You Have Not a Leg to Stand On (6 page)

I'd completely ruined what would have been a lovely evening, bringing to an end a very successful little trip. Now we slunk back, our tails dragging on the floor, to our burrow in the Mews, to be comforted by our wonderful Marriott. On hearing the dreadful tale she immediately opened a bottle of champagne. She always kept on ice, ‘Forget all that, darlings, forget all that, here's to the new freedom your beautiful new car will bring.' We finished the bottle then she rustled up a delightful supper washed down with a couple of bottles of red wine. What an amazing person. I don't know what we would have done without her.

Prep School

If I could divide my life into chapters, the first chapter would be from the time I could first remember until I was nine. At nine I was sent away to a boarding preparatory school, about a hundred miles away from the beauty and perfection of the Kedong Valley. I didn't appreciate the actual beauty at that age, but I know my sister and I felt it deeply. Occasionally we were taken to children's parties and I distinctly remember wondering why the parents of my ‘friends' had chosen to live in the manner they were. Their houses were right next to other houses, the houses themselves were alright, but why so small. And the garden was so small there was nowhere you could possibly hide or build structures. Usually, there was only one tree, can you imagine, just one tree? Nothing to climb, no natural swimming pool, there was no warm water silently rising through little holes at the bottom of the pool. And where did the cook get his fresh fish?

So when I arrived at this preparatory school, after an endless train journey and hours in rickety old lorries on terrible roads. I stood in the middle of a long room, crammed with beds on both sides and I thought, if my Mummy and Daddy, who I loved more than anything in the world, other than my ayah of course, and I knew loved me, could see where they'd sent me, they'd realise they'd made an awful mistake.

It wasn't a mistake and this sort of thing went on and on and on both there and in England until I was seventeen. One day very close to the end of a wonderful holiday, we were in my Aunt's extraordinarily beautiful house overlooking the whole creek where the big ships came in to unload their cargo in Mombasa harbour. I said to my mother, rhetorically really, ‘do I
have
to go back to school?' She said ‘of course, not Darling, not if you don't want to.' I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. I held my breath. ‘I'll ring the Headmaster as soon as we get upcountry.' I thought, I wonder if I'd asked this earlier, would I have got the same response? Have I endured nine years of absolute hell just for the lack of asking!

***

That was the second chapter. The first chapter is really quite brief because it was so idyllic. We lived in this extraordinarily beautiful place. It was like living in the Garden of Eden. My brother sold it to a wealthy Indian family who do seem to realise what a gem they've acquired. It is an oasis, with dry dusty scrub all around. From this parched landscape you burst upon a luscious water world, with huge wild fig trees, long elegant boughs sweeping down to touch the water with a kiss. A long natural pool, maybe a hundred yards long by about twenty-five wide, where the water is crystal clear and the whole pool is teeming with tilapia and freshwater bass. Above and below the long main pool there are other smaller pools with the water tumbling out over the rocks between them. A profusion of massive water ferns and exotic native water flowers throw out a rainbow of misty colour through the dappled light allowed to twinkle by the foliage of the majestic wild fig trees high above.

