There was no first class carriage on the western train. Annah sat on a hard seat, her face fanned with a hot wind that blew in through the shutterless window. The air was thick with the smell of burned coal. Soot lay over her skin and clothes – not the fine speckling she had experienced the day before, but a dark grimy film. She had already tried brushing it off, but the smuts blended with her sweat and made greasy black smears.
Earlier in the journey, there had been other passengers in Annah’s compartment. A group of African men dressed in well-worn European clothes had embarked with her in Dodoma. Annah’s hopes of practising her Swahili with them were dashed, however, when they responded to her greetings in what appeared to be a local dialect. After a few stops, they left the compartment. Then an old African nun took a seat beside Annah. After muttering a brief greeting in English, the woman fell sound asleep. Three hours later, she awoke just as the train pulled into a tiny station in the middle of nowhere. With barely a nod to Annah, she disembarked. A few other passengers came and went, but fortunately when night fell and it was time to try to sleep – still sitting up and still blasted by wind – Annah had the compartment to herself. She felt more at ease than she would have been in the company of strangers. But still, she had hardly slept.
Now it was morning. The sun was rising steadily over a landscape that was changing slowly but discernibly. The Central Plains – Eliza’s Africa – were disappearing. In their place was a rugged hilly countryside with swampy valleys and patches of dense forest. Everywhere was green. Not the light, fresh green of the coastlands, but something much stronger, deeper. The green of the tangled vines and matted treetops was a rampant, virulent presence in the land.
The dry heat gave way to a steamy humidity. Annah could feel the sweat constantly oozing from her pores, bathing her whole body in stickiness. She was grateful for the six bottles of water she’d found in the food basket that had been handed to her by Jack Masters. She’d scarcely made an impact on the piles of scones and sandwiches, but half of the water was already gone.
Annah tried to settle herself into a comfortable position on the hard seat. Then she closed her eyes, seeking respite from the onslaught of dust and wind. After a few minutes, the steady swaying of the train began to lull her into a doze.
The words came to her slowly, drifting in from the corridor, seeming at first like echoes of dreams, but then gradually drawing her towards wakefulness.
‘I was fishing in the Yakanyaru River. Up near the Rwandan border.’
It was a man’s voice, speaking English with an American accent. He was loud; his words carried clearly over the noise of the train.
‘No problems with the fish. But there were dead bodies, you know, floating down. Babies, kids, women, men. Africans …’
Annah turned to the doorway. A thin trail of cigarette smoke wafted in from the corridor – a hazy blue.
‘They’d been mutilated, some of them. Hands missing, eyes …’ The words kept on coming, blunt and ugly. ‘Must’ve been a whole village massacred. Every goddam soul.’
A second person mumbled a response.
‘They call it Independence,’ the American continued. ‘First we had a bloodbath in the Congo. Now the Rwandans are going for each other!’ There was a short, joyless laugh. ‘Sounds like the law of the jungle to me!’
Annah closed her eyes on an image of black bodies bobbing in the eddies of a wide river. Then there were footsteps close by. She looked up to see a plump, fair-skinned man slinging a worn carpetbag onto the luggage rack. He sat down opposite her.
She stared at him blankly. She could think of nothing else but the scene he had just described.
The man leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. ‘I’m Dick Peterson.’
‘Good morning,’ Annah responded, her tone polite but distant.
‘You’re with the Mission?’ suggested the man.
‘Yes, I am,’ Annah replied.
‘And what are you?’ Dick Peterson’s blue eyes looked slightly mocking. ‘Nurse or teacher? Or someone’s wife?’
‘I’m a nurse,’ said Annah. She turned away, studying the passing scenery. She wished the man would leave her alone. She found it hard to separate him from his bleak story. He seemed, himself, tainted with darkness.
Annah edged closer to the window. Feeling in her handbag she pulled out a book. It was Eleanor’s copy of Out of Africa, which Annah had slipped back into a side pocket while Sister Barbara was not looking. Opening the volume at random, she pretended to read.
