Eighty Not Out (12 page)

A tennis-playing friend of Fergus, Leslie, and his Australian wife were to be witnesses, and had planned a celebratory feast to follow the ceremony. There had, however, been a major domestic upheaval, precipitated by the dismissal of their servant Kwaku, who had been with Leslie during his bachelor days. Kwaku's attitude was analogous to that of the painter at Kintampo – obstruction, feigned deafness, deliberate misunderstanding, and ill-disguised resentment at the presence of a woman in the kitchen. There had been insolence, too, but not in Leslie's presence until the week before our marriage when Kwaku had rashly asked if they wished to lose his valuable services. Stunned by the affirmative reply, he had turned nasty, cursing and threatening violent retribution, including intent to set fire to the house: the police had come to evict him. A succession of trial servants ensued, staying on average for two days; possibly ‘memsahib' did have unrealistically high expectations.

For the wedding, I wore the tight-waisted black-and-white cotton dress my mother had made for Auntie Rosemary's marriage two years before; crippling, kitten-heeled winklepickers and a shocking pink clutch bag completed the ensemble. Fergus wore the usual shorts, white knee socks, desert boots, crisp short-sleeved shirt and a tie. Litter-strewn cement stairs led to the noisy council offices, where we hung around for a while before anyone noticed us. Then a clerk, whose job it was to fill in the marriage certificate, escorted us to a large boardroom, where many junior clerks were scribbling and sorting forms. He began, with the deliberation of an Irish country policeman, to fill in the necessary information. ‘Parasitologist' appears on two lines as ‘Parasito-Logist', but he coped better with ‘Photographer'. After he had breathed heavily his way through two copies, we were herded into the Clerk's office. He was an English-educated Ghanaian who had been good enough to dress smartly in a black suit and bow tie, and was very pleasant – apart from a tendency to indulge in banter on the lines of ‘You've had it now', addressed to Fergus. The passage he chose to read from a fat, red legal tome concentrated on dire warnings about understanding that if either of us contracted a bigamous marriage during the life of the other, he or she would be open to punishment by the judiciary irrespective of where he or she was residing – not a word about loving and cherishing, though wifely subservience was emphasised. Then Fergus handed me the ring and I hissed, ‘Put it on' – he claimed he was getting around to it – and that was that. Afterwards we went for drinks at the club, where Fergus and Leslie played two sweaty sets of tennis before we sat down to the best dinner the club could provide.

The following day we drove down a rough, precipitous track, in which heavy rain had carved deep fissures, to the crater lake of Bosumptwi. From where the track narrowed to a footpath, it was a steep walk to the shoreline settlement, carrying field glasses, camera, and a container for snails. We did not take the usual long-handled metal sieve – a tribal tradition dating back many centuries prohibited metal objects in the lake – but we saw many buckets and enamel bowls among the rickety chairs and tables outside a line of poorly maintained palm-thatched huts, the inhabitants of which, verging on hostile, were the surliest we were ever to encounter in Ghana. Despite the fact that visitors were a rarity, the children were persistent in their demands – ‘Massa, you give me penny.' There was none of the light-hearted chatter associated with most village communities, the shoreline of the crater was hazy, and only a few primitive hollowed-out log boats, propelled by hand alone, were to be seen. Fergus found no interesting snails, and it took half an hour to climb out of the crater in the oppressive heat of early afternoon. Neither of us had worn a hat, and I thought of what I had read on the need to wear a solar topee at all times in the
Guide Book for Young Colonial Officers, c
. 1920. No ill effects ensued, and it was gratifying that neither of us was breathless. Only seven months had passed since my arrival – I was getting acclimatised.

At Kintampo, plans for celebration of the extended holiday over the Christmas and New Year period were already under way. Most of the senior staff, having had their fill of travel during the year, would remain on campus. A few enthusiasts said we should make a trip to a game reserve not far from Ouagadougou, where small populations of giraffe, lion, leopard and elephant had survived. It was not possible to book accommodation, and the risk of travelling hundreds of miles, staying at the most basic of rest-houses, only to see not much more than could, with luck, still be seen in northern Ghana, was high. While Kintampo remained fairly green, further north the dry season had already begun, leaves had curled brown, scrub fires were widespread, and the harmattan wind blew for the first time on the day the French let off their A-Bomb, so we probably got our share of fallout. The woodwork in the house started to crack like a pistol shot, and our noses felt in need of picking – mine often bled.

