Читать книгу The Hunters - Kat Gordon, Kat Gordon - Страница 14

Miss Graham, our tutor, was tall, with overlapping front teeth and eyebrows that met in the middle. She’d come out to Kenya with a family from Edinburgh, but they’d gone back and she’d stayed out for her painting.

Maud adored her, but I got the impression that Miss Graham didn’t like me, and I didn’t warm to her either. Three weeks after she started she complained to my mother about ‘disturbing images’ I’d drawn on my exercise books. They were doodles I’d done without thinking, but my mother sided with Miss Graham, although all she did was look at me coldly and tell me if I wanted to be treated as an adult I had to act like one. I lingered after she’d left, scuffing my shoe against the dining table, reluctant to go back to the classroom. I might have escaped a beating this time, but her words still stung, and the thought of Miss Graham’s satisfied look made me rigid with anger.

We woke every weekday for breakfast at eight. Lessons were between nine and twelve, then our mother joined us for a hot lunch. Afterwards, there were more lessons until two, when we had a bath. The totos ran the bath for each of us, which took nearly an hour: first they drew the water from the well – at least ten buckets per bath – then heated it in a cauldron kept in the kitchen hearth. Afterwards, they transferred it from cauldron to bath in ten more trips with the bucket. Sometimes they forgot to heat the water for long enough, and we had to sit in ice-cold water, our lips and fingers turning blue.

In the afternoons, my mother napped, and we would row out onto the lake, or go for a walk, or watch Miss Graham painting. Her fingers were surprisingly delicate when they held a paintbrush. We were silent around her, unless she started the conversation.

‘I’ll be running out of blue soon,’ she always said, as she was choosing a colour for the sky. ‘Blue and brown, those are the colours I use most out here.’

‘What colours did you use most in Scotland?’ Maud asked once.

‘Green and grey.’

‘Did you ever go anywhere else? What colours are other countries?’

‘No, not me,’ Miss Graham said. She dipped her brush into the pot of cobalt. ‘But the family I was with before were in India for a while.’

‘What colour is India?’

‘Gold. And orange.’

‘What about America?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know America,’ she said brusquely.

Two of the totos appeared with the laundry, laughing and whooping. They were younger than me, probably no more than twelve, and my mother must have ordered their kanzus in the wrong size because they were both tripping over their hems. One of them carried the washtub, the rub board and soap banging against its sides as he walked. The other carried a pile of clothes and bedding that was higher than him. When the first toto saw Miss Graham he stopped, and the second crashed into him, dropping most of my father’s shirts.

Miss Graham rapped her easel with the handle of her paintbrush; it made a sound like a gun-crack, and the first toto flinched. ‘Shall I tell Bwana Miller that you throw his clothes on the ground?’

The totos mumbled something.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘They’re dirty anyway.’

‘You have to instil discipline,’ Miss Graham said. ‘The natives are awfully lazy.’ She turned back to them and made a flapping motion with her free hand. ‘Pesi pesi.’

We’d been out in Africa long enough to know that meant ‘get on with it’.

The totos crept past us and sat on the jetty, whispering to each other as they washed our laundry. Maud watched them with a confused look on her face. After a while I went back inside.

If the totos were afraid of Miss Graham, they were even more afraid of my mother. A few times I’d been in the kitchen with them, bothering the cook, when someone had muttered ‘Bibi Miller’, and everyone had melted away.

Joseph, the cook, was the only person who didn’t seem intimidated by her temper. He was a good-natured old man whose fingers were covered in calluses. Once I saw him use his bare hands to take a hot cast-iron dish from the oven and realised where the calluses came from. Two months after we moved in, when my voice began to change, becoming cracked and hoarse, Joseph made me a special hot drink that tasted bitter and grainy.

‘You a man now, Bwana,’ he said. ‘This drink make you into a good husband.’

Joseph could cook anything, but he loved schnitzel and potatoes, which drove my father to despair. For my fifteenth birthday, Joseph made me apple strudel with ice-cream. The pastry was light and flaky, the apples were soft and tasted of burnt sugar and cinnamon. It was the best cake I’d ever had.

After a while my mother had a word with Joseph and he grudgingly started cooking food we were more used to. He could cook anything: meringues, custard flans, layer cake, soups, breads, scones, pies. It had felt strange sitting down to schnitzel and potatoes in the middle of Africa, but no stranger than kidney pie and rice pudding.

Abdullah, the head boy, was gentle in everything. He had big brown eyes and a slight stammer that made him shy to speak. Every evening he put down a prayer mat on the grass and prayed for exactly seven minutes. Unlike the other servants who were all Kikuyus, Ramsay told us, head boys were normally Somalis because they were nobler and stricter. My father liked Abdullah a lot, because he approved of my father’s beard that he was trying to grow. My mother liked him because he was a genius at running the house, and Maud liked him because he helped her nurse injured birds she found in the garden. When Miss Graham was on leave, it was Abdullah who looked after us. Soon after we moved in, Maud fell out of a tree we were exploring, and ended up with a small gash on her shin. Abdullah washed the wound, then left us sitting by the well while he hunted through the grass near the woods.

