Kitty glanced over her shoulder as she walked past the vegetable plot towards the end of the garden. There was no sign of Eustace and Gabriel; they were safely preoccupied in the pantry. Kitty had discovered them there after breakfast, crouched over the rat-proof bins that contained dry foods. Apparently, they were carrying out the monthly inventory of supplies, following some complicated procedure Cynthia had devised. Two weeks had passed since Kitty had become their new mistress, but the pair still ran the house as if the previous memsahib was in charge. The gardener, on the other hand, happily took instructions from Kitty. But he worked so inefficiently that the results were barely evident. He was out of sight as well, pruning bougainvillea at the front of the house.
The rear boundary was bordered by a tall hedge of a leafless, succulent shrub that the gardener called manyara. Lines of the plant marked out spaces all over Kongara – the edges of car parks, roads, gardens and even the small fields that were called shambas. Kitty walked along until she found a section that was sparse enough to push through. Shouldering her way between the shrubs, she snapped a branch. Milky sap oozed from the cut ends. Kitty shrank away from it; she’d been warned that if it got in your eyes, you went blind.
She checked her shirt for sap. It was the old one Janet had given her. As soon as Theo had left for work that morning Kitty had changed out of the cotton frock she’d worn at breakfast, dressing instead in these bush clothes, and putting on a pair of pull-on riding boots she’d brought with her from Australia. She’d felt guilty about deceiving Theo, but it was easier than explaining to him that she just didn’t want to go to the Club, the tennis courts or the shops today. She was tired of listening to talk of face creams that prevented shine, or the strips of tape you could wear between your eyebrows while at home, to train yourself not to frown. She was worn out with the task of either responding to Diana’s erratic ways, or discreetly ignoring them. She just wanted to be on her own.
On the other side of the hedge, Kitty crossed a strip of untidy ground that was neither tame nor wild. She found the remains of an abandoned maize plot, a few clay shards from a broken pot, and a tree trunk with all the smaller branches hacked off. Picking a path towards the brow of a low hill, Kitty took her bearings carefully. She knew better than to walk off into unknown territory without making a plan to find her way home – she’d grown up with stories of children getting lost in the bush, never to be found again. Janet had assured her that lions, elephants, rhinos – even buffaloes – normally left humans well enough alone unless they were taken by surprise or provoked. Snakes were a much more serious danger. As Kitty wove her way between thick clumps of grass, she kept her eyes fixed on her feet. Only when she reached the crest of the hill did she stop and look up.
She caught her breath, stunned by the beauty of the land spread out in front of her. A flat plain stretched away towards the foothills. Between patches of bush were wide swathes of bare earth – deep orange-red. Clumps of grass glowed golden against it. Here and there were giant baobabs with broad fluted trunks and strange twisted branches with no leaves. Each of them stood alone, as though the sheer power of their presence required separation from one another. Lifting her eyes to the hills, Kitty saw a carpet of soft green, scattered with ochre boulders. Beyond were the mountains with their steep rocky peaks. And above, a sky of flawless blue.
It was an artist’s landscape. The sky was pure ultramarine. Terre verte – ‘green earth’ in French – would make a perfect grey-green for the leaves, whose pastel shades reminded Kitty of the drought-proof gums and wattles of New South Wales. The shadows on the fluted tree trunks were a deep purple. (Not black, of course. There was no such thing as black.) To get the right tone for that, you’d use the same blue as the sky, plus a dab of red – Alizarin Crimson. Even the name of the paint was exotic. The pigment came from the root of a plant in the madder family. Humans have been using it since ancient times. A fragment of cloth dyed with madder was found in Tutankhamen’s tomb. The same dye was used to make the famous jackets of the Redcoats. Yuri had taught her this.
‘You have to understand your paints,’ he’d told her. ‘How they are made, what they can do. The artist must know the whole story.’
Kitty shook her head, pushing the memory away. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking about Yuri, or about her life as an artist. That was the deal she’d made with Theo – and with herself. Certain parts of the past were not to be discussed. They were not even to be remembered.
She walked on a short way towards where a large boulder. It had a flat top, almost as if it had been sculpted as a seat. She sat down, propping her elbows on her knees, resting her chin in her hands. As her gaze travelled over the plains she felt her thoughts beginning to wander again. In the house on Millionaire Row she found it easier to keep her memories boxed up, packed away. And if they did escape, it was not too hard to rein them in – she could feel Theo’s presence in the air, watching over her even when he was at work. But out here it was different. The land was so vast and open, with nothing to hide. Beside the power of the mountains, the strength of the massive tree trunks, and under the endless skies, Kitty felt small. Who she was, what she had done, meant nothing. It didn’t seem necessary, or even possible, to put up walls in her mind, dividing now from then.
