Eighty Not Out (16 page)

Early in September Fergus got a wire from Dr Ansari, proposing a one-day visit to Wa in mid-October: clearly he had not looked at the map, as he planned to fly from Geneva, land in Tamale at eleven in the morning, be driven to Wa the same day, spend the next day touring the project area, and on the third take the daily flight – which left early in the day – from Tamale back to Accra. No matter how the visit was scheduled, it would involve at least 800 miles on the road for Fergus. This was the first of many proposals showing how distanced some headquarters staff were from the reality of life in the field. Another wire announced an impending visit by the Bilharziasis Advisory Team.

Much progress had been made, thanks to Fergus's persuasive powers, on housing for junior as well as senior staff, as well as a rest-house for overnight visitors. The bungalow intended for us was nearing completion: it would be an improvement on the one we had at Kintampo, having three bedrooms and vinyl flooring throughout. There were even built-in cupboards, fans hung from the ceilings, and it was wired for electricity. This was a sore point, as we were to spend two dry seasons staring at motionless fans, before the generator went into action just before we left for the last time in 1965.

I loved having congenial visitors, though only a few of these realised how difficult it was to provide a succession of palatable meals. If they were working at the laboratory, I had to prepare breakfast, lunch and dinner; if the day was to be spent in the field, a packed lunch would have to be prepared. Some said: ‘Don't go to any bother, just cheese and crackers will do' – the only cheese we saw was tinned and had a bland rubbery consistency, crackers did not crack for long in the rainy season, and the crumbs were a magnet for ants. My home-made bread was variable, and it was a while before I learned how to judge the right amount of yeast, so that the result was neither dense and heavy, nor full of large holes (not the best for sandwich production). Everything, chilled cans of juice included, went into a large red plastic insulated box we had been lucky enough to find in the
UTC
store in Accra. Thermoses of iced tea were always popular, but the casualty rate was high, and replacements obtainable only at Tamale or Kumasi.

We moved from the old German house to the new bungalow in early September. The Kofi brothers voiced their approval thus – Daniel: ‘Oh Madam, it is very splendid'; Francis: ‘As befits your status.' Five months only remained before we would have to leave for the Swiss Mission Hospital at Agogo, near Kumasi, for the birth of the new baby, and they seemed to pass quickly. On National Founder's Day, 20 September, there was intense activity on the football ground, and a bunting-draped pavilion had been erected for the district commissioner and other dignitaries. An arch proclaiming ‘Freedom & Justice' went up, too, and the police band played a repertoire of old colonial tunes, ‘A Hunting We Will Go' among them. I made a token appearance at eight in the morning but departed to attend to the baby, leaving Fergus to survive until ten thirty on the dais seated next to the district commissioner. The platform, while lavishly decorated, provided no shade, and faced directly into the sun. The parade consisted of government officers in
MFU
Land Rovers, a contingent from Agriculture and Pest Control, the sanitary squad (bucket collectors), a few heavily caparisoned horses, and finally some tribal dancers twirling giant gold-fringed umbrellas.

Dr Ansari's visit was postponed indefinitely, but the bilharziasis team, one American, one Albanian and one Briton, were the first visitors to occupy the new rest-house. They made a congenial trio, who regaled us with gobbets of gossip from the incestuous world of biological research. Our duty-free liquor allowance dwindled rapidly, and the evening meal always concluded with coffee (local beans laboriously roasted and ground by me) and liqueurs. Because of my pregnancy, I did not drink alcohol, but do not recall feeling in any way deprived. During this period, Fergus made his first serious efforts to stop smoking: in moments of frustration, when delayed yet again at a ferry crossing, there would be outbursts on the lines of ‘I've had enough of this bloody country, its total lack of organisation and may its inhabitants roast in hell' – not politically correct, but after all, his association dated back to 1952, and it was symptomatic of his growing disillusionment with life in newly independent Africa. He began to negotiate for one year's leave to study for a master's degree in public health and hygiene in Boston.

The novelty of a white baby ensured that our house was never short of visitors, and Katharine loved their company. Yambah helped with feeding her when she was in a highchair messing around with solids, and neighbouring children battled for the privilege of pushing her around the compound in an antiquated baby carriage I bought second-hand in Kumasi. She adored Mousa Moshi, who was employed to keep the compound tidy and snake-free and to water any wilting plants. He could not bear to hear her crying, and carried her around while hosing the vegetables. Adda was less indulgent, resenting the extra work involved in boiling the daily load of nappies, which I insisted should not be mixed with the general wash. I sensed that our quarterly spat was approaching, but knew he would behave irreproachably until Yambah was fully equipped for school, and cash for his lorry fare back to Navrongo ensured.

