A Spear of Summer Grass

7



I returned to Fairlight to find Dora supervising a crew of young men as they scrubbed the kitchen. She threw up her hands when she saw me and joined me on the veranda for a sundowner.

“It’s impossible. I can’t get them to understand that one doesn’t clean with dirty water and the soiled rags must be changed for new ones. All they’re doing at this point is moving the filth around. At least I found an assortment of tins that look safe enough. I told Pierre to have them opened and heated up for dinner.”

“Told Pierre? In what language, pig Latin?”

“Pantomime. If nothing else my skills at charades should improve vastly from living here. And I haven’t the faintest notion what’s in the tins. The labels have all come off, so it will just be a sort of surprise potluck.”

“Drink more and it won’t matter,” I suggested. She hesitated and I waved the bottle at her impatiently. “For God’s sake, Dora, it’s just a drink. Don’t be such a goose.”

With reluctant fingers she held out her glass for a refill. My bad influence was beginning to take hold, I decided. “Where did you get off to? I began to think a lion might have carried you away.”

I gave her a loaded smile. “Our tenant is none other than Kit Parrymore.”

She choked on her gin and it was a full minute before she could speak again. “You’re joking.”

“I would never joke about that body,” I said, stretching my arms high overhead.

“Oh, Delilah, you didn’t!”

I shrugged. “It was either that or eat his cooking for lunch. And he’s a rotten cook.”

“What is he doing in Africa?”

I told her and filled her in on the neighbours while I was at it. When I finished, she passed me an envelope.

“This came while you were fornicating with the neighbour.”

I took it and lifted a brow. “Don’t be poisonous, Dora. Hmm. Heavy stationery. Someone likes expensive paper.” I sniffed. “And jasmine perfume. God, it smells like a French whore rolled herself in the envelope.”

I pulled out a note and squinted at the scrawl of green ink, then passed it to Dora. “I can’t make it out. What does it say?”

She peered at it, holding it this way and that like a cryptographer studying a particularly tricky cipher. “Apparently Helen Farraday is delighted you’ve come and would like to host a little dinner in your honour to introduce you to the neighbourhood.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“She doesn’t let grass grow under her feet, does she? But then she never did.” Mossy had used her as an object lesson when I was making my debut of how one ought not to behave. Helen had come out when I was still in pigtails and Mossy was changing husbands as often as she changed her knickers. A Chicago heiress, Helen had taken one look at the pickings in the windy city, loaded up her meatpacking money and headed for London. She wanted an Englishman, someone with blue blood and a five-hundred-year-old name. She’d gotten neither with Rex. His family money had come the generation before and left with it, too. But he was charming as the devil and twice as handsome. Mossy always said he was the best dancer she’d ever met, and he could have had his pick of a dozen girls. Why he chose Helen was anybody’s guess, although Mossy suspected he’d been intrigued by the gossip that Helen was a nymphomaniac who had seduced three of her tutors and one of the housemaids. Of course, the money wouldn’t have been much of a deterrent, and from all accounts the marriage had been happy enough. There was infidelity of course, but since it was on both sides, nobody had reason to complain.

Dora tucked the note back into the envelope. “Will you go?”

“Of course. And you’re coming with me.”

“I wasn’t invited,” Dora said pointedly.

I shrugged. “Since when has that ever stopped me? Helen must not realise you’re here or she would have included you. I’ll write and let her know. Besides, Kit will be happy to see you. He asked after you today.”

“Did he?” If the light had been better, I was quite sure I would have seen her blush.

I slept a little better that night, probably for being in a bed at last. Dora had done a marvelous job of settling me into the master suite. I gave her Mossy’s old room even though it boasted a prettier bed and a frilly little dressing table that she wouldn’t even look at twice, much less actually use. But Nigel’s suite had bookcases and a view of the lake, and it suited me just fine, particularly when Dora hung the fresh mosquito netting and checked under the bed for scorpions.

“All clear,” she informed me as she scooted out from under the bed. She was brandishing a Chinese slipper, prepared to do battle with any creepy-crawlies. She rose and tightened the belt on her robe. “I’m just across the hall if you need me in the night.”

Dora always slept within calling distance. It was more for peace of mind than anything else. I seldom needed her, but it made me feel better to know she was around if I did. Sometimes when the nightmares got too bad and I couldn’t sleep I would give her a shout and we played gin rummy. It was an ongoing game, and she was ahead of me in the tally by five thousand points, but I hoped to make it up eventually. I suspected she was cheating, but I never could figure out how.

“Good night, Do.”

She left and I turned over, watching the stars shimmer to life over the lake. I wondered if the lions would be out, and that led me to think about Ryder White. And before I knew it, I slid into sleep.

* * *

I woke up to a painfully bright morning and Dora carrying in my breakfast tray.

“Good morning, Delilah.”

“Dodo,” I croaked. I waved at the window. “Pull those curtains, will you? No sun should be that bright at this hour.”

“It’s nearly eleven,” she said. She busied herself putting out towels and running the bath, every brisk move a reproof for my slothfulness.

