by Aubrey Flegg
Yola only had a minute to wait in the car before Gabbin came trotting down the road, looking like her own Gabbin. He clambered in beside her and let her give him a quick kiss.
‘Listen, Gabbin, this is the game I have in mind. It all depends on you.’
‘I’m a landmine … I’m a landmine …’ chanted Gabbin advancing on the children.
Yola’s throat was dry from talking. She realised that this game was a risk, but all during her training she had been worried that just by talking about mines, showing pictures, telling stories, she might make the children curious. Would her warnings put them on their guard or merely encourage them to play with mines? How could she get across that they were dangerous? Every year the rains washed mines out of the ground. Some looked like toys, little plastic butterflies that had been scattered from the air. Others looked like tins of food. When she took off her leg to show them how terrible it was to be lame, they just wanted to see how the leg worked. She wanted to get across the message that they must never ever play with mines. When Sister Martha had come up to see how she was getting on, she decided that she would try her game. She explained the rules of the game to them all: Gabbin was a landmine and he would tempt them to play with him, but they must not touch him. She signalled to Gabbin that he could start.
‘I’m a landmine … I’m a landmine …’ chanted Gabbin as the children moved back, parting when he approached them, wary but amused. ‘Come on, play with me,’ he taunted.
‘Oh no!’ chanted the smaller ones. ‘Landmines are dangerous, we never play with landmines.’
Yola watched Gabbin apprehensively. What if he could not tempt them to touch him? Then the game would fall flat. Go on! she urged silently, don’t let me down Gabbin, please. His circling was changing; he was tempting them, but he was acting too, and the children were responding. This was her old Gabbin! She nearly cheered. While he had been taunting the little ones, he had his back to a group of the older girls – all they could see were the jeering faces of the children in front of him; they couldn’t see Gabbin’s face. Then he turned, and as he did so, he changed. The naughty urchin disappeared and the bigger girls were presented with a poor, tormented little boy who no one would play with. He ran towards the biggest and softest of the girls. Yola watched her melt and reach out.
‘Go on, touch him!’ roared the kids in delight. They were supposed to shout ‘Don’t touch!’, but they were getting carried away. The girl jumped back in a lather of embarrassment, while Gabbin, grinning from ear to ear, danced off to find his next victim.
This time he settled on a surly lad with a bashed-about face – the victor of many a fight, Yola guessed.
‘Melon face,’ jeered Gabbin, doing a monkey act under the boy’s nose.
‘Go to hell!’ the boy muttered.
‘What’s the matter! Over-ripe?’
The boy snarled and turned away, but Gabbin was in front of him, raising his small backside and chanting, ‘Kiss, kiss!’
It was too tempting; the boy drew back his foot.
‘Kick him. Kiss, kiss!’ roared the kids and the boy skulked off with a face like thunder.
Now Gabbin was offering them his T-shirt. ‘Touch me and it’s yours.’
Still none of the children had touched him. Perhaps the game was backfiring, becoming a game of dare? Perhaps Yola should call it off. It was at that moment she noticed Gabbin wince. It was only for a second, a flicker of pain that crossed his face and was gone. She was mystified: surely the big boy hadn’t touched him? She glanced across at Sister Martha, who was also looking anxiously at Gabbin; she was frowning and had taken a step forward. Yola decided that it was definitely time to call a halt. She’d wait till Gabbin had passed Sister Martha on his circuit, then she’d … But then it happened! Gabbin faltered and his hands rose, gripping at that sudden pain in his tummy. His knees gave way and he collapsed onto the ground. A horrified hush fell over the gathering. Yola lurched towards him, but it was Sister Martha who got there first, dropping to his side and lifting his crumpled shoulder.
‘BANG!’ Gabbin shouted and leapt to his feet.
Yola would remember that frozen scene forever. It should have been, perhaps it was, perfect, better than her wildest dreams. Sister Martha had known the rules, but like Yola – like all of them – she’d been fooled. Gabbin had done exactly what he had been asked to do. The party atmosphere disappeared in a shocked tremor. The class was over. The stunned youngsters trickled away.
