I Built No Schools in Kenya

by Kirsten Drysdale

  I bear that all in mind when I look around the room at all these people with their heads stuck up their arses. It’s too bad they’ve forgotten how to have fun.

  No cash changes hands on the premises – that would be uncouth. Instead, all orders are signed to handwritten chits, with accounts settled monthly by cheque. When I ask Fiona how I’m supposed to settle my own bills, she says not to worry: Marguerite will have it covered. ‘It’s part of the cost of looking after Dad.’ If there’s something I feel I ought to pay for, I should take a note of the amount and sort it out with her later – otherwise, all my chits are just magicked away in a green leather folder and added to the Smyths’ tab. But it’s not really Fiona’s place to be generous, given Marguerite will be the one settling the bills, and I can’t help but wonder how much of Fiona’s gesture is motivated by spite. I decide I’ll keep track of all my bills and at the very least offer to pay those that aren’t incurred as part of my duties with Walt.

  Moses reappears to show us through to the dining room. As we enter, Walt makes an observation that will become his standard remark every time we visit. He turns to me, eyebrows raised, ‘I say, there are a lot of blacks, coloureds and Asians here today!’

  Oh god, I think, mortified. Oh god, oh god. Please don’t let anyone have heard that. But also: Christ, Walt, you’re a horrible racist prick. Immediately followed by: Eugh, it’s not his fault. He’s a product of his time. And totally senile! I mean – what am I going to do? Shit on an octogenarian who doesn’t know what year it is and has diminished impulse control? I’m reminded of the time my demented grandmother told the lovely Blue Care nurse who was taking care of her that he looked like ‘that horrible fat man off TV – Kim Beazley!’ and couldn’t understand why my mother was so embarrassed.

  As we take our seats at the table, Walt looks disapprovingly around the room, leans forward and whispers across the table, ‘They really have let the standards drop here!’

  ‘Dad,’ Fiona says in a low voice, taking his hand, ‘Keen-ya’s been independent fifty years now. Harambee! Remember?’ (‘Harambee’, meaning ‘working or pulling together’, was the slogan of the country’s first independent government. Fiona has also co-opted it as a catchphrase for us to use when helping Walt in and out of chairs.)

  Walt sulks for a bit, then comes around. ‘They have dressed the part, I’ll grant them that.’

  ‘And they wear such shiny watches!’ adds Marguerite, making eyes at the thick gold Rolex on the wrist of a businessman at the next table.

  I glance at Alice. She’s holding her head in her hands and staring straight down at the table. I force myself to look at the shiny watch man – he either didn’t hear or is pretending not to. Maybe he’s used to this sort of shit.

  I can see why Fiona is so keen on us making good use of the Club. It’s one of the few places Walt still finds familiar – a small corner of the real world that aligns with the ghost world of his mind, confused only by a display of racial equality that didn’t exist in his day. We make our way along the mouth-watering curry buffet, piling our plates with sambals and samosas, coconut rice and pappadums. Fiona deftly removes the tandoori chicken pieces that Marguerite puts on Walt’s plate as quickly as she puts them on.

  ‘They’re his favourite!’ Marguerite says.

  ‘They’re a choking hazard,’ Fiona replies. ‘We can’t trust him with the bones. You must be careful about what he orders here – try to guide him towards the white meats and salads, and don’t let him loose with the salt.’

  Fiona suggests we use the Club as a change of scenery when Walt’s feeling cooped up at the house. ‘It’s a great place to bring Dad. He’ll always have old friends here. He won’t always remember exactly who they are, but he’s polite enough to at least pretend to! I’ve managed to get hold of most people and make them aware of his condition – they know to play along.’

  We bump into a few people who do indeed say their ‘hellos’ with a knowing wink and politely pretend not to notice that Walt doesn’t quite know how to place them. But towards the end of the meal, a cheery man in a bow tie stops by our table. ‘Walter Smyth! Well, I’ll be blowed. Haven’t seen you in years! How are you doing, old chap?’

  ‘Oh, hello … Do I know you?’ Walt says, looking to the rest of us for guidance.

  ‘Hahaha, are you playing around? It’s me! John Sterling!’ John looks to the rest of us too, now. As though asking if there’s a joke he doesn’t get.

  ‘Of course! You remember John, darling, don’t you?’ says Marguerite.

