Authors: Michaela MacColl
She raised her finely shaped eyebrows. “You told me that the conditions were primitive, so I brought everything! We’ll soon make Green Hills farm a proper home.” She frowned at Beryl. “Happily, I brought some extra hats for Beryl. What have you let her do to her complexion? She looks like a field hand!”
The Captain ran his finger inside his collar, as though it had gotten tighter. “I’m going to have to send the big wagon down from the farm to bring it all back. Come and select what you need for today.” He handed Beryl the lead for Camiscan. “Take the horse
home. Arap Maina will go with you. After I sort out the luggage, I’ll take Emma and Arthur home in the mule cart.”
Without giving Beryl a chance to complain, he held out a hand to Emma and they followed the porter to the baggage car. Arthur trailed behind them, coughing pitifully.
Beryl’s eyes were fixed on the back of Emma’s felt hat. Emma stopped, murmuring something to the Captain. Glancing back at Beryl, he kept walking. Emma came back, hopping a little as though her pointy-up boots hurt her feet. Beryl’s aching hands clenched into fists, and Camiscan shifted nervously beside her.
“Beryl,” Emma began. “I’m sorry we started off on the wrong foot, but I’m here to help. You must have missed a woman’s touch about the house.”
The house. Now she understood why her father had built a proper house with doors and windows and wooden floors. Mama left because she had to live in a mud hut. No doubt Daddy had learned his lesson. This Emma person would bolt even faster than Mama had. How long had he planned this?
“My mother didn’t last out here. Neither will you.”
Emma’s cheeks pinked. “I’m here to stay.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Beryl clucked to Camiscan. With a nervous skitter, the stallion permitted her to lead him away.
“Beryl, we can be friends or we can be enemies,” Emma called to her. “Which is it going to be?”
“Kita!” Beryl answered in Swahili, smiling to see Emma’s bewildered look. It would indeed be war.
LOCATION: Elstree, England
DATE: 3 September, 1936
My maps and compass are packed. I won’t bring a change of clothing—I can’t afford the weight. How liberating to cross the ocean with only the shirt on my back! It’s a grand adventure, and I’ll leave England’s shores with no regrets.
Well, perhaps one. I wish I could say good-bye to Tom. He’s off on a record-breaking flight of his own. If I make it across the Atlantic, it’s because of his patient training. His skills are in my hands and in my head.
I know he won’t mind. Friends from Africa are like that—they appear and disappear from your life. You don’t understand that you’re lonely until you meet them. And when they’re gone, you carry on.
But it would be nice to hear his voice before I go. I’ll just have to settle for a transatlantic phone call the day after tomorrow. He’ll drawl, “What’s all the fuss about? I knew you could do it, Beryl.”
BERYL HOOKED ONE ANKLE AROUND KIBII’S LEG AND SWEPT HIM off his feet. In an instant, she had her heel on his chest. She clasped her hands over her head and chanted, “I won! I won!” It was the first time she had beaten Kibii at wrestling.
“You were lucky,” Kibii said. “I tripped over a branch.”
“A warrior doesn’t make excuses,” Beryl said, mimicking Arap Maina’s deep voice.
“A true warrior has no need to brag,” he answered back.
“I still won.”
Kibii scowled and looked around for any new subject. His eyes lit on the house. “Cluttabucki’s new house is very handsome,” he said.
Beryl shrugged.
Visitors always marveled at how quickly a new hut went up in British East Africa: When guests arrived, the Captain ordered his men to throw together a hut made of mud and sticks. Everyone,
even children, had a private hut. But the house was different. It was bigger, for one thing. And instead of a mud floor, he had used wide wooden planks from his new mill in the valley. And the Captain had built a real fireplace. Every night, the smell of burning cedar drifted through the compound. Beryl couldn’t help thinking that if her father had built this house earlier, Mama might have stayed. Instead, it was Emma and Arthur who had made themselves at home with crate after crate of dishes, linens, and bric-a-brac.
