Girl with the Golden Voice (14 page)

‘I'm just deciding which arm I'll break first. Won't be such a pretty boy then.'

Tom's body sagged, exhausted, beaten. One second, less, and the grip on one arm was relaxed. He tore it loose and rolled. Strong arms grabbed and separated them. Abraham, a night askari, had seen the fight, raced up to the chapel and brought help, rescue, interference. Sister Jane had been at the service and soon had the wounded pair in separate rooms at the sanatorium.

There were dust stains, torn clothes, but no serious treatment was needed. Tom had more blood on his face and shirt, but he was a wicked nose-bleeder. It was still down in his school records. The bruising and swellings would heal quickly in such young, fit men. She noticed that Julius held himself stiffly as he breathed. She queried to herself about possible rib damage.

‘Try to get an X-ray sometime for him, Mrs Rubai. Ribs. I don't think there's a problem but just in case. I know it's difficult over Christmas …'

‘Oh, Abel will see to it, I'm sure.'

It was full darkness now. The school was almost clear of cars. Abel sat in the front of the lead car of his trio, his eyes half closed. He found himself beginning to brood on a subject that was becoming more and more distasteful to him, the direction that his eldest child was taking in his life. He was not too happy when Sally insisted that Julius sat in the back seat with her on their journey north. The powerful burr of the Mercedes' engines fostered Abel's brooding. But, as the miles passed, although still not well-disposed to Julius and his dissolute ways, his focus became more and more set on a dislike for Master Thomas McCall that was rapidly developing into a bitter hatred.

Tom refused the offer of a change of clothes and insisted that he was up to a visit to the Coulson house, a large property set among trees not far from the village of Langa Langa. He was still in the afterglow of an adrenalin surge, exhausted but relaxed and smiling through thick lips and a swollen cheek. He loved this house second only to Londiani. In his Pembroke days Mary had always welcomed him down in those brief hours when he was allowed out.

The wine was flowing freely, the mince pies were disappearing by the trayful when Mary manufactured a rendezvous with Tom in a small side room. Mary was an unusual lady. Strikingly good-looking and blonde-haired, she stirred up a wide range of different emotions in the community for many miles around. There was a lot of envy, especially in some Europeans of long standing in Kenya. Some called her, not wholly in jest, the White Witch of Gilgil. She was amazingly well read in what the casual observer might have called New Age lore. Her supporters, her devotees, saw her as a healer of mind, body and soul. Whatever their personal feelings, it was interesting to see how many individuals or families contacted her first when they ran into big trouble. When they came, Mary always invited them to talk. To talk, that was the way she worked. While at Pembroke, Tom had taken his little boy problems to her. She always sent him away feeling happier, more at ease with his world. And he would have found it impossible to lie to those discerning but compassionate blue eyes.

So, now, Mary was ready to listen and listen. But the meeting was brief, by mutual agreement. The hearts, the vibrations were clear on this. But for both of them the coming together was important. For Tom it was an assurance that strong arms were holding him, for Mary an assurance that Tom could cope, that he needed more time to work on directions, plans and hurts. They set a date in January for what they called a session, a meditation, a breathing. She would know when the time came. They rejoined the party.

The chatter, the laughter, the music were very European on that Christmas Eve in that tiny circle of light in the middle of that huge, dark land mass that was Africa.

Things were quieter on the wide, newly built veranda, under the stars and facing west. It was far too late for any golden sunsets, but at the far edges of the horizon where the Mau Escarpment wall of the Rift met the sky, smoky, orange pockets glowed. The plains between opened massively, dotted with sparks of light from the outlying shambas.

On the return journey to Londiani Tom sat with Bertie's rifle across his knees and the pistol handily placed in the glove box. Bertie drove too close to Alex's tail. For the whole twenty miles, his eyes were in constant motion, willing some bunch of desperadoes to try something. The usual trick was to block the road with big rocks or loaded oil drums.

