Across the Wide Zambezi: A Doctor's Life in Africa (43 page)

     Most of Bill’s relations were in
Salisbury, Betty’s in Bulawayo: these being the older generation.

     When we visited Granddad, taking
the week-end off, we sent a message by ‘Granddad’s spider’. There were always
one or two of these creatures - wall spiders - on the walls of the house. We
told the spider to run up to Salisbury to tell him we were coming, and sure
enough, the children would see the creature there before us. And what a long
hot drag it would be in the car, with the two discontented little ones, unless
they were mercifully asleep, with a welcome break at the hotel in Enkeldoorn on
the way; and the same ordeal coming back. I would fall asleep at the wheel and
Terry would take over. Thank God it was past the days when we had to carry guns
and take the chance of an ambush, with or without a convoy. But that was before
our married days, I am glad to say.

     At least the days on the farm were
a welcome break, and the children could see the pigs and run away from the
geese, and ‘drive’ the tractor, as well as slip into Salisbury to the amusement
park.

Brother-in-law Boyce (the ‘Dutchman’)
and his wife, Terry’s sister, ‘Dozie’, had a
real
farm - all 15,000
acres of it, a ranch near Gatooma. (‘Dozie’ was, of course, a pet name: most of
Terry’s family had pet names like the Victorians.) Their homestead could have
been called ‘Groot Schuur’,
like Rhodes’s, it was so large, and looked
more like a ‘big barn’ than the original. It was a simple house with an
asbestos roof and mosquito-screened veranda, and measured 100 feet by 60. But
inside was spacious luxury. First, the veranda itself, as wide as an English
lane, where tea was served, extra beds put out, and, at the back, pumpkins and
butternuts laid out to ripen, the deep freeze kept, and all manner of junk.
Part of this was closed off as a garage. And on the veranda the children could
play football and hockey, or just cycle back and forth. Within, were large
rooms and many bedrooms, where one could retire and read in the heat of the
afternoon. Around the house was a large garden, within the security fence, with
magnificent trees in the front, surrounded by lawn. At the back, sheds for
tractors and
bakkies
(pick-ups). Beyond the fence were the ‘lands’: the
cultivated fields, planted with maize, sorghum, sunflower, cotton; and
stretching beyond all, the Bushveld.

     At four, when the main heat was
off, we would take a stroll, beyond the gate, either to the left, among the
lands; or to the right, where the dusty road soon entered the virgin bush, with
the telephone line running above. Sometimes one saw game - a duiker or kudu;
and once I saw a gymnogene, a weird-looking hawk, with a yellow face and feet.
Then, when the children were tired, we would turn back for sundowners on the
lawn.

     Boyce was a hearty extrovert: you
could hear him bawling Afrikaans or English down the telephone, half-way round
the house, as if he didn’t believe in the efficacy of the instrument; and a
generous host, as was Dozie, a tall handsome woman with the cool of a duchess.
And Boyce used to bawl at the workers, but I think they loved them both, if
only from something that happened in the war.

     The present building was not their
first house. The first was burnt down. Boyce was away with the TA. Dozie looked
after the farm, but left every afternoon to sleep in town. One day, she drove
out, past the workers’ compound, as usual, unaware that the guerrillas were hidden
there.They could have shot her easily, and I believe it was significant that
they did not. I do not wish to be invidious - some good people got shot - but
it was widely believed that the popularity (or otherwise) of the
baas
and
his family (at least, in some cases) had something to do with it. When Dozie
had gone, they broke into the house, drank all the liquor, and had a regular
party, before burning the place down. What the Koks missed most was three
generations of hunting trophies.

     They had three children - some of
our children’s many cousins - two tall sports-mad lads, and a daughter, I
thought looked like Princess Di.

Terry’s oldest sister, Rosemary lived
with her husband, ‘Muk’, in Bulawayo. Rosemary was a slim, energetic woman,
rather like her mother, who kept a spotless house and was never idle, always
making things. She was devoted to her beautiful garden.

