Girl with the Golden Voice (11 page)

Stephen returned to a subdued village and a quiet household. After supper he was surprised when Rebecca insisted that he tell a story to the families.

‘And I will sing with you. Jane will play her pipe.'

‘But, Rebecca, I only know one tune!'

‘I know, Jane. “Dream Time”, that's what I want to sing.'

There was a big audience for the Kamaus that night, most of them curious to see Rebecca, to study her. Stephen felt drawn to tell the story of The Drunk, the Angel and the Pastor. It was a tale from the coast and it involved him moving about and changing roles constantly. His performance was inspired, driven by manic energy. There were continuous rolls of laughter, especially for the jokes of the drunk who had the best lines.

In the aftermath, the chattering and the noises of eating and drinking were stilled when Rebecca rose to sing.. Her people were overwhelmed by the controlled outpouring of anguish in the song. Some of the filth and shame which clogged her heart was loosened, if only briefly.

All the Kamau family slept more peacefully that night. Angela prayed her thanks that the exorcism had begun.

Tom returned to a bubbling Londiani. The twins were excited and showed it with their noise. They were home, there was to be a party and they had just heard that the following morning Tom was flying Lucy and them up to Nyambani Farm.

They set off in the first glimmerings of the pre-dawn. Once out over the lake, Tom swung the Cessna towards the north-east and into the lightening sky. They were above the Kingankop when the dark slate-blue sky began to unpeel dramatically. A jagged, vivid lining of red wavelets of cloud soon shifted into pastel shades and relentlessly the light came on until full morning surrounded them.

It was a bumpy landing on an earth strip, a narrow cut of brown between fields thick with green rows of runner beans. Vince Allan, general manager of Meru Farms, was waiting to drive them back down to his rambling ranch house.

Vince was a great friend of the McCall family. He, his farms and his home were under regular inspection by the demanding reps of Tesco and Marks and Spencer who were keen to visit this paradise in the highlands, ostensibly to check on products. He was a PR man's dream, quietly spoken, efficient, and immaculately turned out.

There was a party of about twenty for breakfast, most of them looking forward to a long day out on the farm and in a nearby game park followed by an evening barbecue.

Tom was not going to be one of this number. Shortly before eight, after a chat with Lucy and the twins, he set off alone in a Land Rover. He drove to the Noro Meru gate of the Mount Kenya national park. He had set himself a task.

The last time he had passed through this gate he was at Pembroke and on the annual half term expedition to the mountain. That had been a leisurely three day job. This was going to be a race against himself. Every minute would count.

Before nine he pulled on his rucksack and set off. He hoped that the route would not be too wet. The rains tended to linger on these foothills of the big mountain. He set and kept up a furious pace through the scented dampness of the conifers.

He took his first rest just above the Met Station at ten thousand feet. He draped his wet shirt on a branch that caught the warm breeze while he munched biscuits, an apple and chocolate. He mused on the short bout of light-headedness he had suffered on the last steep kilometre. Altitude sickness was a worry. He decided he must push on hard. The stretch to Makinder's and on to Minto's Hut was where the sickness would hit if he pushed too hard. The idea was to drive himself close to exhaustion without freaking out on the side of the trail.

In an hour he was galumphing up across the dreaded Vertical Bog. The clinging earth forced him to take high steps. He made himself promises of rewards for making it to little landmarks. He had visions of cool streams and the long downward slopes on the homeward run.

The ache in his muscles and his bones was kept at bay as long as he could keep his sweat and mud stained body on the move. And what was a bit of nausea? So, what about that silly bugger of a buffalo, on his own, a maverick, seemingly waiting for him as he pulled himself out of the last of the bog? Nah, no danger this time. Tom stood his ground on the tussocky grass ten metres from his new, potentially lethal companion. He crouched, head forward, and fixed a concentrated stare towards those two enigmatic eyes set in that magnificent head crowned with the huge menacing bar of rugged horn. Stupid. He bent suddenly as if to pick up a stone. This trick usually worked on kali dogs. Buffalo lifted his front legs and set them down inches further forward. A high-pitched scream and a demented wave of both arms and the beast took half a dozen steps backwards, turned away and moved off.