But there were other images of that day that Yola would not forget. One was of little Sister Martha reeling back, her hand over her heart, her kind, concerned face drained white with shock. The second was a fleeting look of nasty triumph on Gabbin’s face as he leapt to his feet.
The following day, Gabbin disappeared. They said he was visiting Uncle Banda’s relations in the next province. Weeks passed, then a month, but no news came back from him. Yola was told not to repeat that game in future classes.
15
The Satellite Phone
‘You are in charge then!’ said Hans with a grin as he backed into the conference room from the office where Yola was standing. He was balancing a cup and saucer on a stack of files and papers. ‘Emergencies only, all right?’ The door, which was on a spring, closed behind him with a click and the voices in the next room dimmed abruptly.
Yola looked nervously around the office. Then, being careful not to touch anything, she walked around behind Hans’s desk. There was a blotter in the middle of the desk and a stainless steel parrot on a perch. The parrot fixed her with a beady eye. She lowered herself carefully into Hans’s chair. It was wonderfully comfortable. Then she found that it swivelled, so she held on to the edge of the desk and swung the chair back and forth. She let go and did a cautious circle. But there was something else that Hans did that looked particularly good; he had some way of leaning backwards. She pressed against the arms, but nothing happened. She pushed against the desk, but the chair just rolled back. Then she leant forwards and swung her weight back into the chair. To her horror, it toppled over backwards. She grabbed at the vanishing desk, missed it and her artificial leg shot up and hit the underside of it with a resounding thump. Waving her arms frantically she threw herself forward but, unfortunately, so did the spring in the chair. As she flew towards the desk she had to look for somewhere to land and skidded to a halt on Hans’s blotter.
At that moment she heard a voice at the door. With a speed she hadn’t shown since she had two legs of her own, she sprinted out from behind the desk and was looking earnestly out of the window when the door opened. Hans came in, still talking as the door slowly closed behind him, and picked up a file from his desk. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Yola saw him pause. She looked over; her carefully prepared smile froze on her face. Hans’s chair was slowly rotating on its beautifully oiled stem while, on the desk, the stainless steel parrot bobbed and twisted, silently squawking out the most serious allegations against her. She could feel her shoulders droop. Hans glanced at her, an amused smile spreading across his face. She shrugged and smiled back weakly. Then the door closed with a click and she was on her own once more.
There was a second desk in the room where Judit, the Dutch girl, usually sat, but she was inside at the conference today. Judit’s desk had a subduable chair; Yola sat down, shaking. Then she turned and put her tongue out at the parrot.
She listened to the voice of the radio operator from the radio room down the corridor. It was a stylised call-and-answer routine. He would be talking to any cars that were out and to the deminers who were clearing mines from about Nopani’s two border bridges. When Yola had looked down on these from the plane they looked so neat and tidy, but that wasn’t how it was on the ground. The men there were working on hands and knees in the dense bush that had grown up since the mines had been laid. Before they could cut even a twig they had to grope ahead with sensitive hands, making sure there were no tripwires attached to mines hidden in the bush beside them.
&nbs
p; She shivered slightly and pulled forward a pad of yellow stickers and started writing. When she had finished, she stuck the labels on the two phones in the room. She had been told what to say, but was afraid of forgetting the routine in the heat of the moment. The local phone was all right, she felt she could answer that. It was the satellite phone that frightened her; it might speak to her in Norwegian.
With nothing else to do, she stared out over the old barracks. The huts were empty now that the men were working. At the far end, as far away from the house as possible, were the kennels. She’d got used to the barking now. There were five dogs: four huge German Shepherds, and a black-and-white border collie called Sailor. He was in disgrace as he had bitten two of his Kasemban handlers and now none of them would go near him. Yola would go out and walk him later. She grinned; she and Sailor had a special relationship.
When she had started work with the deminers, Bill, who was English, had shown her around.
