SEGUN AFOLABI

A Life Elsewhere

VINTAGE BOOKS
London
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 Published by Vintage 2007

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Copyright © Segun Afolabi 2006

Segun Afolabi has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Jonathan Cape

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 CONTENTS

Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
About the Author

Monday Morning
People You Don’t Know
The Wine Guitar
Arithmetic
The Visitor
Two Sisters
The Husband of Your Wife’s Best Friend
Moses
Now that I’m Back
The Long Way Home
Something in the Water
Mrs Minter
Another Woman
Mrs Mahmood
Gifted
In the Garden
Jumbo and Jacinta
for my parents, James and Christine, and for Saraya
 A LIFE ELSEWHERE

Segun Afolabi was born in Kaduna, Nigeria, in 1966 and grew up in various
countries including the Congo, Canada, East Germany and Indonesia. His
stories have been published in literary journals including the London
Magazine, Wasifiri and Granta. His short story ‘Monday Morning’ was
awarded the 2005 Caine Prize for African Writing. He lives and works in
London.
But Ruth replied, ‘Do not urge me to leave you or to turn back from you.
Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be
my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will
be buried.’
– Ruth 1: 16–17
 MONDAY MORNING

piss,’ the boy said in their language. He held his mother’s hand
‘I
WANT TO
as they walked, but his feet skipped to and fro.
The mother scanned the area, but she could not find a place for her
son; there were too many people beside the trees, talking, laughing. ‘Take
the boy to the edge of the water so he can piss,’ she said to her husband.
The boy and his father hurried towards the lake. The father was glad to
see that his son could find relief. They did not notice how people looked at
them with their mouths turned down. Sour. The eyes narrowed to slits.
The breeze blew and the ducks and swans floated past. The boy was
afraid of them, but his need to evacuate was urgent. Steam rose from the
stream that emerged from him as it fell into the water and he marvelled at
this. There was so much that was new to understand here. He had seen on
the television at the hostel how water could become hard like glass, but the
lake was not like that. The swans pushed their powerful legs and the ducks
dipped their heads beneath the surface. The father held onto his son’s jacket
so he would not fall in. There were bits of flotsam at the bank where the
water rippled. The boy looked away, a little disgusted, and gazed into the
clean centre of the lake.
They came away from the water’s edge and joined the mother and the
boy’s brother, and the boy from the hostel whose name was Emmanuel. The
father looked at his wife and the children. He wondered at how beautiful
everything was in this place with the whispering leaves and the green grass
like a perfect carpet and the people so fine in their Sunday clothes. He
thought, With God’s help it can surely happen. You are distraught, time
passes and you are away from it. You can begin to reflect and observe. It
was difficult now, to think of artillery and soldiers and flies feeding on
abandoned corpses.
 The little one laughed and said, ‘My piss made fire in the water,’ but the
mother slapped his shoulder. ‘It’s enough,’ she said.
They joined the people on the path as they strolled through Regent’s
Park. Only Emmanuel wanted to walk on the grass, but he did not dare
because the father had forbidden it. He was a feeble man, Emmanuel
thought, so timid in this new place, but his sons were different. Bolder.
They had already grasped some of the new language.
A breeze gathered up leaves and pushed the crowds along. A clump of
clouds dragged across the sun. People pulled their clothes tight around
themselves. The mother adjusted her scarf so there were no spaces for the
wind to enter. She reached across with her good hand to secure her
husband’s baseball cap. The area in the centre of his scalp was smooth as
marble and he felt the cold easily. She shoved her mittened hand back into
her coat pocket and watched the children as they drifted further away. After
a moment she called, ‘Ernesto, come away from there,’ to her eldest boy.
They had wandered towards an area where people were playing a game
with a ball and a piece of wood, and she did not want there to be any
trouble. Not today, not on Sunday. She knew his friend was leading him to
places he would not have ventured on his own and she feared there would
be difficulties ahead. The youngest boy skipped between them: the mother
and father, his brother, the brother’s best friend. He was her little one and
she would hold on to him for as long as she was able.
The father sighed and called out to his children. The cold was setting in
again and their walk was too leisurely. They would have to return to the
hostel before the sun disappeared. He called to Ernesto, ‘Come, it is time
for us to go. Tell your brother.’ It would take at least half an hour for them
to walk back.
Ernesto turned to Alfredo, the little one, who giggled as they played a
game among themselves – Kill the Baron. The friend, Emmanuel, ran about
them, laughing, until the father called again. ‘We are going back, you hear
me? Ernesto, hold your brother! We go!’
Emmanuel looked at him. He did not speak their language, but,
regardless, he thought the father was a stupid man – too fat, too quiet. The
boy had lost his own father in his own country in his own village home.
Now he could only see the faults in them, the other fathers, their
weaknesses, what they did not understand. He had thought his father
remarkable at one time, but with his own eyes he had seen him cut down,
destroyed. They were all foolish and clumsy, despite their arrogance. He
would never become such a man himself.
The children trailed behind the mother and father as they navigated
paths that took them to the edge of the park. As they came to the road,
Alfredo raced to walk beside his mother, and a passing car screeched to a
halt.
‘Keep ’em off the road, for fuck’s sake!’ the driver shouted.
The mother held her son, and the father looked at the driver without
expression. The boy had not run across the road, but the driver had made an
assumption, and now he did not want to lose face.
‘Keep the buggers off the road!’ he shouted again and shook his head
when there was no response.
The father glanced at the mother who only shrugged and held her boy.
Emmanuel turned to the driver and waved an apology on behalf of the
father, grinning to indicate he under-stood. But he did not know the
appropriate words, and the driver failed to notice or did not care for the
gesture. He sped away, complaining bitterly to his passenger. There were
people on the pavement who had seen the incident, who now stood
watching. The mother and father did not understand the signs and gestures
the people used. They did not feel the indignation. They knew only that
they were scrutinized and they were sometimes puzzled by this, but they
were not over-whelmed.
They trudged along the main road near the building where the books
lived. The huge railway stations teemed with people. In the mornings
sometimes, the father walked in the vicinity of the stations. At night the
area was forsaken, but during the day workers emerged in their thousands.
Often he looked at them and it seemed impossible that he could ever be a
part of this. The people moved as if they were all one river, and they flowed
and they did not stop.
‘Here’s the one!’ Alfredo squealed to Emmanuel when they came to the
glass hotel. ‘I will live here!’
 ‘You’re crazy,’ Emmanuel said to the boy. But he could not fail to
notice the guests in the lobby, the people sipping tea in the café, the lights
warm, the atmosphere congenial.

The sign at the building read Hotel Excelsior, but this was not a hotel. The
orange carpet was threadbare, the linen was stained with the memory of
previous guests, the rooms sang with the clamour of too many people.
When they had arrived, the mother knew it was not a place to become used
to. They had their room, the four of them, and it was enough: the bed, the
two narrow cots. There was warmth even though the smell of the damp
walls never left them. They could not block out the chatter and groans of
other occupants. In the mornings the boys feasted on hot breakfasts in the
basement dining room where there was a strange hum of silence as people
ate. They were gathering strength after years of turmoil in other places. This
was the best part of the day.
As they approached the hostel the sky was already turning even though
it was still afternoon. Men and women walked up and down the road, but
they did not have a destination. They glanced at the family with eyes like
angry wounds. A woman knelt on the pavement with her head upturned,
swaying, and when the family passed, Alfredo could see that she was dazed.
The mother cupped her hand against his face so he could no longer look at
her. Another man guided a woman in a miniskirt hurriedly by the elbow. He
was shouting at her. He crossed the road so he would not have to meet the
family and then re-crossed it after they had passed. Every day they saw
these people, the lost ones, who seemed to hurt for the things they were
looking for but could not find. The mother wondered sometimes, Have they
never been young like my boys? Where does innocence flee? She wanted to
be away from this place, away from the Excelsior. She wanted her family’s
new life to begin.
The father had begun to work. He could not wait for any bureaucratic
decision when there were people who relied on him for food and shelter, for
simple things: his mother, his sister and her family, his wife’s people. It had
begun easily enough. A man at the hostel told him there was work on a
construction site in the south of the city. They did not ask for your papers
there, he said. It was a way to help yourself, and if it ended, well, there were
other places to work. It was important not to be defeated, he warned, even
though you were disregarding the rules. The man had been an architect in
his own country, but now he did the slightest thing in order to help himself.
He was ebullient, and when the father looked at him and listened, he was
filled with hope.
Four of them journeyed from the Excelsior to the building site in the
south. Every day they took their breakfast early and joined the people who
became a river on their way to work. The job was not complex, but one
could easily become disheartened by the cold and the routine. The father
dreamed of the day when he could return to his own occupation, to the
kitchen where he handled meat and vegetables and the spices he loved so
much. He had not touched any ingredients for many months now and
sometimes he was afraid he would forget what he had learned. Already it
was ingrained in him and he could not lose it, this knowledge, but he did
not realise this yet.
He moved building materials from one place to another, and when they
needed a group of men to complete a task, he became essential. But he did
not know the English words. Most of the others did, but there was no one
from his country here. Sometimes they would slowly explain to him the
more difficult tasks, and every day, it seemed, the work became more
intricate. The father moved his head so they would think he had understood,
but he did not understand one word. He began to sense that words were not
necessary; he could learn by observation and then repeat what he saw. In his
own country he had not been an expressive man. Even as a child he had
only used words when absolutely necessary. People often thought he was
mute or he was from another country or his mind was dull. But all of that
did not matter; he had learned to cook and he had discovered the love of a
woman who did not need him to be someone he was not.

The woman touched the man at the meat of his shoulder and when he felt
her, his body relaxed. It was not like coming home when they returned to
the Excelsior; the strangeness of the place and the noise of the people there
discomfited them. A woman was crying behind the door of the room
opposite theirs and they wondered, Has she received some terrible news?
Will she be returned to the place she has run away from? The hostel was a
sanctuary, but it was also a place of sadness for many, and often it was only
the children who gave it life.
‘Tomorrow,’ Emmanuel said to Ernesto, and he touched him lightly on
the back and then ran to another floor of the building where he and his
mother lived. He did not acknowledge the father and the mother. Alfredo
turned so he could say goodbye to his brother’s friend, but the boy was
already gone. He could not understand how Emmanuel had spent the day
with them and could then disappear without a word to him. He too wanted a
friend, like the children he had played with in his own country.
‘Why does he go so fast?’ he asked. He felt the smart of Emmanuel’s
abruptness in his chest.
‘He has his own mother,’ the woman replied. ‘Maybe he feels bad for
leaving her all day.’
Alfredo thought about this, about how he would feel if he had left his
mother alone in the hostel, and he under-stood her words. He said, ‘We will
. . . When . . . When will we go to the glass hotel?’ The words emerged so
quickly from him in his agitation they fell over one another.
‘We will go one day,’ the father said as they entered the room. ‘You will
see.’ It was his secret plan to take his family to the hotel one weekend,
when a person could eat a two-course meal at a special rate. He would work
on the construction site until he was able to pay for the things they needed,
for the money he would send back home. Then they would all spend the day
at the glass hotel. Perhaps there would be a swimming pool for his sons. He
touched the boy on his head so he would not feel bad about the place they
were in, the erratic Emmanuel, the people they had left behind.

At night the father dreamed he was in his old kitchen, with the heat and
flies and the squawks of chickens outside. The mother flew to the beach on
their coast and noticed how the moonlight glinted off the waves. Ernesto
dreamed of his school friends before they had been forced to scatter, before
the fighting had begun. Only Alfredo remained in the new country in his
sleep; he was in the glass hotel, in his own room.
The night moved on and then other dreams began, the ones of violence,
of rebels and rape and cutlasses arcing through the air. The father began to
shudder in his sleep, and then his wife woke. When she realised it was
happening again, she reached out and petted him with her club, her smooth
paw. She did not know she was doing so; it was instinctive. Ordinarily she
concealed the damaged limb. They had severed her hand in the conflict, but
she could still feel the life of her fingers as she comforted her man. In the
new country, they had offered her a place to go, for the trauma, but she did
not want that; she had her boys, her quiet husband. There was a way to
function in the world when the world was devastating, everyone careless of
each other and of themselves. She knew that now. She had been forced to
learn. In a moment her husband was still again and she lay back with her
eyes closed, but she did not sleep.

It was a simple thing, a misunderstanding, that caused the confusion the

next day. The father travelled to the south to the construction site. By the
end of the week he was certain he would have earned enough to send
several packages home. But mid-morning the inspectors arrived.
A foreman took him aside. ‘You have the correct papers?’ he asked.
The father looked at him and nodded. He did not understand what was
happening. He continued to work as the inspectors spread out. He could not
see the other men from the hostel, but he would look for them soon so they
could take their lunch break. It was colder today, but he had been working
so hard he had been forced to remove his sweater.
They came up the scaffolding, two men with their brief-cases and the
foreman beside them. From the corner of his eye the father could see the
men from the hostel across the road. They were waving to him frantically.
The inspectors approached another man and talked quietly with him. They
stood next to the ladder. The father could not see another way down. He
thought, I am in a place I do not understand. The ground is vanishing
beneath me. He pictured the boy, his youngest, and he pushed away the fear.
He ran to the edge of the platform and grasped the metal pole. He did not
look down in case he faltered. He held the pole and allowed gravity to carry
him, not knowing how it would end. His hands were cut and then his torso
rubbed hard against the brackets. He remembered his sweater lying on the
platform. He did not have the strength to manage a smooth descent and his
shirt and trousers were torn, but he did not notice these things. His mind
was on his folly. If he were caught he would jeopardise everything for his
family and he did not know if he could live with himself after that.
He hobbled across the road where the others were waiting for him. He
looked behind once to see if he was being followed, but no one was there.
‘That was close,’ one of the men called and clapped him on the
shoulder. They all laughed, but he did not laugh with them. He only smiled.
His hands and arms were throbbing and the blood had soiled his clothes.
When the mother saw him, she became very quiet. No one spoke. They
only fussed around the wounds and the blood and the torn clothing. Their
fear was like a fist of bread they could not swallow. The youngest boy
began to cry. His brother, Ernesto, was frightened, but excited too. He went
and told his friend what had happened. It was like an adventure for him; the
blood, the daring escape.
Emmanuel smirked; it only confirmed his thoughts. He said, ‘He is
stupid, your father.’ He could not help himself. It was the way he was now.
Angry.
Ernesto looked at him, disbelieving, and then he walked away. It was
too much, the injured father, the distraught brother, the hurtful friend. Too
many things were happening at once and he could make no sense of it.
When he returned to the room, his father was resting on his brother’s cot.
He saw him there, a man who was not slender, a man who hardly spoke. He
began to wonder about Emmanuel’s words. Was there any truth in them? A
seed had been planted now.
Alfredo sat beside his father looking from the carpet to his mother, back
to the carpet again. The mother’s silence disturbed them all. She tidied the
room and soaked the soiled clothes in the bath and seemed not to care about
what had happened. Even the father eyed her cautiously, but he did not
speak.
‘God will help us,’ the father whispered, so that only the youngest
heard.
The boy remained silent. At length he asked, ‘Where is God, Papa?
The father sighed and looked at his son. ‘He is in the room. He is here
with us. All around.’ He lifted his arms and waved his fat fingers to
illustrate.
 The boy looked around the room, but he did not understand. Ernesto
followed his gaze, but he did not know what they were looking at.
‘You are a chef, you are not a labourer!’ the mother shouted. ‘You
cannot cook with your hands torn like this! Do you understand?’ She had
gone from silence to blind rage in an instant. She shook her fist, but held the
arm where her hand had been severed tight against her stomach. She did not
care if other people heard through the thin walls. She was tired of holding
everything in. ‘How can we make a new life if you cannot work because
you are injured? Did you think what would happen if they caught you with
no papers, what would happen to us, the boys? We cannot go back to that
place where they are killing us! Soon they will allow us to stay and you can
do what-ever job you like. But still you cannot wait! You are ready to risk
everything.’
The boys looked from their wounded father to their mother as she stood
over him. They took in the damp walls, the orange carpet with the kink by
the bathroom door, the window that overlooked the street where the girls
walked at night and people roared sometimes in their misery.
‘I am going to see Emmanuel,’ Alfredo said after no one had spoken in
minutes. He closed the door quietly and ran along the corridor and down the
stairs. He did not stop running when he came to the street or to the busy
road where the cars and buses clamoured. A tall man, wrapped in a soiled
duvet, strode along the street peering into rubbish bins. Shrieking. Alfredo
continued to run. He mingled with people as they waited for permission to
cross the road. A woman moved away from him as if he were a street
urchin. When he reached the other side he began to run again. He did not
look behind for fear of seeing his father or his mother or anyone from the
hostel. He ran and ran until he arrived at the hotel and when he was through
its glass doors he stood still and breathed deeply.
He had said he was going to see Emmanuel, but ten minutes later, the
friend knocked at the door looking for Ernesto. All the anger in the room
vanished. They searched the lounge where the television was, and the
breakfast room, and the reception, but they could not find him. No one had
seen him disappear. The mother was shaking now and the other son was
mute with anxiety.
 ‘We must look outside. Alfredo!’ the father called. ‘He cannot go far
from here. Where can he go? Alfredo!’ He was bellowing now. He was not
aware of the strength of his own voice. Ernesto looked at him, his eyes wide
with trepidation.
The man at the reception desk said the staff would scour the hostel to
ensure Alfredo was not hiding anywhere. ‘Where could a little boy go?’ he
asked.
Emmanuel thought suddenly he knew where he was. He said in English,
‘Maybe he goes to the hotel,’ and he pointed.
They did not know the boy was already in the elevator of the glass
hotel, rising above the street, looking out at the city they had recently
arrived in. There seemed to be nothing between him and the world outside
except a thin sheet of glass. When he peered down at the retreating traffic
he found he was not afraid. He came out on the top floor and approached
the long corridor. He began to try the handles of all the rooms he passed. He
was looking for his own room, but he knew he needed a key. He did not
know whom to ask. A man opened a door he had tried and squinted at him
and closed it quickly. Otherwise it was quiet. He saw no people. He was
anxious now and tired and he did not know what to do.
A woman opened a door near the end of the corridor and a cloud of light
fell across his path. She did not notice him. She removed some objects from
a trolley and then re-entered the room. He came to the door and stood for a
moment, waiting for her, but he was very tired now. He sat on the carpet in
the corridor, trying to remain alert, but his head hung down.
‘Who are you?’ the woman said to him.
He jerked his head up. He was not sure whether he had fallen asleep,
whether time had passed – had she simply come out as soon as he had sat
down? He looked at her, but he could not understand all the words she
spoke.
‘Are you lost?’ she asked. ‘Are you looking for someone?’ She did not
seem angry, but he did not know how to make her understand.
He said, ‘The room,’ with all the English he could muster, but he knew
it was not enough.
 The woman gazed at him and spoke some words in her own language
and he was amazed he could understand her completely. He had thought his
family were the only ones in this new place.
‘Come,’ she said. She pushed open the door of the room she had been
cleaning and showed him in: the wide bed so perfectly made, the broad face
of the television set, the gleaming marble in the bathroom. He walked to the
window and knelt on a chair and looked out at the vast city. He could not
hear the sounds of traffic far below, he could not see the river of people
entering the railway stations, he could not see the lost ones shuffling to and
fro on the street. He saw only rooftops and sunlight and all the space in the
world between the earth and the sky that seemed like emptiness that was
untouched and beautiful. He turned and climbed onto the bed. He did not
worry about the woman or his mother and father or when he should return
to the hostel. He was too tired for any of that. The boy slept. Again, he did
not have bad dreams. He did not even dream of his own country. He saw the
green grass in the park that Sunday afternoon, his mother’s five fingers
searching for his face, his father and brother, even the angry friend,
Emmanuel, sitting on the bed in the hotel room, looking for the face of God.
 PEOPLE YOU DON’T KNOW

’M MAKING CRAB meat and pickle sandwiches, peanut butter crackers for
I dessert. The bell rings and Bryant yells, ‘Get over here!’
I hear them, three men including Bryant, speaking in low voices.
Silence between the words. I spread the peanut butter over each cracker and
arrange them in concentric circles.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Bryant cuffs me on the side of the head. ‘I said
get over here.’ He sees the knife in my hand, eases it out, licks it. He takes a
cracker from the plate, spoiling the display, throws it into his bottomless
mouth. ‘Got some people to see you,’ he says, cracker crumbs spraying in
my face. Two hundred and fifty pounds of him simmering, wishing I
weren’t here. Thinking he’s made a big mistake.
They’re polite and still standing when I enter the living room. The tall
one says, ‘Leon?’
I nod, but I’m wondering how he knows my name. Bryant? I can see
him opening the door to the two policemen. ‘You’ll be wanting Leon.’ No
questions asked. Leading them in. ‘Coffee? Crackers?’
The other one says, ‘There was a disturbance earlier today. Attempted
burglary. One of the apartments on the other side. Owner says he ran this
way. We’re checking all of the apartments in case, you know, someone saw
something. Heard something.’
I look up and knit my brow as if I’m thinking hard. I’ve always liked
that expression, the knitting part. I knit some more and shake my head. ‘I
heard some shouting in one of the poolside apartments this morning. But
they’re always fighting, those two. They hate each other.’
The tall one squints at me for a second longer than is polite. ‘You’re not
from around here, are you?’
I shake my head, but don’t respond.
 ‘What is that, English? The Islands?’
I could say anything, elaborate some story, but I’m hungry and would
like these two to leave. ‘Yes, the Islands. But not these ones; the ones on the
other side, you know? Out on the periphery.’ I give a wave and the shorter
one turns to look through the sliding doors as if he might be able to see
where I mean. As if he’s swallowed the story.
Bryant rolls his eyes, rams his fists into his shorts’ pockets.

‘Is there anything else, officer?’

‘No, I think we’re done here. Thank you.’
The tall one says, ‘We’re going round all the apartments on this side;
we’ve got a ways to go yet.’ He hands Bryant a card.
When they leave, Bryant gives me a look, but he doesn’t say anything.
‘What? What did I do?’ I say. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
He wades into the kitchen, grabs a carton of milk, helps himself to the
sandwiches and crackers, and takes his bounty to the balcony, closing the
sliding doors. I eat a crab sandwich standing behind the glass, watching him
eat as he gazes at the traffic below. It’s not the best view in the world – the
highway, the railroad track, the hinterland beyond that. But that’s Bryant.
Why enjoy life when you can live in squalor for half the price? My guess is
it was cheap, cheaper than the poolside apartments or the places
overlooking the park.
I look at his tree-trunk neck and the way his jaw works from behind, the
way his thighs balloon over the edge of the rattan chair. He knows I’m
watching, but he’s too cool to look around. He shares our father’s
nonchalance, but everything else he gets from his mother: the weight, the
temper, the miserliness, the inability to lose control. He could sit there all
afternoon and not look around. I could fall asleep, standing, and crash
through the glass and his priority would be the cost of repair, not my
lacerations.

Next morning at six, I’m beside the pool. Even at this hour the air is sticky
and warm. I sweep the net through the water and shake out the gunk from
overnight, the day before: leaves, flies, sweet wrappers, frogs. I found a
condom once. I wouldn’t dive into this pool to save a life. I’ve seen them at
night, the party people, with their booze and music and goings on. Perhaps
it’s just as well Bryant didn’t take one of those apartments.
I pick up cans from underneath the white plastic sun loungers, sweep
away cigarette stubs and bits of food. I make sure everything’s lined up
neatly: the loungers, the chairs and tables, the floats in their container, the
parasols. When everything’s clean and tidy and all I have to do is give the
place one final sweep, a woman arrives. She stands in a corner, in the shade,
surveying the area, then chooses the lounger she uses nearly every day.
Occasionally she’ll sit in the sun, but soon enough she’ll move to her usual
spot.
‘Morning!’ she calls. She doesn’t wave or look up. Just sets down her
magazines and her flask of tea. She peels off her mulberry bathrobe and
walks to the shallow end of the pool. She has a way of moving – head up,
not a care in the world – that seems to camouflage her size. Even in her
swim suit. Unlike Bryant who would stand out at a Weight Watchers’
convention. She hardly makes a splash as she slips into the water and
pushes off to begin her laps.
I lean on the broom, moving slowly around the pool, building little
hillocks of rubbish along the way. It’s probably the least efficient way to
clean, but I have the time and I like to drag it out. Besides, it’s quiet here
and not air-conditioned for a change.
Sometimes I stop to watch the moving head in the water, her sunglasses
on, back and forth, the effort of the strokes hidden beneath the surface. I
don’t talk to them, the residents. I’m simply here to clean. That’s why I
prefer the morning shift. I like the way, sometimes, I can’t hear the traffic
from this side, only birdsong and the breeze and the tinkle of water as the
woman swims.
‘You missed a spot.’ She is standing in the shallow end. She points to a
clump of dirt I haven’t reached yet, but I smile.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and continue my leisurely journey around the pool.
When she’s finished she exits from the deep end and rests on a lounger
in the sun for a while. I haven’t reached that section yet, but she only stays
in the sun to dry off, so there’s no chance we’ll meet. I clean the area she
highlighted and look around at all the piles of rubbish I’ve created. Seven in
all. And still the woman is the only resident using the pool. She hasn’t
moved from her sun spot.
I could start sweeping the heaps into bags, but it would look odd not to
complete the revolution. The woman lies still; I’m sure she’s fallen asleep
so I try to be quiet as I clean around her.
‘Hi there.’ She looks up and shades her face with a hand, despite the
sunglasses. ‘I’m sorry. I’m in the way. I’m still wet. Won’t be long.’
‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘I’ve nearly finished anyway.’
She pulls her glasses further down the bridge of her nose and peers.
‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so. Three, four weeks.’ I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been
here. ‘I can’t remember.’
She does the peering routine again as if she is trying to make a decision
about something. She says, ‘There was someone else, but he came at
different times. And not every day, I might add. I hardly saw him.’
‘Well . . . I like the mornings,’ I say. ‘It’s quiet. It gives me time to
think.’ I hold the broom in both hands and look out at the pool and the rest
of the work ahead, and up at the balconies of the apartments. ‘I should clean
this up now. It’s getting warmer. I don’t like the heat.’
‘Oh, okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow. I’m Mrs Drexel,
by the way.’
I smile and go off to fetch the bag and dustpan. ‘I’m Leon,’ I call back.