Afternoon was well on. The clouds on the summit parted. Normally he would have stopped for a long look at this revelation of beauty. He did not break his stride but as he moved on upward kept his eyes fixed on this sight that he saw as a blessing from the god of the mountain and drew in half a dozen deep breaths. He steadied himself to cope with some moments of hyperventilation and set off, a little unsteadily, on a jog between banks of heather. He was determined not to stop before he reached Minto's or collapsed with exhaustion. Darkness had just fallen when he fell into his sleeping-bag fully clothed.

Three-thirty am and he was on the last lap. The stiffness in his body eased as he picked his way carefully along a well-defined path by the light of his torch. Without climbing gear and a lot of skill the top peaks were out of reach but dawn on the easy summit was as thrilling as it had been twelve years before. He was surprised to feel relaxed and at peace with himself. The anger and self-pity were gone for a time at least.

The glory of the new day came when he looked south-east. Kilimanjaro, three hundred kilometres away, was in full light and the morning was racing across the landscape below, the pure brightness of a new beginning. Purity. Rebecca. A new, deeper realisation of her courage. His own shame and guilt were intact. He wasn't good enough for her. This had become clear to him on his journey upwards. Physical guts, he had some of that. It was the cheap, easy fear and apathy that had brought him down. Perhaps even Julius Rubai had done her less harm. At least he had been honest in his own way.

The mountainside was still in semi-darkness as he plunged down the shifting waves of scree. He didn't give a damn any more. Those long, sliding strides took him down helter-skelter, fast. That was all he cared about. To hell with views, to hell with mountain sickness. So there were tumbles, cuts, bruises. The surge of adrenalin drove him on.

None of the wardens at the gate believed that he had been to the top. This young, muscular white man was very strong, perhaps very fast. Yes, he was filthy with muck, slime, sweat and blood. His matted hair, his red-rimmed eyes, they told them something, but, no, up and down in thirty hours; that was impossible.

Vince was shocked by the sight of him. He called Sophie to run a bath while he helped Tom onto the veranda.

‘You went to the top, didn't you? Bloody idiot! You could have done for yourself. And I gave you the Land Rover. Come on, let's get these boots off.'

A warm bath and three hours of loafing about later and Tom was very relaxed in mind even if his body was stiff and aching. He was anxious to be back at Londiani that night. He set himself a six o'clock deadline for them to be airborne. Leaving later and he would have to land in full darkness.

Vince radioed ahead and returned to the garden in time to watch the white aircraft in a beam of sunshine dip its farewell directly above the house.

‘Soph, you remember, don't you?'

‘Of course. I was there.'

‘Two years to the night.'

‘Yes.'

‘And Don dipped in the exact same spot. I should have tied him down. Rafaella will never forgive me.'

The evening on the lake was still. Rafaella sat in the lower sitting room, waiting. At the first sound of the engine, her body tensed and her prayers quickened. She closed her eyes until the drone stopped. The sound of young laughter reached her through the open window. She relaxed and remembered the pain of her old grief.

The communal business of the evening at Londiani finished early. By nine-thirty everyone had gone their way, a quiet end to a long day.

Rafaella postponed the last of her Bogart treats. Up in her room she pulled out their old gramophone and played half a dozen of Don's favourite seventy-eights. She listened with eyes closed. It was easy to imagine that Don was there close by. The chansons of Charles Trenet and Tito Rossi excited a bitter-sweetness that was powerful enough to carry her back to the impossibly happy times of their years together. She kept their special favourite until last. Leslie A Hutchinson, the Hutch of the immaculate, white suit and the polished sophistication, was the only one of those charmers they had seen performing in the flesh. In his later years he had come to Kenya to ease health problems. Past his best, he still had the magic to send the audience at the Muthaiga into raptures. She played ‘Begin the Beguine' five times before letting herself drift off into sleep.

