Listening for Lions by Gloria Whelan Page A

fevers and chills of malaria, and the children who suffered from worms, and how thorn wounds could become infected, and all the old people who were blind until their cataracts were removed. I told of the time there was a cholera epidemic and of the illnesses that came from bad water. “But there were never enough medicines,” I said. “Everything had to be sent from England, and it took forever.”
    â€œDid the nurses come from England as well?”
    â€œOh, no, they were all Kikuyu. The nurses started in as sweepers in the hospital and the doctor would see which ones did the best work and who always came on time. Those were the ones he would train to become proper nurses.”
    â€œRachel’s father must have been an exceptional man,” Grandfather said.
    â€œYes,” I said, and turned my head so that he should not see my tears.
    â€œAnd did Rachel’s parents live in a large comfortable house like your parents?”
    â€œTheir house was made of mud-brick walls and an iron roof. The floor was earth that had been tamped downand covered with grass mats. The roof leaked when it rained. Kanoro would have to climb up on the roof and move the sheets of iron about.”
    â€œAnd wasn’t such a life hard for your friend and her parents?”
    â€œI don’t think they thought much about it. Her father was too busy at the hospital and her mother had the school to attend to.”
    â€œAnd Rachel?”
    â€œWell, she helped out at the hospital, but she was outdoors as well. She liked to visit the Africans’ shamba s.”
    â€œ Shamba s?”
    I explained. “That’s what we called the small African farms.”
    â€œAh, I see. Like our lodges. And if Rachel were here, do you think she would go about to the lodges, taking tea and settling problems as you are doing?”
    I was about to smile, taking Grandfather’s remark as a little joke, but I saw that Grandfather was looking closely at me. Why was he comparing me with Rachel, pointing out how we were doing the same thing? I felt my face burning and could think of no easy answer.
    He reached over and patted my hand. “I only meant that had I known her, I am sure I would have liked your Rachel. Now, tell me again how many tortoiseshell butterflies you saw on the rosebush this morning.”
    The end of August Mr. Pernick alighted. He was aslight, slim young gentleman who, like his beloved birds, moved about so quickly and lightly, his feet seemed barely to touch the ground.
    After introducing me, Grandfather said, “I have assured Pernick that you have seen and heard the Hylocichla guttata pritchardi. Your description could not be mistaken, and it matches mine to the last feather. There is no eye ring.” He gave Mr. Pernick a severe look. “There can be no doubt that this is a new subspecies. It is high time it was adequately recognized.” Grandfather turned to me. “Pernick and I are in the habit of going about together to see the birds,” he said. “Since I can’t accompany him this year, he will have the pleasure of your company, my dear. You are as familiar with the whereabouts of the birds at Stagsway as I am. I have also told him you have a special treat for him today.”
    Mr. Pernick was a lively companion. “Today is St. Bartholomew’s day,” he said. “It is said, ‘Bartholomew brings the cold dew.’ Autumn is on its way, and our friends the birds will soon be leaving us.”
    His words sent shivers up and down my spine, for I knew that like the cold dew, the Pritchards would soon arrive to make everything chilly. At that moment a gros-beak flew out of a rowan tree and Mr. Pernick caught at my sleeve in his delight.
    Though we did a great deal of sneaking about among the trees, I could not find the Hylocichla guttata pritchardi for Mr. Pernick, but I assured him I had seen it. “Don’t you think you could convince the Royal