Girl with the Golden Voice (39 page)

Anne Frank, the Jewish girl who had been cut off from normal society had given her the idea of writing down thoughts and feelings she must keep hidden. Anne had her Kitty, her make-believe friend, to read her secrets. Rebecca had her Mary, her kind and sympathetic best friend, as her unsuspecting confidante. Her large red book was her safety valve, a place where she could explore her own depths. Sometimes the freedom of thought it created brought tiny slivers of hope.

‘Julius has fooled himself into seeing me as some desirable creature. He has seen something he thinks he wants and he must have it. He would probably describe his lust as love. Like the spoilt child he is he wants this toy above all things. If I offer myself to him he will soon become bored with me, the easy conquest, and move on to the next desirable novelty.

But the animal lust is a strong force in him. The thought of it causes me to shudder. He will not cast me aside until he has taken full possession …'

‘I have just left Maxine the Flamingo, “Coiffeuse des Dames” as she likes to be called. She is a lovely lady, but you would never want to share a secret with her! I picked up a magazine,
Samba
, written in English but mainly for Hispanic women. “Think long and hard” was a title that I was drawn to. Wow! It was about mixed marriage, a sad story, a lament written by a lawyer's wife, a Bolivian woman from a poor family who had married into a rich Long Island family. Such a lot of prejudice, pressure on her kids, a husband who thought she was making a fuss about nothing. What a tough lady! Optimistic, too. “Before you sign up look ten, fifteen years down the track. And remember, if you only look at his bank balance and his body today, you'll pay your own price tomorrow”.

Hispanics are Europeans and they have trouble! Black and white in Kenya, worse still!'

The days were drifting down to the time of her return. The disc was almost finished. Awesome was the word Toni used to describe what was going on in the night-time concerts. The audiences were overwhelmed. They had come along to see this African band who were building a reputation for being pretty hot. The opening instrumental numbers were no disappointment. The lights dipped briefly and when they rose again a tall girl in a plain white dress stood centre stage.

‘Look at this! A black angel!' from a man in the front row and seconds later, ‘Yeah! With a voice to match!'

For the shrewd music lovers, who noticed small details, Rebecca impressed with the unemotional control of her performance. This inexperienced kid who had come to them out of nowhere cast a magical spell which drew her listeners through a wide range of emotions without allowing herself to become involved. The feelings were there but they were not tearful but steely. The truth was kept private. These same observers guessed that some deep pain was a mainspring of this special quality. Rumour had it that she would soon be taking this talent back to some backwater village in darkest Africa. Crazy!

ebecca looked down at her diary. As they took off on the flight out of New York, she had changed its name from Mary to Rafaella. It was the first time she had opened the book outside the privacy of a room. But everyone else in that club cabin on its way between London and Nairobi had their lights turned off. Perhaps they were asleep, but for her sleep was neither possible nor necessary. Tom would be at Jomo Kenyatta. She was dreading the moment when they would come face to face. Her resolve to protect him in the only way she knew had not weakened.

‘I wonder what we'll say. I have imagined this meeting a thousand times. Please, God, guide my mouth and my eyes.

They can be the great betrayers. I've never had my heart broken before. And now I have to hurt the people I love most without a hint of explanation. I am beginning to understand why so many people find a strange comfort in drugs and drink. Can I do this thing?'

There was no steely grip on the emotions now. Her insides were being churned up relentlessly. How wonderful to be in a state of everyday boredom where she could check the menu of films on offer and pick one out and be distracted by it.

Some relief came when she drifted off into a long doze. When she woke, she saw the open page of her diary but knew that it wasn't in her to write a single word more. She was nervous, afraid and without energy. For three weeks her only contact with Tom had been via a piece of plastic and wire. The calls had become difficult and she had come to dread making them. She had learned to lie, how successfully she could not tell. She hated herself for it. Lies. White lies, another expression she first heard in Santa Maria. She remembered the laughter Sister Fiducia had caused when she had explained to a class of fifteen year old black girls.

‘Oh, yes, girls, black people can just as easily tell one as any white bwana!'

Rebecca was learning that being a liar was more than speaking untruths by means of using words. The time for lies was finished. Part of her was glad for this. Her life was about to enter turbulent waters and she hoped she would survive. Her single piece of forward planning was that she would give herself a week to move the huge change on and begin by telling Tom that afternoon when they went for a walk by the lake. Plans don't always work as they should.

They met in the arrivals hall. As she emerged with her trolley she did not see him at once. The hall was crowded and she was surprised when a loud round of applause broke out, more surprised when she realised that the clapping and shouting was for her! And there he was, breaking through the line of people hogging the barrier opposite the exit from customs. He ducked under the barrier and in seconds they touched hands and were locked in a tight hug then into a long kiss which was greeted by cheers and whistles. Their faces touched. The smooth cheeks were damp They broke apart briefly before launching into another hug, rocking from side to side rhythmically. They were jostled as they zigzagged the short distance to the car park. Tom pushed the trolley through the crowd who were pressing to get near to Rebecca, wanting to touch her hand or greet her with a smiling ‘jambo'. Tom had organised transport to take them to Wilson and the driver of the dark green Mercedes taxi interrupted his furious polishing to open the passenger doors and stow away Rebecca's two suitcases.

Tom took the long route home. They flew south leaving the sprawling confusion of Nairobi to their left. Passing over the Kajiado district of Masailand, Tom pointed the nose directly at the huge bulk of Kilimanjaro. The great mountain was eighty kilometres away but, plainly visible, the snow-cap gleamed like a giant ice cone in the bright morning sun.

