Girl with the Golden Voice (30 page)

The play lasted ten minutes each way. Rebecca could not believe it when the man with the large, heavy legs blew his whistle to signal the end of the match. Tom had to explain to her that Pembroke had lost by a single point. She still did not understand how it had happened.

The semicircle of parents and children gathered for the presentation. Maura stood behind the trophy table in her smart blue dress. She had to keep one hand on her large, white hat. A breeze was up and gathering. Locals knew that rain was on the way, sweeping down from Ol Kolau. Pembroke kids knew, too. They had noticed the long lines of safari ants on parade in the early morning sunshine, a sure sign of a storm.

The ex-Harlequins player who had been asked to say a few words before the presentations was not familiar with Gilgil meteorology. He enjoyed his chance to share his memories at a leisurely pace, oblivious to the heavy clouds racing down the valley towards Pembroke fields. The first spots were falling when, at last, Maura began hanging little medals around the necks of the junior winners and runners-up.

By the time the senior trophy was being handed over to the captain of Banda, the raindrops were drumming hard on the two dozen or so umbrellas of those mostly parents of players who were determined to do their best to ignore the downpour. Abel Rubai was on the mound, recording every second of his youngest son's triumph. Water was running down the boys' legs and pressing their hair flat, but Abel made the teams link arms for a joint photo. He squelched his way back towards his car. He was barely recognisable as, for a few seconds, he stood alone in the middle of the pitch in the gloom of the merciless deluge. He looked into the thick, grey sky and whispered, ‘Julius, Julius, if only …'

hat rugby cup plonked down on the middle of the dining table the evening before had given Julius a final push. He was going to change and he was going to take some strong action. He would show his father he loved David and he enjoyed his triumph, especially as it involved upsetting Pembroke house, but their father seemed intent on using one son's victory to remind another of his failures. All through supper Abel tormented Julius with his praise of David; what speed, what a leader. So many white folks had approached him to say how they had never seen a better player in the Londiani Sevens.

Julius had booked his flight days before and sitting in his seat in the first-class part of that 1020 British Airways flight to London, he was impatient to put miles between himself and Nairobi, Kenya and, above all, his father.

Through a chink in the curtain from first class, he had watched Rebecca and the white punk board the plane and disappear in the direction of the cheap seats. He returned to his own seat and ordered another Famous Grouse. He visualised them squeezing along a narrow passageway trying to find Row x,y,z or whatever. How long would it take her to understand what it meant to be looked after by the Rubai family? Desperation was driving him into thinking too much, presenting him with too many bad scenes. But the cocky farmer boy was not going to win, whatever it took. Hate, Julius revelled in it for the energy it fed him. Energy created ideas and helped to bring back his confidence, for a time.

Mama offered him some of her green tablets every time he set off on a long flight. She always took one. It made the journey pass quickly. Previously he had refused the offer, but now he looked down at the cylindrical shape and thought of his mother's warning.

‘Julius, no alcohol after you swallow this clever little pill! Promise me.'

He kept his promise. He drained his glass before he slipped the tablet onto his tongue and waited. Soon a relaxed heaviness hit him hard. He loved this brand new feeling. As he slid down into a deep sleep, he smiled. He had another five of these magic bullets stashed away at the bottom of his briefcase. Great!

In their less plush seats towards the rear of the plane, for Tom and Rebecca the journey passed quickly.

‘Thomas, do you think I am a dusky maiden?' Rebecca's eyebrows were arched and she wore a naughty smile.

‘Strange question to ask your husband-to-be, just as we're rushing down this runway. But, yes, you're as lovely as any evening I've ever seen.'

‘Oh, clever boy! When we were younger Papa used to call us his dusky maidens. “The Song of Solomon.” That was his way of wooing Mama. She told me this one day when we were in the laundry garden. He knows it off by heart.' She became less light-hearted.

‘I think he is not unhappy that we have come away. Mama, too.'

‘I think you're right.'

‘He is more troubled that you are the boss man's son than anything else.'

‘But you're my boss. After all, you're the one who knows all about this America!'

She dug him in the ribs.' Oh, sure …'

‘There you are! You speak the language already.'

‘New York will be different for me, too. Four weeks …'

‘Yes and, while you're singing and stuff …'

‘You'll be getting better. What do you call it? Convol …'

‘Convoluting.'

She dug him in the ribs, harder this time, then stroked the spot where she had hit him. ‘Sorry, sorry, I am so stupid sometimes.'

‘I love it.'

‘I will tell the girls. They'll take care of you while I'm rehearsing and stuff.'

‘Oh, yes, the band ladies.'

‘You'll love them, just you wait.'

‘Sorry, no love to spare. It's all promised to a dusky maiden!'

Julius was roused as the plane was crossing above the German-Dutch border. For breakfast he drank two bottles of Evian. By the time Rebecca and Tom were finding the gate for their flight on to New York, he was in a taxi on his way to the centre of London. He had planned three days of fun with a little very important business thrown in. He had plenty of contacts in the city and he would not be needing the help of the magic green bullets. By the time he moved on to New York he would be ready to put his plan into action. Contacts. His father was always preaching to him about making and fostering his contacts. ‘Well, Mr Abel Rubai, be ready to be surprised! Your little boy has his contacts and next time you see him, you will know for sure that he is a son to be proud of. Very proud.'

On the second leg of the journey, Tom spent time testing Rebecca on the lyrics of four new songs that Toni Wajiru had sent across. But when the blinds were drawn down and the cabin became silent, they dozed fitfully, holding hands. Mary and her father met them at John F Kennedy.

