by Carl Hancock
A quarter of an hour later he was alone in a quiet house. Through the open window he heard the drone of Bertie’s Harley dying away and in the garden cicadas scraping out their monotone nocturnal cheep.
Rafaella appeared, warmly muffled in her full-length white woollen dressing-gown. She was carrying a tray.
‘Brought us a mug of chocolate. No biscuits, I’m afraid. Run out. How are you feeling, Thomas?’
The long sigh which began his answer was breathed out like a whistle. ‘Baffled. That’s the best I can do at the moment.’
‘Tell me to go away if you like.’
‘Wouldn’t dare do that to someone who brought me this delicious brew. Love the sugar. They say it gives you energy.’
‘Well, it’s brown sugar, so your mother would approve.’ After a pause, ‘When your grandfather died, people tiptoed around me as if they were walking on eggshells. But I wanted to talk then, so I’m not apologising for barging in now.’
‘I remember how calm you were.’
‘Numb is a better word, battered by the “if onlys” and those endless questions that I couldn’t answer.’
‘Battered, that I understand. I’ve tried to find a sane answer to why so many times that my brain is overheating. One minute I think I understand. It’s suddenly dawned on her that there’s an exciting new world outside sleepy old Naivasha. Audiences love her. She comes alive on the stage. Even the money makes sense. It would give her the chance to do some good things. Yeah, and she just didn’t want to tell me, hurt my feelings. She’s such a strong person. She’d make a great MP.’
‘But she might have been the wife of an MP.’
‘Some hopes. Anyway I soon got onto another answer, the black and white stuff and then another, and another. I’m in a mess.’
‘No, your’e brilliant. That’s Eddie’s word. This time it’s just right. Don would have been proud of you.’
‘I lost her for being a coward for so long.’
‘Tom, she loves you. She loves you more than you realise. She loves you so much that she’s willing to give you up.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘To a woman it does.’ Another pause. ‘Sleep would help. I could offer you a couple of tablets. I never took them. Hiding away doesn’t help. I was going to watch a video.’
‘Humphrey Bogart, your old pal?’
‘The Maltese Falcon, my favourite.’
‘Good old Lucy!’
‘Yes, good old Lucy.’
‘Remember that first lunch? Rebecca and the red dress … I wonder if dying is like this?’
‘Dying?’
‘So ordinary. Like stepping into a room.’
‘The world doesn’t notice our big dramas. Only God does.’
‘We’re such a pathetic, puny lot.’
‘Perhaps that’s why I like Mr Bogart. He makes puny things so enjoyable. Come and see.’
‘I need some night air.’
They parted at the corner of the laundry garden, Rafaella to the lower sitting room, Tom to the acacia by the lakeside.
He had never found the view less inspiring. It was all there, A1 majestic stuff, the crusty jewels hanging low in the sky of the deepest blue, the silver grey lake, the familiar silhouette of hills with Longonot and Suswa on eternal watch. He was too restless to enjoy the magic. He could not settle to anything. He was off.
As he followed the dark path back to the house, something Mary Coulson had told him years before flashed across his mind for the first time in ages. He was in the desert. He must travel on. Somewhere here he would meet his dark side. He must stare unblinking at this normally hidden part of his self. This was the way through. For the moment it meant being in the company of Mr Bogart and his fellow actors.
He had never enjoyed a film so much. Sam Spade operated in this black-and-white world of intrigue and deception, but he was a survivor. Nothing would faze this man, not even death.
Next morning Tom was up early, but he had not gone down to the fields as Rafaella had thought. He pedalled off from the house at sunrise with a bottle of Tusker in each of his trouser pockets. A couple of crudely made cheese rolls in a bag hung from the handlebars. Bertie and Ewan were having breakfast. Tom accepted the offer of a glass of orange juice.
‘Take her. The tank’s pretty full.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Tom, I’ve known you since day one. And I can see the Tuskers sticking out of your pocket! Where you going?’
‘Eburu. Along the bush tracks. Got my mobile.’
‘Do they know over there?’