The time passed slowly. Annah tried to sleep, but the nightmare images the man had described kept returning to plague her. She was glad when the train began to slow and the American took his carpetbag down from the rack. Perhaps when he left, the dark thoughts would travel with him.
The station was small, but busy. Porters stood ready with their wooden trolleys, and there was a stall offering food and drinks. Annah’s gaze settled longingly on an advertisement for Coca-Cola. She imagined the drink – cold and black and tingly on her tongue.
The American left without saying a word. Annah looked out of the window following his departure. She noticed that lots of people seemed to be disembarking. She watched them with growing disquiet. It was almost as if everyone but she knew of a good reason to leave the train here. She fought an impulse to gather up her luggage and join the exodus.
When at last the engine blew its whistle and the train began to pull away from the station, Annah felt a sense of relief. There was nothing she could do now, but sit still and wait.
It was just after noon when the first darkness came. The train plunged without warning into what seemed to be a tunnel. But the gloom was not complete and the half light revealed the lines and shapes of branches, leaves and vines. It was a forest, dense and tangled.
A real jungle, Annah told herself. Just like in The Jungle Book. She tried to picture a little boy – Mowgli – swinging among the vines – as if she could tame the darkness outside by connecting it with childhood stories. But there were no bright birds and chattering monkeys to be seen here. The trees were a sullen silent presence, pressing in.
The darkness waned, now and then, as the forest thinned. The sky reappeared for a time as clear and blue as ever, only to be swallowed up again when the jungle returned.
It was in one of the more open areas that the train began to slow down again. Annah leaned out of the window, eyes watering as she braved the wind to peer ahead. In the distance she could see a cluster of cone-shaped rooftops made of grass thatching. The sight of the round huts brought a pang of regret. Eliza’s Ugogo people, the tribe Annah had always planned to work among, lived in long, low houses with flat roofs.
Annah took a deep breath, tasting soot in the back of her mouth. If her calculations were correct, this would be the seventh stop since leaving Dodoma. It would be the end of the western line. Murchanza.
Annah stood beside the train, facing the paint-flaking wall of an old wooden shack. She presumed it was the ticket office, but it didn’t seem to have been used for years. Like the rest of the place, it looked worn out and abandoned. Not that there had ever been much of a station here; there was no platform, just an area of swept earth at the side of the track. And there was no sign of there being a settlement nearby. Murchanza, Annah suspected, was not so much a final destination as simply the place where the supply of train track had run out.
Annah was the only passenger to get off the train. The driver offered to help her with her luggage while the guard and another man refuelled the engine with water and firewood.
‘Someone is greeting you?’ the driver enquired, using his best English. He glanced around at the station. The place was virtually deserted. A woman selling bananas was sitting near a waterstand. A beggarman squatted nearby, gazing blankly up at the sky. A small boy dressed only in a ragged singlet hovered by his shoulder. He watched Annah with bright, fast eyes.
‘Yes, they are,’ Annah replied, smiling bravely. ‘Thank you.’
The three men waved goodbye and proceeded to restoke the engine. Then, in a haze of steam, the train backed out of the station, pushing the line of wagons from behind. It kept on going, heading back east. Disappearing into the distance …
The shadows of the afternoon slanted across the ground. While she waited, Annah watched her own shape lengthening slowly. Dr Carrington was meant to have been here to meet the train, but she knew there could be many reasons why he’d been delayed. This was Africa, after all. She was not alarmed. Using the last of her bottled water, she dabbed clean her face with a handkerchief. After that, she let down her long red hair, ignoring the stares of her companions. She brushed it well, using firm strokes to smooth out the tangles and at least some of the soot, then repinned it into a neat bun. This was the best she could do, to prepare herself to meet her new colleague.
Though she’d been given no description of Dr Carrington, Annah had formed a clear image of him in her head. She saw him as having white hair, gold-rimmed glasses and a neat, goatee beard. A strong, noble face. It was only while passing time by deliberately pondering this vision, that she realised whose face it was that she kept picturing. Dr Albert Schweitzer, the legendary pioneer doctor and thinker whose photograph appeared in so many textbooks. Annah smiled. The real Dr Carrington would probably be a mousy figure with thinning hair.
