Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

“There’s a lot of local feeling,” Jeavons said. “I suspect that race is going to be a big issue in British politics in the next few years. It’s not just Africa and the United States where skin color matters.”

Natalie had been shocked to hear what Jeavons said. As an experienced barrister, he told her he was fascinated by her own dilemma but, like a good politician (so she thought), was careful not to take sides.

Because he was leaving early the next morning—he and Sandys had flown down from Nairobi, piloted by Sandys—the minister was driven out to the gorge by Eleanor in the heat of the afternoon. Natalie was glad she wasn’t going with them.

She spent the afternoon hours writing her paper that would form part of a press conference, if there was one, as she had promised Jack. While she was sitting in the shade of her tent, she was approached by Mgina, who had a young man with her. He was a shade taller than she was, but every bit as shy in the way he held himself.

“Please, ma’am, this is Endole, the man I am to marry.”

Natalie got to her feet and shook hands with the young man. “Congratulations,” she said. “I am very happy for you. When is the wedding?”

“In one week, ma’am.” Endole had a very deep voice, but still soft and gentle, like Mgina’s.

“And after you’re married, Mgina, you will live with Endole’s family?”

Mgina nodded.

“As the third wife?” It pained Natalie to say it, but she wanted to see their reaction, when they were together.

Mgina nodded and smiled. Endole said nothing; his expression never varied. They were both perfectly content.

“Hold on,” said Natalie. She dipped into her tent and brought out her camera. She took several pictures of Mgina and Endole. They smiled and laughed in embarrassment.

“Now we must tell Mr. Jack,” whispered Mgina when Natalie had finished. She turned away, then turned back. “I must learn to call him Doctor Jack now, yes? But he’s not a medical doctor, is he?”

“No, he’s not. I don’t expect he minds what you call him. He has a Maasai name, you know—”

Too late, she realized her mistake. Jack’s Maasai name evoked the drama of the burial ground.

Mgina and Endole looked at each other, then sheepishly walked away, towards Jack’s tent. They didn’t want to resurrect memories of the murder any more than Natalie did.

The chatter around the dining table was unusually loud tonight and the reason wasn’t hard to find. In honor of the minister (or was it out of affection for Sandys?), Eleanor had suspended her “no alcohol” rule and allowed a little wine and beer (for Arnold Pryce) to be brought from the locked storeroom, the only brick-built construction at Kihara Gorge.

Natalie was discussing with Pryce and Jack what they were going to give Mgina and Endole for a wedding present. Jack was thinking of giving the couple a flight to Nairobi, if they wanted, but Natalie preferred something more personal, something that would last, a framed photograph perhaps.

All of a sudden, voices were raised at the other end of the table, where Eleanor was sitting between the minister and Sandys.

“And I repeat,” insisted Jeavons, “that the prime minister would like you to change your mind. It will be good publicity ahead of the independence conference. Do say you will.”

“No,” said Eleanor firmly, shaking her head, her chin jutting forward in the way that Natalie was now used to.

“Yes, come on, Eleanor, if I can accept, why can’t you?” Sandys laid his hand on Eleanor’s arm.

Slowly, she withdrew it. “I think the whole idea stinks. No.”

“What idea stinks?” said Jack affably.

Eleanor, the minister, and Sandys looked sheepish.

“We can’t really talk about it,” said Jeavons in a low voice. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Come on , mother, out with it. What’s got Max here all hot and bothered? What has he accepted that you haven’t—oh, I know, I get it. Of course . It’s that time of year. Am I right?” He grinned. “Am I right?”

Eleanor nodded.

“Is someone going to tell the rest of us what the mystery is?” said Natalie, transferring her gaze from the minister to Sandys to Eleanor. When neither of them replied, she turned in her seat. “Come on, then, Jack, what’s the answer to the riddle?”

Jack nodded, drinking a slug of wine. “What Max has that our mother doesn’t is a knighthood.” He wiped his lips with his hand. “My guess is that she has been offered a damehood in the New Year’s honors list and she, bless her, has turned it down.”

All eyes turned on Eleanor.

“Eleanor,” said Natalie, “is it true?”

“Well, I’ve had a letter from the palace, yes. They never say you’re getting anything definitely, just that Her Majesty ‘has it in mind’ to consider you for an honor and, if granted, would you accept?” She fixed her gaze on Natalie and shook her head. “I said no. I think all the wrong people are rewarded in Britain, all the attention seekers and snobs, rather than real achievers. Your work should speak for itself. Added to which, in this case, there’s a political element. I was chosen because of the upcoming independence conference and that’s not right.”

“But Eleanor,” said Jeavons, “you’re very deserving—I’m surprised you haven’t been asked before.”

“But I have! Three years ago. I said no then, too. That’s how Jack could read between the lines.” She leaned forward. “And I tell you, Minister, there are lots of deserving people, unknown people who give their lives to good causes, who never get honored. Who gets honored? I’ll tell you who gets honored—well-paid, overweight businessmen who aren’t satisfied with being well paid, but who want a gong to hide the fact that they are, most of them, very ordinary human beings. It’s a rotten system, Mr. Jeavons, and I want nothing to do with it.”

She wiped her lipstick off her glass with her napkin.

“Normally, if you are offered something and turn it down, you must wait at least five years for another offer. The fact that they’ve waited only three years in my case shows this is politically motivated. So I want it even less. You can tell the prime minister from me that—”

“Eleanor!” Sandys again put his hand on her arm. This time she did not remove it. “Calm down. Think for a minute. We all know, around this table, the threat you face. If you were to be honored, it would be much more difficult for the authorities—whoever they are—to close you down.”

That thought had occurred to Natalie at precisely the same moment.

Now Eleanor took back her arm. “Maybe so, maybe so. But I don’t like it—it’s wrong. The work should speak for itself.”

“I wish everyone felt like you, but I fear they do not.” The minister spoke quietly. “You’d be surprised how a title attracts attention, even these days. Why not sleep on it—”

“No!” She softened her tone. “No. My mind’s made up.” She looked up and scraped back her chair. “Jack, how about some music to go with the wine? Let’s spoil the minister with all our luxuries at once.”

“Sure,” said Jack. “What’s your taste, Minister, Beethoven, Brahms, Basie?”

“Oh, Basie, please.”

“‘Shoe Shine Boy’ suit you?”

“I never thought I’d hear ‘Shoe Shine Boy’ in the bush—amazing.” Jeavons beamed.

“The Count Basie Orchestra coming up!” said Jack as he got to his feet.

Suddenly he stopped, winked at Natalie, and then looked at his mother. “Having a title worked for Basie—it worked big time.”

He left the tent grinning as his mother threw her napkin at him.

Natalie didn’t mind jazz, but she didn’t find it moved her anywhere near as much as classical music. She didn’t like the endless repetition and the heavy syncopation, which she found intrusive. Classical music let you think.