Green City in the Sun (26 page)

     "It's a surprise. Something I've been working on for quite a time. Didn't want to tell you about it until it was all done. I think you'll be pleased."

     They came around the corner of the dairy where James's Chevrolet truck was being loaded with milk cans destined for the Nyeri and Karatina markets. "It's in here," he said, opening a door into the dairy. "Slippery. Be careful."

     It was cool inside the small stone building, and dark. James led her across to the other side to another door.

     This one opened onto a shed that had been built onto the dairy; it was made of log walls and corrugated tin roof. Two windows admitted sunlight and fresh air; an old carpet covered the dirt floor. Grace stood in the middle of the six-foot by six-foot space, speechless.

     "Have I surprised you?" asked James.

     "Yes..."

     Shelves from floor to ceiling covered two walls; a workbench took up the third. Every bit of surface was littered with tins and boxes and bottles and books. The bench looked like a chemist's, with racks of test tubes, culture dishes, jars of chemicals, and, in the center, a shiny new microscope.

     "What do you think?" said James. The room was so small, not much bigger than a closet, that he stood almost touching her.

     Grace looked away. "How nice for you."

     "It took me awhile," he said as he ran his hand along the smooth surface of the workbench, touching the few pieces of laboratory equipment as if they were holy relics. "I had the devil of a time getting all these shipped. Believe it or not, a good deal of it came from Uganda. They're quite advanced there in scientific research."

     "It's marvelous," she said quietly, thinking about all those occasions in the past fourteen months when the message would arrive from James asking to borrow the microscope, and Grace would drop everything and get on her horse and ride out to Kilima Simba, where he would be waiting with a big smile and effusive thanks. They would spend an hour together bent over some slides; then they would diagnose the latest scourge infesting his cattle; and finally another hour, the best hour, with brandy in front of a roaring fire. Grace lived for those visits.

     "The world is becoming modern, Grace," he went on. "The days of old-fashioned cattle ranching are over. Today's herds have to be managed with microscope and hypodermic syringe. And I couldn't just go on borrowing yours."

     "I haven't minded."

     "I know. You've been wonderful about it. But now that I have my own laboratory I shan't be bothering you again."

     Grace was silent. She stood with her back to him, watching through the window some cattle boys notching the ears of newly inoculated cows. James was so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his body.

     "Grace," came his quiet voice, "is there something wrong?"

     "No," she said too quickly. Then: "Well, yes."

     "What is it?"

     "It's nothing I can't work out."

     He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. Except for the brief moment when she had cried in his arms, with poor Mathenge's body at her feet, and in Gachiku's birthing hut after the Caesarean section, Grace had never been this close to James. "You're a very private person, aren't you?" he said with a gentle smile. "You never tell your troubles to anyone. Do you think that's good for you?"

     "I tell it all to my journal. Someday, after I'm gone, a stranger is going to read it and be quite puzzled."

     "Tell me what's bothering you, Grace."

     "You have enough worries."

     "So you don't need friends then?"

     His hands were still on her shoulders; she wanted to keep them there forever. "Very well," she said, reaching into her skirt pocket. "You know that I've been writing to the Society back home to send trained medical help. This is the organization that sends me a small check every month, made up of contributions from various parishes around Bella Hill. That, plus the three hundred pounds I receive yearly from the government and my own income from my inheritance, is what has been keeping my clinic going. However, because of rather involved economics and some bad investments on my father's part, my income from his estate has been cut. I was just worrying about how to make it up when this letter came."

     James read it with a frown. "They won't send you any more money until they've come out and made an inspection of your clinic? What the devil for? Do they think you're cheating them?"

     Grace turned away, pulled a stool out from under the workbench, and sat on it. "There are certain missionaries in this district who have been complaining that I'm not running my place properly. I don't have a minister, and
I don't hold services. I'm not converting the natives. I think one of them has written a letter to the Society about it, and now a team is coming out to see if I deserve its charity. James, if the Society cuts off its support, then the government here will take it to mean that I am not running a legitimate mission and will withhold the three hundred, and I shall lose everything!"

     "It won't happen."

     "How do you know? Oh, the arguments I've had with those sanctimonious prigs! They count their success in how many souls they've saved! They tell me it's not enough that I heal the Africans or teach them hygiene and health, I must preach the Gospel at the same time! They were positively stupefied when I told them I refused to denounce the Kikuyu god and that I thought Ngai was merely another spelling for God Almighty!"

     James gazed down at her. Grace's eyes were bright; her cheeks, crimson. Her light brown hair, lately cut and crimped in the new "bob," stood out under her pith helmet. He had to smile. "Did you really stupefy them, Grace?"

     She looked up into his smile and shook her head. "Yes, damn it," she said with a laugh she couldn't help. "And I enjoyed it!"

     Then they laughed together, and Grace marveled at how much better she suddenly felt. "I'm glad you've got your own laboratory, James," she said at last, meaning it. "You'll work wonders in here. You'll probably get a new bacterium named for you."

     "I'd rather not!" He held out his hand, and she took it. "Besides," he added more quietly, "I'm expecting you to come and show me how to use all this."

     "If I'm still around."

     As they left the shed and entered the cool darkness of the dairy, James said, "You'll still be here, Grace. And you'll do all right. You have many friends in Kenya."

     "I hate to go begging."

     "Can you ask Val for help?"

     "Never. He's the last person in the world I would admit helplessness to. I would never hear the end of it."

