Echoes From a Distant Land (23 page)

In the four months since her arrival, Dana had seldom seen the Swahili owner of the Kidege Guest House, which quite suited her. He was a middle-aged man with bad teeth and a worse disposition, always complaining about the costs of running his business. Dana was almost always his only paying guest and she thought she, of all people, could have been spared his ill temper.

In the owner's absence, Kidege, or Little Bird, Guest House was effectively run by Amina, a big-bosomed black woman from Uganda. She could not be persuaded to explain how she travelled from Jinja, where the Victoria Nile embarks upon its long journey to the sea, to work in Lamu, but Dana suspected it had something to do with a man, because Amina remained unmarried in a place where women were in great demand as second, third or even fourth wives.

Amina was pleasant company, which was fortunate. As October approached and the
kusi
died, the heat became too distressing for Dana, now five months pregnant, to move comfortably around the island during the day.

It was time to find a midwife, and she asked Amina for help. Uncharacteristically, her new friend was reticent.

‘
Memsahib
should be in Mombasa for this baby,' she said, as she plucked the dry laundry from the upstairs railing.

‘No, I can't go to Mombasa. I came to Lamu to have my baby.'

‘No doctors here for a white lady,
memsahib
.'

‘Then a midwife will do. Surely there's someone here in Lamu who delivers babies. Won't you take me to her, please?'

Amina fussed with the sheet she was folding, straightening the corners and smoothing every last wrinkle.

‘Amina,' Dana implored. ‘Please?'

Two days later, Amina led Dana through the serpentine alleys to a small stone house in a part of the town she'd not seen before.

The midwife was old with crooked teeth and fingers gnarled with arthritis, but she had a kind smile in her rheumy eyes. Amina had barely completed the usual salutations before she started feeling Dana's belly. Then she stared into her eyes and ran her hands up her arms and down her body to her legs.

Dana felt like a yearling in an auctioneer's yard, being examined for flaws and infirmities.

Amina continued to translate Dana's explanation of her pregnancy, but the midwife seemed uninterested. Instead, she went to a large chest where she withdrew some carved wooden images and items of bone and ivory. She waved each of them over Dana, making a humming sound and occasional muttered remarks. Dana asked what she was saying, but Amina shrugged, saying it wasn't in any language that she could decipher. Finally, the midwife smiled her crooked smile and announced to Amina that she would be able to deliver the
memsahib
's baby.

Amina thanked her and, as Dana made the tortuous walk back to the cool escape of Kidege Guest House's garden, she wondered what Dr Whitmore might think of the midwife's diagnostic methods.

 

Even Kidege's beautiful garden became too constrictive after a while, so Dana occasionally went for a walk in the evenings.

Strolling through the market on one such occasion, she saw a white man. His was the first European face she'd seen since arriving in Lamu. She was excited at the prospect that she was not the only foreigner on the island. Perhaps he had a wife — someone from a similar background to hers — with whom she could share news and ideas. Maybe she was a mother and would able to reassure Dana that her concerns about her pregnancy were unfounded. But she lost him in the crowd.

Upon returning to the guest house she sank into the padded sofa and shared her disappointment with Amina.

‘I actually thought he saw me, and then ran away,' she said.

‘This man,' Amina said, as she chopped the sweet potato, ‘he has fat belly, red face and a
kitenge
of many colours?'

‘Yes, that's him. He looked about sixty. Do you know him?'

‘Hmmph,' she said. ‘My friend be his housekeeper for so-o-o many years.' She tossed the sweet potato pieces in the pot, making a splash. ‘And still he will not marry her.'

‘What does he do here? And why would he run away?'

Amina shrugged. ‘Why would he not marry beautiful lady like my friend Mimi? He a strange one, that Dr Cahill.'

‘A doctor? Then I should meet him. Where is his office?'

‘He have no office, this one. No more a doctor. Now he is … how you call it? A drunkard.'

‘Still … it might be good to have someone else in case the midwife …'

Amina put down her cutting knife, and sitting beside Dana, took her hand.

