Echoes From a Distant Land (11 page)

Sam nodded. ‘I'm glad you did.'

Ira's hand tightened on his.

There was a brief knock on the door and a middle-aged man carrying a black briefcase entered the bedroom.

‘You must be the doctor,' Sam said.

‘I am,' the man said, extending his hand. ‘Dr James Hawthorne.'

Sam tried to retrieve his right hand from Ira's grip, but couldn't. Ira held it with surprising strength.

‘Ira?' he said, but there was no answer. Ira's eyes were closed and his thin face was calm and at peace.

In the days following Ira's death, Sam barely moved from the parlour in the Staten Island house. Esmeralda brought him trays of food, which he picked at, leaving most of it for her to clear away. At night she nagged him to get some sleep before retiring herself, but he awoke most mornings stiff and cold in his chair, where he would sit for hours, watching the birch leaves flutter to the ground. He studied his feelings, almost dispassionately, and pondered Ira and his strange, unhappy life.

Ira had once told him of the revolving door theory of life. It seemed particularly apt in his case. If Sam had been away from the village when Bill Hungerford came on his recruitment visit, he would not have been drafted onto porter duties and he would never have met Ira, which had been the turning point — the revolving door — to the rest of his life. It was hard to imagine himself as that innocent village boy, agape at the sophistication of the white man.

When Ira had, at the last possible moment of his life, declared his true feelings for him, Sam had been stunned. He now reflected upon those early years in an attempt to find any hint of Ira's deeper love for him. He couldn't. Certainly there had been times when Ira's celebration of Sam's successes would overflow into an enthusiastic embrace or even an impulsive kiss on the cheek, but those were rare and, in any case, the affection seemed more like a father's than a lover's. Only now did Sam realise how painful it was for Ira to have been so physically close but so emotionally remote from where he wanted to be.

In Sam's whole life he'd had only one occasion when his feelings for another had been similarly painful. It was when Johnstone Kamau had stolen Mothoni from him on the night they should have tied the grass together. He had been able to put the memories
behind him, but the sting of rejection lingered whenever he let his mind stray back to that time.

He could barely imagine how badly Ira must have suffered when every day of his life with Sam was filled with unrequited love.

James Hawthorne, Ira's long-time friend and physician, arranged the funeral. It was a depressing day, rainy and cold. Sam stood beside Esmeralda, who sobbed while a rabbi muttered and chanted indecipherably.

Sam stayed on in Ira's Staten Island house after the funeral, wondering what to do next.

After a few days, he realised that not only had Ira anticipated his death, he had carefully planned what should happen thereafter.

Sam was sitting on the rear porch when Esmeralda announced he had a visitor.

‘For me?' he asked her.

‘Yessir, Mr Sam. He done ask for you by name. “Mr Samson Wangira,” he said. He gave me this here card to show you.'

The business card read:
Joshua Samuels — Attorney at Law
.

Sam went to the door and invited the man into the parlour, but didn't ask him to sit. He suspected he was trying to sell his services.

‘Are you Mr Samson Wangira?' he asked.

‘Yes,' Sam said, becoming annoyed at Samuels's officious tone. ‘What's this about?'

‘I am the executor of Mr Ira Ketterman's estate,' he said. ‘And I am here to inform you that you are a major beneficiary.'

When he revealed the extent of the inheritance, Sam had to sit down. He was stunned. Under Kikuyu custom, the eldest son inherits his father's only possession, the family land, and perhaps a few livestock. Sam had no way of understanding how he had any right to Ira's wealth and he told Samuels so.

‘How can I accept this?' he asked. ‘Surely Ira has family.'

‘He has none. Apart from the housekeeper, Miss Esmeralda Smith, who Mr Ketterman has generously provided for, you are the sole beneficiary.'

‘This is ridiculous,' Sam protested.

‘Mr Ketterman anticipated that you would have some difficulty accepting your inheritance. He asked me to give you this.'

He handed Sam an envelope. It had a red wax seal across the opening.

‘I'll leave you to read your letter in private,' Samuels said, and walked out into the hall.

Sam broke the seal and pulled out a neatly typed page.

 

Sam's inheritance did nothing to end his unease. In fact, it worsened it by removing his need to return to the west and his work as a horse-breaker.

He went on a drinking spree, rendering himself almost stupefied in one binge after another. He awoke one morning, naked, in a garish hotel room. The prostitute he vaguely remembered picking up the night before was gone, as was his wallet.

