Leaving Childhood

by Jane Seaford

It was in the heat of Africa that Jennie was formed; she felt this as she watched the aeroplane that would take them away come lumbering to a stop, the whirr of its propellers slowing and slowing.

She remembered another time, when she was very young, going to England where it was dark and strange. There, the pink cheeks of the children in the cold December looked false, as if they’d been painted on, and made her stare. But her earliest memories were of Nigeria, of arriving on a ship after they’d been on leave. Tim, her brother, was a baby and they stayed in a hotel before travelling north. In the morning, the servant brought breakfast into their room. He served coffee for Mummy and Daddy. A black stream and a white stream poured simultaneously from identical slender silver pots. Jennie wanted to see it done again and again. But most of all she wanted to do it herself.

When they arrived at the bungalow, their new home, Mummy’s face had a tight look and she didn’t say much. The living room floor was newly painted a bright red. Tim crawled across it, his wet nappy picking up the colour.

‘Eric,’ Mummy called, her voice frightened. ‘Tim is bleeding. There’s a lot of blood.’ Daddy came running and picked Tim up.

‘It’s only paint, Grace,’ he said finally, his voice puffing out with relief and they both laughed though Mummy sounded as if she was crying.

Soon the room was full of furniture and the servants moved it into place. Boobah, the one they called ‘the small boy’, was tall and serious, following Daddy’s orders, working quietly. He had long thin arms and big useful hands. John was the cook and Allen the steward but Boobah was Jennie’s favourite.

That was long ago and in a small place called Maiduguri. Now the family lived in Kaduna, a large town with shops and a governor. Jennie was nearly twelve, Tim was ten and the baby, Willie, was just a year old.

In the hot, damp early mornings, Jennie took Willie in his pram to the place where mushrooms grew and she’d bring them home. When she went again later, after breakfast, more would have sprouted and unfurled, their underneaths grey-pink and tender. Every time as she pushed Willie along the road, she counted: two more weeks, ten days, eight, five. Soon she and Tim would be going back to school in England and next year, Mum, Dad and Willie would be coming too. Dad had resigned from the colonial service.

A month or so ago, staying with her grandparents for a few days before the journey home to Nigeria, they had talked of Dad leaving his job. ‘Eric’s doing it for Grace,’ they said, nodding as grown-ups do when they’re making accusations without seeming to do so, and Jennie could understand that it was wrong for Dad to resign and wrong of her mother to want it.

Jennie was angry with her grandparents, Dad’s father and stepmother, for blaming Mum, but the strongest feeling was sadness. The next time she left Nigeria it would be for the last time. Jennie tried to keep it all in her head, all that had happened to her, all that was here and nowhere else, certainly not in England.

It was Maiduguri she remembered best, living in the bungalow, Boobah laughing in the garden with her and Tim.

There had been a club where the grown-ups played tennis and where eventually a pool was built. Jennie had to learn to swim, she needed to trust the hands that held her but they let go so gently she didn’t notice at first and when she did, she’d sink into the water, breathe it into her nose and struggle, frightened, spluttering. Then one day, she could do it. She could swim in the pool on her own. Next, they said, she would have to learn to dive.

At home, Jennie and Tim liked to ask Boobah to play with them. He would laugh and say he was busy. Sometimes, he made a wet clicking noise in his mouth that Tim tried to copy, but it came out silly: That would make Boobah laugh even more and click his mouth to tease Tim, who got cross and sat on the grass banging his heels up and down.

One lunchtime Daddy brought them an envelope with two chameleon eggs inside it. They were very delicate and soon Tim had broken them.

‘You are exasperating, sometimes,’ Daddy said.

‘He’s not much more than a baby.’ Mummy was holding Tim on her knee and Daddy turned, saying ‘pah’ and lighting a cigarette.

It was strange, Jennie thought, how Mummy sat reading in the mornings while Boobah swept, dusted, polished, made the beds. In the afternoons, when Daddy’s work was finished and after they’d had lunch that John had cooked and Boobah served, the family would go to the club and swim or Jennie and Tim would play with the other children round the tennis courts. Later, they sometimes had drinks in the clubhouse. Jennie and Tim would ask for grapefruit juice and watch the barman shake the tin, open it and pour the contents into two glasses in equal measure. The children sat on tall stools and felt important.

Back at home, Boobah brought supper for Jennie and Tim while Mummy sat with them at the dining table and Daddy read the ‘The Times’ that came all the way from England and was thin like tissue. Silently Boobah came and went, turning on the lamps, preparing for the evening ahead as if he didn’t really exist.

It was not like during the day when Boobah was the children’s friend. One morning he gave them a chameleon he’d found. ‘Better than just eggs that crack,’ he said, looking at Tim. He held it gently, tethering it with his long fingers and then he let it go, so that it crossed the path, moving from grass, across bare earth and back to grass. As it went, it slowly changed from green to brown to green again. Jennie and Tim knew about chameleons, how they merged with their background, taking on the colour of whatever they were walking on. Tim ran across the lawn to fetch Jennie’s bright pink bucket and he put the chameleon on it and sat watching. It became angry; moving its head about and turning round and round.

