The sun hung low in the sky. An earthy, metallic scent hung low over the grassland and Mary Graves crossed her arms and let her chin rest upon her chest. The tout-terrain Minerva clattered up the hill.
The first weeks, so far, had been very lucky and quite good. Everything had turned out well that could have turned out badly. She didn't mean just spectacular things like Bates and the lift, which could have come out very badly; nor the kids and their antics; but all sorts of small things had come out well.
She supposed she was owed a bit of luck.
Mary passed a hand over her brow. The air had cooled, leaving the evening air a fete for sand flies and gnats, and the only draught that could be felt was through the open roof of the Minerva as they drove. In the back, van 't Sand and Leigh gently discussed some inconsequential subject. Leigh looked a bit better than yesterday. During the day, he had jumped between extreme severeness and childlike joviality. Silva, beside her, with his sad eyes and playful smile, remained silent. The wheel lay loosely in his hands.
He had driven most of the afternoon.
Behind them lay the site and the mountains. Before them lay Loiyangalani. In between, situated by the main road and the Turkana Lake, lay the clinic of Dr Shani Hadebe. Mary knew the doctor herself wouldn't be present; that wasn't unusual. The mountain made sure it took time to travel all the way to Gatab, but Mary hoped there would be news of Hadebe's return waiting for her when she arrived at the clinic.
The highway ran downhill for another three miles towards Loiyangalani, with scattered vegetation on either side. There were nurseries, small farms, large farms with their decrepit colonial houses cut up into subdivisions, their old hilly pastures being cut and ended at dry hillsides. The grass had been brown from the drought in the last months before the rains but the green now ran along the watercourses towards the Turkana Lake where the trees grew tall and grey, their green tops slanted by the wind. This was a south-easterner, dry, hard, and colder. The landscape felt sharper.
Mary Graves took her water bottle from under her seat and took a sip.
She could almost mistake it for the same wind that hit the dunes close by her parental estate in Dunwich. Sharp wind and high grass and green flowing into beiges and blues— gray gulls shrieking as they skirted the incoming waves. The natural pier that existed of large boulders rough with crinkled limpet shells and sparsely strewn with locks of dry seaweed. As a child she'd had to stretch her legs far apart in order to walk from one to the other, and Mary had felt herself master of the beach when she got to the largest of the few.
Wind in her face. So similar to the one she felt today. Between the boulders had been hollows full of water, with a sandy bottom and the fringe of yellow-brown seaweed. She'd drawn them in watercolours, and kept it in her dorm when she left for Cambridge.
She remembered the boys that had come and used their little strech of the beach while she was visiting her parents during Christmas in 1915. It had been cold and windy— icy waves crashing on the beach and the entire landscape had felt too sharp and too desolate. They'd come with petrol bidons and motors that looked too heavy for the brittle boats. Mary had gone up to them and asked what they were planning.
"We're going to Calais." They said. "Then Amiens. But keep it quiet—" one added under his breath as he turned to help his schoolmate with the motor, "we don't need trouble."
Mary thought them reckless, and she'd told them as much.
"You wouldn't understand." They said. "Those animals aren't holding your England hostage."
They'd looked young, still. And they all carried the confidence of children who were sure they would never die. Mary watched them leave with the tide.
A week after this encounter, she had come back from holiday to discover that half her year had left to sign.
The Minerva broke over the hilltop, and began its gentle, more gradual journey downwards. As they crossed the outskirts of the village, they passed the plastic basins with crushed flour which shone so brightly, so impeccably white, even in the evening light, that Mary had to close her eyes. Beside them rose mountains of manioc roots, stout bright white stumps reminiscent of sawn tusks.