     "You're very independent, aren't you, Grace? You prefer to do everything
on your own. And you don't need anybody. At least that's what you want people to think. Watch it here, there's water—"

     Grace's foot suddenly slid on the wet concrete, and she lost her balance. James caught her. They held each other for an instant; his arm was tight about her. Then he released her, and they laughed again.

     But later, when Lucille's friends were loading their wagons with barter and kids, James stood for a long time at the end of the drive and watched Grace ride away on her horse, down the lonely dirt track toward Nyeri, her medical bag tied to her saddle, her pith helmet reflecting the westering sun.

     He thought about the other thing he had planned to show her and was glad now he had changed his mind. It was from an old issue of the
Times.
Old by date, but new here in Kenya, where overseas newspapers were seldom seen and then came weeks late. This paper had already passed through many homesick hands and would go from Kilima Simba to other ranches in the Nanyuki area and eventually over the Aberdares to settlers in the Rift. James took out of his back pocket the one page he had kept for himself. It was sacrilege to clip the paper, to disfigure it in any way; an unspoken rule kept the
Times
intact until it disintegrated with the last reading. But this page, a listing of personal advertisements, James had felt duty and honor bound to hide from other eyes.

     It was because of one small item in the middle of the last column. A tiny box with a message that said:

Jeremy Manning,
You can find me in the Nyeri
District of Kenya, East Africa.
Grace Treverton

     James stood at the gate still watching until long after Grace had vanished and the sky was growing dark.

V
ALENTINE LAUGHED AND FLUNG DOWN HIS CARDS
. T
HEN HE
gathered up the winnings, strode to the steps of the hotel veranda, and threw the money to the ricksha boys lined up on the street. Going back into the bar of the Norfolk Hotel, where he was clapped on the back and congratulated, Treverton ordered drinks for everyone, including champagne for the guests in the dining room. It was his last night in Nairobi after a week of celebrating the new colony; tomorrow he and Rose would make the silent journey back to Bellatu.

     She was asleep now, in her own hotel room. "Her Ladyship's asthma" was the excuse. The broad smile on Valentine's face buried the pain that none of his friends could see—the pain of being despised by the wife he loved, a hurt which no amount of alcohol could numb.

     But he tried. The gins kept coming, and the tab ran up. Lord Treverton's credit was good all over East Africa. There was no end to his wealth. Besides, spending made him feel good. Giving money to others made him feel less impotent.

     Valentine carried liquor well. He never staggered or fell down, never got sick or out of control. He merely got merrier with each glass, and more generous. That was why, as he was walking down the street half an hour later, in the direction of Miranda West's establishment, Valentine greeted everyone he passed, handed rupees to black children, and tried to think of something nice he could do for Miranda.

     She had been a true friend these past months. Miranda was the first one he had told about Rose's miscarriage. She always listened to him, never making judgments or giving advice or saying anything much at all. The only person, he was certain, in all of East Africa with that blessed gift! There were other things about Miranda that he liked. For one thing, she never asked him for anything, the way everyone else seemed to. He offered her money to get new lobby furniture, and she said she didn't need it; he said he would put in a word at the Land Office in her favor for the purchase of a certain plot abutting her hotel land, and she had said no, thank you. She was a woman who could stand on her own two feet and didn't go running to others for help. Miranda was a lot like Grace in that respect. Another thing he liked about her was that she didn't flirt with him, or act coy, or play any of the usual female games. Miranda was honest and forthright and had no time for the light sexual fencing Valentine seemed to encounter at every gathering. She wasn't interested in getting into his bed, he knew that; she never expected a compliment or any of the attentions women usually wanted from him. Miranda West was a comfortable woman to be with, plain and simple, and he wanted to express his thanks tonight before he left Nairobi.

     The lobby was barely lit and deserted; the dining room, closed and dark. He found an African sweeping the stairs who said, "I fetch the memsaab for you, bwana."

     "No, don't bother. I'll surprise her."

     Miranda wasn't in the least surprised. She had been watching him from the window of her private apartment. Only an eye like her own, familiar with the earl, could see the slight variation in his gait that meant liquor. So ... Valentine was coming to her drunk.

     "Lord Treverton!" she said when she opened the door. "What a pleasant surprise!"

     "I trust I am not disturbing you."

     "Not at all. Do come in. Can I offer you a drink?"

     "It's been such a week, Miranda!" he said, sinking familiarly into an easy chair even though he rarely visited her in her private rooms. He took the whiskey and downed it in one gulp, saying, "Wish the railway went all the way to Nyeri. I detest the long trip home." Because it would take eight days, with a camp every night to outspan the oxen and Rose's accusing silence to drive him mad.

     "It will one day, Lord Treverton," she said, refilling his glass.

     Valentine propped his feet up on a stool, long legs stretched before him, and stared into his glass. He was having the devil of a time pushing that rail line through. The economy of the colony was picking up now, prosperity was peeking around the corner, but despite his influence with the Legislative Council and his communications with the Secretary of State for the Colonies, the railhead remained stubbornly at Thika. And Valentine
needed
that train to come to his property!

     In the short interval between the two rains, back in January, Valentine had had the drowned seedlings pulled up and replaced with new ones, at great cost. Then the March rains had come, and within fifteen days the plants had sprouted blooms, beautiful white flowers with a scent very much like orange blossom. It wouldn't be another three or four years before the coffee harvest was in, but it could take that long to build the railway. That train would guarantee the best prices and distribution for his beans; without it Valentine would have to rely on wagons and thus be the last to the Nairobi market when all the competitive buying was done.