Jungle Out There

by William Stafford

  I climbed down from the shed and went in search of this miraculous foodstuff.

  I examined the box thoroughly and with diligence. A good deal of scientific engineering had gone into this packet of Rice-O-Pops, if all the weights and measures were to be believed. I found the table of contents reassuring: Niacin, riboflavin, folic acid, sugar... Surely these things could only be beneficial to our health. Why else would the makers include them?

  “Just add milk and sugar to taste,” it said in a balloon shape emanating from the happy monkey’s face. I took this to be the recipe. There was also a helpful depiction of a bowl brimming with these wonderful flakes, bathing in milk like so many waterfowl on a lake.

  Nothing could be simpler.

  I found milk in a carton in the cold light box and bowls in a cupboard. But there was no sugar. How then were we to taste our breakfast?

  I was momentarily at a loss and stood confounded, patting my lips with my fingertips.

  I could ask Mr Lyons. After all, his help had proved invaluable to us so far. And there had been a twitch of the upstairs curtains next door; his family appeared to have returned early from their hotel sojourn.

  I went to the foot of our stairs and called up to my happy, splashing family that I was going to see the Lyonses. Whether they heard me or not, I cannot say.

  I opened our front door, which was chained to the frame as if someone might steal it, I suppose. I hopped over the little dividing wall between the two front gardens.

  The Lyonses’ front door was adorned with, unsurprisingly, the head of a lion made of brass or some such. The beast was holding a hoop in its jaws. I admired this totemic emblem for a while before I rapped on the door with my knuckles.

  The windows were open - no doubt to air out the smell of last night’s smoke - and through them came the voices of the occupants.

  “Nutcases!” I heard Mrs Lyons say. Perhaps she too was preparing breakfast of some kind. “Do you know they’ve been there all night? They must be out of their flipping minds. Are you listening to me, Brian?”

  There followed a grunt, which must have come from Mr Lyons - I do not think the family keep a pet warthog.

  “I mean,” Mrs Lyons continued, “it can’t be comfortable never mind decent.”

  Mr Lyons hummed like a bee suddenly swatted.

  “I don’t know why they bothered buying the house at all if all they want is the flipping shed.”

  “Haw,” said Mr Lyons, for which utterance Mrs Lyons castigated him. They were discussing my family, it was patently clear. We were a more pressing subject to Mrs Lyons than the restoration of her home after the fire damage. I, of course, was fascinated and so continued to eavesdrop. It was something Man had taught me; one needs to observe and listen when tracking an animal so that one might better understand and predict its behaviour.

  “What’s next?” Mrs Lyons was getting worked up, I could tell. “That’s what I’m dreading. Swinging through the trees, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “What trees?” I recognised the voice of the younger daughter. Her question went unanswered.

  “Where’s your sister?” her mother rounded on her.

  “I haven’t got her,” said young Rebecca, which seemed to me an obvious response.

  “Don’t be so clever, you,” Mrs Lyons snarled. Strange, I thought; we have always encouraged Baby to be as clever as possible. Anyway, they had drifted off the subject of us so I resumed my bid to get their attention.

  Presently, after more knocking considerably louder than my first attempt, the door was opened and the lady of the house looked me up and down in what I have to say felt a rather cold appraisal.

  “Good morning, Mrs Lyons,” I said, nevertheless, awarding her my most thawing smile. I have faced down deadlier beasts.

  She made no gesture to welcome me over the threshold. Quite the contrary, in fact. She stepped forward and formed a kind of human wedge between the door and its frame. I could have told her, if she was worried I had come to steal the door she should get one of those little chains.

  “Who is it, love?” said Mr Lyons, wresting the door open. He beamed when he saw me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hair lair,” he replied in what may have been mockery of my accent. “Morning, neighbour.”

  His wife quailed visibly at the word. Mr Lyons beckoned me in.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I wrung my hands as I stepped into their hall - like ours but in mirror-image. “I know this is probably some awful imposition but, as you know, we only arrived yesterday and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, we’re sort of a little short in the supplies department.”

