Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  ‘But I’m still here!’

  Lucy’s father shook his head and joked, ‘You’re just like one of those buffalo we saw up in the Aberdares. Tough as old boots. Must be the Kenya air and your mother’s cooking. But you need a check-up in hospital and the quicker the better.’

  This was Maura’s cue. Tom was to have a bath, supervised by Eddie and Rollo, ‘And no nonsense, thank you!’ Meantime she would phone the hospital and make arrangements. ‘And, Tom, after the bath I think it would be a good idea to find somewhere quiet. Have a rest until we go down. I think your father wants to drive us.’ Tom did not argue and that was a sign to his mother of the pain he was hiding beneath a cheerful exterior.

  ‘Tom …’ She put her hands on his shoulders and seemed about to say something but instead simply sighed, smiled and shook her head, very slowly. She snapped back to a businesslike tone. ‘Angela is running a bath, so off you go! Eddie, Rollo, mind what I said.’

  Party time continued downstairs. Visitors came and went and were not too disappointed that Tom was not around in person. The talk was excited and loud with relief. Laughter and tears mingled all over the place.

  Inspector John Wambui was enjoying himself so much that he was reluctant to instruct his driver to return them to Nakuru.

  The Rubai family had mixed feelings about the celebrations going on all ‘round them. Sally’s laughter rang out from the heart of many of the groups whose numbers swelled and diminished as visitors came and went. Julius soon became bored and anxious to get away. From time to time he studied his father’s expression. Was he really pleased to see McCall junior back home and cocky as ever? He was still trying to puzzle why they set off from Karen so early. And what did Alex McCall mean when he mentioned his father’s work behind the scenes? It didn’t make sense. Papa was no friend to these people. But there he was smiling and nodding his head, joining in the nonsense and not making any effort to move. He seemed as relieved as the rest of them.

  Envy. That was the strongest emotion hidden behind Abel’s sunny exterior. It was painful to watch all these people united in genuine happiness. Their warmth and wholesomeness showed up an emptiness in his own life. He had taught himself to trust nobody. He bought loyalty and felt safer because of it. There was no pleasure in realising that it was his own power that had created this particular heartache in the first place. Control was his passion and so he hated the uncertainty of not knowing exactly what had happened in the forest overnight. How had this kid got free? Uchome would have to be ready with his answers.

  Part of him wanted to scream out at these people, to tell them the truth of things. What did they know of real power? He had spent the whole of his life pursuing it. As a young man he had courted the rich and powerful, first on a local level, then on the national stage until that marvellous moment of realisation that thrusting, eager young men were courting his services. He resolved to be always watchful and calculating, to reward good service handsomely, to punish disloyalty or betrayal fast and hard. He had built up a local and international network of cooperative contacts and acquaintances, but he did not have a single true friend.

  It was too late to return to the ideals of his youth. He had made his choice a long time ago. Ideals were fine for other people but too expensive for him to chase after. His concern of the moment was his indecision. It was his fault that there had not been a quick, clean job. He smelt danger here. To try to cover himself against any possible suspicion, he had been forced to choke on this saccharine sweet show taking place all ‘round him. Envy was weakness. Sally harped on about this when she told taught the children about the Ten Commandments in her stories. And Julius, when would he grow up, become tough-minded and use his advantages properly? In his heart of hearts this was what he wanted above all other things.

  In spite of all this, before he left that house on the lake, he was inwardly thanking the McCall who had come back from the dead that morning. Unwittingly the white European kid had given a little shake on the reins, reminded Abel of his mission. So there was no mistake, after all. There was only profit, like always!

  It was towards evening when the family of three returned to their pink palace in Karen. One long shower later and Julius was back on the road to look for some action down in the city. A bar, a woman’s flat, a hotel room, Julius was an expert at finding ways to have fun. Sally and Abel enjoyed an old-fashioned hour of bedroom gymnastics before going their separate ways to their private retreats.

  Sally spent a lot of time in her spiritual boudoir with her Jesus tapes and videos and her self-improvement books. She had shelves full of the stuff, mostly American. A lot of it would have been labelled New Age and far too extreme for the puritan, fundamentalist ministers of her city church. Abel put on some loose clothes and relaxed in a favourite armchair and downloaded a film which helped him to burn off the last traces of the emotional rubbish that had been cluttering his thought processes for too long.

  His old self-confidence was back. Tonight he expected to make another little pile of money, but for the moment he was excited by something else. He would begin a new fitness regime. Half an hour before his bathroom mirror had reminded him that he was becoming too fleshy around the stomach and the hips. There was a marbling of fat clearly visible across his pectoral muscles. To stop this decline dead in its tracks, he would start boxing lessons again, get into the pool early and push weights every other evening. It was time for a big leap forward and he must look the part. He smiled at his naked reflection and waved. ‘Good evening, Mister President! Ah, yes, I do like the sound of that.’

  He knew that he had won a big battle, the first victory of his new age. He was ice-cold again in his thoughts that he had allowed to trouble him for too long. If he decided in the near or distant future that it was necessary to dispose of one or more of the McCall tribe, he would take care of the matter himself. Now that was a square idea in a square hole. Later that night he looked forward to returning to the battlefield of the mind and another contest with his invisible foes across the oceans.