‘At the house? No.’
‘Ewan and I’ll go over after breakfast. Or you could phone.’
‘I think I’ll just shove off, if you don’t mind.’
He was excited to feel the eager power of the Harley under him again. The rush of cool morning air as he opened up along South Lake Road momentarily took his breath away. He glanced to his right and through a gap in the trees glimpsed the circle of rondavels. Rebecca would be in one of them. He wondered if she could hear the noise of him as he sped past. By the time he returned she might have left the village. Sometime soon she would return to the coast. She loved it down there. Stephen and Angela might rejoin the family and start a new life.
Once past Kingoni he had to concentrate his mind on the track ahead. Potholes, tree stumps, patches of slippery mud presented scores of hazards. Carelessness with any one of these and his outing would be over.
He cleared the forest and was able to relax more. There were few fences out here and he used cross-country paths to bring him to the back of Eburu. He saw no signs of Maasai herding their stringy cattle. They were still on the far side of the mountain down towards Elementaita and the soda lake. It was easy to speed along high plains whose thin brown pasture would soon be transformed by the long rains into a cattle-man’s paradise, miles of rich green forage. For a time life on the hills would be easy.
Tom had known the tree since he was six. He parked the bike in the shade on the south side of the gnarled acacia and sat with his back resting against the north side of the fat yellow trunk. From here his eyes could follow the route of a dirt track twisting up a long, gentle slope.
He lingered over his first Tusker then let himself drift into a doze. Dad was right. The place had magic powers. ‘Tom, there have been people travelling these hills for a million years and more. Some of the men down in the fields say the spirits of the people of long ago love wandering up here, good spirits. The air is special, helps you see straight.’ Tom loved the ride on the old Royal Enfield. He was devastated on returning from Oundle one Easter to find that Dad had sold her to a tea farmer in Kericho. He remembered the smooth feel of that yellow tank after he had been polishing it.
He woke to find the Tusker bottle on the dust and empty. He decided to finish his lunch. The rolls had far too much cheese and he had forgotten the butter. Rebecca would have done the job properly. It was almost a whole day already. She would have enjoyed being up here with the kind spirits. They could have talked about Serena and whether to carry on or just get on with their own lives, building the new house and the hundred other ordinary tasks which were the lifeblood of happy days. Without her who would vote for him? Probably not even the workers on Londiani.
This new restlessness was at him again. He asked the spirits to forgive him for shattering the peace of the day, restarted the Harley. and set off in low gear. Just over the summit he saw his first herd of cattle. The herdsmen waved their spears in greeting as he took a long loop around them. Dropping down the steep slope he could see Elementaita and its wide soda margins. But why were those two large circles of flamingos wheeling high above him instead of strutting in the shallows of the lake, picking at their perpetual lunch? The probable reason surprised him. Gathered on damp ground close to an overflowing water cistern was a fearsome bunch of big birds. They were eagles. He stopped to watch. Relaxed and confident, they ignored him. Steppe eagles, powerful cruisers buil
t for cold weather, thickly feathered with sleek pantalooned legs. More interlopers from the north to scare and dominate the natives. The locals would not be voting for these ruthless flying machines either.
He moved on down through the hillocks and hollows, slowly to make sure he did not shred a tyre on a razor sharp chunk of volcanic rock. A wave to the outline of the Sleeping Maasai and he was on the A104, en route for home. The Gilgil escarpment was in sight. Chances are there would be heavy traffic ahead all the way in. In a car he would take half an hour, but in the saddle of the Harley… He narrowed his eyes and visualised the route, the worst surface of any road in the country but mostly straight and with wide verges for a quick exit.
Ten minutes to the front door of La Belle Inn? He wouldn’t be bored, that was certain. He convinced himself that Bertie would have approved and he wouldn’t say anything in Londiani, win or lose. He opened the throttle and was off chasing a prize of two cold beers.
