Jungle Out There

by William Stafford

  Man’s face became a study in concentration.

  “What’s he think he’s doing?” said Miss Driscoll, with more than a hint of derision.

  “Ssh!” I hissed over my shoulder. “Keep focussed, darling. Rain! Torrential rain! Monsoon! Tidal waves! Flash floods!”

  Man nodded. He was ready.

  He drew himself up to his full height and opened the door.

  “Go on, darling!”

  “Go on, Dad!”

  He closed the door behind him.

  “He’s mad!” said Miss Driscoll. “He’ll be killed. If the smoke doesn’t get him, the fire... ”

  “Just wait and see,” said Baby, demonstrating more patience with the infuriating woman than I was capable of.

  Jamie Peters was coughing. “Do you think we should close the window? The smoke’s getting in.”

  “Rather!” said Baby. He and the social worker closed the window, each with one hand clamped over their mouths. Even at this height and with the glass as a barrier, we could hear the approach of sirens. The fire brigade was on its way. I was impressed, I have to say; their response time was almost as good as Man’s. Why, there have been occasions when I have made the Call and have my husband appear just as I was drawing breath.

  The door opened. Man was there, with a look of urgency.

  “What happened to his trousers?” gasped Miss Driscoll.

  “Never mind,” I said. “All clear, darling.”

  “Come stairs now,” he pulled us from the room. We could see at once there were no longer any flames. Man shepherded us to the very stairs he had used to reach the meeting room.

  “This is fantastic,” said Jamie Peters, jogging down the stairs behind me. His sandals made slapping sounds that reminded me of the sea lions’ applause.

  “I don’t understand,” said Miss Driscoll, but that didn’t stop her coming with us.

  “Oh, my Dad’s always been able to piss like an elephant,” said Baby, almost bursting with pride.

  “An elephant, you say?” I caught a change in Miss Driscoll’s manner. She was looking at my husband in a fresh light. I must say I preferred her former, frostier demeanour.

  Down and down we hurried until a door at the very bottom brought us out into the open air.

  “The fire assembly point is in the car-park,” said Miss Driscoll, pointing ahead. She quickened her step to keep abreast with my husband, who was counting heads as we moved.

  Others who had been in the building cheered as the fire engine pulled up. I had to hold Baby back and instruct him to let them get on with their work. He stood agog as the fire-fighters doused the building with water.

  Meanwhile, Jamie Peters shook Man’s hand in gratitude. Then he sent a significant look to his superior. Miss Driscoll, her face a mask, strode over to the nearest bin and dropped into it her notebook.

  “What a pity,” she said, giving my husband’s arm a pat or two. “All of the case notes were lost.” She looked at me. “Everything was burned.”

  “Yes, a pity,” I said.

  “What happens now?” said Mr Lyons, having just regained the ability to breathe after his dash downstairs.

  “Oh,” Jamie Peters stepped between us. “I think we can rush through your application to foster the boy. We can even backdate it.”

  “Foster?” said Man.

  “Until such a time as his biological family can be traced,” said Miss Driscoll. “But I don’t think we’ll be looking too hard.”

  “And we’ll push through your application to adopt him,” offered Jamie Peters. “The least we can do.”

  “But you must get him enrolled in a school right away,” Miss Driscoll had taken to twirling a strand of her hair. Amateur moves. “And we shall make regular visits to check on his well-being.”

  Man stepped away from this misguided woman. He pulled Baby and me toward him for a hug.

  A fireman approached.

  “Hello!” said Baby; we recognised him from the Lyonses’ kitchen fire.

  “You lot again,” the man sounded unimpressed.

  “Had it not been for this fine gentleman we should all have perished!” said Miss Driscoll, squaring up to the fireman.

  “I see.” He looked my husband in the eye. “What have I told you about your heroics?”

  “Man not hero,” said Man, unflinchingly. “Man do what necessary.”

  “Quite so, darling.”

