Listening for Lions (10 page)

Moments later we were making our way down the drive, with its row of ancient oaks. I had decided on the truth. If I was to be taken from Grandfather anyhow, I now had no reason to hold back. I settled down and began rehearsing what I would say, only to find there were no suitable words, nor anyone to say them to. Miserable, I sank down in my seat, as far from the Pritchards as possible, and stared out of the window.

At any other time I would have been full of excitement at the thought of seeing the great city of London. Now every mile of the journey was painful, for it took me from Grandfather. The Pritchards had closed the glass window that separated us from Nivers and were making plans, talking as if I were not there.

“Any fool could see how the girl has ingratiated herself with my father,” Mr. Pritchard said. “We sent her to assist us, and she has done nothing but assist herself, worming her way into the old man's affections.”

“He'll come around,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “To have the girl back, he must put up with us.”

Just when I felt I could not endure another moment of breathing the same air as the Pritchards, we came to London. I had seen little of England, no more than Southampton and the country villages. When I thought of a city, I thought of Nairobi, with its two or three unpaved roads and its handful of government buildings and stores.
London was hundreds of streets and thousands of houses and stores. Cars and people were everywhere. I remembered Father reading a passage from the prophet Isaiah: “Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no place, that they may be placed alone in the midst of the earth!” Surely in such a city there would be no place where you could be alone. Now that I had resolved on the truth, I would have to find my way in this vast city, and there would be no one to guide me.

It was only when the Pritchards left me alone in my room, warning me not to leave it, that I was able to read the note Burker had slipped into my hand. It was from Grandfather, and folded into the paper was a pound note. I read: “If you need a friend, you must call upon Mr. Grumbloch in his chambers at Gray's Inn Square.”

Our flat was on the ground floor. I could easily slip out the window as I once had done in Africa. I was both relieved and terrified. For months I had longed to tell the truth. But what would my punishment be? I quickly packed a suitcase, taking only what I believed I would need in a prison, for when I confessed to Mr. Grumbloch, that was surely where I would be sent. I had some idea that prisons were cold and damp, so I packed a sweater and heavy shoes and stockings; then I raised the window and climbed out into the great city.

G
lad to have the suitcase to hang on to, I walked rapidly away from the flat and the Pritchards. As I hurried along, I saw how people raised their arms to hail a taxi. Taking a deep breath, I did the same. I was amazed to find that the simple gesture resulted in a taxi pulling up beside me. For a moment I forgot the difficulties ahead of me and felt the magic of my being able to bring a car to a halt. “Well, Miss,” the taxi driver said, “now you've got me, speak up. Where are you headed?”

I read off Mr. Grumbloch's address.

“Gray's Inn, eh? A beehive of barristers. I'm glad it's you and not me that has to take up with the law. Off we go then.”

I had hoped for an opportunity to arrange my words, but in no time we drew up in front of a huddle of brick buildings.

“That'll be a shilling and two pence.”

I handed over my pound note and received in return a large handful of shillings and some pence from the driver. I was about to get out when the driver said, “I trust the ride was satisfactory, Miss.”

“Oh, yes,” I said.

“Well, then, since you are young and appear innocent in the ways of taxis, let me instruct you. It's customary to add a bit to the fare to show your satisfaction.”

Ashamed of my ignorance, I gave the man a shilling.

“Well, that's handsome, Miss. Good day to you.”

I stood with my suitcase looking at the tangle of buildings. Just as the taxi driver had said, it was like a beehive with dozens of corridors and doorways. A great number of men in black suits and white shirts were hurrying by like a herd of zebras. They gave me curious glances. A man in a uniform walked toward me. At first I thought he was a policeman, and for a terrible moment I believed he was there to arrest me, forgetting that I had not as yet confessed my crime. With relief I realized he was just a uniformed porter.

“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked, a friendly smile on his face so that I was no longer afraid of him.

I read off Mr. Grumbloch's address.

“Well, you've landed near port. That address is just over there. They'll tell you how to find your man.” He noticed my suitcase. “You're sure you wouldn't be running away?” he asked.

“Oh, no, I have an appointment with Mr. Grumbloch.”

He gave me a doubtful look and watched as I made my way to the building he had indicated. A man there pointed to a stairway. At the head of the stairs was a door on which was painted R
EGINALD
G
RUMBLOCH
, B
ARRISTER
. Now that the doorway was before me, I hesitated. It was not courage that made me walk through the door, but fear of the suspicious porter, who I knew would still be standing there watching to see what I did.

