SIX

Kitty sat in a chair on the verandah, legs crossed at the ankles, a crisp cotton skirt covering her knees. She gazed out at the view of Londoni. In contrast to the place where she’d just been, it looked even more lifeless and barren than usual. As she ran her fingers thoughtfully over the string of pearls that draped her neck, images from the day cycled through her head. She saw the kitchen gardens, densely packed with vegetables and herbs. The bright patches of flowers that had been planted alongside the crops, as though colour mattered just as much as food. Airy chicken sheds. A pen with two fat pigs. A pond dotted with ducks.

‘Why is everything so green?’ Kitty had asked Father Remi as he’d led her on a tour of the Mission. Just being in the foothills didn’t explain such verdant growth.

‘There is a permanent spring on that hillside.’ He pointed up behind him. ‘We pipe it down here. We have all the water we want.’

Tesfa walked with them, along with two small children who giggled shyly whenever Kitty even glanced at them. Father Remi was relaxed now that the prisoners had left and the hard work of the day was behind him. He paused to pat a kitten resting in the sun, and to pick a sprig of thyme, rubbing it between his fingers to release the pungent oil.

Kitty bowed her head, walking beneath a frangipani tree laden with cream and yellow flowers. She drew the strong perfume into her lungs, wanting to drive out the smell of blood overlaid with antiseptic that still lingered with her. Before the askaris had returned the prisoners to the trucks, a number of men had left the main groups, gathering by one of the arched doorways. Father Remi called them into a large room where he unlocked a metal cabinet containing labelled chemist’s bottles, boxes of tablets, rolls of bandages and other medical items. With the help of the old African nun, who’d been introduced as Sister Clara, he’d begun treating cuts and sores, examining eyes and using a thermometer to check peoples’ temperatures.

When Kitty offered to help, Father Remi handed her some Dettol, a plain jar containing some kind of ointment, and a roll of cotton wool. He showed her where to fill a bowl of water. Then he beckoned over the man with a dirty bandage on his leg who Kitty had noticed earlier. ‘Just remove the bandage and clean the wound. Before you do the dressing, dab on a bit of the ointment. I make it myself – it works well. Ask me if you need help.’

The prisoner sat down on a chair and Kitty knelt in front of him. A sour smell rose from the bandage as she unwound it. The last section was stuck to the wound beneath and she had to soften the dried blood with warm water before she could lift the gauze away. She was conscious of Father Remi glancing in her direction as she laid bare an ulcer the size of a large coin.

Kitty studied the sore. A thick scab covered most of it, but pus leaked at the edges. She frowned, remembering what Janet had taught. A wound must heal from the inside out. A scab can hide a deepening infection . . .

Kitty picked up a pair of tweezers from an enamel kidney dish and poked at the scab. She looked up at the prisoner. ‘Samahani.’ Please excuse me.

‘Si neno,’ the prisoner responded. It is nothing.

He didn’t even wince as she began to peel off the scab, which made Kitty wonder what level of pain or discomfort the man had become accustomed to – while in prison, or before. Finally, she pulled the scab free, tearing the skin fibres underneath. Raw flesh was exposed, pale pink against the man’s black skin. Dark fluid oozed out. Kitty swallowed on a surge of nausea.

‘Vizuri,’ she reassured the prisoner. Good.

As he nodded, obviously trusting her completely, Kitty was aware that Father Remi was watching her. She turned to the task of washing out the gaping hole.

When the sore had been cleaned and disinfected, she used a cottonwool ball to smear on the musky-smelling ointment before putting on a new bandage. Kitty wondered how long the white dressing would stay clean, and how long it would be before the pus soaked through again.

‘Do you have scissors?’ she asked Father Remi.

He brought her a pair, then stayed to watch as she cut the end of the bandage in two so she could wind one strip back around to meet the other, where it could be tied securely.

‘You said you were just a wife,’ he commented. ‘I think you are a nurse!’

Kitty shook her head. ‘I only know a bit about it.’

‘And I’ve heard you speak Swahili . . .’

‘Only a little,’ Kitty said modestly.

‘Sister Barbara will be very pleased to meet you.’

There was clear regret in his voice. Kitty bent her head to hide the pleasure she felt. He wanted her! She wished she could say, right then, that she’d be just as keen to return here to help, whenever she could. But she kept quiet, letting Father Remi’s comment hang in the air. She liked him – the way he exuded energy combined with thoughtfulness. And she sensed a gentle spirit in the old priest, Father Paulo. Sister Clara was kind and helpful, as were the other people she’d met at the Mission. Tesfa, as well. Kitty had only been here a couple of hours, yet she was at ease with them all. But they were Catholics. Everyone Kitty and Theo mixed with – at the Club, or the tennis courts, around Head Office or at the two supper parties they’d attended in homes on Millionaire Row – were Protestants. They all appeared, each Sunday morning, at St Michael’s Anglican Church. They filed into the pews according to status. Richard and Diana sat at the front, along with any OFC executives who were visiting from London. Behind them sat Theo and Kitty, sharing a row with Alice and her husband, Nicholas. The medical officers, unit managers and other middle-level staff, along with their families, fell in behind – and so on.