All around this staggering setting there are huge open, bright green lawns with high terraces set into the hillside so the lawns could be flat. At the bottom of each terrace, of which the support walls are made of lava rocks found all around in the scrub, there are deep flower beds filled to overflowing with the most colourful exotic and cultivated flowers and foliage. People seeing it for the first time just stand and gape, wordless. Stone steps are cut into each terrace taking you to the top plinth where the house is built, also made from hand-cut grey lava. The view from the house veranda looks out over the magnificent garden and river and on to the floor of the great Rift Valley, teeming with plains game. In the distance, proudly standing nine and a half thousand feet high, is the volcanic Mount Longanot. Extinct but still producing enough steam to turn turbines that will keep Nairobi going with all the electricity it needs, well into the future. But I digress, back to the garden. A ribbon of fig trees that follows the river down on to the valley floor is a pathway for troop after troop of monkeys and baboons. The most delightful are the Columbus. Their long, floating black-and-white designer gear makes them look as though they're leaping from branch to branch in slow motion. The Vervets, the Sykes and Baboons, squabble a bit, but only out of ‘attitude', nothing serious. There was ample for all to go round; until the end of the season when our orchards would be raided! Then, of course, there was the array of birds, water birds immediately on and around the long pool. The Kingfishers, spotted, with its distinctive cry, and the small one, making a flash of blue and red as it dives in, to immediately emerge with a silver tiddler wriggling in its beak. The Cormorants, usually standing on a low bough hanging low over the water, their wings outstretched, drying before taking their next plunge, often emerged the other end with a fully grown Tilapia in their bills. You'd never think it could possibly fit down that slender neck. Our little pack of five dogs were fascinated by the cormorant's antics. So when it was on one bough or the other, at either end, they'd all plunge in and swim, as fast as they could, to try to catch it. The cormorant would quietly dive in, swim underneath them and come up the other end. They'd swim about in confused circles, bumping into each other, dipping their heads in the water trying to look for it. Then one of them would spot it the other end, already with its wings stretched out and they'd charge off again when exactly the same thing would happen. This game would go on and on until the dogs were utterly exhausted. With their last ounce of energy they'd swim ashore and wearily haul themselves out, long tongues hanging, panting, heads down and flop on the grass around us. While all this life was going on, near and on the water, the deep beds of flowers attracted countless hummingbirds. Their bodies motionless mid-air, their wings beating in a blur, their long curved bills dipped deep into the flowers, to drink the delicious nectar. The soft hum of the bees busily collecting the pollen to make the honey we had every morning on the hot bread made every day by the cook, Churchy. The Bee-Eaters all sitting close together on the telephone line; somebody counted ninety-one varieties of birds in and around the garden. My Sister and I lived and played in this paradise, looked after during the day by our beloved Ayah, Adijah, (Di-Di), and by night our beloved parents, all this magical beauty for the first nine years of our lives.

Why did it have to end, why was it I found myself in the middle of this awful dormitory, with bed after bed packed down each side. ‘Come on, come on,' shouted a fat woman in a green dress, ‘choose a bed and don't forget which one it is.' She turned on her heel and slammed the door. I think that must have been the moment I put my mind in neutral and did what I was told, for four wasted years.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't entirely wasted as far as I, personally, was concerned. The family who owned the school, had a stable of beautiful horses, so riding was part of the curriculum. If you had experience, which I did as we rode a lot at home all over the farm in amongst the herds of game, you'd be given a horse of your own, and a syce (groom).

My horse was called Thistle, he was a gelding, shining pitch-black, his neck was too long and low to make him a beautiful horse, but we took to each other straight away. He had a fluid trot and a long, languid canter, and when he galloped you felt you were flying. I loved him. Although he had bit and curb, I never had to touch the rains or pull him up, he had the softest mouth I've ever known. I asked Mrs. Foster, the owner of everything, even the Headmaster, who didn't count for much as he didn't ride, if I could at least take away the chain. She wished I could, but it was safety rules. ‘Health and safety,' even then.

She was an incredible woman. I never saw her out of her jodhpurs, whatever the time of day. Hers was the beautiful Grey, an Arab Stallion. They were as one when she was in the saddle. No one else ever rode him. On one occasion when on a ride with her, we had to follow her in single file.There were about eight of us, along the side of the main road, an appalling, dusty road, but the main road to Eldoret. Suddenly a bus appeared behind us driving far too fast. She waved to the driver to slow down, but he took no notice. We were engulfed in a thick cloud of dust and the horses pranced all over the place, it was lucky no one fell off. She was furious, instantly in a rage, she and her stallion turned on the bus. I'd never seen a horse move so fast. They caught the bus up; she started to whip the side of the bus, she reached the driver's window, it was open, she whipped the driver himself, yelling at him to stop. Amazingly he did. She ordered him out, he got out, he stood in front of her and her stallion, who was now breathing very heavily, wide nostrils, sitting back, pounding his front hooves. The driver was cowed by this force he was facing, he just looked at her astounded, mouth hanging open, then weakly said ‘I'm sorry Madam.' She was now in control of her rage, she said forcefully, ‘always slow down when you pass children on horses.' I'd temporarily forgotten I was a child. She never treated anyone who could handle a horse, as a child, you simply understood horses, as she did and that was that. The driver said, ‘Yes Madam, I'm sorry Madam.' He climbed back into his bus and slowly drove away.

