Love Patterns

by Michael B. Malone

  She smiled. “There has to be a ceremony.”

  “Oh.” I got on with loading the crates. “How many people are you expecting? There is enough beer here for an army!”

  “Just relatives and friends.”

  We carried the supplies back to the house. Jerie shoved a couple of bottles of beer into my hands and sent me to look after the goats, with instructions to send Kabero back to help with the cooking.

  I sat on a boulder far up the slope, occasionally taking a swig of beer. What was Kathleen going to say? “I’ve married a little black girl dear, do you mind? I only intended to adopt her, but something went wrong.” No! Kathleen need never know. I would send Jerie to a boarding school. When she was older she, would meet a boy nearer her own age. I remembered my last letter from Peter Wilson, it seemed so long ago. Marriage among the Kikuyu seemed a very casual relationship; she would find another husband. I thought about our grooming when we were hunting for fleas. I’d lost control. I would have to be careful and not let anything like that happen again. It had probably changed our relationship already. I would have to see Mr. Bhachu. He’d promised to find a suitable school for Jerie.

  My thoughts turned to Jerie’s father. I remembered when I’d first hired Jerie and cringed. How could I have been so insensitive? A father through sheer poverty, hiring his daughter to a stranger, and I had bargained to reduce the price! How could I have been so stupid? Then offering the father money to buy his daughter, and offering him a farm, tempting him with wealth beyond his dreams, and he had refused! I remembered the conditions of the camp and the despairing, hopeless looks on the faces of the adults. What strength of character was hidden inside a person! Or maybe I didn’t have the eyes to see? I felt myself in a flux. Feelings and attitudes, I’d considered right and proper had been not only irrelevant but wrong. I felt I was a bag that had been shaken and values which had been at the top were now somewhere near the bottom. I eyed my clothes and my shoes. I was filthy, and I didn’t care. I thought over my life. I thought I’d been so proper, an upright citizen, but I’d been shallow.

  I’d always thought I’d been a bit better than most people, looking down on what I’d considered their uncouthness, their lack of intelligence. I saw now I’d been an empty shell, a thin veneer of arrogance ready to be punctured like a balloon. I must have hurt people.

  I watched a lorry and a matata arrive. Bodies separated themselves from the mattresses and bundles. Many small naked children raced around screaming. Groups raced around the farm gesticulating and shouting. I watched them hurrying up to look at the goats. They smiled in my direction and I smiled back, feeling for the first time I was part of the pageant of life rather than an aloof spectator.

  One naked little girl about two years old lagged the older children. She stopped beside me and gave me a big smile. She had huge dark eyes. She was filthy, and she smelled. Something inside me, something brittle broke, and I lifted her onto my knee, hugged her and stroked her thin arms and legs, feeling the urgency and the vibrancy of life from her, the pulse of Africa in her veins. After a while, she struggled out of my arms to toddle after the other children.

  I watched as the elders imposed order on the gathering and various groups were assigned tasks. A group of children hurried past me and later returned laden with firewood. Jerie came with another bottle of beer and sat beside me for a while. Her eyes looked around me in her strange way and she seemed surprised and gave me a huge smile.

  “What is it?” I asked but she became secretive and wouldn’t tell me. She rubbed her cheek against mine.

  “Soon I will belong to you Bill.”

  I admonished her. “As a daughter remember.”

  “I will remember.” She giggled and danced back down the hill, leaving me feeling apprehensive.

  I swigged the beer and occasionally chased goats back. Later Jerie’s father came to sit beside me. I offered him the bottle. He took a swig and passed it back. He spoke in hesitant Swahili, gazing into the distance. “My name is Kaninu.”

  I spoke, also in Swahili. “My name is Bill.” Kaninu nodded. I continued, picking my words carefully. “I am sorry. I have been stupid and did not consider your feelings.” We were silent for a while. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it over.

  Kaninu held the bottle and looked down at the house. “Her mother was a fine woman, Jerie much like her.” The silence extended, somehow drawing us closer.