Ewan was fast asleep with his head resting on the pillow of Lucy's thigh. The boy was too young to have the faintest notion of the huge burden he carried as Bertie's last remaining link with the love of his life. God help the one who was careless or stupid enough to harm that child. In his edgy state he flashed Alex to warn him that he was coming through. That way he would be first on to a roadblock. He'd be straight out. They wouldn't be expecting that. He'd down two or three of them and the rest would scatter into the night. He'd had it all worked out since the first time he'd taken Ewan out onto the road.

After the bumps of the toll station, Bertie began to build up the revs. Tom made a show of clicking on his safety belt. Bertie ignored this plea to slow down. The road began to descend gently and soon, on both sides, yellow fever trees crowded right down to the tarmac. The surface of the tarmac itself was uneven and the potholes had multiplied and spread during the short rains. In darkness a good driver, concentrating hard on the road ahead, had enough trouble keeping a good line and avoiding a dangerous bounce. Bertie's eyes were constantly sweeping from side to side, peering into the mass of slender trunks on watch for unusual movement.

Lucy found it difficult to keep Ewan still and relaxed. Twice they lurched onto the rough, dirt verge, but there was no slowing down until he got ready to turn off the A104 where they came within sight of the safety of the lights of Naivasha town. Tom relaxed, relieved that they were close to home. After twenty minutes in one fixed position his body had stiffened. The aches and bruises were ripening fast.

There was a lot of activity on the town streets, especially around the noisy, well-lit bars. Tom closed the glove box and pushed Bertie's rifle under his seat. La Belle Inn was heaving, mostly with tourists determined to revel in the raw, exotic Christmas Eve experience on offer in the ramshackle, straggling, messy town. On the roadsides scores of ten and twelve wheelers had turned off for a stopover. Naivasha was a very popular resting place for drivers whose lives were spent flogging their juggernauts from the coast to Uganda and Ruanda. A lot of them would stay in the town for two nights, giving themselves a double chance of catching a dose for Christmas. Meeting Mr Slim was a hazard for these hardworking men just as much as having their trucks get a puncture or a breakdown on the great East African Highway.

After the carol service there was never a sit-down dinner at Londiani. Angela had set out half a dozen cold, light dishes on the big sideboard for anyone who was interested.

There was no rush to eat. Only the twins piled up their plates before joining the others in the armchairs on and near the open veranda. Eddie and Rollo had insisted on music and then surprised their grandmother with a Frank Sinatra disc.

‘An early present,' smiled Rollo.

‘Hope you don't mind. We tried it out in school, just to check … Amazing! The kids were crazy about it. Had to hide it away.'

The rich baritone voice had scarcely finished telling them about a lady being a tramp and begun his plea, presumably to another, to fly with him, when Eddie gave up his struggle to fight down his curiosity.

‘Tom, why didn't you tell us?'

‘What do you mean?' Tom was lying back in the big green chair with his eyes closed.

‘We could have been your seconds.'

‘Oh, that stuff …' Tom hoped that his bored tone would put an end to the inquisition.

‘No, Tom, there must have been some serious hitting down there. He's a pretty big bloke. We reckoned you were giving away about ten kilos.'

Maura looked across at Alex, wondering whether to slap a veto on the subject. He was holding his glass poised a foot away from his lips. He was as keen to hear the story as his sons.

‘Come on, Tom. Be a sport.' Eddie pressed gently.

‘Yeah, that was the best carol service I've been to, for sure.'

Tom winced as he took a long pull on his glass of iced water. ‘He owed me … and I owed him.'

He made a pained attempt at a grin as his brothers scrunched their faces in annoyance. ‘And that's it?'

‘Sort of debt of honour, Eddie.'

‘You mean you borrowed money?'

‘Oh, Rollo, get a grip. Nothing to do with money.'

‘Eddie's right, Rollo'

‘All right, so I'm a bit thick. A bit of plain English would be handy though.'

Rollo was sitting next to his elder brother and Tom reached over to give him a gentle punch to the ball of the shoulder.