“You still live in your old hut.” Kibii had a way of making a flat statement a question.
“I won’t live with that woman. She wants me to take baths!”
“Your new mother?”
Beryl whirled around and shoved Kibii’s chest with her palm. “She’s not my mother!” she growled.
Kibii took a step back. “Very well. She is your second mother, like Naipende is mine.”
“She’ll never be any sort of mother at all.” Beryl’s voice caught, as though she had tripped over a root. She cleared her throat and continued. “I do very well in my hut, thank you very much!”
Cautiously, Beryl skirted the wide front porch. There was no sign of Emma. The Captain had given in to Emma’s demand for a household staff to help her “turn out” the house. Beryl couldn’t go near the building without being caught in a cloud of dust from Emma’s frenetic cleaning.
“I’ll race you to my hut!” Beryl said, and took off. Kibii was close behind. They ran behind the cooking hut where all the meals for the family and the workers were prepared. They continued past the small building where laundry was done and flew around the corner to Beryl’s hut, skidding crazily.
Kibii stumbled over a small pile of crates. Beryl caught her breath. The crates were hers, and they contained all of her prized belongings. A bit of tusk from the elephant that had got caught in the gully on the north side of the farm. The silver-backed hairbrush that had belonged to her mother. One of her father’s racing trophies. Her father’s medal for winning the mythology competition at school. Beryl snatched up the tarnished brush. She advanced on her hut, brandishing it like a weapon.
Emma bustled out of the doorway, her khaki skirt streaked with dust. Her hair was covered by a white linen handkerchief. She was busily directing a small crew of houseboys to bring the rest of Beryl’s things outside.
Buller was sleeping in the sun, safely out of the way. When he saw Beryl, his tail thumped, raising a puff of dust, and then he covered his eyes with his front paws.
“Get the hell out of my house,” Beryl shouted.
“I won’t tolerate such language, Beryl.” Emma frowned. “Where did you learn such words?”
“Daddy taught me,” Beryl nodded sharply and placed her hands on her hips.
Emma sighed. “I’m cleaning, my dear. It seems to me that there is enough dust in your hut to fill the Sahara.” Her dark hair was coming loose from her kerchief, and her pert nose was smudged with dirt.
“It’s a mud hut,” Beryl pointed out. “What do you expect?”
“Standards, my dear. That’s why I am here: to keep us up to basic standards.”
“Get out! My father…”
“Your father has asked me to keep house. Why he lets you stay here in squalor instead of being in a proper home, I cannot imagine. But if you insist, I’m going to make sure it’s hygienic.”
Beryl frowned. She had no idea what hygienic meant, but she didn’t want her home to suffer from it.
Emma held up a string of colored beads. “What are these? I found them around your bed.”
Kibii drew in a sharp breath.
“Kibii gave them to me,” Beryl said. “They protect me at night.”
Emma narrowed her eyes. “Protect you against what?”
“The devil.” Beryl grinned to see the look of horror on Emma’s face as she threw the beads to the ground. Kibii darted forward and grabbed the beads, tucking them inside his shuka.
“I’m going to have to talk to your father about this,” Emma said. “The devil indeed!”
“My hut is my private place.”
“You’re ten years old; you don’t have private places.”
“I’m almost eleven!” Beryl cried. “I gave you the whole house—why can’t you just leave me this little hut?”
“You ran away from your father’s house like a wild thing; you did not give me the house. And I’m still not happy with you sleeping out here alone. All these natives…”
Emma glanced nervously at Kibii, who was listening intently. His English was getting better by the day, but he still had to concentrate to understand. “It’s not safe. A young girl should sleep safely under her father’s roof.”
“Are you saying the Nandi are dangerous?” Beryl rolled her eyes. “Because that’s just stupid. Arap Maina is teaching me to be a
warrior. What can you teach me? Housecleaning?”
“Don’t be foolish, Beryl. You’re an English girl; you can’t be a warrior.”