  I realised something for the first time. Talking was often used to keep others at a distance. But this was real communication, talking from the heart.

  “I will send her to school, she should do well.” Kaninu nodded, took a swig and passed the bottle back.

  “I know you will be good to her.”

  “It will be as if she was my own daughter.”

  We gazed into each other’s eyes then Kaninu again stared at the horizon. He spoke, breaking a long silence, his voice distant.

  “You will be lovers.”

  I opened my mouth. but his silence rolled over me, flattening my protest, like a road roller, smoothing the path into the future.

  After a while Kaninu let his gaze travel around. “It is a good farm.” I nodded.

  I started to say that I hoped it had put right a wrong. But how could anyone right the wrong that had been done? A wife and children dead, years of poverty, the degradation of the camp. I kept silent. I stretched my hand palm up across my knee and gazed into the distance. I felt Kaninu’s palm cover my own. We both gazed into the distance.

  Some children appeared and herded the goats down near the house and penned them in. A group gathered outside the house, looking up at us. Kaninu’s voice became formal.

  “Who will act for you?”

  “Would Kabero be willing?” I asked.

  Kaninu nodded. “I will send him up.” He left to join the crowd around the house.

  Kabero strolled up smiling but I forestalled any speech.

  “If we are going to be related, you had better call me Bill. Will you act for me Kabero?”

  “I will act for you Bill.”

  “What do we have to do?”

  “You pour beer into bowl, I take it to Jerie and her father. If Jerie want to be engaged she take first sip.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You said engaged, not married?”

  Kabero explained in liquid Swahili. “In the old days there were many stages, but now there are only two stages, a present to the father and the engagement, then the full bride price paid, and the girl and boy make love.”

  I spoke also in Swahili. “You mean I will only be engaged to Jerie?”

  Kabero considered. “Yes, but because you have paid the full bride price, you will be married when you sleep with her.”

  “What if she leaves me and marries someone else?”

  “Then you can take the bride price back.”

  “I will not do that.”

  “But you can if you want.” I breathed a sigh of relief

  I followed Kabero to the front of the house. He entered then returned with a bowl and a jar of beer. I poured the beer into the bowl and Kabero carried it inside. The chatter from inside the house ceased then there was a huge cheer, then silence again. There was another cheer then the ululating yells of the women. I sat outside for another quarter of an hour, thinking they’d forgotten me, then a group of women appeared, carrying a struggling Jerie. She was naked except for a leather apron tied round her waist.

  “No! No!” she shouted. “I hate him, I will never marry him. I would rather be dead.”

  The women deposited her on the ground beside me and left. She climbed onto my lap.

  “I belong to you now Bill,” she said and snuggled in, her cheek against mine. My arms went automatically round her. I was too stunned to speak.

  Kaninu appeared and invited us into the house. A great cheer went up as we entered. A fire was burning in the fireplace and I could hardly see through the smoke. Food and cups of beer were pressed on us and after the firs
t few cups of the native brew, I had only a hazy recollection of the rest of the evening.

  I was awakened the next morning by Kabero shaking my arm. I groaned. I was flat on my back with Jerie’s head and shoulders on my chest. I sat up and groaned again, my head was splitting. The fire had burned to ashes and bodies were sprawled about the room. Jerie sat up and looked round, rubbing her eyes.

  Kabero asked. “You take me back Bill? Bwana Brooks come back today.”

  I staggered to my feet and waited for the room to stop spinning.

  I nudged Jerie. “Are you ready to leave Jerie?” I noticed that she was wearing her dress.

  She looked round the room again. “Yes, I can leave now.”

  I tried to think if I’d anything to take with me. I felt in my pockets. The wallet and keys, that was all I’d had. We staggered over snoring bodies into the early morning light. Squinting through half closed eyes, I made it to the Land Rover. I filled up with petrol then drove to the bungalow and parked in the garage. I phoned for a taxi, then we gave Kabero our keys. When the taxi arrived, we said our goodbyes to Kabero and I gave him a massive tip.

