Echoes From a Distant Land (24 page)

Dana awoke with Amina's worried face hovering over her.

‘
Mungu angu!
' Amina said. ‘My God. She's awake.'

Dana looked around the room — her room in the guest house — and found Dr Cahill standing behind Amina.

He came forwards and took her pulse. Then he placed a hand on her forehead.

‘Hmm,' he said.

‘Am I all right? I mean … the baby?'

‘You have a certain determination about you, Mrs Northcote. You are not to be denied, you could say.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, you not only chose to draw attention to yourself in the busiest part of Lamu, you did so just as I was coming to the market to buy my newspaper.'

‘But what about my baby?' she said, becoming fretful and annoyed at the same time.

‘Babies,' he corrected.

‘What? What did you say?'

‘I said “babies”. You should have said, “What about my babies?” Plural.'

Dana stared at him.

‘Hmm … I can see you're a little surprised. I'm not. Spotted it the moment I saw you in my garden. Still carrying them quite high, so you've got some time yet. But not much more I should think. You're quite big already. Took two strong fellows to carry you here on a trestle top.'

‘Are you saying I'm having twins?'

‘I am.'

‘Twins …?' she repeated, with a mixture of pleasure, surprise and panic. At least Dr Cahill was there: it was an immense relief. She smiled. ‘Thank you for bringing me home.'

He pretended not to hear.

‘Stay in bed,' he said, and started to leave. ‘I'll see you in a couple of days.'

‘Doctor?'

He stopped at the door and turned back to her.

‘It's not that I'm ungrateful, but what made you change your mind?'

He reflected upon it, and appeared about to speak … instead he turned again to the door.

‘As I said, I'll see you in a couple of days.'

Dr Cahill's visits became more like chats between friends than routine medical appointments. He would bring the newspaper and they would discuss current affairs. At other times they talked about their respective homes in England, the London theatre, the books they'd read, and horse racing, which had been a pastime of his while running a practice in the Midlands. Dana explained how news of Polly's death had led to her collapse and he was quietly comforting.

One day, close to Christmas, they sat in the garden and avoided talk of home and what Christmas might entail. Instead, Dana was curious about Cahill's decision to settle in Lamu. It was the next best thing to knowing why he'd abandoned his practice; he'd firmly changed the subject whenever she tried to ask.

‘Why did I choose Lamu?' he said, repeating her question. ‘Why, my dear, look around you.' He indicated the Kidege Guest House's beautiful garden. ‘Tranquillity. Lamu has it in abundance. And peace. The Muslims are a very peaceful people. Not like we warlike Christians, dashing around the world, shooting off our cannons and the like.'

‘Surely you could have your peace and tranquillity, and still practise your profession? It would make such a difference to these people to have a doctor trained in Western medicine.'

‘Ha ha,' he said, rising from his garden chair. ‘The medicine men around here would probably hold a different view. But I must be getting back. I'll see you tomorrow, Diana … I mean, Dana, of course.'

‘I remind you of her, don't I?' Dana said, acting on a hunch.

Cahill paused. ‘Actually, an amazing resemblance. Spotted it first time I saw you. She was younger of course, but otherwise …'

‘Your daughter?'

He nodded. ‘Yes. Diana Maree.'

‘What happened?'

He tightened his lip in the expression he usually wore when an uncomfortable subject came up — and Dana had discovered a few during their talks — but this time it slipped away, and his face sagged. He stared at the ground. Dana watched him wrestle with his thoughts. Finally, he slumped into his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. His face was drawn and he looked all of his sixty-six years.

‘She was sixteen. A beautiful girl. Outgoing. Full of life, and eager to explore it. Nothing like the retiring violet her mother was when we met.'

He told Dana how he'd always been open with his daughter, answering her questions frankly. The previous year they'd discussed the changes her body was undergoing as she went through puberty.

‘Therefore you can imagine how horrified I was, when she came to me to say she was pregnant.'

He said he was furious at first.

