Eighty Not Out (15 page)

Few callers disturbed my morning ‘office' sessions, which, in any case, would become unbearably hot by ten, forcing my retreat to the shade inside the house. Dr Korabiewicz would interrupt a visit to the village to call for coffee and a chat: his usual greeting, a kiss sweeping from wrist to shoulder, was hard to receive with poise – particularly as I almost always wore an unflattering one-piece ‘playsuit', combining shirt and shorts, flipflops and, by this time, no bra because I was a martyr to prickly heat. He made routine calls to some of the outlying huts, but foremost in his mind will have been to cajole some ancient artefact out of the chief: he was known to pay high prices, and some found their way to private collections or as museum exhibits in Warsaw. His wife had been known to countermand his advice and to tell his patients to halve the dose that he had prescribed for them. Of the pair, she commanded greater respect.

Nights became more oppressive, forcing us to sleep outside, but often gusts of wind, combined with distant thunder claps and forked lightning, indicated an imminent violent storm. Semi-awake, we would drag the camp beds inside, only to take them out again when the lightning had subsided and no rain had fallen. When that happened, the heat became almost unbearable. For our evening meal Fergus had taken to wearing a fetching pair of blue mesh underpants, while I wore one of my playsuits with gold brocade ankle boots because I had been unable to find any mosquito boots in Belfast – an outfit reminiscent of a Principal Boy in one of Jimmy O'Dea's pantomimes. Wearing boots was essential – I remember a painfully swollen insect bite on one ankle came to the attention of a field dresser whose job it was to carry out minor first-aid duties, who insisted on treating it with his ‘secret' tribal tincture – ‘We make a paste of squirrels' entrails or sometimes we use donkey dung'. All this with a straight face – he genuinely believed in its efficacy.

We remained at Dorimon until the rains had turned parts of the road into a morass. Work on the house in Wa was still not finished, but the risk of being cut off by flash flooding was too great. We had been happy in the round-house, and left with regret. We were also fond of Simbu Dog, who worshipped us, although he obediently trotted off with Simbu at the end of the day. We discussed the possibility of buying him for the going price of five shillings, but were deterred by several factors, chief of which was the amount of travel we undertook, and what to do with him when next we returned to Europe. There was also an element of not wanting to wound Simbu's pride. Having a salaried job, some sheep and goats, as well as two fine dogs, although, unhappily, no satisfactory wife, made him a man of substance in the village. Reflecting proudly on the growth of the pups, he voiced his intention to operate on Simbu Dog who had only one testicle: ‘I will take the other one, then he get big and no go bush and get chopped by they Lobis.' Fergus, who had not long before heard agonised yelping coming from the village, where a small crowd was gathered around a bucket in which a dog was immersed, did his best to discourage such unprofessional intervention, threatening in jest to do the same to Simbu. He even extracted a promise that nothing would be done without employing the services of the vet at Wa, for which he would pay. We went back twice during September and October to collect vegetables from a small patch of garden, by then almost flooded, and to pick some grapefruit, which were rare in the north. Simbu Dog was overjoyed to see us, appearing in rude health, but I had a premonition that Simbu would not honour his promise.

I consulted a Czech obstetrician at Kumasi hospital during August 1962: he put on a surgical glove and did an internal examination, exclaiming, ‘Oh, here it is' – a confirmation that I was at last pregnant. Then he wrote a letter to one of the leading obstetricians in Belfast, advising ‘bringing forth' in the
UK
: not so much from the viewpoint of the mother as that of the child.

The regional office chose this time to defer decisions on almost all aspects of Fergus's project, implying that unless the Ghana government approved and signed a five-year plan of operations by the end of the year, he might well be out of a job. In the meantime, they proposed that he should undertake short-term surveys in neighbouring Ivory Coast, Togo and Dahomey. Although we did not know it, this stalemate was just the beginning of years of uncertainty about where and when the next assignment might be. Fergus considered returning to an academic career, but at that time there were few openings for biologists specialised in tropical parasitology. There were opportunities in Canada and the
US
, but I was prejudiced against the North American lifestyle. He was offered an interesting, but ill-paid job in Copenhagen, but we both had reservations about Denmark being the best country in which to spend the early years of raising a family, principally because of its notoriously difficult language. We hoped that ultimately a suitable vacancy would arise at the headquarters office in Geneva, although the system of ‘geographical distribution' strictly limited the number of British appointees.