  “Hmm...” said the fireman. “Well, we’ll run a full investigation into the cause of the conflagration. At first glance it looks deliberate. Two fires to trap you in that room. Highly suspicious.”

  He marched back to his crew.

  “It looks like someone has enemies,” I said, with a pointed look at Miss Driscoll. She bristled.

  Mr Lyons pulled out his car keys. “If that’s all... ”

  “For now,” said Miss Driscoll. “And thank you, Man, for saving our lives.”

  “Welcome,” said Man. We trooped towards Mr Lyons’s car.

  “That was lucky,” said Baby.

  “What was lucky, darling?” I kissed his temple. “That we get to keep you?”

  “No - well, yes, that too. But it was lucky that Uncle Mjomba gave you that drink of water, wasn’t it, Dad? I imagine he did, anyway. Like that time when you smoked out the Wasp People.”

  Clever boy, our son!

  My husband’s face was as impassive as Mjomba’s mask. His expression gave nothing away all the way back to Edgar Street where, of course, Uncle Mjomba was overjoyed to have us all home. Unlike the reception that greeted poor Mr Lyons. When she saw all three of us returning to the house, she scowled and screeched at him like an angry chimpanzee, berating her unfortunate husband all the way up the garden path.

  Chapter Eleven

  In which Baby goes to school and Man and I visit a farm

  Jamie Peters proved quite an ally when it came to getting Baby enrolled in a school. Of course, our son wished to attend the same seat of learning as his friend Rebecca and Jamie Peters saw to all the paperwork. He took us shopping for the requisite uniform, at which Baby protested. He had grown accustomed to the T-shirt and shorts when out and about, keeping his loincloth for relaxing around the house.

  The morning of Baby’s first day dawned and I made an especial effort with his grooming. Under my ministrations, Baby wriggled and protested, no matter how many times I exhorted him to hold still.

  “Why do I have to wear these stupid things?” he complained. “Every part of me is itching like mad.”

  “Aww,” I sympathised - I had not worn that cotton dress since our visit to the Child Protection Service. “But you look sweet in your new uniform.”

  “Is that why we have to wear uniform, Mother? To look sweet?”

  His petulant expression was the cutest thing I had seen in a long time. And I’ve seen baby sloths.

  “What’s the matter, darling? Don’t you want to look like everyone else? Don’t you want to fit in? I remember not so long ago in the jungle when you complained because you weren’t like your cousins.”

  “Well, they could hang from branches by their toes; that was all I meant. And they weren’t even real cousins. They were bonobos.” “Well, darling, a Darwinist might disagree with you on that point.”

  Uncle Mjomba ambled in. I asked him what he thought. His mask tilted as he looked Baby up and down. Then he shook his fist and darted behind a potted palm tree.

  “It’s me, Uncle!” Baby approached the quivering tree. “It’s only clothes.”

  Mjomba grunted quizzically. He came out from behind the tree and examined the material of Baby’s blazer with his long fingers. His next grunt was noncommittal.

  Man came in. He saw Baby fully dressed and burst out laughing.

 
“That’s it,” Baby sat on the floor and folded his arms, “I’m not going.”

  I swatted at Man with the back of my hand. “Look what you’ve done! Baby, you’ve got to go to school.”

  “But why?”

  “So that you can learn.”

  “Learn what? You’ve already taught me how to read, write and count.”

  “Yes, but you must be cultured.”

  “I’ve read all of Shakespeare, the Bible, On the Origin of Species, Winnie-the-Pooh and all the in-flight magazines from all the plane crashes in the jungle.”

  “Son got point,” said Man, not helping.

  I ignored him. “Baby, you have to go to learn about the world.”

  Baby snorted like a scornful pig. “What, by sticking me in a building totally cut off from it? Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed out in the world? I’d learn from it directly.”

  Man nodded. “Son make radical education reform.”

  I let out a sigh. “You may be right, Baby, but that’s not the way things are done. Now, what did we teach you about passing judgment before trying things?”

