Girl with the Golden Voice

Girl with the Golden Voice

Book One of the African Trilogy

Carl Hancock

Carl Hancock
was born in Aberdare, then a mining valley town in South Wales. After seven years in the local grammar school, he moved on to university where he studied for degrees in classics and in English and became a teacher.

His career took him to secondary schools in Britain, Cyprus and Malta. Latterly, he enjoyed six years in Pembroke House, a preparatory school up-country in the Kenya part of the Great Rift Valley, sometimes known as the White Highlands.

He has two grown-up children and currently lives on a small farm in the Adelaide Hills.

Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

ABN: 46 119 415 842

23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria

3150 Australia

Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742

E-mail:
[email protected]

First published in Australia July 2011

This edition published July 2011

Copyright © Carl Hancock 2011

Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

The right of Carl Hancock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Hancock, Carl

Girl With The Golden Voice — African Trilogy Book One

ISBN: 978-1-921829-30-7

Digital edition published by

Port Campbell Press

www.portcampbellpress.com.au

ISBN: 9781742980935 (ePub)

Conversion by Winking Billy

To those special young people who, for a time, shared their schooldays with me in Pembroke House, the little school set in its own piece of paradise high in the Kenya hills.

ondiani. On warm summer evenings, Luka and Erik liked to rest on a bench outside the sitting room window. The bank of greenery behind them made sure that they were invisible to those inside. Toward the end of that December day, there was such a stillness in the air that they could hear, undetected, all the talk of the boss family and their guests.

The Europeans always planted profusely around their Kenya homes so there were many fragrances to enjoy. Truly, being an askari on the McCall farm was no hard job. In the warmth of the evening the grey overcoats and woolly hats were no burden to these two lean-bodied brothers. They were Naivasha men born and bred. They knew all about the cool breezes that would come to them off the lake in the last hours of darkness.

The McCalls had only one guest for supper on that Friday evening and the family hardly thought of Bertie Briggs as a guest. He was over from his place next door almost every evening, had been for the past two years, since the day Anna had left him and broken his heart.

Bertie had long acknowledged that there was no perma nent cure for his pain. Thank God for the McCalls and the consolations of the bottle. And little Ewan was growing into the beginnings of boyhood and reminding him more and more of Anna.

‘Bloody Africans!' How many times had Luka and Erik heard these words from the mouth of Bwana Briggs! The brothers struggled to keep back their laughter. This bwana was a good man. Everyone around the lake knew that. He treated his families well, spent a lot of money on them. Thank God, there were not many left of the old-time bwanas, bosses who wanted to go back to the far-off days before Uhuru, before the murdering times of Mau Mau.

Bertie remembered those before times, but only just. He and Alex McCall had been like blood brothers back then. They shared their schooldays, boarders up in Pembroke House in Gilgil. It was at the time when the pangas were at work, slashing throats in the Kikuyu forests. Old Christopher Hazard had kept his boys' minds off the troubles, planning and building the Christina Chapel.

All their lives, their homes had never been more than a mile apart. So, for the umpteenth time, they had eaten at the same table, that night vegetables from the garden and talapia caught that morning in the waters of Lake Victoria. After half a bottle of Australian chardonnay, Bertie was on good form.

Strangers were struck by what they saw as his deeply pessimistic outlook on life, black clouds everywhere. The McCalls knew better. Bertie was fired and driven by a passionate love for his homeland. He resented the view that he, of white European stock, could never be considered to be a proper Kenyan. Street boys in Nairobi, not knowing him from a tourist, lost the chance of a twenty shilling handout by calling out, ‘Hey, mzungo, my friend, give me monay!'

Mzungo, stranger, how could they know? Next to his family, his proudest achievement was his part in the book on the wild flowers of East Africa, his words and Maura McCall's handpainted illustrations. And, to go with the obligatory Swahili, he could speak half a dozen tribal dialects. He had strong feelings about the tribes themselves. It annoyed him that the Maasai were singled out by foreigners as being special.

‘Bloody warriors! Tourist warriors, all spears and red shawls! A bunch of devious, cowardly crooks. Shake a stick at them and they'll take off for the hills! Won't stop till they're on the other side of Eburu!'

His favourites were the Somalis of the north-eastern arid lands. ‘Brains. Brightest people on the continent. One Somali's worth twenty Maasai. Good-looking women, too.'

He sipped his drink and went on. ‘Tell the truth, most of these natives are bloody useless, always on the make, palms out. Don't trust ‘em if you know what's good for you!'