The kitchen in the old German house had been cleaned and painted, the rotten draining boards and sagging shelving replaced, and a capacious refrigerator had been supplied, although it proved to be just as temperamental as all the others. A new stove had been delivered, so after months of cooking on a Primus, I could at last produce a decent meal. The cockroach population flourished as before, and a flock of persistent hens was always in or around the kitchen, the door of which had to be left open much of the time to allow some circulation of air.

All our clothing was faded and threadbare, and while replacement shirts and shorts could be found or made for Fergus, my problems were more complex. Weighing heavily on my mind was the thought of what I would wear in December when we would return to ‘civilisation'. I was still no more than a bit thick in the middle, although the baby began to kick during the week of our move. It had been decided to delay going to Accra until my departure was imminent because a curfew had been imposed between the hours of 6 p.m. and 6 a.m. and machine guns were everywhere, involving more police and military stops and inspections than usual. I would need a dress for any functions we might have to attend. At one of the Lebanese stores I bought a length of attractive material that looked like shot silk but was 100 per cent synthetic; a subtle dove's-breast pinkish brown, patterned with large, hyacinth-blue abstract flowers. It was fiendish to handle, slippery with a tendency to gather, and dissolved into spun sugar if the iron was too hot. However, teamed with the metallic winkle-pickers, it looked quite elegant and saw me through dinner at the Ambassador Hotel, some private parties and a reception at the University of Ghana, held by the vice-chancellor, Conor Cruise O'Brien and his new wife, Maire. We were invited to meet Dr Alan Nunn May, the English physicist and convicted Soviet spy who, nine years after release from prison, held a post as research professor in physics at the university, and his Austrian wife. Both were good company and easy to get on with, though there were awkward moments of constraint when some topic provoked an evasive response. We suspected he was still ‘travelling' and part of a group then establishing a network throughout Ghana.

As my pregnancy progressed I bought a length of dark grey fine wool men's suiting and, crawling around on the cement, cut out and tailored a two-piece maternity suit, composed of pencil slim skirt with an obligatory U cut out of the front, and a threequarter-length top. Worn with one of the first Khrushchev-style black fur hats bought at Harrods in Knightsbridge, a flamecoloured silk scarf, the Swiss Bally shoes and crocodile handbag, I felt I could still compete in the fashion stakes.

The three months before I flew back to Northern Ireland were packed with incident and I was also very ill with what was first thought to be another attack of malaria, but was subsequently agreed to have been blackwater fever. At one point my temperature rose to 103 and I was drifting in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that the Kofi brothers were praying nearby. I vomited everything, including water, but Karel gave me an intramuscular injection, which lowered the fever, and I made a gradual recovery thereafter. Fergus was distraught, although Karel assured him that the ‘parasite' would not be harmed. The same month he read in the
Observer
that his best friend, who had worked on tsetse control in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), had died in a car accident near Gatwick on the first day of a long anticipated home leave; his wife and three children – one only two months old – had survived, but the eldest one lost a kidney.

Late in October Fergus succumbed to another hard-luck story: a child of thirteen looking for work told a pathetic and convincing tale of how he had left his village twenty miles away because, ‘My father and mother both die and I have only sisters who cannot feed me. The people in my village are very bad.' He had such a frank and open countenance that even Adda was taken in, to the extent of allowing him to sleep in his quarters. He did a little daily grass-cutting in return for chop money, and of course I dished out drinks of milk and bananas to supplement his meagre diet. Part of the tale was that there was an uncle who might look after him, but that a new school uniform was required if he was to return to school, and the uncle could not afford it. Fergus made unfruitful enquiries, and cross-questioned the child, who looked hurt at the suggestion he might be lying. In the end it was agreed that we should buy the uniform in return for small services until term began. Then one morning a ‘nephew' of Adda's spotted the boy and asked what he was doing on our premises, as he had absconded from school some months ago, taking with him the £4 his father (alive) had given him to buy the uniform and had apparently been living on this ever since. It transpired that almost all had been lies. Adda found one of our coffee spoons in his box, while another had already disappeared – presumably sold. He was escorted down to the
MFU
office and further grilled before being put in the care of the social welfare officer until his father should come and claim him. Tears came, and Fergus felt a brute, until Francis Kofi told him the boy had been loudly complaining that Fergus had promised him thirty shillings and had failed to pay up. So that was yet another ‘last time' we were going to fall for a hard-luck story.