‘How could she be so foolish? I mean, against every accepted convention of the day, I'd given her sensible and accurate information about sex and the need for her to take care so she could avoid exactly this situation. How then could this happen?' He shook his head. ‘When I calmed down, I realised it was no good bemoaning the unfairness of the situation. I had to deal with the facts. Our daughter's future was at stake. My wife and I wanted to keep the whole affair quiet.'

He looked across the table at Dana. She could see that the wall holding back his pent-up emotions was crumbling, and large tears misted his eyes.

‘Can a father be blamed for wanting the best for his only child? I decided she should remain at home once the pregnancy started to become obvious, and I would deliver the baby myself. Instead of following the sensible course and putting Diana under the care of a gynaecologist, I worried about her future. How would she find a decent husband if it became known that she'd gotten into trouble?'

He dropped his eyes to his hands, which he opened and closed, examining them as if he'd not seen them before. His fingers were long and elegant; surgeon's hands.

‘The delivery went terribly wrong. In my panic I made some fundamental mistakes. Diana began to haemorrhage. The blood … I … I lost her there on the operating table.'

At this point he started to sob. His shoulders shook as he lost the fight to control the outpouring of grief.

Dana struggled from her seat and stood at his side. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

She refilled their cups. The doctor blew his nose on a large handkerchief he pulled from his pocket before he took a sip of tea. It seemed to give him strength.

‘I started to drink heavily. My marriage ended and I decided to give up medicine.' He shrugged. ‘I came here to start again.'

Recalling Amina's assessment that he was a drunkard, she asked, ‘And has alcohol remained a problem for you?'

‘No. Not alcohol. It's too hard to get it in a Muslim place like Lamu.' He paused again; it was a morning for painful admissions.

‘When I was a young man, I travelled to Poland and, together with friends, experimented with the Polish habit of drinking ether, flavoured with spices. As a doctor I had access to ether and after Diana died, well … Now I get it from a Pole in Watamu. Taken with cloves and cinnamon, it's quite pleasant. And the coast has plenty of spices.'

Dana recalled the faint scent of the spices as he paused beside her on the first day she spoke to him in his garden.

‘And now? Are you keeping sober?'

‘Mostly.'

‘Will you be able to manage when my time comes?

He hesitated a moment too long to give Dana the confidence she needed.

‘I will.'

 

Dana was at the end of her patience. Her pregnancy seemed to have lasted years. The babies kicked — and seemingly fought — all night, keeping her awake even more than the heat. Her feet were like melons and her back constantly ached.

She had lost all fear of the births and now simply wanted to be delivered of the twins and have her body, and her life, back under her own control.

The garden, which had been her refuge, was now her prison. She often spent her time in its solitary shaded corners to replay the events that led to her present situation. Her existence had shrunk so much that she could scarcely believe she'd had a life in Kipipiri. She doubted that her grotesque body could have ever been locked in a passionate embrace. Her friends faded into obscurity and although she'd left him only months before, Sam was no more than a distant dream. There was no one in her life who she could call on for support; and now the imminent birth of her babies had condemned her to remain in Lamu until it was over. She felt trapped and afraid.

Her self-confidence was shattered and she had come into the garden with pen and paper to write to Edward. She needed reassurance that everything would be all right after she gave birth. She wanted to tell Edward that she would leave for England with him as soon as she was able, if he was still of that view.

Before she reached her chair, Dana gasped, and dropped the pen and paper. The pain was short, sharp and very intense. After a moment it eased, but it had frightened her, and she made her way from the fountain at the bottom of the garden back to the house.

The pain came again. Worse. She bit her lip, thinking that it couldn't be the time. It was only January and full term was not until next month.

She paused to take a breath and it came again.

A cry escaped her. She tried to be calm. What if it was the babies? It was too soon. What if it wasn't? Something could be terribly wrong!

‘Amina!' she called, holding the weight of her belly in her two hands.

She felt water trickle down her legs. Or was it blood?

‘
Amina!
'

 

Dana reluctantly returned to consciousness. She was in the airless heat of her small bedroom with the walls again threatening to close around her.

She recalled Amina helping her to her bedroom. After what seemed like hours, Dr Cahill had arrived, looking more frightened than she felt. Then the smell of cinnamon and cloves filled her nose as he poured a quantity of ether onto a piece of gauze. It carried her away in a blessed release from pain.

