Girl with the Golden Voice (28 page)

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As the sun set on that Thursday a bus bumped its way down the track from South Lake Road to the Londiani village. It was not only the totos who ran to the gate to see what was going on. Twenty-five men in blue blazers and grey trousers stepped down. As each got out, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the man in front and when they were all down, with slow rhythmic steps they moved off, chanting a lament. As the villagers accompanied them along the path, captivated by the sound, they were able to look from a new angle at their homes. Some of the smallest caught their breath, again, that the circle of rondavels had been transformed into a make-believe land. The electricians on the farm had hung coloured lanterns on strings of now invisible wires and from the branches of the surrounding acacia.

Out of the Kamau house came Rebecca. Like all the village females, old and young, she was dressed in a bright, light cotton dress, puffed sleeves to match the hat and white decorated with large pink roses. But she was on the arm of Bwana Thomas. They had all heard of the engagement, though not everyone understood what that meant, and seeing their beloved friend so close to the boss's son out in front of everybody was a shock. But they loved it. If all this excitement was what an engagement was all about, they would be happy to celebrate one every week, at least.

It turned out to be the most memorable, the most enjoyable night in the village that anyone could recall. For many it passed in a blur of one pleasure after another. The choir had travelled from their homes in Nakuru because their leader was a good friend of Stephen. The blend of their voices was glorious and their repertoire wide. No wonder they had been invited to show off their talents on a tour of Europe. The high point came when Rebecca joined them for one song. As they feasted on the treats prepared by the village women directed by Angela, Stephen told a story.

What a noisy party! What a lot of laughter! All the while, four women were conducting some serious observation. The bride-to-be and her mother and the groom's mother and grandmother were consciously studying the reactions of the guests. This was the first time that Rebecca and Tom had been seen in public as a couple. Black and white. How serious an issue would this be for them? If they had shared notes at the end of the evening, the women would have declared that they were pleased with what they had seen. They knew very well that this was a gathering of friends. Tom had not forgotten the words of Bertie one night at supper a couple of weeks before Christmas when he had scorned the idea of mixed marriage. Somewhere along the line there would be trouble for a couple however well-intentioned and confident at the start of the adventure. A more severe test lay ahead.

he Londiani seven-a-side rugby tournament happened on a Saturday close to the end of term. All eight Kenya prep schools, mostly based in Nairobi, sent their teams to Pembroke to play and they were supported by hundreds of family and friends. It was the biggest up-country gathering of the year. Londiani had been sponsoring the event for twenty years. Pembroke saw itself as the top prep school in the country, even though it had come into existence only after a quarrel between its founder, Harold Turner, and his bosses at his former school, Kenton in Nairobi. He left the city and travelled up the Rift Valley and found a piece of cheap land, five miles above Gilgil. There was a large squat property newly built on the land but unoccupied by the over ambitious European who had also been sacked by his employer for spending too much of the company's money on the project. Turner did some internal alterations, planted lots of trees, built a fence and opened the doors, giving the school the name of his Cambridge college.

He began with a dozen white boys whose parents had entrusted the care of their boys to this tough, no-nonsense schoolmaster who had strong views on how these sons of Kenya pioneers should be educated to prepare them to be the future leaders of this vibrant new country. Yes, they would take a common entrance exam like their counterparts in England, but, just as important, they would be outdoor boys, loyal to the king and honest in their dealings. ‘Anglus in Africa Sto' was the motto he chose for his new venture.

Turner's traditions remained, even if they were mellowed (some said softened) by changes in society. The four square motto was dropped in the face of protests and gave way to the limp ‘Fortuna Fortibus Favet'. Numbers grew and so did the racial mix. Wealthy Asians and Africans saw a chance for a good English education without sending their children out of the country. So, young Indians introduced subtle spin and wristiness to the cricket and strong, fast black boys added an extra dimension of steel and speed to the rugby.

There was no problem for the thirteen year old prefects in getting their charges up on this Saturday morning. No lessons, games to watch and, best of all, family visitors. Tom and Rebecca made up their family advance party and they were parking their car under a giant pepper tree just as school breakfast was finishing. Rebecca's first meeting with the mass of Pembroke people was overwhelming. Visitors always commented on their friendly, open, confident politeness, but when Julian Delamere, an eight year old Naivasha boy and neighbour of the McCalls, spotted Tom, he tore towards him, shouting loudly, ‘Tom McCall! Tom McCall!' Every one of those young people knew in detail about Tom's kidnap and escape and every one of them wanted to touch him, and, failing that, the beautiful lady holding his hand. The noise was huge even by Pembroke standards and drew staff away from their breakfasts in the common room. When the hubbub began to die down and the children were ushered into their houses to get ready for chapel. Rebecca and Tom were invited to have a coffee with the adults.

Most of the staff knew Tom from school functions he had been to, but they were literally enthralled by this gorgeous girl on his arm. It wasn't only the male teachers who found it difficult to restrain themselves from taking constant glances at Rebecca.

‘My fiancee, Rebecca Kamau. Rebecca … the people who make Pembroke … er, tick?'

While the teachers took time to shake Rebecca's hand and have a chat, Tom was cornered by Dave Warner and Dan Sims, two good pals of his who had been teaching in the school for five years.

‘You've kept very quiet about the girlfriend, Tom. Mind, seeing her, I can understand how you survived the shindig with the local lads. What an incentive to stay alive!'

‘Dave, you don't know the half of it. I'm the luckiest bloke on the planet. Have to fight to keep this gormless, happy grin off my face! Hey, chapel bell. ‘Becca, we've got to go. See you folks later.'