I stayed with my mother during December, January, and into February. We had more respect for each other by this time, and I enjoyed driving around the Ards peninsula with her, pausing near Mount Stewart House to watch a huge flock of wheeling lapwings and trying to interest her in watching the birdlife of Strangford Lough. In the evenings we watched the television I had introduced, against considerable resistance, to my mother's living room; she soon became an addict, and together we watched
That Was The Week That Was
and episodes of
Z Cars
, during one of which I went into labour. Meanwhile, Fergus was making surveys in Gabon, Cameroon and the Congo. A visit to Geneva, to discuss his future with
WHO
, was planned for early February, and it was hoped he would be in Northern Ireland for the birth.

11

Generation

M
y mother drove me to hospital during one of the heaviest snowfalls on record, and by this time I knew that Fergus would not be present for the birth. He was in Geneva attending meetings of the Bilharziasis Advisory Team, being briefed on what was planned for the next three years. Only on admission did it fully strike me how bizarre our situation was. The hospital staff did not make it any easier, making insensitive remarks about how much I must miss my husband, and I suspected a few of them doubted his existence. The contractions abated, so it was decided to give me an enema; while I was sitting on a commode waiting for the results, Matron made her routine visit to enquire how frequent the contractions were, but they had ceased. The next day Mr Boyd, my obstetrician, interrupted lunch to tell me that he intended to induce the birth – a procedure of which I had not heard – and did so on the spot, remarking brightly as he replaced the tray that I could now get on with my meal.

When the contractions began again, a new nurse resembling the infamous Irma Grese in appearance and manner remarked that were she in my place, she would refuse pain relief so as not to miss any part of the beautiful experience. Rapid riposte has never been my forte, but the urge to retort that she was unlikely to find herself so was strong. I took the pethidine. In the theatre Mr Boyd joined the chorus of exhortations to push harder, and soon the beautiful experience changed to a blurred image of forceps being brandished before oblivion took over. I woke slowly, feeling sore all over, then remembered where I was, and why. A cot beside the bed contained a tightly swaddled bundle, at one end of which was a small head. Glad that nobody was in the room, I lifted the bundle and undid the wrapping in a frenzy to confirm that the right number of legs, hands, feet and digits were present. The baby's face was pretty, not squashed and wrinkly, a proof that I had not, as had been implied, got my dates wrong: Katharine Ruth Siobhan was born, three weeks late, at five thirty in the evening of St Valentine's Day, 1963.

Next morning Matron swept in, accompanied by the breastfeeding expert, and a discussion ensued about whether or not I should attempt to do so, taking into account the small size of my breasts (the Czech doctor in Kumasi had assured me that ‘many European women are like this, but still manage to breast-feed'), and the fact that a segment of the left one was missing where a benign tumour had been removed in 1958. In the event, the baby persistently turned her head away from the breast, and was persuaded only with great difficulty to suck at all. On enquiring why I was bruised and sore all over, the nurses said that, under the influence of pethidine, I had become violent. Fergus telephoned from Geneva, sounding relieved and affectionate, adding that he would celebrate at a dinner hosted by Dr Ansari's secretary that evening. The green-eyed monster struck, leaving me feeling very much alone.

The next day my mother, Aunt Rosemary and San came to visit, soon to be joined by some of Fergus's relatives with whom they had little in common, apart from pleasure in the arrival of a new member of the family. A wrong note was struck when Fergus's sister remarked on the yellowish tinge of the baby's complexion, but otherwise conversation was limited to banalities, and I was relieved when they had all gone. I had feared I might be devoid of maternal instincts, like captive apes whose infants have to be removed in the interests of their survival, but happily my fears were unfounded, so six weeks later, when Fergus first met his daughter, I was coping well.

My mother enjoyed the new baby, involving herself with it in a way she had been denied during my own early months. So competent and happy was she, it was agreed to leave Katharine in her care while Fergus and I spent a few days at Greencastle on the Inishowen peninsula. The weather was superb, the sandy beaches blinding white; the sea reminded us of Cephalonia, and choughs tumbled around the ruins of early Norman coastal defences. We explored what remained of the old Black and Tans barracks on Dunaff Head, where my mother, Rosemary, Johnny and I had taken shelter many years before, and we walked on the springy cliff-top turf, pausing from time to time to make love in some secluded hollow.