As she sat there in her stone seat, she gave in to the memories that crowded at the edges of her mind. They rose up, vivid and detailed as the scene spread before her – carrying her back to another time. It was before the war. Before she’d met Theo, even. She’d only recently arrived in England, a young Australian abroad. One of the biggest adventures of her life was just about to begin . . .
On the steps of the British Museum, a pigeon pecked at some scattered grain. There were a few seeds near Kitty’s feet. She watched the bird move boldly up to her, then jab its beak towards the grey stone. It was midday and the sky was clear, but there was no heat in the sunshine that gleamed on the bird’s silky plumage. Kitty leaned against one of the massive columns that stood along the façade of the building. Cold seeped in through her coat and the soles of her shoes. But she barely noticed it. Her mind was full of images, impressions, of all that she’d just seen. She’d only walked out of the museum moments ago – the hushed air of the place had barely left her lungs – but already she was looking forward to revisiting the grand galleries full of art.
The scale of the paintings had struck her first: the sheer size of the canvases with their ornate gold frames. Then the colours – so rich and deep compared to photographs of masterpieces she’d seen in one of Gloria’s books. But it was the texture of the paint that had captured her attention the most. She’d leaned as close to the works as she was able, attracting dubious stares from the attendant standing in the corner. She saw how the pictures were made up of thousands of individual brush strokes. Yet when she stood back, everything came together into a single image. It was like a miracle.
The pigeon flapped away, drawing Kitty’s eye. It settled again, further down the steps. A young woman with red hair stood there, accompanied by two men. Kitty recognised the trio from inside the museum. They’d been examining the paintings as well, pointing to different parts of the canvases. The woman had even taken out a book and scribbled a few notes. Kitty had watched them from the corner of her eye, keeping very still, as if they were a species of wildlife that might easily be prompted to take flight. She’d studied the way they dressed, the way they behaved. The woman had an oversized coat that she might almost have borrowed from her grandfather. Snatches of bright red were visible at the neck and sleeve. Her hair was piled on her head in a messy heap, with strands hanging loose. The men wore tweed jackets, patched at the elbows, and soft collared shirts. One had a paisley scarf with sparse remains of fringes on the ends. They were at ease in the gallery, talking quietly but freely, undaunted by the frowning attendant.
Out here on the steps of the museum, they were even more relaxed – chatting and laughing together, the men smoking. Then an earnest look came over the woman’s face, suggesting a more serious conversation. She used her hands to add emphasis to what she was saying. The men nodded with enthusiasm.
Kitty watched the interaction, unable to hear any words, but picking up on the shared interest that flowed between the three. She felt a wave of envy, backed by acute loneliness.
Two weeks had passed since she’d left the home of the Harris family. They were distant relatives of her grandmother’s solicitor, Mr Walker. When he’d learned that Kitty’s parents – while stopping short of obstructing their daughter getting a passport – had made it clear she would be travelling abroad without family support of any kind, he had stepped into the role of advisor. He’d told Kitty where to stay in Sydney while she was preparing to leave, and had helped her book her passage on the ship. He’d even come to the wharf to wave goodbye, smiling at the young woman’s excitement over her tourist-class cabin – the place she’d call home for the six weeks of the voyage.
Mr Walker had arranged for Kitty to stay with the Harrises when she arrived in London, for as long as she needed. They were polite and kind, and seemed happy to have Kitty as a guest. But the house was very quiet. Mr Harris spent a lot of time at his club; Mrs Harris rested for much of the day and listened to the radio in the evenings. Kitty went out on a few excursions – visiting the Tower, and going to see Picadilly Circus and Big Ben. Aside from that, she spent many long hours in her room. She set herself drawing tasks – a draped scarf, a wilted flower – and read some books borrowed from Mrs Harris. The solitude Kitty had longed for, after living with four noisy brothers, did not feel like a luxury any more. Her basement room had a barred window, set at pavement level. When she sat by it, watching the passing parade of feet – shoes and boots, delicate and sturdy, old and new – she felt she was in a prison cell. Flipping back through drawings and paintings she’d made on the voyage – chaotic impressions of the Port of Bombay, dreamy watercolours of ocean sunsets – made her current situation feel even more dreary.