Staff and any visitors sat on the pew against the back wall. There were no staff, so Tom sat between Rebecca and his grandmother, listening to Leo Franciscus, the school's music fundi, warming up the organ. This service was Rafaella's favourite part of the day, the procession of the children into the chapel the best of it all. Every face was a little story for her. She wished they could come in just a bit more slowly for her to enjoy them even more.

They were soon into the hymn, one which the school loved to belt out: ‘Stand up for Jesus'. Before they had finished the second line, every head in the building was looking sideways to find out the source of the sound that was filling the Christina Chapel with its glorious power. By the end of the first verse only one voice was singing. In the pause between verses Leo motioned for Rebecca to go forward. She sang the second verse alone and unaccompanied and for the rest drew the congregation to join her. The emotional charge she created had its consequences. The children burst into a spontaneous round of applause while Rafaella wept and Tom enjoyed the ache of a large lump in his throat. The youngest members of the school had delivered their verdict on the colour problem they were unaware of. A hero and an angel. What a combination! The children had not developed deep-seated and hidden agendas, but their parents would be a different matter.

While parents and children sat in the Great Hall for the short pre-games concert, Tom led Rebecca on the tour of the school, just as he had led Lucy an age ago. She liked the ramshackle wooden buildings best. On their way ‘round they met several of the African staff, waiters, gardeners and housemaids. Most of them greeted Tom with broad smiles and a cheerful ‘Jambo'. Rebecca was upset that not one of them looked her in the eye. She could have been invisible. They turned out from the cosy, grassy quadrangle close to the dining room into the much larger one in front of the science lab, where refreshments were laid on.

Confronted here by the assembled mass of parents, Rebecca became agitated. Dozens of groups in animated conversation were scattered around the area. In their smart, casual bush gear they were in a situation they knew well and enjoyed. Everyone seemed to know everyone and the confident, talkative women were Kenya matriarchs who were used to being in control of every situation they encountered. When she removed her hand from his, Tom immediately placed his arm loosely around her waist and led her into the heartland of the gathering, the tables spread heavy with the sandwiches and cakes laid on by Japheth and his kitchen staff. As they moved forward, Tom was talking quietly to her. ‘When these ladies notice you — and, look, it's happening — expect them to stare and make sure their husbands don't stare too long! And remember why they're doing it! It's because you are the best-looking female any of them have ever seen.'

In spite of herself, Rebecca smiled broadly.

‘The trick is,' he went on, ‘is to take a cup of tea and a … rock cake and … just carry it around.'

Tom was right. She was constantly turning to catch people with their eyes fixed on her. She was glad she had put on the red dress she had bought in San Francisco. It made her think of Mary and their first concert together on Tuesday night in New York. In her month away she had grown used to appearing in front of large audiences, but this was not the same as being looked at, weighed in the balance by individuals, many of whom were on the watch for faults, for failings. She felt a hand grasping her elbow and turned to see Rafaella looking out at those people closest to them and smiling with the graciousness of a dowager duchess.

‘It's envy, darling, pure and quite nasty in some cases. I've been watching them size you up. I'm pleased to say that I suffered some of it when I arrived as the wog bride of one of the rift's most eligible bachelors. It's a compliment. I think they've forgiven me. Tom, your mother and father want you down on the playing fields.'

For Rafaella the setting made it bearable to sit for a couple of hours watching boys in coloured shirts knock lumps out of each other for the silver cup which, for many years, she had presented at the end of the day to the captain of the winning team. The grounds were in immaculate condition, freshly mown grass marked out with neat, white lines and, in front, the stunning backgrounds of the ancient line of the rift itself and behind, the mountains of home, Eburu and her favourite old Longonot.

Tom tried to explain what was happening in the game, but he had no more success with Rebecca than three generations of McCall men had had with his Italian grandmother. ‘She just doesn't want to learn.'

Rebecca nodded and smiled appropriately but could not understand why people enjoyed watching these handsome boys in coloured shirts continually crashing into each other. Rafaella was more interested on some mind games going on off the field. It wasn't in the nature of the womenfolk of Kenya Cowboys, old and young, to allow a mystery to remain unexplored. Unwittingly, two Naivasha mothers who had great affection for Londiani and its people let fall enough information to start the gossip mills grinding. It enabled others to contribute their, ‘Oh, yes, I remember now,' and ‘Bertie Briggs, he'd know. Lives on the next farm,' and soon the mystery evaporated and the whole situation was illuminated by those who believed they were gifted with special powers to see into these things.

Rebecca and Rafaella did not need special powers to work out the subject matter of the half a dozen conversations within view of where they were sitting. The not so furtive glances and the sudden turning away were easy to interpret and elementary lip-reading gave a flavour of the actual words.

‘They always look quite good at that age, of course, but the posho and the bread soon starts to pile the fat around the hips.'

‘Just wait until the hair goes frizzy again …'

‘And the Kikuyu bum begins to drop like a couple of huge pear drops.'

‘Engaged? Bloody hell, another poor sod gone native!'

‘I've always had my doubts about Tom McCall. He'll drop her after a few hot nights and he discovers that's she's a gold-digger like the rest of them, up-market tart!'

For most of those down on the Pembroke playing fields there was more than enough pleasure in watching the sport, ambling about the springy turf and being united with their children after weeks of separation. When they came across Rebecca, they saw rare beauty, grace and gentleness. These people knew how lucky they were to have the lifestyles they enjoyed. The tourists in the minibuses who travelled up and down the Nyharuru Road on the other side of the thick hedge that marked the northern boundary of Pembroke might have enjoyed a peep inside, a brief stopover on their way to Samburu, Sweetwaters and the other luxury camps in the Aberdares. A piece of England, Kenya style, much changed since the days of White Mischief and the Happy Valley crowd.