Annah watched the banana seller, wondering whether to approach her and ask some questions about Murchanza. Perhaps there was a village nearby. Perhaps there was a telegraph office. A hotel, even. It didn’t seem likely, but Annah felt it was time to consider what she would do if Dr Carrington simply failed to show up at all. The banana seller looked poor; the cloth she wore was almost threadbare. Annah guessed the woman would speak only in a tribal tongue – the Swahili that Annah spoke fluently would be of little use.
She sensed rather than heard the steps approaching from behind; they were almost silent on the dusty ground.
Then words came, just as she turned.
‘I’m so sorry …’
The voice died into silence. Staring quiet.
Annah faced a man who was young and tall, with smooth tanned skin. Blond hair fell over his brow, teasing his eyes. Blue eyes – clear and deep.
The man looked away, quickly scanning the abandoned station – as if wondering, for just a moment, if there could be someone else awaiting him. Annah realised, then, that while she had been expecting Dr Schweitzer, Michael Carrington must have been expecting another Sister Barbara. At the thought of their mutual surprise, Annah began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. The contrasts were so extreme.
For a few seconds Dr Carrington just stared at her. Annah bent her head, hiding her face as she tried to compose herself. A long strand of red hair that had escaped from her bun fell forward over her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘It’s just … I was expecting …’
‘I know, I’m so late. I do apologise,’ Dr Carrington said.
Annah looked at him. He hovered awkwardly over her luggage.
‘I left in plenty of time,’ he continued, ‘but there was a tree fallen on the road. Held me up for hours. Anyway …’ he straightened up and held out his hand, ‘welcome, Sister Mason. Welcome to Western Tanganyika.’ He smiled. It was a boy’s smile, the kind that seemed to break out fully formed, brightening and changing the whole face.
‘Thank you.’ Annah returned his smile as she pushed back the errant strand of hair. She placed her hand in his, acutely aware of her sticky skin. But the doctor’s hand was equally moist, and gritty with dust.
‘I’m very glad to be here.’
The smile left Dr Carrington’s face as abruptly as it had appeared. ‘Are you?’ he asked. ‘The Bishop warned me that you had your heart set on a posting in Dodoma.’
Annah’s mouth opened while she hunted for words. She could hardly admit to having just told a lie. She would have to tell another. ‘Oh, I was planning on Dodoma,’ she said. ‘But then the Bishop told me about Langali … and you … and Mrs Carrington … and your work. It sounds like a wonderful place. So I changed my mind. And anyway, the good of the Mission must always come before the plans of the individual.’ She finished her speech and fell silent, waiting for a sign of approval.
Dr Carrington nodded. ‘Well, I’m relieved to hear that. It’s isolated here. We’ll be the only three Europeans in the area … us and you. We need your full commitment to the work.’
Annah met his gaze. It was what she wanted, too. Full commitment. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Dr Carrington gestured towards the far end of the station. ‘I’ll back up the Landrover and get your things loaded.’
Annah watched him as he walked off. She sensed a certain impatience in the way he hurried along – a hint of something reckless, well constrained. When she turned back, she found herself looking into the eyes of the banana seller. The African woman’s face creased into a broad, knowing grin.
The road through the jungle was barely wide enough for the Landrover, and making progress along it was a running battle. The air was full of the sounds of driving – the constant drone of the engine, the shuddering of the chassis as the tyres laboured over jolting corrugations, and, from outside, the thwack of branches hitting the panels. The side window was shut, but Annah had to steel herself not to duck each time a leafy limb struck.
Dr Carrington gripped the steering wheel with both hands and kept his eyes fixed on the road. He made no attempt to talk to Annah, and even though she could see he was occupied with driving, she found the lack of conversation unnerving. Eventually she decided to raise the subject of reports of violence across the border, trying, as she did so, to sound matter of fact and well informed.