When she could stand it no longer, she made plans to leave. She thanked Mr and Mrs Harris for their hospitality and gave them a sketch she’d made of their house. She’d stood in the park opposite while she worked on it, resting her sketchbook on the wrought-iron fence. Using shading to highlight contrast, she’d made the building look dramatic, standing out from its neighbours. The couple had been surprised and pleased. Whether they were happy or dismayed that their guest was leaving, Kitty could not tell. As she left in a cab, having been vague about her destination, they wished her well.
When the cab reached central London she sat forward, looking out for the first glimpse of the famous Savoy Hotel. As the grand façade came into view, she felt a shiver of excitement. It ran through her whole body, a tingle in her blood. A man in a smart uniform opened the door of the car. Stepping out onto the forecourt, she squashed a sense of panic. Coming here was such a mad, extravagant gesture. She felt like a young woman in a story by F. Scott Fitzgerald – Bernice, Honoria, Josephine – or even the author’s real-life wife, Zelda. They all stayed in places like this. But that was not why Kitty had chosen it. The Savoy was Gloria’s favourite hotel. Kitty was certain her grandmother would have approved of her coming here.
Trailed by a porter carrying her scuffed old suitcase, she walked with her head held high – mimicking Gloria’s confident posture. The old woman had always pulled herself up to her full height when preparing to make an entrance, whether to a shearing shed, church or the general store. Kitty suspected that the doormen, so smart in their top hats, knew she was an interloper, but they displayed impeccable courtesy. When she was shown to her suite – the cheapest available – she’d been silent with awe.
‘Is there something wrong, madam?’ the bellboy had asked.
She’d shaken her head, still lost for words.
For a week she’d stayed there, taking lunch and dinner in the dining room, and breakfast on a tray in her suite. In the foyer she chatted to other guests – the ones who were friendly. She found their questions about Australia amusing and confusing by turn. Did she have a pet koala? Could she whistle on a gum leaf? Had she seen an Aborigine? Kitty had to consider how to answer that last one. She felt sure these English people were not picturing someone like Gunja, the itinerant farmhand who turned up to work at Seven Gums when it suited him. He had black skin and a mop of wild hair like Aborigines in picture books, but he wore ordinary clothes and carried a rifle instead of a spear. She made do with vague remarks about boomerangs and corroborees, hoping not to be asked for details.
Each morning and afternoon, she wandered in the nearby streets. She found interest in everything, from the luxurious shops to street carts, from ladies dressed in daytime furs and jewels, to a litter of stray kittens. The British Museum was only a few minutes’ walk away. Sometimes she went there just to look at the building itself. It was like a vast Roman temple with its row of fluted columns topped by a frieze depicting ancient figures dressed in robes. She felt there was a connection between this icon of London and the gold statue of a Roman soldier that was mounted over the entrance to the Savoy. The act of coming and going between the two places made her feel as if she belonged here – that she’d made this corner of London her own.
By the time she’d paid her bill, the funds in the bank account Mr Harris had opened for her were alarmingly depleted. She carried her own suitcase from the foyer and hurried past the doormen, shaking her head at the cab drivers. She set off for a place she’d noticed on one of her trips to the museum. There was a hand-drawn sign in the window of a soot-stained townhouse: Rooms Available. Cheap.
Since moving in there, she’d been truly alone. Her landlady showed up only to collect the rent, and her fellow lodgers hardly ever appeared. At least one of them worked at night and spent the days asleep. For companionship, Kitty had to make do with odd smiles or brief words exchanged with people she met in passing – while handing in her coat at the museum, or paying for food in the little pie shop she discovered. She asked herself what she’d expected, setting off on a journey by herself. Of course she was going to be lonely. The truth was, she’d pictured experiencing London as Gloria had – taking part in a whirl of parties and gatherings, meeting artists and authors, making friends and maybe even falling in love. But Gloria had been a sophisticated, educated woman who knew how to form connections. Kitty was just a simple girl from the bush. Even when she dressed up in some of the clothes she’d inherited from her grandmother – like the cream silk shirt, or the tailored dress and jacket that Gloria had declared to be timelessly stylish – she didn’t feel she carried them off. And when she wore her homemade skirts and shirts, or the hand-knitted cardigan given to her by Mrs Harris, she felt old-fashioned and boring.
Kitty peered along the museum steps to where the red-haired girl still stood chatting with her two friends. In that big overcoat, someone else would look like a tramp – yet on her it was almost glamorous. Perhaps style was something you were born with, Kitty thought – or else it went with your address. If either were the case, she had no hope of making an impression on anyone.
While Kitty was still watching, the woman pulled back her heavy sleeve and consulted a wristwatch. The men put out their cigarettes, grinding the butts under their heels. Then the three walked off down the steps towards the street.
