The Cinnamon Tree Page 8

  Fintan was unbuttoning his lab-coat when the doors swung open.

  ‘Oh there you are!’ It was Mr Dwyer. ‘Sorry to have left you, but you were in good hands. Fintan, why don’t you take Yola and go to the canteen? It’s lunchtime.’He turned to Yola. ‘Fintan’s dad has a project in Africa, ask him about it. I will have half an hour at two o’clock and we can wind up then with any questions. All right?’

  They sat in a corner of the canteen within a protective shield of clattering cutlery and lunchtime chatter. Yola was too excited to eat. She was overwhelmed by the noise, the colours and by how everything shone and looked new. She thought about home, where everything was either homemade or mended. Fintan had put down his tray and was deftly organising his plate, knife, fork and spoon. Yola watched and imitated, but got everything reversed. What were they going to talk about? Fintan seemed tongue-tied too and had gone pink. She was amused by how Europeans went pink when they were embarrassed. Then, she knew what she would ask.

  ‘Mr Fintan, how did he do it? The man in the lab, dancing. I could hardly hear your playing above the noise, and you say he’s deaf?’

  Fintan smiled and laughed. ‘First, just call me Fintan. Second, if I tell you, you promise you won’t tell.’ Yola nodded, delighted. ‘Well, his name is Sean – I’ll spell that for you later – he’s been deaf since he got measles as a baby. He has a twin sister – Mary, I think – who was big into Irish dancing. Sean would be taken to watch her. The teacher was a fiddler.’ He mimed a fiddler playing and raised an eyebrow to see if Yola understood; she nodded. ‘After a while, Sean noticed that while Mary was dancing, the teacher’s foot was working up and down in time to the music. Suddenly he thought, I could dance too! All he had to do was to keep his eye on the teacher’s foot and copy Mary’s steps.

  ‘They were a sensation together. People thought it was a miracle: a deaf boy dancing! They went in for competitions and won. Then, one day, a big competition came up. They waited and waited, but their teacher never turned up; his car had broken down. No problem, there was another fiddler who could play for them. They got up on the stage and Sean had his eye on the fiddler’s foot. Suddenly he saw the bow moving and Mary taking off into the dance, but poor Sean could not move.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this new fiddler didn’t tap his foot. So Sean had nothing to dance to. He told me: “The fiddler’s feet might have been screwed to the floor, and so were mine!” So, that was the end of his dancing career.’

  ‘So he was watching your foot tapping? He couldn’t hear anything?’

  Fintan nodded and Yola’s laughter rang out. Heads turned in the canteen and people smiled.

  ‘Tell me all about Ireland,’ Yola said, with an expansive gesture. ‘Are you going to be a player of the flute?’

  To her surprise, Fintan’s face darkened. Had she said the wrong thing? She noticed that his hand had drifted to the pocket where his flute was hidden, as if defending it. A gap was opening in the conversation. Then Fintan seemed to pull himself out of his dark mood.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that the flute is a sore point at the moment.’ Yola wondered what a sore point was but bit her lip. ‘This is not a proper flute, just a baby one, a piccolo that will fit in my pocket. My real flute’s … well … I haven’t got a real flute anymore.’

  He got up and brought them both a cup of coffee. Yola sensed he didn’t want to talk about his flute or how he had lost it.

  ‘Tell me about Ireland,’ she asked, ‘the place you come from. I know so little.’

  ‘I live in a small town in the midlands of Ireland, it’s called Caherisce,’ he began.

  ‘Green fields?’ asked Yola wistfully.

  ‘Lots and lots of green fields, and a brown mountain with goats and sheep on it. There are rocks on the mountain and a sturdy little river. My family were blacksmiths. Do you know what those are? People who work in metal, making horseshoes and ploughs and things. Then Grandfather started a factory. He made spades and pickaxes, using the waterpower from the river to hammer and beat the metal. I would go down there as a kid; it was all noise, red metal and white sparks. O’Farrell Engineering it was then. Granddad would say, “Fifty sweaty workers, lad, and that means fifty pay packets into fifty homes add fifty wives with fifty shopping bags …” well, he’d go on and on. When my father took over, the business was already in trouble; no one wanted our spades or pickaxes any more. Dad looked around and saw how the plastics industry was growing, and changed the factory so that we were making things out of plastic instead of steel. To begin with it was great, people would come, explain what they wanted and Dad would design and make it. Then we found the snag. As soon as we had got the product perfect the customers said, “Sorry, we can get this made cheaper in Taiwan or Korea.” The factory closed just before Christmas, and that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Because you have no work?’ asked Yola.