Lucy was writing letters, the twins had returned to their chess wars, Alex was at the bookwork and Maura checking menus and shopping lists in preparation for the festival. She was on the phone to the house on the coast. Five more days and they would be on their way on the annual trek south.

After his second soak of the day, Tom stood by the window of his darkened room and looked out. A mile down the lakeside Oserian had switched on its banks of night lights. He did not welcome the huge bright rectangles up to their work of fooling the flowers by pretending to be the sunlight of early morning. All the farms had to do it. Their glorious climate was a little short on daylight hours.

He smiled to see Luka and Erik peering up and down to check if any of the family were still around. It was time for the nocturnal protectors of Londiani to take the first of their naps. Half an hour later and Tom was miles away from sleep. He put on his white towelling dressing-gown and went downstairs. Perhaps he could have some fun at the expense of the askaris.

He left the house by the back door. He had to cross the laundry garden. The smell of the wood fire in the village was on the air. As he passed the washing troughs, he let his hand drift along the cool concrete.

From her vantage point under the acacia, Rebecca first heard the sound of voices and laughter and then saw the white dressing-gown moving about the garden. When she knew that Tom was coming towards her, she had ample time to set off home and keep out of sight. If she had wanted to.

‘Rebecca!' His voice was warm and excited. ‘So there was something drawing me up …'

Her smile was uncomfortable.

‘Thomas, you said we would smile and … go.' She remembered how the words used to gush out. Had she changed forever?

Tom tried to find neutral, inoffensive words. ‘My first time … haven't been up to the tree. This time last night I was freezing up on the side of Mount Kenya.'

Her gush of words was back, but she delivered them as if she were alone. ‘Just now I was thinking about Santa Maria.

I love the Signora for trusting me. But perhaps a boy would have been better.'

‘But …'

‘How stupid! That red dress and breaking the soup dish. Like I'm a different person. A kind of wildness has gone out of me.'

‘I love the wildness!'

She almost smiled. She shook her head, incredulous at her own calm, the absence of anguish. ‘There is a convent attached to the school.'

‘Don't even think it. Don't!'

‘I never thought I'd leave Londiani. All my family. And the girls in the town are still so friendly.'

Tom pushed his way in. ‘Look, let's get it straight. I should have spoken when I had the chance. Then I lost my cool when I should have shut up. Rebecca, we can get over this.'

‘Most of them, all they want is a baby to carry around on their backs. They don't even care about the father. They want to prove something to … someone. I tell them to be careful. Those truck drivers who stop for the night. They can give the sickness.' She paused. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's fine. I'm just glad that we're together.'

They had come no closer than two metres. At last she was looking at him and their locked gaze lifted his hope. She broke off first. She turned to kiss the tree softly and casually like a bored priest touching a sacred relic with his lips. She stepped past him and hurried nimbly down the path.

‘Rebecca, wait.'

She lifted her arm. ‘Thomas, be patient with me. I have my hope, too.' She did not wait; she did not turn. He watched her hurry ‘round to the front of the house where Luka and Erik were slipping back into a doze.

Next day Tom was out early. Four days to Christmas and he had promised to take Lucy to Nairobi. She was going to help with last-minute presents and on the way home they were to load up with supplies from the Sarit and the ABC.

As they bumped up the driveway to the South Lake Road, he made his intention clear.

‘I feel lucky today. I think I can break my record.'

From the moment when his wheels touched the tarmac until he turned off Wiaki Way into Westlands hardly a word was spoken. He was lucky with the traffic and only the week before Chinese engineers had finished work on the bottom road that made the surface the smoothest it had been in years. Minus seatbelt he sat up close to the wheel and kept his foot down hard all the way. Even on the snaky bends on the climb up to the dual carriageway he did not flinch from the smallest chance to overtake.

‘Forty-three minutes and a bit.' He looked down as he snapped his stopwatch. ‘We'll have to get a new vehicle!'

‘Did we do it?' A relieved Lucy was happy that the unspoken embargo on words was broken.

‘Just,' he grinned his reply. ‘Don't worry, I'll be as sedate as a funeral on the way back.'