Kitty could almost feel the warm aura of their camaraderie fading as they moved away. After only a moment’s hesitation she found herself heading after them. She didn’t intend to say anything. She just wanted to watch them a little longer. If they went to a teashop, she might go in there too. Or else, after a short while, she’d just let them go. She wasn’t ready yet to return to her small, cold room, where the curtains, the bedding – perhaps even the wallpaper – smelled of stale cigarettes, fried sausages and mould.
She walked just behind the woman, observing her blood-red shoes. Their style was a perfect mix of glamour and practicality. Unlike the coat, they were brand-new.
Before long, the three turned smartly onto a concrete path that led across a stretch of lawn. They were joined by other young people, walking in groups, in pairs or by themselves. Up ahead was a big stone building with grand pillars and a rounded portico. Kitty assumed it was another museum.
She kept her gaze fixed on the woman’s shoes as she followed her up a set of steps and in through a high, wide doorway. In the middle of a large lobby, Kitty faltered. The place didn’t seem quite like a museum. People were walking around too quickly, talking and laughing loudly. They carried too many bags and books. There were several marble sculptures on display – ancient-looking statues of male and female nudes. But they were grimy with dust. And the finely formed figure of a man, occupying an alcove near the entrance, had a tartan scarf tied around his waist. Kitty was aware of the three friends disappearing down a corridor. A man in uniform hovered by a desk. Kitty pretended to study one of the other sculptures while she decided what to do. On the wall next to her was a glass-fronted cabinet containing a noticeboard. Kitty glanced over a series of papers pinned up inside. She scanned them quickly, taking in phrases like Memorandum to All Students and Notice of Referral. There was one that kept recurring, both in headings and small print. She stared at the words as if they contained a rare magic.
The Slade School of Art.
After just a few moments’ hesitation, she turned on her heel and marched down the corridor, pretending she knew exactly where she was going.
There was no sign of the three people she’d followed in here. She walked steadily, her footsteps loud on the bare floor. Ranged along the corridor on both sides were banks of locked cupboards with numbers painted on them. Each one belonged to a student, Kitty guessed. There must be other corridors with other lockers, because the numbers she saw were in the three hundreds. There were more grey-white sculptures. A faint, elusive fragrance – like pine needles – drifted on the air.
Reaching a door that stood partly open, Kitty slowed her step. On tiptoes she crept up to it. Peering inside, she saw a dozen or so figures – mostly men but a few women too – standing at easels, painting. They were ranged around a central dais, which was the focus of attention. A woman sat there on a wooden chair, completely naked. She gazed out over the room with vacant eyes, while the students scrutinised her body. Her breasts were heavy; her nipples were round circles of dusky pink. Kitty took a step back. The image of a dark triangle of pubic hair stayed with her. She knew artists worked from life – just today she’d seen an oil painting of a man at work in his studio, with a naked woman as his subject. But still, she was shocked.
She moved cautiously to the doorway again. Keeping her eyes well away from the model, she looked at the students. Dressed in loose smocks that were densely patterned with paint marks, they all held a palette in one hand and a brush poised in the other. On each of the canvases was a painting in progress. Even Kitty could see that the works were of varying standard. Some showed clumsy shapes, lumpy and heavy. Others were made up of lines that were timid and weak. None had come close to truly capturing the softness of skin, the moulded muscle beneath, and the deeper strength of bones. Kitty hugged herself with her arms, as if holding in a secret joy. What a huge task it would be to learn how to achieve this! But what a wonderful quest to undertake.
A silver-haired man with an upright figure roamed between the students. Even at a glance, he was impressive. There was a sense of authority in the way he moved, and though he must have been in his sixties, he was still handsome. Kitty saw how the students stiffened as he came near, leaning back from their canvases, eyeing his face. She watched them taking in his words: a middle-aged woman struggling against despair and humiliation; a young man smiling with raw delight.
Kitty studied the students in turn, wondering who they were and how they’d got the chance to be in a place like this. She thought of the red-haired woman with her careless manner and extravagant shoes. Envy gripped her in its vice. These people had everything – paints, canvas, easel, model, teacher. They had a place to work, and the gift of time as well.
She pushed the door further open to see more of the studio. The hinges creaked loudly. The teacher turned around. As his eyes found her, Kitty froze. For a second, he too was immobile. Then he took a step towards her. Kitty jumped back out of sight. She made herself walk calmly away down the corridor. She’d done nothing wrong, after all. But she quickened her pace as she heard the door creak again, then footsteps coming behind her.
‘Wait! Please.’
