Ashanti Lilies

By Shirley Ginger

On leaving school 18 year old Jennie reluctantly accompanies her parents to Ghana, West Africa which has just become independent from colonial rule. Her father is a British soldier sent there to help the fledgling country's army. Gradually she makes friends outside the tight knit military world and begins to find the new life exciting. Then she meets a handsome African teacher and they become friends and in due course lovers. Their relationship runs smoothly for a while until the outside world intrudes as the new government becomes increasingly anti British. Jennie is caught up in these troubles and has to review what she expects from life and how to achieve it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shirley Ginger
• Release date: Jan 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311574589

Book preview

ASHANTI LILIES

By SHIRLEY GINGER

Published by Lucifer Press Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Shirley Ginger

By the same author (print)

Fen Tigers

A Bit More Boating

Cover: Sebastian van Driel Illustrations

Chapter 1

On the other side of the gate, the garden shimmered beneath a damp veil of heat. Jennie Newsome paused uncertainly. A taxi had brought her to the place uncomfortably fast; rattling over dirt roads, wheels plunging into deep troughs gouged out by recent rainstorms. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder towards the corner where the short residential road met the wide uneven thoroughfare. Beneath the spreading branches of a neem tree, an African boy squatted in the dusty shade arranging scores of empty beer bottles in neat rows. He stared back at the English girl with unblinking eyes, his face expressionless. They looked at each other for a few seconds. Abruptly, he turned away and accurately spat a gobbet of root he had been chewing at a tin can lying in the middle of the road.

Startled, she lifted the latch quickly, pushed the heavy iron gate ajar and slid through, letting it swing shut behind her with a resounding clang. To be out of reach of the insolent stare but annoyed with herself for arriving early, she stopped in the shade of an ancient frangipani tree which grew just inside the gate. She had forgotten what it felt like to be really cool; even here it was only a relative sensation. Running fingers through her russet curls, she lifted the damp hair off the back of her neck, tilting her head to rest against the glaucous leaves. Even her face felt moist and she knew her freckles must be standing out like beacons! A clock not too far distant chimed the hour. As the shadows lengthened, a heady scent drifted from the waxy blossoms and her skin freshened. The clock struck the quarter – that should do. The female voice on the telephone had been specific.

Definitely not before four and we're due out for drinks at six. Jennie wiped the palms of her hands on her skirt and shook her hair loose. Ignoring exotic flowers bordering the path and brilliant shrubs set in bare earth, she passed swiftly through the garden, anxious to attain the comparative cool of the bungalow before she became hot and flustered again. A plum-coloured Mercedes was parked on the gravel drive ; the sun's reflection glaring from its polished coachwork, its glossy off-side wing almost touching the steps up to a covered veranda as if the driver had been too lazy or arrogant to consider any subsequent visitors.

As she approached, the sound of voices became strident; clearly someone must be rehearsing their lines of the play. The wooden framed door at the top of the steps was screened in mosquito netting. Inside, a blonde woman of statuesque proportions could be seen pacing back and forth, the hem of her cotton robe sweeping the tiled floor as she walked ; the hand that was not clutching a manuscript gesticulated dramatically. A man sprawled on a sofa against the far wall. With a tall glass in one hand and a sheaf of papers lying on his lap, he was watching her with a smile at once fond and patronising. Neither noticed the first tentative knock but at a louder rap, he glanced towards the door and the indeterminate figure behind it and gestured with his glass at the woman.

Christ! What now? You know if you interrupt me I lose the thread. Then seeing Jennie standing there, she swept majestically over to the door and flung it wide. Yes?

You asked me to come and see you this afternoon about the costumes for Hamlet.

Did we really? Well, come in. She stood back, thrusting her long skirt aside.

Perhaps you should offer the young lady a drink, Miriam my love, he suggested, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, and put aside your regal status for the moment. It's good of her to take over the wardrobe at such short notice. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up straight, scattering sheets of foolscap. Instinctively, Jennie darted forward to gather them together. The older woman raised her eyebrows.