Just before reaching the Tanzanian border, they turned back on themselves. They were soon skimming the plains and woodlands of the Mara. The waterholes were full and the grasslands were between colours, burnt dry and lush green, the earth the familiar red brown.

‘Look! They've all turned out to welcome you home. We've missed you.'

Everywhere they looked herds were grazing peacefully. All too quickly these were left behind and the white craft was over the plains of the valley dotted with the patchwork of hundreds of shambas.

Conversation was fitful. It was enough to enjoy the exhilaration of the moment. Most of what was said was general small talk. The love they had for each other was deeper and purer than ever. While they were apart, he had experienced a mounting unease. So often their conversations that he had looked forward to as the high point of his day turned out to be a disappointment. There were the long pauses, the hesitations. Once or twice he wondered if there was someone else in the room with her as she talked. When he had asked if there had been a problem, she had reminded him how uncomfortable she found it to use the phone. Seeing her, being with her for two hours had swept away all the doubts.

Those same two hours had moved her, too. On the descent to Nairobi she had been steeling her resolve to stay strong. Here, in this little world above the world she let go, careless of where this indulgence would lead. Instead of creating a fear that she would pay a price for this, she felt a release into freedom, a revelation that the control she thought she had over events was an illusion. A spark of hope flashed, briefly but strongly. Her old uninhibited smile lit up her face. The sun had come from behind a heavy cloud.

The glowering, dark ribs of Longonot declared that they were nearly home. The wide stretch of the lake appeared out of the haze and Tom was preparing to land. The tension within her began to rise again. Tom had said nothing about the likely reception. She hoped it would be quiet and private. It was not. As the wheels reached out for touchdown, she could see the bright block of colour at the far end of the runway. This time the eyes focused on her knew her well, some of them since the day she was born. Country people were sharp observers. She hoped she was a good enough actress to protect her secret for a short time, at least.

The first part of the welcome home came on Crescent Island. There were scores of men and women allowed up from the fields to wish her well with singing and dancing. They were full of enthusiasm, partly, she thought, because they had been given an unexpected hour off. There was a scramble over who should carry her bags. It ended with four or five boys carrying one and the same number of girls happy to get a touch.

An excited procession led them along the twisting path to the grassy area in front of the veranda. The cheering broke out louder than ever as Rebecca and Tom climbed on to the veranda to be with the families. Bwana McCall satisfied the crowd with some warm, welcoming words to his future daughter-in-law and five year old Alice, the youngest child in the family next door to the Kamaus, presented her bunch of newly cut roses.

Rebecca was a good actress, but something about her eyes, her expression was not quite right. Maura and Rafaella had noticed it, independently of each other. Perhaps it was tiredness after a very long journey. Rebecca normally viewed the world calmly, even serenely, opening and closing her eyes with slow, langorous movements. Today, as she hugged her mother and father, those eyes were constantly on the move glancing sideways, darting here and there, anxiously looking out for someone or something. The McCall ladies said nothing to each other, nor to anyone else, but they both made a mental note for future reference and went on with preparations for the party that evening.

Rebecca and Tom arranged to meet when work in the fields was over. He went off with his father and Stephen while she hurried through the house to the laundry garden to find her mother. Without a word Rebecca slipped out of her coat and plunged her arms deep into the warm, soapy water.

‘Mama, in America they call this therapy. Rich ladies pay money to do it.'

Angela laughed. ‘There seem to be many crazy people in that country. Perhaps they have too much money. I have seen many pictures in Memsahib's books of their expensive parties. The party here tonight will not be like that.'

Rebecca did not miss a stroke as she thumped a bath towel against the shiny grey concrete of the wash troughs, but the unexpectedness of the news sent her into a mild panic. She plunged her arms deep into the trough and stared out over the drying lines towards the cei-apple hedge. The sound of a deep sigh was masked by the midmorning breeze and the sloshing and slapping of the water.

‘Mama, when the washing is finished, I will go home and rest. The tiredness is catching me.'

‘Go now, child. Your sisters are excited. They will be home early from school and they will be noisy. Do not expect too much sleep.'

‘I will finish the washing first, Mama. I love being here with you.'

It was quiet in the village, but Rebecca did not sleep. There was a note from Tom asking her to meet him at Bertie's place about four-thirty. They were invited for tea. She spent the few hours she had to herself in a kind of painful meditation. For a long time she lay on her bed and tried the impossible task of emptying her mind of all thoughts. Then she moved on. Since the moment she and Tom had embraced in the arrivals hall of the airport, her life had been wonderfully happy, joyful. Love was everywhere, in the familiar places and the familiar people. She took time to relive the happenings of the morning. Even she, with all she knew and believed, was half convinced that to give up such a life was crazy. She allowed herself a short time to dream what such a future could hold.

Then she took out her diary and read it through. The words, the thoughts chilled her. There could be no other way. A random flash of a picture comforted her and shocked her, even frightened her that God would punish her for allowing it to enter her mind. She saw the Lord Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane on the night he was taken off by the men sent to take him off to trial.

She let her mind dwell on the scene that was so familiar to her, the agony of Jesus and the longing for events to be shaped in a different way.

‘Please, Lord, forgive me. I don't mean to blaspheme. Dear God, you know all this. And you know what lies ahead even for me. I am weak. I can't see straight. I beg You to be close to me, holding me, leading me. I am walking through that dark valley, but I know that You are walking with me.'