A voice came through, demanding she push.

Dreamless sleep followed periods of intense pain.

Push!

She heard someone scream. It sounded like her voice. The gauze again. She drifted into a twilight place interspersed with visions or dreams. At no time was she sure what was real and what was not.

Push!

The pain returned, jolting her rudely awake.

Push!

Cloves and cinnamon filled her head.

Dimly she saw Dr Cahill lift a white baby smeared with blood. She tried to hold onto the sight but she slipped quietly away — only to return to semi-consciousness moments or hours later to see another baby in his arms. A dark baby. A black baby.

Now, fully conscious, she tried to resurrect the images. Some had been real while others, she thought, had to be the ether.

Amina was at the bedside, nodding and smiling, and fanning herself with a large feathered fan. She waved it towards Dana, fluttering some air in her direction. It cleared her head.

Also beside the bed was a crib, with two bundles loosely wrapped in cotton.

Dana stared at her babies — the term strangely foreign to her mind. Two babies; two colours. A black baby and a white baby, just as in her dreams.

She turned to Amina, who was still smiling, as if there was nothing odd about it. Had she even seen the babies? She wasn't
sure her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. Perhaps she was still asleep.

At that moment, Dr Cahill came into the room, his eyes on a book open in his hands and his spectacles at risk of falling off the end of his large red nose.

‘Ah! You're back with us,' he said. ‘Just in time.'

He looked to the ceiling, thinking. ‘That is,
you
are just in time. No, that's not right. I should have said
I
am just in time … to see you awake. Conscious, that is.'

‘Doctor …?' she said in a quavering voice. She was unable to form the question she needed so desperately answered.

‘What? Oh, yes. As I say, just in time.' He dropped his eyes to the book again and began to read from it. ‘Superfecundity: from the Latin;
fecundus
: fertile, and
supra
: better than average.'

He lifted the book up to show her the cover. ‘Look at this —
Ogilvie's Dictionary of Medical Conditions
. I knew I kept these old books for something. Had them since medical school.'

Dana gave him a pleading look.

‘Yes … well. Superfecundity. The fertilisation of two eggs by separate acts of sexual intercourse.' He looked over his glasses at Dana. ‘Quite rare, as you can imagine, but more to the point: how would we ever ordinarily know that we were looking at a case of superfecundity? I mean, these little ones might simply be dizygotic twins — non-identical twins. In which case we could only deduce if it was a case of superfecundity by discerning a marked difference in size, that is, one twin conceived in one ovulatory cycle and the other in the next.

‘Dr Cahill … please!'

‘Sorry, sorry. Where was I? So your twins are clearly a case of two ova released in the one ovulatory cycle, or
superfecundation
, or more correctly,
heteropaternal superfecundation
, meaning they are from different eggs
and
different fathers. Rather obviously, I should think.'

‘But …' Dana said. ‘How is that possible?'

‘Quite simple, really. The white twin is a girl baby, conceived from the sperm of a white man, and the, um, mixed-race child is a boy, conceived from a black man.'

Dana recalled that she had made love with Sam and her husband on successive days. Removed from the emotion of that time, the memory now brought with it a flush of embarrassment.

She reached for the crib.

Amina lifted the white baby girl to her. Dana took her and held her close to her face, inhaling what reminded her of the aroma from a baker's shop when the loaves have been just taken from the oven. The little one squirmed and screwed up her watery blue eyes.

Dana tucked her into the crook of her arm and asked for the other baby.

He was slightly heavier but he had the same warm smell as the girl. His head was covered with a dusting of dark hair, where the girl had none. His skin was the colour of milky coffee, with only the palms of his hands to match his twin sister's. He opened his mouth, puckered and made a squeak.

Amina smiled. ‘He wants milk,' she said.

‘Oh,' Dana said, and Amina helped her loosen her blouse. She placed the darker face to one nipple and the pink one to the other. It took some balancing, but soon they were comfortably placed.

It was only as she watched her babies contentedly suckling that she realised that her future had suddenly become a great deal more complicated, and she would very soon be forced to face the changed circumstances of her life.