After a month of such profligate behaviour, he realised he was simply avoiding a decision about his future. In the midst of his unsuccessful search for work in the mid-west, when he barely had enough to survive, the choices were simple: he had to find something, anything, to do to earn the next meal. Now his choices were limitless. He put his mind to the task of finding something to absorb his energy.

He considered taking control of Ketterman Industries, and spent some time in the plant, studying the theory and practice of electrical engineering as applied to electric motors, but he had no aptitude for engineering tasks, and the existing management were handling the company quite competently.

He rented a quiet cabin deep in the Vermont forest to contemplate his situation. On one long walk in the mist of morning, he felt a surge of nostalgia. The trees that climbed the hills to the sky were very different, but the solitude and the grandeur of the landscape reminded him of home.

He missed his African way of life, where the only really important decisions concerned what crop needed to be planted and at what time.

He remembered too Sister Rosalba's plea to his father when she was trying to convince him to let Sam go to university. ‘Mr Wangira,' she'd said. ‘For the love of-a God, if you won't do it for Sam, do it for your people.'

He asked himself how he could contribute to the welfare of his people if he remained in America. Of course, he couldn't: so he decided to return home at least to assess his future.

Over the following days he strengthened his resolve to break out of his lethargy and return to Kenya, but he felt he wasn't quite ready for that next step. He applied for an extension on his lease on the Vermont cabin, but the owner refused. Sam made him an offer that changed his mind and settled in to enjoy the peace and solitude for another month or so.

A year later he locked it up, and headed to New York, and home.

1929

Dana, Lady Seddon, stood on the veranda admiring the surrounding colour in the rampant red bougainvillea, blue morning glory and violet passionfruit flowers. In the upper reaches of the highlands, at seven thousand feet, the sun had an intensity that could draw out every available ounce of colour. At certain times, as just now, the limpid air seemed to magnify the hills and draw them tightly around the Kipipiri valley, enfolding it in silence.

She was feeling unsettled and was not sure why. Her husband, Edward, was in a good mood, as he tended to be when the farm was running well. The wheat crop was looking promising this year with just the right balance of rain and warm dry weather to ripen it. No: it was not Edward. While Dana could find cause to complain about his drinking and gambling, there was nothing troubling in their relationship.

They were reasonably compatible, and had been so since their meeting a little over ten years earlier at the Chelsea Tennis Club, where she was drawn to partner him in the mixed doubles. Dana was just nineteen and Edward Northcote was dashing and rich. And married. He was introduced to her as the 10th Earl of Seddon. The title added to his attraction and he seemed quite taken with her. Over drinks after the game, he invited her to a dinner party, with her mother as chaperone. She accepted.

She later learned that Edward had had a number of love affairs during his fifteen-year marriage, alleviating her guilt over its end. He swore that his feelings for her were different — and, of course, his divorce and proposal to her were proof of that.

They went on a month's honeymoon to Italy and with the removal of the need for hurried and clandestine meetings in hotels or friends' bedrooms, she found she had both an aptitude and a great liking for sex. In fact, she found it impossible to resist any opportunity to indulge.

Her own affairs began before their first anniversary. It wasn't entirely due to her discovery that Edward had not given up his interest in other women, but that was enough excuse to take a series of lovers of her own.

Edward was furious when he eventually found out, but Dana said she could see no harm in it. It was the twenties, she told him, and the new decade had different rules. Many of her friends had what were being called
open marriages
, because people had the time and the money to enjoy themselves. In the end, Edward could hardly expect his modern young wife to abide by rules he himself could not follow.

Among their London friends was a group of free spirits who had a similar philosophy. Soon Edward and Dana were at parties whose attendees had the primary objective of swapping partners for the night.

When she and Edward moved to Kenya — mainly to avoid her husband's creditors — they soon found a similar group of compatible friends.

In the so-called White Highlands, where friends might be five or six hours' hard ride away — and even neighbours an hour or so over bad roads — the isolation made dinner parties a popular form of entertainment. Because of the distances involved, the guests would be invited to stay overnight. Dana and Edward frequently entertained in this manner, but about once a month they invited around a dozen of their most intimate friends for a special weekend of eating, drinking and dancing. They called themselves the Zephyrs, after the name of the Northcote farm.