In all the literature I had devoured on the topic of pregnancy, childbirth and the recovery therefrom, I never came across a reference to the fact that it is all too easy to conceive soon after giving birth, even before the resumption of monthly periods. Shortly before Fergus had to return to Ghana, we flew to London for a weekend break. While we were there, I realised another child was due. This time I would not be feeble ‘like most European wives', and would bring forth in Ghana rather than return to Northern Ireland. Despite my mother's unfortunate experience, her philosophy on marriage, based on acute observation of her school contemporaries, was surprisingly sound. Her comments were pithy: ‘She's really let herself go since the birth of that child – concentrates far too much on it – he feels left out, and if she's not careful, he'll find solace elsewhere – always had a wandering eye.' I knew that the strength of my relationship with Fergus would be fundamental to the happiness of any children we might have, and that nurturing it should take priority, but it took courage to break the news of the indecent interval to my mother.

An ill-conceived impulse led me to get in touch with my old friend Celia, who was by then mother of five children, and living in an isolated mansion in the Ligoniel area of Belfast not far from the Ardoyne estate, later to become infamous during the Troubles. The house, a solid Edwardian one in nearly an acre of tastefully planted grounds, would in today's parlance have failed the location-location-location test. A granny flat had been added to accommodate Celia's mother, who continued to invade their privacy and freely criticise their boozy lifestyle of dinner and cocktail parties. The details gushed from poor Celia as she led the way to a sitting room stuffed with floral cretonnecovered sofas and capacious armchairs. She drew my attention to the fine quality of the wood and plasterwork, in contrast to that of the new red-brick executive style villa at Cultra in which they had begun married life fifteen years earlier. Their only son, a spindly five-year-old with red hair, freckles and an eye patch, regarded Katharine and me with ill-concealed suspicion, before resuming his Lego project. He brightened momentarily on the return of his sister, whose name eludes me, from primary school; without an embrace, Celia told the child to go and have a wash before joining us for tea, as she looked a grubby mess in that dreadful uniform. The older sisters, rejoicing in the names of Daphne, Wendy and Dymphna, were at boarding school. I was godmother to Daphne – or was it Wendy? Ignorant of what an honour it was, I had performed no useful function since attending the christening ceremony some fourteen years earlier.

A maid came with a tray on which were a silver tea service, delicate bone china cups and saucers, sandwiches, scones and fruit cake, as well as soft drinks for the children, who were listless apart from showing perfunctory interest in Katharine when she showed signs of waking. Afterwards, Celia took me on a tour of the ground floor, pointing out further fine details. In the kitchen she paused to offer me a drink, which I declined; only when she helped herself to a generous gin and tonic, did I realise she was quite drunk. Her mother had not appeared, which disappointed me, as she had been kind when we were children. Apparently sharp words had been exchanged about the previous night's party, at which much booze had been consumed, and they had not spoken since. In defence, Celia reiterated her old mantra: ‘What's the harm in a little drink, if it makes the party go?' All the signs of solitary drinking were there, but it was another fifteen years before I identified with them. I departed with relief, pondering on what we had ever had in common apart from going to the same school. My impulse to meet again had probably been prompted by a wish to display our firstborn, and a need to demonstrate how happily I had emerged from a decade of social ostracism.

In the months preceding Katharine's birth I found two adjacent building plots at Craigavad, on the southern shore of Belfast Lough: they had an unimpeded view that stretched from Cave Hill to Knockagh summit and war memorial, below which was my grandparents' house, and further to Carrickfergus Castle and Larne. An architect was engaged to supervise the building of a flat-roofed bungalow for us, and my mother, who also designed her own house, took the adjacent plot, though dubious about living next to what she called a flat-roofed ‘monstrosity'. My riposte was that considering the estate – for that is what it was – abounded with individual expressions of bad taste, one more would not make much difference.

