Leaves from the Fig Tree by Diana Duff

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
(Free-Press-Release.com) January 30, 2011 --

Rebel ePublishers, P.O. Box 6927, Cresta 2118, Johannesburg, South Africa www.rebelepublishers.com
Caroline@rebelepublishers.com submissions@rebelepublishers.com
MEDIA RELEASE

Revisited, revised and republished by Rebel ePublishers
LEAVES FROM THE FIG TREE
By Diana Duff
An extraordinary life shared by an extraordinary raconteuse

‘The Kikiyu people … were to me fascinating … the descriptive way in which they spoke of things … One spoke to me once of years passing and conjured up a picture of a great fig tree, the leaves falling, each leaf another year of his life.’

‘And at the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
Through the unknown remembered gate
…
…
And all shall be well and
And all manner of thing shall be well…’
The Four Quartets T.S. Elliot

Born in Africa but Irish by descent, Diana Duff went

to live, aged two, with her grandparents in a Georgian stately home, Annes Grove, set in world-renowned gardens. Enveloped by this rich tapestry, her world seemed magical – the Judas tree reputed to flower only on Good Friday; rare rhododendrons from Tibet; a Chinese coffin tree and blue meconopsis poppies – with talk of horses and fishing juxtaposed with tales of banshees, ráths and the foxy-haired ghost, visits from Elizabeth Bowen, Vita Sackville-West, David Cecil and many others.
Aged 18, she returned to Africa to a father she scarcely knew; to Ruanda and Uganda; to crystal lakes and forest gorillas; to Kenya, where she met the legendary Grogan and Raymond Hook who raced cheetahs in Haringay; where she doubled for Grace Kelly in Mogambo; a transfer to Johannesburg, where she challenged the authorities at the height of apartheid – and emerged victorious.

With humour, eloquence, empathy and candour, Diana shares her adventures and her arrival at a place from her childhood, where family truths are learned, along with the realisation that Africa has real magic all of its own.

Praise for Leaves from the Fig Tree

‘Diana Duff’s memoir is feisty, humorous and poignant. It’s an evocation of a lifestyle that the world will never accommodate again – particularly in Africa. More’s the pity, because somehow we don’t seem to breed such iconoclastic, fey and nonconformist characters any more. Diana has a remarkable memory for detail, and she writes with a kind of wry wit that is most engaging. I thoroughly enjoyed ‘Leaves from the Fig Tree’ and look forward to Diana’s next book.’ - Patricia Glyn, broadcaster, journalist, committed African and author of Footing with Sir Richard’s Ghost and Off Peak.

About the Author
Diana Duff has been a nurse, teacher, journalist, wife and mother. She lives in Johannesburg near her family, buys and sells semi-precious stones and speaks Kikiyu with a Kenyan African. She continues to entertain with her wit and astonishing recollections.

Leaves from the Fig Tree is available from Amazon, Kalahari, Mobipocket, iTunes, Kobo and all good book stores.US$16.99
ISBN:eBook: 978-0-9869731-0-9 ISBN:POD paperback: 978-0-9869731-1-6
To arrange an interview or a full review copy, please contact:

Caroline Addenbrooke caroline@rebelepublishers.com or
Jayne Southern jayne@rebelepublishers.com


Rebel ePublishers, P.O. Box 6927, Cresta 2118, Johannesburg, South Africa
www.rebelepublishers.com