‘Just two suitcases?' Toni smiled with feigned disbelief. ‘Hakuna Matata. Henry will take care of them.' The strikingly handsome young blond man who had been hanging about in the background since they first met the Wajirus stepped forward and picked up the cases as easily as if they were empty.

Mary explained. ”Becca, Henry's new since you left. He's like an extra member of the band. Joined us here in New York.'

Henry grinned and nodded a greeting, fixing his clear blue eyes first on Tom and then, for noticeably longer, on Rebecca before turning to go off. As he began to thread his way through the crowd he gave his thick mane of hair a flick, drawing attention to his beautiful head and muscular shoulders. He rejoined them as they sat around the table having a coffee.

Toni made some introductions. ‘Henry, Rebecca and Tom are with us for a month.'

‘I've heard a lot about you guys from Mary.' The accent was cut-glass Kensington. Henry was quick to pick up Rebecca's surprise. ‘Sorry about the voice. Just about all I got from five years in Eton. Actually, it's pretty handy over here. Get loads of job offers.'

Mary was an enthusiast. ‘Henry knows everything about this city. Sorry, Papa. You're right. I do go on a bit. But I'm excited! ‘Becca and I are together again. Can't wait —'

Henry cut in. ‘I can't wait to hear the pair of you belting it out on stage …'

It was Toni's turn to interrupt. ‘Actually, we never belt it out.'

Tom was pleased to hear this mild put-down. He had snapped out of his lethargy. This Henry was taller than him, taller than Rebecca, handsome, polished, confident and shamelessly keeping his eyes on her. He had the same arrogance as the only other Etonian that he knew, Julius Rubai.

They were easing into the traffic squeezing out of the airport and on to the expressway. Tom admitted inwardly that Henry gave them a smooth ride. And he knew the sights. He and Toni sat up front while Rebecca sat between Mary and Tom in the rear. Not a lot was said on their journey to Midtown. Henry mentioned the names of many of the places they passed but in a low tone as though he was reminding himself exactly where he was on the route. He was constantly checking in his mirror not so much for traffic reasons but to take his chance to look at the gorgeous creature who lived there for a whole hour.

‘Just entering the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Think of all that water up there in the East River.'

Leaving the tunnel they picked up Forty-second Street where there were sights to wonder at on every block. Henry kept his subdued commentary going. ‘On the right that great waste of real estate, the UN edifice. Chrysler lump of concrete and glass, Grand Central … still see it in the best movies. Ah, Times Square.'

He took a right into Broadway and soon they were pulling up outside the Flamingo. Henry carried off the bags while the others took a few moments to get their bearings.

‘The Flamingo, that's something to remind us of home.'

‘The name Harry Thuku mean anything to you, Tom?'

‘Um, politician, ‘round about the Kenyatta days?'

‘I'm impressed. See, Mary, Tom's the first to get that right.'

‘Yes, but this Harry Thuku, the grandson, is no politician. About our age, but much, much richer.'

‘Believe it or not, the family have owned this place for forty years. Wasn't called the Flamingo back then. You'll see what this Harry's done to it …'

‘Papa, ‘Becca's freezing to death out here. African clothes, haven't you noticed?'

* * *

From the outside the modest twelve-storey block fitted in well with the rest of the Midtown buildings on Forty-eighth Street. This was not where the Thukus had spent their development money, changing shops and offices into something very different.

Harry and his wife, Elena, met them in the foyer. Rebecca was the centre of attention. Tom watched the hugs, the beaming faces and half listened to the excited chatter, but he was more taken up with looking around this part of the place which would be his home for the next four weeks. There was a steady stream of people coming out of the room which he quickly realised was a restaurant. Lunch had just finished. It must have been a big place judging by the numbers leaving. He would discover that it was popular with black Africans working at the UN building.

Dinner had to be booked at least a month in advance. The food was a draw especially the East African dishes, but there was another attraction, the major alteration that the Thuku family had made to the building two floors above. They had knocked down the ceiling separating the third and fourth floors, gutted the interiors and set up what Tom would have called a theatre but which Harry described as a spiritual space, his dream place. He was excited at the prospect of seeing Rebecca performing for his customers. He loved giving treats in his little empire, his home.

Toni called Tom over. It was his turn for the welcome treatment. This time it was a handshake and questions from Harry about the journey and about how things were on the Naivasha farm. Tom was clearly surprised.

‘Yes. Londiani. I think I've been on that farm. Your grandfather was the bwana then. I always remember, he had a very beautiful wife.'

Toni broke out into a peal of laughter. ‘Let me tell you, Thomas, the Thukus are known for their smartness with money, their good hearts and their fast way with words. Harry, these kids have been on the road for so many hours. We got to let them rest up. You two can talk when we are … working.' He put a smiling emphasis on the last word.

* * *

At five-thirty about twenty people sat in a rough circle on the stage of the Flamingo. Tom and Henry sat exactly opposite one another, the only white faces in sight. Ten minutes later the number was halved, the band and Henry stayed, the remainder made a noisy exit right led by Monica, the wife of Charlie, the drummer. Tom stopped to peer into the darkened auditorium to try to get a feel for the place but soon found himself grasped around the waist by a fleshy arm and led off. Monica had come back for him.

‘Follow me, young man. I know a good place. By the way, I'm Charlie's wife, Charlie the drummer man.'

Monica Mgoya was another African woman taller than himself. When she turned to speak to him, he had smiled. He could not stop himself. This lady sparkled, and not simply from the jewellery she wore in all the right places. The light brown skin glowed slightly moist, the perfect background for the heavily lipsticked mouth and those dark eyes that made him feel warm and welcome.