The Catholic church was on the far side of Londoni towards the Tractor Workshops. In contrast to St Michael’s Anglican, which was a striking stone building set on a rise overlooking the whole settlement, the place where the Catholics met was a converted military shed – much like the one used for the Kongara Club, only smaller. Kitty wasn’t sure who went to it. No doubt Paddy did. And presumably the other engineers who’d been on the plane; Kitty had watched out for them week after week, but none had shown up at St Michael’s. In fact, there must be many hundreds of people living in the Toolsheds and in the various tents and rondavels of Londoni who had never attended the Anglican church. And apparently, there was a second, bigger Catholic church out at the Units; the Irish contractors, along with a large cohort of Italians, were its main patrons. It occurred to Kitty that there must be many more Catholics involved in the Scheme than Protestants. Yet their existence was barely mentioned by anyone she knew. That was how it was, here in Kongara – the senior staff and middle management were all English and Protestant. They kept to themselves. Catholics occupied the lower ranks. Kitty didn’t need Theo to tell her that it would be no more suitable for his wife to spend time at this mission than for her to teach Swahili at the Tractor Workshops.

As Kitty finished tying the bandage, the prisoner stood up, making way for the next patient.

‘When will this man be treated again?’ Kitty asked Father Remi. ‘A wound like this needs daily care.’

‘He will return tomorrow. Do not worry. I will make sure he is looked after.’

‘How often do they come?’

‘Monday to Saturday. They work as labourers on the farm next door.’ Father Remi searched for something in the medicine cabinet as he spoke. ‘It is too far for them to return to the prison to eat. Anyway, they get better food here. And, as you see, we can help them in other ways.’

Kitty removed a simple sticking plaster from a man’s hand, revealing a recent cut. As she dabbed it with antiseptic, she responded to Father Remi. ‘Surely the farmer should be responsible for their food – if they’re working for him?’ There was an indignant tone in her voice. She could just imagine the kind of person who was prepared make use of prison labour – profiting from the efforts of powerless men, some in poor health, and teenage boys who should be in school.

‘Bwana Taylor pays for the food, and he pays us to prepare it. We use the money to fund the work of our Mission. The arrangement suits everyone.’

‘Did you say Taylor?’ Kitty recognised the name of the man in the ramshackle vehicle she and James had met on the road – the same individual Theo had described as a ‘naysayer’: the white Tanganyikan who had tried to sabotage the whole Scheme, just to protect his own interests.

Father Remi nodded. ‘Do you know him?’ He began applying ointment to a man’s infected eyes.

Kitty shook her head vehemently. ‘Not at all.’

The conversation had ended there – but Taylor’s name had come up again, later on, when they were on a tour of the gardens. Father Remi had led Kitty and Tesfa to the far boundary of the Mission. There they’d looked out over a whole hillside of vineyards, with others stretching behind.

‘This is where the prisoners come to work,’ he explained.

The grapes were set out in rows as neat and straight as the rows of tents in Londoni. But where Kongara was a grubby patchwork of grey and white, broken up by pale gravel roads, the nearest hillside was patterned with dabs of bright green – Winsor Green, with a touch of Naples Yellow – set off by the red soil below. The plants were healthy, promising a good crop. Looking further, though, Kitty could see other vines that were just grey sticks.

‘Why are some so healthy, and others dead?’

‘The ones that look dead have been harvested and pruned,’ Father Remi explained. ‘The others haven’t even flowered yet. We get three crops a year, just by controlling the water. It makes good sense to spread out the harvest.’

Kitty gazed over the vineyards. It was a farmer’s dream: to have heat and water all year round. To be in charge of the seasons. With a spike of regret, she wished she could describe this place to her father. She could write it in a letter, but unless something happened to heal the rift between them – which didn’t seem likely after all these years – she would never hear his response.

‘Father Paulo brought the original cuttings back from a visit to Italy to see his sister,’ added Father Remi. ‘We began making wine for communion – and for the table, of course. That was twenty years ago.’

‘You’ve been here all that time?’

‘I was twenty-seven when I came out from Italy.’

Kitty stared at him. ‘How often do you go home?’

‘I don’t take leave any more. I have no family to visit since my mother died. Neither has Father Paulo. So both of us stay here.’ He scanned the landscape as he spoke. ‘This is our home now.’