  Chapter Thirteen

  om had put up with a first night in Nairobi Hospital. When Dr Angelo Conti insisted on a second, he was not pleased.

  ‘Okay, more tests, I can understand that, but why can’t you take them now and phone the results?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘But I want to sleep in my own bed.’

  ‘You will. Soon, I hope.’

  ‘See, you’ll have me in for a month.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I did two nights in a dirty jail up in Kakamega and now you’ve got me in this clean one down here.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Tom?’

  ‘Boredom. I read the paper, walk about a bit and stare at the walls.’

  The doctor had been busy with charts and sheets, but now he fixed his whole attention on his patient’s complaints.

  ‘Look, you could let me out for a few hours. I’ll be a good boy.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘A trip ‘round the game park?’

  ‘Too bumpy!’

  ‘I know a family who have stables, just up the Ngong Road, near the racecourse.’

  ‘Don’t trust you. You’d get up on something.’

  ‘A restaurant! Can’t get into trouble there …’

  ‘Too many people around. And you’d have a couple of beers. Too dangerous. You’re on medication.’

  At last, they came to an arrangement. The Nairobi Club was less than half a mile away.

  ‘I’ll drop you off. I’m going down into town. Promise me, no alcohol. And back before dark. Take a taxi.’

  It just so happened that there was a cricket match on at the club. Some touring team, escaping an English winter, were playing the club eleven. From the big upstairs lounge there was a complete view of the pitch. He watched for a while before going over to the desk to check on the English newspapers. For an hour he was transported back to the Oundle library as he worked his way t
hrough the sports pages of The Times and The Telegraph. A waiter came across to ask if he wanted to have lunch in the downstairs restaurant. Since his lunch three days before he had not eaten a single proper meal. Two pieces of cold hospital toast and a small helping of scrambled egg had done little to fill the empty spaces in his stomach. Lunch would be a wonderful idea. Thank you very much.

  As he was working his way through a club sandwich, the full mixed grill, he was joined by some unexpected company. On the carpeted floor he had not heard them approaching from behind. He looked up into two smiling faces that were vaguely familiar.

  ‘May we join you?’

  Tom glanced around the dining room. There were plenty of empty tables. But the two city lawyers had recognised him from his pictures in the papers

  ‘Fine. I’ll be finished soon.’

  Tom was flattered when they introduced themselves. Paul Miller and Daniel Komar were names he knew well. They were founder members of the new political party. Serena had been going for six months but had not yet been allowed to register.

  He remembered a light-hearted family argument on the day when their foundation had been splashed across the front pages of The Nation and The Standard. He and his grandmother had been excited by what they saw as the best hope for Kenya since Uhuru. These people were going to smash through the tribal and racial chains that were holding the country back. The pair had been beaten down by cynical swipes from his father, Bertie and the Buckles. To the surprise of his mother who had never before sensed any political leanings in her eldest, Tom had followed their progress closely. And now they wanted to know about him. Miller shook his head in disbelief at the story of Tom’s survival.

  ‘Man, you’re one in ten thousand.’

  ‘Unless they meant it to work like that. You know, a big scare.’

  ‘Yes, but, Daniel, there was a big investment here. Eight men. Eight and two cars.’

  Tom was fascinated to hear his experience talked about as some important event. His expression was serious. Miller noticed.

  ‘Tom, is that all right?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘We don’t want to sound morbid here. It’s just that Daniel and I see a lot of this … stuff, much more than you read about in the papers …’

  Komar completed the idea. ‘As they say in New York, it goes with the territory.’

  ‘The government still won’t register us.’

  ‘We don’t like it, but it must mean that KANU don’t want us around.’

  ‘We’re a threat and when they even smell a threat, out come the bully boys with their pangas and their guns. Half the time the police are in it up to their necks. We read this morning that John Wambui brought you home in person.’

  ‘Yep. He couldn’t do enough for me.’

  ‘Except catch the mob that grabbed you.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. His last words to my mother as he was leaving were, “Don’t worry, Madam. I promise my boys will catch up with them, and soon!”’

  The two lawyers threw back their heads and laughed.

  ‘We know him well. John Wambui, quite a pleasant fellow, but Inspector John Wambui, a different kettle of talapia!’

  Half an hour passed congenially and, as they left for an afternoon in court, they gave him their cards. ‘We’ve enjoyed meeting you. Sorry for all your trouble. Now in the new Kenya … Anyway, good luck.’

  Tom returned to the upstairs lounge and sank into one of the deep leather armchairs. He started to ponder on what the lawyers had said but soon drifted off into a pleasant doze. He woke with a shudder, not quite sure where he was. He remembered the cricket match and decided to watch from outside and grab some fresh air at the same time.