My word! Let him pick up his own damned script!

The girl flushed as she dumped the sheaf onto a low mahogany table in front of the sofa, scarcely trusting herself to reply civilly. His sharp blue eyes glinted with what might have been amusement.

And you, my dear are ... he tapped his domed forehead ... Jennie Newsome, of course. Am I right in thinking that you adopt the Edwardian spelling?

Actually, I was named after my grandmother, she replied, feeling less hostile.

Aha! Well it is too kind of you to help us out of a spot. It was the only thanks she was ever to receive from him. May I introduce Miriam Kenton, who will be playing – in case you hadn't guessed – the Queen of Denmark? At this moment, Miriam thumped a large jug of lemonade and an extra glass on the cluttered table and plonked herself on the other end of the sofa. She nodded at Jennie and resumed fanning her heat-blotched face with her script. And I, he sat up straight and drew his shoulders back, am Jeremy Gould, the Shakespearian producer. The British Council has invited me here, no doubt you've heard of me?

Jennie assumed that he was not actually waiting for her answer so she said nothing. In fact, her knowledge of Shakespearian productions was limited to school plays and rare visits to Stratford-upon-Avon. She was only concerned with the costumes for this particular play. Dress-making had been her consuming hobby throughout her teens and had made her a prime target when the out-going wardrobe mistress was entreated to find a replacement.

Miriam darling, you were in on the initial discussion with Pam so perhaps you'll talk to Jennie about the costumes and what she needs to do. I'm off to shave and shower - don't forget we leave at six or we'll offend the Governor-General.

Before Miriam could protest, he had leapt to his feet and pulled open the inner door letting it swing shut behind him. Jennie sat quietly, sipping her lemonade and wondering why on earth she had allowed herself to be talked into this fiasco. After a few moments of tense silence between the two women, Miriam stood up, flexed her back and walked stiffly towards the large window facing the garden. Disregarding the view, she opened a box lying on the sill, withdrew a cigarette and after lighting it, picked up a small ashtray and walked to and fro, inhaling deeply.

Smoke? she asked belatedly. Jennie shook her head and took from her bag the notebook in which she had jotted such brief instructions as Pam had given when she thrust an armful of incomplete garments and scraps of fabric on her. They would probably remain in a heap on her bedroom floor until the first rehearsal when she devoutly hoped Pam would escape from her packing to give her some more help. Miriam paused in front of her and looked down with a softer expression. I'm sorry I was such a bitch when you arrived – I can only justify it by saying that I was hot, tired and exasperated. By what, she didn't specify. I don't suppose I can help you very much, though. Pam has been wardrobe mistress ever since The Players were formed three years ago and just went ahead on her own, more or less. Stan, her husband, worked for the Public Works Department and thought he'd be here for ages yet.

Why isn't he staying? Is he ill or something?

Heavens no! He's been sacked by the government and his deputy promoted, though heaven knows what the roads will be like under that fellow's management. They were always frightful when Stan was on leave.

Jennie nodded and determined to steer Miriam back to the costumes. I've written down the list of characters appearing but can you tell me something about the individual actors? It will help me to get appropriate fabrics for those clothes Pam hasn't already started to make.

Yes. Jeremy's left his draft of the programme on the table - take it and scribble on it till your heart's content!

D'you think I ought? It'll be jolly useful, though. She glanced at it. I think that about half the cast are Africans.

That's the whole point of the British Council Players – African participation with as high a standard as possible. We've done pretty well too. Several shows a year ranging from original revues through Noel Coward to the Bard.

Gosh! I'm impressed. I've a lot to live up to, I can see. Now I'd like to know the best and cheapest places to find what I need.