He turned his attention to gathering vegetables, making up a basket for Kitty to take home. He put in some fat tomatoes and several heads of sweetcorn still wrapped in their husks. He pulled up a couple of beetroot and some carrots, shaking the red soil from the roots. From a spindly tree he plucked a large pawpaw, lifting it to his nose and breathing its ripe smell. Finally, he added a bunch of herbs. Kitty identified sprigs of parsley and mint, thyme and sage.

They were about to leave the gardens – it was time for Kitty to return to Londoni – when Father Remi stopped suddenly. He bent over a large plant with clover-like leaves. It grew a foot high and twice as wide.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked Kitty.

From they way he spoke, she knew it must have some special significance. ‘Is it a peanut?’ she guessed. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’

He ran his fingers through the stems, ruffling the leaves. ‘It is an amazing plant.’

Kitty smiled politely. It looked rather ordinary to her – especially considering this species of plant bore the weight of so many hopes and expectations. ‘It’s very advanced,’ she commented. ‘Down at the Units they’re still ploughing.’

Father Remi nodded. ‘They have to wait for the rains. You could never irrigate fields of that size.’ He squatted down beside the peanut plant. ‘When it is fully grown,’ he continued, ‘yellow flowers appear. Each one lasts only a day, but more keep coming – this goes on for about a month. The plant can fertilise itself, but the bees play their part as well. After fertilisation has taken place, the petals fade. What is left is the ovary.’ Father Remi studied the peanut as he talked. Kitty was grateful his face was hidden. The words he used, delivered in his melodic Italian accent, had an air of intimacy as if he were unveiling something deeply private.

‘The ovary grows into a pod with a hard shell. It holds inside itself the beginnings of two or three seeds. It has a sharp end, which grows pointing down to the ground. At the right time, the flower stalk bends over and the pod is forced into the earth.’

He pushed the foliage aside, showing the bare soil beneath, where the seedpod would be planted. Kitty felt a blush spreading over her cheeks. It was not to do with Father Remi’s presence. There was nothing suggestive in his manner towards her. His old-fashioned robe, the embroidered badge on his chest, and just the fact of him being a priest, marked him out as being someone set apart from ordinary men. Yet his words conjured a vision of sensuality that spread from the single plant at their feet to embrace a whole land pulsing with life. The fragrance of the garden flowers, the touch of the sun on Kitty’s shoulders, even the birdsong coming from the trees – they were all a part of it. The air itself seemed to whisper of growth, fertility, even the act of sex . . . Kitty’s thoughts drifted to the white bedroom back on Millionaire Row. Theo’s body moving over hers. The moan of pleasure escaping his lips. Her breasts tingling from the touch of his tongue . . .

The images were from a night about a week before. The memory had been obscured by the disappointment and frustration surrounding the car, but now it all came back to her, fresh and potent. Theo had returned from work early, kissing Kitty on the lips and presenting her with a box of chocolates. The cardboard lid was dented and the chocolates inside had a whitish look, suggesting they’d melted at least once on their journey all the way from Switzerland to Kongara. But the thoughtful gesture had brought tears to Kitty’s eyes. All evening, Theo had made an effort to be bright. He’d enquired about the details of his wife’s day, instead of talking only about his own. He’d complimented her on her outfit. Kitty had responded like a wilted plant under a shower of spring rain. So often, in the time since she’d arrived, Theo had been tired by the end of the day, his mood flat. When they went to bed he’d kiss her briefly, then roll over to sleep. Some nights, after being remote and preoccupied all evening, he would suddenly want to have sex with her. When this happened Kitty found it hard to respond in the way that she knew she should. But now, when Theo led her to their bedroom, her body was ready, longing for his.

With foil wrappers scattered around them and smeared chocolate on the sheets, they’d made love more than once, moving between tenderness and passion. Kitty was reminded of the carefree days before they were married. Back then, they’d escape together from Hamilton Hall, sometimes before a dinner party was even fully over; or they’d leave Yuri to paint alone in the studio. They’d lie on the cool flagstone floor of the bathing pavilion, moonlight gleaming on their naked skin, the night air enfolding them, velvety and secret. Here in Londoni – in their own bedroom in their own home – their lovemaking had been even more perfect. Their bodies had become like one creature, their union complete.

‘The peanuts continue growing underground for three to five months.’ Father Remi’s voice summoned Kitty’s attention. She nodded to show that she was listening. ‘Then they are ready to be harvested. You just pull up the plant – and there they are.’ As he finished, he looked up at her. He gave her a smile tinged with pride as though he were in some way responsible for the miracle he’d described.

Kitty smiled back. She felt touched by his enthusiasm – but even more, she was inspired by the memory his words had evoked. Thinking of how kind and loving Theo had been that night gave Kitty hope. She should forget her complaints about her life and be grateful for what she had. If she could only remain positive, and be warm, kind and happy, everything would be all right. There would be more gifts, more romantic evenings, more love . . .

The sound of Theo’s Land Rover broke into Kitty’s reflection. Jumping to her feet, she hurried to the open French windows, then called out to Gabriel that the bwana was home.