Dr Carrington listened to her retelling of what the American had said. He nodded gravely. ‘There has been trouble in the whole region since the Belgians left. But it was only to have been expected. They ran a terrible regime – exploited the people.’ He spoke vehemently, his eyes still trained on the road. ‘And they didn’t prepare the Africans to take over control. They just pulled out, stripping the place as they went.’
Annah glanced sideways. ‘Independence is due here, isn’t it?’
‘The Africans are already in charge of internal affairs,’ Dr Carrington said. ‘Later this year, the handover will be completed. Tanganyika will become a republic. But don’t worry, it’s a very different matter, here. The history’s just not the same.’
Annah nodded. His words, spoken with such certainty, were deeply comforting.
After about an hour, the forest began to thin. The road became clearer and the over-canopy parted, allowing light to reach down into the undergrowth. Annah felt more at ease. She slid open her side window, letting a fresh green smell spread into the cabin.
‘Look!’ she exclaimed, as she spotted a tiny deer grazing in a thicket. ‘Isn’t that a dik-dik?’
Dr Carrington glanced in the direction she was pointing, then quickly put the Landrover breaks on.
‘Don’t move,’ he said in a low voice as the vehicle came to a standstill.
Annah didn’t need to be told. Her eyes were fixed on the delicate creature, her own body poised, as if anticipating sudden fear and flight. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she breathed.
There was a moment of stillness. Then Dr Carrington reached behind him and brought out a rifle. He loaded it quickly, small sounds appearing loud in the strained quiet. Leaning across to Annah’s side, he aimed out through her window.
Annah pressed herself back into her seat. There was an oily smooth click. A bullet sliding into place. Then a single shot.
The deer flinched. Its fragile knees buckled. The chiselled head fell.
Dumb with shock, Annah watched Dr Carrington go and pick up the deer. He carried it back, the small body lying limp in his hands. He held it up towards her, like a boy showing off his catch. Annah forced a smile.
‘Are they good … to eat?’ she asked.
Dr Carrington nodded. ‘Delicious roasted. A real treat.’
Annah reached out of the window towards the dik-dik. Her fingers brushed over the silken hide. It was still warm. A tremor ran through the creature’s body, as if her touch had called it back to life. The dik-dik raised its head and fixed Annah with a bright, piercing gaze. It struggled, suddenly, throwing its head back in a spray of rosy blood. Annah gasped in horror.
Dr Carrington snatched the animal away. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought it was dead.’ He hurried away to the back of the Landrover.
Annah stared straight ahead, trying to calm herself. All missionaries hunt, everyone knew that. There was no local butcher, after all. Watching game being shot was one of the things she would have to get used to. But she could not forget the grace and beauty of the little deer. The agonisingly vulnerable gaze of its miniature dark-lashed eyes.
They drove on in silence – a tense, loaded silence. The shooting had been a minor incident, really, but it had destroyed their composure, leaving them feeling exposed to one another.
When Dr Carrington finally spoke, his voice sounded unnaturally loud. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said.
Annah looked out at the dense bush still bordering the road. It seemed impossible that a station – a hospital, a church, a village – could exist here. Then, without warning, the Landrover rounded a corner and the forest came to an end.
Annah sat up in her seat, her eyes wide with surprise. A broad valley lay spread before them – an area of bushland and pasture, bordered by forest on three sides and rising to a hillside on the fourth. It was like a hidden kingdom. A picture perfect place, with gentle green slopes dotted with trees, and a stream running through the middle.
‘Langali Station,’ said Dr Carrington, a note of pride in his voice. He was pointing at a cluster of neat whitewashed buildings with grass-thatched roofs, set on one side of the stream. Annah could already see the long low buildings that would be the main wards of the hospital. And the Mission House, set a little apart. The school. And the church with its cross on top. This last building straddled the end of the road, like a blockade. It was oddly placed, Annah thought – but it was a passing observation, her eye being quickly drawn on to a stand of tall trees in the middle of the compound. Even from this distance, there was something acutely familiar about them.
‘Those trees …’ she began.
Dr Carrington nodded. ‘Gum trees. Planted by Sister Barbara.’
