Echoes From a Distant Land (22 page)

Dana felt a terrible foreboding. What if this pregnancy would be her last? It was a miracle that she'd conceived at all. What if she, like the landscape, could never again light the spark of life?

After an hour of stultifying sameness within which Dana fretted about the impending abortion, a sprig of green appeared on a bush and was gone in a flash. A moment later, another. And another. By the time the train reached Rabai at the crest of the headland that swept down to the Indian Ocean, the landscape had been reborn. A verdant forest had replaced the desert. It was as if the earth had arisen from its own ashes and given birth to a brave new garden.

Dana had also gone through a form of rebirth. As the train huffed and puffed into Mombasa station she was now in no doubt about what she had to do. She could not forego this chance — perhaps her last — to have a child.

She alighted from the train, ignored the top-hatted figure who politely asked if she were Mrs Northcote, and found a small Indian hotel in a back street of the old quarter where she again considered her decision and her ability to carry it through. She had the doctor's
sizeable fee in her purse, and another small amount she could access from her bank account. It was enough to survive for the term of the pregnancy.

At the post office she sent a telegram to Edward:
Have changed my mind about new delivery. Will await its safe arrival and advise.

As Sam made the long ride back from Abyssinia with his latest herd of ponies, he had plenty of time to reflect upon his last meeting with Dana. He knew he could have handled the situation better, had not his injured pride interfered.

When Dana told him she would be leaving Kenya with Edward, she seemed to accept the situation with equanimity. He'd thought they'd shared something beyond the obvious enjoyment of each other's bodies, and her attitude came as a shock. His response had been harsh and ill-considered.

She left him there then, nursing his damaged pride, saying she was already late to make her journey back to Kipipiri. She was right, it was late, but he later felt it was his thoughtless words that had sent her hurrying home.

He'd remained on the bed, thinking with the taste and the smell of her lingering, until the last of the sun fell from the drapes, and the darkness took its place. There was a world of visible difference between them, which of course was what white Kenya would see. But with such obvious differences, it was easy to bring their similarities into sharper focus. They needed time to explore them more fully, and if he let her go, they would never know what they might have lost.

By morning, he'd made up his mind to go to her before returning to Nairobi. He'd tell her she was too important to him to let her go; they had too much in common to let superficial differences part them. He'd say that of all the challenges they might face together, it was more important to test their feelings than to miss their chance at happiness. He'd ask her to leave her husband and make a new life, somewhere, with him.

The silver Willys-Knight roadster was sitting under the vine-covered lattice as he rode towards the farmhouse. He still had the excuse of their agistment agreement to explain his presence there.

‘You're too late, old man,' Edward, pleased to enlighten him, said. ‘Dana left for England a few days ago.'

‘Already? I thought you were still thinking about it.'

‘Change of plans. I'll be following her pretty soon, of course. When I've settled our affairs here. I'm afraid you'll have to find another place to rest your horses.'

Sam was numb as he rode on to Nairobi. The animals were exhausted, and he was too, but there was something wrong. Something very wrong. Dana would not have made that decision without at least informing him. He knew she had at least that much affection for him. He arrived in Nairobi in time to stable the herd before boarding the night train to the coast.

 

Dana stood on the sea wall beneath Fort Jesus, watching a fishing
dhow
make its way across the old harbour. The helmsman's mate gathered the lateen sail to the yard and swivelled it around the mast to make the tack. The crab-claw sail filled with the wind, and the spritely craft lifted its nose and ploughed through the light chop towards the mouth of the harbour.

She had come to the waterfront to think. Having declared her intentions to Edward, she knew he would be on the next train to Mombasa. Indeed he may already be en route. The old Arab trading port of Mombasa was bigger than the young upstart, Nairobi, but not big enough to conceal a lone white woman. She had told Edward of her intentions without knowing how to implement them.

A gust of wind came up and tried to snatch Dana's hat but she caught it in time.

‘Ah, the
kusi
,' a voice from behind her declared. ‘It wants the
memsahib
's fine hat.'

She turned to find an old man with a face like chiselled leather standing a few paces away. Apart from his dark brown face, he was otherwise completely white: a white beard and hair; a long white
kanzu
and white
kofia
cap.