  Walt looks at her with uncertainty, then resolves to play along. I realise I’m already starting to notice the subtleties in his facial expressions – the tells that reveal which way his mind is about to wobble. ‘Ohhhh, yes,’ he says, ‘of course. John … Sterling …’

  ‘And who are all these lovely young ladies you’ve got with you?’ John says, beaming at Fiona, Alice and me.

  Fiona jumps in, holding out her hand. ‘Hi John, Fiona. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Fiona! My word – a bloody long while. You were barely out of school last I saw you! And these two young lasses?’ John Sterling gestures at me and Alice. ‘Granddaughters?’

  ‘Errrr … yes, sort of,’ Fiona says.

  ‘Nurses,’ Marguerite whispers. ‘For the bwana.’

  We should really get our story straight, I think.

  ‘Not quite nurses,’ Fiona explains. ‘Carers. For Dad. He’s a little forgetful these days.’

  ‘Hi!’ I say. ‘I’m Kirsten.’

  ‘And I’m Alice.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ says John, shaking both our hands, clearly amused by our antipodean accents. ‘And you’re both Or-stray-lyans, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’re Or-stray-lyan,’ says Alice, wearily. We’re both getting a bit over our nationality being a joke to everyone here; I don’t understand what’s so funny about it.

  ‘Are you?’ says Walt, rejoining the conversation.

  ‘Right,’ says John, nodding slowly. ‘So, how long are you in town for, old boy?’

  There’s a sudden commotion at the edge of the dining patio – a Sykes’ monkey has jumped onto the empty table beside us and is scooping up half-eaten dinner rolls from the side plates.

  ‘Shoo!’ Marguerite shrieks. Diners at nearby tables squeal and scramble to protect their lunch.

  ‘Oh dear, sod off!’ says Walt, standing and waving his napkin at the monkey until Fiona pulls him back down into his chair.

  Two waiters chase it into the garden, knocking over a chair in the process and spilling a glass of wine. They shout and hiss at the monkey, which stares back insolently, enjoying its stolen meal from the safety of a fig tree. Alice and I are in stitches, and for all the pantomime irritation I can tell no one here really minds these cheeky primates disturbing the peace.

  Fiona steers us all back to the conversation at hand. ‘Dad’s staying here for good,’ she says, looking pointedly at Marguerite, ‘away from the horrid cold of England.’ Marguerite ignores the provocation, though John Sterling seems to notice it.

  ‘Do send our love to Cindy,’ says Marguerite. ‘Ooooh! Do you think she’d like to play golf with me sometime?’

  ‘No doubt she would!’ John says. ‘I’ll tell her to get in touch.’

  ‘Who’s Cindy?’ says Walt.

  ‘You know Cindy!’ says Marguerite impatiently. Fiona rolls her eyes.

  A young couple walk in – a black woman with a white man – and take a table near the window. They look happy, relaxed. No one else in the place seems to find it noteworthy, but Walt looks mildly scandalised. Part of me wants to say to him, Yeah, that’s right, Walt! You can shack up with anyone you want to these days! It’s great! The more compassionate part wants to say, Oh, mate, so much has changed since you’ve been away. But my more immediate concern is that I need to intervene before he can say anything to them. They don’t need to be insulted by some bigot from the past.

  ‘More wine, Walt?’ I ask, t
opping up his glass with Ribena and bringing his attention back to the chat about Cindy.

  ‘Marguerite, of course he doesn’t know Cindy,’ says Fiona.

  ‘Cindy who?’ says Walt.

  ‘John’s Cindy!’ says Marguerite, exasperated. ‘Cindy Sterling!’

  ‘Sterling?’ says Walt.

  ‘An old friend from your farming days, Dad,’ says Fiona.

  ‘Are you Cindy?’ Walt asks, peering at me intently. He doesn’t seem to notice John standing beside him anymore.

  John takes this as his cue to leave, finally clicking that his old friend Walt isn’t the man he used to be. ‘Okay, well, I’d best be off. No doubt we’ll see you around.’ He walks away.

  ‘I’ll catch him later and explain the situation,’ Fiona says to us, while Walt’s distracted by a faux salt shaker. ‘It’s best that everyone knows what’s going on – Dad’s so good at hiding it in public, a lot of people don’t pick it up themselves. They just think he’s being rude, or a bit odd.’