Returning to her chair, she prepared to greet Theo. She fought off a feeling of guilt – reminding herself it had not been her intention to go to the Catholic Mission. It was just a simple mistake. Not even worth mentioning. If anyone had already reported seeing her car, she’d have to give an explanation to Theo – but she hoped he would never need to know where she had been. On her way home, she’d stopped near the roundabout to have the car-washing boys remove the thick red dirt the Hillman had picked up from the tracks. The car now wore only the fine white coating of dust that came from the formed gravel roads of Londoni. When she’d dropped Tesfa off at the manyara tree she’d given him the basket of vegetables and fruit, realising it was too risky for her to keep the priest’s produce. It had taken her some time to convince Tesfa to accept it – he was offended on Father Remi’s behalf and bemused by Kitty’s rudeness. She wished she’d been able to explain that taking the food into her own kitchen would arouse questions she did not want to answer; it was not possible to buy produce of this quality in the little shops – called dukas – that served the town. As they had transferred the goods from Father Remi’s basket to a string bag from the car boot, Tesfa had discovered a bone-handled penknife – the one Father Remi had used to harvest the herbs. The basket was now safely concealed in the boot, and the knife in the glove box. A faint stain of chicken droppings on the back seat of the car was the only evidence of the day’s venture.

Theo flung the door of the Land Rover shut behind him and hurried up the steps without a backwards glance. He gave Kitty a brief kiss. ‘God, I need a drink. What a day!’

Kitty trailed inside after him. Theo fidgeted by the drinks trolley while Gabriel made a gin and tonic, then began preparing the whisky soda.

‘You wouldn’t believe it.’ Theo loosened his tie and undid his collar – a gesture he normally despised. ‘The things I have to deal with . . . A load of fertiliser finally arrived – long overdue. It gets sent to the Units to be used on some new acreage. The blokes spreading the stuff had never seen fertiliser before.’ Theo’s voice rose; he paced impatiently, not bothering to look at Kitty as he addressed her. ‘It turns out they put cement into the ground. The sacks got mixed up at the railway depot and no one knew the difference. So that’s going to be just great when the rains come!’

Kitty held her glass against her lips, suppressing a smile. She understood Theo’s frustration, but there was a comical side to the story.

Theo grabbed his drink from Gabriel and took a long gulp. ‘The ground is hard enough as it is. It’s almost impossible to plough. So much for the sandy soil that was meant to be here. It’s half bloody clay!’

Kitty lowered her glass, taken aback by Theo’s outburst. There was nothing funny about the issues he was describing now. She was reminded uncomfortably of the road-rolling machines she’d seen, fenced off and left to the weeds.

‘It would help,’ Theo continued bitterly, ‘if the OFC had employed a few farmers among the soldiers and sailors. Most of the people I’m dealing with haven’t a clue what they’re doing!’ Theo broke off suddenly. He turned to Gabriel, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Leave us!’ Gabriel stood still for a moment, stung by the curt tone. Theo took a step towards him. ‘Get out!’ he shouted. ‘Go on.’

As Gabriel scuttled away, Kitty stared at Theo in surprise. She understood he was angry with himself for criticising the OFC in front of an African servant – even expressing such disloyalty to his wife was unwise. But she was still shocked by his behaviour; shouting at house staff would be unimaginable at Hamilton Hall.

As Theo poured himself another whisky, she walked over to the window, turning her back tactfully, allowing him the chance to recover his composure. She heard him settle in his armchair, banging his glass down on the side table.

‘I do apologise,’ he said eventually. ‘Inexcusable of me.’

Kitty made no response for a few seconds. She thought he should call Gabriel back and say sorry to him. While it was true that the houseboy’s manner towards her bordered on insolence at times, he’d done nothing to deserve the treatment he’d just received. But as she was deciding what to say, she remembered the resolution she’d made in the garden at the Mission. Her thoughts turned to a magazine article Pippa had read out a few days before while they were all sunbathing at the pool.

‘“How to be a Perfect Wife”.’ She’d announced the title in a serious tone. Everyone had turned their heads to listen – even Diana. ‘“It goes without saying that she looks and smells delightful. But this is not enough. The Perfect Wife is always available to offer comfort and reassurance. She never criticises, and avoids offering advice. Her home is a sanctuary for her husband, who has been hard at work all day . . .”’

Kitty walked back over to Theo. Standing behind his chair, she rested her hands on his shoulders. She bent to kiss his head. ‘Poor Theo,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sure things will be better tomorrow.’

She felt the muscles of his shoulders soften; then his hands came up to cover hers. He tightened his grip, like a man afraid of falling. Kitty returned the pressure. She felt strong, bending over him like this – giving him the support he needed. This was her job, she reminded herself. It was the reason why she was here. To stand at Theo’s side and be his wife.