Tefuga (21 page)

The noise of the night changed as the pop from Lagos broke off in the middle of a phrase. There was a short fanfare of brass, the classic tones of an announcer, and then a heavier voice speaking in slow sentences, the words inaudible at this distance but definitely English. Whoever was in control of the radio untuned the frequency and started to search the wavebands for more pop, only to find the same voice speaking from every station.

“What does he want me to do?” said Jackland.

“Take him to Tefuga.”

Jackland drew a breath but did not speak. As a journalist he must have been deeply intrigued to find himself involved in such an event. There were also calculations of interest—by no means all military coups are successful, and the brief broadcast announcing the take-over might well prove to be the high-water mark of this particular revolt. To have refused to help a senior politician in such circumstances could turn out awkward not only for Jackland but for the whole unit. But if the coup succeeded, to have helped might be even more dangerous.

“Please, Nigel.”

“I don't think I can. I am absolutely committed to driving Mary to Ilorin tomorrow morning.”

“In my car?”

“If possible.”

“There won't be any hire-cars. Not with a coup on. You could take him to Tefuga first.”

“Even if we started at first light …”

“He wants to go now. Major Kadu'll find he's got away …”

“He'll have road-blocks up already.”

“Uncle doesn't want to use the Highway. He wants to go out along the old track.”

“In the dark?”

“He says he can find it. He got us here without going on the road. I was utterly lost. That's why it's got to be one of your trucks. And there's no one else. Please, Nigel. I'll give you my car if you'll take him.”

“If it weren't for Mary I would. But …”

“Please. He's so sure you will. I warned him. He kept saying, ‘For the sake of his father he will do it.' And then you can have my car.”

Jackland sighed.

“I'll see what I can manage,” he said. “I can't promise. The trucks aren't mine to take, not like that. I'll have to talk Malcolm round. He might be glad of a chance to dish Major Kadu. No. Second thoughts, I can't tell him. I can't tell anyone, in case things go wrong. I'll just have to take one. Bugger. I don't like this at all.”

“But you're going to …”

“God. Yes, I suppose so. About twenty minutes. You'll hear the engine start. Wait for me where the track runs off the road.”

It was in fact slightly more than that before Jackland was ready to go. Last of all he returned to Miss Tressider's cabin. She was deep asleep. He tidied her blankets, then sat down and wrote a short note which he left propped up on the diary by her bedside.

Twelve

W
ed August 6

Marvellous news! For me, I mean. Bit sad for Ted, tho', cos it means Mr de Lancey's winning. Not the whole game yet, but a set anyway. Thing is, we're going on tour, specially ordered from Kaduna, and I've got to go too
so as I can talk to the villagers!
That's in the actual memo. Ted brought it over and showed me. Terribly decent of him. It's going to be a big show—the Resident (de L.), Ted, a detail of soldiers, our policeman and “a speaker of the Kiti language not allied to the family of the Bangwa Wangwa or any other dependant of the Emir”.
There absolutely isn't anyone else.
So there.

It's all a terrific secret. That's in the memo too. “E. Kiti is only to be informed in general terms that a tour will take place towards the end of the rains. Location and purpose of tour (detailed survey of Binja area to verify accuracy of 1917 census and assessment) are not to be revealed until the last practicable moment.” Oho, and likewise aha! Even little me can see what
that
means.

You see, after I took Mr de Lancey to the burnt village he must have gone home and thought about it. First off, he must have wondered if it meant anything at all. That's bothered me too. I mean, it does seem a perfectly extraordinary thing for natives to do,
inventing
a village just to show me. But I don't think it was quite like that. It sort of grew as they went along. First off, they'd tried just
telling
me at Tefuga, and that hadn't been any use, so they thought now they'd
show
me. It had to be somewhere near enough for me to get to, and they remembered this old village and decided that would do, only when they got there they saw they'd have to patch it up a bit or I'd see at once something was wrong. That must have been how it happened, and I think Mr de Lancey must have worked it out too.

The trouble is,
that
means it wasn't an accident me going there. The women must have told Elongo to bring me, and he thought of teaching me women's talk as an excuse. I've tried to ask him, but it makes him so unhappy I haven't the heart. But it's obvious from what Atafa Guni said that she'd worked out that telling me about the ‘toe' villages—actually showing me one—might be a way of getting rid of Kama Boi, which I'm absolutely certain is what they want to do if only they dared. And tho' she felt at the time I'd let her down dreadfully saying I wasn't going to kill Kama Boi (me!) I think it's going to turn out all right in the long run.

