The Cellar Page 5

  She vibrated her tongue against her palate to produce a snakelike hiss and felt a satisfying fulfilment when Olubayo fled across the hall and up the stairs to his room. He would do what he did every night, sit before his screen, pulling at himself and grunting like a pig. It’s what made him stupid.

  It was another week before Yetunde took the rod to Muna. She’d been content to leave the girl alone as long as she performed her duties. Mr Broadstone’s visits, and the occasional unannounced appearance by Inspector Jordan or the police liaison officer, persuaded her to keep calling Muna her daughter and allowing her to wear floral prints instead of black.

  At the outset of the investigation, she’d ordered several dresses in Muna’s size out of fear the police would notice the girl always wore a kaba that was too big for her. Later, she seemed to feel they might as well be put to use, or perhaps she’d even come to prefer a servant who could be seen by strangers, for she allowed Muna to open the front door when the bell rang and bring trays of tea and sugared almonds to the sitting room.

  In front of visitors, she always thanked Muna prettily on these occasions, calling her a good girl or a kind girl, but Muna suspected it galled her to do it. Every so often she caught a flash of enmity in Yetunde’s eyes as if she were contrasting Muna’s improved circumstances with her own diminished ones.

  Her temper came to the boil one morning when Muna failed to make shortbread biscuits as sweet as she liked. A torrent of pent-up abuse poured from her mouth. She accused Muna of everything from murdering Abiola, attempting the same with Ebuka and causing Olubayo’s seizure before seizing her by the arm and dragging her to the kitchen. You’ll not get up this time, she warned, flinging Muna to the floor and taking up the rod.

  Muna twisted on to her back and cried out as loudly as she could. If you do this, the white will believe you did the same to Abiola, Princess. This is the day the gardener comes. He’ll hear my screams and repeat what I say to the police.

  It was enough to stay Yetunde’s hand.

  This is what I will shout, Princess. ‘No, Mamma, no. I have done no wrong. Please don’t kill me the way you killed my brother. You can’t beat two children to death and hope to escape punishment.’

  Yetunde’s eyes blazed. What lies are these? Who taught you to speak them in English?

  I learned them from the white, Princess. She told the Hausa speaker she believes it was you who took Abiola’s life. She will know it for certain if you take mine.

  Seven

  Autumn was well advanced by the time Ebuka came home from hospital. The flowers were dying and the trees that lined the street had turned from gold to russet red. Since the gardener left, the grass on the lawn had become wild and unkempt, and weeds grew in the beds that lined the gravel drive.

  Yetunde had dismissed the man on the day Muna had drawn attention to him, claiming she couldn’t afford him. Muna had watched his departure with regret. In truth, she doubted he would have heard her if she’d called from inside the house, or taken notice if he had – he seemed overly timid when speaking to Yetunde – but his presence had saved her from a beating.

  She plotted other ways to protect herself from Yetunde’s anger. Ways that came to her at night in dreams so real that she knew the Devil had not abandoned her. She hid weapons in each room of the house – knives from the kitchen, a hammer and a chisel from Ebuka’s toolbox, Abiola’s cricket and baseball bats, a heavy doorstop – and made sure she could remember where they were.

  She practised using the telephone whenever Yetunde went out by studying the keypad and listening to the buzzing noise against her ear when she lifted the receiver. Dial 999, Ebuka had said. Muna knew nine was a number from watching Abiola count on his fingers, and she guessed it must be one of the buttons on the keypad, but she didn’t know which or how often she should press it.

  She tried them all, pressing once, then twice, then three times. Most of her efforts resulted in silence or a voice saying ‘the number you have dialled has not been recognised’, but when she pressed one button on the right-hand side three times, she was answered immediately.

  A thrill ran through her body when a woman’s voice asked her which emergency service she required. Muna stood transfixed for several seconds; then she replaced the receiver and memorised the button she’d pressed. She was astonished at how quickly the woman had answered, how clear the voice had been and how easily she’d understood the words. It gave her hope that if she managed to reach the telephone before Yetunde, someone would help her.

  Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before she realised such a call would be pointless if she couldn’t tell the woman where she was. There were houses for as far as she could see from the upstairs windows. How would a stranger know she was in this one? She pictured Yetunde laughing and pulling the telephone from her hand if all she could say was, ‘Please help me. My name is Muna.’

  If she’d known how to read, she could have looked at the envelopes that came through the door from time to time. But such a skill was beyond her. All she could do was wait and listen. Sooner or later, Yetunde would order something to be delivered to the house and Muna would remember what she said. It had never seemed necessary before. What was the point of learning the name of a street when she didn’t even know which town she was in?

  Her opportunity came when Yetunde ordered a taxi to collect Ebuka from his rehabilitation centre. He would require one that could take a wheelchair, and, no, she would not be accompanying him. If Mr Songoli needed help the driver would have to assist him. She gave an address that Muna heard and committed to her memory. It made no sense to her but she practised the words in her head over and over again. Twenty Three Fortis Row En Ten.

  Yetunde had been speaking sourly of Ebuka’s return for days. On Jeremy Broadstone’s advice, she had ordered Ebuka to pretend he had only partial feeling in his hands and was unable to dress or feed himself, for the worse his injuries the higher the compensation would be. The plan seemed to have worked when Ebuka’s consultant ordered him to be moved to a specialist centre thirty miles away where he was cared for at the taxpayers’ expense. According to Mr Broadstone, this demonstrated that the Health Service was acknowledging fault for their patient’s condition.

  Yetunde couldn’t have been happier. Ebuka’s employer had agreed to pay his salary for six months until the nature of his disability was fully determined, Mr Broadstone’s legal suits were progressing well, and she could indulge her laziness to her heart’s content. Even Ebuka didn’t require her to make a sixty-mile round trip to visit him when she couldn’t drive. And this was a mercy, she confided to the lawyer, because her husband had lost his attraction for her.

  She didn’t like men with withered legs who wept continuously about their situation. Was it her fault he’d fallen down the cellar steps? Of course not, so how could he ask her to pick up the pieces afterwards by learning to change his catheter bags, keep his circulation working and his back and buttocks free of pressure sores? She shuddered every time she spoke of Ebuka’s incontinence. It was unreasonable to expect a woman of her class to deal with such things.

  To Muna’s eyes, Yetunde found Jeremy Broadstone a great deal more desirable than Ebuka. She preened herself in front of the mirror when she knew he was coming, and found playful reasons to touch him when she showed him to a seat or handed him a cup of tea. It was harder to read Mr Broadstone, though Muna thought she saw distaste in his eyes each time Yetunde pushed another sugared almond or cream-filled bun into her already bloated face.

  Idleness had made her fatter. She claimed she was comfort-eating out of grief for Abiola but Mr Broadstone suggested it might be better to show her grief in more obvious ways. She must learn to cross her hands over her heart each time his name was mentioned, produce tears on demand and whisper in a quavering voice when she spoke of the day he went missing. These were the reactions that judges and juries expected from mothers, and she needed to win their sympathy if her case against the police were to be successful.

/>   Muna wondered why Mr Broadstone cared so much about Yetunde receiving payment until Olubayo asked his mother how much he would earn from the settlement. Too much, Yetunde told him. It was a bad system that said those who suffered pain and bereavement could only be recompensed through the efforts of lawyers. Mr Broadstone hardly needed the money – he was wealthy already – but he’d be paid handsomely if they won their case.

  Muna knew then that Jeremy Broadstone was a false and shallow man. He was paying attention to Yetunde on a promise of money, which meant his smiles were insincere and his sympathy a pretence. And that pleased her. For all the powder Princess brushed on her face, the perfume she sprayed on her neck and the time she spent on her hair, the skinny white didn’t like her enough to show compassion for free.

