Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  The singing came to an end, the girl moved off but the spell held. The leaping and the snapping of the kelpie and the blue heeler interrupted the flow. The dogs were reminding her that it was past feeding time. She turned for home. At every step she expected the numbing heaviness to return.

  She fed the dogs and sat down with the family for dinner.

  After a time she became aware that Tom was watching her closely. She smiled down into her soup and waited for the questions. Tom held back. Perhaps he sensed that something new was going on in his grandmother’s head, something delicate that must not be disturbed. It was something good. Her eyes told him that. The hunted look, the tense weariness was gone. She was coming back to them.

  After three or four days she knew that the shift was real. A kind of distance had sprung up between her and the memory of Don. She was able to look back on their wonderful years together as an entity that was complete. The wound was healing to a scar. Perhaps soon she must think of moving on. The thought of this brought a rush of guilt. That, too, melted quickly away.

  In the months that followed Rafaella and Rebecca were often together in that lower sitting room. Rafaella had to convince Angela that it was all right for her daughter to be idling away her time like that when there was proper work to be done. Sometimes their idling was to read poetry to each other in English, Swahili, Italian and French. Sometimes Rebecca would sing. Sometimes there was a proper idleness when they sat quietly like a pair of quakers, speaking only when the compulsion to do so was too strong.

  The family all noticed the stages in what Maura came to call Rafaella’s return. She began again to take an active part in discussions about farm business. She and Poppy Taylor, a widow from Ololushwa Farm up the road towards Hell’s Gate, went on outings together. The landmark visit was the week they spent in the arid lands around Lake Baringo and Lake Bogoria.

  Sheila du Fond, one of the Gilgil witches, had her home on a small island out in the milky-green warm waters of Baringo. There was no proper house, just a shelter built on the highest patch of land with the front open to the humid air. It was basic living with her rusting boxes neatly organised in one corner and her radio tuned to BBC World Service on her table. The tiny atoll had rich soil and there was no shortage of fresh water. Sheila’s greatest luxury was her fibreglass long-boat powered by a motor to give her a lifeline to the mainland and the world.

  The three friends had a hilarious time. Poppy and Rafaella were breaking moulds every day from the dawn bathe to the late evening sundowner. They made an excursion to the closed off world of Bogoria to enjoy its hot springs and the company of a million flamingos. Mostly it was a time of social weeding and planting with very long breaks for reading and sharing.

  This first landmark visit made Rafaella ready for the second. She asked Tom to fly her to the farms up at Meru. The family plane had been repaired after the accident. The damage had been surprisingly slight. The familiar look and smell of the cockpit surprised her with its power to recreate a sense of Don’s presence. They had spent many of their happiest hours in this tiny place. The mountains, plains and forest had been their private landscape.

  It was midmorning and they were having coffee in the garden of Vince and Sophie Allan. Unexpectedly and inexplicably the clouds that usually covered the upper parts of Mount Kenya parted. Those clean-lined, craggy peaks triggered more memories. She was transported forty years back in time. She was sitting on Point Lenana with her binoculars fixed on Don and his brother, Freddie, as they picked their way up the jagged, snow-covered faces of Nelion and then Batian.

  Tom took off for the return journey well before sundown. They shared long, companionable silences and Tom sought out the plains where he knew the game would be plentiful. As the last of the engine sounds died away back at home base, grandson and grandmother did not move, did not speak. Tom did not want to break the spell of tenderness. Rafaella had the bitter-sweet realisation that her life had moved on.

  Rafaella loved Tom a lot. During those hours in the sitting room with Rebecca, she discovered how much the girl loved him too. Rebecca had made no direct declaration. She would not have dared. But, even at the beginning, she found so many ways of bringing Bwana Tom into conversations. She lingered over them. She lit up. Rafaella had her suspicions confirmed over and over. Unwittingly Rebecca was making it difficult for a grandmother to pretend that she had noticed nothing.

