Jungle Out There

by William Stafford

  Behind him Alison laughed the forced laugh of a constipated hyena.

  I fixed everyone fresh drinks; Uncle Mjomba had concocted a delicious and refreshing punch. We reassembled in the front room, sipping through straws in coconut shells.

  “You’re not at all what I expected,” Dan-Joe continued to give us his approval.

  “Oh, dear!” I laughed. “Is that a good thing or a bad?”

  Man thought he had better emit some kind of amused sound.

  “I thought you’d be more... I don’t know... dry.”

  Alison swatted him with the back of her hand. “Dan-Joe Washington! These are my parents!”

  “Own it, bae. You don’t exactly look like them or dress like them or talk like them, and you can be a bit uptight. Some kind of teenage rebellion kick; am I right?” He nodded in clearly what he thought was a wise manner.

  “Adorable,” I whispered to my husband. “He’s trying to impress us.”

  “How old Dan-Joe?”

  “Um... I’m twenty-two, sir.”

  Aha! Perhaps this was the reason Mrs Lyons would object: the age difference. Alison was all of what? Seventeen? Eighteen?

  “And how old Lion Girl?”

  “Oh, Dad!” Alison laughed for a little too long. “He always calls me that. Ever since I was a baby. Eighteen years ago.”

  She was clenching her teeth like a crocodile holding onto someone’s leg. She would give her own game away if she wasn’t careful.

  Making some kind of fanfare with his hidden lips, Uncle Mjomba came in, carrying a huge, steaming pot.

  “Dinner served!” said Man.

  “It smells delicious, Mrs Lyons!”

  Again, Man looked around for Alison’s real mother. I pinched his thigh.

  “What is it?” Dan-Joe peered into the pot.

  “Uh...” We didn’t know so we couldn’t say.

  We watched, helpless, as Uncle Mjomba ladled a colourful sauce into bowls and passed them around.

  “All credit must go to Alison,” I said. “She provided the recipe.”

  “Did I?” Alison really wasn’t very good at this, was she? “Oh, yes; it’s vegetable curry.” She didn’t sound too sure.

  “Wicked!” said Dan-Joe. Man baulked.

  “Curry bad juju?” He looked quizzically at his bowl.

  “It’ll be fine, darling.” All the same, we watched and waited for our guest to take the first mouthful.

  “Delicious!” he enthused, tucking into more. We tried it and our fears were allayed. Uncle Mjomba really is a treasure.

  “You didn’t tell me you was veggie,” said Dan-Joe. Alison hummed and ahhed.

  “Oh, Alison eats what she likes,” I said. “We don’t impose our views on her. When she’s not under this roof, who knows what she puts in her mouth?”

  Man choked on a chunk of potato. I patted his back.

  “You too are so cool,” Dan-Joe marvelled anew. “So liberal. So free. I wish my mom... ”

  He jumped up and began to take off his clothes.

  “Dan-Joe! What are you doing?” Alison cried in alarm. He paused in the unbuckling of his somewhat redundant belt - his trousers were half to his knees at the best of times.

  “It’s all right, isn’t it?” he looked worried he had committed some kind of terrible faux pas.

  “Make self at home,” said Man. Dan-Joe kept his underwear and socks on. Alison was appalled.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom, Dad.”

  Man held up his hand. “Lion Girl party pooper.”

  “Your old man’s right,” Dan-Joe nudged her. “Loosen up, Lion Girl.”

  He helped himself to his third bowl of curry. Alison folded her arms and her brows dipped in a frown.

  “Old Man?” muttered Man, a little stung.

  Dan-Joe asked about our vegetarian principles. I was unaware we had any. We were just finding the best way to live in our new situation.

  “It’s just that Man thinks one shouldn’t eat a living thing that one hasn’t hunted down and killed for oneself. Here in Dedley there is very little opportunity for that sort of thing.”

  “That’s well rad,” said Dan-Joe.

  “Man visit farm. Prison for animal. Animal punished for being made of meat.”

