The Daimler pulled out of the Mission compound, turning onto the shortcut track that wound through the village. The rains were now over and the surface was firm and dry, but James still drove cautiously between the mud huts. He’d brought the two women to work this morning after Kitty’s Hillman failed to start. Kitty had been surprised at his eagerness to help out, considering it would mean driving the precious car on the shortcut track. When they got to the Mission he’d surprised her again: instead of remaining with the Daimler as a driver normally would, he’d asked Tesfa to show him around. As Kitty carried out her tasks she had glimpsed the pair, now and then – Tesfa giving long lectures on every point of interest and James drinking it all in. It had dawned on her eventually why the man was so intrigued. He’d been watching Diana set off for the Mission for nearly six weeks now. (Richard had agreed his wife could continue going there after the trial period ended.) No doubt James had heard rumours of what she did with her time. Now he wanted to see it for himself – this place that had rescued his mistress from the state of being without joy, and brought her back to life.
With the day’s work behind them, they were heading home. Diana filled Kitty in on the progress of her latest campaigns. She had two more special cases among the prisoners. She was trying to get a man released on parole for good behaviour – he was one of Taylor’s most hardworking labourers. She was also investigating the case of a prisoner convicted of murder five years ago. Doctors agreed the young Mgogo had had a severe reaction to a prescribed anti-malaria medicine. In a drug-induced psychosis, he’d killed his beloved wife. Regardless of His Majesty’s Justice system, he would pay for the crime (of which he had no recollection) for the rest of his days. Diana believed that to add incarceration to his torment was cruel and unjust. It was her intention to have him set free.
As they passed the village square, a gang of children ran out to the car as usual. Diana no longer flinched at the sight of them, but Kitty saw her meet James’s gaze in the rear-vision mirror. Today, a young boy ran right up to the Daimler, calling out for it to stop. When James slowed to a walking pace, a girl came up beside the boy. She was carrying an object that Kitty didn’t recognise at first. But as it was held out towards her, she saw the shape of a monkey made with clay. The sculpture – a little under a foot tall – showed an animal caught in the midst of making a jump, all his energy poised in his feet.
‘Oh, look at that!’ Diana leaned past Kitty to get a closer view. ‘It’s so lifelike!’
The two children, along with several others, pressed up against Kitty’s window. As she wound it down, they held out the sculpture.
‘Who made it?’ Diana asked.
The children pointed excitedly at Kitty, not needing to speak English to guess the question.
Kitty nodded, keeping her eyes on the monkey as the girl waved it around. A few days earlier she’d come across the children playing around the edges of a newly formed creek. The red earth had turned into rich thick clay and they were using it to make models of cows. Kitty had hesitated, but then sat down to join in. This was not art, after all – it was nursery play for children with no school. All of the cows that had been made were roughly the same: a simple, stylised shape. Kitty couldn’t help wanting to broaden the scope of the children’s work. She’d gathered a large ball of clay, kneading it until it became smooth and malleable. Soon, she’d found the image of Gili forming in her hands.
‘Peleka nyumbani,’ the boy called through the car window to Kitty. Take it home with you.
They thrust the figure towards her. The clay was hard and dry. Someone must have placed it beside a cooking fire to bake; one side was slightly blackened.
‘Asante.’ Kitty thanked them, touched that such care had been taken of the object she had made. The sculpture was surprisingly good, considering she’d never sketched Gili. As she turned it over in her hands, it occurred to Kitty that she may have been influenced by Taylor’s mural on the walls of his old cell. Something about the works had stayed with her. She knew what it was: every one of the lines that made up the images was the result of the man’s intimate knowledge and love of his pet.
She thanked the children again, then James drove on towards Londoni. The monkey rested on her lap, a small solid weight.
‘I didn’t know you were an artist,’ Diana said.
‘Oh, I was just playing.’
‘You’re talented,’ Diana insisted. ‘And clearly very skilled. You must have been to art school.’