  It had been months since the last time the two of them had been together in that sitting room, but Rebecca had not forgotten the exact position of the blue armchair where the signora was sitting. And her eyes were adjusting to the half light. She could see that the mistress’s dark eyes were half closed. Perhaps she was about to doze and give her the chance to escape. She could apologise later.

  * * *

  The little aircraft was running for home through a haze of drizzling rain. The buffeting of winds from the south did nothing to dent the very good humour of Don and Alex. Christmas was close and they had just enjoyed three successful days up in Meru. They had hesitated about setting off from the high country, but local knowledge had suggested that there would be a lull between storms. Don was keen to be in Londiani to celebrate his birthday. It had been raining for a day and a half and he was ready for a skiddy landing.

  Two wildebeeste were sparring in the bush up ahead. Nothing unusual about that. When they caught the noise of the engine, they would scoot off out of danger. Except that they scooted right into the middle of the strip. Hakuna matata. Just alter the line a little. As long as they … Damn, mud-rolling and skylarking. He was being confronted by the only two deaf wildebeeste in East Africa. So, slightly further left. He might get a better grip on the rough on this side of the clump of acacia. Don was two feet out in his calculation, but it cost him his life.

  * * *

  Rebecca was almost sure that her employer and friend had dropped off. She decided to take a chance. She would mutter something and hurry off.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Madam. I thought my mother was here.’

  ‘Child, don’t insult me! We know each other too well for that.’

  ‘There were people coming.’

  ‘And you’re not ready for people. So, you wanted to hide for a while. I understand about hiding. I’ve done a lot of hiding myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam. I’ve interrupted … I know … I remember our time together.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word came out wearily, like a sigh. ‘Those hours were so … restful.’ She hesitated. ‘And you still love him.’

  From across the room she heard the girl catch her breath. ‘You think I didn’t know?’ The tone was friendly, but Rebecca did not relax her rigid pose. ‘A lot of people would know if they kept their eyes open.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  Rebecca bowed her head. A tiny hope was beginning to show itself. Did the signora approve even a little bit? At least she was not scolding her for daring to love her grandson. Oh, why was she grovelling like this even in her thoughts? Some fighter! But … no sensible words were coming into her head. The confusion of the morning was getting worse.

  ‘Shall I tell you why I ended our meetings? It was you, my dear. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. You and Tom. It made me crazy thinking about it. I started watching him. Yes, watching my own grandson. Yes, he’s got the sickness, too.’ Once more she hesitated. ‘I’m not explaining this very well. You see, I love the two of you. And now I feel ashamed.’

  ‘Ashamed? You, Madam?’

  ‘You know I like horses.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rebecca feared that even the tiny wisp of hope was shrivelling.

  ‘Bwana Don and I used to enjoy a Sunday afternoon down at Ngong. Bwana liked to bet?’

  ‘Yes, I know bet.’

  ‘Sometimes he used to win. But if a horse was a thousand to one … you would never put money on it to win a race. One chance in a thousand. No hope there. Rebecca, do you understand my silly way of explaining things?’

  ‘Yes, it mean
s little hope of marriage.’

  ‘But I know you would make a good wife. Perfect.’

  ‘For Thomas?’ In her despair Rebecca had to be sure.

  ‘Perfect, but …’

  ‘I am a black house girl.’

  ‘And that’s why I feel ashamed.’

  ‘I understand. It’s tradition. It’s history. Even Mama tries to tell me these things.’

  Rafaella saw that this encounter could only become more painful for both of them. ‘None of us knows what will come tomorrow. But now, this morning, best that you go back to finish the laundry. When you meet this girl, do what I’m going to do. Be polite. Be direct. Show her who you are and make her know that you are important. You won’t need words, not a beauty like you.’