‘It can’t turn pink,’ Jennie said, trying to take the bucket from Tim. But he wouldn’t let her. Boobah bent and lifted the chameleon and put it on the ground.

‘Let him go, he don’t like that bucket,’ Boobah said in his soft voice and Tim looked up at him. Jennie could see that Tim was wondering whether to make a fuss and that, after a short while, he’d decided not to. Boobah shook his head and laughed.

It was a long time ago it seemed to Jennie that they’d lived in Maiduguri. They’d left and gone to England. She and Tim had started boarding school, only coming to Nigeria for the long holidays of July and August. By then Mum and Dad had moved to Kaduna and had new servants.

‘Why didn’t Boobah come?’ Jennie asked. Mum shook her head. ‘It’s a long way here from Maiduguri. Do you think he’d have wanted to move?’ Jennie didn’t answer. It wasn’t a real question. It was a way of telling, not asking. The sort of thing that grownups said to make you think like them.

She thought of Boobah and how when she was only two years old a big snake had been under her bed one morning, curled up. Mummy was scared and, standing in the doorway, she called for Boobah. He came into the room, un-tucked Jennie’s mosquito net, lifted her up and took her away from danger. Later he and Allen had made the snake leave.

‘It would be nice to see Boobah again,’ Jennie murmured.

‘Yes,’ Mum said but Jennie thought she’d not been listening.

Here in Kaduna, there were many more children than in Maiduguri, all out for the long holidays. During this last visit, Jennie became the best friend of Isabel, and Tim of Clarice. They were the governor’s daughters. One night Isabel and Clarice invited Jennie and Tim to a children’s party at Government House. It was very grownup, held in the evening with a formal dinner in the big banqueting hall. For each two guests there was a servant standing straight and tall a few feet behind the chairs. Jennie wondered what they were thinking, so still and silent and watchful, having to wait on a group of English children. She could not enjoy the food, aware of this quiet presence round the perimeter of the room, even though she was specially privileged, sitting next to Isabel.

Next day she slept too late to take Willie for a walk in the early morning and then after breakfast, Mum had said it was time to start sorting their things ready to pack. Jennie had the thick feeling in her throat that came when they were about to go back to England and school. This time it was worse than ever. Jennie wished she could forget about leaving so that she could enjoy her last few hours here. She tried hard to think about other things but it didn’t work. The coming departure leaked into everything she did.

Not long before lunch, she put Willie in his pram and set off down the road for a walk. She stopped by the mushroom place, and peered down, but there was nothing there. She felt with her fingers in the grass: no luck. Someone else had found them or perhaps the season was over.

When she stood up a tall figure was standing on the other side of the road watching her. He took a step towards her.

‘Boobah?’ Jennie said very quietly, not sure but hoping.

‘Jennie?’ Boobah said and she laughed.

‘It’s you!’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ He laughed now.

‘This is Willie, another brother,’ Jennie said. ‘We live on this road, just ten minutes away. You must come and see Mum and Dad and Tim. They’ll all want to see you.’

‘No,’ Boobah shook his head, ‘why would they want to see me?’

‘Of course they will.’ Already Jennie had turned the pram, wanting to set off home, bringing Boobah to her parents as a present for them. 

They turned in at the gate, Boobah walking beside her, moving his long legs slowly to keep pace with Jennie.

‘That’s good, Dad’s home,’ she said seeing his car in the drive. She took Willie out of his pram and holding him in her arms, climbed onto the veranda. Boobah stayed standing on the path.

‘Come on,’ she said and went to the open glass doors that led into the house. Boobah stepped up and followed her, just a little way behind.

‘Look who I’ve found.’ Jennie almost shouted as she came into the living area where her parents sat waiting for lunch to be served.

‘Who is it?’ Mum asked, frowning.

‘It’s Boobah,’ Jennie said looking for the smiles that would surely come.

‘Boobah,’ said Dad, his voice low and strained.

‘Yes,’ said Jennie and she put Willie down and turned to the tall man standing still in the doorway. He had bent his head and his mouth had turned down at the corners.

‘So, you’ve found your way to Kaduna,’ Mum said. Jennie almost gasped at the coldness her mother had wrapped around the words.

‘Good, good,’ said Dad, too quickly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to find work here.’ He clicked the top of his cigarette lighter as if he was angry and turned to shout for the small boy to bring the food.

‘Nice to see you again, Missus, Massah,’ Boobah said as he left. Jennie watched him walk away from them, his shoulders bowed. At lunch, she sat with an untouched plate in front of her ignoring the orders of her parents to eat her food.

That had been yesterday and here they were at the airport. Their plane was ready and it was time, finally, to go. She and Tim turned from saying goodbye to Mum, Dad and Willie and walked to the departure area. Jennie didn’t cry but it seemed that part of her had gone numb. This leaving was almost unbearable. She started to shiver, feeling as she did, most dreadfully cold.