Bertie cleared his throat. Maura looked across at Alex and smiled. They knew what was coming.

‘It's just like old Ray says. If you see a Kikuyu sitting on a rock deep in thought, watch out! He's working on how he can do some poor bloody mzungo!'

Luka and Erik bit hard on their fists, fighting back the knots of laughter. They had heard this one so many times.

‘Bullshit, Bertie!' Tom, the eldest of the three McCall boys, was in a good humour himself and in the mood for a skirmish.

Rafaella was in with a quick reprimand for her grandson. ‘That's a disgusting word, Thomas. And we haven't finished our coffee yet.'

‘Sorry, Rafaella,' said a chastened Bertie.

‘But …'

‘It's my fault, Tom. I get carried away sometimes.'

‘All right, Bertie, but the fact is that you love these people more than anyone I know.'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Look what you spend on them!'

‘Doesn't stop me getting angry with them. Ruining this country. Having the cheek to call it their country in the first place. Breeding like rabbits. No proper education. No proper hospitals. Chopping down the forests. Sell their grandmother for a shilling.'

In the ensuing silence, Alex rose to go to the drinks cabinet. There was still a slight limp in his walk, a legacy of the kick from his beloved Banjo one Christmas morning when he was a boy. On his way, he put his hand on Tom's head and pressed gently, a gesture he had not made since Tom's own Pembroke days.

Tom began again, quietly. ‘You sound like a politician.'

‘For God's sake. Oh, sorry, Raf. Blasphemy and all that. But, Tom, don't tar me with that brush. You know how frustrating it is to watch your country go down the drain, not being able to do a damn thing about it.'

‘Bertie Briggs neo-colonialist.'

‘Yeah, and for colonialist, read racist, I suppose. You know as well as I do that there's no one more racist that an African on his way up.'

Alex turned back from the heavy mahogany table that served as the family bar. ‘Time for a change of tipple, I think. Ladies, what can I get you? And don't worry, Bertie. There's that Chivas Regal we've got to finish. Two big slugs each, I'd guess. Tom, you can get your own Tusker from the fridge. Time you trained that dog.'

Bertie smiled, shamefaced. ‘ Great, Alex! You always know how to find the kindest way of shutting me up.'

Maura flashed the vivacious Scottish smile that drew Alex to her on their first day of their course at Wye College. She had been afraid that Bertie was about to enter another bad patch. He had been clear of them for weeks, but the time of year was coming around again. She would have to keep an eye on him. On Rafaella too. It was nearly two years for both of them.

Drinks replenished, Alex sat back into his armchair. In the ensuing silence, there was a lot of gazing into the mound of embers still glowing in the stone fireplace. Even on warm evenings they had a fire when Bertie was over. He loved it for the focus it brought him.

‘Are you people getting fed up with me? I seem to be over here half my life. And the fire, I know you light it for me.'

‘Listen to me, Mr Bertie Briggs. You stop coming here and I'll get Alex to sell up and buy that coffee plantation in Thika. You're too precious to us, you and Ewan, as you well know. Being a weak woman I can say things like that without risking you throwing things at me. So there! That's settled!'

None of the other four was ready to respond to the unexpected rise in the temperature of tenderness in the room.

Tom pulled at the folds of flesh on the rump of Prince, the indoor dog. The old black ridgeback slapped his tail on the floor in appreciation.

Angela put her face around the door from the kitchen. ‘Madam, we are finished. Everything has been put away.'

Maura surprised Alex by hurrying across the room to grasp her maid's hands.

‘Asante,
Angela. See you in the morning. Remember, Miss Lucy comes tomorrow. It's her first time. We'll make it special for her.'

‘Yes, it will be good.'

Angela smiled and nodded to the company in farewell.

‘Kwaheri.'
She was halfway to the back door when the last of the goodbyes reached her ears.

Mention of Lucy jogged Rafaella's memory. ‘Bertie, I need a lift into Nakuru in the morning. I've got Christmas presents to pick up at Kapi's. Tom's off to Wilson to pick up the English woman.'

‘Wooman!' Tom mimicked his grandmother's long ‘o'. ‘And what's this “pick up”? You're sounding more like a Kikuyu every day. But just hang on until after lunch and I'll take you. Give you an Engleesh lesson on the way.'

‘I like my accent just like it is. You're very lucky to have an Italian grandmother.'

Bertie was insistent. ‘I'll take you. Just name a time. Shall we go on the Harley or the boring way?'