An elderly gentleman greeted me. He appeared not at all surprised to see me and amazed me by saying, “I believe Mr. Grumbloch is expecting you, Miss Pritchard.” He led me through a room that appeared to be furnished with stacks and rolls of paper. He knocked briefly at an inner door, which he opened to reveal Mr. Grumbloch seated at a desk peering over a pile of paper so high, I could just see his eyes. I had rehearsed what I would say so many times that I had been sure I would not forget my little speech, but confronted with Mr. Grumbloch's perpetual frown and sharp blue eyes, I could only conjure up three words: “I'm not Valerie.”

I was resolved not to give way to tears or to otherwise appeal for pity but to accept my punishment. “You can put me in prison,” I said. “I've brought warm clothes.”

“Well, Rachel,” he said, and I jumped to hear my name, “you had better sit down and tell me the whole story.” He pulled out a chair and took my suitcase from me.

Astounded, I managed to stutter, “Why do you call me Rachel?”

“That is your name, is it not?”

“Yes,” I whispered, “but how did you know?”

“Your grandfather and I knew almost from the beginning. He could not believe that you were the same Valerie who had sent him letters full of wheedling requests for money and whining complaints about Africa. The stories you told about Rachel were told with all the feeling of someone telling her own story. At your grandfather's direction, I contacted the mission board. Over the years your parents had sent them pictures of Tumaini, and you were in some of the pictures. Of course the mission board was under the impression that you had perished with your parents.

“When we learned of the many deaths from influenza, we guessed what had happened to Valerie and why the Pritchards had sent you in her place. I explained to the mission board that you were well taken care of and, for the present, quite happy where you were. Was I wrong in that?”

“Oh, no. But why didn't you and Grandfather say something?”

“I was all for sending you packing, but your grandfather was curious at first and then grew very fond of you. He believed you would tell us the truth one day. I must say I was not so sure. I am pleased to see that he was
the better judge of your character.”

“I won't go to prison?”

“Indeed not. Your grandfather's orders are to return you to Stagsway at once, unless, of course, you wish to remain with the Pritchards.”

“I never want to see the Pritchards again, but what will I do at Stagsway?” I think I had some idea that I would be put to work in the scullery, or perhaps, I thought with a little hope, I might help Mr. Duggen. Whatever my task, how grateful I would be to return to Stagsway.

“You will do just what you have always done. You will be a companion and comfort to your grandfather.”

“But he's not my grandfather.”

“I believe we can do something about that. Now, you had best begin at the beginning and tell me what led you to impersonate Valerie.”

I had been so anxious for so many months to tell my story, the words came pouring out: my love of Tumaini and my work there in the hospital and all the people Father cured and Mother's school. I told about the influenza, my parents' death, the fear of the orphanage where they had grown up, the Pritchards' convincing me that Grandfather was near death and that I would be saving his life. I said they had tried to make me help them take over Stagsway. “I could never let them do that. Grandfather is stronger now, and I had to tell the truth.

“But Mr. Grumbloch, I don't believe I could face Grandfather. If I'm not to go to prison, I had better be sent to the mission orphanage.”

“What, and make your grandfather miserable? No, indeed. I am a bachelor with no suitable lodgings for you, but I will phone my sister, Frieda. You can stay with her tonight. Tomorrow I will drive you back to Stagsway, but first we must face the Pritchards.”

“Oh, no,” I pleaded. “I couldn't.”

Mr. Grumbloch's frown returned. He had been speaking gently to me; now he made his voice very firm. “They must be apprised of your whereabouts.” He put his hand on mine. “I will be there to support you.”

I knew that I must face the Pritchards—that if I could not stand up to them, I would always think of myself as weak.

The Pritchards appeared shocked to see me. I realized that they still believed I was in my room. That I should appear with Mr. Grumbloch made no sense to them at all. They stood side by side at the entrance to the flat, too confused to invite us in. Finally Mr. Pritchard stood aside, allowing us to walk into their sitting room.

“Valerie,” he said, “I don't understand. What are you doing with your hat and coat on? Why is Mr. Grumbloch here? You had better go to your room. We have things to discuss with Mr. Grumbloch.”

“I believe, sir, that Rachel has something she wishes to
say to you.” Mr. Grumbloch gave me a gentle push forward.

At the sound of my name the Pritchards drew close to each other, so that I had to face a solid wall of fury. “What do you mean, ‘Rachel'? That's not her name.” There was no conviction in Mr. Pritchard's voice.

“It was as much my fault as yours,” I said. “I'm very sorry if I have made trouble for anyone. I only meant to make Grandfather happy and escape the orphanage. After I got to Stagsway, I didn't know how to tell the truth.”

In a weak voice Mr. Pritchard said, “She doesn't know what she is saying.”

“She knows exactly what she is saying,” Mr. Grumbloch said. “Your father wishes me to tell you that he is very sorry for Valerie's death. Though he didn't know her, still she was his granddaughter and he mourns her. Further, he is in your debt for bringing Rachel into his life. Therefore he will try to do his Christian duty and forgive you. But he is not prepared to go so far as to have anything to do with you. He will give you an allowance that will allow you to live here in England if you wish, but the moment you attempt to set foot in Stagsway, or to contact him or Rachel, the allowance will be withdrawn.”