Sometimes Bryant has already left for work, but usually he’s still here. He
says, ‘What are you going to do today?’
I hesitate because most times there will be no plan. This gives him a
chance to continue.
‘If you’re not booked up and all, I was thinking – I talked to my boss
the other day about you, about maybe getting you some work. I thought you
could come in tomorrow – next week maybe – maybe try out? We could get
you some work clothes for when you talk to him? You could do that today.
I’ll drive you downtown, show you some places. You can take it from there.
How ’bout it?’
I nod, but it doesn’t mean one thing or the other. Just words he’s saying
and things to be getting on with. Filling time. ‘I’ll change and get my
things,’ I say, and he nods too as if he’s satisfied.
Bryant works in a nursing home south of downtown Tampa, in Hyde
Park. He’s not a nurse, though; he sits in an air-conditioned office and takes
calls and writes letters. When the sons and daughters of the residents
complain, he has to deal with them.
We leave the air-conditioned apartment and take the Land Cruiser – also
air-conditioned – to the nearest mall. We try a number of shops and he
shows me what he means by ‘smart’ – grey, styleless trousers, button-down
shirts, ties, shoes you have to shine – and then he leaves me to make my
own decisions.
‘Don’t spend it all,’ he says, handing me a fifty and a twenty, and I
nearly laugh out loud, but then I realise he’s serious. ‘Get something to eat
for lunch. When you’re done take the bus back, okay? And if you need me
for anything, you have the number, right? Don’t get lost now, you hear me?’
I nod slowly as if it’s possible I might end up in Boca Raton by the end
of the day. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I know the bus route.’
‘Good. Dad says I’m to watch you, but you have to help me too. You
have to be careful, okay?’
‘Don’t worry, my behaviour will be munificent.’
‘Whatever.’ He frowns and wags the car keys and then he’s waddling
out of the mall.
I look in some of the better clothes shops Bryant ignored, but still
nothing appeals. I buy perfume for Stella and spend the change on CDs. I
take a bus across the river and head for the shops in Hyde Park. I have no
idea where Bryant works, but there’s little chance we’ll meet. I find exactly
what he wants me to wear: trousers, shirts, a pair of black shoes, a tie. It
isn’t cheap, but I’m not paying. Bryant wouldn’t know Kenzo from K-Mart
so I’m not worried about discovery.
 On the bus back to the apartment a scruffy old man sits next to me. I
don’t think hygiene is his first priority. The smell is of old dog, unwashed
and wet, and each time he moves I get a blast of it. I try holding my breath
for stretches at a time, but it’s no use.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. I get up and move to the front of the bus, but the
smell lingers. With the addition of the heat and humidity I can feel my head
begin to swim. I’d rather walk than use the bus next time, but I’ve never
been a walker and I’m not about to start.
Part of the problem, Stella says, is that I’m not patient enough. I don’t
give things a chance. She thinks I should find something I love and pour all
my energy into it. It’s finding that one true thing that’s the problem, though.
She says when I get back to London we should both sit down and draw up a
list of alternatives, even if it takes a month. She says this from the comfort
of a law degree she’s two terms into. ‘And, you know, you could be in the
same situation if you wanted.’ She’s always saying things like that.
I’m happy enough with her – she’s beautiful to me, but I can see where
it’s going. In no time she’ll want things I can’t provide, like a house or a
holiday or a car for the weekends. She’s always thinking about the long
term, but the long term is another country and I say learn to live in your
own before you emigrate.
I make up some change and leave it on the kitchen counter for Bryant. I
could leave it on his dresser, but I’d rather not stumble across something in
his room I’m not supposed to see. Like whips or dildos or whatnot. I throw
my new clothes on the floor in the living room, switch on the air-
conditioning and settle on the sofa for a nap.

Next day by the pool, Mrs Drexel arrives before me. She’s reading and the
tips of her strawberry-blonde hair are wet. She pours tea into the plastic
beaker of her flask.
‘Mornin’!’ she calls.
‘Morning,’ I call back. I’m annoyed I have to clean in front of a resident
even though she’s seen me before.
I sweep the net through the water; I’m amazed at how dirty it gets after
only one day. I’m appalled that Mrs Drexel has been swimming in it.
 ‘You didn’t say yesterday – are you here on vacation?’ she calls. She’s
put down her magazine and pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead.
I was going to give the pool a second sweep, but I change my mind and
retrieve the net. ‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘I’m staying with my brother. Bryant. On
the other side.’
She looks to where I jerk my head as if she can see through the
building. ‘Bryant?’ she says in recognition. ‘And he’s got you working? On
vacation? Some brother.’
‘Well . . . it’s an arrangement, that’s all. He’s my half-brother – we have
the same father.’
‘Ah – that explains it. The accent, I mean.’ She shoos a fly from her
face. Her eyes continue to follow me.
I’m giving the concrete a hasty brush and, rather than leave little piles
of dirt, I sweep it up as I go along.
‘ “Father” – I like,’ she continues.
‘Pardon?’
‘They say “dad”, Marlow and Grace. My children. It’d be nice if they
said “father”. More dignified. But, you know, their father’s a pig. It
wouldn’t work with him. Listen to me. God! Gabbling.’
There’s a noise, like the sea lions at SeaWorld, and when I glance up it’s
Mrs Drexel, her mouth wide, guffawing. I look at her on the lounger. There
are ways to describe her: huge, enormous, overweight, obese. But her laugh
is so strange and infectious it’s possible to overlook her size.

In the evening Bryant’s fidgety. It doesn’t help we’re in a one-bedroom

apartment and I’m always in the living room or the kitchen. I sit out on the
balcony with the headphones on, listening to CDs, watching the cars on the
highway. It’s so humid I just want to go in and lie down. Bryant taps the
glass of the sliding doors and when I look round he’s wearing a blue and
orange floral short-sleeved shirt, tan trousers and leather sandals. The
sandals are a mistake, but to say so would only infuriate him. He’s simply
going out. Neither of us mentions the words ‘internet’ or ‘date’ as these
excursions always end in disaster. He slides open the door a crack so the
cold air won’t leak out.
 ‘Use the change from today to get some dinner,’ he says. Neither of us
knows what to do with a cooker, so it’s usually microwave meals or
takeaways. ‘I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up. Oh, and remember, we’re
going in tomorrow, so get your things ready for the morning.’ He slides the
door as far as it will shut without locking.
When I hear the front door close, I get up and re-enter the air-
conditioning. I turn it down so it’s not so cold and dial Stella’s number in
London.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘Is Bryant there?’
‘No, he’s gone out on a date, or maybe he’s trying to find a date. I don’t
know. I’m bored already and it’s so hot.’
‘When are you coming back?’ she asks.
I sigh because no one knows the answer to this question, least of all me,
and neither of us says anything.
‘You should make a decision,’ she continues. ‘You could catch the next
flight back and start again. We’ll sit down and talk about it. Don’t you miss
me? I miss you.’
‘We’re talking now.’
‘But it’s not the same,’ she says.
Stella thinks that when I get back I should go to college, take the exams
I need to progress further in life. Or I could learn a trade, she says.
Bricklaying or plumbing or even work for the council. High hopes. But she
means well.
‘What are you wearing?’ I whisper.
‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘I thought you said this was a conversation.’
‘I’m missing you every minute,’ I say. ‘Are you alone? Are you wearing
any knickers?’
She hangs up and I lie back, listening to the faint rush of traffic and the
constant exhale of the air-conditioning.
 *

There is a boy and a girl the next day. They might have been watching from
their balcony and decided to come down. Maybe they think I was getting
fresh with their mother. The boy looks about seven or eight, the girl slightly
older. Limbs like chicken wings.
‘Marlow, get away from the side of the pool,’ Mrs Drexel calls. ‘Can’t
you see he’s cleaning there, honey?’
The boy looks up at me suspiciously while I drag the net through the
water, then he moves very slowly along the edge. I’m wearing my new
clothes for the interview later today and the pool receives only a cursory
clean.
The girl walks up to me and says, ‘Leon, my mom says to ignore
Marlow. He’s just showing off. I’m Grace.’
‘Hello, Grace. Who’s Marlow?’ I ask.
‘That’s him, right there in the water.’ She points at her brother.
‘I don’t see anyone,’ I say, peering at the space he inhabits.
‘He’s right there!’ she almost screams.
Marlow looks troubled at first, then grins and pushes backwards into the
middle of the pool and floats on his back for a moment before sinking.
‘Can he swim?’ I ask.
She nods wearily. ‘He’s just showing off. I told you. It’s so boring.’
‘Are they bothering you, Leon?’ Mrs Drexel sits up. ‘Grace, Marlow –
stop bothering him. Show me some laps.’
Marlow turns on his back and swims messily towards the shallow end.
His sister walks to the ladder and eases in slowly, then begins a cool slicing
motion through the water, catching up with her brother, overtaking him. It’s
hard to believe these waifs belong to Mrs Drexel.
‘Aren’t you the sharp dresser today,’ their mother says.
I tell her about the interview later this morning.
‘But you’re supposed to be on vacation, and Bryant’s got you working
round the clock. What kind of brother is he?’
 I shrug. ‘Half-brother. And it’s not really a holiday. I told you, it’s an
arrangement.’
‘An arrangement?’ She opens her mouth and there it is again, the sea-
lion laugh. Honking. ‘You don’t have to tell me, honey. But my sister, she
makes an “arrangement” like that – she wouldn’t be my sister for much
longer. Cleaning pools, working all the day long. Good grief!’
I don’t tell her it’s hardly all day, but it seems pointless not saying
anything further about it. ‘My father, he thought it would be a good idea if I
came over,’ I say. ‘There was some trouble. He wanted me . . . to go away
for a bit. So he asked Bryant if I could stay, and he said yes. I hardly know
him.’
‘Your father?’
‘No, Bryant.’
She removes her sunglasses. ‘What kind of trouble?’ She glances at the
children in the pool. Marlow thrashing as if he’s drowning.
‘Oh, this and that. You don’t want to know.’
‘Don’t want to know what?’ she says.
So, I tell her about the credit cards and the shop lifting along Oxford
Street and some of the other occasions. Something makes me go on once
I’ve started. I even tell her about the clothes I’m wearing for the interview
and how it doesn’t mean anything to me, any of it.
She doesn’t flinch, Mrs Drexel. Not once. I like that about her.
‘Boy!’ she says. ‘Hence the arrangement.’
‘That’s right.’
Marlow staggers out of the deep end towards us. ‘Two laps, Mom. Did
you see? I didn’t stop once.’
‘I saw it, honey. You’re getting better every day. And faster, too.’
‘How fast?’ he says. ‘Did you time me?’
‘I didn’t time, sweetie. You should have said. I would’ve checked the
watch.’ She folds him in his towel and ruffles his auburn hair.
‘You’re what, eighteen, nineteen?’ she asks me.
‘I’m eighteen in a month.’ I puff up a little, indignant.
 ‘You have so much of life ahead. You don’t want to screw it up now. I
expect you’ve heard that already.’ She gives a wide yawn. She does not try
to suppress it. That too I like.
‘You’re very dextrose,’ I say to Marlow.
‘What does that mean?’ He looks up at his mother, then at me.
‘It means . . . you’re very fast in the water.’

The interview isn’t really an interview. Bryant leaves me with his boss, Mr
Ferreira, who walks me round the nursing home, showing me what needs to
be cleaned and emptied, where I mustn’t venture. One of the residents
interrupts and says, ‘A young man! Mr Ferreira, we haven’t been
introduced.’
‘Brenda, this is Leon. Brenda’s been with us nearly a year now. Isn’t
that right, Brenda?’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Ferreira. I’m not counting.’
‘Leon is going to work for us, starting tomorrow. From London,
England, aren’t you?’
I nod.
‘That so?’ she says. She’s bald-headed beneath the candy floss strands
on her scalp. She swings her head towards Mr Ferreira whenever he speaks.
Her eyes are stretched wide as if she’s permanently surprised.
Mr Ferreira continues the tour. ‘We like it spotless twenty-four-seven,’
he says. ‘People come to visit all times of the day. It creates a very bad
impression if it’s not spic and span. Comprende?’
Most days it’s easy to nod and smile and say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’,
all that social guff. Today is not one of those days.
‘Understood,’ I say. ‘What time do I start?’ And when he tells me, I turn
around and leave. I do not say goodbye to Bryant. I forget about our lunch.
I want to be moving fast, to feel the wind counter this humidity. There
need not be a destination. I walk across the lazy Hillsborough River towards
the bus stop. I continue past the stop until I find what I’m looking for. It’s
white and small and Japanese, and there’s a radio and CD player inside. The
keys are dangling in the ignition and I know the owner is close, loading or
unloading, but I don’t let that bother me. There’s a dog on the back seat,
again white and small, curly-haired, but I don’t know the pedigree. I slide in
quickly and no one on the pavement lunges or shouts. The dog starts to bark
– little yaps, more annoying than deterring, and when the car moves the
creature is silent for a moment before the barking begins again. I turn at the
next block, open the passenger door, push the seat forward and let the dog
out. It’s harmless. I’m tempted to take it back to where I found the car, but I
don’t want to risk getting caught, losing the vehicle. In the mirror as I drive
away, it’s still barking, turning circles on the pavement, wondering what
happened.
I turn up the radio – a group is singing in Spanish. I listen to it anyway. I
drive in a direction I’ve never been before, the window wound down, the air
roaring, competing with the music.
‘Gotas de lluvia no es el rocío,’ they sing. ‘Lagrimas que vienen del
corazón.’
I could drive to Tallahassee or Miami, even to another state. Maybe end
up in New Orleans. But after half an hour I turn around and drive back to
Tampa, park the car a block from the apartment. When Bryant returns in the
evening he fails to mention the missed lunch.
‘Mr Ferreira said you left in a hurry.’
I shrug and fidget with the chopsticks he’s brought with the takeaway.
‘You know, you don’t have to do it,’ Bryant says. ‘We can find
something else. You just have to say. I just thought you could do something
– I don’t know – useful during the day. I have to tell Dad what you’re
doing, don’t I?’
‘It’s okay. I’ll do the job,’ I say. ‘It’s cool. These spring rolls are
effervescent.’
‘What?’ Bryant says.
‘You know – they taste really good.’
‘You don’t even know what that means.’
I shrug.
When Bryant’s asleep, I go out to check the car’s still where I parked it.
I walk three blocks to a local bar. The barman squints at me and says, ‘No
ID, no dice,’ so I walk back to the apartment remembering the leftover
takeaway. When I open the fridge, it’s gone. This is all I need, Bryant
telling my father I absconded in the middle of the night. I make some
peanut butter crackers, sit out on the balcony and watch the traffic speed by.

There’s someone else at the pool the next day – one of the
‘fighters’, the husband from the poolside apartment. He’s standing in
the shallow end doing some kind of exercise, one foot resting on the side of
his knee, the leg forming a triangle.
‘Did you get the job?’ Mrs Drexel asks.
‘I suppose so,’ I nod. ‘It’s just more cleaning.’
‘Well . . . it’ll mean more money, right? Can’t be a bad thing. You could
take a trip – to St Pete’s or Clearwater.’
‘I’ve been already,’ I say.
‘You have? When?’
So, I tell her about the first week, the car I broke into – the mud-red
Chrysler. How I travelled from town to town in the leather comfort of it, not
getting out of the air-conditioning, even at the beach. Then I tell her about
the Toyota from yesterday, about the shoes I’m wearing and all the other
things I’ve accumulated.
‘Oh my good-giddy-gosh!’ she says. ‘Why on Earth did you do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? What does that mean, “I don’t know”? You have to
know why. You took my car, I’d be mad as all hell.’
‘Well . . . ,’ I shrug. ‘I . . . I have to clean the pool. There are some old
people counting on me and I can’t let them down.’
‘Yeah, right,’ she says. She walks to the ladder at the shallow end and
submerges herself, inch by inch, except for her head.
I sweep around the sun loungers and empty the rubbish bins.
‘Hey, Leon!’ It’s Grace and her brother.
‘You’re late,’ I say.
 ‘It’s the weekend, you know,’ Grace replies.
Marlow stands next to his sister, mute and sheepish.
‘Morning, Marlow.’
‘Morning,’ he manages. Then he becomes mute again, watching me.
‘Last one in’s a crummy poop,’ Grace calls, flinging her wiry body into
the pool. She speeds towards her mother in the mistaken belief her brother
is following her.
‘What’s up, Marlow?’ I say.
‘Um, nothing.’ He looks up at me, then turns away. ‘My mom and dad
had a fight.’
‘Oh . . . oh, well, that happens. You wait, this time next week it will be
like it never happened.’
‘You think so?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s the way it is.’
‘Leon?’
‘Yes, Marlow?’
‘My mom says your mom died. Bryant told her. She says that’s why
you’re so mad.’
Grace has reached her mother and is waving at us, but I can’t hear what
she’s saying. Mrs Drexel swims on.
I shrug and say, ‘Watch this.’ I slip off my new shoes, walk to the edge
of the pool and dive in, swim underwater to the other end. I pass Mrs
Drexel’s humongous thighs ploughing through the water, her daughter’s
legs making little jabs, and the man still doing callisthenics. He says, ‘Big
lungs,’ when I surface in the shallow end, but I don’t say anything. I climb
out of the pool, my clothes sucking my skin, retrieve my shoes, head back
to the apartment.

Bryant’s on a half day at the nursing home, so he’s still asleep before the
afternoon shift begins. I change and walk to the Toyota for the journey
downtown.
 ‘Good work,’ Mr Ferreira says, as he checks on my cleaning. ‘Don’t
forget to remove the cones from the lobby when it’s dry.’
Brenda shuffles up with two smiling residents. ‘This is the young man I
was telling you about,’ she screeches. ‘From London, England, aren’t you?
Here to take care of us, aren’t you?’
I smile. ‘Hello, Brenda.’
She’s doing the swinging head movement, from the old man and woman
to me and back again. She looks as if she’s expecting a speech.
‘Are these your friends?’ I say, in order to break the awkwardness.
‘Who? These bozos? Who said we were friends?’ She walks off, still
rambling.
‘Was it something I said?’ I ask her still smiling companions.
‘Oh, no,’ the man says. ‘That’s just Brenda. You wait. She’ll be back.
Brenda’s busy, busy, busy.’
I see the old people move from one place to another, a few still in their
beds through choice or necessity. The weekend day manager is talking to
Mr Ferreira. She looks up at me and smiles when I remove the cones from
the lobby, but she doesn’t say anything.
When I’m done at the nursing home I fill up the car and drive east, just
following the signs: Lakeland, Kissimmee, Cocoa Beach. I don’t know
what I’ll do when I reach the coast. I don’t know what’s going to happen.
I’m thinking about different things: Stella in London; big Bryant doing
his best, trying to live a life; my exasperated father; Mrs Drexel and her
children. I’m trying not to think of the coast or beyond that: the next day,
the next week, the next whenever. The road ahead is clear and life seems
suddenly so open, and I feel tired. I rest my arms on the steering wheel for a
moment. I lay my head against my arms and close my eyes and try to think
of something that will make a difference. I hear the tyres roiling against the
road, and the roar of the wind through the windows. It sounds like the earth
careering through space. My mother used to say I made the ugliest child in
the world whenever I lied. I believed her, so I must have felt ugly quite
often. Thinking of this, remembering, makes me laugh. I lift up my head.
The road in front is clear and I’m still alive.
Next day I’m at the pool, same time, but no one’s there. I clean quickly and
tidy, then drive to the nursing home. Same thing happens the day after, and
for a nearly week I’m the only one at the pool apart from Mr Callisthenics
on Saturday morning.
Bryant and I go bowling at the weekend with Mona, the mystery
girlfriend. She’s a shade lighter than Bryant. Call it almond, call it fawn.
She could be Cuban, Puerto Rican or just mixed. I’d imagined someone
hideous, deranged, but she’s pretty, kind and she laughs a lot. Bryant has
altered in a way I find difficult to pinpoint. Like he’s lighter, physically,
more carefree.
In the Land Cruiser on the way to where Mona lives, I lie in the back
with my feet up, trying to visualize the journey, the streets.
Mona says, ‘So Leon, what plans do you have for when you get back?’
‘When I get back? Um. . . I don’t know. I could get a job or something. I
could go back to school. I’m thinking that’s what I might do. Take my A-
Levels, maybe go to university.’
‘That’s good,’ Bryant says. ‘You said it, not me, remember. I’m going to
remind you every week.’
They both get out of the vehicle and walk towards Mona’s apartment
building. I sit up and watch them talk for a while. Then Bryant reaches in to
kiss her, and misses her lips. They both have their eyes closed so contact
wasn’t guaranteed to happen, but they manage it the second attempt.
Bryant bounces back to the car, humming. ‘You want to sit up front?’ he
asks. But I stay in the back, lying down, talking to him, looking up at the
stars.

In the morning Mrs Drexel is back at the pool. ‘Did you miss me?’ she says.
‘No. Where did you go?’
‘Didn’t go anywhere. We were right here, honey.’ She waves a hand
towards the apartments. ‘My, it’s warm.’ She doesn’t say anything after
this, just sorts through her magazines and smiles, reaches down for her cup
of tea.
Another woman arrives, also in a towelling bathrobe, and walks to the
loungers diagonally opposite. Mrs Drexel waves, but the woman keeps
walking, sunglasses on, as if she has not seen us.
‘Mornin’!’ Mrs Drexel calls. She waves again.
‘Oh! . . . Oh, hi!’ The woman turns. ‘How ya doin’?’ It’s one of the
‘fighters’, the wife of Mr Callisthenics. Actually, I don’t know if they’re
married. She lifts her shades.
‘Doin’ good,’ Mrs Drexel replies. She too raises her sunglasses. There
is a small bruise on the side of her face, very close to the eye. ‘Hot, though.
Darn hot!’
The woman nods and smiles to herself and carries on to claim a lounger.
Mrs Drexel arches her eyebrows. ‘Life is like that,’ she says. ‘You have to
make the effort sometimes.’ She gets up to swim and I carry on cleaning.
When I reach Mrs Callisthenics on the other side, I slow down so as not
to disturb her. Her eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses and I don’t know
whether she’s watching. Unlike Mrs Drexel, she keeps her bathrobe on. Her
hands rest on her slim, hidden stomach. I push the scissored mop across the
concrete by her feet and move along, but she says, ‘Oh, you can clean under
here. It’s dirty.’ She pauses, perhaps to think about what she has said, then
adds, ‘Those kids at night – you’d think they could pick up after
themselves.’
By the time I’m back at the beginning, Mrs Drexel has finished her
swim and is thumbing through a magazine. I realise I will be late for the
nursing home.
I say, ‘I can’t see Mr Ferreira angry somehow. He’s more under the
surface, you know? He won’t say anything for ages, then “boom” – he’ll
start complaining about something minor that has nothing to do with it.
Deviant.’
‘I know the type,’ Mrs Drexel says. ‘You don’t mean devious, do you?’
‘That’s what I said.’ I’m going to tell her about after the nursing home.
About how I’m driving the car back to where I found it. No scratches,
nothing taken. I won’t mention the dog. I’ll take the bus back here. I’ll tell
Bryant I’d like to go back, could he talk to our father, say that I was well
behaved?
I’d like to return to school. I miss Stella. It’s easy to talk to her, Mrs Drexel.
Easy to tell her things.
There’s a scream from the pool and when we look, Mrs Callisthenics is
attacking the water. ‘A frog! There’s a fucking frog in here!’ she shrieks.
I smile and Mrs Drexel says, ‘Oh, honey,’ and then gives out her sea-
lion laugh.
I fetch the net and scoop up the frog, which is floating upside down.
Mrs Callisthenics watches me closely to make sure I’m doing my job.
‘There could be more of them in there, did you check?’ She’s clutching
her bathrobe at the neck, kneeling on the concrete, peering into the pool.
‘There’s nothing there. But I’ll do another sweep if you like.’ I roll my
eyes, sift the entire pool again. When I’ve finished I call, ‘It’s frog free. It’s
clean,’ and Mrs Callisthenics waves from the safety of her lounger. She is
not going to swim today. It will be days or weeks.
‘Have a good day, Mrs D,’ I call after I’ve put away the net. I look at
her for a moment, asleep on the lounger. Her magazine has fallen to the
floor knocking over her beaker of tea. I look at the other woman across the
pool. She raises her sunglasses and peers at Mrs Drexel. Neither of us
moves.
In twenty minutes from now there will be an ambulance, neighbours
watching from their balconies. There will be a race to the hospital, but it
will be too late. I thought she laughed. Maybe it wasn’t a laugh. More a
gasp or a cry for air, for help, for the pain in her body.
It’s Marlow and Grace I think of. The confusion, the sudden loss. When
they are twelve or eighteen, even forty-one, they will stop whatever they are
doing. They will be in a quiet place and they will ask, ‘Am I doing okay,
Mom?’ But there will be no reply, no knowing for them. But they will ask
this nonetheless, relentlessly.