Reluctantly, she stopped. She didn’t want to be pursued into the lobby, to be confronted by the man in uniform.
She turned to face the teacher. For a long moment, they just looked at one another. He wore a silk shirt, open at the neck, and a brown scarf. Silver hair grew from a receding hairline, falling to each side of his face, fanning out around his ears. He was like someone from the past, a character in a play. As he lifted his hand, rubbing his face, Kitty noticed a ring with a turquoise stone – the first she’d ever seen on a man. It repelled her and intrigued her at the same time.
‘Do not go,’ he said. It sounded more like a command than a plea. ‘I want to talk to you.’ He had a strong foreign accent.
Kitty eyed him in silence. He was studying her intently. His eyes were a bright blue, untouched by age. His brows were raised slightly in surprise. Kitty wondered if he had mistaken her for someone he knew.
‘Are you a student here? I have not seen you before.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I just came in . . . for a look.’
The man held out his hand – long-fingered, lean, with traces of paint in his nails. ‘I am Prince Fyodor Yurievitch. People call me Yuri.’
As Kitty took his hand in hers, she wondered briefly if she’d heard him correctly. She recognised his name as Russian, from reading Anna Karenina. It fitted with his accent. But why would a prince be teaching at a London art school? It occurred to her that he might not be telling the truth. On the other hand, there was something about him that suited the idea of royalty. The students were almost reverential towards him. His personality seemed to fill the air, making everyone else look pale and short of space. ‘My name’s Kitty.’
‘Kit-ty.’ He said her name slowly, stretching out the two beats. ‘Kitty,’ he repeated. ‘I want to paint your portrait.’
The girl stared at him, shocked. She thought of the chair in the studio, the naked woman.
‘You will keep your clothes on, of course,’ Yuri said quickly. ‘I should have said that straight away. Just your face. Neck and shoulders. Nothing more.’
Kitty shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Not here. Come to my house. It’s only just outside London. I’ll send a car. Bring a friend if you like.’
She laughed incredulously. Then she searched his face. He was completely serious. ‘I don’t even know you!’
‘All of London knows me.’ Yuri sounded impatient, rather than proud. ‘You can see my paintings in the British Museum. In Buckingham Palace.’ He waved an arm, taking in his surroundings. ‘I am a Professor Emeritus here at the Slade.’ He gestured back towards the studio. ‘People beg to sit for me.’
She just shook her head again.
Yuri began to pace. He took quick looks at Kitty, viewing her from different angles. Then he stopped, suddenly, as if an idea had come to him.
‘Are you an artist, Kitty?’
‘No. I’m not.’ She answered him firmly. But then she pictured her stacks of sketchbooks, every page covered front and back with drawings. And the dozens of paintings she’d taken down from the wall of her bedroom before she left. Her denial was an affront to all the hours she’d spent on them, working secretly in the shearing shed. All the tears that had fallen, smudging the pencil lines, the grubby tracks left by the rubber, the holes torn through cheap paper. She met the man’s gaze. ‘A bit.’
His expression lightened. ‘I will make you an offer. Come and sit for me. I will teach you.’
Kitty’s lips parted. She saw herself wearing a smock, a palette in her hand. She pictured herself squeezing tubes of paint, mixing colours. In the classroom along the corridor, she’d seen one of the students holding up his brush in front of his eyes. He seemed to be using it to measure the proportions of the model. There was so much Kitty could learn. So much she could be taught. Yearning broke inside her, invading her body. But when she thought about the man’s request, reality took over. He wanted her to come to his home, outside London. They might be there alone; Kitty didn’t have a friend to take with her. What kind of girl would even consider such an offer? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not possible.’
He turned his head from side to side as though to prevent her words from reaching him. ‘Please. I have to.’ His hands were clasped together, the knuckles white.
Kitty looked at him in confusion. He sounded almost desperate. She glanced back towards the studio. There were people in there he could paint. He could probably choose a model or a student from anywhere in the art school. It was impossible that a farm girl from Australia, who lived in a cheap room and ate pies and mashed potato for tea, could have anything special to offer him.
‘Why me?’
‘Why you?’ Yuri was quiet for a long moment, his hand resting thoughtfully over his mouth. He seemed to be trying to choose the right words. ‘Because . . . you are perfect for the painting I want to do.’
‘But why?’
‘You look like a Russian girl.’
Kitty frowned at him in surprise. She had no idea what a Russian girl might be like. ‘I’m Australian,’ she protested.
‘Lift your face, turn it to the left,’ Yuri instructed.
Kitty responded obediently.