Annah’s gaze swept on over the settlement. On the hillside, up behind the hospital compound, was an African village. It, too, looked neat and well kept. Cattle could be seen gathered into their thorn-bush enclosures and the smoke of cooking fires rose from the compounds. Beyond the village was a pattern of tilled shambas – gardens and farmlands.
The overall effect was one of peace and order. The station looked like a mirage – a vision of civilisation emerging from the wildness of the jungle.
‘It’s amazing,’ Annah said, turning to Dr Carrington, forgetting the awkwardness that had come between them. ‘Why is it here? This open valley?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘Something to do with the geology. Some of the forest has been cleared as well.’ He smiled. ‘We’re expanding slowly.’
They drove on without speaking. It was nearly dusk. The last rays of sun shone low over the land, casting long shadows and edging every surface – leaves, branches, rooftops and rocks – with a soft yellow-gold. It was a magical approach. The white buildings waiting ahead. The crossing of the stream over a small wooden bridge. The gates of the compound, standing open. And the crowd of Africans gathered – the people of Langali, standing ready to welcome the new nurse from Australia.
Annah climbed down from the Landrover. Children pressed quickly in, surrounding her. In the half light they all looked nearly the same, with their close-cropped curly hair, black to match their skin. They were wearing a uniform of some kind: faded blue shirts and shorts for the boys, and simple dresses for the girls. Adults stood behind them, similarly attired in basic European clothes. Some called out greetings in English or Swahili; others just smiled. Everyone, child and adult alike, stared – fascinated – at Annah’s red hair.
A little boy reached bravely out and touched the white woman’s hand. She bent down to greet him. A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. When Annah looked up again, she noticed that Dr Carrington was removing the dead dik-dik from the back of the vehicle. Trying to quell the interest it aroused, he quickly handed it to an African man who was standing nearby. The dik-dik was passed on to a child who scurried off with it. Dr Carrington looked relieved, glad to be rid of the thing. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he walked towards Annah. Then he faltered suddenly, his gaze fixed on her shirt. Looking down, Annah saw a deep red bloodstain standing out against the light fabric. The mark of the dik-dik’s final death throe. Her hand flew to cover it. For a brief moment, she and the doctor stared at one another – then the man turned away.
‘I’d like you to meet my chief medical assistant,’ he said quickly. He beckoned over a tall, thin African dressed in a khaki shirt and trousers. ‘This is Stanley Njima. Stanley, this is our new head nurse, Sister Mason.’
Stanley smiled and bowed his head politely. Annah felt herself instantly drawn to him. His face was imbued with kindness and dignity. His handshake was firm and warm.
‘Welcome to this place.’ He spoke in English with a strong African accent. ‘Sister.’
Sister. The word was said slowly and deliberately, as if the man were bestowing on Annah a place in his family, rather than just using her medical title.
There was a sudden ripple of movement as the crowd parted. In the space that had been opened, a figure appeared. A white woman, walking eagerly forward, eyes straining into the gloom of dusk.
‘Hello, hello. Here at last,’ her voice came ahead of her, bright and friendly. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘Sarah …’ There was a warning tone in Dr Carrington’s voice that even Annah could detect.
Mrs Carrington reached the point where she could see Annah. Her eyes widened just a fraction, her step froze for only an instant. She exchanged the briefest of looks with her husband. Then her voice ran on. ‘Was the train delayed? It so often is.’
‘This is Sister Mason,’ Dr Carrington said pointlessly.
‘Come on up,’ said his wife. ‘You must be exhausted.’
She paused, running her gaze quickly over Annah, from head to toe and back. Annah found herself doing the same. Mrs Carrington was young, slim and pretty. At the same time she was, as the Bishop’s words had suggested, the image of a model missionary wife. She was dressed in plain, sensible clothes and solid shoes. She wore her long dark hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a tight plait. Her face was open, clear-eyed. Her lips naturally red, cheeks rosy. She looked wholesome and healthy. And very clean.