  “Suppose... ”

  There followed a moment of silent rumination. It occurred to me that people in Dedley - and elsewhere too, no doubt - don’t seem to think about their food and where it comes from. I was the same. I used to think all one had to do was lift the silver cloche and there it would be, all beautifully presented on a platter. Living in the jungle taught me to respect food and to respect life - every day we would have to think about where our food was coming from. We always knew exactly what we were eating from the jungle’s supermarket.

  Man changed the subject, adopting the role of dutiful father grilling his daughter’s suitor. “Dan-Joe village far?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Dan-Joe tribe far?”

  Dan-Joe laughed. “I suppose only you could call them that and get away with it, big fella. My ‘tribe’, my fam lives up in the ‘village’ of Lower Gornal. Do you know it?”

  I had to confess we did not but Man’s face lit up.

  “Squirrel’s Hole!” he cried.

  “Squirrel’s Nook,” Alison corrected. “That’s right; that’s near Lower Gornal.”

  “Man understand problem.” He looked from Dan-Joe to Alison and then significantly at the partition wall. “Lion and hyena bad juju. Never work. Lion with lion, hyena with hyena. Fair enough. Some people say brown lion yellow lion bad juju.” He shrugged. “Brown lion yellow lion, both still lion. Rad. Cool.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” Alison threw her arms around Man’s neck. “Er - Dad,” she added as an afterthought.

  “I’m not sure I do,” said Dan-Joe.

  “Dad’s just given his blessing to our mixed-race relationship.”

  “I say, steady on!” I protested, with the dreadful feeling that the situation was spiralling out of control.

  “Yeah, cool it a bit, bab,” Dan-Joe looked equally panicked. “I thought we was just mates. You know, just having a bit of fun, like.”

  “But now we’ve got my parents’ approval, we can take things to the next level.” She peeled herself off my husband and launched herself onto Dan-Joe, planting kisses on his face and neck.

  “Hold up, hold up!” he tried to fend her off. “Who’s the hyena?”

  I pulled the silly girl away from him and suggested she give me a hand with dessert in the kitchen. I took her out into the garden. “So, this is what you’ve been up to!”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like Dan-Joe? Is it because he’s black?”

  I put my hand to my forehead. “My dear,” I said flatly, “Man and I don’t bother about things like that, and I’m insulted to think you think we would. I’ve lived among and near all sorts of people, not all of them the kind you would welcome in for dinner - but because of their behaviour not the hue of their pelt. What I’m objecting to, young lady, is your embroiling us in this web of deceit. How long do you think it will be before a bright chap like Dan-Joe realises the truth? He’ll see you’ve been lying to him about who your parents are and before long, he’ll be asking himself what else you have been lying to him about.”

  “I haven’t!” Alison’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “He won’t know what to believe, will he?”

  “I suppose not, no. Oh, your ladyship! I don’t know what to do.” The tears spilled out. She buried her wet face on my shoulder. I patted her on the back.

  “I think you should consider telling him the truth before things get completely out of hand.”

  She smiled, wetly. “And my par
ents?”

  “They may surprise you. You could always tell them about the brown lions and the yellow lions.”

  She laughed. “Both still lions.”

  “That’s right. Your parents deserve the chance to surprise you, rather than condemning them before they even know what’s going on.”

  “You’re right.” Her shoulders slumped. She was not looking forward to that conversation. “And if they - if that don’t accept it?”

  “Then that’s not a very good advertisement for their parenting skills. You’re a grown woman - I’ve known grandmothers your age - so you have a right to live your life the way you see fit. Make your choices and own the consequences.”

  She straightened up. “You’re right!” She wiped tears from her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “I’m going to tell them right now.”

  “Oh, no, dear!” I feigned alarm. “First you must have dessert.”

  We laughed and I pointed out she ought to make sure her young man was indeed her young man before she said anything drastic to her parents.

  “Woo-hoo!” It was Baby, vaulting over from next door’s garden.

  “Hello, Baby. Where have you been?”