‘Hans wants you to see everything, so you might as well be fed to the dogs while you are still fat and well-fed.’
Yola’s heart sank; she knew he was teasing, but she was nervous of dogs and she didn’t always understand Bill’s banter. They walked towards the kennels and the dogs set up a cacophony of barking. They were all tied up outside while their kennels were being cleaned. The German Shepherds threw themselves on their ropes as if Yola were the most delicious morsel they had seen in months.
‘Don’t worry, they just want to play. But watch Sailor there, just because he’s quiet doesn’t mean that he’s safe,’ Bill warned. ‘We’ll have to send him home, he’s bitten two handlers already and now no one will work with him.’
‘Is he good?’
‘At his job? Yes, the best. He’s the only one we can trust to pick up tripwires for a start, but the bush is so thick by the river we can’t use him there.’
Yola looked at the dog. He was black with a snow-white sailor’s collar, and he had pleading eyes that followed Yola as she passed. They went to the far end of the line and Bill calmed the dogs and introduced Yola to each in turn.
It was Yola’s fault: Bruce, the biggest German Shepherd, was tied up next to Sailor. He was just being friendly, but that meant putting his paws on Yola’s shoulders and licking her face. Yola misinterpreted his lunge and stepped back, right into Sailor’s space. For a long time she didn’t know quite what had happened. She felt a bang on her leg and heard a yelp. She twisted around and there was the fearsome Sailor, crawling across the ground whining and wagging. Without thinking, Yola bent down and put out her hand. Sailor’s first reaction was to cringe, then he began to crawl forward, wagging and whining as if he’d been hit. Yola edged back to where he could no longer lunge at her, but let him lick the back of her hand.
‘Be careful!’ Bill called. Then he sounded puzzled. ‘What’s got into him? Did you hit him? It’s never had that effect before.’
Yola shook her head; she was concentrating. She stroked his head and ran her hand down onto his neck, ready to snatch it away. He trembled slightly and then rolled over on his back.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Bill.
That evening when Yola was chatting to Judit and feeling for the valve that would release her leg, her hand slipped down the smooth calf. Suddenly she stopped because she had felt something strange; there were marks in the plastic! Judit came over when she heard Yola’s gasp of surprise and they examined the marks together. There, in her leg, was a neat set of tooth-marks. Sailor had at last found a Kasemban that didn’t taste nice! They laughed together and agreed that they would say nothing. It was about time the men were brought down a peg or two – let Yola’s mastery over Sailor remain a mystery.
From that day, Yola exercised the collie every day. There were grumbles from the men when she joined their training but, as Bill pointed out, a trained dog is worth thousands of pounds. Even though Yola would never be allowed into a live minefield, at least Sailor would not lose his tracking skills.
Yola was startled from her reverie by the telephone ringing. She darted towards Hans’s desk where the local phone stood. Panic … wrong phone! It was the satellite phone ringing. She reached out, then hesitated. Should she call Hans? No, he had said emergencies only. She stared at her yellow sticker, swallowed, lifted the receiver and said in her clearest voice, ‘Northern People’s Aid, Nopani office. Yola Abonda speaking, can I help you?’ She could hear a voice, but in her state of panic she couldn’t even decide what language it was speaking. ‘Excuse me. Can you say me again?’ That didn’t sound right, but it gave her a chance to listen properly. Suddenly she jumped in the air. ‘Fintan!’ she shouted. ‘How … where … how’s Ireland?’ She switched the phone to her left ear, hoping she would hear better. ‘You’re what? … Where? … Kasemba! … You can’t be!’ She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. She realised then that she was shouting and dropped her voice. ‘Go on, tell me.’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing; it was so nice to hear his voice. He was explaining that it was to do with his father’s business. ‘Oh, and I thought you were coming to see me!’ she laughed.
‘I’m using Dad’s mobile,’ Fintan’s voice sounded tense. ‘We … rather I’ve been turned back at the bridge on the border. You see, I don’t have a visa, we never thought …’
Yola’s mind was racing. What border? Why ring her? Then it dawned on her.