Anyway, Mr de Lancey must have decided that if something like that had been going on the best place to look was in the old assessment returns. There's always something wrong with them, of course—you can't expect illiterate natives to count right—but if the Hausa had been cheating on purpose there ought to be a pattern. So he got a crony of his at Kaduna to start looking back through old files and he came up with all sorts of things, mostly just counting mistakes, but almost always the same thing, ten or twenty or thirty too few—that's what you get by leaving out the ‘toes'. But the most exciting thing was a whole missing village! Mr Mooreshed found it. He was D.O. in 1919, only about four months, but he was a mad keen bug-hunter and he was out near Binja, which is a wild part in the south, after butterflies one evening when he walked right into a village which wasn't on the census. He just popped it in at the bottom of a page as tho' it was the most ordinary thing in the world (much more interested in his butterflies, I suppose) so no one ever thought to ask whether there mightn't be more like it. Mr de Lancey thinks there are, and so do I (in fact, I'm absolutely certain) and Ted thinks there aren't. So that's why we're going to Binja!

Reason I know about all this is rather interesting. I mean Ted would have told me anyway—we have to talk a lot of shop 'cos of there not being much else to chat about and of course Ted's had to spend hours and hours writing reports to Kaduna saying Mr de Lancey's got it wrong—but it didn't quite happen like that. Sometimes I think what happens inside us is really just as interesting and peculiar as anything that happens outside—and goodness knows you couldn't ask for anywhere more interesting or peculiar than Africa—peculiar, anyway … I'm in a muddle.

You see,
I think Ted knew!
Isn't that extraordinary! I don't mean he knew I'd let him down with Mr de Lancey—he absolutely couldn't bear that. He's still fighting de L. tooth and nail to save KB, and that's real. That's war—very polite and stiff-upper-lip, but war all the same. Fighting me's different—that's just a sort of game to keep us amused—it doesn't matter 'cos I can't actually
do
anything—but the rules of the game were that we had to pretend it wasn't happening.

I've only just worked it out properly 'cos of what happened after Ted showed me the memo (come to that in a mo), but really I've sort of half-known for ages, and so's Ted, I'm almost sure. I don't know since when. I've rather lost track. You see, after I had my gippy tummy (that horrible time I went out and found Mr de Lancey and took him to the burnt village) I didn't actually get better for quite a long time, and slap after that I had another go of malaria, and by then it was the rains.

You long for the rains. You can feel the electricity building up. You hear grumbly little bits of thunder and nothing happens. Everything, and everybody, gets horribly tense. Even dear Ted. Then, several days running, there's proper thunder and lightning, terrific! Boom, boom boom, and jigging stilts of lightning across the river, hardly stopping at all. For a few days you feel rather well (tho' I was still v. weak with my malaria) but after that it's rather miserable. Damp, muggy, hot, drizzly, everything streaming with wet, the mud floors slimy to walk on, shoes you put away clean yesterday green with mildew next morning, and the horrible reek of rot in your nose all day and all night. And almost worst of all, specially for Ted, no horses to ride. He sent them north with the grooms soon as the first drops fell and we aren't going to get them back for another month, except that now we are, 'cos of needing them for this tour, probably. Another worry for Ted. The rains are almost over now, but one way and another the last couple of months have been a pretty mouldy time. (Excuse the pun!)

So quite likely I mightn't have felt much like scribbling even if I'd been properly well, and on top of the malaria there was the ghastly fright I'd had after I'd shown Mr de Lancey the burnt village and found how wrong I'd been about that and how nearly I'd spoilt everything for ever between Ted and me. 'Cos of that I made up my mind I'd do just what Mr de Lancey had told me (well, he didn't, but that's what he meant) and stop worrying about KB and the Kitawa. Not just stop trying to do something about them, stop even thinking about them. Put my secret away in the back of a cupboard and lock it up and forget about it. Go back to where we were before we went to Tefuga.

But you can't. It's never the same—that's impossible. It was new, then. Even tho' we do and say exactly the same things it can't ever be new again. That's the difference. That's why you
have
to keep changing. If you don't it's like stagnant water. It's funny how much it can matter. You wouldn't have thought it would actually make my painting go flat, would you? But it did. I'd do everything right, but when I'd finished it wasn't any good. Nothing wrong with the picture, except that it was empty. Dead. And in the evenings, we'd chat and have supper and dance a bit, working ourselves up, and go to bed and … no salt!

The funny thing is it was Ted who worked out what had gone wrong, and what to do. I know I keep suggesting he isn't the most sensitive type, dear man—in fact, I wasn't sure he'd even noticed how samey and usual things were getting till about a fortnight ago. We were dancing after supper. Rather a nice night, not so muggy and sticky as it's been … dancing's funny when you're in that sort of mood, rather like taking a dog out on a walk and meeting somebody you're not sure you feel like talking to only they've got a dog too, and there you are saying “Good morning” outside and “Oh lor” inside and trying to smile while your two dogs (our bodies, I'm talking about) are hoicking at their leads and quivering all over and sniffing at each other! I don't mean I was really saying “Oh lor” about Ted—I don't think I was thinking about anything really, just feeling a bit dismal when I didn't want to—and then he slid his pipe sideways in his mouth and muttered in my ear, “Odd thing. Kaduna've dug up a report by a chap called Mooreshed …” and he started telling me about the missing village near Binja. He'd been saving it up, too. He could easily have told me at supper. That's what I mean about Ted knowing. You see, all of a sudden, deep in its cupboard, my secret gave a little squirm and reminded me it was there, and I was still thinking about it and wondering when we went to bed, and everything was all right. Much better. Lovely.