The car goes back and I intend to take the bus, but I end up walking all the
way to the apartment. My clothes are damp with sweat and I’m weak from
the heat and humidity. One day I will miss all this: Bryant, the pool, the
escape into air-conditioning, the long roads, driving to who knows where.
 Bryant and Mona drive me to the airport and I’m amazed at how
familiar everything has become, now that I’m leaving.
Bryant says, ‘You’re a good kid, Leon. Remember that. You come visit
whenever you want. You get to college, you phone me. No postcard, okay?’
I promise. I have no idea whether Mrs Drexel told him about what I was
doing. It doesn’t matter now anyway.
On the plane I think of nothing. I sleep and eat and watch snippets of
Out of Sight. Years from now I will write a letter. I will say, I often think of
our conversations in the mornings, with fondness. I couldn’t tell you how
happy they made me, those moments by the pool. But I won’t post it; who
would I send it to? I’ll write it, then throw it away.
It’s overcast in London. There is no heat. The airport seems
overwhelmed with arriving flights, and I put down my bags to rest. There is
no one there. No one I recognise. I had been hoping for something familiar,
something solid. The tannoy booms, ‘Passenger Lefebvre, recently arrived
from Montreal, please contact the information desk.’
Montreal, I think. I like the sound of that. It sounds like a new place to
visit. I pick up my bags and the suitcase, and when I straighten up she’s
there, smiling. Stella.
 THE WINE GUITAR

stairs, two at a time, to meet the woman he had paid for.

H
E TOOK THE
The muscles strained as he moved. Once he thought he might fall, but
he held on to the rail. He glimpsed a flash of canary yellow on the
landing and the skin beneath the cloth and lost his focus and tripped on the
final step.
‘Blimey!’ the woman in yellow called to her colleague. ‘Damaged
goods coming yer way.’ Her laugh was throaty and wild, but it was not
malicious.
The old man rubbed his shin where he had fallen. He brushed away dust
from the front of the black suit that had carried him through weddings and
funerals and the times when he had sung in front of audiences of hundreds.
He no longer sang now; he played the palm-wine guitar because his voice
was thin and cracked. Sometimes he sang quietly to himself in his room as
he practised the instrument.
The canary tittered once more as he made his way towards the room,
but he ignored her. Up close, under the weak landing light, the skin around
her eyes was puffy. A greasy sheen on her face made her seem unwell or
tired. He was glad he had chosen already. He came to the door, but before
he entered, she reached out to his shoulder.
‘It’s Mary, love,’ she said, even as he was drawing away. ‘For next time.
Don’t keep ignoring me for Agnes.’ She gave a brittle smile and it seemed
to him he had misjudged her.
He saw Agnes sitting on the edge of the bed, reading a letter, the raven
hair falling onto the page. Her mouth moved as she focused on the paper,
but she did not make a sound. He took in the room – the thick crimson
carpet, the dusty net curtains, the armchair with the coat slung across, the
double bed that sighed and squeaked. She looked up at him suddenly, as if
she could not imagine what he was doing there. He realised she had been
completely absorbed in what she’d been reading. He thought he saw tears in
her eyes.
‘It’s you again,’ she smiled and dabbed her face with the palm of her
hand. She folded the letter four times, tucked it into one of the coat pockets.
She patted the bed for him to sit next to her. When they were side by side
she noticed he was panting from his journey up the stairs.
‘Don’t listen to Mary,’ she said. ‘She talks too much. She doesn’t mean
anything by it.’ She didn’t seem to hear her own words as she spoke them.
Her eyes kept straying to the coat.
He wondered what she was thinking, what news the letter contained,
whether Mary was still standing by the door, listening. Snickering. ‘Is it all
right today, for this?’ he asked. He touched the edge of the bed between
them, squeezed gently.
‘For what? Oh, for that,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’ She
rose and removed her slip and stood unabashed before him.
His eyes travelled from the bare feet, across the soft flesh to the young
face and the eyes that were almost Oriental. He did not know where she was
from, only that she was young and he was old. They seldom spoke. As his
eyes danced over her body, his mind wandered back to how he had spent
the day. The struggle. It was evening now, the time when he came alive, but
for him the day was a dry well he could not fill. He thought about the next
day, where he would go, what he might do, how he could stretch a task so
the time would not seem so infinite. He was grateful the woman did not
fidget as he gazed at her. She was used to him now. She could drift into her
own reveries. He liked her face, the contemplative eyes, because she did not
seem bored by him. He could never guess what she was thinking.
After a while she reached for the slip and pulled it over her head in one
movement. ‘It’s time,’ she said. She smiled so he would not be too
disappointed. Sometimes she allowed him another few minutes because he
was gentle and he never made demands, but today she had seen the letter
and now she wanted to be alone.
Outside, the other woman, Mary, smoked a cigarette as she leaned
against the wall. When he emerged, she glanced at him, but she did not
speak. He only nodded to her as he passed. He held the rail as he
descended, taking one slow step at a time. At the last moment she stubbed
out her cigarette and went to the edge of the landing to watch him. ‘Mind
the stairs, love,’ she cooed. ‘You don’t want to fall.’ She laughed quietly,
but the old man did not hear.

There was a restaurant in Tooting he frequented nearly every day – Mama

Yinka – where he ate his dinner or had the food sealed in plastic containers
to eat later. The lighting was poor, the tables wobbled, the taped music
scratched in its monotony. He sat at his usual table to be away from the
traffic of other customers and the constant to and fro of the kitchen. It was
often noisy – he did not eat there at weekends – and it was some distance
from where he lived. But he found himself drawn there despite the
shabbiness, despite Mama Yinka’s squawking and the irritating tapes. He
found he could not help himself; the foods he had learned to love no longer
gave him pleasure. He who had once tasted every single dish on the menu
in an Indian restaurant. Or his long affair with Mexican food, with Italian
and Thai, his family’s obsession with dim sum. The hunger now was for the
food of his youth, all sophistication and learned habits washed away. He
could eat only akara and bitter-leaf stew, eba and egusi, the okro soup his
mother had made. Mama Yinka would fetch him a copy of the Vanguard or
the Tribune to read while he waited for his meal. He could not focus on the
tiny print under the dim lights, but he scanned the headlines and gazed at
the pictures and found it satisfying.

In the evening he went to the club where they played music as the young
ones danced. Sometimes it was Latin American, sometimes Congolese or
highlife – the music he had loved as a young man. Every night he stood at
the back of the hall in Covent Garden with his old friend Salbatore as they
watched people trickle into the room. Around one o’clock the place would
be packed with revellers. He stayed at the back with his guitar close to
hand; they would call him to join them sometimes – the old man and his
wine guitar, Salbatore with his honeyed voice. Usually he was not needed,
but he was content to remain there, sipping pineapple juice, listening to the
music.
 ‘Why do they play like this?’ Salbatore shouted in the old man’s ear.
‘Who can dance to this music when it’s so damn fast?’ His face was a rind
of lemon forgotten in the afternoon sun. Desiccated. Wrinkled. Sour. He
touched his palm to his forehead for a moment and shrieked, ‘It’s too loud.
Why must they play the music so damn loud? It will make us all deaf!’
‘I am deaf already!’ the old man shouted back.
Salbatore shrugged and looked at the dancers, at the musicians on stage.
He adjusted his tie and reached out to hold his saxophone, for luck, and
then released it. He was certain they would play tonight.
A woman from behind the bar approached them with two drinks: a
pineapple juice, a Red Snapper, and a bowl of pistachio nuts.
‘Compliments.’ She turned and pointed with her chin towards a man behind
the bar.
‘You are very kind,’ the old man said. He raised his glass to the barman
who was smiling at them.
‘The other one, he never gives us anything,’ Salbatore said to the
woman. ‘I dread it when I arrive, when I see the miser’s face. I know I’m in
for a dry night then. You tell this one, Salbatore says salud. We’ll play you
a tune if they allow us on stage.’
The woman laughed and returned to the bar as the two men sipped their
drinks. It was a good night, a good omen. The old man thought he might
play his guitar after all.
He remembered his courting days, he and his wife, the first time he had
taken her to a dance. He held her close so he could smell her scent, and
when the pace of the music changed, he flung and twisted her, but he would
not let go. He remembered her words at one point: ‘A man who cannot
dance!’ and then her giggle. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ But she had
been delirious in her happiness – they both had – and they did not notice
each other’s faults then; they saw them only as endearments.
One of the musicians approached the edge of the stage and chanted,
‘Olha que belo!, Olha que belo!’ again and again. The crowd provided the
echo until they became one voice and it seemed they were all related in
some way; the backing singer the sister of the man in the plaid shirt who
was moving with such vigour in the centre of the dance hall; the sweat-
soaked drummer the father of the rowdy students at the front. The old man
wondered about his own children, whether this was a place they might
come to relax. He thought not. They were too serious, too determined for
this kind of revelry. He could not imagine them, not one of them, able to let
go.
When she turned, he could see her plainly. Agnes. The Oriental eyes
had widened with make-up and the long hair was coiled like a Danish
pastry at the crown of her head. He could feel the vitality of the evening
draining away from him. His heartbeat quickened. He wanted to be away
from there, or for her to be away so he could play the guitar in peace. He
was sure they would call him tonight and he did not want to miss the
opportunity.
Agnes danced with a man who looked no older than thirty, and when
she turned he held her hips from behind as she quivered and waved her
arms in the air. She turned again and pouted, making a serious face, before
breaking into laughter. She held the man against her, tight, and they moved
gently for a while until the music changed. The old man watched with
fascination. He could not reconcile this wild creature with the placid
woman in the brothel, the letter in her hand, the tears. He shelled a pistachio
and threw it into his mouth.
‘You’re an old dog, Kayode,’ Salbatore jeered. ‘Push your eyes back
into your ancient head. She’s too young for the likes of me and you. She’s
lovely all right, I’ll say that.’
‘It’s getting late.’ The old man glanced at his watch, irritated. ‘If they
don’t break soon, there’s no way we have a chance tonight. We may as well
pack up and go home.’
‘What!’ his friend shouted. ‘On such a night, with the drinks flowing
free and this atmosphere? Go home and do what – face my wife? We’re not
going anywhere.’ He had forgotten his complaint about the decibels. The
alcohol affected him easily and he swayed his old body and tapped his
white plimsolls together in his merriness.
‘I’m thirsty again,’ the old man said.
They both looked towards the bar which was surrounded by a mass of
bodies.
 ‘They’ve forgotten us already,’ Salbatore complained. ‘You speak some
words of thanks and kindness and they think you’re soft. We shouldn’t have
said anything. We should have told her to refresh our glasses every half
hour. Now we’ve lost our chance.’
‘Every hour,’ the old man said.
‘Eh? . . . Yes, every hour,’ Salbatore agreed. ‘I must think of my wife.’
The two men left their instruments in the roped-off area and shuffled
towards the bar, hoping to catch the eye of the barman, or the woman who
had earlier brought their drinks. When they reached the counter, they were
served by another staff member. The others were too busy to attend to them.
‘It’s on the house, ask your manager,’ Salbatore argued, but it was too
hectic for the barman to make sense of what was being said and he only
held out his palm and repeated the price.
‘We’ll ask tomorrow,’ the old man said. ‘We’ll get here early and pull
his ear so he won’t forget us again.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Salbatore said. ‘Too many people, too much noise
now.’ They both knew they would not ask tomorrow or the day after that or
the next year. They were afraid, secretly, of what others thought of them –
two old men – the bar staff, the musicians, the young ones who drifted
through the door. Sometimes they heard laughter at their retreating forms.
Often it was easier to make false plans than to concede defeat.
The old man paid for the drinks and turned and there she was. Agnes.
For a moment he could not hear the music or the sound of his friend’s
relentless chatter. Her face moved from glee to puzzlement, to recognition
and a polite smile.
‘It’s you,’ she said, ‘Hello.’ She touched her hair and dried her forehead
with a handkerchief and held her dancing partner by the elbow. She seemed
no more than a girl.
The old man did not speak. Salbatore looked from the woman to his
friend and back again, and for once, he too was quiet.
‘Graham, this is Graham,’ the woman said. ‘I’m sorry, I
don’t know your name?’
 ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Her partner proffered a hand, which was shaken,
but still no words issued from the old man. There was a moment when no
one said anything. Even the merengue seemed subdued.
‘Kayode,’ Salbatore said. ‘That’s his name. He forgets to speak
sometimes. I am Salbatore. Salbatore Gutierrez. Musician, singer,
entrepreneur.’ He retrieved a tattered business card from his shirt pocket.
The old man slapped his friend’s hand. ‘Kayode,’ he echoed. He
reached out to greet the couple.
‘Palm-wine guitarist,’ Salbatore added. ‘You didn’t give your full title.’
The old man gave his friend a look and said, ‘We are to play some
music very soon. You must excuse us while we prepare.’
‘No? You up there on the stage? Really?’ the woman shrilled. ‘This is
our first time here. I can’t wait to hear you.’
The old man held his chest and grimaced.
‘Triffic,’ Graham said. ‘Musicians. Can I get you a drink or . . . ?’
The old man indicated their full glasses and then began to edge away.
‘We’ll be watching!’ the woman called after them.
It seemed here, under the lights with the music throbbing, a sea of youth
everywhere, that she was very young, this Agnes. The old man could not
get the childish shrieking out of his head.
‘She’s nice, your friend,’ Salbatore said. ‘Both of them. She didn’t give
her name, though.’
The old man grunted and stopped and looked back at the couple as they
waited to be served at the bar.
‘What is her name?’ Salbatore persisted. ‘You know, you’re in a funny
mood tonight.’
‘I don’t know . . . Agnes . . . Something like that,’ the old man replied.
He could hear the sudden silence of the stage as the band paused for the
intermission. He had a great fear of performing now and he wanted only to
leave.
‘Hey, hey – they might call us any minute,’ Salbatore said. He took a sip
of the Red Snapper and placed it on the floor next to his saxophone.
 They braced themselves as the hall manager moved in their direction,
but they did not look at him for fear of seeming too eager.
‘Kayo, Sal – you’re ready to go on? No sax tonight. Short set. Fifteen,
twenty minutes, eh?’
‘Of course, Mike,’ Salbatore said as he reached again for his drink.
The old man faced straight ahead, his eyes barely taking in the
commotion. ‘Actually . . . Actually, it’s not possible,’ he started. ‘The
arthritis – it’s troubling me again.’
‘Arthritis! What arthritis?’ Salbatore asked.
‘It’s not possible tonight, Mike. I’m sorry.’
‘No problem, guys,’ the manager said. ‘I’ll get Robbie to mix a few
tracks.’
‘What arthritis?’ Salbatore repeated. He wanted to call Mike back, to
explain that they had changed their minds, but Mike was already moving
off in the thick of the crowd.
The old man shrugged and held out his hands, which did not shake.
They seemed supple enough to his friend. Salbatore looked from the hands
to his friend’s face, to the welling in his eyes, and he was more confused
than ever.
‘Well . . . who needs to play tonight anyway. There’s always another
time,’ Salbatore said. He was quiet for a while as he thought of what he
could say. ‘Mike will probably ask us to play tomorrow. That’s right. I’m
sure he’ll ask us tomorrow.’ They both knew they were old and they were
rarely asked, but he said it, regardless. He placed a hand on his friend’s
shoulder, but the old man did not seem to notice.
His wife had returned to the place where they had both been born; he
had not followed her even though she had asked him. He felt he had been
too long now in another man’s country; he had forgotten so much about
himself, about the past. He was too stubborn and sometimes it seemed to
him he had tried at life and failed, or had been carried along a road whose
destination was not his own. ‘You know, Sal,’ he said. ‘It’s time for this old
dog to go to bed.’
 Salbatore looked at him. It was scarcely midnight, still early for them,
but he did not put up an argument. ‘My wife will be suspicious, me coming
back so soon,’ he said, but really he looked forward to being with her, as he
always did. ‘She’ll be like this with the questions – tat, tat, tat.’ He fired an
imaginary machine gun.
The old man snorted and picked up his guitar. Salbatore drained the
contents of his glass and hurried after his friend. Usually they talked as they
made their way to the bus stop, but Salbatore’s efforts to engage his friend
were futile and he gave up after a while. They wrapped their scarves tight
around themselves, and noticed the cold more because they were silent. The
young ones chatted and drank from cans and bottles and occasionally
peered at the old men, but they were used to that. When his bus approached
Salbatore asked, ‘That girl, tonight – was it the girl?’
The old man shrugged and finally smiled. ‘Salbatore, you will live long
my friend. The bus will leave you behind if you don’t hurry. Go on now.’
As he waited for his own bus, more people arrived, most of them young and
boisterous and, it seemed to him, very happy. He thought of his children
who no longer visited him – only spoke to their mother in the other country.
He had provided well for them and now their lives had moved beyond his
expectations: an architect, a physician, a solicitor. But they did not love
him, the girl and her two brothers. He had been remiss, stern, too often
antagonistic towards their mother, and now they had chosen sides.
Everything, he felt, was gradually being stripped away from him: his
family, his voice, his years.
He watched Salbatore struggle to find a place as the bus moved away;
the young ones were reluctant to give up their seats. He had let his old
friend down. It seemed to be his speciality: his wife, the children, those who
had once relied on him. He stamped his feet on the pavement, against the
cold.
When it was crowded at Mama Yinka’s he was forced to share his table
with another diner, and he would eat quickly and depart. Usually he liked to
linger, listening to the sounds of conversation, the language and laughter,
the occasional drama. He was able to forget his discontent. It was not so
easy to be alone and old, to look back at one’s life and taste disappointment.
 He rested the guitar at the end of his bed and moved to the kitchen
which was part of the same room. He placed the iyan and the egusi in the
microwave for five minutes and watched the food rotate until it was warm.
The pounded yam resembled the steam buns they had loved in Chinese
restaurants, he and his children. The aroma of the soup filled the little room.
He closed his eyes and savoured it and felt he was home. He thought of his
wife, and his sons and his daughter. He thought he would write or phone or
visit one of the children. Probably a letter. He would try to make a
connection. He sat on the edge of the bed with the photograph of his wife
beside him, and then he began to eat.
 ARITHMETIC

people in this carriage are lovers. One has lost the will to
T
WO OF THE
live. I can see her in the reflection opposite, mouth slightly open, jaw
slack. The other one, the man staring back at me, sits beside her turning
her hand over and over. Fingers weaving between fingers. Human worry
beads. Her name is Alicia, the woman in the reflection. Alicia Ajayi is my
wife.
A young woman is sitting almost opposite me, lost in a fashion
magazine. There is a man next to her, cross-legged, his lips, his face pursed,
wary-eyed, his body escaping into itself. Pinched. Imploding. That is the
kind of man he is. The kind of man he seems to me to be.
At the other end of the carriage two children are playing under the silent
gaze of their mother, straying a little away from their seats. One of them is
not so old. I cannot tell the sex from here, but it looks as if not so long ago
he or she could only crawl.
Alicia is sighing. Again, again. She is not a sigher; she is a woman who
likes to laugh. I squeeze her worry beads once more and she turns to me and
smiles. It is not a smile I am accustomed to. It is only there to reassure me.
At the next station – Green Park – the doors open abruptly, noisily, and
people exchange places with one another, some alighting, some stepping on,
sitting in their predecessors’ seats. The two children have moved further
away from their mother who isn’t paying attention to them now. I am
always worried about separation; people not making it to the doors in time,
watching their companions disappear as the train starts to pull away. That
could happen to either of the children, the little one perhaps. He or she
might just step off. The doors might close. There would be panic, hysteria,
the mother not knowing what to do. Someone, though it would not be me,
would pull the emergency chain. Someone quick thinking and self-assured.
Still, there would be those awful moments. The lost child. The separation.
The worry of abduction, tumbling headlong onto the rails. How would it
feel, to lose a child that way? Watching it move towards the open doors.
The doors closing, pincer-like. The train pulling you away. There would be
nothing you could do except worry, feel distraught. Devastated.
Devastador, as they say where my wife comes from.
We have lost a child, a baby, a life form. A kind of life not fully formed.
It is easier to think of it that way. Something undeveloped. Otherwise it
would make things unbearable. The truth would be that much more difficult
to take. Malparto, she whispered to her mother on the telephone. She cried
until I took the handset from her. This is the third time it has happened. I do
not see the fairness in that. I always thought life was equitable. That it
balanced itself like scales. One thing taking away from another, adding to
the other. Subtraction and gain. This time there has been too much
subtraction, no gain, and I have discounted that idea.
The first time there was brief disappointment, but Alicia took it well.
She convinced herself it was meant to happen. We both did. The child
would not have been complete other-wise; it was nature’s way of striving
for perfection. People say losing a child early on is God’s way of telling us
things weren’t meant to be. But I don’t know. We’ll try again, we agreed
after the second time. She’s strong, Alicia. I have always admired her for
that. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I married her. For her sense of place,
her sureness in the world. The opposite of me.
Across the way, a young man wearing a shabby sheepskin coat is
talking. There is no one beside him, but he is talking nonetheless. Not
nonsense, but I would rather not have to listen. I do not feel it’s right to hear
about his inner world this way.
I keep expecting, hoping even, for Alicia to smack my hand away. To
turn on me angrily. To explode. I think I would even like that. I need some
kind of reaction from her to let me know she is all right, that she is fighting.
Instead, she lets me finger her fingers. Turn her hand one way, then the
other. Kneading her worry beads.
I have tried to live an ordinary life, but each time something had to give.
Gave way. All the bones in my body working against each other. Rebelling.
Nothing in confluence. Everything about me was at war. Alicia once said to
me: ‘You know, you’re not a typical man,’ and I tried to take it as a
compliment, but from the way she said it, I knew I was supposed to feel
shame.
There was a time when we used to fight: arguments, skirmishes about
nothing in particular. A missed appointment, tardiness, insensitivity, that
kind of thing. I have always enjoyed quarrelling, fighting. It gives me a
kind of thrill. Perhaps there was a part of me that encouraged these
altercations. I think, perhaps, it was also a way of working things out,
thinking things through. Aloud. It was a way of seeing the other person.
Getting to know you time. We were much younger then. Beyond the
romance, the politeness, the endless sex – life was much more than any of
those things. All that addition, all that gain. There was unpleasantness, pain
and ugliness. Perhaps we needed to view all these things in context to
understand where we were in our lives. What we were doing. Perhaps we
were terrified.
We haven’t fought in a long time now. Things have settled over the
years into a calm and routine I find agreeable. Not like the beginning when
we were both raw, still learning. Not that we’re not learning now, but
everything was much newer then. Now when things occur, it tends not to
take us so much by surprise. It fails to unnerve us. Except this.
I mentioned there was endless sex. I felt guilty about that, the idea it
was endless. It couldn’t have been, of course, but it seemed that way to me
in the beginning. It wasn’t something I was used to, but even so, at times it
seemed excessive, to experience pleasure that way. I never asked Alicia
about her life before me. How many men she might have known. Whether
they had given her pleasure and if so, was it very different, was it often? It
wasn’t something someone like me could have asked, even though I have
often wondered. I think things are better left that way; unsaid. Curiosity can
be vengeful. But in the beginning, it was new for me and frenzied.
Something sweet and forbidden.
The first time it happened there had been an interruption. A telephone
call. I was relieved, I must admit. Afterwards, I did not want to continue.
The second time we attempted to make love there were no interruptions. It
was not an easy time for me. I was full of insecurity. How long should it
last, how often, was she experiencing pleasure or was the expression on her
face simply a mask of indifference? Perhaps she was thinking of someone
else. I must have been working too hard. That might have shown on my
face.
Now there is no longer any anxiety, no shame. We are easy with each
other. We might be watching television in the lounge. I’m not that keen on
television; my concentration is not strong. Sometimes it hurts to look at the
screen. Occasionally my hands will roam from room to room. Wander from
the kitchen out into the hall. Scamper up the banisters into the bedroom,
panting. Sometimes she will turn to me and say, Not now. No house-hunting
tonight. I’m watching something here, can’t you see? I’m tired. Perhaps I’ll
sigh, because I’m also tired, but I’ve got myself worked up. Sometimes
she’ll feel like house-hunting too and we’ll explore our rooms together with
the cast of a movie watching on. I am never the one to say no.
After the second time, it became easier, even something of an obsession
for me. I think some sort of barrier had been broken. I became, I think, a
kind of philanderer; the desire to perform again and again was all-
consuming. I wanted to experience bliss. Perhaps I was making up for lost
moments, lost pleasures.
But that first time we made love properly was not pleasurable. It was
like work, arithmetic. Calculations needed to be made. I wanted to get
everything right, just so. I must have been high strung. When it was over,
we lay side by side on the bed. I could hear Alicia breathing: heavy, steady,
confident. But above that I could hear my own breath: erratic, convulsive
almost. I lay there feeling pleased, accomplished. I had produced
satisfactory work. There was silence. Laboured breathing. Then she turned
to me and said, ‘You’ve never been with a woman before, have you?’ It
wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact. And it was true. I had not.
She did not say it in a way that was designed to make me feel shame or
indignation. She said it simply, straight out, without hesitation. I felt
crushed and immediately anxious then. I forced myself to return her look.
No, I replied, but I added nothing to it. There was nothing I could say in
order to explain myself; how had I arrived at the age of twenty-seven
without knowing a woman intimately. There was the silence and the sound
of our breathing again. My heart beat rapidly. I did not turn away. She only
smiled and I held a hand to one side of her face. It was not a good moment
for me. Perhaps she felt the same way.
From the look on Alicia’s face, what she was reading from mine, she
may have thought I could only have slept with men. That I had deceived her
in some way and the panic of such a revelation was what lay written across
my face. But I preferred her to believe that rather than what was actually
troubling me. I could never have told her that.
I was thinking of a time when I was seven. We lived in a large house,
my parents and I. A house with too many rooms, places to lose yourself. It
felt cold, it had no soul to it, and parts of it frightened me. My mother had
travelled to be with her eldest sister in Minna who was ill. I can’t remember
for how long she was away. It could not have been more than two weeks.
I was on my own for much of the time. My father worked long hours,
and the period between the end of school and the time he returned from the
city was hard for me. He allowed no one to enter the house when he was
away, so often I played with our neighbour’s children across the fence.
Sometimes they were out, or one of them was in a poor mood. Often they
bored me or I quarrelled with them, so I remained at home, idled the time
away. My mother’s absence seemed like an eternity.
My parents had a house girl called Jumoke. She was young, perhaps
sixteen or seventeen, and she cleaned the large house, washed our clothes.
She helped to prepare the dinner sometimes even though there was someone
else who did that.
My father never spoke to her. It was as though she were not there. As
though dust vanished from the cool tiled floor, soiled clothes were
miraculously cleaned, curtains drew themselves at the beginning and at the
end of the day. He stepped around her, rarely mentioned her name. To him,
it seemed, she was invisible. She was my mother’s responsibility.
My father was a businessman. He loved finance and figures. That’s
what moved him. He loved making deals. Multiplication and addition.
Never the other way round; division, anything that deducted from life. He
hated money, though. The sight of it repulsed him. All that cold metal, those
grim paper bills. It was my mother who paid Jumoke at the end of the
month. She paid the cook, bought the groceries, reached into her bag
whenever I glimpsed something that pleased me, that I thought I ought to
have. He was not a cold man, but rather there was something ruthless about
him. There were certain things he was unable to tolerate: indolence,
indecisiveness. Stupidity was high on the list. To him they were all one and
the same. I think he looked at Jumoke the way some people look at
vagrants; they do not exist if you do not focus on them. Blur your vision. To
my father, Jumoke was without thought or substance, past or future, and her
presence was ignored. She was like something in the road – huddled and
shivering – you had to step around.
Jumoke was my closest ally. It wasn’t her choice; we simply moved in
the same vicinity for much of the day. Sometimes I would not leave her
alone.
She hated my father. She never came right out and said so. Her thoughts
arrived by way of innuendo, point of reference, code. How his clothes were
always the dirtiest, how she loathed to clean his bath, shine his sweat-soiled
shoes. Her tirade was never-ending. She despised him to such an extent I
was constantly afraid something would happen. She might poison his food,
smuggle a snake into his shoe. She might practise juju in the dead of night.
By morning he would be dead, or dying. But that never happened; it was
my job to protect him and to pacify her.
She left of her own accord one day before we moved to another country.
She gave no indication of this. She simply went and never came back. What
did happen, though, I do not think I have ever attempted to understand. I
was thinking about it that time Alicia and I made love. I am thinking about
it now.