  “Pardon?” said Mrs Lyons, evidently unused to hearing long sentences.

  “She wants to borrow a cup of sugar,” Mr Lyons translated. “Come in, come in, love. We don’t stand on ceremony here.” He led me through to their kitchen - again, like ours but in reverse, but every surface was awash with clutter and detritus. The ceiling and walls were black and in some places still wet. One would think this reminder of my husband’s rescue of her daughters would have softened Mrs Lyons towards us but there are some snakes that cannot be charmed. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  “Yes,” I felt some kind of response was expected. “It’s very...” I caught the younger daughter’s eye, “Good morning, dear!”

  “Hiya,” said Rebecca, pleasantly.

  There followed an awkward silence. Mrs Lyons broke it, a woman unable to hold her tongue for any length of time.

  “So, you’re after some sugar.”

  “Well...” I disliked asking her for anything and I am usually an advocate for leaving one’s neighbours in peace. Back home, our nearest neighbours had been a tribe whose obsession with spiders was of cultish proportions. My husband was on the point of routing them, having rescued Baby and I from their clutches, until I pointed out they were only doing what they thought best to make their way in the world just like the rest of us. Spider-Men crazy, was Man’s final word on the subject. “If it’s not too much trouble,” I completed my sentence, keeping it brief this time for her benefit.

  “I’m sure we can sort you something out,” said Mr Lyons but he looked around the kitchen as if he didn’t know where the sugar might be.

  “Here,” said Mrs Lyons, producing a white packet which she slapped onto a counter like a brick.

  “Thank you,” I picked it up, feeling the weight of it. “And what do I do with it, exactly?” I had been accustomed to sugar in tiny dice-sized cubes, in a silver bowl with silver tongs - in my early life, you understand.

  “She doesn’t know what to do with sugar,” said Mrs Lyons as though captioning the scene.

  “It’s a - a sweetener,” offered Rebecca. “You sweeten things with it.”

  “Oh!” I looked at the bag anew. “... Why?”

  “It makes things nicer,” Rebecca shrugged. Clearly she hadn’t really thought about it before.

  “Oh,” I said. “And you use a lot of this, Mrs Lyons?”

  “We get through a fair bit,” Mrs Lyons conceded. I handed her the packet.

  “I’m not sure it’s working,” I said.

  Mr Lyons laughed until his wife gave him her version of the evil eye. The atmosphere had grown very tense, very quickly. It was young Rebecca who made an attempt to change the mood.

  “Tell you what,” she said, “I’ll take you shopping, if you want. Show you the ropes.”

  “Ropes?” I was intrigued. “Do you mean transport?”

  “What did I tell you?” said Mrs Lyons with an air of vindication.

  “You could do with someone to show you around,” Rebecca went on. “I’d be happy to.”

  I was grateful to the child and told her so. Her mother stepped between us.

  “Aren’t y
ou busy today, Rebecca?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Great. Wonderful!” I clapped my hands together, pleased to have another ally in this camp.

  “Shall we say after breakfast?” Rebecca stepped around her mother as one might avoid a scorpion in one’s path.

  “After breakfast,” I complied, and was then reminded of the purpose of my errand. I took the bag of sugar from Mrs Lyons, thanked her for it but her lips were too tightly pursed to permit a reply. I thanked everyone all over again as they walked me to the front door.

  “If there’s anything el - ouch!” Mr Lyons’s parting words were curtailed by a quick kick to his shin from his wife. I waved a hand without turning back, deeming it politic to use the front gate with Mrs Lyons’s eyes boring into me. If looks were blowpipes...