‘What’s he looking for?’ Maud asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How’s your leg?’

‘Bleeding.’

‘Do you think you’ll bleed to death?’

‘Don’t – you’re not funny.’

Abdullah made his way back to us with something in between his thumb and forefinger. ‘This is for you,’ he said, as he reached the well.

‘What is it?’ Maud asked.

‘Safari ant.’ He showed us the ant, which was squirming in his grip. It was a deep cherry-red colour, and almost twice the size of his thumbnail, with long, pincer-like jaws protruding from either side of its head.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ Maud asked, biting her lip.

‘Maasai use them like this,’ Abdullah said. He brought the ant down to Maud’s cut, until the pincers were on either side of the wound then pressed them onto her skin. The ant went rigid, the pincers snapped together and Abdullah twisted the body off in a quick, clean movement. ‘Very strong,’ he said.

We looked down – the head was still hanging off Maud’s leg, but the pincers had closed the gash like a makeshift suture.

‘How long does it last?’ I asked.

‘Until skin heals,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Abdullah,’ Maud said. She blushed as he helped her to her feet.

It was April, almost three months after we’d moved in, when Sylvie arrived out of the blue. I was out on the lake with Maud when I saw her sitting on our jetty, legs outstretched in the sun. She raised a hand lazily and I jumped up, almost sending us head first into the water.

‘Who is it?’ Maud asked.

‘Sylvie.’

‘You must have good eyesight.’

‘Maybe it’s because I don’t strain them reading all the time,’ I said, beginning to row us back to shore.

‘I didn’t know you could read?’

‘Very funny.’ I caught sight of a monkey-sized figure scampering between Sylvie and the edge of the jetty. ‘Look – she’s brought your husband with her.’

Sylvie waited until the boat had bumped gently against the jetty before standing up in one slow, supple movement.

‘Is it nice out there?’ she asked. ‘It looks so peaceful.’

‘Do you want me to row you out?’

‘Another time.’ She was looking straight at me, and I passed a hand over my face, feeling the roughness of new hair growing around my mouth and below my ears. I was glad my voice had finally settled.

‘I came to invite you to see our new house,’ she said. ‘Well – our land, anyway. The house isn’t completely built yet.’

I moored the boat and jumped up onto the landing stage. ‘Is it nearly done?’

‘So the builder promises us.’

I stared at her perfect teeth and those soft-looking lips. She stared back, smiling.

‘Theo,’ Maud called from the boat. ‘You know I need help.’

Sylvie laughed. Maud held out her hands and I lifted her onto the jetty. Roderigo jumped into Sylvie’s arms and she kissed his head. ‘Shall we find your mother?’ she asked us.

‘Lady Joan came to see her for lunch,’ Maud said. ‘They’re out on the porch now.’

‘The Governor’s wife?’ Sylvie peered back at the house. ‘That’s lucky – I haven’t met her yet.’

I wondered if I should warn her about Lady Joan’s opinion of the Happy Valley set, but she’d already started walking, Maud trotting next to her. I hurried to join them.

When we reached the house a greyhound was shivering in the sunlight at the bottom of the stairs, and Abdullah was standing nearby, like a protective parent.

‘Thank you for looking after Fairyfeet,’ Sylvie said softly to him. She crouched down and stroked the dog’s ears, shushing it when it whimpered. ‘She’s so scared all the time – Nico’s almost given up on her.’

My mother came down the steps. ‘Good afternoon, Countess de Croÿ.’

Sylvie straightened up again. ‘Oh – call me Sylvie, please.’ She looked at Lady Joan, who was still sitting on the porch. ‘It’s nice to –’

Lady Joan cut her off with a wave of her hand. ‘No introductions necessary. Are you still with the Hamiltons?’

‘We’ve bought our own place actually – I’m here to invite the Millers to tea.’

‘How kind of you,’ my mother said. She didn’t move, and I realised she hadn’t offered Sylvie a drink, or invited her inside, or even shaken her hand. Behind me, I could sense Maud fidgeting, and Fairyfeet still whimpered softly, but otherwise a silence had descended. My mother crossed her arms in front of her chest; Lady Joan raised an eyebrow.

I looked at Sylvie. She’d turned pale. It made her seem much younger, somehow, and helpless, and I felt a wave of anger on her behalf.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ I asked.

My mother caught my eye and shook her head, subtly. I hurried on. ‘We don’t have champagne. I don’t know if Abdullah knows how to make whisky sours – you like those, don’t you?’

‘You remember.’ Sylvie smiled at me, and the colour came back into her cheeks. She looked as if she was about to refuse, then Roderigo broke the ice, jumping out of her arms and onto Maud’s shoulder.