Try G.B.Ollivant in Market Street first for offcuts and scraps for nothing. The boss, David Holmes and I were both part of the same theatre group in London years ago. But don't deal with his hired help – he'll charge you over the top and pocket the difference. Then there's Chellaram in Horse Road; he's particularly helpful if you let him think he'll get a mention in the programme credits. Don't look so shocked, my dear – it's how things work out here – you'll get used to it. I'll take care of my own stage jewellery, by the way, on condition you don't ask me how I come by it or make any comments. She glanced at her watch as a motor horn sounded outside.

Thanks for your help Jennie called back as she fled through the door and scampered down the steps to run along the shadowy path to the gate.

How did it go? asked her father over his shoulder as she clambered into the back of the Land Rover.

So-so. She did not want to go over the events of the afternoon and get involved in a discussion with him about it right now. They would only end up arguing. Her father was unable to understand those people he referred to as 'arty'. Tomorrow she would get to grips with the clothes and have something to show Pam and the cast at the first rehearsal later in the week.

Chapter 2

When Jennie finally left school she wanted to study dress design at Art College. Grandma, who adored fine clothes and bought extravagantly in the West End, took her to an exhibition of 'haute couture' at the Victoria and Albert museum and she knew instantly what must be her ultimate aim. However, before she could even start down that path, the overseas posting for which Major Newsome had been anxiously waiting, was confirmed.

Plenty of time for more studies, advised her father, you come with us to the Gold Coast and see a bit of the world. Mummy would be pleased to have your company when I'm on duty and I bet you'll find something interesting to occupy yourself. Who knows, he said reflectively as he lit his pipe, how much you might regret it if you stayed behind?

So a passage was booked for the three of them on a ship which sailed from Liverpool at the beginning of March 1957. By the time they reached their destination, the Gold Coast was no longer a British Colony, had been renamed Ghana and the Newsomes missed the Independence celebrations by nearly a month.

Her memory of the voyage was blurred, thank goodness, until the vessel changed direction and headed due east into the Gulf of Guinea. Curiosity drew her towards the ship's rail where she stood, peering at the horizon for her first glimpse of the Ghanaian shore. At last! The far off coastline wavered, undulating in the hot white light suspended between the opaque tropical sky and the line of beating surf. A ribbon of dull sand, streaked with grey carbon deposits, anchored a row of gangly coconut palms nodding their feather-duster heads in response to the on-shore breeze. Jennie leant over the rail of the forward deck and lifted her chin gratefully to the fine spray drifting from the bow as the ship see-sawed across the rocking swell. A young ship's officer paused in his tour of the deck to stand beside her and direct his far-sighted gaze landwards.

D'you see that, he volunteered, pointing off the port bow to angry waves smashing on an island of rusty metal. It's the wreck of a Spanish freighter. Takoradi's a deep-water harbour but you need to know your way.

But for so long and regularly had the motor vessel Volta plied the route known as 'the banana run' between Liverpool and ports on the West African coast, it seemed almost as if she could have steered herself safely past the long breakwater and between the vast rafts of mahogany logs floating against the harbour wall. The quay was seething with figures; nine tenths of them were Africans, mostly women. The few Europeans were men in uniform of one sort or another, their badges of rank proclaiming their importance.

As the strip of water, rainbowed with oil and curdled with sewage, diminished between the ship and the quay, Jennie's eyes focused on different groups of people. Many seemed uninvolved with the arrival of the mail boat. Some women were clustered round a pallet loaded with bulging sacks, haranguing each other in a local dialect. Every now and then, one of them would laugh lustily until her shoulders shook and the round brown head of the baby on her back bounced up and down. Jennie tried to guess how many yards of cotton it would take to make one voluminous mammy cloth and her discerning eye admired the brilliant clarity of the wax-printed patterns. By contrast, most of the native men looked drab. And skinny, too, she thought, by contrast with the buxom females. Some wore nothing more than drill shorts of dusty blue or khaki, others had shirts of cheap nylon as well, and a few wore plastic sandals.