  The euphoria which he had begun to enjoy from the moment when he climbed up those steps of The Eldoret Express and grew with his return home and all the celebrations and stayed strong even on his journey down to the hospital was fading. As he walked around the boundary rope of the cricket field, he began to think about work back on the farm, which reminded him of Rebecca. Thank goodness she knew nothing about all this nonsense. Abel Rubai. Who else could it have been? But why did his father make a point of thanking him for help behind the scenes? His thoughts were interrupted by a second recognition.

  ‘Tom! Tom McCall!’ Two young men in batting gear were coming towards him as fast as their pads would let them. Amish and Adil Patel knew him really well from the many times they had played against Pembroke for Peponi in cricket, hockey and rugby. Other team members followed, all wanting to shake his hand but holding back. His story had been the hot topic of conversation in the changing room before the match. There were beaming smiles all ‘round him These young men, mostly from Asian business families, were very happy. When trouble broke out in Nairobi or the other big towns, these were the people who ducked first and here was someone who had survived what they saw as their worst nightmare.

  A wicket fell and all but the Patel brothers hurried back to their team group gathered at a table set up outside the pavilion. These two joined Tom on his slow progress around the boundary. This chance meeting was a tonic for all of them.

  ‘Tom, you should write a book about this.’

  ‘Right, Adil. Get it out of your system, Tom. Dad would publish it. “Bloody hero, that young chap. I want to meet him!” That’s what he said when he got hold of the paper this morning and saw your picture.’

  ‘Thanks, boys. I’d love to meet your dad, again. He came to Pembroke once to see you two skittle us out. Forgotten, haven’t you? Anyway, I want to put something down on paper for myself, while I still remember. You soon forget things, even the horrible parts. Especially the horrible bits, I suppose.’

  ‘But, where’s your plaster? The paper said you’d broken your arm.’

  ‘No, the doc’s not sure. The arm’s still swollen. I’ve got to have another X-ray tomorrow.’

  There was a loud shout from the middle of the pitch. Another club wicket had fallen. Their team mates were calling them over to the pavilion.

  ‘Tom, got to go. One of us is in next. Look, next time you’re down, come over. You know where we live. You’d make Dad’s day!’

  Later, upstairs again, with a pot of tea and toasted sandwiches in front of him, he fell into conversation with an old friend. Rosie had been a maid at the club in all the years he had been coming there.

  ‘Bwana, do you mind if I finish hoovering this area? I won’t …’

  ‘Rosie, you know you don’t have to ask. I was hoping I’d see my favourite member of the club staff. When I saw you coming up the stairs, I was wondering how long you’d been here.’

  ‘Twenty years when Christmas comes, Bwana Thomas.’

  ‘And you still won’t call me Tom!’

  ‘Nathaniel would not like me to.’

  Rosie’s husband, Nathaniel, formed a strong bond between her family and his own. On the same day, almost the same hour that his Grandpa Don had died trying to avoid a pair of angry wildebeest, Nathaniel, the most popular waiter in the club, had been killed as he was leaving after a service in All Saints Cathedral, run down by a drunken youth in a stolen car. Rosie and his grandmother had spent time together after the funerals and Rafaella always said how much Rosie had helped her to get her life back on something like an even keel. The McCalls had bought Rosie and her family a house in a street five minutes walk from the club. Rosie and Rafaella, two strong, handsome women who had lost their soul mates in stupid, unnecessary accidents. Tom loved them both.

  ‘How are the children?’

  ‘All working, every one. Robert, my baby, has a duka down by the gates of the hospital. He sells the fruits.’

  ‘Do you still like it here?’

  ‘I likes it very much. I see my girls every day.’

  ‘How many grandchildren now?’

  ‘Seven, four little boys and three girls.’

  ‘Do you miss the shamba?’

  ‘No. You see, just a little walk over there (she pointed in the
rough direction of Karen), there is a farm. When I don’t have the work at the club …’

  ‘Day off?’

  ‘Yes. I walk over there … I help out. I like it very much.’

  Tom would have enjoyed sitting Rosie in the chair opposite to share his tea, but it was against the rules and she would have felt embarrassed to have turned him down. A door closed and a lock was turned in the adjoining room. The library was closing and a voice called her name.

  ‘Goodbye, Bwana.’

  Tom struggled to his feet as she began to move away. She returned briefly and touched him on the shoulder, very gently. ‘Sorry about your trouble, Mr Thomas. My family have been praying for you. God be blessed and praised for your safe return.’ She was gone.

  He did not take a taxi back to the hospital, but he walked very carefully along the lumpy earth verge which passed as a pavement. Ngong Road was busy, with a lot of people on their way home from the city. Even old ladies were passing him, but one smartly dressed young man seemed to be keeping pace with him. Twice they exchanged glances and smiles until Tom made to turn down the hospital road. The young man opened his briefcase and fished out a copy of The Nation.

  ‘Mr McCall, thank you very much for what you have done. Would you be so kind?’ He held out a pen and the paper showing a large photo of Tom on its front page. As Tom signed his autograph, the young man went on. ‘My name is Japheth. I’m so glad you beat that band of thugs. It gives me hope for our people.’

  Tom had been caught off guard and before he could think of any sensible reply, the man was gone, striding at speed along the main road.