“Better a warrior than a housemaid!”
Emma drew herself up. “I am not a maid. I run your father’s house.”
“You don’t run me.”
“If I did, you would be clean and polite, like Arthur.”
Beryl made a face. She had barely seen Arthur outside the house since he arrived. “He’s a namby-pamby mama’s boy. He’s afraid of everything.”
Emma’s fingers on the broom gripped so tightly that the blood drained out of them. “He’s delicate.”
“If he came into the forest with me, he wouldn’t stay delicate for long.”
“With you!” All the scorn and disbelief in the world fit into Emma’s single syllable. “I’d never expose Arthur to such a risk.”
“Then he’ll always be a namby-pamby.”
Emma made a frustrated sound and turned back to her cleaning. She called to a houseboy: “Bring out the bed. I’m sure it’s filthy under there, too.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Beryl warned.
The houseboy called out something from inside the hut. Emma crinkled her nose, trying to make out the words. “What did he say, Beryl?”
“He wants to show you what’s under my bed,” Beryl said, her lips twitching.
Kibii started to speak, but Beryl silenced him with a hand gesture behind her back.
Emma, brushing her hair from her damp forehead, strode back into the hut.
Beryl moved closer to the door to listen. There was a brief exchange between Emma and the houseboy. A dragging of the bed. Then a muffled scream. Beryl stepped back just in time. Emma burst from the door, shrieking in terror. Something like a thick rug covered her shoulders.
“Get it off me!” The rug moved and became a long arm. Its eerily human hand pulled the handkerchief off Emma’s head. She screamed again. “Help me! Clutt! Help!”
With a hoot and thump of his paw against his chest, the hairy rug let go of Emma’s back and stretched an arm to the sill of the door. With one motion, the baboon swung himself off Emma and onto the roof of Beryl’s hut. In an instant he was gone, leaving echoes of his raucous laughter behind.
Emma sank to the ground, weeping, her face buried in her skirt. The houseboys melted away with broad smiles on their faces. Beryl and Kibii were doubled over with laughter. Arap Maina, alerted by the noise, came running.
He barked a short word of inquiry to Kibii, who quickly answered back: “Nyani.”
“Emma, it was only Daddy’s pet baboon, Simi,” Beryl said. “Stop crying.” She might have explained that Simi slept under her bed most days to escape the heat of the afternoon, but why borrow trouble?
Arap Maina’s expression was more grave than usual. He knelt down, his braids swinging and clicking, and offered his hand to Emma.
Staring wildly, Emma cried, “Don’t touch me!” She pushed herself off the ground and stumbled to her feet. Half-running, she weaved uncertainly back to the main house.
“Beru, you must show more respect to your elders.” Arap Maina’s voice was stern.
“I warned her not to disturb my bed,” Beryl said virtuously.
“She did,” confirmed Kibii.
“It was not worthy, Beru,” Arap Maina said. “I teach the totos to be kind to those who are afraid. And your new mother is very afraid.”
“She’s not my mother!” Beryl shouted.
Arap Maina stared at her with his quiet eyes. She stared back defiantly, but after a moment his silent authority won.
“I’m sorry, Arap Maina,” she mumbled.
He inclined his head, braids dangling but dignified as always. “Kibii, come. We have much to prepare for tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?” Beryl asked eagerly.
“We kill the leopard,” Kibii said.
Emma was forgotten. “Arap Maina, I want to help!” Beryl said quickly.
Arap Maina considered. “You may select the goat we will use for the trap,” he offered.
“I know a nasty billy goat.” Beryl smiled wickedly. “Where do I bring him?”
“The water tank in the north field. It is far enough from the horses.” Arap Maina smoothed his rows of wire necklaces. “Bring the goat. Then you must go back to your hut.”
“But that’s not fair. I want to help.”
She heard Kibii mutter, “When will she learn that girls don’t hunt?”
“Arap Maina, you said I was brave,” Beryl said.