Mrs. Pritchard had gotten over her shock and was shaking with anger. “You little fool,” she spat at me. “You outsmarted us. You mean to have Stagsway and all the old man's money for yourself.”

I felt as if she had struck me. “No,” I said. “I want nothing for myself. I only want Grandfather to be well and happy.”

Mr. Grumbloch took my hand. “I am not surprised, madam, that you would accuse Rachel of the very thing you are guilty of yourself. We are leaving now. Any further business will be done through me. Do no forget the condition of your allowance. You are not to bother your father or Rachel—not one letter, not one word.” With that we left.

Mr. Grumbloch directed the taxi driver to Gordon Square. I was still trembling as Mr. Grumbloch led me up the walk to a narrow brick house. He cautioned me, “Though sensible in her own way, my sister is inclined to be somewhat impetuous and is, I'm afraid, a little too involved with art and other nonsense.”

Miss Grumbloch was there to greet us. How different she was from her brother. He was as firm and rigid as a stone, while his sister with her dress of silken gauze and her hair loose about her shoulders was as airy as a cloud of mist. From the moment she opened the door to us, Frieda Grumbloch was kindness itself.

“My dear,” she said when she saw me, “how pale you are.” She took my hands in hers. “You are cold as the grave. Come into my sitting room, where there is a warm fire. I'm sure my brother has not thought to feed you. I'll have Effie bring you a nice hot cup of tea and some lovely
biscuits from an enchanting shop I just discovered.”

Mr. Grumbloch said, “I will leave Rachel to your care, Frieda. I must get back to business. I will be here to pick her up first thing in the morning.”

We were soon settled in front of the fire. At first I was afraid to pick up the cup of tea, for my hands were still shaking, but Frieda—she had insisted I call her that—was so kind, and the room in which I found myself so unusual, I felt some of my worry melt away. One wall of the room was painted with a scene of trees and flowers. The lamp-shades were of bits of colored glass, put together to look like flowering trees. Even the window draperies and the rugs were woven into patterns of branches. I felt as if I had settled in an enchanted forest. Frieda herself, with her flowing hair and trailing skirts, looked like a wood nymph.

She saw me looking about the room. “The mural on my wall was painted by a friend,” Frieda said. “The draperies are my own poor effort. Later I'll show you my loom. Now, Rachel, we must talk about you. My brother has told me your story. What a time you have had.”

“What I did was very bad.”

“You fell among evil people at a time when you were most in need of help,” Frieda said. “Now you are rid of them and you can be yourself.”

“I don't see how Grandfather can ever forgive me.”

“I can assure you that he has. My brother says your
grandfather wants nothing more than to have you with him for as many years as he has left to him. Are you not happy at Stagsway?”

“Oh, yes. I've never been happier.” But that was not true, and I was resolved that from now on I would speak only the truth. “I was happier with my parents at Tumaini, but I can never go back to that.”

“Is it just your parents that you miss? Or do you miss Africa and your friends there as well?”

I could not keep the tears from my eyes.

“I see,” she said. “Tell me what it was like.”

I told her the story I had told to Mr. Grumbloch. “There is no hospital and no school now,” I said. “All my mother and father's work at Tumaini was for nothing.”

“Surely not. Think of all those they made well and all the children who have the gift of reading and writing. All that they accomplished will be built upon. Now you must rest for a bit.”

Though I did not think I could close my eyes, my lack of sleep the night before overcame me, and the moment I lay down, I was asleep. It was dark when I awoke. Frieda had prepared a little evening feast, which we had in a cozy way in front of the fire. Our talk turned to books, and she asked what I had read. “Excellent, excellent,” she said, “but you would have found nothing recent in your grandfather's library. If you love books, I will give you some to take with you, and one day I will introduce you to
the writers of the books. With a mind as bright as yours you will want to find a proper school to continue your education.”

“You mean leave Stagsway and Grandfather?”

“Though I am sure your grandfather will be reluctant to part with you, you must go to school. You must continue the education your mother began. Young women must have an education. You would be away only for the school term. You will be at Stagsway on your vacations and, of course, for the summers. I believe I know of just the right school. Now you have listened to me chatter long enough. We'll get you settled in your room. This has been a long day for you.”

While I was in bed that night, the thought of going away to a school kept me awake. As much as I hated to think of it, I knew that one day Grandfather would not be there. I would have to find some life for myself. Much as I loved Stagsway, I did not think I would be happy living there alone with only the birds for company. But the only dream I had was of Tumaini and the hospital, and that was an impossible dream.