She led the way across the compound and on towards the Mission House, a large square building fronted by a deep verandah. A swept-earth path marked with straight lines of stones led up to some concrete steps. Everything was symmetrical – the placement of the two verandah chairs, the arrangements of pots of flowering plants at each side of the front door. Even the curtains seemed to have been half closed to exactly the same degree. When she was nearly at the steps, Mrs Carrington turned to the left and headed along the front of the house. ‘I’ll take you to your room first,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’d like to freshen up before we eat. The boys will be following with your things.’
‘Thank you,’ said Annah.
She followed Mrs Carrington down a path which ran from the corner of the house across a swathe of patchy grass to a small wooden hut.
‘You’ll eat your meals in the Mission House,’ Mrs Carrington said. ‘But this is where you’ll sleep.’
Mrs Carrington opened the fly-screen door and leaned inside to turn on a light. Then she stepped onto the concrete floor, beckoning Annah to come after her.
The single room was lit by one electric bulb encased in a rose-pink shade. There was a narrow bed with a white cotton coverlet and a circular mosquito net; a bookcase, a table and chair and a wardrobe. Everything was plain and basic. The place might almost have been a cell for a nun. There was just one bright note. On the floor by the door was a bulky, colourful shape that looked like a giant tea cosy made of patchwork.
‘That’s your hot water, under there,’ Mrs Carrington explained. ‘Barbara and I sewed the cover for you – when we knew of the changes to come.’ She bent to lift up the cosy. Underneath was an open-topped four gallon tin. Once a container for kerosene or petrol, it was now full of water. ‘The boys will bring you hot water each evening,’ continued Mrs Carrington. ‘If you keep the cover on, it’ll still be warm by morning.’ She was silent for a moment, admiring her handiwork.
‘Thank you, Mrs Carrington,’ said Annah. She was touched by the gesture, though she knew that it was not a personal thing; it had been done to welcome ‘the nurse’, whomever she might have been.
‘You must call me Sarah. And my husband, Michael.’ The words were said firmly, rather than warmly. ‘After all, we’ll be almost family, living here together. There’s no-one else, you know.’
Annah glanced at Sarah’s face. It was impossible to tell what feelings lay behind the woman’s words.
At that moment, two young men arrived, bent over under the weight of Annah’s luggage. They looked like big clumsy tortoises, and Annah couldn’t help smiling as they bumped into one another while trying to back in past the fly-screen door.
‘Careful, boys,’ Sarah said. She turned to Annah. ‘Now, I’ll leave you alone to wash. When you’re ready, come up to the house. Ordena, the housekeeper, has kept some soup hot.’ She paused by the door, where a hurricane lantern hung from a nail. ‘The generator runs till eight thirty. After that, you’ll need this. Better bring it up with you when you come. We try and avoid letting the House things come down here.’
Annah nodded. She watched Sarah go, then she cast her eyes, again, over the room that would be her home. This second look revealed nothing new. There was no sign of the last inhabitant. No pictures, no embroidered mats, no dried flowers. Nothing.
Opening her handbag, Annah removed a piece of folded paper. She opened it out carefully. It was her Mission ‘Instructions’ – the formal document she’d been given at her commissioning ceremony. Until she held this paper in her hand, she’d been just a would-be missionary; but once it was bestowed, everything had changed. Miss Annah Mackay Mason had become a full member of the Tanganyika Inland Mission.
She laid her ‘Instructions’ down on the little table. In this anonymous room, it was a symbol of herself. Like the Union Jack flying above the Queen’s palace, it said, ‘She is here. At home.’
Annah let her gaze travel over the room, and out through a small window that looked across to the station compound. She could just see one of Sister Barbara’s gum trees, its trunk straggly with bark. Somehow the sight of it there only made it harder for Annah to imagine this place coming to feel like home. The station itself looked promising enough. And the Carringtons seemed friendly. But Annah could not forget the presence of the jungle, lurking at the edges of the clearing. And the border with Rwanda – such a short distance away. A frown marked her face. One way or another, she knew, she would have to get used to it. Langali was her post, the place that had been chosen for her. For better or for worse. Like a marriage …