  Rebecca understood that she had been given permission to leave the room. The unexpected minutes she had spent in this familiar room had rocked her back into a kind of equilibrium. The laundry girl made her way solemnly around the lamps and chairs and came to a halt directly in front of Rafaella. The grey European eyes and the brown African eyes locked into an amused gaze. The young woman curtseyed with an elaborate flourish. Her face split into a dazzling smile and she flounced away. Her hand was on the doorhandle when Rafaella called out, ‘Be careful and remember that not everyone out there is as honest as you!’

  Rebecca was happy to be plunging her arms in the depths of the hot water again, reaching out for garments to smack and squeeze. At least she had avoided the inspection. Except that there had been a delay. Angela had not told her.

  Maura McCall appeared around the side of the cei-apple hedge, chatting in a busy, friendly way to an as yet unseen companion. Rebecca fixed her eyes on the soapy whirls of water, trying to look preoccupied. If she had been as submissive as her mother, she would have seen that the mistress was kitted out in her riding gear, tapping her silver-topped whip into her gloved hand. Her face was flushed and the ends of her dark hair were damp. She was limping slightly and now and then touched a tender spot on her thigh where old Irish had connected with a playful thump.

  Maura delighted in her truth that she lived in the loveliest spot on earth. She revelled in showing off her home and her people.

  ‘And this is the laundry garden and … Angela and Rebecca.’

  Mother with ease and daughter with gritted teeth managed a deferential nod. Lucy was still on her first look when Rebecca walloped a sheet against the trough. The heat was rising in her and the pain in her knuckles hardly registered.

  The dreaded moment had arrived and she was trapped. Rebecca was trying to remember the words she had just heard in the sitting room.

  ‘At last, the famous Angela! Wow! I think I could get used to doing the washing in a paradise like this!’

  Why do English women when they speak sound like neighing horses? Why do they strut into new places as if they were the queens of creation? Why do they think that we will find them interesting?

  This one was taller than she had looked in the picture. She had let her dark blonde hair grow. The square shoulders and the athletic looking thighs reminded Rebecca of those bossy European teachers who had come to Santa Maria to teach African girls how to hit a hockey ball. No doubt she couldn’t wait to get on a horse and have a ride around paradise. For this one producing babies would present no problems and would please everyone — more white kids to help stem the black tide.

  Rebecca was working herself up into a quiet frenzy. Thank goodness there was no sign of Thomas in the escort party. Not yet.

  ‘Tom, where are you? Don’t keep Lucy …’

  He had slipped in quietly and when the women looked again, he was magically present, leaning into the hedge, totally relaxed and watching events with a bemused smile.

  There was a lot of smiling going on in the laundry garden just then. Rebecca turned her glance back to Lucy to discover that the English girl was beaming at Tom. She realised that it was time for some marking out of territory. She was desperate enough to be reckless. She tilted her head into a haughty pose and sent a sidelong, smouldering glare in the same direction.

  Lucy’s smile froze when she saw that the line of Tom’s eye went beyond her own offering to light on the stare of the wash girl. The exchange went on and on. It was quite ridiculous and ill-mannered.

  Maura was only half pretending not to notice what was going on when she turned to a grateful Angela to talk over for the third time that morning arrangements for lunch.

  Lucy, left exposed and isolated, composed herself quietly by looking around the sunlit garden. She glanced back and the shameless, uninhibited exchange was still going on. The vibrations were almost tangible. She recalled the warning of a London friend that she should be ready for surprises to spring out at her from the most unlikely places on that dark continent. She hadn’t expected so much so soon.

  When the glare broke, Tom moved quickly to grasp his mother’s arm. ‘Still at it I see, Mother.’ Tom disliked Maura’s ritual of the tour of Londiani. It was the single area of disharmony between them. Normally he was well out of the way when she was performing.

  Maura had recognised what he was up to with that ridiculous staring at Rebecca. She’d forgotten how silly he could be about her demonstration of good manners to newcomers. She suddenly felt in need of a shower. He could finish the walk around. That would fix him for the moment.