The man two or three seats away from us is still talking. It’s a disconcerting
experience to listen in on a conversation going on in someone else’s head.
People are throwing him furtive glances, but he is totally absorbed in his
own world. ‘Stop telling me to calm down,’ he is blustering. There are
flecks of saliva on the edge of his lips. Perhaps he is somewhere else, not on
this train, and he can see someone he used to know. He might not realise he
is on the London Underground. Could that happen to a person? Could he
lose himself like that?
 I give Alicia’s hand a soft pump. I turn to her and smile. She smiles too.
Two more stops, she says. I want her to notice the jabbering young man, the
way everyone else has. But she is quiet again. She is by herself. It is not
important to her now.
‘Don’t let the bureaucrats get you!’ the young man is raving.
I think, No one is going to get you from the place you are in.

My father took me to his office one morning when there was no school. We
cruised through the quiet neighbourhood and then within minutes
everything changed. Cars crawled across the horizon. There was the sound
of hooting everywhere. I thought this would have angered my father, not
being able to travel unhindered. But he seemed relaxed, resigned. I guessed
he was used to it. We wound the windows down, but still there was no
breeze. Every so often a vendor would approach, push his or her wares
through the window, insistent. I was too languid to react. My father paid
them no attention. The vendor would eventually move on.
We crept forward a few metres and stopped. A vendor selling
newspapers ambled between the cars. I concentrated on his approach. I
could tell he was making his way towards us. He chose to come to my
window. Perspiration gathered down the sides of his face, his chest, his
stomach, into the cavity of his belly button. He was glistening. I felt his
presence, his bulk push through the window even though he did not lean
inside. I was afraid to move.
‘Daily Times!’ he clamoured. And then to my father, ‘Oga, Daily
Times.’ He stood there for a moment, then my father made a movement and
the vendor was separating a newspaper from his stack, handing it to me. My
father passed me some coins from the glove compartment. I gave them to
the vendor, concentrating on not letting them fall. Then he moved off,
resumed his chanting. ‘Daily Times!’ Over and over again.
When we reached the intersection, everything began to loosen up, cars
separated in all directions. We sailed across the flyover, the sparkling
lagoon serene on one side, the steaming confusion of the city on the other.
It was cool in my father’s office, but dull. After I had finished my
homework, I searched for something else to do. I did not know the other
people in the building. I had never been there before. Occasionally someone
brushed a hand over my head. A woman took me to sit by her desk for a
long stretch in the afternoon. I don’t know why she did that. Perhaps my
father asked her to. I much preferred his office. I could look out at the
lagoon from there. But I do not think he wanted me there. Perhaps I
disturbed his concentration, his focus. It would probably have been that. I
wondered when my mother would return, why she was taking so long at my
aunt’s. I wanted life to resume its familiar pattern.
During that period Jumoke would sometimes come out with a startling
phrase. ‘Aunty is dead!’ or ‘There was moto accident!’ she would exclaim,
referring to my mother. ‘She neva coming back. Baba getting a new wife.
She black, black from jujuland!’
No, I would howl, half believing her. After a moment her face would
crack into a terrible grin and I would know everything was all right.
After school several days a week my father would assist me with my
homework. He would invent additional work himself. I grew not to
appreciate this. He liked to sit me down. Tell me one and one is two. Two
and two is four, and then leap to some unknowable figures, complex
equations. He would wait expectantly. I would feel myself begin to panic. I
would seldom get the answer right. Things would persist in this vein for a
long while. I think it was something he must have enjoyed. Perhaps he was
thinking of other things at the time. Reaching into his mind for figures he
had used during the day in the office. Perhaps it gave him a kind of thrill to
retrieve them back at home. He may have been trying to instil in me the
values of his own craft. He never asked the simple questions and it was
always a struggle for me. He wore a hard face then.
People think that about me sometimes, that I am a hard man. I have a
way about me that some might describe as cold, insensitive. I don’t mind
though, what people think.
At the hospital, the nurse, the doctor seemed more upset than I was. I
comforted Alicia. I tried, but I did not show pain. Perhaps I was not tender.
The nurse, the way she looked at me, I could tell what was galloping
through her mind. She must have been thinking that I was elsewhere,
dreaming of currency and figures, of work. That what was happening in the
hospital, that smothering room, had very little to do with me, my life. She
must have thought I would have made a bad father, that I was a poor
husband. Her narrowed eyes, her frugal expression, her gait, all told me
that.
I have never understood how people live their lives, as though it were
all by instinct. The formula for tenderness, the desire to move from here to
there, the will to go on day after day. Where does that come from? I have
never understood the instinctual drive. Life must always have confounded
me. I do not think I have ever really learned from the past: the last year, the
last month, the last minute. Each day has seemed like a new beginning in
which to learn everything all over again. Like feeling one’s way in the dark
in an unfamiliar house. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments all lying in
wait, in ambush. One learns where everything is. And then the next day,
there is a different house, in a different location. Everything has changed.
That’s the way life sometimes appears to be. To me. An unfamiliar house.
One day, during the period my mother was away attending to her sister,
my father and I were at the long table in the dining room. There were
school books neatly arranged. My father was at the head of the table while I
sat to one side, my face a maze of creases. He was watching me then. The
figures made no sense. He must have known I was getting it all wrong, but
even so, he sat there. Mute. At the end of the exercise he slid the sheet of
paper away from me. Very quickly, almost indifferently, he ran his ink pen
down the page as if drawing a line, making small delicate crosses. Very
rarely did he decelerate in order to make a tick. It was elegant, though, the
way he did this. It was almost a pleasure to watch. I thought, one day I too
would like to snake my hand down another person’s page making random
tiny crosses, making that person feel inept. All wrong, he said, pushing the
paper towards me. I did not mention the few that had been correct. Again,
he said quietly. Do it all again.
The way he was then, with his quiet voice, did not fool me for an
instant. I knew that underneath the elegant strokes, the calm, there was a
controlled anger. I would even call it rage. I could feel this as acutely as if
he had actually been shouting, beating his fists on the table, making his eyes
stream in frustration. So when he said his ‘agains’ I did not hesitate. I made
no sound, no complaint. I applied myself to the task.
 On this particular day something happened. In the middle of an
exercise, I looked up to find Jumoke standing there. She wore a look of
urgency. She was trying to convey some news to my father.
‘Sah,’ she said. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other.
My father was staring at me. He was waiting for the correct figures. He
did not look up. There was a silence and then a tension because he had still
not acknowledged her. I glanced at Jumoke, then lowered my eyes to the
page. I could not concentrate. I could feel all the wrong numbers seeping
painfully onto the paper. Then, quite suddenly, without looking up, he said
to her, ‘Leave us!’ I could hear the sheer force of the sibilant, the sting and
smart of it, singing in the air.
The next day Jumoke went about her duties quickly, methodically,
ignoring me. I knew better than to pester her. I realised she had been
wronged. When I returned from school the day after that she was in another
mood entirely. She smiled at me for no reason. She skipped about the
house. For a moment I was terrified she might have ‘fixed’ my father. As
the day wore on I could not get the idea out of my head. I stole into my
parents’ room and peeled the sheets from the bed, pinching a corner,
dragging the cloth across the room. There was no snake, no toad’s heart
skewered like a pincushion, no scorpions trapped and enraged in his shoes.
Even so, everything felt awkward.
In the afternoon Jumoke sought me out at our neighbour’s house.
‘Come and help me!’ she shouted. She turned and walked away.
I didn’t ask what help she needed, I simply followed her back home.
There was a pile of dried clothes in a basket underneath the washing line.
She separated them into two lots of equal size. I thought she might have
made a smaller bundle for me, but she did not. ‘Follow me!’ she ordered.
As I stumbled across the compound I dropped my father’s agbada
trousers, his aerated undershirt. I did not know how I was going to retrieve
them with my hands full. I called out to Jumoke. ‘Leave it!’ she spat. She
did not turn around.
The room where she lived in the boys’ quarters was dark and bleak. The
floor was of bare concrete. The windows somehow failed to catch the light.
I had never been inside this room before. It was an unwritten rule of my
parents and somehow it never piqued my curiosity to discover how Jumoke
lived. This was her private place. She shared the building only with the
cook, although he was seldom there. So, in effect, it was Jumoke’s building,
her house. All the four rooms were hers to explore. I never saw her enter the
other rooms, though.
She did not turn on the naked light bulb. I could make out the dresser
with the broken mirror, the striped market bags stuffed into a corner, the
single wooden chair, the narrow bed. I thought perhaps she kept things in
other rooms. Belongings. More than this. I hoped so, but I could not be
sure.
She dropped her bundle of clothes, suddenly. I thought my father, my
mother would not be pleased. She looked me straight in the eye. I thought
perhaps I should leave. But instead, I stood there, rooted, my arms full. She
made some movements, quick and rough: my bundle of clothes, my own
clothes, the attachments to her dress. I did not have the presence of mind to
resist. Perhaps there was a corner in my brain that registered excitement.
All I remember is that she was not smiling inanely any more.
Every time I remember that incident I think of the word ‘foist’;
reminiscences of ‘fuck’ and ‘moist’. Because, after all, some semblance of
that occurred. There was a combination of both in that scenario. I do not
like the word.
In a moment she was moaning. Her face was contorted, but she would
not release me. She held me tight against her sweating, febrile body.
I don’t remember how I left that room, what happened to the heap of
clothes. Everything about the aftermath is cloudy. Everything is very still.
My father returned, we must have eaten. We may have spread my papers
out on the table again, drawn figures in the tiny squares. My mind would
have been unfocused, but he probably would not have noticed that. I kept
thinking of how she had cried out, how her face writhed. How I must have
injured her. I kept far away from her after that. I felt sure she would inform
my parents, that something terrible would be inflicted upon me.
One day, a short while after my mother returned from my aunt’s house
and things had resumed their ordinary pattern, I caught Jumoke’s eye. I
hadn’t dared look at her for many days, perhaps weeks. I was in the car with
my father in the driveway, waiting for my mother.
Jumoke walked into the compound, her hands full of market shopping.
She swayed slowly towards the car. I shifted imperceptibly towards my
father. I tried not to look in her direction, but I could not help it. From a
distance it was easier. Twenty metres, then I would look away. Fifteen, then
ten. I could not resist. And then she was almost beside the bonnet. I stole a
glance. She beamed at me. She winked.
I don’t know whether my father saw this. At that moment something in
me gave way. Everything I’d thought, everything I’d known seemed to turn
upon its head. Things appeared very unfamiliar then. It occurred to me that
I did not understand the world one bit, that I would never really understand
it. At that moment, I realised Jumoke hated me. That she had always hated
me the same way she hated my father. There was no difference in the way
she loathed us. We were one and the same in her eyes. All the time I had
fooled myself into thinking she liked me – it was only my father she
despised. It seemed like a slap. It was startling to realise I was the object of
such rage.

Some of the people in the carriage are chuckling and for a moment I don’t
know why. I am always wary of this kind of situation, not knowing. As if I
am one step behind everyone else. Then I see it is because the young man in
the shabby coat is talking to an old man two seats away from me. For some
reason the coat doesn’t seem so shabby now. He is still complaining about
bureaucrats. ‘And them with their bloody council tax bills. For one thing,
Dad … ,’ he says, then shakes his head and carries on. The old man hardly
says a word. He looks away for a long while as if he does not know the
younger one, then he turns back. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get home,’ he
says gruffly. He closes his eyes suddenly, like a narcoleptic, drops his chin
against his chest.
I’m not so sure how I feel about that. It is comical on the one hand, but
what’s the point of having children if you behave as if they’re not there?
I would have liked to have had children. I sometimes imagine three or
four of them playing noisily in the back of our car. I would have loved to
have had children with Alicia. We cannot have them now. There will be no
gain, no addition. There will not be that to look forward to. I realise it is not
so important. We have each other, there will be other things to accomplish
in life. Perhaps there will come a time when I will feel relief, unburdened. I
cannot know just yet. I do know I will never leave her. I do not think she
will ever leave me. I would like to be sure about that, but there isn’t that
certainty in life. I couldn’t imagine living with anyone else. We’re one. No
one ever told me that before I met Alicia – all those calculations, figure
work, arithmetic – that one and one could equal one. Anything else would
be multiplication, complication, the endless sums of another existence.
I have been unfaithful, long ago, that’s true, although I don’t believe
Alicia knows or cares. I have ventured into other people’s houses, not slyly.
Boldly, and with curiosity. I have glimpsed their fussy cottages, their
overblown palaces, run my hands blindly into their rooms. There was guilt
in it, but it was easy enough to override. It seemed important to me then.
Guilt is something I feel acutely now. After the first time, the lost baby,
I felt it. That it was something to do with me. That it might all have been
my fault. But I soon got over that; there would be other opportunities. But
the opportunities came and went. Now, I feel it is something I have done.
That I have managed to damage in some way, cause pain, some violence
inflicted. I see Jumoke’s twisted face.
Alicia and I are not so young now. Perhaps we waited too late; we
should have tried for a family long ago. My father once said Alicia would
make the perfect mother. I don’t know why he said that, he just did. I don’t
think he ever meant it. It was something for him to say.
My father was a businessman. He liked gain, accumulation. Who
doesn’t? He was a businessman. Of what I cannot say. I never asked. He
never told me. That’s the kind of life we lived.
 THE VISITOR

already, the girl and the mother, when the husband

T
HEY WERE DRUNK
came in. The mother whistled and her daughter exhaled. He sighed and
hung his jacket on the peg behind the living room door and turned to
look at them.
‘You’ve made a head start, I see.’ He rubbed his palms together as if he
too wanted to get started or perhaps to get warm. ‘There’ll be nothing left
by the time they arrive.’
The girl sat observing him for a time without blinking. His face looked
boggy and punched. The paunch was beginning to show beyond his belt and
his trousers were too short. She inhaled and seemed to go on inhaling and
shook her head from side to side. ‘Damn, I’m gone already,’ she said. She
placed her hands on her knees and stood slowly, like an old woman, and
wandered into the kitchen. ‘Want something?’ she called.
‘Beer!’ her husband called back. ‘Did you get the rest of it?’
‘It’s all here. It’s like a pub. You should see it,’ she said. ‘We could
charge the neighbours, open up the flat, let them all come in. Mum, you
want another?’
‘No, dear,’ the mother called from the settee. ‘I’m resting. Maybe in a
little while.’
The husband moved to the kitchen and saw her standing by the
unopened fridge, dazed, wondering what to do. She peered at him, thinking,
then reached up, brushed a hand against the side of his head. She squeezed
his ear lobe between finger and thumb, and kissed him quickly against his
powdery lips.
He opened the fridge and tore a can loose from the pack and opened it
above the sink. ‘What’s she doing here, anyway?’ he whispered.
 ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be all right,’ she replied. ‘I thought it would be
nice for her. She’s on her own for heaven’s sake. Don’t worry about it.’
‘She better not start … bickering, that’s all. We’ve got enough on our
plate already.’ He gulped his beer and looked at her and tried to kiss her, but
she turned quickly away.
‘They’ll be here soon. We should get ready,’ she said. ‘Go and keep
Mum company. And try to be nice.’
‘Don’t need a hand with anything?’ He surveyed the small shadowy
kitchen, the glow from the oven, the saucepan leaking puffs of steam.
‘No, you go ahead. Sit down. It’s nearly ready anyway. You could
change if you want to. Wear your smart jeans or something.’
He stood, helpless, gazing at his wife in the long wide skirt, the
embroidered blouson. She had straightened her hair, pulled it back with a
rosewood barrette they had bought on holiday in Malaga. He could hear the
movements of the people who lived upstairs, the boy tearing from room to
room, the mother’s stilettos on the kitchen floor, the man and his television
set.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Go and keep her company. I won’t be long.’
He took another swig from the can and returned to the living room. His
mother-in-law sat in the same position, one stockinged foot against the
floor, the other tucked beside her, a quiet cat on the settee. She wore a black
turtleneck sweater and grey flannel trousers, trim like her daughter. He fell
into the armchair next to her and sighed out loud.
‘Long day?’ she said.
‘Something like that.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Just tired.’
She nodded slowly and he glanced at her, then took in the room: the row
of travel guides in the bookcase, the magazines on the shelves below, the
flowers his wife must have bought earlier that day decorating the
mantelpiece and the coffee table. He noticed that everything was tidier now,
the television pushed into a corner of the room. His stomach growled from
the aroma of the kitchen, the roasting smells.
‘Still,’ she said, ‘it’s a living, isn’t it?’
‘What? Oh, yeah,’ he chuckled. ‘Yeah … Shouldn’t complain.’
 Silence came into the room again, like a draught. The mother tucked her
raised foot against her body and drew more into herself. The man closed his
eyes.
‘Lorna, you want some help in there?’ the mother called.
‘It’s okay, Mum. It’s all under control. Won’t be long now.’
Mother and son-in-law glanced at each other and then their eyes toured
the room once more. The mother smiled at nothing and her eyelids drooped
for a moment and then she became alert again. The husband finished his
beer and moved to the CD rack and began to thumb through the
possibilities.
‘Anything in particular you want?’ he asked without turning.
‘Oh, you … you still have the Nat King Cole? I’d like to listen to that
again. Yes, please.’
‘Ah, let’s see.’ He played his fingers down the stack of CDs until he
reached the floor, then stood up and began again. He paused near the top
and withdrew a case and put the disc into the unit. In a moment a woman’s
voice spilled into the room – rich, almost masculine, an upbeat tempo, a
modern beat.
‘What’s this?’ the mother said, twisting her mouth. ‘This isn’t Nat.’
‘Can’t find it. Must be in the bedroom somewhere,’ he said, replacing
the empty case. ‘You’ll like this. You want something to drink? I’m going
to have another.’
‘Oh … well,’ she said, beaming, reaching for her empty wine glass.
‘Since you’re having one. It’s a party, isn’t it? Why not?’
‘It’s not … ,’ he started. ‘Never mind.’ He took the glass from her and
joined his wife in the kitchen. ‘What’s taking you?’ he whispered.

She shrugged. ‘What time did you say they were coming?’

‘They’ll be here, don’t worry,’ the husband said.