     Muk was a colonel in the infantry,
and, ironically, had fought for both Smith and later Mugabe, in the
insurrection of 1981, when the Matabele swept down from the north, like a wolf
on the fold, but found, not a fold, but Smith’s old regiments, black and white
(Muk’s was a black regiment), who stopped them and saved Mugabe’s throne at
Entumbane, near Bulawayo.

     Muk was another tall Rhodesian.
Bill used to say the sun made the stock spring up: he regarded the inhabitants
of our islands (including myself) as a race of dwarfs. Muk had a peculiar sense
of humour, and described the Ashwin brides as ‘the four ugly sisters’. The
Micklesfields provided two more tall handsome cousins, a boy and a girl. Hugh
was a geologist. Debbie was the one who dared to marry an ‘Italian’, though,
like the ‘Dutch’ Boyce, he was as Rhodesian as Bill.

     Muk died of cancer in 1986, before
he was fifty.

And in Malawi, was another sister,
‘Bobby’, and her family, with whom we spent one happy holiday in that beautiful
country. Bobby was most like Terry. And, needless to say, more tall,
good-looking cousins, three boys and a girl. They moved about a lot, as husband
Lionel was in the tobacco business: a charming man, the only one in the family,
to Bill’s eye, as ‘short’ as me, although he was born in Africa (Malawi), until
we were joined by the ‘Italian’ Andy.

     This was the immediate family: the
‘extended family’ would fill a book themselves, and as Bill has undertaken the
writing of it, I will leave the task to him.

In 1984 my redoubtable Scottish aunt,
Ina, came to visit us. We had invited a number of people whose hospitality
overseas we had wished to return, but at 70, Aunt Ina was the only one with the
spirit to take us up. Admittedly, she was a seasoned traveller, having done a
number of far-flung journeys on behalf of her church.

     I picked her up at Harare airport,
having left Terry and the children behind at Shabani. They would join us later
on the tour of the country we had planned. I took her first to Bill’s pig farm.
He had certainly made an effort in converting one of the rough rooms into a
passable lady’s bedroom; but on the first night we had a problem.

     Aunt Ina knocked on my door.
‘Warren, there’s an enormous spider in my room.’

     I went to inspect. Sure enough,
there was a wall spider, about as big as a man’s hand.

     ‘That’s all right. It’s just a wall
spider.’ They are, of course, quite harmless.

     ‘I don’t want to know what kind it
is. I just want it out of my room.’

     I fetched a yard brush. Bill came
to help me. Of course, the things run like greyhounds, and this one did, all
over the place, and ended up behind the dressing table.

     So we had to move the dressing
table, and continue the hunt in the dimly lit room. I took a swipe or two at
the poor thing. We lost track of it. At any rate we didn’t have a body to show.
We told Aunt Ina it must have run out of the room. I don’t think she was
convinced, which wasn’t surprising, because neither were we. She told me later,
she switched off her light and made up her mind not to think about it or
anything else that might be in the room, and slept soundly.

     Aunt Ina had been given a message
to deliver to Dr George (whose surname shall remain buried in shame) by his
brother Walter in Edinburgh. I got him on the telephone and handed him over to
Aunt Ina. She hadn’t
asked
to meet him; thought we might get a cup of
tea, but didn’t expect him to shoot the messenger. ‘So nice to hear from you,’
replied George. ‘Have a nice holiday. Goodbye!’ Thanks very much! My words:
Aunt Ina’s thoughts.

     We took a plane and saw the
Victoria Falls. I took photographs with her camera. Then I tried to unload it,
and ruined the film. We appealed to a young man who looked promising. A lucky
choice; he was a professional. He showed me how to load and unload the camera
(which Aunt Ina herself wasn’t sure of), and I returned to the Falls alone to
repeat all the pictures. ‘And don’t stand too close to the edge, Warren
Durrant! I was very worried about you yesterday. I’ve got to get you back to
your wife!’

     We stayed at Wankie Game Park. One
evening at supper, Aunt Ina felt chilly. It was July, winter. She walked back
to our block to fetch a stole. After supper we walked back together, and saw
the trees broken by a herd of elephants. Aunt Ina had missed them by about five
minutes. Not a nice party to bump into!

     We returned to Harare, picked up
the car, and travelled down to Boyce and Dozie’s farm, where Terry and the
children met us.