‘He knows me,’ Maud said excitedly.

Sylvie laughed. ‘He always chooses the prettiest person to sit on.’

‘Actually,’ I said. ‘We were going to ask your permission for Roderigo’s hand in marriage. Maud’s game.’

‘Theo,’ my mother said, frowning.

‘Maud shouldn’t be thinking about marriage yet,’ Sylvie said. ‘Not for a long time.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind Maud’s ear. ‘You’ve got much more to offer the world, haven’t you, darling?’

There was another pause. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mother draw herself up as if she had something important to say.

‘Sylvie,’ she said. ‘Won’t you join us on the veranda? What would you like to drink?’

Sylvie drove with one hand on the wheel and the other in her lap. She was constantly looking over her shoulder to talk to Maud and drifting across the road, or skidding as we turned corners. Freddie had driven too fast, but at least he’d seemed in control.

Cedar trees whisked past in a dark blur, and golden stalks of corn bowed their prickly heads in our wake. Fairyfeet and Roderigo trembled in Maud’s lap. We were driving towards the mountains, and I had visions of Sylvie tunnelling straight through them. She was telling us the story of their journey to Africa from France, but her words were snatched away by the wind, so I caught only a haze of dances and sea-sickness and misunderstandings.

Then she was slowing down, turning a last corner and Nicolas was waiting to open a gate in the long hedgerow for us. We drove through and parked sharply, while Nicolas fiddled with the gate, trying to shut it again. I looked around. We were at the edge of a lush expanse of countryside, around six hundred acres or so, with a few thatched huts, gently smoking, dotted here and there in the distance. The Aberdares reared up to our right, a silvery waterfall cascading down their sides, and close by on our left the river moved sluggishly around a bend, where a deep pool had formed.

‘Welcome.’ Nicolas was walking towards us now, and it was only then that we noticed the smallish ball of yellow fluff, with large, ungainly feet, trotting next to him.

‘Is that a lion?’ Maud asked.

‘Our surprise,’ Sylvie said, turning in her seat. ‘Samson the lion cub.’ She looked at me, and I felt somehow she’d wanted to show him to me in particular.

‘Say hello to him if you like,’ Nicolas said, opening the door for Maud. Fairyfeet took the opportunity to escape, and bounded into the bushes. ‘He’s very tame.’

We carefully approached Samson, who was sitting a few feet from the car. He was no bigger than a domestic cat, but stockier, with shorter legs. His fur was sand-coloured, and there were brown spots on his head much like a leopard. His eyes were wide and black, and his mouth was open, tongue hanging out pinkly, giving him a quizzical expression. His teeth looked sharp enough.

I felt myself breaking into a smile, just looking at him. Here was a real, live predator. A man-killer.

‘Where does he like to be stroked?’ Maud asked.

As if in answer, Samson flopped onto the ground in front of us and rolled over, exposing his belly.

‘He’s a flirt,’ Nicolas said, slapping him playfully on his flank. Samson growled, and wriggled from side to side, scratching his back on the rocky surface of the drive.

‘We’ve been cursed with all the naughty animals,’ Sylvie said, picking Roderigo up from the back seat of the car. ‘Now come see the plans for the house. We’re living in the manager’s house in the meantime.’

The manager’s house was smaller than ours and painted white with green shutters. There was a narrow porch along the front of the house with a table and four chairs set up. Inside was white as well, with red tiles on the floor, and stacks of unopened boxes in the corners. No paintings hung on the walls, but there was some needlework above the fireplace, proclaiming ‘Home, Sweet Home’.

We sat around a coffee table near the open front door while Sylvie flitted about trying to find the plans, and Nicolas ordered us a jug of lemonade. Roderigo scampered up a tall armoire, and perched on the top, surveying us calmly.

‘Here we go,’ Sylvie said, unrolling a sheet of paper on the table and tapping a dark line that snaked across the page. ‘It’ll face Satima Peak, in the Aberdares, and the back will face the Wanjohi River.’

‘Sylvie insisted we live near water,’ Nicolas said. ‘I don’t know what it is about people who grow up in the city. They always worry if there’s no water nearby.’

Sylvie stuck her tongue out at him. ‘And people who grow up in the countryside worry if they can’t see the horizon.’

‘If you’re talking about your monstrous skyscrapers –’

‘Much more practical than your draughty old castles.’

‘Our castles – exactly. We need to see the horizon to see who’s coming to attack us.’

Sylvie waved a hand. ‘Who wants them? Anyway, I love water. I used to think I’d like a burial at sea.’

I remembered the times I’d planned my own funeral as a boy, whenever my mother had been angry with me, imagining myself finally beyond her reach and how sorry she’d be. I knew it was wrong to think about it, even sometimes wish it, so it was surprising to hear Sylvie talk so openly about the things I dreamed about in private. I felt a thrill run through me at the thought of everything we shared, and how brave she was.