  We arrived at the hotel. The receptionist’s eyes widened when we approached, and he handed over the keys as if ready to bolt at the slightest wrong move. We made it to the bedroom where Jerie took her clothes off and jumped into bed. She was asleep before her head reached the pillow. I stumbled into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. My face and neck were covered in blood. Panic stricken, I ripped off my shirt and felt around but couldn’t feel any wounds. I cast back in my hazy memories of the night. There had been something about a goat being killed and me being rubbed with the liver, or was it the heart? I dropped my clothes, and stumbled into the shower. Half asleep I washed the blood and grime off, made some attempt to dry myself and fell into bed.

  We woke in the late afternoon. I still felt awful. I stood up shakily, my stomach trying to turn somersaults. God knows what I’d eaten. Jerie gave me a weak grin. Had she been drunk as well? I couldn’t remember. I had another shower. Jerie joined me and we washed and dried each other. We hunted through our luggage for fresh clothes, dressed and left the hotel, noticing the furtive looks from the staff when I handed in my key.

  As we walked hand in hand down Princess Elizabeth way, my sense of smell seemed unusually sharp. Cooking odours from the many restaurants; exhaust fumes; tobacco; spices; and a smell almost a taste I associated with cement, assailed my nostrils. I remembered when I was a boy, the smells had been dust; the clean earthy dust of the countryside; farm smells; tar; wood smoke; and the sharp odour of new sawn wood.

  We found a café and after several coffees and two large ice creams for Jerie we perked up and my brain started working again.

  “The next thing is to find a school for you Jerie. What do you want to do when you are older?”

  She looked up at me seriously. “Be your wife.”

  I sighed, “Apart from that.”

  Her eyes turned upwards, and the tip of her tongue caressed her top lip. “Maybe a nurse or a doctor.”

  “That would be a fine choice.”

  “But I still want to be your wife.”

  “I think you’ll meet a fine young man, maybe a doctor, then you’ll forget an old man like me.”

  “I will not forget.”

  “Would you like to have children Jerie?”

  I knew that not to have children was considered a great calamity for a female. She looked sly as if realising the question was loaded.

  “I like if you like Bill.”

  “I can’t have children Jerie.”

  “Then I not have children.” I gave up.

  I took her to the cinema where we watched “Fantasia,” and Jerie seemed enchanted. It was the first film she’d ever seen. We had a late dinner then went to bed. We were fully recovered by the next morning. I visited Mr. Bhachu to discuss a school for Jerie. He’d managed to obtain a copy of her birth certificate. I settled on a boarding school, a little north of Nairobi which had a very good name and catered for the daughters of native professional people. I managed to arrange an appointment with the headmistress for that afternoon.

  I hired a car and as I drove north, I told Jerie what I knew about the school. She looked nervous.

  I reassured her. “You will be with girls your own age, you will have good food every day and you will have games as well as lessons, you will love it.”

  She gave a weak smile. “What if I do not like it?”

  I patted her knee. “Stick it out to the end of the term.” I calculated, “Which is only ten weeks away, then if you do not like it we will find somewhere else.”

  She didn’t look reassured. “When will I see you again?”

  “I’ll come to see you at the end of the term, you might even be able to come to Scotland.”

  She nodded. “You promise you will write letters?”

  “I promise, I will try to phone as well.” I was silent for a while. “What name do you want to be known by? Your own name or mine?”

  She replied, “A woman should take the name of her husband.” I shook my head, she had a one-track mind.

  “You are not a woman, you are a young girl, and I am not your husband.”

  “You will be my husband when you love me.”

  I felt my face go red. “That won’t be …” I stopped myself. “I think you should stop thinking of being a wife until you are much bigger. Enjoy being a girl until you grow up.” She grinned at my discomfiture. I felt exasperated “And,” I continued. “I think we should keep it a secret that you …” I hesitated, “that we are engaged.”

  “You are ashamed of me?” she sniffed.