The Zephyrs comprised people with two specific qualities: firstly, they must be the
right type
, which meant they were generally from British, or more particularly London, society, having transferred their lives to Kenya for one reason or another — usually with the
financial support of family trusts or endowments. Although they chose farming against a life in the city, to call them farmers was stretching the definition. They were aptly called
veranda farmers
because they managed their farm from the comfort of their verandas rather than out in the pastures and fields with the workers. In most cases, their agricultural and pastoral interests, although vast, were seldom more than hobbies or a means to raise extra cash to further indulge themselves in the few luxuries available to them in that far-flung corner of the Empire.

The second requirement was that they be an adherent of the hedonistic school of philosophy. Not that any of the group had studied the philosophical reasoning behind hedonism, although the topic had come up around the dinner table on occasion, but they had at least to be in agreement with the spirit of hedonism: that pleasure was the only intrinsic good.

The second requirement would normally constrain membership to those conforming with the first. Hedonism was not a practice of the poor, and certainly not of the vast majority of Kenyan farmers, who could only survive by long and arduous hours trying to coax a living out of the soil.

Although there was no stipulation on the age of members of the group, they tended to be around the thirties and forties. Dana's sister, Averil, was typical. She was thirty-five, slim and attractive, and had shared Dana's interest in a free-spirited life when they both lived in London. At fifty-two, Edward was the oldest, and Polly and Dana, at twenty-nine, the youngest.

All Zephyrs were married or at least in partnerships except for Ann, who was invited and agreed to remain a part of the group after her husband returned to Britain following their divorce. The odd woman caused no problems, as none of the women objected to an extra woman in any activities involving couples, and many of the men preferred it.

Dana and Edward would greet their guests with a cocktail, accompanied by an army of servants who would whisk suitcases away and carry buckets of hot water to fill baths in the
en suites
to the bedrooms. As they prepared for dinner, Dana would circulate
between the rooms refreshing drinks and stopping for a chat as her guests bathed or dressed.

Although a few dabbled in cocaine, or
bhang
, as marihuana was locally called, alcohol was the social lubricant for the evening and Dana liked to use the first cocktail to set the theme for the games that would follow dinner. It might be a Lime Daiquiri, a Blue Velvet or a White Lady. The clue for the game of charades would therefore be lime, blue or white.

Dana loved to entertain. She and Mary, the Kikuyu cook, spent hours discussing recipes. The plain fare that usually comprised most people's meals in Kenya would never do. It was four courses of French cuisine at its finest, miraculously prepared in Zephyr's Spartan kitchen annex.

By sundown all the guests had bathed and were assembled on the veranda for more cocktails. They were dressed in their pyjamas, which had become
de rigueur
for their gatherings.

Many of the group grew experimental crops and the conversation often centred on what plant had worked and what hadn't. Even many crops that had been initially successful ultimately succumbed to some blight or pest — another casualty of the unusual combination of tropical sun by day and sub-alpine air at night.

On the weekend just past, Dana thought she'd excelled herself.

After ablutions, the evening progressed as many had. The drinks flowed, and everyone shared their news and gossip. Polly — who prided herself on always having the latest gramophone recordings — had taken charge of the music.

Dana soon declared it was time for dinner. She took them into the dining room where a large polished table was set with silver platters, crisp linen napkins and crystal glasses. An urn of soup was ceremoniously placed on the table and the feasting began.

Wine was scarce in Kenya, but whisky was not. At seven thousand feet, the alcohol combined with the altitude led to lively discussions. There was much talk about upcoming social events in Nairobi. Race Week — the biggest social event on the calendar — was discussed in detail although it was still some months away. The group planned to go to Torr's Hotel, which was renowned for its dance band.

After dinner, and more drinks, the staff were sent to their quarters and the party retired to the large sitting room where Polly put a new Fats Waller recording called ‘Ain't Misbehavin” on the wind-up gramophone player. Everyone danced in the glow of the open fire and the flickering light from several tall candelabra.

After more alcohol and more dancing it was time for games. They commenced with charades. Dana had chosen some risqué themes that encouraged participants into suggestive poses. Soon, everyone had joined the spirit of the game and the excitement built.

Dana had then announced she had a new game and produced a large sheet, which the men strung up across the room.

Dana had explained the purpose of the game was to identify the person on the other side, but only by feeling through the sheet. A successful guess won a key to one of the bedrooms, to which the couple retired for the remainder of the night.