In the sweltering heat, Loiyangalani streched along the lake with a small port along the banks. It's centre, small but bustling, and sandy. Loiyangalani's color palette was varied, but they were not the rich pigments of other sun-drenched cities. One never saw the saturated colours of Mzizima or the deep warm hues of Mwanza. In Loiyangalani, every lick of paint faded so quickly that people no longer seemed to bother: and faded colours had become an aesthetic in themselves. The little shops, where one could buy some soap or heavy bidons of water, sported walls invariably painted in a pale green or pale blue hue. Crates of pixie oranges were stacked in large fortresses in the courtyards of the two hotels. The oranges were not scarlet, but a dull red. The shirts of the traffic police were a pale yellow. Only the earth seemed dark. And the only colour that really stood out was the processed manioc.
Dr Hadebe's clinic was situated behind the church, easily accessible by the main road, and had a view on a cassava field behind, which lay between the clinic and the banks of the lake. Silva pulled the Minerva up a spot under the acacia tree that marked the end of the driveway and separated it from the courtyard; past the concrete wall covered with shards of glass, and the chipped black metal gate that always stood wide open. Up high on the wall a macaque bared its teeth, angry and fearful like a grimace, when Mary let her door slam too hard.
Mary Graves turned to van 't Sand as the other woman jumped down the back of the truck. They stood regarding Leigh as he waved his arms around and walked back and forth to get the blood flowing. Silva came up behind them.
"Did he get some rest?" Mary asked van 't Sand, nodding at Leigh. The kid had found himself something interesting and was prodding it with his foot.
Van 't Sand scrunched her mouth. "Not much. But I'll make sure he doesn't get into trouble."
"We'll put cots on the screened porch." Mary inclined her head towards the greyish building next to the main house. There were never as much patients as cots and Hadebe always made sure to have the ones the team used in storage. "Take your time. We'll leave for Meru tomorrow at noon," she regarded the house, "I'll be inside."
"Alright." Van t' Sand then turned to Silva. "Are you going into town?"
"If you are, I am."
Mary watched them. She had other things to deal with, first. A faint anxious sting had been her constant companion in the past hour, and it gave a sick turn in her stomach now.
"Alright— Leigh!" Silva called. "Want to get some dinner?"
As the three of them made their leave, Mary took her bag from the back and went towards the clinic. Against the paled blue walls of the two-story main building directly opposite the gate, a woman was seated, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, drinking in the afternoon sun. Mary ascended the patio. The woman opened her eyes. Her glasses were thick and frequently scratched. Mary greeted her. The woman closed her eyes once more. Parallel above her, next to the door, a plate hung: "usajili" it said in chalk. Someone with charcoal had scribbled an address under it.
Inside it was cooler than outside, and while Mary had expected to find Charles finishing his dinner in the back, he didn't seem to be back yet. The rooms were open, and broad. Far more so than would be expected from a building so decrepit. The furniture felt out of place, looked worn and old. They had the feel and look of things with previous lifes led, marks of all kinds serving as proof of it. They did not fit together either. Each piece felt unique, standing out from the whole. Mary left her bag next to one of the low, rattan woven chairs and looked out. There was the terrace behind the kitchen and the cassava field and the water behind. Azure spots could be made out on the lake, as if an enormous brush had splattered drops on the still surface. Only a single structure could be spotted on her far left. The sandowner pub.
She stretched herself out.
Mary debated stepping into the clinic, but she reasoned Charles had heard the Minerva draw up and if he hadn't come out to welcome them then he was either too busy or at the village. Either way, Mary could justify it to herself not to seek him out. Mary decided to eat, then, and afterwards she would check up on Henderson via radio.
❧
She jolted awake in her chair. It was darker. Disoriented, Mary scrambled a little over the armrest to sit up straight, a familiar coat slipping down her lap and smelling faintly of sandalwood and antiseptic soap.
"I didn't expect you back, already," a warm voice said.