Fewer Europeans were stationed at Wa than at Kintampo. The Russian geological team kept very much to themselves, although always courteous when encountered at the market. We were sorry for them because it was known they were forbidden to fraternise with other expatriates and had to report at two-month intervals to a senior party member in Tamale. American missionaries, with sallow, unhealthy-looking children, also observed exclusivity. The White Fathers, however, some of whom were stationed in places much smaller than Wa, were always grateful for hospitality, and provided useful, if hairraising, information about local affairs. I felt humble in their presence, admiring their resourcefulness and cheerful optimism in the face of repeated disappointments. One Irish priest, whose roots were near Dundalk, on the border between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, had not been home for seven years. He came to mind every time we descended through low cloud to the lush green patchwork of small fields surrounding Lough Neagh and Belfast airport, and I was ashamed of ever having complained about bush conditions.

When I was six months pregnant, our only medical officer went on home leave. Katharine, who had just begun to walk, was pottering around while I worked on another maternity tent. Suddenly she began to scream and was inconsolable for a few minutes. My first thought was that she must have swallowed a pin, although I was scrupulously careful to keep them out of reach. By the time Fergus returned to the house for a lunch break, there had been two more similar outbursts, so he said, ‘Pack everything at once, we'll have to take her to Jirapah Mission Hospital if we can get through.' The sky was steel-blue with fast-moving clouds, we could smell rain, and sixty miles of tortuous dirt track lay between Wa and Jirapah. The screaming fits had become more frequent, it was almost dark, and large raindrops were falling as we drew into the hospital compound. We were met by a surprised medical team, which did not wait for the results of a blood test, but took instant action on the assumption that it was malaria. In those days many doctors disapproved of such action, only to have patients die as a result. Within twelve hours it was evident the diagnosis was correct and Katharine, limp and exhausted, began to rally, and two days later we returned to Wa. Over the next few weeks there were violent electric storms, through which the baby slept soundly, while we cowered under the bedclothes, regretting that no lightning conductor had been fixed to the roof. In recent years several tragedies in the region had been recorded where the corrugated roof of a primary school had attracted a direct strike.

We now had to plan the trip to the Swiss Mission Hospital at Agogo, which had agreed to accommodate us before, during and after, the birth of our next child. Time taken away from his duty station, if it were not to be perceived as ‘desertion of post', would have to coincide with discussions with Ministry of Health representatives, and allow for field surveys to be conducted in the area. Accurate estimation of the birth date was critical, as I did not want to waste days waiting to go into labour, nor did I want to leave it so late that Fergus risked being forced into the role of roadside midwife. Friends tended to levity, insisting the only requisites were a sharp knife and a bottle of brandy to sterilise the knife: after cutting the cord, drink the remainder, then drive to the nearest hospital.

In mid-November we made another trip to Accra, during which Fergus met
UN
and Ministry of Health officials, and managed to trace a wooden crate from Northern Ireland, which contained, among heavier articles, a supply of towels, nappies, and the ubiquitous Wettex cloths. (In the end it did reach Wa, having been sent to Tamale, where it had lain unclaimed for several months.) I enjoyed these restful days at the West African Building Research Institute guesthouse, spending mornings on the veranda with the baby, trying to tame the large blue and orange lizards that abounded in the Achimota area: we used cornflakes as bait, and they came nearer by the day. A variety of butterflies and birds, such as pied crows and glossy starlings were always around to keep Katharine entertained. Another stinking cold struck, again affecting the baby minimally, but I took so many codeine tablets that I vomited blood, to Fergus's horror. It was during this stay that we heard the news of President Kennedy's assassination on the
BBC
World Service.

In the end it was decided that Fergus would deposit me and Katharine at the hospital, before going to Accra to meet his cousin Dorothy, who had agreed to help us for a few weeks after the birth. Shortly before we reached Agogo, Fergus had braked to avoid an errant goat, resulting in the baby's head hitting the steering wheel. Seat belts were not in use in those days, so Katharine spent long journeys asleep in her carry-cot on top of a pile of luggage in the rear, if awake on my knee, or when showing signs of boredom, on the driver's knee. We were greeted warmly, although I detected unspoken censure when the staff saw the egg-like swelling on Katharine's forehead, and the fact that she wore no clothes other than nappy pants.

