The Cellar (6 page)

He was taking pills for his epilepsy and they gave him headaches and made him irritable. He claimed his life was over when Yetunde removed him from his private school because the fees were too expensive. He brooded on his grievances in his bedroom during the summer holidays, but expressed them physically when he began his new school in the autumn. Every afternoon, he came home and raged in anger because his father had made him a laughing stock.

He complained to Yetunde that he had no friends and was bullied mercilessly by the other pupils. They called him a ‘fucktard’ because of his epilepsy, said his father was a ‘spaz’ for being in a wheelchair and his abducted brother ‘paedo-bait’. Even the teachers were unkind, taking him to task for being aggressive instead of expelling any boy or girl who teased him.

The stress and emotion played havoc with his seizures. When he wasn’t writhing on the floor, he was in hospital having his medication adjusted. Yetunde had no patience with him, claiming her life was worse than his. Her dreams of happiness had never included a cripple for a husband or an epileptic for a son.

Muna remained a mute witness to everything. Stillness and silence had served her well over the years. To draw attention to herself was to invite pain. Nevertheless she saw how frustrated and angry both Princess and Olubayo were becoming, and she prepared herself for when their rage turned on her.

Olubayo was the first to threaten her. He appeared in the kitchen doorway one afternoon with the rod in his hand. My father will never be able to wield this again, he told her, smacking it against his palm. That makes me the man of the house. You must do as I say or be punished.

Muna was rinsing a heavy saucepan under the tap. He’ll be angry when he returns and discovers you’ve tried to take his place, she said.

I’m not afraid of him. He’s lost his strength. His mind is as weak as his body. All he does is weep in shame each time the nurses remove the bags that collect his urine and faeces.

Muna held the saucepan in front of her as she dried it with a towel. There are more ways to discipline a son than by the rod. If the Master chooses, he can order Princess to lock you in the cellar and let the demons tear at you the way they tore at him.

You lie.

I heard them laugh as he fell. The sound was so loud it carried upstairs. It’s a place of evil. Your father was foolish to enter.

Then I’ll push you in there and let them tear at you.

They won’t harm me. I heard them whispering in the walls when I lived in darkness, and they said it was your family they want to destroy, not me. Do you think Abiola would be lost or your father crippled if the demons bore them no ill will?

Olubayo looked nervous. Whites say there are no such things as demons.

Princess believes in them and so does the Master, Muna answered. When I found the courage to creep back down to see what had happened, his eyes – so big and round with terror – told me so. He knew they were taking payment for the bad things he and Princess have done to me. They’ll come for you, ugly boy, if you think to hurt me … and next time they’ll do more than make your body writhe on the floor and foam spill from your lips.

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.