  “The Taj Mahal, Mother. Honestly; where do you think?”

  “Don’t be such a cheeky monkey.”

  “Rebecca invited me around to watch television. Oh, Mother; it’s quite the wonderfullest thing!”

  “Oh, dear... One evening’s viewing and your vocabulary is already deteriorating.”

  “Their television is unlike ours,” Baby continued to enthuse. “One does not open a door to put food in for starters - or any other course, come to think of it. I watched cartoons, which are like storybook pictures come to life, and wildlife programmes and a quiz - I learned more in a couple of hours than I did during an entire day at that school. Oh, Mother! We must get one! Ask Jamie Peters to take us and the gold card out tomorrow.”

  I ruffled his hair. “It’s funny you should mention that, darling. I was going to take you along with me in the morning to get you measured for a pair of these. What do you think?”

  I modelled my sandals. Baby was awestruck.

  “Oh, Mother!” He threw his arms around me. “With footwear and a television we shall be truly civilised.”

  I planted a kiss on the crown of his curly head - the hair, I mean; his skull is quite, quite normal.

  “Oh, hello Alison,” Baby blinked as if noticing her for the first time. “Your mother’s looking for you. She seems rather cross - more so than usual, I mean.”

  “Here we go,” said Alison, biting her lip in a way that reminded me of, well, me.

  “Are you hungry, Baby?” I took his hand and led him to the kitchen.

  “Rather!”

  “Didn’t they feed you, darling?” The more I learned about the Lyons woman, the less I thought would surprise me.

  “Well, they tried. Something called ‘faggots’. I didn’t care for them. Mrs Lyons couldn’t tell me the names of the animals who surrendered those bits of themselves - I’m not entirely sure she could identify the species - so I told her what Dad says about only eating animals you’ve hunted and killed for yourself and she said I was being brainwashed and then - after Rebecca explained what brainwashed means - I asked Mrs Lyons if it was not the case that she was brainwashing her own family by expecting them to eat what she eats without question and wasn’t she herself brainwashed to believe it is acceptable to keep animals in cruel conditions and -”

  “Oh, dear!” I handed him a bowl of strawberries and ice cream (dairy free, of course) “I hope you remained polite and courteous.”

  “Of course, Mother. But I shan’t be invited again, I shouldn’t think. Therefore it is all the more imperative to acquire a television of our own right away.” He glanced through the serving hatch. “Who’s the African wrestling with Dad?”

  “That’s not an African. That’s Dan-Joe. He’s from Lower Gornal.”

  Baby nodded as though I had explained everything. He gobbled the rest of his dessert, thrust the bowl in my direction and climbed through the hatch to join in with the fun. Uncle Mjomba was prevailed upon to officiate as referee. Alison and I exchanged a “men will be boys” look. I piled some dishes and plates in the sink.

  “Wait a minute!” the girl’s cry gave me pause. She opened one of the white boxes under the counter. “Ta-daa!” She could see I was nonplussed so she named the thing. “Dishwasher! Don’t tell me you didn’t know you have a dishwasher!”

  “Well, Mjomba’s been using it to wash the vegetables. Makes an awful mess but it precludes the use of a blender, I suppose.”

  The last dishwasher I ever heard of was pensioned off when her eyesight failed. That’s right... she was the chauffeur’s aged mother, if I remember correctly. Winnie or Minnie or Flo or something.

  Alison showed me how to load the appliance and how to operate it. As it rumbled and made swishing sounds, she stood back and folded her arms. I aped her stance in case it was a necessary part of the ritual.

  “Mjomba will be tickled,” I predicted although, judging by the noises coming from the front room, it sounded as though that was already taking place.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In which the most terrible thing that could happen happens

  Over breakfast I made Baby recite the list of British monarchs in chronological order with their birth dates, the dates they succeeded, and the dates of their deaths. I know for some people this is the only kind of education that matters and I wanted Baby to be ready to face all comers, however bizarre their way of thinking. My son has all the faculties, insights and imagination of a human being but here I was training him like a parrot.