The verandas of the two rooms we had been allocated overlooked a garden, which merged into nearby forest. Bougainvillea bushes, canna lilies, flame trees, oleander and zinnias bloomed against a backcloth of royal palms, amongst which were some delicate conifers, like those on Japanese wood-block prints. Egrets settled to roost there every evening and a faint breeze was almost always detectable. The noise of squabbling vervet monkeys, the occasional bloodcurdling scream, and unidentifiable cackles came from the forest, while fruit bats swirled overhead as dusk turned to night.

We joined the long communal table for the evening meal, which began with grace being said by the house mother. It was clear that punctuality was expected – any latecomer sat down in an atmosphere of silent disapproval. Conversation, for the most part, was in Swiss-German, which, despite having a rudimentary knowledge of German, I found incomprehensible. None of the women, apart from visiting patients, wore any make-up, and though the rule of changing for dinner was observed, the dresses worn reminded me of the immediate post-war era: limp floral prints with heart-shaped necklines and sparsely gathered skirts, frumpy footwear, even, in one case, boots with ankle socks. I saw no jewellery other than a crucifix, and almost all wore their hair screwed into a tight bun. Herr Doktor was monosyllabic and confined any exchange to other medical officers near the head of the table. It was expected that older children would be fed earlier, then left in the charge of an ayah, while the adults ate at the big table. Adda was accommodated in the servants' quarters, where the hospital expected him to take care of our laundry: not among Katharine's favourites, he was never called upon to baby-sit.

Fergus departed the next day to meet Dorothy at Accra airport, while I counted the hours until their arrival two days later. Despite the fact that we had adjacent rooms – one for Dorothy – and the run of adjacent verandas, it was difficult to prevent the baby straying into the corridor and other patients' rooms. The fridge we used was communal, a disadvantage when we wanted, after the birth, to prepare celebratory cocktails of gin, Cinzano, Dubonnet or Campari. No notice prohibited the consumption of alcohol, but we felt it would be regarded with disapproval. I remember the furtive way I sneaked ice cubes for sundowners, and the dread that a chilling bottle might be spotted by the house mother.

While Fergus was away, a Belgian doctor inoculated Katharine for smallpox. When I asked him to do it in an unobtrusive place, he argued that it was always better on the upper arm, and made two long scratches with a scalpel, rather than the half-inch one recommended. For mass schemes conducted by MFUs in primary schools, Francis Kofi used a multiple punch; afterwards, we regretted not having asked him to immunise Katharine, who had first been done while under six months old, when antibodies may not be formed. She had a serious reaction to both scrapes, running a temperature over 103, and I was affronted by a Dutch paediatrician, who in an offhand tone said, ‘Oh, just put some talcum powder on the rash.' When I persisted, she reluctantly prescribed some medication to ensure the exhausted child slept soundly.

Katharine was happy to see her favourite Irish aunt, and Dorothy, having been educated at a Masonic school, quickly adapted to the spartan regime. On the predicted day – 25 February 1964 – I went into labour at three thirty in the afternoon and Mary was born, ‘naturally', two hours later. Fergus stayed with me until we were in agreement that the fashionable trend for fathers to be present was neither natural nor helpful, so with relief, he retired from the increasingly messy scene, to join Dorothy who was trying to interest Katharine in a tin of Heinz Beans and Ham. Unlike my mother, who claimed to have given birth noiselessly, I screamed, recalling a friend describing the ‘beautiful experience' as like shitting a grapefruit. I hyperventilated, but knew the hospital's policy of no pain relief was well founded when exhortations to push harder were superfluous, and the baby's head was already showing. Within minutes a nurse held aloft something which Fergus subsequently likened to a skinned rabbit, pronouncing, ‘You have another beautiful daughter.' (Francis Kofi, that master of well-meaning tactlessness, later said to Fergus: ‘Oh, sorry, doctor, but the next will be a male, and after all, girls are more serviceable.') Delivery had been so rapid there was considerable tearing, so I was taken to another room to await the arrival of Herr Doktor, who would stitch me up. I was left, feet strung aloft, an adjustable lamp directed on the damaged parts, with the assurance that he would be along when he had finished his dinner, and would I like a cup of tea in the meantime?