‘Ah, yes. You are perfect for her.’ He sounded pleased, but there was an odd look in his eyes – one of sadness, perhaps, or regret.
Kitty took a step back, eyeing him uneasily. ‘Who? Who am I perfect for?’
‘No one real,’ Yuri said quickly. ‘A real Russian girl would be easy to find. What I want is someone who looks like the idea of a Russian girl.’ He fixed her with a gaze that was almost fierce. ‘What I want is you.’
A sudden rustling sound coming from the shrubs nearby pulled Kitty back to the present. She stared around her, instantly alert. She was puzzled: she’d made no noise or movement that might have caused some creature to slither or scamper away. Moments passed, with everything remaining quiet and still. Eventually she relaxed, turning back to the view. She watched a large bird, like an oversized crow with a patch of white on its chest, swoop down to land in one of the baobabs. Its stark black shape joined with that of the tree. The branches looked so stunted – out of proportion with the vast trunk. They were more like roots than limbs, Kitty thought, as if the whole tree had been planted upside down.
From behind her there was the snap of a breaking twig. She spun around. The leaves of a bush were moving as though a breeze had stirred them – but the air was still.
Kitty scanned her surroundings. Between two tall shrubs she glimpsed a piece of ochre cloth, a dark head, an arm. She caught the whites of a pair of eyes. Then she saw the figure of a man holding a spear – standing so still he was almost completely camouflaged. Near him, Kitty now saw, was an old woman bent over like a windblown tree. Not far away stood a child.
Kitty got slowly to her feet. She’d been lost in her thoughts, she realised, and not heard their quiet approach. The young man stepped forward. As if at his signal, the bushes became alive with movement. Men, women and children, young and old – even a couple of dogs – emerged. Before long, Kitty was completely encircled. Suddenly, she felt far from the shelter of her garden. It came to her that no one knew where she was.
She swallowed nervously. ‘Hamjambo,’ she called out. Greetings to you all.
Smiles lit up the faces. The greeting was repeated again and again, travelling through the crowd, being checked over and approved.
‘Hatujambo, Mama.’ It was the old woman who spoke.
‘Shikamu.’ Kitty’s next greeting was the one required when addressing someone older or more important. I kiss your feet.
‘Marahaba,’ came the reply. Only a few times.
There were more murmurs of approval. Kitty began to relax. She looked at the figures standing around her. They were draped in traditional plain-dyed cloths, men and women alike revealing bare chests, bare breasts. She saw pierced ears, the lobes so enlarged that they hung in loops to the shoulders. There were elaborate hairstyles, male and female. Strings of beads. Skin daubed with red mud, paint and ash. The wide grins revealed strong white teeth – though all of the men, she noticed, had one front tooth missing and a single round scar burned in the middle of their foreheads. She guessed these were ritual markings of the tribe Theo had mentioned – the Wagogo.
The people gathered closer. Kitty stiffened as hands reached out to touch her shirt, her arms, her hair. She smelled cow dung and wood smoke, along with the taint of urine and sweat. Their closeness added to the heat of the sun. Kitty wiped her brow with her hand.
A young woman thrust a child towards her. Kitty recoiled instinctively. The little boy’s eyes were gluey with pus, his mouth crusted with sores. His head wobbled weakly on a swollen neck. The mother smiled as if all were well. Kitty peered into the crowd. She saw, now, that many of the children were malnourished. Janet had taught her the telltale signs: frizzy hair leached of its colour, dry scaly skin, protruding stomachs. She even saw a teenaged boy whose forehead scar, though clearly once healed up, had broken down at the edges into a raw sore. Some of the adults were in poor health as well – a few appeared seriously ill. One man had nodules of flesh all over his face and half of his nose had been eaten away. Another held his head at an angle, his neck distorted by a large lump.
Kitty swallowed on a wave of nausea. Her skin began to crawl. Faced by the mother’s complacent manner, she felt almost angry.
‘Mtoto wako ni mgonjwa,’ she said to the young woman. Your child is sick. ‘Why do you not take him to the hospital?’
Hospital. The word was passed around, meeting blank looks.
She tried another word. ‘Dactari?’ Doctor.
Now they understood. The mother pointed at a leather pouch tied around her child’s neck. Kitty recognised a witchdoctor’s charm; Janet had told her about them, too. According to the missionary, the methods the witchdoctors used – whether they involved superstition or native medicines – ranged from useless to life threatening.
The man holding the spear, whom Kitty had seen first, stepped up close to the child and his mother. He spoke in simple Swahili. ‘I have told her. She must take the boy to the Mission.’