That August, for the first time, I flew with a baby from Belfast to Heathrow; the plane was fully booked, so Katharine had to sit on my knee throughout the flight. She dispensed smiles all round, and it was fortunate we had a forbearing neighbour who did not flinch even when a sharp upper-cut landed our meal tray on the floor. Luckily no liquid spilled, but at floor level I could see a river of rose-hip syrup snaking its way down the centre aisle from the bag which contained disposable nappies, Kleenex, and my own toiletries. The cabin crew were very helpful, reporting broken glass in the bag, that it would be a job cleaning up the mess at Heathrow, and wasn't it lucky that our flight to Accra did not leave until nearly midnight. Understatement of the day: the syrup had reached my jewel-case, and there were sticky areas in the carry-cot; Katharine threw a tantrum in the baby changing room, where the cleaning-up operation had been protracted. She fell asleep as we were boarding the plane, with the engines at full throttle. There were probably no more than forty other passengers, so I was able to spread our belongings over several seats. Those were the days – the stewardesses were solicitous, nothing was too much trouble, and travelling with a baby ensured preferential treatment. I slept fitfully in an upright position, while Katharine, at floor level, despite icy air-conditioning, slept right through. Fergus and the
WHO
representative, who later facilitated us through customs, were there to meet us, and a
UN
driver drove us straight to a luxurious guesthouse owned by the West African Buildings Research Institute.

Fergus was fortunate to have left Brazzaville just a few days before violent fighting broke out in the town, but he had imported a filthy cold, which I caught, then the baby, though she suffered only a minor version. Spock was, and remained, my mentor; he wrote: ‘baby seldom develops a severe cold during the first year'. What she did develop, however, was prickly heat a mere two days after we landed.

Accra in August was quite pleasant, with an ambient temperature below 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and overcast skies shielding the sun's glare. We took Katharine to one of the less popular beaches where the shore was rocky and bathing unsafe, but all beaches attracted gangs of accomplished boy thieves who flitted around the area between the palm trees and where cars were parked, waiting for any unattended item or unlocked car boot. I protected the baby too much, and myself not enough, so that my back got badly burned. Fergus, never a fan of beaches, and hating sand in the sandwiches, stayed in the shade of a palm tree, reading. His dislike was well founded, having twice had to rescue a child floating out to sea on an inflatable raft, while its inattentive parents sipped chilled drinks.

Our stay was protracted because of the many small things needing attention: car servicing, domestic and laboratory stores for Wa, identifying and claiming packing cases before arranging transport for them, getting new driving licences. I found the shopping excursions with an infant more complicated, although the Ghanaian girls were always happy to carry a white baby around. Twice we took her to lunch at the Ambassador Hotel and were not disgraced; at six months she was sitting steadily, and was transfixed by the collection of tropical birds, especially the South American macaws. Dinner parties were different: there would be no problem until we returned to the guesthouse, when she would wake and be lively and sociable into the small hours.

Katharine now saw more black faces than white, and unfazed by this, continued to dispense her usual charm to anyone who greeted us. Adda was back, although his duties were light because the guesthouse had a resident caretaker. His nine-year-old son, Yambah, was now with him, the child having travelled, with a friend of the same age, from Navrongo to find his father. A message had come from the nearby army camp saying that his son was there and please collect him. Yambah, when he came to greet me, was wearing a dirty dressing on his right leg to protect a wound, where ‘a stone have hit it one month ago'. The bandages concealed an ulcer, like a miniature volcanic crater, provoking me to give off in true Northern Irish style, admonishing both father and son, and emphasising that gangrenous limbs are often amputated as a result of such neglect. ‘Oh yes, we have seen in the north,' Adda said. Needless to say, an ulterior plan lay behind the visit. A list was produced of items to be purchased before admission to the Catholic Mission secondary school at Navrongo would be sanctioned, and financial assistance over and above Adda's monthly wage was expected. Fergus muttered a bit about being taken for granted, but coughed up the necessary amount, which was termed a loan, but was, in effect, a subsidy. Everybody knew this, but ‘face' was saved.

It was rumoured that all the ferries in the north were flooded, but despite this news, a lorry, loaded with Adda, the driver, two field assistants and a heap of wooden crates, suitcases and general stores, left Accra at five one morning in torrential rain on the first stage of the drive that was routed via Kumasi and Kintampo to Wa. We followed in our own vehicle, but the addition of a baby delayed our start till nearly nine – quite good going really.

Adda's information about the ferries had been unduly alarmist, although, after overnight stops at Kumasi and Kintampo, we were forced to take the long route via Damongo because the Bamboi ferry was out of action. At the Buipe ferry the water was higher than we had ever seen it. Katharine behaved well, sitting in her cot on the bonnet of the car while we waited in line for our turn to board, a novelty for rural people who saw few European children, and some shyly touched her. We reached Wa before dusk, much relieved to find that Adda had worked hard to make the house comfortable – even hot water and ice cubes were available.