  As the hour of Ebuka’s arrival drew close, Yetunde’s frustrations boiled over. With Olubayo at school, she expressed them openly to Muna. This wasn’t fair. She’d never wanted to be Ebuka Songoli’s wife. Her parents had arranged the marriage without ever asking her if she could learn to love him. She had tolerated him all these years because he went to work and earned good money, but she couldn’t abide to spend every day in his company.

  It was bad enough that she’d had to share a bed with Ebuka and allow him to maul her whenever the mood took him, but to have to clean his private parts and deal with the stench of his faeces and urine … The idea was abhorrent to her. She couldn’t do it. If it had been in her power, she’d have refused responsibility for him and left him where he was. This vile country was to blame for the ills that had befallen him. Let the English assume his care instead of insisting that his wife must do it.

  Muna waited until the tirade began to falter. I can care for the Master, Princess, she said quietly. It’ll be no different from cleaning Abiola. Smells worry me less than they worry you.

  But instead of being grateful, Yetunde eyed her suspiciously. Do you hope to make me look bad?

  No, Princess. I thought only to help you. Perhaps the Master won’t agree to my tending him. He may not want to be touched in his secret places by a girl.

  Don’t pretend you haven’t done it before, Yetunde snapped. In any case he has no say in the matter. He must accept whatever arrangements I put in place. It’s high time he learned how badly he’s impoverished us through his stupidity.

  Of course Yetunde pretended love when Ebuka arrived, running to plant juicy kisses on his cheeks inside the large, sliding-door taxi, but she did nothing to assist him out of it or into the wheelchair that the driver removed from the other side. The man was white-haired and elderly, and he eyed Yetunde cynically for a moment before asking her to move aside so that he could ease Ebuka from the seat to the chair. When he saw that she had no intention of helping her husband over the doorstep into the house either, he did that too, nodding to Muna who was standing in the shadows at the side of the hall.

  He tapped Ebuka’s shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you with your daughter, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope things go well for you. They generally do once you’re in your own environment.’

  A tear glistened in Ebuka’s eye as he thanked the man for his kindness. What a sorry sight he was, Muna thought. So small and hunched in the wheelchair, his beard and hair tinged with grey and his skin a shade lighter from being inside for so long. She glanced towards Yetunde, who was arguing with the driver about the fare, and then walked forward to push Ebuka into the dining room.

  Princess said you must sleep in here, Master. She made Olubayo and me bring Abiola’s bed from upstairs because it won’t matter if you mess it. I’ve put the same rubber sheet on that he always used.

  Are you laughing at me?

  No, Master. I haven’t learned how to do that yet. Shall I leave you here or would you like to go somewhere else?

  Tell Princess to come. I need help.

  Muna moved round to look at him. She won’t give it, Master. Your smell offends her. She liked it better when you were in hospital.

  Will a nurse come?

  No, Master. Princess is too poor to pay people to help you. You must look after yourself or let me do it.

  He seemed more frightened now than he’d been in the cellar when he discovered he couldn’t move. Muna stooped to look into his eyes.

  You must learn courage and cleverness, Master. You’ll not survive being the prisoner of people who despise you otherwise. Princess’s temper is very uncertain. If you demand too much or your complaints irritate her, she will open the cellar door and push you down the steps.

  Perhaps Ebuka thought she was talking about herself because he grasped the wheels of the chair and manoeuvred it backwards. Stay away from me, he warned with a tremor in his voice. Only you would do such a thing.

  Not I, Master, but the same isn’t true of Princess and Olubayo. You brought misfortune to them when you brought it to yourself, and they blame you for it.

  And you do not?

  No, Master. As your life gets worse, mine gets better. I thank you more often than I blame you. Shall I ask Princess to come or would you rather show me how to help you? You will find me a faster and more patient learner. Princess is too lazy to do anything well.

  Eight

  Muna wondered if all people were like the Songolis. It was hard to tell when her contact with strangers was so limited. She took what she could from the television but Yetunde’s diet of soap operas, American movies and chat shows were as full of anger and aggression as the woman who watched them.