  But what, I wonder, do they think of us, his harem of devoted carers? Of his special drinks, and favourite chairs, and the cold war between his eccentric wife and overbearing daughter – what’s their take on the whole elaborate charade?

  Later that day, while Walt is having a nap and Marguerite is out at the hairdresser, Fiona breaks into Marguerite’s desk. She rifles through the messy paper strata of Christmas cards and bank statements and instruction manuals and finds buried at the bottom – aha! – a printed copy of an email from Marguerite to Dr Andrews, the Smyth family’s GP in Kenya. It was sent just before she came back from England.

  Alice is still down at the Club when Fiona bursts into our room, breathless. She thrusts a piece of paper at me. Demands I read it.

  Subject: HIGHLY confidential!

  I scan the page. I can’t quite work out who it’s to or from at first: it’s a stream-of-consciousness ramble, riddled with typos, random capital letters, exclamation marks and ellipses. It claims Fiona has turned into ‘a control-freak nurse’. That despite having had ‘little interest in her father until now’, she’s taken over his life and completely changed all the medication he was put on by Dr Bridges, Marguerite’s doctor in England.

  It’s also addressed to one of the trustees, the one Fiona says is Marguerite’s ally. I’m not entirely sure what this is meant to prove, other than that Marguerite is pissed off at having control over her husband’s healthcare taken away, which is hardly surprising.

  Then Fiona hands me Exhibit B – a letter from a solicitors’ firm in the UK, confirming a December appointment with Marguerite. There’s a map enclosed, and a reminder for her to bring her passport ‘to comply with money-laundering checks’.

  ‘That proves she plans on going back to the UK!’ Fiona declares triumphantly.

  ‘Yeah …’ I say, confused. I didn’t think this was a secret. ‘Didn’t she say she has to go back for a follow-up after that operation she had, and to check up on the repairs to their house?’

  It doesn’t matter. Fiona found lots of smoking guns in the drawer: prescriptions, blood-test results, airfare receipts. She hands them to me in a pile. A dossier of evidence of … I’m not quite sure what.

  ‘I want you to take these down to the MiniMart – there’s a little stationery duka there, do you know it? Down the bottom, next to the Barclays Bank.’

  I hesitate. I’m not actually on duty. Do I have to get involved?

  ‘Quickly! Before she gets back. Get two copies of everything. I want one for the medical file, and one for me. Peter will take you.’ Fiona drags me out the door.

  Peter’s sitting on the stump in the garden, reading a newspaper. He jumps up when he sees us, throwing on his cap as he jogs over to the Peugeot. He can see that this is urgent.

  ‘Take Kirsten down to the MiniMart, please, Peter.’ Fiona shoves me into the passenger seat, then buckles me up like I can’t do it myself.

  Peter starts the engine; Patrick opens the gates.

  ‘Wait!’ Fiona slaps my window. I wind it down and she hands me a blue folder. ‘Put the copies in this. And watch out for Marguerite – she’s got eyes everywhere!’

  Peter doesn’t ask any questions but surely he must have some. We look at each other as we pull out of the driveway, silent, both a little unsure of how we’ve been roped into a special operation we don’t understand.

  ‘You know, not all mzungus are this crazy,’ I eventually offer, lurching into the dashboard as the Peugeot bounces over an unmarked speed bump.

  He laughs. ‘Ahhh, it’s okay. Everybody has problems.’

  ‘Yeah, but these guys, they’re an extreme case.’

  ‘Ay, yes – they have many-many problems. Because of the bwana,’ Peter concedes. ‘You see, they are all wanting to be helping the bwana. But they are fighting, always fighting, Marguerite and Fiona. And this is not good for the bwana.’

  ‘I wish they’d leave us out of it,’ I grumble. ‘I’m only supposed to be here to look after Walt.’

  ‘Ach, pole, Kirsten, pole sana,’ he says, with mock sincerity. (‘Pole sana’ is a Swahili expression of sorrow or sympathy, usually used in more tragic situations.) His sarcasm takes me by surprise and I laugh as he looks sideways at me, grinning, slapping his thigh.