  Baby let out a sigh too, one of resignation. “All right, all right,” he stood up. “Message received.” He rubbed his head, undoing my good work.

  “Why Son rub head?” Man’s face flashed concern. Baby waved him away.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted. “I was washing my hair in the bathroom and the lid fell down and hit me. It’s nothing.”

  “Poor Baby,” I sympathised. “You know, I’m not sure you’ve got the hang of that bathroom yet.”

  “Son head hurt, Son stay home.” Man looked resolute but I could tell he was as loath to let our Baby go as I was. But, brave face and stiff upper lip and girded loins and all the rest of it. It was a condition of the arrangement to foster our own son. Baby must attend school and that was the end of it.

  “Man go school too,” my husband offered. Baby’s face lit up.

  “Can he? Uncle Mjomba too?”

  “I very much doubt it. We’ll ask Rebecca when she comes to collect you. One would have thought she would be here by now.”

  “Haven’t you noticed how the day doesn’t begin when the sun comes up, Mother? The people around here stay in bed.”

  He was not wrong.

  “Dedley people crazy,” added Man. “Man never miss sunrise. Sunrise beautiful. Even in Dedley. No cars. Fewer smells. Everything quiet. Let people stay in bed. Man have sunrise to himself.”

  I pecked his cheek. He had taken to climbing to the roof of the house every morning and standing on the chimney pots to watch the dawn. It had become my daily treat to watch his silhouette emerge against the lightening sky.

  We repaired to the kitchen for breakfast. I told Baby to be mindful of splashing milk from his bowl down his front. Man, I noticed, took his cereal dry.

  “No milk, darling?”

  “Milk bad,” said Man.

  I sniffed the carton. “Seems all right to me.”

  “Milk bad juju,” he clarified.

  “Really, darling? But everyone drinks it.”

  “Everyone wrong,” he crunched a mouthful, which he washed down with a swig of orange juice.

  Before I could draw from him what he meant by that, the younger Lyons girl appeared in the open doorway.

  “Woo-hoo,” she said. “Morning, each.”

  “Woo-hoo, dear,” I replied. Man and Baby each said ‘morning’ and Uncle Mjomba gave an indifferent grunt.

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Oh, man!”

  “What?”said Man.

  “No, I mean, oh, boy! Who’s the cool dude in the rad threads?”

  We were awash with puzzlement. I panicked. “Threads? Where?” I inspected Baby’s uniform from every angle, spinning him on the spot.

  “Mother!” Baby flapped me away. He asked Rebecca where her uniform was.

  “This is it!” she replied. She twirled around. The hem of her dress rose up. Even a cursory glance could tell her attire was nothing like Baby’s. Perhaps Jamie Peters had got it wrong.

  “Yours is different,” Baby said what we had all observed. “Why? I thought uniform was meant to make everyone look the same.”

  Rebecca shrugged her short-sleeved shoulders. “In the summer, the girls wear these. They’re lighter.”

  “And the boys?”

  “Same old thing all year. But if it gets really hot, sometimes the teacher might let you loosen your tie a bit.”

  This sounded like discrimination of the worst kind to me. I could feel a visit to the Head’s office coming on.

  “So,” Boy persisted, “is it a uniform or not?”

  Rebecca Lyons could only shrug again. Perhaps if more young people had Baby’s questioning nature, things might be very different in this wicked world.

  “Well, come on then, face-ache,” she nudged him with her elbow. Her bare elbow, while his was shrouded in shirt- and blazer- sleeves. “We don’t want to be late.”

  “Why?” There was that questioning nature again.

  “Because then they shut you in a cupboard and cover you with dead rats.”

  My family and I let out a collective gasp.

  “It’s barbaric!” My pronouncement earned me a laugh in the face.

  “It’s a joke,” said Rebecca with a chuckle. “I’m joking. You know: ha, ha, ha!”

  “Ha,” said Man.

  Mjomba snarled.