  ‘Oh no, I’m still at school. This is a holiday job. I’ve been here all summer.’He sighed. ‘You see, my dad thinks it will be good training for me because they work in plastics here.’

  ‘But don’t you like it here?’ asked Yola, surprised.

  ‘I like it here because Mr Dwyer’s decent. I like the technicians; we have a lot of fun – Sean and his dancing. Then there are the patients, you and Catherine, but not plastics!’ He said it with such vehemence that they both laughed.

  ‘But why – why do you have to?’ Yola thought of life in Africa, where everything seemed to be planned from birth: minding babies, grinding corn, getting married, more babies, work, work, work; while here it seemed that a person could do anything they liked.

  ‘It’s for my dad’s sake, Yola. He walks about the house at night thinking how he’s let Grandfather down and how half the town is out of work because of him. He curses and swears and he doesn’t go out anymore. I think it’s because he doesn’t want to meet the men that used to work for us. I thought I’d be able to do my own thing this summer – the Youth Orchestra have a summer camp, I had a place – then, just before the holidays, this miracle man appeared with a huge contract in Africa that looks like putting Dad right back in business, and me, of course, right back in plastics.’ A cloud crossed Fintan’s face. ‘Then Dad … it was an accident really …’

  Yola wanted to ask, What accident? but didn’t dare. His hand had crept back into his pocket where he kept his tiny flute. She so wanted to know, but rapid steps were approaching on the hard floor. She looked up, the canteen was nearly empty, and Mr Dwyer was hurrying towards them. Not now, she thought.

  ‘Sorry I’ve been so long. Come along Yola, we’ll have our little chat now.’

  ‘You see Mr Dwyer, I was that mine,’ Yola explained. ‘My stump was the detonator; the white stuff you were putting on me was the explosive. When Mr Hans, the deminer, pressed down on the trigger I heard it click. I knew he had made the mine safe, but no one had made me safe. Then there was the smell of cinnamon …’ Her breathing was getting shallow – she could almost smell the cinnamon – the room was stuffy. Mr Dwyer put up his hand to slow her down.

  ‘There is no hurry, Yola. We have lots of people who have these terrible flashbacks,’ he said comfortingly. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s called post-traumatic stress, but we leave that to the experts. What I want to be sure of is that we don’t upset you when we make your cast next time.’

  Yola wanted to ask if Fintan would be there, that would help, but she didn’t like to ask. She said bravely, ‘I’m all right now. I’ll close my eyes and think of my lovely new leg.’

  Mr Dwyer laughed. ‘Well, Fintan’s achieved something with his morning then. When we get the all-clear from your counsellor we’ll have another try.’

  11

  Airbags for Africa

  Abonda, that’s her name. Mr Dwyer got me to show her around the labs this morning. It was all a bit stiff at first; I was still feeling bad about her. Then me and Sean did our Riverdance act. We were fine then. Perhaps it’s because
she’s so different, but I found myself telling her things about me that I wouldn’t tell to anyone else. I wish I knew her age. Sometimes she is so mature, then suddenly she laughs and it seems like she’s about ten.

  Yola’s nostrils were full of the sharp smell of wood smoke, above and all around her was the tzik tzik of the crickets in the hedge surrounding the compound. In her dream she could hear Gabbin shouting to the cattle as he led them home. Managu’s great bell clanged; he would be leading with Gabbin walking alongside, talking to the cattle, reminding them of their beauty and how proud they should be of their herd. Yola expected Hans to drive down the hill shortly and she strained to hear the sound of the engine. The cattle appeared, a dun mass beneath a forest of horns, floating on the low cloud of dust rising from their hooves. Gabbin appeared too and stood in the compound entrance, his new spear glinting red in the low sun. He was in charge and liked everyone to see that. Suddenly, with a tightening of her waking muscles, Yola realised that the cattle had changed to men, marching in ragged order. What she had thought were horns were the muzzles of guns. Gabbin was still there, his sturdy little legs spread, a Kalashnikov rifle slung across his back. ‘Oh Gabbin!’ she cried, sitting up straight in bed, blinking at the white, sterile walls of the ward while her pulse raced. ‘Oh Gabbin …’ it was almost a whimper.