Three weeks in advance of the feast Adda suggested we might like to buy a turkey from a friend of his, and that it should stay with us, pending execution, to benefit from better feeding. I cannot recall the exact sum paid, but it struck me as no great bargain, even allowing for Adda's ‘cut'. A rangy bird was duly tethered on a long rope to the ancient mango tree near Adda's quarters. As one who disliked the process of selecting a fish from the tank in restaurants, I hated its reproachful presence. All this was prompted by horror stories circulating in European circles of vultures having been substituted. When the day of slaughter arrived, Adda waited until Fergus had left before asking if he might have some brandy to anaesthetise the bird. Aware that I was being taken for the fool I was, I handed over the best part of a bottle of brandy. What amount, if any, went down the turkey is unknown, but Adda was paralytic that night, sending a message by a small child to the effect that he had belly palaver. Fergus was furious, as our quarterly duty-free liquor allowance was running low, and the entertainment season imminent: this would include a visit over the New Year from friends in Accra, who were curious to experience the primitive lifestyle in the north, in contrast to the air-conditioned opulence of the capital.

Christmas Day, on which Adda had chosen to work in lieu of later leave to be spent with his family in Navrongo, began with the arrival of two small girls at the back door ‘to wish you a Merry Christmas', who were paid off at three pence per head. Although we had already been visited several times by carol singers, another group arrived to render their version of ‘Good King Wenceslaus' – I am sorry to say I laughed when it got to looking out on the snow ‘deep and crisp and even'. Fergus set up his easel and paints near the entrance doors to the central room, but found the presence of curious children, noses flattened on the mosquito netting, too distracting to continue and retreated to the bedroom and drew the curtains. The kitchen, now slightly less depressing and more hygienic, was mine until Adda came on duty at four thirty, and we fled to the tennis court.

On Boxing Day a fire came close to the house, and all hands were needed to beat the flames back, while cattle egrets sat on the fringe of the fire picking off fugitive insects. David, who had entertained us the previous evening, came to dinner, at which the predictably chewy bird appeared, stuffed traditionally (no Paxo), along with bread sauce, tinned cranberry sauce, such vegetables as I could muster, and rice in lieu of potatoes. Nobody said so, but two of David's guinea fowl would have been preferable. I could not compete with Simba's pink mousse, but managed a pie made from tinned apples mixed with mangoes, served with Carnation cream. I never attempted to make a traditional Christmas pudding or mince pies, as the mixture would have been a magnet for armies of sugar ants. The legs of every table stood in tins of water, but despite this, one would sometimes find tiny bodies in the pasta mix. Frank Wickramasingh, a Sri Lankan medical officer, and his English wife were also moved to entertain us: conversation, despite the wine, was not stimulating, though we did our best to introduce new topics, which were almost invariably cold-blanketed. Frau von Haller and the two girls returned to Germany to resume school, while Pappi completed his contract in Kintampo. There were few Germans in Ghana at that time, but rumours persisted that an ex-Nazi doctor ran a health centre at a small settlement in the south-east near the border with Togo: his lampshades made of human skin. Said to be an excellent doctor, in an area riddled with witch doctors, where voodoo and ritual sacrifice were rife, the lampshades might not have attracted much outrage.

We put on as good a show of hospitality as we could for the visiting party from Accra. Gilbert and Grace (who had made a pass at Fergus before I came on the scene) and their thirteen-year-old daughter, Charity, arrived irritable, coated with dust and complaining bitterly about the appalling state of the roads. All they wanted was a hot shower and lots of cold drinks. Fergus knew that the rest-house facilities ran to no more than a cracked handbasin and a stained bath, but hoped the caretaker would at least have warmed some water which could be brought by bucket to the bathroom. On his inspection, he had noted holes, not only in the mosquito proofing, but in the nets around the beds; but the lumpy kapok-filled mattresses would at least be dry at that time of year. Aware how much importance Gilbert attached to the chill of his drinks, Fergus had told the caretaker to be sure ice cubes were ready for the visitors, only to hear that the refrigerator ‘somehow he spoil', but a replacement had been ordered. Attempting to lighten the atmosphere, we plied them with strong, iced drinks before breaking the news about the deficiencies of the rest-house. They had thermos flasks, which I could fill with cold water or tea, and as the water-filter was working, they would have a supply of tepid drinking water. They brought contributions of spirits and a case of Tusker, but nothing useful such as tinned cheese or frankfurters from Czechoslovakia.