‘The
kusi
?' Dana asked.

‘The sou'easter, you would call it,
memsahib
. It is very strong today.'

‘Oh, I see. The south-east trade wind.'

‘And it carries the
dhows
northwards to Arabia with trade goods. Spices and sisal, coffee and maybe a little gold. I myself would be sailing,
inshallah
, if I were twenty years younger.'

‘You were a sailor?'

‘I once owned the finest
dhow
in all of the Coast Province. One hundred tons she was.' His eyes, buried in a host of wrinkles, twinkled. ‘With the
kusi
we would sail to faraway Arabia. We were like the wind itself.' His eyes misted and his smile wavered. ‘Ah, but now, what can I do? I can show my grandchildren the
dhows
. And I can remember the beautiful places. I can remember how things were.'

‘Where else did you sail?' she asked.

‘Many places. Lamu, Kismayu, Mogadishu. Many, many places. All the way to the Red Sea.'

‘This place you mention, Lamu. It's on the north coast of Kenya, isn't it?'

‘It is,
memsahib
. My third wife, Jamina, she is from Lamu.'

‘How far is it?'

‘To sail there — one day when the
kusi
is with you.'

‘And what about by road?'

He smiled. ‘No roads,
memsahib
. Only by sea. These new captains, they like to do business in Lamu. They don't like to sail the
dhow
to Arabia these days. They can make money with cargo to Lamu and they are home in a week or two. Not like me. Six months I wait until the
kazkusi
comes from the north-east. Then I come back home from Arabia.'

Dana looked again at the
dhows
on the harbour. There were those that appeared to be the size of fishing boats, but larger ones too.

‘Did you say there are no roads to Lamu?' she asked, interrupting him.

‘To Kilifi, yes,
memsahib
. To Malindi, not good. But to Lamu? No. To Lamu you must take to the sea; the
dhow
.'

‘Then I would ask a favour of you,
mzee
.' She used the polite title for an elderly gentleman. ‘I would like you to help me arrange a
dhow
to take me to Lamu.'

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. ‘To Lamu …' The old man stroked his chin. ‘Yes, it is possible. I have many friends with
dhows
. When would the
memsahib
like to go?'

‘Now.'

 

In spite of her rush to leave Mombasa, she realised that to board a
dhow
dressed as a European would invite attention — the kind of attention that might tip off a European man looking for his missing wife. She went to the market and bought a number of
kangas
and a head scarf. She arrived late at the sea front where she found the old man wringing his hands.

‘Hurry,
memsahib
,' he said. ‘The tide is turning.'

He took her bag and led her down the steps of the old stone wharf to a small skiff. A boy of no more than ten sat at the tiller.

‘My grandson will take you to Captain Masood.'

He pointed to a large
dhow
bobbing at anchor in the harbour. An unfamiliar flag fluttered at the masthead and men dressed in
dhotis
and headscarves hurriedly loaded sacks from a lighter drawn alongside. In her haste to get away, she hadn't contemplated the journey in any detail. Now she realised she would be at sea on a strange craft with men she'd never met, going to an island she'd only heard associated with slave traders. She turned her eyes from the
dhow
to the old man.

He was smiling at her. ‘The captain is a friend of mine,' he said. ‘He will keep you safe.'

Although she'd only known him a few hours, there was something about the old man that elicited trust. Maybe it was his old-world manners, or the way he held her eyes when he spoke.

‘Thank you,
mzee
,' she said. ‘You have been very kind.'

She extended her hand to him and he took it in both of his. His hands were very soft and his fingers waxy and cool.

‘I hope you find the peace you seek in Lamu,' he said, looking into her eyes. ‘And whatever fortune comes your way, may Allah grant you the strength to accept it.'

He held her hands for a long moment and she felt he had more to say, but couldn't because time was against them. She had the odd feeling that the old man somehow knew the reason she was going to Lamu. He seemed to have such wisdom and she felt that if she could tap into it she would find the answers she needed. Why was she having this baby? What would happen when she did? How would she survive if Edward disowned her? The old man would know these things. If only there was time for him to tell her. She realised too that he was the only one who knew of her journey. Her only connection to her real life. If she never arrived in Lamu nobody would know where to look.

