Jungle Out There

by William Stafford

  “Looks like I can put my price up,” he laughed. “No two-for-one deals on this farm.”

  Well, at least one of us was amused. I tried to force the door but he had locked it - Stupid woman! Why wouldn’t he? I slumped against the door and sobbed. I had only succeeded in making things worse. I dared not Call my husband; I didn’t want to alert old Laughing Gary to his presence.

  I strained to hear what was happening outside, forcing myself to remain calm. After all, it was unlike the occasion when I fell into that narrow crevasse and a flash flood threatened to drown me where I stood.

  The dog barked again. Closer this time, as far as I could tell. An eternity passed and I thought this is how I will reach the end of my days, holed up in this mundane and musty cupboard, starved and forgotten. I sank to the floor. There was nothing in there with me I could use to batter my way out.

  All was lost!

  Suddenly, a flash flood of light filled the cupboard, hurting my eyes. Two shadowy silhouettes appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello, Mother!”

  I screamed with joy and, scrambling to my feet, rushed to embrace my Baby.

  “How wonderful to see you! But how did you know where to find me?”

  “Lady make muddy footprint,” said Man. “Hug later. Leave now!”

  “Oh no,” said a voice behind them. “You’re here to stay.”

  There was the unmistakable click of a shotgun being cocked.

  “Hands up and turn around slowly,” said the farmer-cum-kidnapper. We obliged. “The gang’s all here. Pity; I was hoping to ransom the kiddie for big bucks. Oh well. That’s all by-the-by now. Europe’s buggered me, with its quotas and price fixes. But if I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.”

  “Oh, you silly man. Why didn’t you just ask us for money?”

  I saw my husband shake his head grimly. There was no way Man would fund something he found as abhorrent as a dairy farm.

  Crazy Gary seemed to be enjoying himself in that mad-eyed way bad men always do when their evil plan has gone awry but they still believe they have the upper hand. “Now,” he smirked, “I can shoot two of you before I need to reload. Which two shall it be?” He levelled the barrels at each of us in turn. “Tell you what: ladies’ choice. Your ladyship, you decided. Who shall I shoot first?”

  Impossible question!

  Who could answer?

  I’d like to say it was a conscious effort on my part to hum and ah and thereby stall what seemed inevitable.

  “The clock is ticking,” the crazed kidnapper prompted. He pointed the shotgun at Man and Baby alternately. “Tick, tock. Tick, tock... ”

  “Oh, gosh!” I said and chewed my knuckle.

  “Woof,” said Man.

  “I’m sorry, darling?”

  The gun went off and bits of ceiling rained on our heads. Gary was on his back, flailing under the huge dog that had come rushing in to bowl him over.

  “Quick!” said Man. The three of us bustled out of the farmhouse and into the open air. We didn’t stop to turn around. We heard the farmer roar and swear like a lion that has stubbed its toe. We ran around the milking shed for cover. Man told us to conceal ourselves behind the feed bins. The last I saw he was scaling the corrugated walls to stand at the apex of the shed’s roof, making himself an inviting target for the madman.

  “Stay down, Mother!” urged Baby, pulling me back. We held our breath.

  The deranged man strode from the house and spotted Man on the roof right away. He stood in the centre of the yard to take steady aim. Man, unperturbed, adopted the familiar stance I knew so well. Was it to be the last I saw of him alive?

  He threw back his head and made the Call.

  The gunman seemed amused but the grin soon fell from his face when the thundering of hooves came to his attention. “No, no!” he cried. He tried to flee but he was stuck in the muck. One of his feet came out of its Wellington. The boot was still standing when the stampede of the farmer’s own cattle had trampled him beyond all recognition.

  Man sprang from the roof performing perfect somersaults in the air.

  “Come!” he grabbed our arms. We ran to Jenny Porter’s range rover at full tilt.

  Chapter Twenty

  In which everything changes

  We got back to the house to find Policeman Andy waiting for us at the kitchen table. One might have expected him to be more pleased to see our boy restored to us unharmed but something was weighing on our friend’s mind, I could tell. He asked us to tell him what had happened and warned us of the dire consequences of lying to the police.

  “Worse than being shut up in that stall?” Baby sounded sceptical. Man had found him in a small wooden cage used to house calves before slaughter.

  “Much worse!” said Policeman Andy. None of us could tell if he was joking.

  With Baby released, Man had followed my muddy tracks to the farmhouse - after having introduced himself to the herd and unbarring a few gates, of course. A neighbouring dog had also been enlisted in our rescue. My husband does not do things by halves. But we didn’t tell Andy everything.

  “Our attention was focussed on effecting our escape from the farmer and his gun,” I said. It sounded reasonable to me.

  “Who just happened to be squished to death by his own herd?”

  Man shrugged.

  “It happens,” I said. “More often than you might think. In the jungle.”

  Policeman Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. I don’t know why. “But this is not the jungle!” the poor man sounded exasperated. “All right, all right. The cattle stampede can be chalked up as a freak accident, I suppose. Nobody would believe the truth of it, I suppose. But what about Sonny’s return? What will you tell the press?”