Mary turned. Charles Graves stood in the doorframe, sleeves rolled up and shirt wrinkled in folds, the wear of the day visible under his eyes. Water bottle in his hands. Charles's hair was longer now, hanging loosely about his jaw, and a beard, somewhat unkempt, adorned his face. Her husband gave her a charming smile, cheeks lifting and deepening the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, beard and hair looking softer than usual in the last yellow-red light of the evening. He had a palpable presence based on modest aptitude and soft charm that instilled a sense of warmth in Mary. And when their eyes met, Mary saw a flicker of something cross Charles's features, but it was gone so fast she wasn't sure what it was. She turned her back with a slight clench located low under her sternum.
"Charles." It was worth travelling here to say that name aloud again. But it was so desperately indulgant, she continued: "there wasn't much to wait for."
That wasn't the reason, though. And Mary thought Charles knew.
"Alright." Charles closed in and leant his lower body against the back of the lounge chair and Mary had forgotten how deep that voice resounded from Charles's chest when he spoke. Mary tilted her head back to look at him. She could feel his warmth through the rattan webbing. His free hand trailed over the worn side. Charles's eyes searched hers. "How's Bates?" He asked, softer now. Van t'Sand must have told him.
"Shaken. And a bane of my existence. But alive."
"Will he be coming here?"
"I told him to. He insisted he was fine." She relaxed into the give of the chair. There was something so inducing and soothing about that warmth. "There's something with his leg. Henderson will be working on him and bring him over one of these days."
His hand stilled. "How are you?"
"Alive as well."
Sudden coldness, as Charles's body moved away from the chair and employed himself by the cabinet. "That's not what I mean, Mary." He spoke.
Mary eyed the windows, her fingers tightening on the armrests, seeing nothing, and thinking nothing, and willing herself to ignore the pressing, heavy air.
"Did you eat, yet?" She spoke. Her voice too loud in the intimate room.
"I ate at Mdm Adea's. Again, I didn't know you were coming back otherwise I would've stayed."
That clenching feeling was back again. Mugs clinked on hardwood. "Who manned the clinic?"
"Dhakiya."
"Is she the one with the glasses? Out on the porch?"
"The glasses—? No. No, that's Kawaria. Some friend of Hadebe's. I don't know her that well, either." Charles walked back into her line of sight and held out a mug of cold tea. Mary accepted it without thinking. Charles then settled himself with a second mug on the ajoint sofa; left arm slung across the back and one foot resting on the opposite knee.
He looks tired, Mary's mind supplied. And she eyed the greying hairs at his temple. It bothered Charles, Mary knew. Although he'd never admit it. But all the men in his family had been completely grey before forty, Charles had always known he would be no exception.
The windows were open yet the wind was scarcely in the room. But it was pleasant now that the temperature had gone down. The empty mantle sat unmoving on the East wall.
"It reminds me of your old apartments," she smiled, finishing her look of the room and eyes falling back on him. "Is that on purpose?"
"Of course," he lied. "What do you think?"
"That you've certainly made the effort."
"Perhaps."
"Let's lie. Let's pretend you made it like that for me."
"I made it for you," he said. And Mary couldn't help but snicker into her cup. "How long are you here for?" He asked. There was something fragile in his expression. It was the eyes, she noticed. A tightness around them, as though he anticipated a rejection—
"Just tonight." She spoke. He simply nodded and looked away and down. She tightened her grip on the mug and looked out at the line of windows.
Silence fell. Mary felt Charles looking at her, but she did not turn her head to meet his gaze. The staccato of her pulse ratcheted higher to throb in her ears and fingertips. She shifted in her seat. Charles uncrossed his legs. Elbows on his knees and cradling and looking down into his mug. His profile was strong, energetic, and tired; an expression strangely marked: at first it appeared humble, but it soon became severe.
"Mary—"
"Did the aid supplies get here, yet?"
Charles paused and stared. Something in his jaw slid and locked. Then he looked away and back down in his mug, as he rubbed one of his forearms. "Beginning this week. It's good. No more than usual."
"Maybe I'll pass by the governor." She finally looked him in the eye again, saw that subtle spark of hope and warmth in him.
"You think it'll help?"