‘Fintan,’ she interrupted, ‘you mean you’re in Nopani?’
‘Of course I’m in Nopani.’
‘But if you’re at the border that means you have our nice friendly soldiers pointing their guns at you. What on earth are you doing there?’
‘Oh Yola, it’s all complicated. Do you remember what I told you about Dad’s air bag project?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Well, we visited the new car assembly plant here, in Kasemba, it’s at Port George, on the coast. They showed us around, gave us an expensive lunch and then explained that the people Dad really should be talking to are the boffins in their research laboratory in Murabende.’
‘This isn’t Murabende, Fintan. Murabende’s different country. They eat people over there!’
‘I know, the lab is over the border there, but I don’t have a visa.’ He seemed irritated.
‘So what’s your Dad going to do?’
‘He’s had to go on with Mr Birthistle, the chap who set up the contract. There seems to be something terribly urgent about getting our samples to the research laboratory. So I’m on the bridge. They called a taxi, but it hasn’t come.’
‘Who’s with you. How many are you?’
‘I’m on my own, Yola.’
‘On the bridge! On your own?’
‘Yes. I can’t walk as I have a stack of Dad’s equipment – they wouldn’t allow him across with it.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ said Yola, then laughed out loud at herself. ‘Fintan! Stay where you are. Do you hear me? Don’t move. There is a big tree with a bench under it. It’s in sight of the soldiers at the border, so you’ll be safe there. I’ll see if I can get down myself, but if not I’ll ask someone to pick you up, they are working nearby. Oh, and Fintan, don’t leave the tarmac, it’s dangerous to step off the road anywhere there. ’ Bye.’
She turned around. Hans had come into the room and dropped his files onto the desk with a thump. He yawned; then he leant down and addressed the parrot.
‘You can tell me what she’s been up to later.’
The wretched bird bobbed up and down knowingly; Yola had to come clean.
Hans had to go to the bridge anyway. The river bank had been heavily mined by both the rebels and the government troops in an attempt to keep control of the border crossing. The Landcruiser pitched off the road and down into the deminers’ day camp under the trees. A strip of a hundred metres of bush remained to be cleared between here and the bridge, but a safe path wound through to the bridge end.
‘Do you want me to come too?’ asked Hans. ‘I don’t really like
taking the car up to the border. Whatever about boys without visas, military-looking vehicles are a no-no near that bridge.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Yola said. ‘The path is clear now, isn’t it?’
‘Just keep inside the stakes.’
The path had been made safe, and a strip of ground each side of it had been cleared. This was marked with white- and red-topped stakes. Shorter, blue-tipped stakes showed where the deminers had actually lifted mines from within the strip. Yola walked as quickly as she could and tried not to think of these. She had to zigzag to climb the last steep slope up on to the road. She turned towards the bridge and halted.
The dead heat of the day had gone but there was still an hour of daylight left; the evening breeze, sucked in by the overheated land, fanned reluctantly up the river. Ahead, the bridge hung between its heavy iron girders. A shabby, sandbagged border-post, connected to the world by sagging telephone lines, menaced its nearer end. The thin, painted pole across the road looked fragile, but that was deceptive: the guns up there were real.
The tree where she had told Fintan to wait was huge and scarred by war, but its branches were now a blaze of scarlet blossom. It was a colonial tree, planted to welcome white men in pith helmets. She could see Fintan, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees while his fingers moved on his tiny flute. She watched him, smiling, but wary of herself. He was surrounded by an impressive array of equipment. He didn’t look up till she was almost beside him; a look of profound relief crossed his face as he scrambled to his feet. They faced each other like two people tied to stakes, wanting to approach but not being able. Yola broke free first and gave him a quick, rather bony hug.
‘Welcome to Nopani,’ she said. Then she saw a line of empty Coke cans on the bench. ‘Did you drink all those?’ she asked in amazement.
‘Dad and Birthistle left them for me. I’ve been here for hours!’