Kitty looked at her but said nothing. She wished she could tell the truth – especially since Diana had confided in her. But how could she explain why her being an artist had to be a secret? In the end she just shook her head – after all, she hadn’t been to art school; she’d learned from her own private teacher. As Kitty gazed out of the window she could feel Diana watching her with curious eyes. Clearly, Diana suspected Kitty was hiding something – but she was too polite to push for an honest answer.
James insisted on driving Kitty right to her verandah steps, even though she said she could easily walk across from the house next door. She stood still, holding her monkey sculpture until the car had rolled away out of sight.
She went straight to the back garden, bending over to search for a secluded nook. After some time, she chose a spot near the base of a bougainvillea bush. The tangled branches had grown in a curve, forming a natural grotto edged with purple flowers. The vibrant tone of the petals seemed to match the playful spirit of the monkey. Kitty checked there was no one watching before bending down and pushing the statue into place. Stepping back, brushing rosy clay dust from her hands, she smiled at the sight of it there. Then she headed inside to get changed.
As soon as she stepped into the hallway she knew something was afoot. A bunch of flowers had been crammed into a vase and set on the side table. The aroma of roasting meat came from the kitchen – which was correct, for Friday, except that it smelled like beef or lamb, definitely not chicken.
Gabriel scooted past the end of the hall on his way to the sitting room. Kitty followed him. Could it be a surprise, she wondered, prepared for her by Theo? Perhaps he wanted to make up to her for being so distant and irritable. Or he regretted having been so unbending in the conversation about the baby . . .
‘What’s happening, Gabriel?’
The houseboy put down the ice bucket he’d been carrying and proceeded to check the levels in the bottles of spirits. ‘You are expecting a visitor, Memsahib. Someone very important. The bwana sent a message.’
Kitty looked at him in confusion. Had she been told about this and forgotten? Who could it be? So far, she’d not had to host an evening with someone important from London – that was Diana’s role. But with the Managing Director’s wife having been ill so recently, perhaps Theo’s home had temporarily replaced Number One as the address to hold a company dinner.
‘Who is our guest? What is his name?’
Gabriel gave her a triumphant grin, clearly enjoying being in possession of knowledge his mistress did not have. ‘She is a lady.’
Kitty stared at him. A lady.
Charlotte.
Dismay mixed with panic descended on Kitty. She’d gone from dreading Lady Welmingham’s arrival to managing to put it from her mind. She’d certainly never expected the woman would just suddenly appear. Why hadn’t Kitty been told she was in Kongara?
She gathered herself, putting on a smile. ‘How nice.’ Then she scanned the houseboy critically. ‘Make sure you change your tunic. It doesn’t look quite clean.’
Gabriel bowed his head. ‘Yes, Memsahib.’
The tunic was spotless, they both knew that – but that was not the point.
The candlelight added a golden tone to Lady Charlotte’s long red hair. Her locks trailed over her shoulders, contrasting with the green velvet of her dress. Even Kitty could see that the woman was perfectly turned out – her pearls and her full-length gown, offset by her loose hairstyle, struck the right note of low-key formality.
Kitty studied the Englishwoman as she chatted to Theo. Charlotte paused often to smoke, a long tapered cigarette holder balanced between her manicured fingers. She had eaten tiny portions of the meal, before sending gracious compliments to the kitchen. Gabriel kept fawning over her, using every bit of his domestic training to the limit.
‘Do you remember Billy Alston?’ Charlotte was asking Theo. ‘He was a year ahead of you boys.’
Theo groaned. ‘How could I forget him!’
‘He was killed in the war.’
Theo’s face stiffened with shock, but when he spoke his tone was calm. ‘Poor old Bills.’ Kitty was reminded of the matter-of-fact way he used to inform her of the regular deaths in his squadron.
‘Yes. Awful.’ Charlotte flicked ash into a tray at her side.