‘No. For you, everything be coming good. You no need this crazy doctor man.'

‘But look at me, Amina.' She put a hand on her abdomen. ‘Look at the size of me. Something must be wrong, or I got the dates wrong.'

‘Big belly, big baby. That is it. You no should worry.'

Dana felt childish. She seemed to be constantly fretting about her baby. Amina, who'd had no children, seemed to know more about pregnancies than she did. If she could find at least one other voice of reassurance, drunkard or not, she felt sure it would give her the confidence she needed.

‘Do you think you could ask your friend Mimi to ask Dr Cahill to come and see me some time?'

Amina sighed. ‘I try. But he a strange man, that Dr Cahill.'

 

It was November, and the blessed
kazkusi
had arrived from the north-east, bringing modest relief to the stifling heat. However, it did nothing to remove Dana's concerns about the progress of her
pregnancy, which increased with her size. And her panic was not relieved at all by her midwife.

She decided to take matters into her own hands. If Dr Cahill wouldn't see her, she would go and see him. After all, he was a doctor, and a white man. He had responsibilities.

Amina consulted with Mimi and when she returned gave Dana the details of the arrangements. Her visit should conform with a time most likely to find the doctor both sober and awake — a difficult assignment.

As Amina led her to the doctor's house, she recited a litany of accusations against the hapless Dr Cahill, principal among which was his shameful dereliction of his duty to marry Mimi, who had stood by him for years in spite of the fact that he was a drunk and had little money to spend on her.

Amina stopped at a heavily weathered gate set in a high coral-stone wall, little different from others in the laneway. She pulled on a cord and a bell rang faintly on the other side.

The gate opened and Mimi greeted them warmly. She was a tall and elegant Somali woman in her mid-forties with a hint of an Italian accent to her excellent English.

‘Oh, you poor thing,' she said to Dana. ‘You look so hot. Come, we can sit in the garden. It is still cool at this time of morning.'

She led them through a garden almost the rival of Kidege's, with creepers and shrubs filling every corner except for a small vegetable garden of tomatoes, beans and some kind of leafy green vegetable.

She had arranged three chairs in the deep shade of a wisteria vine. As they chatted, lilac flowers dropped around them.

‘I suggested you come at this time,' Mimi said, ‘as it is too early for David to be drunk, but early enough to be here before he returns from the fish market. I'm afraid he can be quite rude to visitors.'

‘I understand Dr Cahill's not practising these days,' Dana said.

‘No. Not for years. Certainly not since he bought this place.'

‘And when was that?'

‘Thirteen years ago. In 1919.'

Mimi explained that she was then governess to a wealthy Italian family's children. Cahill had been in Lamu for about a year and bought the house from the Italians when they sold out after the war.

‘He was quite a handsome man back then,' she said, a little wistfully.

‘Do you think he will see me?' Dana asked.

Mimi looked sad. ‘I pray he will, but … well, he knows your situation already, but he told me to tell you he's not a doctor any more.

‘How can he turn away from a life of helping people?'

‘He is a good man, but something happened that made him give the work up. He won't tell me what it was, but I'm sure if he started again, and was able to keep away from … well … to avoid —'

Just then, the gate bell rang.

Mimi stood. ‘I won't tell him you're here. It's best to use surprise to say what you want to say.'

She watched Mimi hurry to the gate. She swung it open and Cahill entered, kissed her tenderly on the cheek, and made his way up the path. He stopped for a moment to examine the tomatoes, before arriving under the wisteria.

Dana stood and smiled. ‘Good morning, Dr Cahill.'

He was startled, and stared at Dana for a long moment, before turning his gaze to Amina and finally to Mimi, who kept her head up although it was clear she felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

‘It's my fault for invading your privacy,' Dana said. ‘For which I apologise. I imposed upon Mimi because, as you can see, I'm about to have a baby, and I'm afraid I may need your help.'

‘You've come to the wrong place, Mrs …?'