“I suppose I overslept,” I said contritely. “But there’s nothing much to get up for, is there?”

“There are callers, actually. They have been here since daybreak.”

“Callers? What sort of callers?”

She gave me a pinched look. “Local folk.”

“Local folk? You mean Africans?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, good grief, what do they want with me?”

Dora bit back a smile and adopted a lofty tone. “They seem to be suffering from various ailments. If I understand Pierre correctly, it is their belief that the lady of the house can provide them with succour.”

“Succour? Do, it’s too early for practical jokes.”

“See for yourself.”

“Are you serious? There are really natives here who expect me to play Florence-bloody-Nightingale?”

“Language, Delilah.” She poured out the tea, but I bounded out of bed. I washed and dressed in record time, and was out the door before the tea even had a chance to cool. And there they were. Twenty, maybe thirty of them. Dressed in lengths of fabric wound up in various ways with necklaces and bracelets of beads strung onto copper wires. Some of them had bandages, others had crutches. Some clutched sick babies and others their own stomachs.

I was aware of Dora at my elbow and I muttered out of the side of my mouth at her, “It looks like Saturday night at Bellevue.”

Seeing them up close had sobered her. “I suppose we could do something,” she said doubtfully. “We don’t have much in the way of medicines, really. Do you think they’d like some bromide salts?”

They were staring at me, but not expectantly. Their expressions were blank, the faces of people who had spent their hopes too many times in all the wrong places.

I turned to Dora. “Fetch whatever medical supplies we have, and bring a few extra sheets we can tear up for bandages.”

Just as she dashed off, Ryder appeared, sauntering in without a care in the world, whistling a tune with his rifle slung over his shoulder. I held up a hand. “Don’t even think of staying unless you mean to help.”

He surveyed the scene. “Playing at being the Lady with the Lamp, are we? I wouldn’t have thought the role suited you. Mind you don’t accidentally amputate something you shouldn’t.”

Something had riled him, but I couldn’t imagine what and I didn’t care to try.

“You can either help me or you can get lost. I don’t particularly care which.”

He thought about it, but after a moment he turned and signalled to a young man who had followed him up the path. The fellow was a native African, tall and slender like the people who sat in my garden, but the resemblance ended there. He wore a sort of toga of scarlet cotton and his hair was plaited into long, intricate braids that had been reddened with ochre dust. Long strings of beads hung across his chest and wrapped around his wrists, and he carried a tall spear. When he rested it was on one leg, the other tucked up like a stork, and his gaze was solemn and watchful. He helped Ryder move a table outside and together they carried hot water and tore up sheets and generally made themselves useful.

I surveyed the contents of the first aid kit while Ryder filled me in.

“They are Kikuyu. Word travels fast in the bush, and to these people white women mean medicine. There’s not an Englishwoman out here who doesn’t dispense castor oil and antiseptic on her front porch.”

“I thought my farm manager had a wife. Why doesn’t Mrs. Gates take care of this?” I asked, scrubbing irritably at the table with a moderately clean rag and a bucket of hot water.

“Gates doesn’t believe in spoiling the workers. He thinks their native remedies are good enough.”

“Clearly not,” I snapped. I took a deep breath. “Very well. What do I need to know about the Kikuyu?”

“They’re farmers, mostly, with some blacksmithing ability. It’s their handiwork you admired on my truck,” he added with a smile. “But they really are quite skilled. They can fashion whatever you need—keys, knives, that sort of thing. The one thing they can’t do is fight. They’re rotten warriors, and that’s why they’re so attached to the white farms. They work the fields for the whites and tend their own shambas—smallholdings,” he added when I gave him a questioning look. “When the British started settling this area, it meant the Kikuyu weren’t getting slaughtered by the Masai and the Somali anymore. They still skirmish, but nothing like what they used to get up to. You’ll be treating mostly accidents and quarrels and stomach upsets and worms, not the effects of tribal warfare, if that’s what you were afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

He was still laughing when I motioned for the nearest woman to come forward. She placed a small child on the table and I looked her over. She was getting enough to eat; her muscles were sleek and her ribs weren’t visible. But her eyes were listless and a loose, dirty bandage drooped from one arm. I didn’t even have to look under it to know what the smell meant.

Gingerly, I peeled away the filthy bandage to find a small suppurating wound. I rummaged through the travel case Dora had fetched but there was nothing besides the usual assortment of tweezers and lint and antiseptics and digestive aids. Certainly nothing like a scalpel. I turned to Ryder.

“Give me your knife.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clasp knife. “How did you know I had a knife?”

I took it from him and pulled it open. “Your kind always does.”