  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or what. Man pushed Baby towards the door. “Son go now. Just in case.”

  Mjomba made shooing gestures but the way out was blocked by the arrival of Jamie Peters on the threshold.

  “Hey,” he said. “Thought I’d stop by, check everything’s in order for the little man’s first day.”

  “Oh, I’ve had lots of days already,” Baby assured him.

  Jamie Peters laughed. I don’t know why.

  “Then how about a lift?”

  Baby was torn. He loved riding around in Jamie Peters’s automobile, amusingly called a ‘Beetle’. It looked more like a bug-eyed frog to me but what do I know about cars?

  “No,” he decided. “I shall walk in, with Rebecca. I’m not just a little Man, I’m a big boy now.”

  “Fair enough,” Jamie Peters shrugged. We all went outside to wave Baby off. My heart felt like it would crack but I steeled myself against revealing my feelings. I did not want Baby to see me cry. My little fledgling on his first solo flight! All mothers must experience this bittersweet mixture of pride and sorrow, not just the feathered ones.

  “Lady face wet,” Man observed.

  “Yes, darling. And yours?”

  Man sniffed. Uncle Mjomba blew his nose so loudly it made Jamie Peters jump. Baby, who had been walking backwards all the way up Edgar Street, turned around and turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  “Well, that’s that then,” Jamie Peters clapped his hands together. “See you, guys.”

  Before he could leave, Man clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Jamie Peters talk about milk,” he said.

  “Yes, do come in,” I entreated him. “Mjomba’s got the kettle on.”

  ***

  A little while later, it was Man and I who were riding in Jamie Peters’s Beetle. The social worker had decided it was better to show us than to try to tell us and so we were driving away from Dedley to see for ourselves. We were both delighted by how soon we were away from the built-up, grey and brown streets, as the road took us past open fields and hedgerows.

  “Green belt,” said Jamie Peters, but as far as I could tell he wasn’t wearing a belt of any colour. “There’s a few farms around here. We sometimes take the kids from the children’s homes for a look around, pet the animals and
that sort of thing.”

  “Jamie Peters take kids to farm?”

  Jamie Peters understood at once the reason for Man’s confusion. “No, not kid kids. Not goats. Children. Human children.”

  “Man joke,” said Man. “You know: ha, ha.”

  “Oh, darling,” I snuggled up beside him. I knew he was being funny to distract me from thoughts of how Baby might be getting on.

  “Of course,” Jamie Peters continued, “I don’t agree with farming. Most of it, at any rate. I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Man never heard of that tribe.”

  Jamie Peters laughed again. Perhaps that is why he spends so much time with us, for the free comedy.

  “But aren’t vegetables farmed, Jamie Peters?” I asked.

  “Well, yes, of course. Although you can grow your own, if you’ve the space. No, what I mean is, I’m against the farming of animals. It’s got out of hand. It’s downright cruel. There’s no need for it.”

  “People need food. Many people need much food.”

  “Yes, Man, but -” He seemed at a loss for an adequate explanation. “Look, I’m not here to lecture you. Have a look around for yourself.”

  We left the road and turned onto a rough track that was little more than two ruts in the mud. The ride became bumpier and I asked Man if he remembered that time we had rattled along in an old range rover to fetch the antivenin for that idiot of a scientist who got his snakes muddled.

  “Huh,” said Man. “Lady stay in range rover. Man run faster.”

  “That’s right, darling! Oh, the jolly fun we had!”

  “And did you save him?” asked Jamie Peters.

  “Who, dear?”

  “The scientist.”

  Man and I pulled faces. Neither of us could remember.

  “I expect so,” I said.

  “Spotted cows!” said Man.

  “Yes, darling, so have I.” Cattle were in the fields on either side of the track. Gentle, slow-moving creatures, with sad eyes and wet noses.

  “I would say they’re more piebald than spotted,” said Jamie Peters. He laughed at his own remark. We didn’t bother.