  I knew she was putting it on, but I still reacted and pulled her head against my shoulder.

  “Of course, I’m not ashamed of you, I’m very proud of you, but I can’t be your adopted father and your husband at the same time. The adoption people wouldn’t understand.”

  She sighed. “It will be a secret Bill.”

  The lawyer had assured me that the adoption would go ahead without a problem now, but for it to be recognised in Britain would take a lot longer and could only be done in Britain. It would save a lot of trouble changing it later if I registered her as Jerie Munro now. I decided to ask the headmistress.

  We found the entrance to the school, set back in a curve in the middle of a long stretch of a seven-foot high wall. I drove up a metalled road bordered by multicoloured hydrangeas to a two-storey residence, the type built by rich colonials in the boom days of the thirties. Groups of girls, all dressed in blue checked gingham dresses were seated in classes around the wide white balcony. I stopped the car in front of the building and helped Jerie out. She looked around apprehensively. A young black woman greeted us on the steps, smiling a welcome.

  “Mr. Munro?” she enquired.

  We were guided to the headmistress’s office. She was a stout Irish lady, I guessed about fifty. She introduced herself as Miss Robertson. Her eyes twinkled when she smiled but underneath there was authority. I’d seen her type in many schools. When she entered a room, there was a sudden hush and pupils sat up straighter at their desks. Even older pupils wouldn’t meet her eyes as if they knew she was in some way telepathic. I remembered a “lady advisor” when I’d been at school myself, and could remember the shiver of apprehension when she’d looked in my direction. Jerie would be in good hands.

  We discussed the school and Jerie. I explained that she was my houseboy’s sister and I was in the process of adopting her. I had the feeling that Miss Robertson could see into me and was weighing up my worth. She turned to Jerie and asked her a few questions. Jerie was quite unabashed and answered in perfect English. They looked at each other as if sizing each other up and I saw smiles quirk their mouths. I breathed a sigh of relief, they liked each other.

  We were shown round the school. Rooms were large and airy. Dormitories with six beds in each were bright and cheerful. The large grounds enclosed tennis a
nd netball courts. Nearer the walls, hollyhocks towered among well laid out beds of roses, bluebells and pansies. I was pleased to see a shed with bicycles on stands, as I’d been wondering what to do with Jerie’s bicycle.

  When Jerie and I were alone I asked her, “Do you think you will like it here?”

  “Oh! Bill, I like, I like,” she replied, almost dancing, with her eyes shining.

  Arrangements were far less formal than in British schools. We agreed that Jerie would start the following Sunday. I was given a list, detailing the clothes and equipment required, recommended pocket money, term dates and various other information. There was no problem about keeping Jerie’s bike at the school. After giving the problem of Jerie’s name some thought, Miss Robertson suggested that she be registered as Jerei Muture Munro.

  As we left I was surprised when she whispered to me. “I loved your last two books. When’s your next one out?”

  I replied, “The next one’s about Kenya, I’ll send you an advance copy.”

  We left. I was happy that things were settled and Jerie would be well cared for and learn all the things adolescent girls should know, things I didn’t know how to teach her. She would enjoy what was left of her childhood, with girls her own age and when she became interested in boys she would forget our engagement. Again, I felt vaguely wistful at the thought.

  The next four days were a mad rush. Shopping for school dresses, socks, shoes, a pretty nightdress, a coat for cooler nights, an umbrella for the rainy season, a suitcase, a haversack, toiletries. I bought her one of the new transistor radios and a camera and started a bank account for her. I bought her a large diary, to record her school work and homework and fixed it in my memory to get her one each year. It seemed a bit overwhelming for Jerie, who went through the next four days as if she was in a daze. I settled my account with Mr. Bhachu, who promised to arrange Jerie’s adoption. I managed to book a flight home on the Tuesday.

  On the Saturday I drove her to visit her father. The family seemed to be settling into their new life. I had a talk with Kaninu and told him about Jerie starting school and that I was going home to Scotland.