The men had gathered on one side and the women on the other. The female team chose one among them to stand at the sheet while one man after another groped through the sheet to try to guess the identity of that person.

The roles had then been reversed, but the women had insisted that the men undress before they made their play. The game, and the night that followed, had been hugely successful.

Dana's Zephyr dinner parties brought a touch of excitement to what might otherwise be long periods of inactivity and boredom. One of the few rules was that the affairs must never be allowed to become serious. Sexual contact outside the dinner parties was forbidden.

Edward also insisted that Dana not become pregnant. He said there must be no doubt over the paternity of the heir to the earldom. When the time came to plan a family, they agreed they would reconsider these arrangements. It was a plan that had suited Dana perfectly well until lately, when she started to wonder about having a family.

She remembered family outings with Edward's daughters from his first marriage. Dana approached them with dread: she felt the girls resented her for causing their parents' divorce. Even though
she knew this was untrue, she felt helpless to deny it. She also felt threatened because she and Edward had no children of their own. It was the reason she had pressed him to start a family early in their marriage, but after several months and visits to the specialists, nothing happened.

Childlessness was a void in Dana's life, but she knew that her unfulfilled longing for a family was not the only reason for her melancholic mood: she couldn't decide if she would now sacrifice her way of life for the sake of a child.

On an impulse, she decided that the best medicine was to take one of the horses for a ride.

 

Inside the stable, the sun shot a bolt through the golden drift of dust suspended in the fusty air, which was heavy with the cloying, sweet odour of horses and fresh dung.

Her best Race Week chance, Toby, the gelding, had his muzzle deep in the feed trough, which her stableman had recently filled. He flicked his tail in recognition as Dana came near to scratch the white poll between his twitching brown ears. He was a simple creature, a good runner when it suited him, but feckless when he was not in the mood. What put Toby in the mood was a secret Dana had yet to discover. He could win a race on a whim, then just as easily drop his head and run like a dog in a mud bath. If Toby was to win during Race Week, Dana had to spoil him with attention and enough rich fodder to put him in the right frame of mind to compete. Even then, it would be a matter of luck.

She saddled up and led him outside.

Dana set Toby off in a canter and they were soon on the high, dry plateau, with the air warm in her hair.

Above the eighty-acre fenced wheat crop, Dana drew the horse to a halt. They were both panting. Dana patted Toby's smooth neck, whispering to him. She often came here among the foothills of the Aberdare Ranges to think. There was something about these high ridges, touching the clouds, and the ravines that cut deeply
into their flowing green flanks that commanded respect. It was a perfect place to unravel her thoughts.

The wheat was surrounded on three sides by the brooding forest that had been subjugated by men for the purpose of farming — but never completely defeated. Small tree shoots sprang up among the grass clumps in the hundred-yard clearing before the wheat fence. Vines threw curled tendrils into the air above it, finding nothing.

The last breath of the day's breeze sent a shiver through the wheat stalks and then they were still. The silence was profound.

Dana always felt that the plateau was pensive when the sun was dying and the air still. She now revisited the thoughts she'd had below on the veranda and tried to explore her unease. Was it unease or just impatience? Impatience with Edward, who always wanted things his way. He had promised her she could have a child when they returned to England, but there was no knowing when that might be. She knew he had a plan to rejuvenate his finances while in Kenya, or at least to pay his creditors from an inheritance from one of his many well-heeled relatives, but time was not on her side. She was approaching thirty; but it was not only her age. What worried her was doubt over whether she could conceive at all. The doctor told her after the abortion she'd had at age seventeen that she might not be able to become pregnant again. The uncertainty made her fret; she wanted to know one way or the other.

With the breeze gone, a mist came sneaking from the dank forest, drifting in coils, low to the ground and across the grassy spread before the wheat.

A bird's call came from the forest. And another. It was the time of day when they gave one final song to celebrate the sun before it sank behind the horizon. There was the guttural, three-note call of a francolin; the coy snicker of a laughing dove.

A long-tailed sunbird darted from the forest — a flash of metallic gold and olive green. It was being pursued by its mate.

The unmistakeable call of a hadada ibis came from the trees behind her.
Haw, haw, haw
, it screeched — a terrible sound, like the voice of a disgruntled god. Dana felt a shiver run down her spine. As if to confirm her ill feeling, the forest fell silent.