  Sometimes Muna saw love portrayed on the screen when men and women tore off their clothes and grunted like Ebuka and Olubayo, or mothers caressed their children and said they loved them, but she remained unmoved by such scenes. The gestures and words were always the same, as if there were only two ways to express affection.

  Yet as time wore on she noticed that Ebuka’s eyes softened each time she entered his room. It made her curious because it seemed to indicate a feeling for her that he’d never had before. She might have feared it was lust if Yetunde hadn’t delighted in flicking his flaccid penis and telling him he’d never be able to go with white whores again.

  To see him naked disgusted Yetunde but Muna felt only indifference. He had lost his power to hurt her, and the withered muscles of his legs made him seem shrunken and puny. Occasionally she wished she’d been able to see his penis when he came at her in the darkness of the cellar. She’d have been less frightened if she’d known what it was he was thrusting into her hole and her mouth. It was such a poor little thing and she had strong teeth. She could have bitten it off and spat it out along with his filth.

  For the first few days Ebuka closed his eyes and refused to speak when she came to his room. It mattered little to Muna. She had been silent so long that talking was a burden. She was happier living inside her head than moving her stiff, reluctant mouth to form words.

  Her thoughts on Ebuka were always about revenge. Sometimes she was in the mood to kill him. It would be so easy to take the bag of faeces, snip off the end and force him to choke on his own excrement. It would be payback for the slime he’d emptied into her mouth, and the idea appealed to her. But the Devil whispered caution and patience. Muna’s circumstances would change for the worse if Ebuka died and Mr Broadstone stopped coming to the house. The lawyer’s visits and promises of money were the only curb on Yetunde’s temper.

  Ebuka spoke eventually because he hadn’t the patience to stay quiet for ever. Perhaps he found Muna’s attention to his welfare puzzling for he asked if she was glad he’d lived. She told him she was, and he gave a hollow laugh, reminding her of what she’d said in the cellar. What had changed? Did she hate him less now that he was a cripple? She assured him her feelings remained the same. Her gladness was to see him as much a prisoner as she was, and this pleasure would have been denied her if he’d died.

  Ready tears filled his eyes. So your dislike of me remains the same yet you show more kindness than my wife does. Why?

  Princess will make us both suffer if I don’t, Master. She ne
eds you to live because she wants the money Mr Broadstone says he can win for her.

  Is everything you do done out of fear of a beating?

  You know it is, Master.

  The tears spilled down his cheeks. I’ve had a long time to think about the day of the accident, Muna. I behaved badly. Will you accept how deeply I’ve come to regret my treatment of you? Can you forgive me for the things I’ve done in the past?

  If you wish it, Master.

  Muna marvelled at how much easier he seemed in his mind after this exchange, as if words alone could make him better. He wept less frequently, put more effort into his rehabilitation and thanked her constantly for her efforts. Once or twice he begged her for a smile and, out of curiosity to see his reaction, she made the attempt. Even the smallest twitch of her lips brought a beam in response; and how odd that was, she thought. Did he think her curved mouth any more sincere than her forgiveness?

  Muna knew full well that his regrets were for himself. If nothing had happened to change the course of his family’s life, he would still be coming to her in the darkness of the cellar. But it suited her to reward him with little smiles for it gave her a renewed sense of power to see his face light up when she entered the room.

  She became skilful at pushing down on his bladder to empty it, managing his catheters and bags and keeping his skin free of pressure sores. She helped him perform his daily upper-body exercises to increase the strength in his arms, hands and neck, and lifted and moved his legs to maintain the circulation of blood through his veins. Once a week, a district nurse came to monitor his progress, always ushered in by Yetunde, and each time the nurse told Ebuka he was doing well before congratulating him on his devoted wife.

  Muna loved to see the discord these statements created between the Songolis after the nurse left. They argued heatedly, Ebuka accusing Yetunde of taking compliments she hadn’t earned and Yetunde accusing Ebuka of ruining their chances of compensation. It was his duty to play up his disability, she stormed. He was of no use to her and Olubayo if he couldn’t win money for them.