That's all wrong. I've made it sound as tho' I understood straight off what he'd done, and so did he.
I
certainly didn't, in fact I've only just really worked it out 'cos of what happened after Ted showed me the Kaduna memo. And I don't think he had it all plotted and planned either. People aren't like that. And anyway if he did it was different for him. My guess is he thought he was playing a sort of game, cat-and-mouse, telling me little secret tit-bits in the evening just as tho' he was the fat old general and I was the beautiful spy. (You think “How
could
they! They
must
have known!” Of course they did—that was part of the excitement. Bit of that with Ted, too, I think.) Of course, dear man, if he dared think with the top of his mind about any of this he'd shut up like a clam. He's got to keep it in the shadows underneath. Even there he thinks it's still only a game for him, 'cos he knows I can't do anything about it. There's nobody for me to spy for. That's what I mean about cat-and-mouse. He's teasing me, he thinks.

And I thought the same, I suppose—it was just fun, being teased like that. There wasn't anything I could do, and after my fright I didn't want there to be. Much better keep it just a game. Only now the memo's come and I am going to do something, I can see I was just pretending all along, waiting for my chance to come when I could break the rules of the game. Now it's going to happen. Hooray!

Oh dear, that does sound heartless. I oughtn't to feel like that when poor dear Ted
minds
so much. I simply didn't realize till just now, after he'd shown me the Kaduna memo. I was so cock-a-hoop it took me a while to see Ted wasn't. Usually he'd look forward no end to a tour. Of course he was grumbling away about Kaduna desk-drivers thinking they understood what went on in the bush, and how were we going to get bearers when every fit man would be wanting to work his land after the rains, and did they think we'd be able to make a surprise tour without horses—it'll still be the tsetse season, specially down south, and hammocking's far too slow. And that'd give the Hausa a reason for digging their heels in, too, as well as the business about working their land—oh, the usual Teddish things, and I was saying, “Yes, darling,” and chortling inside myself when all of a sudden I saw how absolutely miserable he was. He absolutely hates Mr de Lancey, and he's got to be a good loser in public …

So I jumped up and ran to give him a comforting little hug but he absolutely snatched at me and started to kiss me so hard it hurt (my mouth's still puffy) so I guessed what he wanted, tho' we've never done it before in the middle of the day but I thought why not …

But afterwards, oh, poor man! Honestly, it was almost as tho' I
had
been the beautiful spy and he'd come and said, “Look. This is what you asked for. I sold my honour to give it to you. Now you must pay me.” So I'd paid him, and he'd found it wasn't enough. Usually I think I understand my dear man rather well, but I'm not sure I do about this. I mean, if he
knew
it was me who'd started Mr de Lancey off on the right track, but he can't. That's nonsense, except that it feels as tho' deep inside him, without him understanding at all either,
something
knew.

Anyway, I'm going to be specially nice to him now. My side of the bargain. (Women have honour too!)

Fri August 8th

Terrific dramas! Kimjiri has run away! First we knew was me coming back from a painting expedish yesterday and sending Elongo to fetch K. so we could talk about meals and stores and E. coming back and saying the huts were empty. Gone, with all his wives and children! Ted was over at Kiti making arrangements for the tour (only three days to go!) and telling KB he'd have to see that enough of his people come, so I sent for Mafote, who said one of the big trading canoes had come to the landing-stage—K. must have arranged that while he was at the market yesterday—and K. and his wives and children had been ready and had all run down and gone away. M. called K. all sorts of names. He's not a good witness 'cos of being jealous of K. and wanting one of his wives for himself, Ted says, but I looked everywhere and I really don't think he's taken much. All I could do was hash up some tinned beef and carrots for Ted's lunch and try and break it to him gently. I knew he'd be cut up, and he was. K.'s been with him for years. Complete mystery. Couldn't have happened at a worse time. We absolutely have to have a cook to take on tour. Mr de Lancey's not bringing his.

Sat August 9

More drama (both kinds, inside and outside I mean). I remember Mummy when I was a little girl saying nobody who employed a cook ever need go to the theatre, 'cos of having quite enough comedy and tragedy at home, thank you! Of course I'd no idea what she meant then, but I see now. First thing, Ted came over for lunch saying it was going to be all right about not starving on tour 'cos Lukar said he could find someone. So that was all right. Great relief. But then, soon as he'd gone back to the office (loads of extra work 'cos of being off for the next fortnight) Elongo came to see me. He stood in front of me where I was sitting and looked at me like a schoolmaster. He didn't put his hands together and do his usual stiff little bow, but stood up straight as a soldier and said, in English, “You must not hire this man to be your cook.”