  The young guy manning the kiosk doesn’t ask any questions either. I hand him the file and ask him for two copies of each page. He slowly feeds the paper through the photocopier, thumbing his mobile phone with his spare hand. ‘Two hundred bob,’ he mumbles once it’s all done, then spends an age handwriting a receipt after I pass him the cash. Come on, come on … I think. I want to get this over with. Finally, I tuck the warm sheaf into the back of the folder and race up towards the car park.

  Halfway there, I freeze.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Is that you!?’

  The voice is coming from somewhere above me. I look up.

  ‘Ohhhh, it is Kirsten! It’s youuuuu! I thought it was!’ Marguerite’s pink face is gawping down at me from the balcony outside the beauty salon – stripped raw of make-up, flushed and dewy, framed by a silver bouffant that’s gone flat at the back. She looks like a galah.

  Her squawking has now got the attention of everyone seated at the tables in the courtyard café.

  ‘I’ve just had a woooooonderful facial. The girls at the hairdresser talked me into it. Have you had one before? Oh, you must!’ Then in a stage whisper that still manages to echo around the atrium – ‘I even fell asleep for a bit!’ – followed by a cackle so merry I can’t help but smile at it.

  I walk up the ramp to meet her outside the curio shop.

  ‘Have you come to do groceries?’ she asks, glancing down at the blue folder tucked under my arm.

  Oh Lord. I must look guilty as hell.

  ‘Um, no – I’m …’ I find a lie just in time. ‘I just wanted to get some money changed at the forex …’

  Marguerite’s eyes light up. ‘I say, would you mind checking whether we’ve had any mail down at the Club?’ She pulls an exaggerated face, puts on a tone of extreme self-deprecation. ‘I forgot to when we left after lunch today. Silly, silly me!’

  In an instant she’s back to her sparky self. ‘Ask the nice chap behind the desk, would you? He’ll look in the pigeonhole. And see about the papers, too? Thank you ever so much. We didn’t get the Tele yesterday. Sometimes there’s a hold-up and a whole week’s worth comes at once in a jolly big wad. Well, they’re no good to us by that stage, are they? Although Walt doesn’t mind reading them. It’s all the same to him!’

  She laughs. It’s not a cruel laugh – it’s almost a sad one. It’s the laugh of a woman coming to terms with the absence of her husband of four decades, even while he’s physically present. But she’s not sad for long: she’s spotted a pink striped kikoy hanging on the door to the curio shop.

  ‘Would you look at that! Isn’t it pretty? Yoo-hoo! Excuse me – yoo-hoo!’ She waves madly at the Kenyan shop assistant – interrupting her while she’s midway through
serving another woman at the counter – and beckons her over, holding the kikoy up in the air and over-enunciating, ‘How-much-is-it?’

  ‘See you at home then!’ I say, slipping away.

  I find Peter having a cigarette in the car park with one of the yellow-coated parking attendants. He rushes to stub it out.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I say, ‘finish it, Peter. Actually – if you don’t mind, I’ll have a drag.’

  ‘You smoke!?’ he says, passing it to me.

  ‘Only when I want a head spin,’ I say.

  We share the rest of the cigarette leaning on the bonnet of the Peugeot, and I start to worry about what I’ve got myself into.

  As we pull in to the driveway, I see Walt staring at us through the dining-room window. Before we’ve even come to a stop, he’s rapping on Peter’s door, Fiona chasing behind him.

  ‘Jambo, bwana,’ says Peter, careful to keep the keys out of sight as he gets out of the Peugeot.

  ‘What are you doing in my car?’ Walt says.

  ‘He knows the sound of this engine a mile away,’ Fiona says. Peter, evidently, knows to play it cool, keep a cheery tone – to de-escalate the situation.

  ‘It’s okay, bwana,’ he says, casually. ‘I was just taking Kirsten down to the MiniMart.’ Peter discreetly hands Fiona the keys behind his back.

  ‘Come on Dad, let’s go and see what James is up to,’ Fiona says, trying to turn Walt away from the Peugeot to face the garden, where James is watering in some freshly planted flowers.

  I find Alice in our room and fill her in on my little assignment.

  She doesn’t find it all that intriguing. She’s more interested in the article she’s reading about the Samburu warriors of north Kenya. They probably are more interesting than the Smyths, to be fair.

  So I email Sarah and Jack, my friends at the High Commission, to see if they want to catch up the next day. Surely they’ll find this all as outrageous as I do.