  I found my family in the back garden, squatting around the embers, their hair damp, their skin aglow and their mood cheerful. I fetched the cereal from the kitchen, along with four bowls and the milk, and joined them on the ground. They watched me with intent expressions as I tried to convey an air of confidence I was not feeling. I poured the milk into the cereal box and gave it a shake then I scooped some out with a bowl and passed it to Baby. I repeated this procedure for Mjomba and for Man and I and we sat, in companionable silence, drinking the drenched rice grains from the dishes.

  Mjomba, who succeeded in spilling most of his down his mask’s pointed chin, made lip-smacking sounds and held out his bowl for a refill. Man and Baby were not as appreciative. I could see why. Even without the Lyonses’ sugar (which lay ignored in its bag on the ground) the rice was unbearably sweet and sickly. The milk was greasy, coating the inside of our mouths with a film.

  “It’s... crunchy,” said Baby.

  “Like beetles,” added Man.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “I think we’ll stick to fruit, don’t you?”

  “Rather!” said Baby. He ran indoors to rinse his mouth under the tap.

  Man put his bowl regretfully on the ground. Mjomba snatched it up and devoured the contents. Man passed him Baby’s bowl. He glanced around the garden.

  “Fruit,” he said wistfully.

  “I know, darling,” I patted his knee. “Oh, I didn’t tell you! The Lyons girl is taking me shopping! We shall have fruit before the day is out, I am sure.”

  I took the bowls back into the house - Mjomba was reluctant to surrender his but I left him with the cereal box and the milk and let him get on with it. I heard the gate open and then the Lyons girl talking to Man.

  “Hello, er, Man,” she said, sounding a little wary to me.

  “Hello,” said Man - I may have mentioned how adaptable he is.

  “I was looking for your, um, wife... ”

  “Find her?”

  “No... ”

  “Then not give up!” Man laughed. He is hilarious, you realise.

  I went out to rescue the girl from her befuddlement.

  “Darling, you remember Rebecca. She’s come to take me to get a few things.”

  “Hm?”

  “You know, shopping. Trading.”

  “Lady make trade?”

  “That’s it! Got it in one, darling.”

  “What Lady trade? Lady have nothing.”

  He had gone straight to the crux of the matter. He was right, of course. I stood chewing my lower lip until I remembered something and produced a small, flat rectangle from my bikini top.

  “Remember this thing, darling? Mr Lyons procured it on our behalf.” I passed the object to him and he examined it from every angle. “It’s called a gold card.”

  “Gold card...” Man repeated carefully. “Gold card small. Lady not get much. Not real gold.”

  “I doubt it’s not real card either, but Mr Lyons said we can get everything we need. All with that little thing. Isn’t it marvellous?”

  Man appeared unconvinced. Baby emerged from the house, bouncing around like a rabbit.

  “May I go too? Please, Mother, may I?”

  I shared a concerned glance with my husband. “Oh, I don’t know... Will it be safe, do you think?”

  “Well, I manage,” piped up Rebecca.

  “Well...” was all I could say in my ambivalence.

  Baby appealed to his father. Man nodded decisively.

  “Son go with Lady and Lion girl. Son protect.”

  “Hurrah!” said Baby.

  “All right, all right,” I ruffled Baby’s hair. “Son protect.”

  “What about you, Mr - um?” Rebecca extended the invitation to include my husband.

  “Pardon?” said Man.

  “Oh, come on, Dad!” Baby entreated. “It’ll be such fun.”

  But Man would not be swayed. “Man stay here,” he jutted that marvellous chin. “Man and Mjomba work land.”

  Mjomba looked up from the cereal box as though this was news to him.

  “Good idea, darling.” I went up on tiptoe to peck his cheek.

  “Lady need help, Lady call.”

  “I will, darling. I promise. Ta-ta!”

  Rebecca, Baby and I made our way to the front of the house and the street. I overheard Rebecca whispering to Baby - the jungle has attuned my ears to the slightest sound - you never know when danger might strike.

  “Your parents are so ace,” she said and I presumed it was a compliment. “My mom thinks you’re uncivilised but you’ve already got mobile phones sorted out.”