LEAVES FROM THE FIG TREE
By
Diana Duff

– 1 –

Molly Reilly it was, authoritative, eighteen stone and black-aproned, who after forty-eight years with the family was the pivot, gossip and energy source of the house. She knew about everything, everyone. No nuance escaped her. Family moods upstairs could be checked with her in the Servants’ Hall next to the kitchen, where she rocked her chair beside the iron stove. It was no wonder that cars of visiting families were often parked first at the kitchen door instead of the great gravel carriage sweep above, thus incensing my grandfather who deplored her easy familiarity with us all. But she, in her basement, had her finger on the pulsebeat and from her the whole scenario of the house for the day, on enquiry, could easily be revealed and described, from countdown when the early morning tea trays had gone upstairs at eight, to dusk.
Moods of ageing relatives in the rooms above could be gauged before sticking one’s neck out, so to speak.
‘Grandfather. How’s his humour?’
‘Raging mad he is today, raging. The young horse is lame. The seeds from Dublin never came. The tractor broke. No spare parts in Mallow. Roaring he was, roaring. And speaking to the steward at the home farm, he didn’t need the phone, you’d hear him up there, roaring.’

Acting on this sort of tip-off, one’s plans perhaps to ask some favour of the head of the house would, in wisdom, be shelved until the hour was more propitious. The confession of a broken cucumber frame or a branch snapped in error off some rare tree would be postponed until Molly advised contact.
Nor was my grandmother always approachable.
‘The bill for your hat came from Dublin. She wasn’t pleased. And your school report – the only word for that is desperate.’
Picking at soda bread cooling on top of the Aga, I questioned further so that I might handle this situation with caution.
‘Will she be hunting all day?’
‘She will. Better to keep away now or she’ll ate the face off you.’
‘If the hounds find, her temper’ll change,’ I said.

‘And the wind will change and leave your face like that for ever if you screw it up. Leave the soda bread alone!’
Heaving herself out of her basket chair she would pad off to some culinary delight or launch an offensive on a lazy kitchen maid, shouting over her shoulder, ‘And another thing. A letter from your father came from Africa. Himself was fit to be tied when he got it. Roaring he was.’
Anything to do with my father seemed to increase the temperature upstairs.
Wisest to spend the day riding, with a packet of sandwiches to eat on horseback, when the airmail posts came from Africa.

My father, because of the feuds which had never abated, had not returned from Africa for many years but one day, having ridden home in the teeth of an east wind, I went as usual into the house by the kitchen. Moll’s stove would be welcoming after the knife-cut of the wind.
As soon as I opened the huge oak door I felt the vibrations of tension. Molly was rocking in her chair, her rosary between her fingers, her face wet.
‘Sure God help us all!’ she said. ‘Your father’s here from Africa. He has some illness but your granny won’t see him. He’s going and he’s never to come back.’ Breaking news gently was not her strongest point. She was always factual.
‘Where is he?’
‘Upstairs in the smoking room, with your grandfather. Don’t go in!’
‘And Granny?’
‘The Mistress? In her bedroom.’

I could hear the shouting as I passed the study. My father’s voice: ‘Rockvale lands should be mine at least!’
And Grandfather’s roar: ‘There’s nothing for you here!’
Taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor, I went and stood, shaking, in the door of my grandmother’s room.
‘Couldn’t you at least see him? He’s ill!’ I said.
She was lying down on the sofa and, turning her head, looked at me with her fierce black eyes. Her white hair was loosely piled in a knot. She was still handsome, even in her late seventies. ‘No!’ It came out strongly but there was emotion there, although she tried to hide it.

‘You are turning him into a remittance man,’ I said, ‘and he’s your son.’ How I dared speak to her like that I don’t know.
‘He has turned himself into a remittance man,’ she said, ‘and you, I think, have overstepped the mark. Please leave the room.’
As I went downstairs Molly was coming up with a tray of tea for her, with a plate of thinly-sliced soda bread and butter.
‘He’s gone,’ she said flatly. ‘To Africa. Doyle took him to the station in the trap. He couldn’t say goodbye to you. He was in a state. He left you a letter on the dresser in the kitchen.’

And with her stout back to me, mounting the staircase to my grandmother’s room, I heard her say, ‘Your father. He has Parkinson’s disease and there’s no cure. He told me that’s why he used to drop things. Clumsy she said he was. She didn’t know. God help us all. That poor man. And now he’s to get nothing from here.’
And the door to my grandmother’s room closed be