His race against the clock could have ended less than halfway up the first steep climb. Two heavy trucks bound for Mombasa were lumbering up the hill with exhaust fumes creating a blue fog which made seeing difficult for anyone coming up behind. Tom saw it as an easy pass until the white matatu pulled out from between the trucks. Two black faces were grinning at him through the back window. The left handlebar touched the stop lights as he swung to avoid impact. During the couple of seconds when he pushed on, his eyes were closed, but the bike did not let him down and remained upright. When he did look again there was no sign of trucks, blue fog or matatu, but the Harley was moving at speed up the verge at the side of the down lane. It was a bumpy ride but he was safe. He let out a scream that was a mixture of triumph and relief. Five seconds later he was cresting the hill in an empty lane and his roaring progress was startling the crowds waiting at the coach stops on either side of the hilltop.
Convinced that the worst must be behind him he raised the speed on the level stretch between the two exit roads into Gilgil. He was glad to notice that the zebras who spent their lives on these plains were way over to his left and immobile. Overtaking was so easy up here. From a long way back he spotted the three up-country coaches pulled over into the lay-by just beyond the second Gilgil turn-off. The police were busy collecting their two hundred shilling fines from the drivers for a range of imaginary traffic offences. The flash of a red tank and the ruffling of a mzungo’s fair hair were the only memories of his passing for those on the coach waiting to continue their journey to Nairobi.
He had to slow for the speed bumps at the tollgate, but he was convinced that he was on schedule. The potholes were no problem so far. Perhaps speed was the safest way to deal with them.
Next it was down between the groves of yellow-fever trees and, just beyond, the orange sellers. The traffic suddenly thickened. On his side a column of army lorries was moving in tight formation and at a sensible speed. On the other side of the two lane road coaches, trucks and cars had to bide their time. The coach drivers in particular would be edgy with their right feet caressing the gas pedal, waiting for the smallest chance to move out and bully their way through. For the first time on this short journey Tom hesitated. Out there between the lines there were a dozen potential dangers. One unexpected pothole, one bloody-minded manoeuvre by one impatient driver and his unprotected body would be broken. But he went, full out, holding his breath and exhilarated. Once, twice, he thought the worst, or the best, was about to happen, but he was too focused to worry or care.
The landmark of the Delamere complex was in sight and the road was clear again. He turned off the A104 and looked at his watch. Nine minutes, twenty seconds. He was exhausted and sweat-stained. Make that three cold beers!
He had his drinks, but they were sodas, not beers, nor were they drunk in La Belle Inn. Tucked in next to Barclays Bank on Moi Avenue was the newly opened office of Serena which had a fridge full of sodas. Before he could remove the top of his first Coke, Elizabeth, the office secretary rushed in. She was agitated.
‘Bwana Tom …’
‘Just Tom, please!’
‘Mr Thomas, you have just missed them!’
‘Who do you mean, the police?’
‘No, no, don’t be silly. Mr Paul and Mr Daniel, they just left. They are going to Londiani. You must hurry!’
‘Must I? But I must drink my medicine first.’
Paul and Daniel arrived fifteen minutes before Tom. That had been more than enough time for the workers on the farm to give the city lawyers an accurate if incomplete account of what had happened in Londiani in the previous twenty-four hours.
Tom saw at once that the task of explaining had been done for him. Paul and Daniel were up on their feet quickly and hugging him.
‘We’re shocked!’
‘Me, too, Paul!’ Tom laughed uncomfortably. The ensuing awkward silence was brief.
Daniel began. ‘Tom, there’s been a move on the election.’
‘How long?’
‘Not for three months at least. Our spies in KANU are pretty certain that things are beginning to happen. Their big job is picking the president.’
‘Their candidate …’
‘No, not candidate, president. No election required! Now don’t go and tell us that you’re shocked by that!’ Daniel mocked gently.
‘No, but they’re so blatant.’
‘Agreed, but we’re not too unhappy about that. Pride, arrogance, they give us a chance.’
‘You won’t want me any more. As a candidate. I’ll still work hard for the party.’
Paul touched Tom gently on the shoulder and eased him ‘round until they were eye to eye.