  Both Baby and I stopped and stared at her.

  “Mobile phones?” we said, in one puzzled voice.

  Rebecca shook her head as though she had walked into a cobweb and led us along the street, past dozens of houses that looked just like our own, individualised by the colour of the front doors or the selection of plants in the front garden. As we passed, curtains twitched in our wake. We were no doubt the subject of no small amount of commentary but Baby and I have been scrutinised by much more dangerous eyes. Unlike leopards, I doubt our neighbours were sizing us up with a view to eating us raw.

  Around a corner, where the road was wider and busier, we came to a standstill at a post in the ground. At the top of the post was a rudimentary representation of a motor vehicle. I had heard of such things but, having had Jakes the chauffeur to drive me around, had never had occasion to use a bus-stop before.

  A couple of the local elders were already there: old women with desiccated faces and the acrid stench of urine. This is what happens when the elderly wear clothes. Their incontinence gets absorbed into the fabric and haunts them all day. Far better for them to be naked - but I suppose that would not be acceptable for some reason or other. Rebecca seemed not to notice the odour but to Baby and I it was like being punched in the nose.

  “Here we are,” said Rebecca cheerfully.

  “It’s lovely,” I said, because I felt she required approval.

  “Is it the trading post, Mother?” Baby seemed disappointed.

  “This is where we catch the bus,” said Rebecca, delighted by Baby’s innocence. The youngest of her family, she must have relished the chance to have someone to look after and, of course, my Baby is delightful company.

  “Good morning, elders,” I met the stares of the old women head on. Seething, the old women turned away. How rude, I thought.

  “Take no notice,” said Rebecca. And then, to change the subject, “I don’t half like your outfit.”

  “Oh?” I was surprised. “Which half don’t you like?”

  “No! I mean I really like your outfit.”

  “Thank you, dear. It’s gazelle.”

  “Ooh, I’d love a designer name like that,” the girl looked ready to melt. “What’s it made of?”

  “Gazelle,” I repeated. Had she not heard me the first time?

  “Ah...” she said.
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  “So where is the bus?” Baby glanced around in all directions, including upwards at the sky.

  “Have patience, darling.” I put a hand on his shoulder but he knocked it away.

  “Be along in a minute,” said Rebecca with confidence. Her face brightened. “That reminds me of a joke. There’s these two old codgers at a bus-stop, you see.”

  “Yes, I see them.”

  “Not them,” Rebecca laughed. “In the joke. There’s two old codgers at a bus-stop and one says to the other, Will the next bus be long? And the other old codger says, About thirty feet, I suppose.”

  She threw back her head and laughed like a howler monkey. She stopped when she realised we weren’t joining in. We all turned our attention to staring along the road, on the lookout for the bus.

  It was not long before Rebecca was fidgeting and sighing. She took out her ever-present device and thumbed it. “Looking up the timetables,” she said. Then she laughed and showed us a picture of a kitten wearing a top hat. What a marvel of modern technology! But Baby and I have seen more impressive cats up close and personal, felt their hot breath on our faces as we kept perfectly still. Therefore, waiting in a bus-stop held no challenge for us and a picture of a cat in a hat no allure.

  Eventually, a red and white vehicle like a house on wheels hove into view. Rebecca extended her arm, which is something one must never do in the jungle, lest it be bitten off.

  “Here we are,” she said.

  “And here’s the bus,” said Baby, bouncing with excitement. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  The urine-steeped elders jostled their way ahead of us. The bus came to a juddering halt and its doors divided and folded in on themselves, as if operated by ghosts. The old women shuffled on board and waddled towards empty seats on the lower deck. Rebecca was the first of our party to follow. She held up a piece of plastic that was most definitely not a gold card. The man behind the steering wheel paid her no attention. He was focussed on Boy and me as we, hand in hand, stepped up onto the bus together. We giggled at the vibrations under our bare feet.