‘Northcote. Dana Northcote.'

‘… Mrs Northcote. I no longer practise. Now, if you'll excuse me —'

‘Dr Cahill. This is my first child. I'm worried, because when I was seventeen I had an abortion, which unfortunately went wrong.'

The information caused him to pause, before saying, ‘There are many good doctors in Kenya, Mrs Northcote. I suggest you take
yourself to Mombasa, and place yourself in the hands of one of them.'

‘No. I can't go to Mombasa. Or anywhere else for that matter. My husband doesn't want me to have this child, and I know he will make it very difficult for me if he finds me before I have the baby.'

‘That is a matter between you and your husband, surely.'

He stepped around her towards the door.

Dana caught a strong scent of spices on him. She thought he must have spent the morning in the spice market.

‘I don't think it's his child,' she said hurriedly, putting her hand on his arm.

‘As Shakespeare said:
It is a wise father who knows his own child
,' he said. ‘Perhaps you worry unnecessarily.'

‘No. I think it may be a … a black man's child.'

She thought she saw a flicker of understanding in him. She hurried on. ‘I'm thirty-one, Dr Cahill. I don't have to tell you the complications that can arise. I want this baby and I don't care if it's white or black. I'm sure this is my last chance for a child and I have given up everything for it, but that's not important. What is important is …' She put a hand to her midriff. ‘I'm afraid … I'm terrified that I might lose it if I don't have you to help me.'

Mimi came forwards to stand beside her in support. She looked pleadingly at Cahill.

Cahill dropped his gaze to Dana's hand resting on his shirt sleeve.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Northcote,' he said, gently removing her hand. ‘But I can't help you.'

He walked past her into the house.

 

In the three weeks following her unsuccessful visit to consult Dr Cahill, Dana had confined herself to the cloistered environment of the guest house. She told Amina it was because it was too hot to be moving around Lamu, but the truth was she had fallen into a depression caused by the very thing that brought her to Lamu — the isolation.

She longed for the company of her friends, especially Polly. Polly would have so many convincing anecdotes to reassure Dana that her pregnancy was progressing completely normally; Dana would cease worrying and for once enjoy a dreamless sleep. They would laugh about her concerns and all would be well. But Polly was not there.

A number of times she had written to Sam telling him how much she missed him, but tore each letter up. It would be an act of cowardice to involve him at this late stage. She had made her choice and now had to see it through, alone.

Her only tentative contact with her previous life, and therefore her sanity, was the newspapers that arrived irregularly in Lamu on passing
dhows
. There would occasionally be a reference in the society pages to someone she knew; even one of her friends. She once saw a photo of her sister, Averil, at the opening of the Nairobi horticultural show. There was a photograph of a group of her friends — members of the Zephyr dinner club — at a ball at Torr's. They all looked so slim and happy. She put her hands on her enormous girth and sighed.

Amina brought the newspapers when she could find one in the markets, but it had been over a week and now, of all times, Dana needed to know that the world she knew was happily progressing in her absence.

She waited until late afternoon, when the sun had relinquished its savagery, and ventured forth with her parasol to the market. The Indian haberdasher, who took delivery of the few newspapers brought to Lamu, greeted her warmly, asked how she was feeling, and handed her a copy of the
East African
.

After a brief conversation with the stall-owner, Dana tucked the newspaper under her arm and started back to the guest house. At the edge of the market she felt a little unsteady, due to the effects of the heat, and sat on a bench seat to rest under a mango tree.

She unfolded the paper to note the edition was only a week old. It must have arrived in Lamu that day. Her eye was drawn to a familiar picture on the front page. It was Polly. The caption read:
Medical mishap
. She quickly scanned the article:
Dead on arrival
at Nairobi General … medical mishap … self-administered medication … a silver syringe found beside the body …

Dana was on her feet, the newspaper heavy in her hands. A wave of vertigo swept over her. She staggered and tried to regain her seat, but her legs would not hold her. She slumped to the ground.