He pressed her hands. ‘It is time. May Allah go with you,
memsahib
.'

She stepped into the skiff and the boy cast off. The little craft moved swiftly towards the
dhow
where two men were wrestling with the sail. The
dhow
was larger than it appeared from the wharf.

She turned to wave farewell, but the old man had gone.

 

Dana had had a few days' head start so, immediately the train pulled into Mombasa, Sam went to a shipping agent. He learned that a ship had left for England the day before, but the agent eyed Sam with suspicion when he asked if Countess Dana Northcote was on the passenger manifest.

‘And what does that have to do with you,
kafir
?'

Sam contained his anger. ‘She's a friend.'

‘Is she now? Well, friend or not, the manifest is confidential. Now, if I were you, I'd bugger off before I call the native policemen.'

Still hoping that Dana might have taken passage on a later ship, Sam searched the streets and alleys for hotels, enquiring about her.

‘I'm looking for a European lady who might have checked in over the last few days. Light brown hair. Green eyes. About so tall.'

Most of the managers refused to give him any information. Many threatened him with the police. It confirmed the problems they'd have living together, but it didn't deter him.

He read the shipping schedule in the newspaper and noted that vessels of the British India Steam Navigation Company and Deutsche Ost-Afrika, sailing from Tanganyika, were due out over the next few days. He was on the wharf an hour before boarding times to search for Dana among the hubbub of embarking passengers.

Amid the festivities, kisses and friendly farewells, the
oompah
ing of the Mombasa brass band and the draping garlands of paper streamers, he searched for her. When the ship's horn sounded its departure, he felt its deep reverberations collide with his heart.

His last chance was among the few passengers taking passage on a cargo ship, the MV
Mogadishu
, bound for England via a series of piddling ports. After it despatched its passengers and cargo, she was made ready to sail again to Britain. All day he waited, sitting on a stack of cargo pallets or strolling up and down the wharf to kill time. Passengers embarked singly, usually untidy men with a rucksack over their shoulder, or occasionally a small family group with cloth-covered bundles and suitcases bound with twine. There was no bustle or haste and very few people came to see them off.

Sam waited into the evening and, at around eleven that night, long after the last of the passengers boarded, the crew cranked up the gangway, and she sailed. He continued to watch the ship as it made its manoeuvres preparatory to leaving the harbour. He waited because he could think of nothing further he could do. Against all his instincts, he'd let Dana into his heart and this was his punishment: she'd abandoned him without so much as a kiss goodbye.

He'd been searching for two weeks and only one person had recalled seeing someone like her. An old man he met wandering along the harbour wall nodded and smiled when he described Dana, but the man was doddering and confused. He claimed — clearly mistakenly — that she had sailed a few days earlier to an obscure island up the Kenyan coast: Lamu.

The voyage had taken less than twenty-four hours, but with a following sea, it had been an uncomfortable one for Dana. The nausea that had prompted her to see her doctor in Nairobi returned full force; it was with shaking knees that she staggered ashore at Lamu.

With the solid stone wharf beneath her feet, she allowed herself some time to revive, watching the bustle of activity until the young deckhand Captain Masood had assigned to her returned to take her to a guest house.

He led her from the brilliant light of the sea front into a warren of deeply shaded alleys, some no more than a yard or so wide between rough coral-stone walls. The houses had huge, elaborately carved wooden doors and shuttered windows. People streamed through this labyrinth. Most of the women wore the purdah and veil. Some, like Dana, were dressed in brightly coloured
kangas.
The men were in spotless cream or white
kanzus
or
dhotis
. Dana had difficulty keeping up with her guide as everyone had to give way to the many donkeys carrying the commerce of the town on short, tottering legs. In some places they passed through tunnels formed by buildings connecting houses on each side of the alley. Occasionally Dana could catch a glimpse of a rooftop garden trailing bougainvillea and other creepers into the alleys below.

As Dana became completely disoriented, and certain she would never find her way out of the maze, the deckhand stopped at a double set of wooden doors. He leaned against one side and, when it swung open, gestured Dana to follow. After a moment's hesitation she did so. When he closed the door behind her the clamour of the alley, the donkeys, the crush of people, the noise and the bustle, were immediately gone.