     Then on to Bulawayo, where Aunt Ina
felt really cold for the only time. She met Rosemary and Muk there. Then to
Shabani and home. Aunt Ina saw the hospital, and came with me to a clinic out
in the bare winter bundu.

     Then to Fort Victoria with Terry
and the children. Michael had pointed out
mombes
(cows) to Aunt Ina and
explained what they were. Aunt Ina spotted one.
‘Mombe,’
she said.
‘Cow,’ Michael corrected her solemnly.

     On to the Eastern Highlands -
‘Scotland in the tropics’: Melsetter, where Aunt Ina’s room opened on the
magnificent panorama of the Chimanimani Mountains, a picture window indeed.
Then the Vumba, where she got nipped by a dog, fortunately vaccinated,
otherwise we would have to think about rabies. Finally, Inyanga, the most like
Scotland of all.

     We dropped in at Gareth’s place on
the way back to Harare. He had made a pile of sandwiches, being forewarned.

     And so to Bill’s, spiders
resolutely ignored. Last stop before the plane home. While we were alone, Aunt
Ina said, ‘That was the best day’s work ye did in your life, Warren Durrant,
when ye married Terry!’ And I agreed. She also said, ‘Now you’ve got children
of your own, you will appreciate better how people feel about them.’ ‘Too
true!’ I replied.

Little boys and girls differentiate
early, for all the opinions and practices of modern educationists. Mary
certainly loved dolls as much as Michael loved his pedal-car, etc. And Mary
developed an early interest in weddings. Whenever we saw one from the car, black
or white, we had to stop until Mary had indentified the bride, like the queen
bee. And before long, we got invited to some.

     There were family weddings, but the
one I remember most was that of an African colleague: or rather, it was his
wedding breakfast. The poor man had got married some years earlier, and had
children as old as ours, but had spent that time saving up for this obligatory
event, which in the case of such a ‘big man’ as a doctor, included his whole
clan, let alone his extended family. There were no less than a thousand guests,
whom we joined in the meat and
sadza
(maize porridge), not being among
the inner party. The latter ate rather more delicately in a separate room, into
which Mary strayed to catch a glimpse of the bride, and was gently led out of.
Then a disco started, which made such a tremendous noise, Terry and I could not
bear it. We left early, after I had left the customary donation with one of the
ushers. The formal ceremony, where the bride and groom sit like Egyptian gods,
while the money is collected and the donors’ names and contributions called
out, came later.

     After we left, Mary was
disappointed. She was looking forward to a dance, seeming impervious to the
dreadful noise. To compensate her, we stopped at a garage and let her slip out
to buy sweets. She came running back in the path of an oncoming car. I shouted
to her to stop. Thank God, it was a cold day and the window was closed or she
might have heard me. Of course, one of us should have gone with her: parents
should be everywhere, but aren’t. I felt miserable with guilt and said so. So
did Terry, no doubt, as she tried to comfort me. Parenthood!

     Another delight of Mary’s was
hotels - posh ones. If there was anything she enjoyed more than a posh hotel,
it was a posher one. The plush surroundings, the attention of the waiters (and
what a fuss African waiters make of children!), made her shine like a little
star and enter the place with the glow of a little princess. Auntie Rosemary
won a week-end at the Bulawayo Southern Sun, which was a very posh hotel. This
was a busman’s holiday for her, on her own doorstep, and joyless enough without
her husband, so she gave the tickets to us. It was a welcome break for us,
perhaps not very thrilling for Michael, but was one of the high spots of Mary’s
little life.

     Quite a different affair was what
we called the ‘Spooky Hotel’ (which shall remain otherwise nameless). Our usual
hotel in Salisbury was full, and they directed us to this place. We were booked
in by a surly clerk, smoking at a rough desk. We took two rooms, divided
between boys and girls. Michael succeeded in locking us out of his and my room,
so we took the lift to the ground floor in search of the surly clerk. We
discovered that the ground floor had no exit: just a corridor ending in a blank
wall. For some reason, I tried one of the bedroom doors. It opened, and there
was the surly clerk, like the Cheshire cat, without his grin, smoking at his
desk.