  ‘Lucy, Tom knows far more about the outside. I’ll leave you —’

  She broke off in mid-sentence. With a dramatic flourish Rebecca was removing her red and yellow headscarf. She shook loose her long, black hair.

  Maura wondered what in the world had got into the girl that morning. She was usually so sensible, so cooperative. She held her tongue, with some difficulty.

  Lucy was better prepared this time. She refused to be put out by a local tart with a hopeless crush on the son of the house. No doubt this kind of nonsense was going on all over the country. She’d get used to it. Pathetic. But this one certainly knew how to show off her body. How many African women looked as good as this? For the first time in her life she considered the possibility that white was not the colour for the greatest beauty. Dark coffee complexion highlighted the eyes, the high cheekbones, the teeth, the lips. She cursed that thick fall of black hair. This one possessed all the cliches of physical attraction: shapely hips, breasts, shoulders, just the right side of heaviness.

  ‘Pathetic!’ Lucy mouthed quietly, lying to herself. No one could know that her heartbeat was rising fast, that her mouth was dry.

  Angela pulled her lips together very tight. The tears formed, but she would not look away. Maura felt stirrings that went way beyond embarrassment, but she still wanted to fight down an unpleasant truth that was threatening to engulf her. Yes, yes, she’d seen these demonstrations in African women before when they … But why was a sensible girl like Rebecca shamelessly arching her back like some big cat on heat? This nonsense was going too far. She would speak to Alex. It was time that Tom stopped fooling around like this just to annoy her.

  She had never spoken out loud, but the thought came to her again just then. Rafaella and Don had done Rebecca no good by sending her off to that school in Nairobi. If she had gone on to Australia, perhaps things could have been different. But to have to look on while she flaunted herself like this. Physical impact, poise, style, a glorious voice … and nothing of real substance to back it up. She had chosen to be house girl. In three hours time when coffee was being served on the veranda after lunch, all this stuff would be forgotten.

  Tom, more aware than anyone of what was going on in the minds of his four female companions, stood aside to watch this feminine skirmishing. But he could not read the depth and passion of Rebecca’s fear. He was prepared to take up his mother’s cue and play the role of the bwana son of the household.

  ‘Lucy, how’s about if we started by meeting Grandma?’

  ‘Tom, you know Rafaella hates that word!’

  ‘Very fussy about vocabulary, my father’s mother. The curse of
having a professor for a father.’

  ‘Thomas, that’s enough! What are you on this morning? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Sorry, Mother!’ He saluted sloppily. ‘Better idea. You’ve seen the lake from the air. Let’s go and test the water.’

  Maura was relieved that Tom was taking Lucy off. At last she could go and freshen up, get rid of that sticky riding gear. And, without an audience, the spell of Rebecca would be broken. Meeting Lucy had helped to bolster Maura’s hope that Tom would come to his senses soon. She was willing to admit to herself that she had been suffering more than the occasional jitters about his interest in Rebecca. She was happy now to take up again her more optimistic view that whatever was going on was no more than a mild flirtation between two attractive young people bored for lack of suitable good company. Anyway, they were both too intelligent to have believed that it could have been anything more than a light-hearted, passing fancy.

  Within a minute of Tom’s offer being made to Lucy, Rebecca was alone with the sunshine, the birdsong and half a basket of washing to finish. Angela had been willingly led off to the kitchen. Tom and Lucy had disappeared up to the ridge and the line of acacias. On her way across the laundry garden Lucy had moved awkwardly in her struggle to keep her buttocks held in tight.

  Rebecca gave the soapy water an angry slap. Apart from upsetting Mama, she had failed to impress anyone. Later, perhaps back in England, Lucy would be able to tell her friends funny stories about the African servant’s bad manners. But she wasn’t finished! She’d make sure that this Lucy would remember that a person called Rebecca Kamau existed, actually took up some space on this planet.