‘Why do you think that? Our candidate is Thomas McCall of Naivasha, a local man, a winner! You two were a great team, I know, but politics is the art of the impossible. Correct, my brother?’
‘Of course, Brother Paul! Every time!’ They laughed and exchanged hand slaps.
‘What about the booklet with our picture on the cover?’
‘Daniel, no problem there?’
‘Not unless you or Rebecca object. The manifesto is not such a big deal here as it is in Europe.’
‘Tom,’ there was a touch of solemnity in Paul’s voice, ‘you know who KANU are putting up in Nakuru South?’
‘Julius Rubai. We were in school together. We’re not too fond of each other.’
‘And this is just a rumour as yet. Papa Rubai is going for the big one.’
‘So, things are beginning to buzz.’ Paul looked across at Daniel before going on. ‘You haven’t heard about the concert? To raise funds for Serena. Two nights next week at the Bomas. Toni Wajiru and the band.’
Tom was surprised, upset. He turned away and took a few steps across the grass in front of the veranda. Rebecca in a concert in Kenya. Did that mean that she was no longer in the village?
‘We’ve brought some tickets. To tell you the truth, we don’t know if Rebecca’s singing. It’s only been organised in the last few days. Toni did say that if he could get Rebecca, the price of admission could be doubled and we’d still fill the place.’
‘Um, about the tickets. If we don’t come, we could pass them on to her family.’
‘Toni’s sending a car for them.’
Tom hesitated briefly. ‘I know all the band and their wives. The twins will want to come, for sure. Can I let you know a bit later?’
After a small second lunch Tom did not feel like going to work. Instead he went on a tour of the Naivasha part of the constituency with Paul and Daniel. Everywhere they stopped small groups gathered to chat and to ask questions. Most of those they met said they would vote Serena when the time came. The journey rekindled Tom’s fire for the fight. He had energy to burn. Best to burn it in a cause he believed in!
Chapter Twenty-four
ebecca did sing in the Bomas concerts. When the overnight train pulled into Mombasa Station, the idea of returning to Nairobi, to the great auditorium where she and Mary had sung for the president, to the place where she had
first set eyes on Julius Rubai would have seemed crazy. She had one simple plan, to travel up the coast to the home of her Uncle Solomon. She took a taxi and arrived unannounced. The whole family had smiles on their faces to see her again. She felt guilty and wanted to explain why she had come.
‘Rebecca, this is your home. Just be with us. If you want to speak about things, your Aunt Martha is the one. I think she is the wisest woman on the coast!’
‘You and Papa are so alike. I feel better already.’
In the cool of the late afternoon, she and her cousins took a walk along the white sands. Rose and Naomi were older than her, but neither of them had ever been far from home, and certainly not to Nairobi. They were full of questions about life in New York, about singing on television.
‘We all went up to the America Bar. They have a big television. They put seats for us in the front.’
Rose was very excited to have her famous cousin out with her. ‘We are almost famous ourselves. So many people, strangers even, want to talk to us about you.’
‘Your Mama told me that you are both soon to be married. On the same day? Is that right?’
Rose was first with an answer. ‘Yes, it’s true. October the tenth, at the Ebenezer Church.’
‘We are inviting you right now. Of course, we are not marrying some famous person. Perhaps one day you will marry a film star.’
‘Have your picture in the newspapers.’
‘Yes, yes, who knows? I think I would prefer a good old Kenya boy.’
They passed a well-known beach cafe. There were a lot of customers, many of them white tourists, down for the evening from one of the hotels. Benny Robinson, the livewire proprietor, was just returning to his kitchen with a tray of crockery. He knew the local Kamau family well and paused to say good evening. He soon recognised their companion and let out an almost involuntary shriek. ‘Ah, I know you! The famous cousin. I’ve got a Wajiru band disc. I play it to my customers every day. They love it. They love you most of all. I’ll put it on right now and get you something, anything to eat, drink, on the house!’
He rushed off but had not gone five metres when he turned. There was a light in his eye.