‘Okay, it's nothing much, just schoolboy stuff that's gone on too long. Time to get rid of it. Believe it or not, it started with an argument at shower time, up in Pembroke, twelve years ago. Rubai and me, we never got on, but he had this big hate for me. After that stuff in the shower, it really built up on both sides. All through supper we were glowering at each other. And it just so happened that he was supervising our prep. Remember prep at Pembroke?' Tom smiled. ‘Something … well, holy. Anyway, about halfway through, everything sort of boiled over. It was like, like a force pulling us from our desks down to some private place where we could have it out. No words. We just got up and … staggered down to the playing fields. We didn't lay a hand on each other on the way down. Then everything went in. I wanted to kill him. I really did. I'm sorry, Mum. Fists, elbows, feet, everything. I couldn't feel any pain. I don't know about him. Crazy. Next thing, Ben Boyd — remember him, our housemaster — and half a dozen prefects were pulling us apart.'

Tom closed his eyes and let his chin drop onto his chest.

The twins exchanged puzzled glances and waited, but not for long. Eddie was first in.

‘But tonight, Tom, what …?'

‘Yeah, this couldn't still have been the shower stuff.'

‘Well, let's just say that there must have been a little bit left. You know.'

‘No, we don't know, do we, Rollo?'

Alex, Maura and Rafaella shared deeply uncomfortable thoughts on a whole range of themes but mostly anguish for the pain they knew was hammering at Tom's insides. The twins might have noticed if they had been able to shift their gaze away from their brother to see the solemn, compassionate expressions on the faces of their elders.

Alex was as brief as Tom had been expansive. He had news, too. ‘Bertie's leaving.'

His words stunned everyone. Even a bystander like Lucy understood that here was bad, bad news, but she could not know the explosive shock that was set off in the minds of the McCalls. It was like the announcement of a serious illness in the family. The balance of their world was being rocked. Every instant projection of how life at Londiani would be without their beloved, vulnerable friend predicted a succession of grey days, months for them all.

In spite of herself, Rafaella's first reaction was a sense that she was being betrayed. She and Bertie shared a common bond of pain. Don and Anna had been cruelly taken from them within days of each other. ‘I thought he would never …'

‘Mama,' there was a crack in Alex's voice, ‘he finds the agony gets worse as the time passes, just like you do, I think. That's why he hasn't told you himself. Just couldn't do it. And there's Ewan. You know Bertie has a sister in Perth — Molly. There's a vineyard come on the market next door to them.'

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute.' Eddie was missing most of the emotion, but he wanted to know the facts.

‘Do we know who's buying the farm? No, he can't be selling. His grandfather came to this country with old Delamere, Block and the rest of them. They made this place, tamed it. Rollo, how many times did Grandpa Don tell us …'

‘It's the Rubais.'

‘The bloody Rubais!'

‘Yes, I know, Rollo, but calm down. He told me two days ago. Took me on a ride up to Longonot. He was driving like a maniac. He was crying when he told me. We both were. Such a lot of money. Silly money. Enough for that vineyard and plenty left over. And,' Alex's tone became businesslike, ‘nothing changes between Bertie and us, all of us. We love him.'

There was renewed silence around the room until Eddie broke it with a sigh and ‘What a bloody Christmas this is going to be! I'll be glad to get to the coast.'

n Christmas Day Rafaella woke early. She dressed quickly and was out walking on the lakeside meadows before the sun had dried off the dew. She was still regretting her first feelings on hearing the news that Bertie was selling up. But soon the special love that she felt for Bertie and Ewan at this time of year had been back in control in the centre of her heart. And the usual waves of love and longing for Don. They were always there. There was another of those one-sided conversations with the nearest handsome, cold-eyed waterbuck. Always about times she and Don had shared, random but closely linked. Reminders of him were everywhere. The hills all around brought back their wedding in Verona and his tenor voice singing in full throat the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, the only English words in the whole ceremony, at his request. She recalled, too, the Christmas mornings of her girlhood when the quiet streets echoed to the sonorous ringing of the bells of the cathedral.