‘Well, I hope they like lamb or someone’s going to go hungry.’ She
snorted, but she did not smile.
 ‘Gerry’ll eat anything. Don’t know about the girlfriend. I’m sure she’s
the same. He would have said otherwise. Go easy with him, Lorn – the
bloke’s had a hard time.’ He opened another beer and leaned against the
sink, watching his wife.
She looked at him and tutted and put on the oven mitts. The meat
whined and crackled. She moved the potatoes to the oven floor and stood
up straight, a hand against her brow.
‘How long’s that been in there?’ the husband asked.
‘Who knows. Now, the vegetables,’ she said. ‘No. Won’t put them on
just yet. Maybe when they arrive. What’s her name again?’
‘Don’t know,’ he shook his head. ‘He told me. Can’t remember.
Something … Russian, Czech? Ari-something. Can’t remember.’
She brought out the carrots and began to peel and chop, taking
occasional sips of wine. He swigged his beer until it was finished, then
opened another. She put the carrots on to boil.
The music moved into the kitchen like a fog. It was snug and tranquil
there; they did not want to move away from the juddering pots, the smell of
the feast ahead. Then the buzzer screamed. They looked at each other, the
husband and wife, the singer’s voice wrapped around them, the whirr of the
electric oven.
The mother called, ‘Someone going to get that?’ And then the buzzer
screamed again and the husband went to answer the door.
‘Where’s that drink I was promised?’ the mother asked, padding into the
kitchen.
‘Help yourself if you want, Mum.’
‘Who are these people anyway?’
‘Shh!’ The daughter pressed a finger against her lips.
They could hear voices moving along the hallway. The daughter
smoothed her flared corduroy skirt, brushing her hands sharply down the
front and sides. She smoothed her hair, making sure there were no loose
strands.
‘Lorna, this is Gerry,’ her husband said. ‘And Agneski. Did I say that
right?’
 ‘Yes, it is correct. Agnieszka,’ the girlfriend corrected. She smiled at
Lorna and proffered an apple-red cheek.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Lorna said, turning then to Gerry,
thinking he was old, thinking her husband had never mentioned this. She
looked at them, the man in his fifties or sixties, the girl either side of
twenty-one.
‘He left nothing out, I hope – the juicy bits especially.’ Gerry winked.
He hooted once and hit the husband on the back, hard, and then the husband
laughed too.
Lorna blinked rapidly. ‘And this is my mother,’ she said. ‘Irene.’
They shuffled further into the living room and the mother got up and
shook hands with the guests and sat down again, stumbling a little, one
hand cupped inside the other.
‘It’s getting cold out,’ Irene said to no one in particular.
‘It is warm here, no?’ Agnieszka said, removing her white quilted
jacket.
‘Nice and toasty,’ Irene replied. ‘I’m sick and tired of this British
weather, aren’t you? Just had enough of it, up to here.’ She patted her hand
against her chin.
‘Oh,’ Agnieszka said. ‘You are from where? From which country?’
Irene did a double take, looking closely at the girl. ‘Ealing,’ she said.
‘Born and bred. London. Mum and Dad were from Dominica, if that’s what
you mean.’
‘Let me take your coats,’ the husband interrupted. ‘Gerry, Agneski,
please sit down. Make yourselves at home.’
Agnieszka sat next to the mother, pulling her straight black hair to one
side, letting it ride over her shoulder, down to her chest. She wore faded
blue jeans, sealed against her skin, and an oversized custard-yellow angora
sweater. Her lip gloss duelled with the candlelight and the bulb from the
standard lamp. She crossed her legs and smiled, allowing one white-booted
foot to dangle to and fro. She noticed the husband staring at her.
Gerry refused to sit. He wandered to the CD rack, examined it, then
moved to the bookcase. ‘Ah, Thailand. Yes. I was banged up there, you
know. Less said about that the better,’ he barked. He shook the travel guide
in the air. ‘Awful prisons. Lovely girls. Delicate. Like puppies.’
Lorna looked sharply at her husband who was still standing, staring at
the girl. ‘Why don’t you offer your guests a drink?’ she said. ‘I’ll check the
dinner.’
‘Prague – I see you’ve been to all the haunts,’ Gerry turned to the
husband. ‘I can tell you a thing or two about the summer of ’99.’ He looked
hopefully at the people in the room.
‘That was Lorna, actually,’ the husband said. ‘Thailand, Prague,
Budapest, Mexico. She’s the traveller, not me.’
Gerry roared and tapped his pitted red nostrils, rolled his stomach from
side to side. ‘Mum’s the word. Don’t you worry about me, old man.’
The husband dashed into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. Irene’s eyes
swivelled, then closed. She seemed to come to again with Gerry’s braying.
Agnieszka noticed her. ‘You are drinking already?’ she asked.
‘Oh, oh!’ Irene waved away the question. ‘It’s a party! It’s not every
day, is it?’
‘You have a party?’ Agnieszka again.
‘Yes, why not?’ Gerry looked up. ‘What’s taking him?’ He went into the
kitchen to meet the husband and came out clutching a can of beer and a
tumbler of whisky with ice.
‘There is no glass?’ the girl asked.
‘Here you are.’ The husband emerged with a tumbler, followed by his
wife.
‘Five to ten minutes,’ she announced. ‘Hope you all eat meat.’ She
glanced at the girl in her skin-tight jeans, the straight hair that did not seem
to end, the satin skin.
‘All meat eaters here,’ Gerry said. He fell into the vacant space on the
other side of the mother on the settee, letting his feet fly up, then thud
against the floorboards. He pushed out his stomach so that his pink shirt
threatened to come untucked. He wiped his forehead with a soiled sleeve of
his cream suit jacket. ‘I tell you what, old chap. I’m awfully thirsty,’ he
said. ‘You couldn’t fix another one of these?’
 The husband fetched another beer and filled Gerry’s tumbler with
whisky, forgetting the ice. When he returned the girl was saying, ‘In Oslo,
the drinking, it is very expensive.’
‘Oh, that’s where you’re from?’ Lorna said, dragging a chair from the
dining table, sitting in the centre of things, between Gerry and her husband.
‘Oslo? No,’ the girl said.
There was a silence.
‘Oh, I thought you meant you were from Norway. Oslo,’ the wife said.
‘Only, I’ve been there. On holiday.’
‘No. I didn’t say it,’ the girl replied.
Irene coughed and Lorna lowered her eyes to the floor. The radiator
pipes began to clank.
‘Funny people, the Norwegians,’ Gerry said. He drained his glass as if it
contained water. ‘Speak better English than the English. But a very different
tribe. All that mountain climbing and fresh air. And then the depravity. I
blame the dark winters myself. Nothing else to do, you see.’
‘Where else have you been?’ Lorna asked. ‘You seem to have been
around.’
‘Me? All over the place. Can’t think of anywhere I haven’t been, truth
be told. You name it, I’ve been there,’ Gerry said.
‘I envy you,’ she said. ‘There are so many places I’d love to see.’
‘No – you name it. See if I’ve been there,’ Gerry said, sitting up,
looking from one to the other.
‘Oh … Oh, well … Let’s see. Well – Chile?’
‘No, not yet. Maybe next year. Next.’
‘How about Israel?’ the husband said.
‘Try another.’
‘Dominica.’ The mother crossed her arms and peered at him.
‘Oh, look at you. Humiliating me,’ Gerry said. ‘How about another?’
He held up his glass, rotated it between his fingers.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say no either,’ the mother said.
 ‘No, don’t get up.’ Gerry turned to his friend, patting the air. ‘I know
where everything is. You just relax. Agi, another?’
‘Of course,’ the girl said.
He returned with the drinks for Irene and Agnieszka, then went back for
his own and Lorna’s.
‘What a host,’ Irene said. She turned to her son-in-law. ‘You could learn
a thing or two from him.’
Lorna looked quietly at her husband and asked, ‘So, Gerry was at
Conductel too?’
‘No, no. The place before that. Integrated Acoustics. Gerry was in
management,’ her husband said. He turned to Gerry. ‘I was one of the little
people. Before you left.’
‘Before I was fired!’ Gerry hooted. ‘Don’t beat about the bush, Sonny.
Tell it how it is. Given the boot, given my marching orders, told to take a
flying fuck. Glad to get shot of the place, truth be told. Don’t know how
you could have stuck it all those years, old man.’
Sonny shrugged. ‘Four years, then I moved on. It wasn’t so bad.’
‘And what did you do after that?’ Lorna asked.
‘Oh, the third degree. I’m used to this.’ Gerry rubbed his hands together
in glee. ‘This and that. A stint at British Steel. Bit over the hill, so no one
was really keen to keep me on. The companies got smaller, shadier after
that. There was this place in Dubai. Didn’t do a thing. Not a thing. Just sat
there playing chess and computer games all day. Plenty of money, though,
but things wound up after a month. Government raids. Had to get out on the
first flight. Got my travelling done, though: Morocco, New Zealand,
Vietnam. Fillies all over the place. Wouldn’t have met Agi otherwise.’ He
looked across the mother at the girl.
‘It is hot,’ Agnieszka said, pulling at the fibres of her sweater.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ the mother said. ‘I don’t like the cold at all. Lorna,
dear, don’t you think it’s ready by now?’
‘Oh!’ Lorna stood and plumped down again. ‘Dizzy,’ she said, then rose
slowly and made her way to the kitchen.
 Sonny went to the CD rack to change the music, which had stopped
some time ago.
‘I wanted Nat King Cole,’ Irene said to the guests. ‘But he doesn’t have
it any more. I gave it to them for Christmas, you know. I bet he threw it
away.’
The girl nodded as if she knew what the mother was talking about, then
said, ‘You are living here? Together?’
‘Me? No. I’m in Turnpike Lane. Not so far away. Well, not so near,
either.’
‘And your husband, he is living in Turnpike Place?’
‘Oh, no! God forbid,’ Irene cried. ‘I don’t know where he’s living.’ She
glanced at Gerry. ‘Probably in Thailand. With a filly.’
The girl nodded. Frowned. ‘He is living in Thailand? And you, you stay
here?’
Lorna trotted to the table with one mittened hand under the dish of roast
potatoes. Sonny rose to help. When all the food was in place the others
stood to take their seats.
‘My God!’ the girl cried. ‘I am too hot!’ She pulled at her sweater as if
she would rend it in two, and threw it to the settee. The husband looked at
her, at the cleavage she had kept hidden, the small yellow T-shirt, the
horizon of midriff.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Sonny,’ the mother said. ‘We haven’t got all
day.’
Sonny took his place at the head of the table, Agnieszka to his right, his
mother-in-law to the left.
Gerry said, ‘I could eat for England, I’m so hungry.’
Sonny tried to take this in, but could not fight his eyes scampering to the
T-shirt. He squinted. ‘Good Girls Go to Bed,’ he read, ‘Bad Girls Go to
Pashka. What’s Pashka?’
‘Huh?’
‘Pashka.’ He pointed to her chest.
 ‘Oh!’ She grinned. ‘It is club. You know, for dancing?’ She cycled her
arms and pouted. Her head swayed from side to side.
‘Very good,’ Sonny said. ‘I like that.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Pashka.’
‘Why don’t you carve?’ Lorna said. ‘Before it gets cold.’
‘Yes, yes. Let’s see.’ He picked up the carving knife and stabbed the
roast with a fork and began to saw. ‘Wow – it’s tougher than it looks.’
‘I must drink something,’ Agnieszka said. ‘I am too hot.’
‘Gerry to the rescue,’ Gerry said, and he was in the kitchen before
anyone could react. He carried a six -pack to the table and the bottle of
whisky and a half-empty bottle of red wine.
Lorna pursed her lips, but did not say anything. Her husband continued
to hack at the lamb. ‘I hope you like it well done,’ he said as he dished out
pieces of meat. They fell to the plates with a crisp chink. ‘Help yourselves
to potatoes and vegetables. And there’s gravy.’
Lorna shook her head.
‘No gravy?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It … No gravy.’
‘Oh.’
The girl passed the dish to Gerry, scrutinizing the lumps on the plate.
When her own plate arrived, she prodded the meat with her fork and
glanced at Lorna before pouring herself another beer.
‘There should be some sauce,’ Sonny said. He looked up at his wife, but
she only stared at the table. He went into the kitchen to search.
‘In Jo’burg I had bush meat,’ Gerry was saying. ‘Lovely stuff. You can
get it over here, I’m told, but it’s not the same, I suppose.’
‘That’s another place you’ve been to,’ Irene said. ‘Your photo albums
must be bursting.’
‘No, no. No photos. Didn’t take a single one. Why waste the time and
the money? It’s all up here, you see.’ Gerry touched the matted grey rag on
his skull. ‘All the memory I need.’
‘Oh … that’s a shame,’ the mother said. ‘You don’t think so, Lorna?
Lorna? You’re a bit quiet, dear.’
 ‘Think I’ve had too much wine.’ She looked down at her plate, at the
crisped lamb, the potatoes, the now mushy peas. She did not know how she
was going to eat it.
‘I found something,’ the husband said. He placed the chutney and
tomato sauce in the centre of the table and sat down, not looking anyone in
the eye.
‘Oh, Sonny! What were you thinking!’ the mother screeched. She
turned to her daughter. ‘Honestly. Mango chutney? Where’s his common
sense?’
Agnieszka bit into a potato, realised it was not cooked and began to
nibble around the edge. ‘Is very delicious,’ she mouthed, steam pluming
from her lips.
‘God’s grub,’ Gerry muttered through a mouthful of food. He wiped his
forehead again with a sleeve, then patted his skin to confirm the moisture
had vanished. ‘It’s like I haven’t eaten for days, I’m so hungry.’ He reached
for the ketchup and smacked the end of the bottle, not minding that the
sauce splashed across his food. He helped himself to the carrots, which
seemed to dissolve in the mouth, and cleverly chose the smallest potatoes.
‘So, you and Sonny,’ he said. ‘When did you get together? He never
mentioned you at I.A.’
Lorna looked up as if surprised that people were still in the room. ‘No,
Sonny was there when we met. I don’t think you were, though. Probably
after you left.’
‘Could have been an overlap,’ Gerry said, still chewing the lamb.
She could see her culinary efforts between his teeth, particles shooting
out of his mouth onto the table, into the carrots and peas. He drank a
mouthful of whisky, gargled and swallowed. She wondered why her
husband had invited him, what the two had ever had in common. There was
a silence and the radiators began to clank again. She inhaled, audibly, then
checked herself.
‘I’ll get some juice. You should drink some juice, dear,’ her mother said.
‘It’ll pick you up.’ She carried her dinner to the kitchen and when she
returned with a bottle of lemonade, the plate had disappeared. ‘Here,’ she
said to her daughter. ‘Drink some of this. You’ll feel better.’
 ‘It was after Gerry left that we got married,’ Sonny was saying to the
girl. ‘But Lorna and I were an item when he was still at I.A. He’s probably
forgotten.’ He tried not to ogle the outline of the girl’s nipples as they
strained against the T-shirt. Each time he spoke to her, his gaze lowered and
he began to flush.
‘Gerry remember everything,’ the girl said. ‘He cannot forget.’
‘It’s all up here,’ Gerry said again, tapping the side of his head. He
pushed away from the table, looked down at the floor and blinked. ‘God’s
grub,’ he said. ‘Lovely. Very lovely, Lorna.’ He had sliced and tasted most
of the food, but his plate seemed strangely full. ‘Which way is the gents?’
‘Down the end of the hall, on the right,’ Sonny indicated. ‘Just before
you get to the bedroom.’
Gerry lurched up, staggered to the doorway and rested there for a
moment. ‘Crikey! Hot as hell in here,’ he said, wiping his face with his
other sleeve, moving off again.
Sonny walked to the bay window and raised it an inch. Condensation
had pooled on the window sills.
‘What are you doing?’ the mother cried. ‘It’s freezing out there. You
want to catch cold? This poor girl in her shirt – she’ll get sick!’
Agnieszka smiled.
‘Only for a minute, Irene,’ Sonny said. ‘A bit of fresh air.’
‘You see that?’ the mother turned to her daughter, nodding, as if she had
proved something.
Sonny stood by the window for a moment, and opened it another inch.
Irene glared at her daughter, then at the girl, but said nothing. Sonny smiled
at Agnieszka and sat down and continued to eat.
‘Is very nice,’ the girl said to Lorna, carefully arranging her cutlery in
the middle of her food. She pushed away the plate of bald potatoes and
uneaten vegetables and dry meat. ‘I cannot eat again.’ She patted her
stomach. ‘Is very nice.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ the wife replied. She had not touched a thing on
her own plate. ‘I wonder if Gerry is all right?’ She looked at her husband.
‘He’s been gone a while.’
 Agnieszka swivelled on her chair. ‘I will find Gerry. Is okay.’ She
tottered out of the room, her thighs swishing in the stretched denim.
‘Very nice,’ Lorna said, folding a hand on top of the other. ‘Your
friends.’
‘Your friends,’ her mother echoed.
‘I told you, Gerry’s had a difficult time,’ the husband said. ‘I don’t
know the half of it, but look at him; he’s a mess. Give him a break, okay? If
only for tonight. Please?’
‘I don’t know why you put up with it, Lorna,’ her mother said, shaking
her head, not looking at either of them. ‘I really don’t know.’ She glanced at
the husband who continued to pick at his plate, then stared ahead at the
living room wall, at a poster of a lake and a snow-capped mountain behind
it.
Agnieszka pushed open the unlocked bathroom door and saw Gerry
sitting on the toilet, smoking a cigarette, trousers round his ankles on the
floor. The window was thrown open, off the latch. The air was crisp. She
shut the door quietly and grinned and skipped towards him.
‘Give me cigarette!’ She reached out to his lips and took it from him.
While she smoked, his hands travelled beneath the T-shirt, resting on her
breasts.
‘Good God,’ he sighed. ‘You’re alive. You are alive.’
She took a long drag on the cigarette and placed it on the edge of the
bath and lifted the T-shirt above her breasts. She unbuttoned and unzipped
her jeans, wriggling to release the material, kicking them off one leg. A
white ankle boot struck the base of the sink. She lowered herself on to him
and he sighed aloud, ‘My Agi.’
He watched her lift and descend in front of him, then his face fell
between her breasts. A schooner of cold sailed into them. The latch fell
from the sill, the window flew back and forth, but they did not stop.
‘You’re not cold, muffin?’ he asked.
She shook her head and drove on and in a moment he grunted and
sighed. The girl’s forehead was as damp as the living room windows. The
couple sat breathing heavily, Agnieszka resting her head against Gerry’s
shoulder.
‘You won’t ever leave me, will you?’ Gerry whispered when he was
able to breathe evenly again.
She raised her head and stared at him. ‘You are ridiculous man,’ she
said.
‘She wants to leave him,’ Gerry said. ‘Lorna does.’
‘True?’ She narrowed her eyes to see if he was making fun of her. ‘Why
is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gerry replied. ‘He didn’t say. Just said she wanted to go.
Thought it might be the other way round, myself, judging from the
cooking.’

The two returned to the living room. Lorna glanced at her husband, then at
the table top. She picked up her fork and began to mash the carrots on her
plate until they resembled purée.
‘Everything all right?’ the husband asked as the guests sat down.
Gerry’s shirt was untucked. The girl held her boots between the fingers
of one hand. The button on her jeans was still undone.
‘Fine and dandy,’ Gerry said. ‘They’ll be the death of me, these fuckers.
Took the liberty – hope you don’t mind.’ He placed the cigarette packet on
the table.
‘No, no,’ the husband said. He glanced at his wife as she played with
her food.
The mother stared at Agnieszka, her face twisted with scorn.
‘Everything all right,’ the girl repeated in a singsong. ‘We make sexy in
toilet, Gerry and me. We make baby. We like to make baby.’
Irene said, ‘Gosh – look at that – it’s way past eleven. I should get
going. What time do the buses leave again?’
‘No, no,’ Sonny said. ‘I’ll take you. It’s freezing out there.’
‘No!’ his wife shouted.
Agnieszka jumped. The mother scowled.
 ‘You’re not driving anyone anywhere,’ Lorna said. ‘We’ll call a cab,
Mum. Don’t worry. We’ll call you a cab.’ She crossed her arms and rocked
back and forth in her chair.
Gerry looked across at his friend, but Sonny only sipped his beer.
‘I think I’ll sit down for a while,’ Irene said. She rose unsteadily and
returned to the settee and collapsed.
Lorna moved on to the potatoes, trying to crush them, realised they
were uncooked. She began to attack the slushy peas.
Agnieszka glanced at Gerry, who grimaced, then looked again at the
husband. She attempted a smile. The child in the upstairs flat ran into the
living room above them, followed by the bellow of his father. They could
hear the boy dancing from side to side while the television blasted and the
father shouted ‘Get out of it!’ repeatedly.
‘Any requests?’ Sonny asked, rising to change the CD. He walked
behind his wife and touched her on the shoulder.
‘Have you disco music?’ Agnieszka asked. ‘Have you Kool and Gang?’
‘Ah, no. Not that,’ the husband replied. ‘You’ll like this one, though.
I’m sure.’
The chords began and then the voice melted into the room and Irene
cried, ‘Nat! I thought you couldn’t find him! Liar! He lied to me, Lorna.’
‘Must have missed it,’ Sonny said. He sat down and his plate swam
before him – a hard strip of lamb remained. He put his head in his hands,
rubbing his thick fleecy hair, the hair he had cut and washed and greased
and combed especially for this evening, for these people who had come
with their turmoil and scatter, the mother who had lived for so long without
love, the woman he lived for.
The girl looked again at Gerry, then at the wife, and in her desperation
said, ‘You do not like to make baby?’ She folded her arms and rubbed
herself as if she were cold.
Lorna smiled to herself, but said nothing. Her husband put down his
cutlery.
Gerry looked round the table waiting for someone to speak. After a
while he said, ‘Cheer up, old man. Some of this’ll do you good.’ He picked
up the near-empty bottle of whisky and drank from it, and passed it to his
friend. But it remained on the table between them, untouched.
‘Can’t have ’em.’ Lorna broke the silence.
‘You cannot?’ the girl said.
‘Can’t have ’em – kids.’ She shook her head. ‘Not now. Not ever.’
‘Lorna!’ her husband said.
‘It’s true.’ She sat forward in her chair and looked at the girl. ‘It’s true.’
Her eyes were pleading. Tears spilled down her cheeks into the mashed
mess on the plate below.
‘But it’s not your fault, Lorna,’ her mother said from the settee. ‘It isn’t
anybody’s.’
Agnieszka turned to face Irene.
Irene shrugged. ‘They had an accident,’ she said. ‘In the car. A child …
It wasn’t their fault. It’s not your fault.’
‘Mum!’ Lorna cried.
Gerry turned and said, ‘Go on.’
‘It was nobody’s fault. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ the mother
said. ‘The child’s for running into the road, maybe. But it couldn’t be
helped. Don’t you see?’ She looked from Gerry to the girl as if seeking
forgiveness.
‘She’d be alive if it wasn’t for us,’ the daughter said. ‘We were pickled
– don’t you get it?’ She folded her legs in her skirt on the dining chair and
wrapped her arms round her knees and peeped out at her husband. She was
thinking of the girl by the side of the road, dying. Sonny driving. The
father’s screams. Screams.
‘But … it was an accident, wasn’t it?’ Gerry said. He looked from the
mother to the husband to the folded wife. ‘You’ve got to move on, haven’t
you? Otherwise you’re just waiting … for nothing. Life’s too short.’
‘For nothing?’ Lorna said.
‘Lorna!’ her husband warned.
‘It wasn’t her fault, Mum. How could you even think such a thing?’
‘I didn’t mean …’
 ‘She didn’t ask for it to happen. She was just … She was so young,
Mum.’ Lorna hid her face between her chest and knees. Her shoulders
began to shake and the sounds were muffled.
Sonny rose and touched her gently and tried to lead her away, but she
would not move. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘Lorn, don’t cry. It’s okay.’ He
moved his hands across her shoulders, along her arms and back again, over
and over, until the shaking began to subside.
Agnieszka and Gerry sat looking from the table to Lorna, back to each
other again. Nat was singing ‘Azure-Te’ from the speakers in the corners of
the room.
Lorna brushed her face against her skirt and lifted her head and smiled.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I should go and lie
down.’ She sighed, but she did not move.
Sonny sat down and began to gnaw at the last of the lamb. When he had
finished, he placed the knife and fork neatly in the centre of the bare plate
and looked up at his wife. ‘That was so …’ He searched for the appropriate
word. ‘So …’
‘You don’t have to say it,’ she said. She smiled again. She could not
help herself.
‘Put me on the bus, dear,’ the mother said. ‘Don’t waste the money on
the cab. I’ve got the travel card already.’
Husband and wife looked at each other and in a moment Sonny nodded.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. He turned to the couple. ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’
They walked to the end of the road in silence until they came to the
traffic lights. At the corner, they turned and walked a little further and
waited at the bus stop.
Irene said, ‘It’s cold, isn’t it?’ looking out at the office block across the
street.
He kicked his feet, one against the other, peered down the road for an
oncoming bus. ‘Should have called a cab,’ he said. ‘It’s too cold to be
waiting out like this. We could go back, you know?’
Irene shrugged. ‘We’ll see. I’ll wait a little longer. You go back. Don’t
worry. It won’t be long.’
 Sonny said nothing. They stood squinting back and forth. A van
approached and their heads spun and it sped by. He sighed.
‘She’s very confused, Sonny,’ Irene said. ‘She’s confused and angry and
everything in-between. She doesn’t know what to do. I wish I did. You’ll
find a way, won’t you? Won’t you, Sonny? It’s too much for me
sometimes.’
Sonny smiled. ‘Don’t you worry, Irene. We’ll sort it out.’ But the smile
was short-lived and they fell silent again.
The bus arrived and Irene moved slowly to the back, on the lower deck,
and sat by herself in the empty row, a small huddled child. As the vehicle
began to move she looked back to her son-in-law and waved. He waved
back and turned away from the stop and began the long walk home.
 TWO SISTERS