At the end of one term my mother and father came to collect me. I was usually put on the train and was met at Longanot station. But this term my father had some business in Eldoret. I was so excited I forgot to say goodbye to Thistle and Mrs. Foster. The holidays were so full of doing such exciting things; driving about the ranch with my father, going out at night in an open-top Land Rover with a spotlight to shoot Thompson's gazelle. There was riding, playing about in the garden with my sister, swimming and fooling about in the pool for hour upon hour. The idea of school was way away in the back of my mind. Then quite suddenly, that dreaded time that dreaded train was the day after tomorrow, that awful hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, all enjoyment gone.

The only thing I could latch on to was riding with Thistle. As soon as there was a gap from unpacking the trunk and pushing the tuck box under the bed, fighting, showing off feats of strength; which all boys seem to have to do while growing up. Then we dashed up to the stables to greet our horses. Thistle wasn't in his usual box. I heard Mrs. Foster coming into the yard. I ran up to her to say hello. I was surprised how pleased I was to see her. I said, ‘Where's Thistle, he's not in his box?' Quite suddenly her eyes filled with water, overflowing, dribbling down her cheeks and falling on to her shirt, I didn't know what to do, what to say. I didn't know ‘grown-ups' actually cried, especially Mrs. Foster. She said, ‘He had to go to the army.' He had to go to the army? What on earth was she talking about, ‘He and a few of the other horses had to take the soldiers into the forest,' she hesitated interminably, ‘and Thistle was killed.' I stood and stared, jaw hanging, Thistle was killed, Thistle was killed, why was he killed, how was he killed. We just stood and stared at each other, I couldn't hug her, she couldn't hug me, tears were still pouring down her face.

She pulled herself together, embarrassed, ‘Let me introduce you to someone else.' I followed her numbly to another stable. Inside was a little black horse with flecks of grey shining through her dense blackness. She was very pretty with a long black mane, a short, curved, high neck, but nervous and wide-eyed. She stood at the back of the stable not looking out over the yard as the others did. Her name was Mazy, she wasn't a horse she was a pony. Mrs. Foster said, ‘I'd like you to calm her down, she's too nervy for the small children, stay with her, see how you get on.' She turned and left us together. It was too soon really after hearing of Thistle's death, perhaps she sensed a reticence but we got on quite well. She let me softly stroke her neck, hold her head, blow on her lovely soft nose; I stayed with her, talking to her, telling her I'd be riding her from now on. Her eyes stopped staring. She seemed to relax a bit. I left her box, walked sadly across the yard to go back to the school. I looked round; she was at the front of her box with her neck in the V of the stable door, taking an interest. Perhaps we would get on.

The whole school was surrounded by a tall Cypress hedge, grown in a large square, enclosing about five or six acres. It seemed then as though it were about twenty feet high, but as we were all so small, it might well have been half that height. Whatever the height, it served various important functions. The whole area was on a slight slope with the school buildings more or less in the middle. The boy's dormitories, the sanatorium and the dining room, were at the top of the square and the girl's dormitories on the left looking down. I'm being precise for a very good reason, so please bear with me. At the bottom of the square, in the middle of the hedge, there was a small U-shaped gap, about five foot high and about two foot wide. And it was through this hole, all the boys, during daylight hours, turned left, to empty their bowels while sitting on a plank. This had some holes cut in it, over a deep hole dug down through the red earth, about fifteen feet or so. Turning right through the hedge they'd empty their bladders directly into the African bush. The girls were wimps, so they were allowed back into their own house for their ablutions during the day.

So the perimeter hedge was a useful tool to keep us all in, and the rest of Africa out. But a crucial factor as far as us boys were concerned, we could disappear, into the hedge, melt away. A signal given by a chosen spotter for the day, whenever a teacher unexpectedly appeared, a full playground of children would melt away, with no sign of being there at all. Another thing we could do was climb up through the hedge and pop out at the top of the hedge. It must have been quite comical to see a line of small boys, sitting, arms folded looking out at the scene all around. One day, on the outside of the right of the square, quite a big bush fire had started in the parched dry scrub beyond the hedge. A group of us, the riders, the top dogs, climbed up through the hedge, popping up at the top, to see how close it was getting. We were completely unaware of the danger in which we were putting ourselves. One spark would have sent the hedge up like a tinderbox, that was the reason all the farm workers were gathered doing their utmost to beat it out.