"They can't soil their image of sympathisers. And she's very adamant on putting on a media-perfect performance."
"She's not the only one."
Immediate silence, as the space between them grew decidedly cold. And she almost recoiled because of it, almost showed how much it affected her. She swallowed. Mary didn't know whether Charles had made the comment on purpose, and she didn't want to think of the implications if he did. She didn't want to think of the possibilities that Denham-Moore and herself were anything alike.
Mary brought her mug up. "I suppose."
A big black and white dog that had been sleeping somewhere had come in and she jumped next to Charles on the sofa. She put her head in his lap. Charles patted her absentmindedly.
"Is he the one you sleep with?" Mary asked.
"She's Hadebe's. She's got a spot on the veranda."
"She's nice."
Charles grinned. "You like her?"
"I like her better than you already and she's just about as sad."
To his credit, Charles only blinked at her, all soft crinkled eyes and soft expression. But then he said: "Don't do that."
Before Mary could answer, the door in the kitchen leading to the patio opened. "He! Daktari!" A voice came. Charles's eyes left hers. "I'm going to need your help with the— 𝘰𝘩." Mary turned in her seat to follow Charles's gaze and found a young woman standing in the passageway. She had kind eyes, a short-shaven afro, and a cheeky scowl on her lips. "Did I interrupt?" She arched an eyebrow.
Mary paused. And the cheeky smirk on the young woman's face broadened, and told Mary there was either a joke she had not been let in on, or the young woman was making fun of them.
Mary opened her mouth—
"No— what did you need." Charles rose swiftly, placing his mug on the coffee table and strode over to the girl. "Is it the tank? We'll need a third man for that. We can change the filter, but we'll have to wait for Hadebe to come back to finish it."
The young woman, amused, and tilting sideways so she could throw Mary a grin when Charles put his stature between them, said: "she can—"
"Medically educated third man."
The girl looked back at him, now frowning. "What, she—"
Charles stood with his back to her, but Mary could hear the strain in his voice as he ushered the young woman back towards the patio. The young woman herself, fully amused and not afraid to show it, remarked: "you know, you told me your wife was—"
And then the patio door slammed hard. The dog let out a discontent groan as it settled deeper into the give of the sofa.
Mary watched the duo move about the yard with distant fondness. The voice of the young woman chattering amiably as they went. She clearly adored him. Charles Graves was not merely liked for his good humour, but for his bright disposition, and his unquestionable honesty. In him, in his figure, and his wiling smile, there was something which produced an instant effect of kindliness on the people around him.
Mary pressed her face into the webbing of the chair and felt the pull of something inside her, like an overstretched muscle in her chest. As Charles was now, making his way towards the extended ground-floor building that housed the patients, he seemed more youthful then.
White hairs at his temples. Lines etched along his forehead, around his eyes. These days he wore clothes so shabby and senesce as to be indistinguishable from the garb he wore when he taught his classes in London. Yet while Mary perceived the physical realities of Charles's appearance, she was not convinced. Mary also saw the confident medic during the war; the strong, young student with the mischievous smile who'd followed her to The Mundi that one time; even the rebellious man at the university that no one had been in any hurry to teach. They were all equally part of Charles, each stage of his existence vivid in this moment.
Maybe it was the faint hint of sandalwood still hanging in the air, a whispering reminder of it lingering in the coat that now lay folded on the armrest. From Charles, who was still her husband, if only in name. Who'd offer her a challenge, a path, a way out of any place she'd sink herself into. It was a good smell. Honest. Welcome, after all the mud and decay. A good, rich cologne, the kind that made a man smell more like himself, made him smell warm.
It was nice, but it shouldn't have reminded her of her home— their home. It shouldn't remind her of what intimacy was, either, and it didn't. But she felt the absence of it in herself where that emotion ought to be, an empty black space, filled with ashes. A place where something ought to be glowing, keeping the rest of her from the rains and the draught and the world's indifference.
Mary sighed. And then turned away.