trusted my skill but not me: they hadn't known me. Here, that separation didn't seem possible. The baby mewed. I leant to check his pulse; the tiny fingers curled round mine, holding tight.

The hut began to fill with neighbours, a can of hot sorghum was produced, cups of tea, ginger beer. When Esther returned, Mmapula was still sleeping and I hurried back for the afternoon clinic.

It had started raining by the time I drove home; the old woman and the children I'd seen earlier had disappeared. The village looked a different, grimmer place. The ash under the cooking pots was dark with water. There were no families sitting in the sun, no children playing in the dust.

It was quieter in Adam's absence. I noticed more things. Alice moved everywhere with Teko, helping with Sam. They talked in whispers; I couldn't hear what they said but I wouldn't have understood anyway. It was time I learnt Setswana – it would be helpful in the clinic. When I took Sam from Alice at his bedtime, her anger surprised me. ‘Why are you putting him away?'

‘I'm not putting him anywhere, Ally. It's his bedtime. He needs a routine.'

‘You mean you do,' she said loudly. ‘I know you don't want Sam to be part of the family.'

What had triggered this? I tried to put an arm round her but she shrugged me off. Her words echoed in my head as I fed Sam by his cot. She was partly right – I did want a routine – but she was also wrong. He was loved, even if I hadn't shown it from the start. I touched his birthmark gently. As he
drowsed to sleep, I stared absently at the white walls, noticing that dark fingerprints had appeared near the glass doors. The children should take more care: it was our house on loan only. I turned the key in the door and put the keychain in a drawer, then settled Sam and found the girls in their room.

‘Ally, Zoë, remember to wash your hands when you come in from the garden. There are fingermarks all over the wall by the doors in our room. I've locked them now, the keys are in the bedside drawer in case of emergencies.'

‘What emergencies?' asked Zoë, jumping off her bed. ‘Will lions come in our room, or elephants?' Her voice shook with excitement.

‘Fire, stupid,' Alice muttered.

Zoe looked crestfallen. Tears welled.

‘Elisabeth says the dog's gone off on his own little adventure,' I told her quickly. ‘He'll be back soon, you'll see.'

Zoe had recovered by supper and as we sat together over Elisabeth's pumpkin stew I told both girls that Simon was leaving us, explaining that his family had to move. I was watching Alice as I spoke but I was still unprepared. She pushed her plate away, knocking over a glass of bougainvillaea flowers. ‘It's all your fault!' she shouted, then ran to her bedroom and locked the door from the inside. She refused to open it; in the end Zoë had to sleep in our bed.

‘Why is Ally so cross?' she whispered, as I tucked her in.

‘She's upset because Simon's leaving,' I whispered back. ‘She liked him.' It was more than that. For the first time a teacher had responded to who she was, taking her seriously. Had I neglected this? Trying to understand her emotions, had I forgotten her mind? But emotions were part of this too – she'd adored Simon.