Academically brilliant and studying Russian with plans to become an interpreter, Charity was petulant and as fussy about her food as her dyspeptic father. A plethora of pills was laid out before each place-setting every morning. Satisfying their fads and preferences, and the fact that our stores were running low, made my task as gracious hostess a nightmare. ‘No pepper for me … I'd like
mine
without pawpaw or banana … no mustard in the sandwiches, please … I can't take fat … Oh, no salad dressing for me.' Knowing that Fergus had a short fuse with pernickety feeders, I wondered how long it would be before he voiced his impatience. We organised a trip to the White Volta at Kadelso, fifty miles to the north, where the
MFU
kept a boat; normally game was scarce, but we had a very rich day. En route we saw a duiker, a family of mongooses, a rare vulture and large flocks of both common and rosy bee-eaters. The Public Works Department (
PWD
) mechanic in charge of the boat and its twostroke engine, and two locals said to be familiar with the river and its channels met us and we all packed into a sturdy-looking flat-bottomed boat. One of the locals kept a token hand on the rudder and clearly did not know right from left, giggling every time we shot past large rocks just below the surface, unperturbed when we hit them. Gilbert, who had a boat of his own in Accra, quickly took over the steering and tried to get the mechanic to slow down when everyone shouted, ‘Slow, rocks!' We had no idea if the propeller was protected or not, and were afraid of holing the boat. Fergus had noticed there was only one paddle on board – the other was later found in the resthouse. At one point we were rotating slowly on a rock pinnacle from which only a massive shove with the paddle dislodged us. Excitement was heightened by the fact that a magnificent fifteen-foot crocodile was basking on the shore nearby. The party was uncharacteristically silent as, after two incidents of engine failure, we got safely ashore. The second local, it was divulged, had come along just for the ride. The following morning the visitors left, claiming to have had such an enjoyable holiday. I was thankful that Fergus had refrained from acerbic comment – after all,
we
might find ourselves in need of a bed in Accra sometime in the future.

The costs of implementing the Bilharzia Research Project were to be shared between the Ghana government and
WHO
, but the latter agency was feeling the financial pinch because certain large countries – the
US
among them – were behind with their contributions. It began to look probable that the scheme, unique in Africa, might be shelved in favour of more urgent public health problems, and would never get beyond the planning stage. Fergus was overdue for home leave and feeling end-of-tourish, but neither the regional office in Brazzaville nor headquarters in Geneva was acknowledging repeated demands for a decision on dates and itineraries for travel to Europe. An application for a month's study leave at Danmarks Akvarium (Denmark's aquarium at Charlottenlund) with the eminent malacologist Dr Mandahl-Barth had been ignored. It must be admitted, however, that due to continuing unrest and violence in the Congo, the director of the regional office will have had more important things on his mind than travel authorisation for a relatively junior staff member.

Our evenings were spent, Campari or gins and Dubonnet in hand, with thoughts of returning to Europe by car. We would pore over maps of the route to Kano and thence north across the Sahara Hoggar route; the alternative was to head west to Dakar and the Atlas Mountain range to Tangier. Ultimately the time involved, the fact that the Ford Zephyr was showing its age and what went on under the bonnet was largely a puzzle to Fergus, combined with the knowledge that the French authorities demanded a large deposit to cover costs if they had to go on a rescue mission, led to rejection of the plan – much to my mother's relief.

In the meantime, we went on a trip to the south-west, accompanied by several field assistants in the Land Rover, to conduct a survey of transmission sites: the
MFU
offices and laboratories were at Ho, and the medical officer in charge was another young Italian, Erminio Onori, whose wife had not long given birth to their first child. Inspecting the baby in its cot under a frilly white canopy, I experienced, for the first time, a flutter of broodiness – it might not be such a bad idea after all. Like the Roseis at Kintampo, the Onoris ate well: two generous meals per day were already reflected by Erminio's portly bulk. They were generous hosts, pressing us to stay with them rather than at the
MFU
guesthouse, and there was much bawdy mirth one morning when we had to confess that our bed had collapsed. Tragedy later struck the family; the baby girl whom we had admired in the cot was killed in a riding accident, and Erminio had a fatal heart attack before he was fifty.