Journey to the River Sea

‘Yes. I will, honestly.’ But she could try to make friends with the Indians in the huts. She could find out who sang that lullaby – and ask them about the person who had whistled Blow the Wind Southerly on her first night. They might even know who her rescuer had been so that she could at least thank him properly.

But Maia had not forgotten her promise to help Clovis.

‘He wants to stow away on a boat to England, but he’s sure to be caught, don’t you think?’ she asked Miss Minton.

‘Certain to,’ said the governess. ‘Fortunately, the next boat to England doesn’t go for two weeks.’

‘Do you think Mr Murray would be willing to pay his passage? He could take it out of my pocket money.’

‘I doubt if you’d see any pocket money for the rest of your life if you did that.’

‘But he might,’ persisted Maia. ‘Could I send him a cable? They don’t take very long, do they – they sort of snake along the sea. He could arrange with the shipping company in Manaus for Clovis to pick up a ticket, couldn’t he? My father was always doing things like that.’

‘He could,’ said Miss Minton, but she doubted very much whether Maia’s guardian would trouble himself about a stranded actor.

But she did not stand in Maia’s way. Maia copied out a message to Mr Murray and gave it to Mr Carter to take to the post office with enough money to send it. Then she settled down to wait for a reply.

Mrs Carter was not pleased about the pulmonary spasms. She had never heard of them and said so, and she did not want Maia wandering about outside by herself. ‘I shall expect you to accompany her whenever possible,’ she said to Miss Minton. ‘And to make up the lesson time with the twins out of your free periods.’

Miss Minton could have said, ‘What free periods?’ but she did not. But she was quite right in thinking that while she could not bring herself to be nice to Maia, Mrs Carter dreaded losing her. Since Maia came they had been able to pay the bill for the dressmaker, the piano lessons and the dancing class. Next month they might even be able to pay some of the rubber-gatherers – not their full wages, but enough to stop them running back into the forest.

So Maia was allowed to go outside for her midday break and again after tea. She was not allowed to go out in the evening but she went. Once she had pushed back the heavy bolt on her door, she left it open.

She was careful not to go too near the huts of the Indians without being asked, but when she met anyone she smiled and greeted them.

Then, on the third night, she was walking along the river beside a grove of dyewood trees, when she saw a small shape run out of the darkness towards her. In the dusk she had no idea what it was and for a moment she was frightened. There were so many animals, still, that she knew nothing about.

Maia looked down ... and laughed. The strange animal was a baby – the baby she had seen carried by the Portuguese girl. It had only just escaped and was enjoying its freedom, but the river was nearby.

Maia picked it up. The baby kicked and struggled, but she held it firmly and began to make her way back towards the huts.

‘Oh hush,’ she said. ‘Don’t make such a fuss’ – and she began to hum the lullaby she had heard the Indians singing. She didn’t know the words but the tune quietened the baby, and he stopped wriggling and let his head fall against her shoulder.

As she neared the middle hut she saw three people standing outside the door, staring at her: Tapi, Furo and the old woman with long, grey hair. Then Tapi ran into the next hut and the Portuguese girl, Conchita, came out and rushed up to Maia, seizing the baby and letting off a torrent of words. She had left him asleep on his mat and he must have woken when she was out at the back getting water.

‘He is a terror; he is wickedness beyond belief...’

Now that she had handed over the baby, Maia turned to go – but this was not allowed. The silent sulkiness of the Carter servants had vanished. Tapi led her into the hut, the old lady brought coffee and nuts; fruit was offered, and little cakes... a party was brewing up.

‘You sang ’im good,’ said the baby’s mother, and nodded. ‘Where you learn our song?’

‘From my window,’ said Maia, pointing back to the house. ‘But I don’t know the words.’

It was the old woman, Lila, who was the singer and she sang it again now for Maia.

‘Is it a lullaby?’ she asked, pretending to go to sleep, and Lila said it was a song about love and pain like so many songs, but she always sang babies to sleep with it. She had been a nurse to many children, European ones also, she told her.

They knew and understood far more English than they admitted to the Carters – and they spoke with their hands, their eyes. Maia met the little white dog; the parrot sat on her shoulder; they had a tame gecko who lived on a potted palm in the window – and every time her cup was empty, or her plate, it was filled again. She had never met such friendliness. These Indians lived the kind of life she had imagined for the twins before she came.