belched and barked, crept forward, panted a

T
HE DOWNTOWN TRAFFIC
little. It was early Saturday and it looked like we’d be late. As it
happened, the others waited for us, and the ferry did not leave on time –
a blessing as my mother might have become hysterical.
‘I want all of you to have a good day, now. Enjoy yourselves,’ she said.
She glanced out of the window, her ringed fingers rattling the door handle. I
thought she might bolt at any moment, dragging us with her, sprinting
between the cars.
Bunmi sighed at our lack of progress. Folake stared at the traffic ahead.
On a hill in the distance I could make out a group of old men and women
practising t’ai chi in the morning sun. I looked over the driver’s shoulder,
trying to gauge his mood, but he wasn’t giving anything away. I thought he
might be annoyed at having to work on a Saturday – and not an official
engagement for that matter. I thought of my father at home, what he would
be doing, whether he had woken up yet. Had he secretly wanted to come
with us?
‘Go and ask your father,’ my mother had instructed the night before,
although her heart was not in it. That might have affected the way I broke
the news to him. I don’t know.
‘There’s a boat trip tomorrow,’ I started. ‘Mrs Tripathi’s coming.’ He
hated her. ‘We’ll be swimming,’ I added. He disliked swimming even more.
I could have pleaded with him, told him I’d be crushed if he did not come. I
could have omitted Mrs Tripathi’s name. The Bravermans were coming, as
were the Tonets who were from Angola. He got on well with them. But I
was being my mother’s helper. I could sense she did not want him to come.
‘A boat trip?’ He turned away from his desk to look at me and smiled.
‘Thank you. No, I don’t think so.’
 I shrugged and sighed and walked out of his study and immediately
forgot about it.
We scrambled out of the car at the harbour while my mother told the
driver what time to collect us. I missed that. I wanted to know when we
would be returning. I have always had a low boredom threshold, but if I
know how long I must endure something, then it becomes bearable.
Bunmi carried the picnic basket. At nine she was the strongest even
though Folake was eleven. I always claimed to be older than my actual age,
which was seven, because it seemed unfair somehow never to be able to
catch up; I would always be younger than the two of them and I could never
change that.
‘Quick, quick!’ Mrs Tripathi called. She gathered the folds of her
lavender sari in one hand, but she did not seem prepared to move into the
ferry. The Bravermans crossed the gangplank with the Tonets. There was a
couple I did not recognise: two adults who could have been Malaysian,
maybe Thai. I couldn’t tell. I knew they were not Japanese. Our mother
looked behind and then ahead as if she had lost something. One way, then
another. She seemed to have forgotten about the boat.
‘Is Daddy coming?’ I asked, my voice rising a little anxiously. In hope.
She looked at me for a moment as if she did not know who I was – a
stray boy who had sidled up to her, held her hand and would not let go. ‘No,
no,’ she sighed and smiled. ‘You asked him yourself, didn’t you?’
I grimaced at my stupidity.
Folake marched to the front of the ferry, and Bunmi and I followed,
while our mother went downstairs. Seasick, she said. The sea was calm, the
sun was out. I could hardly feel the roll of the boat. The adults were simply
nattering away from us. We preferred to remain on the upper deck anyway.
I looked behind at the retreating skyline from the side of the boat, at the
skyscraper where they had filmed Spiderman, the junks scattered across the
harbour, the steep descent of hills. There were Chinese all around us –
families, old men and women, people on their own – all travelling to the
island or further afield. Some guarded large bags of merchandise by their
feet. The stitched blue ridge of a baseball cap peeked out of a bulging jute
sack. A young woman in a navy Mao suit and impeccable black bangs took
birdlike nips out of a steamed bun. She chewed for a minute at a time
before beginning again. I thought it would take her for ever to finish.
The boat pitched and people held out their hands to the railing or
grabbed their seats to steady themselves. In a moment things were calm
again. The sun climbed and I took off my jacket with the rising temperature.
A breeze filtered through the ferry, but it was more a warm thick mist than a
cooling spray. Some passengers stood to exercise. Most sat staring straight
ahead or behind, depending on the direction of their seats. An old tired-
looking man in near-rags dozed beside a bird cage. I could see no birds.
‘Look, there it is!’ Bunmi pointed. The island.
It seemed tiny and uninhabited in the distance and I wondered how it
would support us all. ‘Are you sure?’ I squinted. ‘It looks too small.’
Folake rolled her eyes and tutted and they both leaned against the
railing, gazing out languidly. I ran to the lower deck to inform our mother
about the sighting. The ferry swayed, throwing me sideways, impeding my
progress, but I liked that. It was an adventure for me. She was sitting in the
very centre of the boat, facing away from the prow, facing away from the
island.
‘It’s there, it’s there!’ I called, running up to her. ‘The island’s there!’
She turned to look, then swivelled round again. A fraction of a second.
‘Come and meet everyone.’ She held out her bangled arms and beckoned
me.
I noticed the others then: the Tonets, the Bravermans, Mrs Tripathi, the
Asian couple. There was a man sitting next to my mother I had never seen
before. His hair was cut short, like a schoolboy’s, pale blond, almost white
– a cloth left too long in the sun. His eyebrows were similar. That startled
me. Against his tanned skin it gave him a ghostly appearance. He wore a
beige linen suit and a light blue shirt with a speckled amber tie.
‘Here is Mr Ooststroom,’ my mother said. ‘From the Dutch consulate.
Say hello now, like a good boy.’ She introduced me to everyone else, even
though I already knew most of them.
‘Hi!’ Sarah Braverman waved.
 Her brother Jonathan glanced at me, then looked out to sea again. His
jaws worked slowly as he chewed fluorescent pink gum. It would not be
long before all that issued from his mouth were conceited Canadian
bubbles.
‘Getting tall, isn’t he?’ Jonathan’s father appraised me. His own son was
burly and squat, much like himself, and pleasant only on the rare occasion
he managed to rouse himself from insolence.
‘Oh, yes. They all shoot up at this age,’ Mrs Tripathi exclaimed. ‘Like
beanstalks.’ Her own children, whom I rarely saw – they had been packed
off to English boarding schools – carried about them an air of detachment
and melancholy. They often remained in England with their cousins during
the holidays. Mrs Tripathi, who was a frequent participant on these outings,
missed her children terribly, yet seemed bewildered about who had sent
them away. My mother held on to me for a moment, like a trophy, before I
slipped back upstairs.
We piled onto a local bus, Mr Braverman making a head count before
we trundled off. The driver scowled at him when he gave the all clear and
we seemed to move off at a lurch. Despite the speed of the vehicle and the
thrown-open windows, people fanned themselves with whatever came to
hand: a newspaper, a Japanese fan; an islander cooled her baby with the
warped aluminium lid of a cooking pot. Mrs Tripathi wafted the folds of her
sari back and forth, and I inhaled the spices and flavours of her kitchen. ‘I
am not sure what his position is,’ she whispered to Mrs Tonet. ‘Third
secretary, second secretary, I think. Looks too young to me.’
Mrs Tonet nodded and glanced over her shoulder at Mr Ooststroom who
was sitting on the other side of the aisle. He tapped his foot against the
rusted metal floor as if listening to some inner music. His brown leather
shoes glinted like mirrors. My mother sat in front of him, next to an elderly
man who gazed solemnly out of the window. Every so often Mr Ooststroom
would lean forward to speak with her. She would smile or nod or add
something in reply, continuing to fan herself as if the conversation itself
were heated. None of us – my sisters, Mrs Tripathi or Mrs Tonet – could
hear what they were saying.
 ‘Always tagging along behind the C-G, they say,’ Mrs Tripathi said.
‘Man’s got ideas above his station.’ She slapped the side of her neck as if
she had foiled a feasting mosquito, then rubbed her fingers together to
destroy the phantom evidence.
Mrs Tonet said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’s fast track. Some of them
are young, young these days. One or two, in my husband’s office, they are
like schoolboys. I want to fix their ties sometimes and send them home to
their mothers.’
Mrs Tripathi harrumphed, looked out of the window for a moment, then
glowered again at Mr Ooststroom.
Folake swung her legs back and forth, tapping the seat in front of her.
Mrs Tonet turned and frowned. A clump of flies buzzed heavily along the
aisle, slow enough to be hand-swatted, but like them we were too lethargic
with heat to bother. A young couple wearing flip-flops seemed to squint
from behind suspicious eyes. Like the driver, they too appeared to scowl. I
wondered what they made of us all, this itinerant crew, the varied
nationalities. Were they puzzled? Were they angry? They seemed angry to
me.
We bumped along the narrow road – the town was long gone by now –
past the hillside houses and cyclists and pedestrians. Mostly the road was
clear apart from the ubiquitous wild dogs.
‘What’s he saying?’ Folake hissed, bringing her legs to an abrupt halt.
‘Why’s he whispering like that?’ She said this to the seatback in front of
her, although Bunmi and I knew who she was talking about.
‘Should I ask him?’ I said, trying to be helpful. I did not like it when
Folake was cross.
‘Shut up, stupid!’ she shot out. ‘Was I talking to you? Who asked you
anything?’ Folake had been sent to boarding school two years earlier and
had returned a different person. She had come back cranky and
unpredictable. During the holidays I could never quite gauge her mood until
it was too late and she was thrashing and hissing like a Medusa. Often I
longed for her to return to England so that Bunmi and I could live in peace.
But Bunmi would also be off soon – at the end of the summer – so I tried to
appreciate this time we had together, my sisters and I. I decided to keep a
close eye on Mr Ooststroom.
We straggled off the bus and trekked the two hundred metres to the
beach. The air was still, the sun’s gaze unflinching. Our mother donned a
pair of oversized sunglasses to repel the glare from the sand. Mr
Ooststroom removed his suit jacket. The back of his shirt clung to him so
that one could make out his shape – broad and trim as an athlete – unlike
some of the diplomats who had grown fat on good living. Mr Braverman,
although in his early forties, had already lost control of his middle-age
spread. His son Jonathan plopped into the water – the first of us – trying to
attract as much attention as possible.
‘C’mon, hurry up!’ he yelled to no one in particular. ‘It’s warm!’ He did
a few elegant backstrokes, then jack-knifed beneath the surface. I looked
away.
The women spread out mats and rugs on the sand, while the men made a
show of removing debris and rubbish and the odd bit of driftwood, but there
was not much of that. Sarah put on her snorkel and flippers and then
waddled into the sea. Her mother followed close behind, then Mr Tonet and
two of his children ran in.
Bunmi fussed with the picnic basket, making sure nothing had spilled.
She twisted this way and that, muttering to herself, trying to avoid gazing at
the sea.
‘Come here,’ our mother said to her. She took the hamper out of her
hands and then unzipped the back of her dress so she could wriggle out of
it. We had all worn our swimming costumes beneath our clothes that
morning. I tore off my shorts and T-shirt, but Bunmi and Folake had already
reached the water’s edge.
‘Slowly, now. Take it easy,’ our mother warned. She walked to the
shoreline with me. I splashed about wildly until I reached the paddlers,
consisting of my sisters, Sarah Braverman, who had removed her snorkel,
and all but one of the Tonets. Rafael Tonet and Jonathan were further out,
swimming heroically away from us.
‘Don’t splash!’ Bunmi screamed at me.
 I did not see that it mattered, being in the water after all. I looked back
at the shore and saw our mother peering out at us from beneath a hand that
sheltered her eyes from the sun. ‘Careful, now,’ she called. She waved once,
put her sunglasses back on, then turned to join the others on the beach.
Jonathan swam around us, flipping over onto his back, then dipping
beneath the surface. We could see him down there, along with the
multicoloured fish. I twisted my toes in the sand and saw my foot disappear
to the ankle. The water was clearer than a swimming pool.
‘Hey,’ Jonathan said, surfacing.
‘Hi,’ Bunmi replied without looking at him.
Folake stared curiously. They were about the same age.
‘Kind of creepy, isn’t he?’ he said after a moment’s silence.
‘Who’s that?’ Folake asked.
‘Old Mr Ooststroom. Like … who else?’ he said, as if he could not
possibly have been referring to another person in the world.
‘Oh, he’s okay,’ Folake said. She swung her legs up nonchalantly,
waving her arms in a wide arc for balance. It caused her to drift away
slightly so that we had to move along with her, separating from the others a
little.
‘I like him,’ I said. I could see why my sisters were wary of Jonathan.
‘He’s not so old.’
Folake tutted. No one else said anything.
‘He hangs round your mom a lot,’ he said casually. ‘She calls him
Juice.’ Then looking round sharply he whispered, ‘My mom says he’s a
snake.’
‘That’s rubbish!’ Bunmi announced, confronting Jonathan. ‘She’s only
being kind to him. He’s got no family … She goes to church, you know, our
mum.’ Her voice had become high-pitched and strange.
‘Ha!’ Jonathan cackled. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
‘Shut up, Jonathan,’ Sarah said, but he only smirked.
‘It’s Joost, idiot,’ Folake said and she moved away from him. ‘Come
on!’ she called to us as she glided back to shore.
There was a slightly broiled quality to those who had remained on the
beach. Mrs Tripathi had thrown a swathe of sari over her head, but she still
sizzled under it, and she spat out words randomly like fat from a poppadom.
‘It’s too hot today and we come here and cook ourselves in the outside.
It’s like a madness. If I was one decade younger I would throw myself into
the sea.’ She looked out at the water, making no effort to move towards it.
‘You can go paddling. With the feet.’ Mr Ooststroom wiggled his
fingers to illustrate.
Mrs Tripathi looked at him as if he were slow – I was afraid she was
going to shout – then said, ‘No, no. They are always finding dead people in
there.’
‘Whaaa … !’ Mrs Tonet cried.
‘No, I’m sure that’s not true,’ Mrs Braverman put in quickly. ‘Maybe
once in a blue moon. And certainly not here. It doesn’t happen, kids. Don’t
worry.’
‘Well, it all joins up, isn’t it?’ Mrs Tripathi persisted. ‘The water from
… from Colombia, Gabon will find its way here, believe me.’ She shivered
as if suddenly cold.
No one said anything for a while after that. Jonathan looked out at the
water as if he wanted to investigate. The Asian couple huddled beneath the
only parasol, flinching from the sun like a pair of vampires. Even my
mother, whose cool exterior usually weathered all temperatures, dabbed at a
sheen of perspiration that refused to stop surfacing. Mr Ooststroom’s tie had
disappeared and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. A few wispy
blond hairs sprouted out of an almost hairless chest. Sweat shimmered just
above his upper lip where a moustache might have been. That’s what he
lacked, I decided – a moustache like my father’s. Mr Ooststroom looked too
young and clean – fresh-faced – for a man in his position. Second or third
secretary, Mrs Tripathi had said. There was something about him, I began to
realise. Something that did not quite fit. He had been sitting next to my
mother throughout the trip. Bunmi and Folake strode purposefully away
from him to kneel on the other side with the Tonets.
‘Sit down,’ my mother said to me.
 Mr Ooststroom looked up and smiled. I could not help but smile back.
Then glancing at my sisters who were glaring at me, I looked away.
‘Sit down,’ my mother instructed.
‘Sit,’ said Mr Ooststroom. Soft ‘s’ like a swear word. Mouth full of
cotton balls.
Jonathan Braverman tittered like the fat bird he was becoming. He
would always struggle with his weight, but he would end up like his father,
I could see that. I thought of my own father who was tall and slender, alone
in the apartment on a Saturday. I wondered what he was doing. I wanted
him here now, beside me. I sank to my knees and felt the hot glow of wrath
from my sisters. Mr Ooststroom smiled again, which confused me. I wanted
to hate him, but I wasn’t sure why.
‘Help yourselves, everybody.’ Mrs Tripathi passed round a plastic tub of
oily vegetable samosas. She had made enough for all of us and more, but
there were few takers. My mother opened the picnic basket: beige plastic
plates, forks and knives, cups all in the same hue. She unleashed the
implements from their separate compartments, undoing clasps, releasing the
flask of iced water, the container of egg-fried rice. She reminded me of the
geisha we had seen at a tea ceremony in Kyoto, as she ladled food onto our
plates: two scoops of rice, a pincer of salad, a spoonful of chilli chicken. No
one knew, apart from my sisters and I, that she had played no part in the
preparation; the amah had done that. But it gave me pleasure to watch my
mother in this uncharacteristic role.
‘Joost?’ she enquired. ‘Some chicken?’
Folake nearly gagged on her fried rice.
Everyone had brought their own food with the exception of Mr
Ooststroom. He had already eaten two samosas, after Mrs Tripathi had
pressed him to take another. He sat cross-legged, still in his brilliant
brogues, the buff on them dazzling. He shifted his weight slightly, then
looked down at me, at my plate.
‘There is enough?’ He hesitated. He looked at her.
‘Oh, plenty, plenty,’ my mother giggled, exaggerating her Yoruba tones.
She began to load his plate with rice and chicken. She seemed, suddenly,
like a girl.
 ‘Here, have some sandwiches,’ Mrs Braverman said. ‘We’ve got way
too many anyway.’
Then Mrs Tonet was passing him a bowl of what looked like mashed
potatoes and gravy, and Mrs Tripathi began to circulate the samosas again.
He politely declined the offers of food, save for another samosa which he
placed on the side of the plate my mother had made up for him. She
glowed.

A group of jabbering bathers strolled past so that I could pick out stray
phrases.
‘That’s what I said, but would she listen? Would she heck,’ a woman in
a bikini and wraparound towel was saying. They sounded English. One of
them said ‘wanker’, and I thought that was an English word, but I could not
be sure. They were islanders, though; other people did not come here. It
was too far off the tourist route.
‘Where are they from?’ I asked Folake. She would know more than
anyone. She had come back from school with tales of England. Unfamiliar
words. Strange phrases. ‘Go on, make yourself scarce,’ she would say, and I
knew what she meant now, finally. She turned to look at the retreating
bathers. ‘Oh, they’re …’
‘English,’ Mr Ooststroom interrupted. ‘British.’
Folake clamped her mouth shut.
‘Really!’ I exclaimed. I was secretly envious of Folake and her new
words, her far-flung experiences. When she boarded a plane at the end of
the holidays, my heart ached to travel with her. I wanted to taste a rhubarb
crumble – an authentic crumble with hot, thick custard – in an old haunted
building, to sleep in a room with a hundred beds full of children my own
age. Pillow fights; that’s what she claimed. I had dreams in which feathers
fell like snow.
‘What’s it like in England?’ I turned to Mr Ooststroom. My excitement
had carried me away; there was no restraint.
‘Well, ah, it’s a liddle bit vet,’ he replied. ‘And it gets cold in the vinter,
like Holland.’ He sounded as if his mouth were stuffed full of
marshmallows. He could have painted a bleaker picture and I would have
loved it still. Cold, wet – what mattered was that it was different and far
away.
‘Where are you from,’ Folake asked suddenly, ‘in Holland?’ Her
eyebrows had rushed to the centre of her forehead. She crushed her lower
lip. She was livid and I had not noticed.
‘Ah,’ Mr Ooststroom laughed. He looked at her, then at me. ‘A small
place – you maybe haven’t heard of it – Zandberg, it’s called.’
Folake nodded, which could have meant ‘yes’ or that she did not know,
but she did not say anything. Mr Ooststroom frowned.
‘Why aren’t you married?’ She stared defiantly at him.
He looked back at her. His large slate-grey eyes wavered, then fell. His
face was so open you could see the puzzlement pacing beneath the skin.
There was a stillness in the group. Everyone had stopped talking. They
were watching these two.
‘Folake!’ our mother shouted.
Then Mr Braverman burst out – a sporadic kind of snorting at first, like
a man trying to suppress a sneeze. In a moment the laughter tore out of him.
It’s human nature, I suppose, to revel in someone else’s predicament: a
child on its back, on a hardwood floor, kicking its legs in glee. They were
identical, the pair of them, father and son. In a way Jonathan could not help
himself – he had no choice but to follow his father’s ways.
Mr Ooststroom looked uncertain then. He was not sure what was
happening, why there was this laughter, this hostility. ‘I am,’ he replied
quietly. ‘Married.’
Folake made her mouth like a fish’s – a little ‘o’ from which no sound
issued. She had not been prepared for that. She would not dare question him
any further. There were limits to her, surly as she was. I knew that. But I
wanted to know where his wife was – in Hong Kong, The Netherlands,
where exactly? Was she sick? Did he love her? Were there children
involved?
The English bathers had walked far enough along the beach for their
words to be smothered by the distance. I wished they would disappear, that
they had not arrived in the first place. I would never have asked my
questions then.
‘Such heat!’ Mrs Tripathi fanned herself with Jonathan’s frisbee in a
slow wide arc, making hardly any breeze. ‘Makes me wish, almost, that I
was in Delhi, sipping mango lassi with plenty of crushed ice.’
‘Delhi – such an interesting city,’ Mrs Tonet said. ‘That was our third
posting, I think. Or was it Rome?’
‘Rome,’ her husband grunted.
‘Ah, now Rome,’ Mrs Braverman sighed. ‘Now there’s a city. When
were you there?’ And then they were off, reminiscing about Italy and its
idiosyncrasies. They had moved swiftly away from the embarrassment of
Mr Ooststroom. He seemed tired and deflated in his linen suit now, his
polished brogues. He probably wanted to leave, but there was no way off
the island until the late afternoon ferry, which we were all catching.
Bunmi and Folake sprinted into the sea with Sarah, Jonathan and
Rafael. The rest of us strolled along the stretch of beach until it was time to
return to the bus. Mrs Tripathi even approached the shoreline, but refused to
allow the water near her feet. I lagged behind while Mr Ooststroom talked
with my mother and Mrs Braverman. He seemed to have perked up a bit by
now.

Later on, a few weeks into the new term at school, I noticed my geography
teacher wearing a crisp linen suit, a navy shirt, but no tie, and I remembered
him, Mr Ooststroom. I had not thought about him since that day at the
beach. And I felt sorry then, for the way we had behaved: my sisters and I,
Jonathan and his father, Mrs Tonet, Mrs Tripathi. He was only a man who
might have been lonely. We did not really know all that much about him.
Bunmi and Folake had both left for England and I was alone now in the
large apartment with my mother and father. Sometimes I would wander into
my sisters’ rooms and peer out of the windows into the bay as if they were
out there somewhere and all I had to do was look hard among the bathers
and picnickers and people on yachts. And I thought then that a boat trip
with a group of people I could get to know would be a way to make a
strange place feel more like home.
 THE HUSBAND OF YOUR WIFE’S BEST
FRIEND