  “Oh, I’ll just say I wandered off,” said Baby. “I went looking for adventure.”

  “He used to do that all the time,” I nodded. “In the jungle.”

  “But this is not the jungle!” Policeman Andy was getting himself worked up. “You can’t just let kids wander around. It’s not safe!”

  We stared at him. The wind seemed to escape him like a leaking balloon.

  “Yes, I am well aware of how ridiculous that sounds. Dedley more dangerous than the jungle! Blimey!”

  Uncle Mjomba placed a mug of tea before him and patted him on the back.

  “You do realise, if you go with that story, our case against Jamie Peters collapses? We’ll have to let him go. Oh, he won’t work in Child Protection anymore; that’s for certain, but... ”

  “Jamie Peters not show face again,” Man predicted.

  “And another thing,” Policeman Andy lowered his voice, watching Mjomba waddle back to the sink, “That other business with your uncle hasn’t gone away either.”

  Man and I exchanged a worried look. He squeezed my hand. A tear escaped my eye.

  “Dedley is too wicked a place for one as beautiful as Mjomba,” I said.

  “Hold up!” said Jenny Porter. I had forgotten she was still here. She had been using our garden hose to clean the mud from her range rover. “I think I might be able to help you there.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this,” said Policeman Andy, getting to his feet.

  “Nonsense!” Jenny Porter put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him down onto the chair. “We’re all friends here.”

  “Woo-hoo!” said a voice from the back door. It was Mr Lyons who, despite the customary Lyons greeting, looked somewhat dour and serious. Man waved him in.

  “Man, your ladyship, I have some difficult news. Perhaps we can talk somewhere private?”

  “All friend here,” said Man with an expansive gesture.

  “The more the merrier!” I said, sending Jenny Porter a dirty look. She missed it; she and Policeman Andy were sitting rat
her close, I noticed, and there was a good deal of eye contact and smiling going on.

  Perhaps Jenny Porter was not so bad after all.

  Mr Lyons sat. He lifted his briefcase onto his lap and took out a sheaf of papers. I did not like the look of this at all.

  “Your ladyship,” he addressed me directly, “I’m afraid I have to ask you to surrender your gold card.”

  I gasped audibly. “I shall do no such thing.”

  “Then keep it. It makes no difference. It will no longer be accepted anywhere.”

  “But why?” I clutched at my husband’s arm and at the table for support.

  “I’m afraid your money has run out,” Mr Lyons looked so sad I could have hugged him. “The rubies and diamonds you used as collateral have proved far less valuable than was first estimated. The mines back in Africa have been appropriated by rival warlords. In a word, chicken: you’m skint.”

  As soon as Mr Lyons had explained that incomparable epithet, we were all thrown into dismay. We would have to leave Edgar Street! We would have to get jobs!

  “Man can work with me at the zoo,” offered Jenny Porter, who may or may not have been holding hands with a certain policeman under the table.

  “Over Man dead body!” said Man, and that was the end of that discussion.

  “What will you do?” said Mr Lyons - kindly Mr Lyons who had been so helpful to us above and beyond his duties as my solicitor. “2Go back to the jungle? Because if you are, I might come with you.”

  “Lion Man trouble at home?”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, cocker.” Mr Lyons shook his head. We implored him to tell us what had happened.

  “You know our Alison,” was his rather redundant preface, “Well, she’s only been and gone and run off with that boyfriend of hers!”

  We all reacted strongly to this - apart from Jenny Porter who was ignorant of the major players in this drama - but she could have made an effort.

  “But why?” Man, Baby and I chorused. Unlike the Lyonses, we are a very close-knit family.

  “Her dear mother put her foot down. Made the girl choose: her mother or her boyfriend. Big mistake in my view. Pushed the girl into a corner and she’s too much her mother’s daughter. Well, with them both digging their heels in there was only one possible outcome.”

  “So Alison has gone for good?” asked my sweet Baby, genuinely concerned.

  “She’s gone, son,” said Mr Lyons. “For good or bad, I don’t know.”

  “You poor man!”

  Suddenly the loss of our home and money seemed utterly insignificant. Trifles and fripperies without which we could jolly well do.

  We sat around glumly, sipping Uncle Mjomba’s tea.

  “Hello?” said yet another voice at the back door. “I did try the front but there was no answer.”

  “Hello, Janice Driscoll,” said Baby, the first to recognise this latest arrival and welcome her in.

  Of course! It was the social worker Man had rescued from the fire. Man pulled Baby behind him for protection. Janice Driscoll laughed.

  “Oh, don’t worry; I haven’t come to take Sonny away.” She opened her briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. Man pulled out a chair and she sat on it.

  “First of all, we’re all terribly sorry about that Jamie Peters business. Most regrettable. But since the fire, I’ve been doing some digging around. And you, young man,” she addressed Baby directly, “are very lucky indeed.”

  “That’s old news,” Baby grinned at Man and me. My heart melted.