I held the blade in the fire as long as I dared, and when it was red-hot, I gestured for the mother to hold the child fast. I stuck the blade into the wound and the pus ran freely. The child screamed, but the mother was firm, holding her tightly and murmuring words of admonishment as I worked. The tissue was still wholesome, and I worked fast, pressing a little to encourage the pus to drain faster. The thick yellow fluid mingled with blood, and I wiped carefully, peering at the wound. I took tweezers from the case and went back in, emerging a moment later with a long thorn. I held it up to show the mother and she smiled broadly. Her teeth were white and beautiful, although she was missing a few. The child had quieted completely and did not fuss, not even when I pressed the sides of the wound again to make the blood flow freely. I wanted to make certain the gash was clean, and as the blood ran fresh and bright, I held a cloth over the top to staunch it. After it clotted, I applied an antiseptic powder and bandaged it firmly.

I turned to Ryder. “Can you explain to her that the bandage must be kept dry and clean? I want to see the child back tomorrow.”

He stared at me, a hard appraising stare, and after a long moment, he nodded. He gabbled something at the mother and she ducked her head shyly at me. “Asante sana.”

“What did she say?”

“She thanks you.”

“I probably ought to learn a few words of Kikuyu,” I mused.

“She wasn’t speaking Kikuyu, and I guarantee you wouldn’t be able to learn it even if she were,” he returned. “But most of them speak Swahili and the up-country version is easy enough to pick up.”

“Up-country version?”

“It’s a coastal language,” he explained. “The Swahili spoken down near Mombasa is more formal. Everybody who speaks Swahili up-country uses it as a second language and knows just enough to get by. It’s crude, but effective.”

Rather like the man himself, I thought sourly. “Tell me again what she said. Slowly.”

He sounded out the words for me and I repeated them. “What response do I give her?”

“Just tell her karibu.”

I turned to the woman. “Karibu.”

She smiled again and shuffled off with the child who was sending me venomous looks. I didn’t much blame her.

My eyes fell on the bags of flour that Dora had cleared out of the kitchen to throw away. Suddenly it seemed like an obscenity to get rid of anything that might be useful to these people. I summoned Pierre and addressed him in rapid French.

“Sieve that flour to get rid of any weevils and then make flatbreads. That will be quick and filling. And if there’s any fat that isn’t rancid, make certain to work some of that into the dough. They need feeding up. See if there’s any powdered milk for them, too.”

Dora went with him and I turned to Ryder.

“There ought to be vitamin drops in the milk and a teaspoon of castor oil to build them up,” I said to Ryder. “Could I find such things in Nairobi?”

“Yes. And at my duka if you don’t want to wait for a trip to town.”

“Good. Consider this an order. And I suppose I ought to get a milk cow.”

“One of the natives might sell you one or you could try Rex Farraday’s herd.”

“Thank you—” I broke off. Ryder was staring hard at me again, and it was unsettling. “What?”

He shook his head. “People don’t surprise me. You do.”

“You obviously don’t have much experience with Southern women. My great-grandmother held her plantation against the Union navy when it sailed up the Mississippi from New Orleans, shelling every Rebel house along the way. I come from hearty stock.”

He took an appraising look at my slender body and snorted. “Where did you learn to bandage like that?”

“War hospital in London. I worked as a nurse for four years.”

He was silent a moment, then said in a calm, flat voice, “Three years in the Royal Flying Corps, Squadron 26.”

“Yes, well, if you think we’re going to trade war stories and become fast friends, you’re quite mistaken. I don’t need a battle buddy.”

“No, but you do need a guide. You don’t know this country yet. I’ll be back this afternoon to take you into the bush and teach you some more Swahili.”

Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and beckoned his friend, the tall warrior with the spear.

“This is Gideon. He’s a Masai. He will stay with you to finish up.” Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared.

“Like a bloody ghost,” I muttered. I turned to the warrior. “Do you speak English?”

He smiled, a dazzling smile, and I noticed his teeth were missing on the bottom as well.

“Of course, memsahib. I learned at the mission school.”

“I thought the nuns only taught French.”

“The nuns left and the English came. I learned to speak English there and to know the stories of your Bible.” He stepped forward, shifting his weight as gracefully as a dancer. “Ryder has gone. I will help you now. I speak Maa—my own language, your English, Swahili and a few of the other dialects. I am a learned man.”

His slender chest swelled with pride and I smiled at him. “Very well, Gideon. Let’s get started.”

Dora was moving quietly through the group, dispensing cups of powdered milk and pieces of flatbread still steaming from the pan. They ate and drank and waited to be seen.

I summoned the next patient, and for an hour straight I worked, treating blisters and burns and stitching up the occasional slash wound.

“What is that from?” I asked Gideon softly.

“It is a wound from a panga, memsahib.”

“A panga? What is that? Some sort of animal with tusks?”

Gideon threw back his head and laughed. “No. A panga is a knife.” He reached into his toga and pulled out a long, wicked-looking blade that was slightly curved. It reminded me of a machete, and as I stared at it, I realised what he had said.

“You mean someone did this on purpose?” I asked, gesturing to the scalp I was stitching closed.

“Sometimes men must fight one another,” he replied with a shrug.

I thought of the consequences of the fighting I had seen, the rivers of blood, the broken bones, the scarred lungs and shattered minds. “No, they mustn’t, Gideon. They just do.”