‘Is there a doctor at the Mission?’ Kitty asked.
‘There is no doctor. But the white lady, Sister Barbara, she has good medicine.’
Kitty shook her head. ‘This child needs to see a proper doctor.’ She thought of the hospital she’d seen on the tour of Londoni that had been arranged for her by Theo. Lisa had guided her proudly through the facilities provided by the OFC – cinema, pharmacy, veterinary clinic, library. The hospital was in a big, new concrete-block building. It consisted of two wards, an operating theatre and an outpatients clinic. At the time of Kitty’s visit there had been a child in one ward, recovering from having his tonsils removed. A man with a bad cough was the only patient in the other. Neatly made beds stretched out, empty, to either side of him. In Outpatients, a fair-haired man in dirty work clothes was having a gash in his arm stitched up. The place was anything but busy.
Kitty felt the gaze of the young man. She wondered if he knew about the hospital. She guessed people like these would not be welcome there. There could be a clinic for African workers down on the Units – but since Kitty didn’t know if there was, or if these people would be treated there, she said nothing. She was relieved when a teenaged girl drew everyone’s attention by lifting up a strand of Kitty’s hair.
‘Maradadi,’ she said admiringly, as she let it fall. Smart. Beautiful.
‘Thank you.’ Kitty imagined what they’d have thought if she hadn’t had most of her hair cut off. The soft thick strands were so utterly unlike their own tight curls. She smiled at the girl. ‘What is your name?’
Before she could reply, the old woman called out – her voice was cracked with age, but Kitty grasped her meaning: Do not tell your name to this white lady!
For a second, Kitty was offended – she was just being friendly. But then she remembered Janet mentioning that many Africans believed a name held power over its owner. Exchanging names required trust.
‘I am sorry,’ she said to the old woman. She wanted to acknowledge that she’d been wrong to ask such a question, but the Swahili was beyond her.
The woman seemed to understand. She bowed her head, accepting the apology. Unwilling to risk making another mistake, Kitty remained quiet. She just watched the people while they, in turn, watched her. Seeing more evidence of ill health – and even hunger – she wished she had a solution to offer. Whatever help the people were able to get from the local missionaries, it was not enough. Janet had been quite right. The need, here in Africa, was so great.
Soon the Wagogo started chatting among themselves, occasionally directing a comment to the foreigner in their midst. Kitty began to make cautious replies. Time passed unnoticed, but then she realised she should head home before Theo arrived for lunch. She pointed back the way she’d come. ‘I must return to my house.’
She set off in the direction of Millionaire Row. Without hesitation, the people joined her. A child sidled up and took one of her hands; another followed suit. At first, Kitty was distracted by the fear that they had skin infections or infestations of lice that would spread to her. But the little hands felt so small in hers, the children’s gestures so trusting, that soon she did not want to let them go. A song began and grew as it gathered voices. The young man strode ahead, kicking sharp stones out of Kitty’s path with his bare feet.
As she walked, Kitty found her eyes drawn to the women – the older ones with withered breasts draping their bony chests; the mothers suckling babies, nipples oozing milk; and the young girls with perfect little mounds that barely moved as they walked along. They were all completely unselfconscious about their bodies. They might have been models posing in a studio without walls – subjects of a painter like Yuri, whose only interest lay in stripping back the layers, seeking the truth of flesh laid over bone.
The people accompanied Kitty until the garden hedge came into view. Then they dropped away – moving as quickly and silently as they had when they’d made their first appearance – leaving her to carry on alone.
‘You wouldn’t believe it, Kitty.’ Theo pulled a starched white napkin from its ring and laid it over his lap. ‘Down at the Units today I saw a foreman ask some Africans to move a load of wheelbarrows that had just been delivered. They had to be put away in the store.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘The men picked them up and carried them on their heads! You’ve never seen anything more absurd.’
Kitty smiled as she smoothed her own napkin over her knees. ‘Could I come to the Units with you one day?’ she asked. ‘I’d love to see what’s happening down there.’
‘There’s not much to see – for all the work that’s been put in. I suppose I could arrange it some time. Just a quick look.’
‘I don’t mind waiting there while you do your work.’
Theo shook his head. ‘That’s not the issue. It’s just not the place for you to be. If you knew the types we’ve got down there, you’d agree. Those Irish bulldozer drivers – they set off for the day with a bottle of brandy in each pocket. That’s breakfast and lunch. We have to send them to Nairobi to get dried out every six weeks. If they weren’t so good at their jobs, we wouldn’t put up with them for a minute.’