  The pale light of these oh so early Irish mornings penetrated the curtains, but it was too weak as yet to show any colour. At home, daylight came with a rush at six o’clock. Yola could see Catherine’s head resting on her pillow in a pale halo of tousled blonde hair. Then she looked across to where Brigid lay. Two, wide, scared eyes met hers. Did Brigid never sleep? Yola sank back. It had been just a dream.

  Catherine was waiting behind Yola for the basin, wearing a dressing gown of pink blancmange.

  ‘I’m not jealous, oh no, it’s just you make me sick! You were with him for hours the other day and now you want to see him again! What did you find to talk about? You never say much to me!’ Yola glanced at Catherine in the mirror. Catherine saw her and tried to pout, but then her face lit up. ‘It must be love: romance in the artificial leg room! Oh go on, do tell me. You’d have the loveliest babies. He’s quite dark – they’d be coffee-coloured, I think. If he were fair like me you’d have a problem, they might be mottled, or like Dalmatian puppies, white with black spots, or is it black with white spots, I can’t remember.’

  Yola, who usually wanted to strangle the girl, found herself laughing into her towel. She did want to see Fintan again – she had to hear the rest of his story – but Catherine’s silly talk set alarm bells ringing. She remembered how she had let herself get too fond of Hans.

  ‘Stop, Catherine! You can have him all to yourself. You see my marriage is already arranged. I am … how do you call it? … engaged. The nephew of a great chief has asked my father for me to marry him.’ She thought of Gabbin, dear little Gabbin, but it was worth the half-lie just to see Catherine’s reaction.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, eyes and mouth like three ‘O’s as she absorbed this information. ‘Is that … is it romantic? Is he handsome? He’d be black, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes, Catherine, he is as black as me and very handsome.’

  ‘But how … what? Did he kneel at your feet?’

  Yola moved back from the basin to let Catherine in and perched on the edge of Brigid’s bed.

  ‘I can tell you all about it. There was a big ceremony at my home. My father was sitting in his great chair and everybody was gathered around, then this handsome young warrior came and stood in front of my father. He had a long spear and he told my father, in front of everyone there, that he wanted to take me to be his first wife.’

  ‘First wife!’ whispered Catherine.

  ‘Yes. That is important for me, it means that I will always be the senior wife in the compound. When he takes other wives …’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Oh yes, but they will be junior to me and I can boss them around and make them do all the hard work.’

  For the first time – possibly ever, Yola thought – Catherine was speechless. Absentmindedly she squirted several inches of multicoloured toothpaste on to her brush. Yola didn’t want to elaborate, but Catherine had one more question.

  ‘But do you love him?’

  Yola was tempted to say no, but then she sensed that Catherine’s faith in life and romance hung in the balance. She thought of Gabbin, how he had saved her life, and how he had stood up in front of everybody and asked Father for her to be his first wife.

  ‘Oh yes, Catherine,’ she said, ‘I love him very much indeed.’

  Catherine nodded gravely. In a moment she would think of some other question, but just now Yola needed her help. ‘Would you do a message for me, Catherine?’

  ‘I’ve got occupational therapy in half an hour,’ she mumbled through an eruption of pink foam.

  ‘That’s all right, this won’t take a minute. I’d like you to take a message to Fintan for me?’

  Catherine rinsed vigorously, ‘Mmm,’ then spat. ‘No, curses! I’ve been banned from the labs – pain of death.’

  ‘If you had a message for Mr Dwyer as well, I’m sure you’d be allowed in. Tell Mr Dwyer that my counsellor says he can do my leg anytime. Then you can ask him if you can have a word with Fintan, I’m sure he’ll agree. Just ask Fintan if we could meet in the canteen at lunchtime.’

  Catherine wagged her finger severely. ‘Remember you are engaged. I’ll be watching your behaviour from now on.’ She dressed with remarkable speed and skipped off.

  The ward was suddenly empty and very quiet. Yola was having misgivings. Why did she want to know about Fintan’s life? She stood up, but as she did so, a voice came from the bed behind her.