Kitty thought of asking the woman what she’d spent her time doing during the war – hoping to hear she’d just stayed at home, doing her embroidery and collecting honey from her hives. But Kitty suspected Charlotte might well explain that she’d worked night and day as a volunteer nurse – perhaps in her own family mansion, which had been willingly handed over to become a hospital for wounded soldiers. She could just see Lady Charlotte in a nurse’s uniform, looking wonderful, being wonderful . . .
The pair talked and talked. Kitty couldn’t remember when she’d last seen Theo so enlivened and loquacious. Now and then, Charlotte threw a morsel of conversation to her hostess – she knew her manners. But soon the talk drifted back to people, events and places Kitty knew nothing about. Occasionally, to underline her words, Charlotte touched Theo’s forearm. The two seemed familiar – easy and comfortable in one another’s company. They had the same confidence, the same accent, the same small mannerisms and turns of phrase. They could have been born to be together.
As she watched on, Kitty wondered whether Theo had discussed with Charlotte the need to keep secret the scandal surrounding his wife. Charlotte couldn’t have missed hearing about it – she moved in the same circles as the Hamiltons. She would have read the newspapers, heard the gossip in the London clubs. Theo would have had the chance to talk to her this afternoon – evidently they’d already spent hours together at Head Office. On the other hand, Kitty realised, he might well have raised it much earlier, during the telephone calls to England to plan her trip out here. If he had, Charlotte would have agreed, undoubtedly, to remain quiet on the subject while she was in Tanganyika. She was, after all, what Louisa would dub ‘one of us’.
As the evening wore on, Theo and Charlotte moved from reminiscing to talking about life in Londoni. At last, Kitty had the chance to contribute: she made some helpful comments and Charlotte responded warmly. But then the conversation turned to the serious topic of the Scheme. Tonight, instead of just unloading his frustrations and anxieties about work, Theo made an effort to explain the issues properly in a way he’d never once done with his wife. He even left room for his guest to comment and ask questions. It was not surprising, Kitty told herself, since Charlotte had come here to work alongside Theo and the other men. But still, she felt hurt and left out.
‘Good Lord, is that the time?’ Charlotte finally exclaimed. ‘I must get back to the Shoebox.’ She gave a playful grimace that conveyed the accommodation was so far below her usual standards that it was comic – however, she was going to be a good sport about it.
They swapped farewells. Kitty addressed her guest as Lady Welmingham. She knew – from Theo’s advice, years ago – that she could only drop the formal title if invited to do so. And that gesture had not been made.
Theo insisted on accompanying Charlotte home, even though she offered to make do with the driver as an escort. As he shepherded her from the room, his hand hovered at the small of her back. In his other hand, Kitty noticed, he carried the woman’s scarf: a gossamer length of honey gold, surely chosen to match the apiarist’s calling. Charlotte swayed a little as she walked – perhaps due to all the wine she’d drunk, or it could have been the high tapering heels of her golden slippers. The movement of her hips caused ripples in the shimmering velvet of her long skirt.
Kitty stood on the verandah watching the red tail-lights of the Land Rover diminish, then disappear. She didn’t want to go back inside, where cigarette smoke hovered in the air, along with the expensive-smelling musky scent that wafted from Charlotte’s hair and clothes. Instead, she walked down the stairs, then on round the side of the house. Warm light flowed from the windows, giving the house the look of a real home – a place where children slept in their beds, under coverlets patterned with trains or fairies. Kitty turned her back on it, looking into the darkened garden. Her feet carried her over to the bougainvillea bush. Crouching down, she peered in at the little statue, caught in the light that shone from the open kitchen door.
There he was. Gili. Kitty remembered the pleasure of moulding the contours of his body, the triumph of seeing his wild spirit captured in clay. The act had made her feel alive – a fresh energy springing up from deep inside her.
She felt none of that now. She felt nothing.
Gazing down at the statue, she saw how the monkey was the shape of a little child. Small and vulnerable. He had no hope of surviving when the next rains came – the clay had been dried, not properly fired. Even in the shelter of his flowery arbour, the downpour would find him. He would be slowly worn away. By harvest time, he’d be no more than a shapeless lump, the magic all gone.