Kitty watched Theo cut a slice of his schnitzel. There was a separate weekly roster for lunch menus, she had discovered, and today was crumbed steak. She let him swallow his mouthful before speaking again. ‘Could I visit the Tractor Workshops, then? Lisa said they were here in Londoni, but she didn’t include them in the tour.’
‘Why on earth would you want to go there?’
‘Remember how I met those engineers on the plane? They told me they were going to be teaching the Africans about engines. I’ve been thinking – I might be able to help.’ Kitty tried to slow down her words. She didn’t want to betray the fact that she’d spent quite some time considering the idea after her encounter with the Wagogo. She’d decided she simply had to find something useful to do with her time. ‘You see, none of them know a word of Swahili.’
‘Out of the question.’ Theo sounded shocked. ‘They’re a rough lot as well. It’s a man’s world out there.’
‘But there are women working in Londoni. I’ve seen them.’
‘Of course there are – secretaries, nurses, hairdressers and what-have-you. But they’re single women who have come out here to make a contribution. And it’s no picnic for them, I can tell you. We’ve got them accommodated in rondavels. You’ve probably seen them – mud huts with canvas tops?’
Kitty nodded. The tiny round buildings were interspersed with the tents in the area around Head Office.
‘We’ve had incidents where intruders have tried to climb over the walls at night. The OFC has actually issued machetes to the ladies so they can defend themselves.’
Kitty tried not to look shocked. She pressed on. ‘Are there no married women working here, then?’ It seemed surprising. During the war, all kinds of women had joined the workforce in England: age, marital status and social standing were no barrier. Kitty herself had volunteered in a factory for a while, painting camouflage designs on aircraft. Most of the women had given up working when the servicemen were de-mobbed – some returning rather reluctantly to their domestic duties. But here in Kongara there was a shortage of people and an oversupply of work. Everyone was busy and stretched.
‘There are a few married women,’ Theo conceded. ‘They’re staff wives with no children.’
‘Like me.’
Theo sighed. ‘No, not like you. You are married to the Manager of Administration. It would be absolutely inappropriate for my wife to have a job – let alone one that involved hanging around at the workshops. I can’t believe you don’t see that.’
Kitty cut her slice of schnitzel into small pieces, her knife scraping harshly on Cynthia’s bone china.
‘So how was your day?’ Theo asked.
Kitty didn’t answer straight away. When she’d returned from her walk she’d felt guilty about how easily she’d slipped back into her artist’s mindset – looking at the landscape and then remembering how she came to meet Yuri. She’d decided to keep her adventure to herself. But after the things Theo had just said, she felt a surge of rebellion. ‘I went for a walk. By myself.’
‘Where to?’
‘Behind Londoni, up towards the mountains.’
‘How did you get out there?’
Kitty pointed in the direction of the back garden.
Theo frowned in disbelief. ‘You mean you just walked off into the bush?’
‘I’m used to being in the bush.’
‘This is not Australia! There are wild animals out there.’
‘I didn’t see any,’ Kitty said. ‘But I met some local people. There was quite a large group of them. They seemed to be just wandering around. Like me.’
Theo put down his knife and fork. ‘That was a dangerous and foolhardy thing to do, Kitty. Some of these bush Africans have had virtually no contact with civilisation. Who knows what they could have done.’
‘They were friendly, actually.’
‘Promise me you won’t do anything like that again!’ Theo said.
‘Then what can I do?’ Kitty looked down at her hands, gripping the edge of the table on either side of the rose-patterned plate. She didn’t need to remind him that he’d made her give up the one pastime she loved, and that she’d always been able to do.
‘Go to the Club, go shopping. Do what the others do. Surely it’s not too much to ask?’
Kitty said nothing.
‘Soon we’ll have to begin entertaining. It’s expected, you know. That will keep you busy.’ Theo caught Kitty’s eye, smiling while chewing.
She took a sip of water, then found it hard to swallow. She had a bleak vision of the days stretching ahead, battling Eustace and Gabriel at home and being wary of her every step in the world outside.
Theo ate a couple of mouthfuls, then put down his knife and fork again. ‘Kitty, you may not think your role here is important, but in its own way it’s as vital as mine. Your job is to set an example to the other wives. Kongara is a small world, where everyone has his place. If one part functions badly, the whole project will suffer.’ He looked intently at her. ‘You believe in what we’re doing here – don’t you?’
Kitty gave a shamefaced smile. He sounded so kind and reasonable. She remembered how the man on the plane had talked about the war on hunger. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I do.’
Theo settled back in his chair. ‘Good girl.’