  ‘She’ll tell him you know.’

  Yola looked down; it was Brigid. She was still in bed, probably trying to catch up on the sleep she couldn’t get at night. Yola felt a pang of conscience, she’d hardly said a word to the girl since she’d come; she’d been so preoccupied with her own affairs. She found a chair and sat down beside Brigid’s bed, feeling awkward in front of those too-wide-open eyes. Brigid was older than Yola, seventeen perhaps, it was difficult for her to tell.

  ‘Tell him what?’ she asked.

  ‘About your warrior.’

  ‘So you heard?’ Yola thought for a moment. ‘I think … I hope she will.’

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘Fintan? He’s nice, but … well, he’s European and I’m African. There’s so much I don’t know. Just because I speak English, people think I understand, but I don’t really. I’m guessing or pretending half the time. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.’

  ‘And your chieftain, your warrior? You love him?’

  ‘Oh yes … he’s sweet.’ Yola laughed. She glanced at the face beside her, then towards the door. She had to tell someone. ‘He’s ten years old and just so high.’ It was worth it just to see Brigid smile.

  Catherine would be with her occupational therapist for an hour now.

  ‘Would you like to hear?’

  Yola settled down and told Brigid how she had lost her leg, how Gabbin had saved her life, and how he had astonished everyone by proposing marriage in front of the whole clan. The reason he had proposed, of course, was because no one wanted a wife with only one leg. Then Yola told her about the deminers, and how she hoped to go back and work with them. She even told her a little bit about Hans.

  ‘I swore then …’ she said, and stopped. Brigid’s eyes were closed; she had talked her to sleep. For the first time almost since she had arrived, Yola felt completely satisfied with herself. She stretched, and got up quietly.

  Fintan was late, and Yola was having trouble with her Irish stew. She had eaten the meat and the potato and was now faced with a lot of gravy and no way to get it up to her mouth. She took some bread and squeezed it into a ball, then she pressed her thumb into it to make a cup and tried to scoop up the gravy that way. At the crucial moment it
disintegrated. She looked up in despair, to find Fintan looking down at her with an amused expression.

  ‘You’re supposed to mash up the potato and get the gravy up that way,’ he explained as he offered her a spoon from his tray. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  He picked up his knife and fork. ‘You are ahead of me. Tell me about Africa while I eat. The only country I know anything about is Kasemba, and that’s from the encyclopaedia.’

  ‘But that’s where I come from. How do …’ Yola began, but Fintan grinned and waved his fork.

  ‘Later,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Plastics – tell you later.’

  Fintan was a good listener and kept asking questions that drew her out. By the time he had abandoned his soggy cake in custard, she seemed to have given him her life story.

  ‘But how is it that you know about Kasemba?’

  ‘I mentioned the other day that just when I thought the factory had closed forever, a man had come to my father with a proposal for a contract that would save it. Well, the man’s name is Birthistle, and he is the agent for a big European car-maker, which is setting up car assembly plants in the developing countries, one in Asia and one in Africa.’ Yola nodded. ‘But they have a problem. Because of the rough roads they find that the air bags they fit in their cars sometimes blow up unexpectedly when the car hits a pothole.’

  ‘What are air bags?’

  ‘Air bags are things that are fitted into the dashboard of the car and blow up like a cushion if there is a crash. Instead of going through the windscreen, you bounce off the cushion.’ Yola thought of the potholes on the road to Simbada. ‘Well, apparently they have an answer to this. It is a little plastic box that can be placed in the car. Inside this box is a microchip, like in a computer, which is sensitive to sound and can be programmed to tell the difference between the sound of a real crash and the sound of a car hitting a pothole. It can tell the difference between almost any sounds – between my flute and your flute, for example. Well, the reason they came to Dad is that these microchips are made in Ireland, but they are not handed over to just anyone. Apparently they can be used in guided missiles or atom bombs or something. If, however, they are made into something peaceful, there is no problem. All Dad has to do is get the necessary licence to make this gadget and the motor company will put up the money to reopen the factory. The reason I know about Kasemba is that that’s where they are building their new car plant. They are also building a research station in … Murabende … is it?’ Yola frowned. ‘Sorry, did I get the name wrong?’