going to work today – that lingering flu, fatigue,

I
THINK TWICE ABOUT
ennui. I cling to the edge of the bed. My heart buffets my ribcage. Rain
sluices the winter chill.
My son wakes early. He is nearly four. For him, the day begins at five.
He has no concept of work; everything is play. His older sister is so fast
asleep no ordinary sounds can rouse her.
In a moment I am standing, creaking into life. There is a shirt to iron, a
bath to take. Shaving. Breakfast is either a two-minute rush or a feast I
wake especially early to prepare. This may be the only time throughout the
day we are all together: my wife, my daughter, my son. The moment arrives
when I am fully awake. I have pushed away the drug of sleep and I smile in
the embrace of my family. This may be a moment I replay in my mind
throughout the day, or it may vanish the instant I leave home.
I secure a seat on the Tube. This involves a tussle with a woman who
appears from nowhere, but I am fast and burly, and have misplaced any
sense of decorum. I am enthroned in my seat in the carriage, the victor. The
competition huddles about, hanging onto handrails, being flung back and
forth by the lurch of the train. I have a seat for the next twenty-five minutes.
This is an important start to the day. Conquest. Sometimes I shudder when I
think of my behaviour, how I used to be when I first arrived in the city. I
look at my earlier self as if examining another person. A good person.
Courteous. Perhaps kind. Now I stretch in my tiny space, I preen, I turn a
page of the newspaper. I scrutinize others. There may be a woman sitting
opposite, legs crossed at the knee, or a flash of inner thigh. Relax. Get
comfortable. My seat. Such a little thing.
At work there is a frisson of excitement. One of my colleagues,
Levinson, is to marry a woman named Alice Betteridge who used to work
in the department.
‘Two years at most,’ I whisper to Geoff.
‘I give it two weeks,’ Geoff smirks. ‘Including the honeymoon.’
Geoff once had a brief affair with Alice before the birth of his second
child. I believe he is bitter. She cast him aside before he could get a real
taste for adultery. She didn’t even give him one week.
Geoff sits beside me in the office. All day we stare at radar and
computer screens. He has been an area controller one year longer than I
have. He earns more, but he seems to have less disposable income. Also, he
weighs seventeen stone. His voice belongs to a small child, even though he
is thirty-seven. He is tired of labouring day and night for inadequate pay. He
plays the Lottery every Saturday morning. It makes him anxious, truly
anxious, to skip a week. He will swear that the missed play could have
meant the difference between the desk job and the apartment on the Costa
del Sol. That is as far as his imagination will stretch – Torremolinos. But I
like Geoff. He can make me laugh at any time of the day, in any
circumstance.
I buy coffee and a croissant before the work begins. Geoff joins me in
the canteen for his breakfast.
‘I was on the Tube this morning,’ he says. ‘And this woman gets her leg
trapped in the doors. So I prise them apart – the doors I’m talking about!’
He chooses a muffin and a Milky Way.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘She says it didn’t hurt a bit, but I’m thinking – what if that happened to
me, to Elaine? What if my foot was crushed? My toes? I could sue, couldn’t
I? How much d’you think I’d get? A hundred K?’ This has obviously
preoccupied him for much of the morning. Geoff is constantly thinking of
get-rich-quick schemes, the most frequent of which involve injury and
bloodshed. He is a man who is terrified of pain, the sight of blood, but he is
keen to make immediate millions.
‘I’d have to go barefoot,’ he thinks out loud.
‘On the Underground?’ I have to drag him back to reality sometimes
because, in his mind, he has already moved into the apartment in Spain.
I am speaking to the pilot of a Cathay Pacific 747 flying in from Hong
Kong. I ask him to reduce his approach speed – he is too close to the plane
ahead – and to alter his altitude. I watch the aircraft on the radar, a tiny light
representing hundreds of lives: students, businessmen, children, holiday-
makers, men and women trying their luck at another way of life in a new
country. I wonder what each person is thinking now, where each one will
branch off in an hour’s time. This still fascinates me after all these years,
the individual stories of people’s lives.
During the morning break I call my wife at home. My son picks up the
phone, says ‘hello’, drops the receiver. I decide to try again later after my
wife discovers the discarded phone on the floor.
In the canteen Martin is talking to Levinson. Every so often, someone
approaches their table to congratulate the groom-to-be. I decide to wait until
it is quieter or until I can get Levinson on his own. Our boss, Arnold
Christiansen, chats to Rebecca, one of several new recruits. She is a woman
who arrived with her mouth moving, her head spinning, too much
enthusiasm. Geoff predicts she will burn out before the end of the year. We
are eagerly awaiting her demise.
I avoid eye contact with Arnold. He has been stalking me, preparing for
something. It cannot be welcome, though I have no idea what it is. Geoff
hovers by the sandwich counter.
‘What d’you reckon. Tuna fish and sweetcorn, or coronation chicken?’
He has a face like an uncooked doughnut. A chocolate bar lounges on his
tray, a coffee, a bottle of fizzy orange. This is a pre-lunch snack.
Geoff has recently failed a medical. It has been suggested that he switch
to a healthier diet in order to lose weight, to take care of himself. We both
realise he is becoming a liability, but Geoff does not seem concerned. He
has been given free membership of a nearby gym for three months, but he
has yet to put in an appearance. I promised to accompany him, but that was
over a month ago. There is a feeling of guilt at the back of my mind, but not
that much.
‘Take the tuna,’ I whisper. The woman from Admin is leaving the room
with two of her colleagues. She glances at me, or at least in my direction. I
smile. This could be a sign; if she had not looked, she would not be
interested. Her slightest gesture is likely to set me off.
‘Not too sure about the sweetcorn,’ Geoff is saying.
I give him a look and he chooses something else.
When I return to my desk Arnold Christiansen gives me a look.
Everyone is looking. I clamp on the headphones. I am flying in from Dubai
this time. The plane contains pockets of trapped sunshine. A mosquito sings
beside a passenger’s ankle. The insects will all perish once the plane lands
at Heathrow. None of the passengers will greet the winter with open arms. I
hand over to the aerodrome controller and move on to the aircraft behind –
Quantas, flying in from Melbourne. I am a sky whore, advancing from one
aeroplane to the next. I cannot get enough of them and each meeting is so
brief. They fly up to me, whisper their requests in my ear. I give them what
they ask for in a voice that is calm, reassuring. Slow down baby, I want to
croon. What’s the hurry? Easy now. Sit back and relax. Then it’s on to the
next one – Air France this time – from Abidjan. I freshen up, clear my
throat, work the sultry magic one more time.
Geoff too is moving his mouth, though I cannot hear his words. Around
the room colleagues are comforting clients, guiding them safely through the
sky, mopping damp brows. It is all a choreography of sorts, a kind of aerial
ballet – hunks of metal hurtling through the sky, but perfectly coordinated
throughout the day. This is when it makes sense, the work I do. When the
job, the family, the friends, the life become a perfect symmetry, one feeding
the other, taking a little away.
This is when she appears, when I am most content. This can happen in
the early hours, or last thing at night when my wife is asleep, or on a train,
or at work when I let the mind drift. She is here now – Fantasma. Can
anyone else see her? She comes to me when I am half asleep in bed. She is
all legs and chest, and lips and hips. She floats over, takes my hand, leads
me to the couch in the quiet-room. Or she sits directly in front of me,
blocking the screens. She flicks the microphone in front of my mouth with
her index finger. She unbuttons the top of her blouse as if she is too warm.
Her eyes salsa. She moves like hot oil in a lava lamp. She is all curves and
undulations and quiet mystery.
 At lunch, Geoff, Levinson, Salma, Martin, me and the energetic
Rebecca, are enjoying the break when Arnold Christiansen saunters over to
congratulate Levinson. As he leaves, Arnold turns to me, says, ‘By the way,
good work with the Alitalia. Couldn’t have handled it better myself.’
There was a predicament with an Airbus A320. The pilot climbed
through an already assigned flight level, spoiling my tactical plan. There
was a conflicting situation with other aircraft. I reacted quickly enough to
avert any mishap – no worse than anything I have had to deal with before,
but here’s Arnold blowing hot air in my direction. It makes me tense.
Arnold Christiansen who can praise and damn in the same breath. He
pauses and I sense the censure approaching, but he just winks and walks
away. He is using tactics, I think. For months he has been complimenting
me. But there will come a time when he suggests I make a slight change to
that or why not do this another way? Perhaps he will want a quiet word.
All afternoon I sense something. Across my temple there is a pain that
moves – a child drumming my skull with a rubber hammer. I feel Arnold
Christiansen watching, waiting for an error of judgement. No laughing, no
smiling. Only work. He does not approve of me sitting next to Geoff.
I phone home mid-afternoon and my wife answers. ‘Lem’s party was
frantic!’ She cries. ‘The boys, they were throwing food all over each other.
They were hysterical.’
Lemma is my son’s best friend, but I cannot imagine my child engaged
in such behaviour.
‘Can I talk to him?’ I ask.
‘No, he’s fast asleep. I gave him a bath; there was cake all over him.
Then he conked right out. It’s probably that juice Mrs Zeinaba buys. All
those chemicals.’
‘The woman’s a hazard. You shouldn’t let him play over there.’
‘I can’t do that,’ she says. ‘Trust you to suggest something like that.
She’d be offended. And he loves playing with Lem.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Yes, well, don’t forget to buy the dessert on your way back.’
 On the Tube home a man sitting opposite me is reading the Evening
Standard. The headline is about a politician who has bounced back after yet
another scandal. I hardly notice the person sitting down next to me, forcing
me to shift a little. What catastrophe could have befallen the politician now,
how could he possibly have mismanaged affairs this time? I turn to scowl at
the passenger jammed up against me and it catches me by surprise –
Fantasma. Is she following me? She is wearing a long fur coat, a blue
bikini, glass stilettos. ‘Please cover yourself,’ I whisper. ‘I mean … you
might catch cold.’
Fantasma throws back her head and laughs. Her body chortles, her
breasts threatening to tumble out of their azure cups. Her frame gurgles
against mine. I stare at her guffawing features and realise she bears a slight
resemblance to the woman in Admin. Every day I make a special effort to
greet this woman. Usually she returns a polite ‘hello’. Sometimes she
frowns and I don’t know why.
‘I am so, so hot in this dead old thing,’ Fantasma purrs. She winks and
the fur slips to the floor of the carriage. I feel moisture rising to the surface
of my face. I imagine steam whistling out of my collar. All eyes in the
carriage are on me now, me and Fantasma, but I dare not look back at them.
She places a hand on my knee and squeezes. I lean back and sigh. The
newspaper man glances at me, then out the window. I follow his gaze to the
station platform. Manor House. I have missed my stop.
The supermarket is less crowded than usual. I make up lost time by
purchasing only what I have been told to buy: butterscotch ice cream and a
bottle of red wine. I am almost skipping and I cannot say why. The air is
sharp and fresh and, for some reason, this pleases me. An aeroplane flies
overhead. I look up, but cannot see it. All day I guide them, but I do not see
them. I wonder whether Valerie or Eliot or Seamus is guiding this one,
whether I have guided this particular aircraft before, coaxed it down like a
big child afraid to descend a tall tree.
When it hits it is like nothing I have ever felt before. Light. Then pain. I
do not know where it is coming from. I cannot focus. I do not know where I
am. Am I standing, am I lying down? I feel the blow, the punch, and in a
peculiar way it seems to make sense. I always thought I was invincible, but
there is no time for reaction now. There are hands on me, grabbing, tearing
pieces of me apart. There are no voices, but I believe I am surrounded.
There is the sound of footsteps sprinting away. One person. Could it be
only one person? I cannot see. My face is beginning to numb, my body is
shaking. Somehow it seems wiser to remain still. I worry about the ice
cream melting, whether the bottle of wine is still intact. I open my eyes, but
it hurts to look around. I can only stare up. The reality of what has
happened is slow to arrive, perhaps because it is not something I want to
admit. I realise I am shivering. The pavement drains warmth from my body.
The world, the black sky, spins. I imagine clouds chasing each other across
the night, but I do not see them.
When I was a child I liked to bake bread, my father and I. This was
something he did to help him relax. I would sink my brown hands deep into
the bowl of white flour, wait until he had measured the ingredients. Then
we would both fold the mixture together. I loved the feel of the warm
dough, my father’s large hands. This became a ritual for us on Sunday
mornings. My mother loved to see this, to encourage us. Sometimes my
brother would join in. I miss my mother now.
In the hospital I am treated for cuts and bruises. I cannot see out of my
right eye. I avoid mirrors and reflective surfaces; my face, on one side,
resembles a rotten pumpkin. I cannot walk unaided because I smashed my
knee falling to the ground. But ‘Nothing is broken,’ my wife repeats again
and again. ‘Thank God nothing is broken,’ she sighs. ‘You have your life.’
Every so often, when she looks at me, she begins to cry quietly, her eyes
like tiny taps. This amazes and disturbs me both, this concern. I presumed
we were beyond tenderness. I would like her to stop this, but it is too
painful even to open my mouth. I shake my head instead. I long for sleep, to
wake up my old self. I worry about appearing for work tomorrow, but I am
not sure whether it is tomorrow today, how much time has elapsed. Soon
enough sleep takes me away.
I have no idea what to tell the police. I did not see my assailant. All I
remember is light, then darkness. There is no description I can give, no
clothing particulars, no age. I hope it was a man – a woolly mammoth – not
a boy. I almost wish it had been a gang. Only one man, and I did not see
him. What returns are images of ice cream and red wine. I have dreamed of
them in my drug-induced sleep. I worry that my purchases still litter the
street, that someone should rescue the tub of ice cream. Perhaps the bottle
of wine did not break? I do not lament the loss of the rucksack, the phone,
the moleskin jacket, the wallet with the creased photographs of the children,
my wife. These do not seem as important in comparison. As ice cream. Is
that what I can tell them? Would that help? The police are at a loss. An
officer advises rest. She will return the next day. Perhaps by then I will
remember details.
I am given a cane to help with movement. I am advised not to return to
work until ‘you feel up to it’. This is what I have always desired, but now it
feels strange. I had wanted time off, but without the pain, the experience of
what occurred. Now everything is wrong. Often my hands shake. The
children are afraid of me. Sometimes they seem like miniature parents
themselves.
‘There, there Daddy,’ my son soothes. He has heard this from my own
lips and he uses it now like a palliative, a balm. He strokes my hair in the
place where it is thinning, as if I am a small wounded animal. ‘There, there
Daddy.’ He is trying to comfort, but his voice is thin with the anxiety of
everything: my moods, my wounds, the disturbance. He wants so much for
things to be resolved. When I bark at him after his comforting becomes
cloying, his eyes widen in disbelief and then his face sets. It is too late to
stop this reaction and no matter what I do, the slight trembling of his lower
lip gives way to tears.
My daughter watches me now. I hear her squeals and chatter in the
background as she plays or fights with her brother, as she talks to her
mother, as she gossips with friends. But when I am in the vicinity the noise
and laughter subside. She has seen me crush her brother. She will not allow
this to happen to her.
‘Can you turn the hall light off?’ I ask, and she burns up carpet to reach
the switch. She chides her brother for making unnecessary noise, and
praises him when she thinks he is being good. She is an angel. But often I
hear them in dispute in another part of the house. They are always fighting,
these two.
 After several weeks, I return to work. I fly back for a variety of reasons:
boredom; I am tired of the children tiptoeing around me, then quarrelling
when they are out of reach; I am afraid Rebecca, the new recruit, has
usurped my position in the office; I am thirsty for the world outside. I do
not admit my wife has stopped treating me like an invalid. She tells me to
‘shift it’ when she appears with the vacuum cleaner. ‘Shouldn’t you get
some exercise?’ she says. I wonder what happened to ‘You have your life’,
her tears.
Work is a salvation. I lose myself in calculations and signals, in radio
contact and camaraderie. Everyone is welcoming. Arnold Christiansen
thinks I have returned prematurely, ‘But now that you’re here, we’re glad to
have you back on board.’ Even Rebecca smirks behind his back. Everything
is familiar. My desk is a friend, my computer a confidante, the radar screen
aglow with messages for me to interpret.
I am afraid, though. Has my concentration slipped? Will I guide an
aircraft to oblivion? Somehow my senses seem heightened, focused. I
notice the scratch the nib of my pen surrenders. The clearances I issue to
pilots are flawless, expeditious. Night shifts are no longer a problem. This
has taken me away from myself. I am not a person who has lost control. All
the same, I have secret fears.
In my absence Geoff nearly choked on a fish bone. ‘They make me
change my diet and I nearly snuff it eating trout,’ he snorts. His eyes are
Christmas trees sparkling with hundreds of fairy lights. ‘If I play my cards
right, it’s first class here I come. I’m talking to a lawyer friend.’ He is
already on the Costa, sipping tequila by the pool. ‘Am I right?’ he says. I
am back where I belong.
When I was off work my wife woke me one afternoon. I had wallowed
in too much sleep and was groggy. ‘Who is Fantasma?’ she asked.
My response was neither appropriate nor coherent. ‘How on earth do I
know who Fantasia is?’ I blustered. ‘I’m asleep and drugged and she asks
me this?’ I noticed a look in my wife’s eyes, a look I have seen before.
A year ago we were shopping together, but she was making all the
decisions. I can’t remember what we bought, but she kept adding items to
the trolley. I asked her to keep a mental record of the spend. When it came
time to pay, the figure was far in excess of what we had budgeted for and
we were forced to leave several items at the till. People stared
incredulously, I thought. Some moved to other queues. In the car on the
way home my wife chatted as if she had been unaware of the
embarrassment. She seemed, to me, too carefree.
‘You’re an imbecile,’ I said. ‘You know that? A fucking fool.’ I couldn’t
help it. I said other things then. I was a valve, releasing steam, not knowing
when I had become compressed.
She said, ‘Oh.’ And then she was quiet. Her eyes, the way her face was,
she looked as if she had lost something, had no idea how to find it again.
After a minute she said, ‘I’d like you to stop and get out of the car and
make your own way home.’
And I did. I walked for half an hour, then caught a bus to the end of our
road, and sat on a low wall, thinking, still stewing. I apologised when I
returned an hour later, but she only shrugged as if she couldn’t remember
what the apology was for. But she remembered for days and weeks and
months. I could tell. There was something in her that had become dormant.
Still.
A few months later we gave a dinner party and fretted about the
combination of guests. Talkers, mice, swearers, my wife’s born-again best
friend. Everyone was beyond tipsy. The conversation flowed and my earlier
worries were assuaged. There was a comment about a recent adjustment in
interest rates, and the husband of my wife’s best friend was unclear about
this. I had drunk too much, I always remind myself. I was not fully
conscious of what I was saying. My wife started to explain how she thought
a cut in interest rates ought to stave off a recession, the mechanics. She
paused at one moment, to collect her thoughts, and I said, ‘Oh, don’t listen
to a word she says. She can’t even tally a simple shopping bill.’
I laughed, but in a moment I realised, drunk as they were, no one else
had joined in.
‘Only joking,’ I said. I turned to my wife to apologise.
Her face was blank. She sipped her wine. There was that still quality
again. The broken conversation began to mend itself. After five minutes,
when people had become boisterous again and I considered the matter
forgotten, my wife tapped the side of her glass. Everyone fell silent. She
gazed at me with that look on her face, the look I will never forget, and she
said, ‘Do you remember that time, a while ago, when you spoke to me
about the figures? You said they made my head swim, that I was an
imbecile.’ Her eyes never left mine for a moment. She did not blink. ‘Can
you recall the occasions, the places I was absent without reason? All those
times? Can you? Well, can you?’ She sipped her wine and smiled.
‘Remember Paris, that Easter Sunday? That time in the Lakes? Last August
bank holiday? Well,’ she sighed contentedly, completely drunk, ‘who’s
swimming now?’ And I sat there, not understanding. Panicking. I thought,
Who is this person? Where are we now?

It appears to my colleagues that I am on the phone to my wife and the

children at every opportunity. I read my son bedtime stories over the
telephone when I am on the night shift. His interruptions are no longer
taxing. My daughter regales me with tales of school, her new best friend,
her mischievous brother. My wife says she misses my presence at home, the
time I was convalescing. I joke that I was becoming a nuisance, but she
says no, I was merely growing lazy – she liked having me there. I need to
hear this reassurance. My fears have not subsided. There are places I will
not venture now. I no longer gaze up at the sky to identify tail fins. My eyes
are hooded with suspicion. I will move on from this, I tell myself.
When Arnold Christiansen taps me on the shoulder, I jump. He frowns.
One lunchtime Geoff says, ‘Let’s play squash,’ and I look at him as if he is
half-crazed. When did this happen, I wonder – trout, squash?
Pilots begin to repeat themselves over the radio and I fear my focus is
faltering. The days seem long, too long. Sometimes I steal into the quiet-
room for a moment. Arnold Christiansen wakes me one day after I have
been asleep for two hours. He does not say anything. At odd moments I
ponder my relationship with my wife, where we are, what we have done to
one another, and not done.
‘Oh, baby!’ Geoff purrs in the canteen, brushing a pygmy tongue over
his lips. For a moment I am convinced Fantasma is back, but then I realise
he is ogling Rebecca, the not-so-new recruit. Everything is topsy-turvy.
 There is an irritating noise in the canteen, a constant tapping. The
woman from Admin is squinting at me. She walks out with her colleagues.
‘What d’you do that for?’ Levinson asks.
‘Do what?’
‘She said “hello” and you just blanked her.’
Geoff doesn’t say anything. Levinson snorts.
The noise is unbearable; I am ready to whirl about to complain when I
notice my fork against my plate of toad-in-the-hole, rattling. I watch in
fascination as I try to control my hand, stop the shaking. There are people
who tear and twist other people’s lives. What kind of a place is this?
Geoff reaches out to steady my arm. ‘Hey,’ he says.
Hey, yourself, I think. But the shaking will not cease. I drop the fork.
The world is a window – you look out, you marvel or you are appalled. He
is not so bad this Geoff, I think.

I am lying on the pavement looking up at the night sky. I can make out stars
between spaces in the clouds. I remember the house, how it would fill with
the aroma of just-baked bread. At times of stress or boredom there was
bread in abundance. When my mother died, this did not stop; my father
gave away the loaves my brother and I could not eat. I worried everything
would change in our lives, but he continued with this activity and it gave us
all reason to carry on. I miss my mother still; my father has always been
there, but my mother – she is a blur, a light that leaves me every single day.
Even as a child, shortly after she died, her shape was there. But when I
looked up, she would be gone.
My father used to be a hard man who softened occasionally, a flinty
beach – the flirt and retreat of his waves. When my mother left, his waves
washed up to me and failed to recede. This was, at first, frightening. He
worried about my brother and I; every bruise, every illness, every
disappointment we experienced. We had grown used to the flirtatious
waves. We were not sure about this constant attention, but we grew to
accept it when we realised it was going to stay.
At night I speak to my father across the oceans. There is a crackle over
the telephone line that makes him sound very old. Perhaps this scares me?
Mostly he seems unchanged. I gloss over the details of the incident. I do not
want to cause him anxiety. It is enough simply to hear his voice.
Some mornings I wake up and I am afraid. I have a wife, a daughter, a
son. There will be days and days and days of this, and in the end it will be
forgotten.
 MOSES

at the edge of the grave. He dusted away the leaves and

T
HE MAN KNELT
the muck with his clean, bare hands. Even though it was warm he had
worn his wool blazer. It seemed to wheeze as he moved his arms, his
shoulders; he had put on weight since the boy died and now all his clothes
complained. A film of perspiration coated his face and neck. His skin
sizzled in the unceasing stare of the sun.
The roses he had bought at the train station he lay to one side while he
worked to make the place neat. The leaves he scattered on either side of the
grave. He snatched a fistful of dead grass and leaves and wilted flowers and
stuffed them into his jacket pocket; he could find no other container for
these things. He stood and with a handkerchief and spit he wiped the top of
the gravestone until it gleamed. He cursed himself for arriving unprepared;
there were utensils idling in the kitchen cupboards which would have been
useful now. The place where the boy’s name was etched he dabbed and
smoothed with the remaining clean patch of cloth. Moses – the name shone
in gilt lettering – Moses Lanre Akande. He placed the filthy handkerchief
back into his jacket pocket and reached for the fresh flowers on the other
side of the grave. He spaced them evenly, in a kind of fan, not sure what he
was intending, trying out different effects – splaying them wide, then
bunching them up tight again. He pinched and cosseted them with the tips
of his fingers so that the petals, the burgundy nap of them, were aligned,
none of them threatening to loosen or tumble to the ground, the whole effect
pleasing to him somehow.
When he had arranged everything so that there was no more he could
achieve, he lowered his knee in genuflection. No thoughts came to him. A
train hurtled by and when peace descended again he could make out the
sounds of things: the cadence of birdsong, the mischievous whispering of
leaves, the crunch of gravel beneath the feet of the few other people in the
cemetery as they attended to their own. When he could not remember how
long he had been kneeling beside the grave, how long he had remained
without a single thought, he opened his eyes, placed a fist on the freshly cut
grass and pushed himself up. His bones cracked.
New arrivals were entering the area now, murmuring voices unsettling
the calm. The man glanced down at his watch – eleven fifteen – and began
to quicken his pace. He did not have to wait long at the station before the
train arrived, rushing him back to the centre of things.
At Waterloo he changed to an underground train. A woman approached,
holding out a scrap of torn cardboard with what looked like a child’s
handwriting. Her body was swathed in loose muslin, her feet encased in
rubber slippers which had worn thin at the heels. She held a baby against
her hip as she placed her card in front of the man’s face. The English words
were basic, the sentence a catastrophe of errors, but the message was
conveyed. There was nowhere else the man could look. He stared at the
cardboard and then at the baby, its glassy eyes betraying little distress. He
shrugged, but the woman would not move. He could not make himself
understood and so he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there
was no sign of the woman and the train was arriving at his destination.