  Unfortunately, Baby got lost around the first couple of Edwards and started conflating British history with the tribal lore of our former neighbours and so Edward the Confessor married Mifupa Kubwa, eater of the many, and went to war with the Walaji Nyasi in a thirty years war. Or something. I confess I was a little distracted. Last night’s dinner party could only serve to increase hostilities with our neighbour Mrs Lyons - and most certainly between that woman and her elder daughter. My family and I can take care of ourselves and each other but Alison needs a mother who is on her side at this point in her life.

  Baby’s history lesson and my ponderings were interrupted by a chiming sound, followed by a brisk rat-a-tat-tat. We were completely thrown. Uncle Mjomba at the sink whimpered.

  “Wait!” said Baby. “I think I know what this is.” We listened in case the sounds came again. A few seconds later, they did. Baby headed for the hallway. “This happened last night when I was at Rebecca’s house. It means there is someone at the door.”

  I followed him, doubting it would be Jamie Peters at this hour - besides which, we had trained the social worker to use the back door as if it was his own. Baby opened the front door and revealed the last person I wanted to see on my doorstep.

  What’s-her-face from the zoo.

  Jenny bloody Porter.

  “Hello, Sonny,” she smiled her pretty smile. I put protective hands on Baby’s shoulders. “Good morning, your ladyship.”

  “It could have been,” I muttered.

  “Hello, Jenny!” Baby grinned. “Would you like some cocoa-flakes? They’re much nicer than rice-o-pops.”

  “Um, thank you, no.” She shifted uneasily. “Is Man in?”

  “Yes,” said Baby. If my eyes became any narrower, the lashes would swap places. As I suspected from the off, this creature was hunting my husband. Baby, innocent in the wily ways of women, told her his father was in the watering hole.

  Jenny Porter laughed. “Bit early for the pub, isn’t it?”

  She laughed alone.

  An awkward silence followed. Jenny Porter’s bright blue eyes widened and she backed away in horror. She
pointed out something behind us. I didn’t need to turn around; Uncle Mjomba’s distinctive aroma often arrives before he does.

  “That’s my Uncle Mjomba,” said Baby. “He doesn’t bite... Often.”

  Baby and I laughed; it was a family joke but Jenny Porter seemed neither amused nor convinced.

  Mjomba’s leathery knuckles pushed Baby and me aside. He beckoned Jenny Porter in.

  “Where are our manners?” said Baby.

  “Yes,” I said flatly. “Do come in.”

  Uncle Mjomba took Jenny Porter by her narrow, delicate hand and installed her at the kitchen table. She glanced around the room.

  “Lovely,” she said as if her opinion was warranted. “Rather Spartan. My place is too cluttered. It’s like a bombsite.” She gazed up at a cable suspended from the ceiling. “Oh, dear! Bulb gone, has it? I mean, it literally has gone.”

  “Bulb?” frowned Baby.

  “Light bulb, darling. We have none, Miss Porter. We prefer the natural light of the sun.”

  “Ecological and economical,” Jenny Porter nodded and looked impressed. “Good luck with that when the clocks go back.”

  “We have rented no timepieces,” I said coldly. “We have none to return.”

  “I mean when the nights draw in. When it gets dark earlier.”

  “Oh, we just open the fridge,” said Baby. “And we’ll still have the fire in the garden.”

  “What? In winter?”

  “Perhaps you fail to understand the basic properties of fire,” I sneered. Hah! the most basic foundation stone of civilisation and she was ignorant of it.

  Uncle Mjomba set a mug of his special tea, complete with twigs, in front of our uninvited guest. She thanked him. He encouraged her to take a sip. Tentatively, she raised the steaming beverage to her chin. Before she could try it, Man came barrelling down the stairs like an elephant who has been at the fermented berries.

  “Visitor!” he exclaimed. “You Jenny Porter. Welcome.”

  “Hello, Man.” Jenny Porter put the mug down. “You’re looking well.”

  My hands clenched and I began to look for something sharp.