A slight movement in the shadow of the over-hanging roof of the customs building caught Jennie's eye. A tall young woman of mixed blood, dressed in a tight-fitting white skirt of some iridescent material and a loose shirt of raw silk, stood there alone. She leant, graceful as a moonflower, against the dark wall as if she were waiting for something or someone, with infinite patience.

Intrigued, Jennie watched her until she was obscured by an army truck which screeched to a halt and spewed out a gaggle of soldiers who jostled their way up the ship's gangway to argue loudly with the poor seaman who barred their way. The spell was broken. Jennie ran down the companionway to the first class cabin deck, aware that the habitual rolling of the ship had ceased and the corridor was oddly silent. Through the open door of their cabin, she saw her mother bent over the trunk.

There you are, dear. Sit on the lid for me, then see if you can find the steward – he seems to have vanished just when he's needed.

Daddy says it's because they know that not a single passenger on this deck is paying his own fare so they've no respect for us.

I dare say he's right. I'm so hot I can't think straight. Where is he, anyway?

Here, my dear. Come up to the lounge and leave all that. The battalion have sent a car to meet us – then we're lunching at the C.O.'s

It was not long before they had moved smoothly through the formalities of entry to the newly independent African state and were being driven away from the harbour in a large Borgward Isabella. Their driver was a lieutenant with a serious expression and an accent that sang of the Welsh valleys. Major Newsome sat next to him and they immediately talked exclusively to each other almost as if the women seated behind were not there. Anne Newsome leant back and closed her eyes but Jennie half an ear on the conversation as she concentrated on everything she could see outside.

The car crawled through the market, the milling throng in the roadway reluctantly parting to let them through. Here, the clothes of the men were rich in variety and far from sombre. Brightly coloured Kente cloths hand-woven in intricate patterns were flung across glistening umber shoulders. Full, pleated smocks of striped calico were thick with embroidery. The dull gleam of local gold was commonplace. Few wore the drab western clothes of the men on the quay. But one of these, standing close to the front bumper as the car crept forward, slapped the bonnet insolently and made a rude comment in pidgin English.

Savvy boy, Jennie overheard their driver comment, they're the trouble-makers, sir. A little education goes a long way out here. He sounded the horn and eased the vehicle forward. If they can read and write in basic English and count to ten – they reckon they know it all. At the moment they content themselves with being cheeky to the European but they'll need watching.

Do the soldiers have any education? asked her father.

Not your average infantryman, sir – they sign for their pay with a thumb print. Most of them are from the Northern Territories. Simple, loyal, reliable chaps and first-rate soldiers.

Officers?

Ah! said the lieutenant. They're a different kettle of fish. The product of a decent education at one of the few good colleges here and finished off at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst. A force to be reckoned with one day, I can tell you.

Not for some time, surely? I understand there are no senior black officers in the battalion at present.

Correct, sir. The car swerved to avoid three boys wobbling on oversized bicycles all over the road and Jennie had to lean forward to continue eavesdropping. The government's got enough sense not to put its own people in positions of trust now, but it won't be long – take my word for it!

Hm. I reckon it'll be a while before this country can administer itself. I got chatting on the London train to a fellow who'd just replied to an advert in the Times for the post of Harbour Master at this new port they're building at Tema.

Then, with respect, sir, he's a fool! A Ghanaian will be appointed to stick to him like glue and watch the way he works and before your man can turn around he'll be given the chop one time!

Her father snorted but didn't speak again. He felt in his pocket and withdrew his pipe, starting to fill it with tobacco from the pouch. Jennie knew that meant he needed solace and wondered why. She understood that he'd signed on for two tours with leave in between and he'd said the pay was good. Did this mean he thought he'd be chucked out before then?

Leaving the market behind, the car picked up speed slightly and a welcome breeze, humid and dusty though it was, drifted in through the open window carrying odours with it both rancid and spicy. The road was wide but imperfectly tarred and flanked by deep monsoon drains over which Africans could be seen squatting, garments gathered around their haunches. Beyond the broad pavement, rows of open-fronted stalls were roofed with rusty corrugated iron nailed