Dana gasped. She was in a courtyard with a narrow path that meandered through a jungle of ferns, palms and flowering shrubs. A tinkling fountain rained on goldfish glinting in a lily-covered pond and an enormous bougainvillea climbed the wall to a second storey, which had rounded stone archways and stained timber balconies. A canary warbled in a cage hanging from a bower covered in orchids.

The young man had disappeared inside the house, leaving Dana to marvel at her surroundings. She found a small table tucked away in a corner, and two chairs, one of which was occupied by a ginger cat, which began purring even as she approached.

She sat with the cat, feeling so contented in this blissful place that she thought she might also begin to purr.

She had started out on her journey with trepidation, having no plan other than to find the freedom to make her own choice about her pregnancy. Now that she had found this refuge she knew what she would do. This was a place of tranquillity. A place to give birth and to prepare for whatever life might then offer. Whether it was to be destitution or acceptance, if she were ever to find the strength to face that future it would be here in this garden of Eden.

 

Dana spent many long hours in the garden, reflecting upon her decision. Initially, the peace and beauty of the guest house garden gave her strength. Then, like a thief in the night, loneliness crept from the corner of her mind where all her insecurities lay, and teased them into life.

During the day it was Polly and her friends who she longed to see — and Averil, who was more of a dear friend than an older sister. She missed their company, their mindless chatter about fashion and the latest dance music. Gossip about the neighbours and whispered conversations about their last dinner party. She missed their outings — a cup of tea at Pomeroy's, a gin and tonic at the Norfolk or Muthaiga Club. A day at the races.

At night she thought of Sam. She yearned to be in his embrace, to run her hands along his strong arms and body as he propped himself above her, kissing her, and for the delicious pleasure he gave her as he lowered himself onto and into her.

She had no idea what information Sam had received about her disappearance. Presumably, he would learn she was not at Kipipiri. Most likely Edward would have invented an explanation about her departure that would satisfy their friends: an ailing relative in England and a dash to be at the bedside; a mysterious illness needing specialist treatment. Whatever the reason stated for her sudden flight, Sam had every right to expect a message from her. But she couldn't risk it. The postmark on her letter would reveal her hideout. When he knew she wasn't in England he would become suspicious about the reason for her disappearance. He would perhaps try to find her and so would discover her pregnancy.

They'd shared a deep passion, but they had not explored beyond that. There had been no talk of love or a commitment to the future. If the baby turned out to be his, she didn't want him to feel obliged to support a family he hadn't deliberately created. She felt entirely responsible for her predicament.

If the baby was Edward's, then she had other options, but she could not look beyond the birth. Her life would hang suspended until then; though once she'd settled, she took stock of her situation.

The baby was due in February. By then all her funds would have been exhausted paying the guest house costs and meals. She'd made no provision for the unexpected and would need money to pay for a midwife and items for the baby.

She thought she would be able to use her modest bank savings to bolster her cash, and although the Lamu post office acted as an agent for her bank, she worried that Edward would be keeping an eye on those funds and, if they were withdrawn, use his influence with the bank to discover where the money was transferred. She decided to leave it untouched until after the birth.

She'd left most of her important jewellery items in the box on her dressing table at Zephyr, but had thrown a small beaded bag of
other pieces into her suitcase before she left. There was her lion's fang trophy that she'd been carrying back and forth to Nairobi for weeks. Her intention had been to have it fitted with a silver chain in place of the plain leather thong, but she'd repeatedly forgotten to do so. There were also two pairs of inexpensive earrings, and a spare watch. None of them would amount to much.

Now she looked at her rings. She had a plain gold wedding ring, which had belonged to her beloved grandmother. There was also the sizeable diamond that Edward had bought her after they were married. He called it their post-marriage engagement ring. Dana had been twenty at the time, and would have dearly loved an engagement party as was the custom among all her friends, but Edward refused. He thought it inappropriate that the 10th Earl of Seddon be formally engaged after divorcing his wife of fifteen years.

The gold dealer near the spice market made her a reasonable offer and Dana sold it with not a touch of remorse.

With her short-term financial position secured, she decided to write a note to Edward, which she sent by
dhow
to Mombasa for posting.