  “It turns out,” Janice Driscoll continued, “that you are the sole surviving heir to the Carson estate in Worcestershire.”

  I blinked. I had heard of it. “What? Carson Hall?”

  Janice Driscoll nodded. “The long and the short and the tall of it is that the house and extensive grounds are all yours, young man. Along with an immeasurable personal fortune, of course. And you’re also a peer of the realm. You are Lord Carson.”

  Baby looked nonplussed.

  “Will Mother and Dad be able to live there with me?”

  Such a sweet child!

  ***

  A year has passed since we left Edgar Street. Can you believe it is my wedding day? It turns out Uncle Mjomba wasn’t strictly speaking licensed to perform marriages so we’re doing it properly this time, here in the grounds with the great fountain as a backdrop. It will look stupendous in the photographs - I am already the envy of all my thousands of Facebook friends. They admire the house - little do they know we don’t live in it, but in a treehouse around the back. Oh, we go indoors for the winter - we’re not totally bonkers. We have hammocks now, which are all right, surprisingly comfortable, but I think tonight, for our wedding night, Man and I will brave the Blue Room in the west wing and its four-poster.

  It is a pity Uncle Mjomba can’t be with us - to witness the ceremony at least - but, oh! Of course! You don’t know what happened to Uncle Mjomba.

  That sweet girl Jenny Porter came up with the idea. Very clever of her, I must say. The zoo was transferring poor unhappy Sokwe the gorilla abroad to a sanctuary in Kenya. She, clever girl, fiddled the paperwork to account for two passengers, so to speak. That way, Mjomba could be got out of the country before the police made things tough for him.

  It was a good plan; I’ll give her that. She’s my Maid of Honour today. Her intended, Policeman Andy, is the so-called Best Man - but we all know who that is really.

  The staff have done me proud on this special day. The gardens, under Gable’s scrupulous supervision, have never looked lovelier, and Jakes has dressed the Rolls in ribbons and silver bells. They work for me - well, us - again, even though they were paid what was owed. I don’t think the old dears would know what else to do with their time.

  My bridesmaids look gorgeous. You remember the Lyons girls, Rebecca and Alison? They look stunning in their outfits - designed by me, of course, but don’t worry: it’s not real gazelle skin this time. Alison’s fellow, Dan-Joe, is snapping photographs like crazy. I’ve never seen a happier couple - not since Man and I looked in the mirror! Alison’s little Ephraim is far too young to be a page boy so that duty has fallen to my beautiful Baby. Hasn’t he shot up? So handsome in his bow tie - and loincloth, of course. He’s trying to get me to call him by his ‘real’ name, which is Edward, but it just won’t stick somehow. He will always be my Baby.

  And here’s my husband. Well, strictly speaking: husband-to-be.

  “Hello, darling! Cows all well?”

  He’s been to the cattle sanctuary even on our wedding day. Didn’t I tell you? He bought the farm and it’s now a retirement home for those old cows; they’re living full and happy lives free from exploitation. Surely every living thing deserves that?

  “Yes,” he says. “Nosher and Deb have all under control.” He draws me away from the gathering guests; there are lots of police present. “Absent friends all right too.”

  I nod, understanding at once. The grounds to this place are so extensive one can easily lose oneself... There is wild talk in the village that our private woodlands are haunted by ‘two old men of the forest’. We neither encourage nor discourage these tales - they keep the poachers and the nosy parkers away.

  And isn’t it marvellous that Mjomba and Sokwe have found each other?

  Oops! Ssh, your ladyship! You’re being indiscreet.

  The registrar is calling everyone to order and Mr Lyons is here to give me his arm and walk me up the aisle. We take each step slowly and deliberately towards Man, my strong and gentle Man, the Man all men should be.

  I ignore a flicker in the bushes to my side. I know full well there’s a wild woman in there, cowering and glowering, hoping to catch a glimpse of her grandson, the cappuccino-coloured baby she has never met.

  Pride can be a terrible thi
ng - unless you’re among the right type of lion.

  And so I leave you at this most happy time. I hope you’re happy for me. A year ago I would never have imagined things turning out so well. We left our old life and found the new one didn’t fit, so we had to find another way to live. We adapted and we thrive!

  Now, it’s not my place to tell you how to live your life but I will ask you this one thing:

  Just look at the people around you, in the supermarket, on the bus, on the railway platform, with their fashionable haircuts and their designer clothes. They smell of toothpaste and coffee and a miasma of fragrances they daub on their bodies before they leave their centrally-heated, double-glazed homes. Inside every one of them beats the heart of an animal. It’s not far beneath the surface; you only have to scare them or make them angry to get a glimpse.

  The animal is never tamed, only caged. So be understanding of each other. Give each other a break. We are all part of this world and should share it fairly, and not be the cause of suffering to anyone or anything. Life is tough enough on its own - it does not need your help on that score. Remember: beneath the thin veneer of civilisation, it really is a jungle out there.

  Umgowa!

  Also Available