‘What time d’you call this?’ a colleague called out when he arrived at work.
He had arranged to come in late today, and they knew it, but still they liked
to embarrass each other. The man smiled but he did not reply; it was simple
banter and there was no harm in it.
The space he worked in was tight and unsuitable for the number of
people employed there. It was a room, only slightly larger than his own
bedroom, separated by a counter – staff on one side, the public on the other.
Customers were forced to squeeze past frames and albums and rolls of film,
and somehow the manager had managed to fit two foam easy chairs and a
glass-topped coffee table in the corner. At the back there was a long narrow
darkroom and a toilet, but there was nowhere to sit and rest. The man
preferred it this way. He had become accustomed to the size of the place.
He felt no strain as he stood all day in the hot little room while the people
came and went with their requests.
 A table-top fan rattled to and fro in a corner of the room but its struggle
was in vain. The hot, sluggish air refused to be moved. Staff and customers
waded through the close atmosphere.
‘I need to pick ’em up by four,’ a young man said. He wore shorts, a
baseball cap, but no shirt, as if this were his own house, his unkempt
garden. ‘There’s three films – is that a problem?’ His shoulders were
fuchsia pink and blistering. His whole body seemed alive with heat, like a
child that had fallen into a too-hot bath. He failed to notice that he had
pushed in front of an old woman who had been waiting patiently. She had
turned to examine the albums and frames as she waited, and the young man
had walked to the head of the queue.
‘It can be ready in one hour,’ the man said. ‘But you must wait behind
the people.’ He nodded at the old woman. There was a girl standing behind
her. The old woman turned to look at the young man, not wanting to cause a
disturbance, but all he said was, ‘Sorry, luv,’ and he moved to the end of the
queue.
The people came and went and the man spoke to them, taking their rolls
of film, answering the usual questions, the occasional complaint. They
worked a shift system: two would serve the customers, while the other three
developed the films. Sometimes a person would arrive with a marked
photograph and ask whether anything could be done about that. Often there
was a way to remove the marks, the scratches, so that the picture appeared
new and blemish-free. There was a particular machine that the man liked to
use to eradicate these faults. Often this was the only time during the day
when he was able to sit.
The old woman presented such a photograph. It was of five women
from a different era; the man recognised the old woman among them. Her
hair was not white as it was now, but a dense, lustrous black. The other
women looked younger still; he wondered whether they were her daughters
or her sisters, but he didn’t ask. There was a thick crease running diagonally
through the photograph where it had been folded carelessly for years.
‘I don’t know whether you can do anything about this,’ the old woman
said. ‘I just thought I’d ask. It’s the only one I have, that. I thought I’d lost
it, you see.’ She spoke measuredly and with an effort that seemed to bring
tears to her eyes, as if she were facing into a strong wind.
‘Well, I do not know,’ the man began. ‘It is very old. I cannot promise
that it will be better, but you must leave it with me – I will see what I can
do.’ He said this as if he himself were going to work on the photograph, but
it wasn’t his turn to use the computer. It was easy enough, the job, and he
knew it, but he had developed this spiel. Most of the staff used it to guard
against the possibility of failure, and also to elicit surprise in the customers
when they returned. He knew the old woman would be thrilled.
At three o’clock he began to work on the straightforward developing.
The afternoon would hurtle by as he gazed at pictures of people enjoying
themselves. It was a kind of lie, these moments of bliss, as if entire lives
consisted of parties and holidays, grinning ‘cheese’, beaming at one
another. He knew this, but still he would lose himself in the fantasy of other
people’s happiness.
There was a whole roll of film devoted to the interior of a Victorian
house, each room photographed from various angles. The man gazed at the
barren hall, the meticulous living room, wondering what purpose the
pictures would serve. Each room was immaculate and sumptuous as the
interiors featured in coffee-table magazines. He wondered who had
deposited the film. He couldn’t fit a face to a customer he had met that day
with the name on the envelope.
‘Fancy a smoke?’ a colleague called on her way to the alley at the back
of the shop. The man was in the narrow darkroom, adjacent to the toilet.
Sometimes he liked to stand outside talking with Michelle, although he did
not smoke. A tall, near shaven-headed woman who wore skirts with army
boots, he found her baffling but entertaining.
‘Ah, not today,’ he replied. ‘You can go.’
She smiled at his use of English and disappeared with her cigarette.
The bare-chested man who had jumped the queue was staring out at
him. His eyes looked glazed. He was sitting on a white plastic chair, with
three other men, around a white plastic table littered with glasses of beer.
Apart from the bare-chested man, they all wore sunglasses, but none of
them wore shirts. There were many scenes involving this group of men:
looking very pale in an airport lounge, sitting on a crowded beach, among a
larger group of men and women at a nightclub, a disordered hotel room.
Sometimes the bare-chested man would be in a photograph, but more often
he was not.
It was difficult to work out which country they were in. The people
seemed to be Muslim; the men wore kaftans, while the women – but not all
– wore chuddahs. It could have been North Africa or the Middle East; the
man was not sure.
A woman in one of the photographs began to appear more regularly.
Her auburn hair was short, in a pageboy cut, and her frame was slight. You
could see the intelligence in her face without searching. There was a print
of the woman and the bare-chested man together, although he was wearing
a T-shirt this time. They both carried small back-packs and wore
fishermen’s hats and sunglasses as they smiled into the lens. The man
guessed that the camera was held by a stranger, a passer-by. The two
seemed to have broken away from their own groups. They were beginning
another adventure now.

At six the man, the smoker Michelle, and two other colleagues, Darren and
Mike, walked a short distance to a local pub. It was officially the weekend
now and they liked to celebrate. By the time they arrived at the building
they had broken into a light sweat. Inside, the pub was stifling. The
pavement outside was covered with drinkers. There was nowhere for them
to sit, so they stood with the people decorating the street.
‘I tell you what,’ Darren was saying. ‘I can’t take much more of this.
It’s all right when you’re on ’oliday, but not ’ere. Not in the city.’
‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ Michelle took a drag on her cigarette. ‘ ’Cept for
the nights when you can’t sleep for the heat.’ She exhaled and the smoke
lingered. There was no breeze. There didn’t seem to be a perfect day when
people would not complain about the weather. The man had noticed this.
They drank their beers until Mike announced he had to leave. Then
Michelle said she couldn’t stay long, and soon they all dispersed.
The man took the Tube to Charing Cross station and caught a train to
the southern part of the city. People seemed less energetic in the heat, but
happier. He enjoyed watching their faces, the stripped-down bodies, the
bare roasting limbs. A woman wearing khaki shorts and an embroidered
tunic shirt sat diagonally across from him. Every so often he would seek a
glimpse of her legs, the outline of her braless breasts against the tunic. At
one point she caught his glance, but she didn’t seem perturbed; she gazed
out of the window with a faint smile lacing her eyes. When he turned
towards her again, she noticed and they both looked away. The other
passengers read their books or newspapers or closed their eyes against the
closeness of the carriage. The train rattled on, spilling passengers out and
hauling others in. The eyes of the two met once more. They flitted from
faces to clothes to the views from the windows, and then to each other
again. Soon enough the train arrived at a busy station and the woman rose
and disembarked. She did not look back. It was a game and it didn’t mean
anything.

‘Is that you?’ the woman called as the man tried one key and then another.
He was already tipsy from the beer and the heat. He shut the door behind
him and didn’t answer, but made straight for the kitchen where she stood
stirring a saucepan of stew.
‘Oh, there you are.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m making casserole for
dinner. Casserole and rice. That all right, babes?’ She reached across to kiss
him.
‘Perfect,’ he replied. ‘I am so hungry – I had only a sandwich all day,
can you believe?’
He showered to wash away the stickiness of the day, and dressed in
pleated black trousers and a sunset-orange long-sleeved shirt – the clothes
he had already chosen for their evening out. He laid the table for two and
went to fetch a can of beer from the fridge.
‘There you are,’ the woman said again, busy with the pots. ‘It’s nearly
ready. Hope you can wait.’
He gazed at her as he leaned against the door to the kitchen. She wore a
tan linen skirt and a plain white blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She had
wrapped her dyed blonde hair into a messy bun to prevent it falling into the
stew when she bent to taste it. He thought of the woman on the train, the
secret of her breasts behind the embroidered tunic. Her smooth bare legs.
 ‘I cannot wait,’ he smiled and squinted at her, sipping the beer.
She turned sharply to look at him. ‘Not now, babes,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat
first, at least. It’s almost done.’
He moved across the kitchen in his bare feet and drew his free arm
across her waist and pressed himself against her as she cooked. They made
slow dancing movements at the edge of the stove. He took another swig of
beer and she stirred the stew to prevent it from sticking to the pot, but it was
already too late.
‘How does it taste?’ she held the spoon to his mouth, across her
shoulder.
‘Just right,’ he replied, though he knew he would add salt to his own
plate later. He turned off the gas rings and waltzed with her to the bedroom.
They could not wait to remove their clothes and within minutes they were
breathless and empty from the exertion.
They were from different countries, the man and the woman. He came
from a part of the world where you might be fed if you knocked on a
stranger’s door, but it was not unknown to witness a corpse by the side of
the road or a child begging for its blind father. He had moved away from
that. He had managed to shape a life elsewhere: a man, a woman and a
child. Now the child was dead and the woman had left him. He had lost his
job and then his house. It was as if he were starting all over again: the
current job, the flat, the woman who lived there. Everything was temporary
for him.
The woman came from a town across the border – where people spoke
with a gentle lilt, where they had their own language, where neighbours
greeted each other in the morning as they collected bottles of milk from
their doorsteps. They knew each other’s affairs. She had fled from all that to
lose herself in the excitement of the city.
They both lay staring at each other, not touching, just breathing. They
did not speak.
When they had eaten and the sky was growing dark, they left for the
place they frequented on a Friday night. There were other couples there
who led similar lives, who shared an interest in a type of music that
emphasized movement, that gave off heat. Often the man and the woman
would dance with other partners – friends of theirs, or strangers. What was
important was the Latin rhythm and the feeling of connection to themselves
and to the other people who swayed and twisted and drew as close to other
bodies as perfect strangers were able to.
The man looked across the floor towards the woman. She was dancing
with a man whose head barely reached her eyebrows, but he was nimble
and his shirt strained against the stretch of his muscles. At one moment the
woman whirled across the space in his grip, her face alive with rapture, and
the man experienced a twinge of envy, but it didn’t last. The woman he was
dancing with was taller than his own lover, but she did not share her
abandon. Her movements were slightly awkward – she dragged when he
tried to second-guess her – but she was an adequate dancer. He liked the
look on her face when she expressed surprise at the way he held her,
cupping his hands more intimately than was necessary, touching her so that
she would widen her eyes like a woman kissed with ice cubes in the small
of her back.
‘Is so hot,’ she fanned herself with her fingers. Her name was Consuelo.
The man smiled but he didn’t say anything. They continued to dance until
the music changed and then he gestured, ‘You want to drink? You want to
drink something?’
She nodded and they wandered towards the bar where he ordered four
cocktails: for himself, his lover, Consuelo and the squat Englishman. The
couple on the dance floor soon joined them and they talked and drank
watching the other people move. The men’s shirts were stained wet with
perspiration, and the women travelled back and forth to the toilets to refresh
themselves.
‘We take them to Florida soon, Tom and me,’ Consuelo was saying to
the woman. ‘Before the school begin again. At the end of the holiday.’
‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to America!’ The woman screeched to
make herself heard above the music. She was already more than tipsy. It
was their custom to drink hard and steadily at the end of the week. ‘Ever
since I was a girl. Some of my friends went once, but I never.’
‘You two have kids?’ Tom asked. He jiggled about as he stood, in time
with the music, spinning his arms in front of his chest, a dancing boxer.
 The woman glanced at the man, but he looked quickly towards the
dance floor. ‘Nah!’ He waved the air aside as if he were shooing a fly.
There was nothing more to say. ‘Look, we must dance again!’
The man was first to drain his glass. As he waited for the others he
thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. There were the leaves and the dead
flowers and the dirt, the soiled handkerchief, either side of him. He had
forgotten to empty his pockets all day. He thought of the boy then, in the
middle of the spirited club. He leaned heavily against the edge of the bar.
His legs were trembling.

They caught the night bus home and by the time they slammed the door
behind them it was past two a.m. The whole house shook. The air outside
had cooled by only a few degrees, and the woman threw open the bedroom
windows. She stumbled to the bathroom to shower, while he undressed and
fell onto the bed. By the time she had dried off, the first whistle of a snore
had escaped from him.
‘Hey, wake up,’ she called, and then louder, ‘Wake up! I’m here! Wake
up, babes!’ In a few moments there was the complaint of the broom from
the flat below.
He squinted at her as she knelt over him. Her hair, falling onto his face,
reeked of cigarette smoke. The tips were damp. She moved her lips from his
face, along the length of his body, but he did not respond. She wanted him
again but he could not summon up the desire. He sat up and lowered her, so
that her head lay at the foot of the bed, but whatever they tried was of little
consequence. He had ruined himself with drink. He fell beside her at the
end of the bed. He tried to lever himself up, but his limbs were flaccid. She
watched him and laughed, her head lolling from side to side. ‘Bloody hell,’
she moaned again and again.
Finally he sat on the edge of the bed and then stood and swayed and fell
to the bed again.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ the woman continued to laugh. ‘You’re
on top form tonight.’ She heard a stream of liquid running to the floor. She
turned to him as if for the first time. He was beyond himself now, there was
no control, the body not doing what the mind required. The urine washed
against the side of the bed, spilling onto the wooden floor. For a time that
was the only sound they listened to. Then she was up, pushing him off the
bed, screaming. It was always like this: the drinking, the fighting, the
release of held tensions. She stood over him as he sat on the floor, barely
conscious.
‘Look, you’ve pissed yerself,’ she hissed. She could barely contain her
rage. And then she was laughing once more and chanting, ‘You’ve pissed
yerself,’ over and over again.
The banging from the downstairs flat sounded like a mallet being driven
through the floor, as if the neighbours were trying to break in. Bang, bang,
bang, the blows rained upwards. The woman was dancing now, singing, her
breasts leaping up as she jigged. She seemed to find the situation comical
now, her footfall like hard hooves on the wooden floor.

Mid-morning when the woman woke, the man had already cleaned the
room. She could hear him moving about the flat, humming to a tune on the
radio. She heard the faint churn of the washing machine in the kitchen. She
could smell the start of a meal they would eat later, but apart from frying
onions, she could not guess the ingredients. She knew he would have
woken hours earlier, as he always did, seeming to survive on little sleep.
She turned in the bed to face the chestnut tree, its leaves fluttering
quietly in the still of the morning. The blue sky gave off an intense heat.
The curtains lapped at the edge of the window, but the breeze was hardly
felt.
They would eat the meal the man prepared as they did every Saturday
afternoon. They would begin to speak, moving warily around each other.
The only force keeping them together was their terror of being alone.
The woman sighed and turned from the window. She would sleep again
until she could sleep no longer and then wake to face the day.
 NOW THAT I’M BACK

people what I can and cannot do.

M
AMA’S ALWAYS TELLING
‘He can get that for himself, Esme! Leave him be!’ she hisses.
Me, reaching up for Whirlies on a supermarket shelf. The
Cheerios are too high up, so I’ve plumped for the generics down below. I’d
rather not have Mama humiliated in front of Esme Severin, née Duchamp.
We steer away from cereals and trundle down the aisle. Esme, Mama
powering the trolley, me in my own set of wheels.
‘Louis, will you go get two tinned tomatoes? I forgot.’ She says this
nonchalantly, head turned the other way as if she’s got weightier matters on
her mind. If her friend weren’t here she’d have got them herself. Esme
doesn’t usually come with us, so Mama’s showing off today.
‘Praise Jehovah!’ Esme says, regarding me. ‘Young man so
independent.’ She thinks I’m out of earshot, but I can hear every word.
‘Amen!’ Mama sighs. ‘Amen.’
Esme is Mama’s friend from St Lucia, though they met in church just up
the road. She’s an angel right here on earth, Mama says. But I’m not so sure
about that. I caught Esme gawping at the man in frozen foods, the one
wearing tight shorts and fluorescent trainers. Her eyes zoomed in on him.
She could make out the goose pimples on his amplified biceps, I reckon, the
patch of sweat at the neckline of his T-shirt. Some angel. Mama sees what
she wants to see and that’s fine. But Esme’s no angel, that much I know.
Mama’s the angel, you can take it from me. She’s never done a wrong thing.
The sportsman turned and spotted Esme. He looked at me, looking at
Esme, looking at him. I looked away. He spun around on one shocking
yellow heel, an ersatz figure skater, sped off into another aisle.
‘Don’t take him long,’ Esme says to Mama. I’m wheeling back to them,
tinned tomatoes warming in my crotch. ‘That was quick, sweetheart,’ she
says to me. Aunty Esme, I call her. I am twenty-three years old.
It’s Friday night and the supermarket is pumping with libido. In the area
where we live there seems to be a disproportionate number of single people.
Perhaps that’s London-wide. Everyone’s looking at what’s on offer – not
fruit and vegetables – the human produce on display. Esme’s half
concentrating on what Mama’s saying, on what I’m saying. She lets her
eyes wander off and feast. Mama starts to hum something indistinct.
‘Awake, My Soul, and Rise’, I think. She’s with the Lord now, not in the
horny cradle of this place. She’s perfect in every way, Mama. I try to live by
her example, but it’s hard. I try; every day is a struggle. Temptation. That’s
what I’ve got to fight against.
There’s an assistant who works here, but I haven’t seen her tonight.
Sometimes I insist we visit all the aisles just for a glimpse of her. She
always says hello. Once Mama left me alone with her and bustled off for
tuna steaks. Rosa, she said her name is. I just stared at her and smiled.
‘What’s yours?’
‘Pardon? Oh … I, I’m Louis.’ I held out my hand as if we’d met for the
first time.
She told me she was studying architecture or archaeology. I can’t
remember which. She works part-time. She said other things then, but
nothing registered. I couldn’t concentrate. I don’t think I said anything
myself. I could only focus on her smile, the movements of her mouth. The
nervous dance of her hands, for emphasis. A swift ballet.
When Mama returned, she listened for a moment. Then she swung me
round herself. She hardly ever does that. ‘So nice chatting,’ Mama added,
her head half-turned away. Then she was pushing me off elsewhere. Picture
me, neck craned round for a last glimpse of Rosa, Mama’s bulk blocking
the way. We’re flying down the aisle like we’re in a marathon. She’s
muttering under her breath and, excuse me, but I don’t think she’s praising
the Lord.

Saturday morning, Mama’s up early to clean. She’s singing along to the

vacuum cleaner for all the world to hear. ‘Amazing Grace’. I’d like to help,
but she won’t let me. I’d only get in the way. I follow her from room to
room to watch and listen. Her voice rises high and clear above the din of the
machine. How sweet the sound, she sings. Sometimes the neighbours
complain – it’s seven a.m. and it’s the weekend – but we don’t care. It’s a
shame to want to stop something so glorious; Mama’s a joy in the church,
but outside she’s often a nuisance. Occasionally, I’ll join in, but my voice
isn’t strong. Mama doesn’t want me exerting myself. Besides, her voice is
powerful; it’s best just to listen. I prefer to listen anyway.

Sunday morning, Mama’s preparing lunch ahead of time. Sweet-pea paella

and barbecue chicken. Mango and cherry trifle for dessert. She pads about
the flat, almost soundless, words gathered inside her mind like a fist. She’s
not letting anything out. When she’s finished with the meal, she comes in to
wake me, draws aside the curtains.
‘Morning, sweetness,’ she whispers, leaning over me. ‘Beautiful day!
May His name be praised!’ Mama spreads her palms upwards, like a vessel
waiting to be filled with holy light. I pull myself up into a sitting position
and we both close our eyes.
‘Dear Lord,’ she begins. ‘You’ve seen fit to bring Louis to another day
…’
In an hour or so, we’re out the door. Mr Ambrose wheels me into his
car. His wife, Madeline, waves. Mama squeezes in. It’s a people carrier –
you see them everywhere these days. The Ambroses have had theirs for
years, though. They’re always quick to point that out.
‘Morning, Louis dearest,’ Mrs Ambrose swivels round and smiles. I
could be thirteen for all she knows, or ninety-three. She sees me, but
doesn’t see, if you know what I mean. I’m not whole, complete to her.
‘Just look at the sunshine this morning,’ she announces.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ That’s Mama. She claps her hands. ‘Glory be!
Winter last too long this year.’
We’re setting off in the buggy, as Mr Ambrose calls it, playing Happy
Families.
‘Mm, hmm,’ Mr Ambrose feels compelled to join in. ‘Spring’s just
around the corner.’
‘Buds are showing,’ I mumble, for something to say. I point to trees.
There’s a split second of silence.
 ‘Oh, yes!’ Mrs Ambrose exclaims. ‘So they are.’ Everyone looks.

There’s a scrum at the entrance to the church. We’re a bit late. Mama’s
trying not to appear too anxious, but she’d just as soon rugby tackle the
milling stragglers at the door in order to secure good seats. As it is, there’s a
prime spot not too far from the pulpit, just where Mama likes to sit. As we
move closer, a family – two adolescent boys, an older girl and their parents
– is trying to come to a decision: our potential seats or the pew on the other
side of the aisle? We’re nearly there, but they’re still wavering. Mama
unfurls my scarf in one swift movement, folds it up into a ball and hurls it.
It whistles through the air and lands just where we want to sit. Touch down.
‘’Scuse me,’ she swerves in between the ditherers like nothing’s
happened. Mr and Mrs Ambrose squeeze past her so she can sit next to me
in the aisle. The seats on the other side are occupied now. The family stands
there floundering. ‘Over there!’ Mama points them in the direction of spare
seats in the corner, at the back of the building. All sweetness and light. I
look away.
Mama sits still and closes her eyes for a moment. Then she spins round
to scan the congregation. She gives a wave. Then she mouths ‘Hello’. A
wave to another person. A laugh. There’s Mrs Avery, Celeste Williams and
Coretta Pascal. Hazel Carter, Mrs Dixit and her mouse of a husband.
‘Lunch?’ she’s calling out to Esme Severin, who’s sitting next to Sandrine
Hoyte and Colette Joly. So many widows, women left alone.

Papa left one August on a Saturday night. Mama always said it wasn’t my
fault. He was tempted by the devil and he just couldn’t say no. Spirit was
weak. She didn’t say this as soon as he left. Not for a long time after that.
There were years when she was inconsolable. Everything she knew,
everything familiar had been shaken: the touch of him in the middle of the
night, the certainty that wherever she was, whatever was happening to her
or around her, she could close her eyes and think of him, an amulet.
Someone to rely on. All gone.
But she found someone else, eventually, and she never let go. ‘Bride of
Christ,’ she says sometimes. ‘Jesus is all you need in this world.’
‘Do you know where you’re going to?’ the preacher’s yelling. I wasn’t
listening. He’s caught me out. Now he’s pointing at me. ‘Do you know
where you’ve just come from?’ Why is he staring? I want to turn away from
his gaze. Maybe he’s looking at someone else; his eyes are a bit skewed,
lopsided. Instead, I stare at a point just above his right ear so it appears I’m
looking at him. That I’m listening and I’m not afraid. But the words fly out
of him and I only see his mouth making shapes.
People are singing and clapping. Everyone’s up on their feet, jumping,
swaying. Coretta Pascal is yelling ‘Hallelujah!’ over and over again. The
preacher’s singing and half-preaching. The pulpit’s rocking. Mama’s
bellowing to one side of me, some women are doing the jitterbug in the
aisle. I’m looking up at everyone, losing my breath. All the air is emptying
out of me. All that movement and thunder. Losing control. The pent-up
frustration, the disappointment, the heartache, the hope. Everything is sweet
release.

Esme, Coretta and Sandrine join us for lunch afterwards. Everyone’s

buzzing from the service. Mama’s like a skillet of corn kernels on a stove.
‘More rice anyone? Juice? Sandy, eat up you skinny little thing. S’all
got to go.’
When everyone’s eaten more than they can manage, Mama whips the
trifle under their noses. Coretta groans like a woman in labour. Esme’s eyes
light up. ‘Just a little bit,’ she says, fingers pinching the air.
‘Louis?’ Mama asks. I nod.
‘Boy sure like his food,’ Coretta says.
‘Amen!’ That’s Sandrine and Mama in unison.
The ladies retire to the living room. I can hear the gentle chorus of their
voices from my bed. Sundays always tire me out. Not that I’m expending
extra energy. It’s simply exhausting to watch other people doing so, getting
high on the atmosphere. Sometimes I wonder about this life of observation.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Esme’s cackle identifies her.
They’re tired too. Everything is muted now, slowing down, calm. I think of
Rosa in the supermarket. She turns to me and smiles. She licks her lips,
once, then again in slow motion. She lifts her fingertips to her warm brown
throat and strokes gently, then lowers them. That’s when I switch off.
Mama’s in the next room, after all.

Wednesday morning, I visit Angus at the hospital.

‘Time for more punishment,’ he smirks.
That’s what I used to say in the beginning, when my limbs wouldn’t
work. The arms flagging, my chest collapsing, the useless legs. I saw Angus
as the personification of evil. I wanted to be left alone with my own
catastrophe. There was no one else to blame.
Mama kept quoting from the Bible. I wanted to smash the Good Book
in her face. There were things I had never said, that I could never say to her
now. There was no escape. I thought of Papa, wherever he was in the world.
I wanted him to suffer. To be filled with torment for leaving her, for leaving
me with her.
I raise my arms and Angus loops his own around me, lifts me gently on
my legs. I fold into him and he half carries me to the table. We’re working
on surface to wheelchair mobility as I’m not so good at that. Table to
wheelchair, bed to wheel-chair; I usually end up flinging myself in an
untidy motion, flapping through the air.
‘There’s an art to this,’ Angus says, and I believe him. Most times. ‘A
swinging motion, but swift. This time try for a little more control, okay?’
He shows me how it’s done himself even though we’ve gone through
this before. I try, but it’s a poor parody.
‘Perhaps we should do some more work on your arms,’ he muses. It’s
always ‘we’. Never ‘you’ on your own. We’re doing this in tandem.
We go through the movements repeatedly until he’s satisfied. The real
work, the practice, I do at home. He illustrates the exercises I must do to
increase strength. To stop the trembling in my arms when the pressure
overwhelms. Then he lifts me from the table, enveloping me in his grip. His
breath pours out of him in hot waves. There’s a hint of something – Saint
Laurent, Valentino? – I can’t tell which. I think, This is a place I could
remain for ever – between the table and the wheelchair, in the scented
garden of his embrace.
 I wheel out to Mama who’s sitting in the cafeteria, poring over the
Express. I approach slowly, from an angle so she can’t see me. I want to
guess what’s in her head. I can make out a distant tune. ‘At the Name of
Jesus’? ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’? And then it clicks.
‘Rock of Ages!’ I call out.
‘Oh … Louis!’ Her hands fly to her chest. I’ve startled her, but not
unpleasantly. Her face, the way it looks then – all the hurt emptied out, just
surprise and happiness now that I’m back, someone familiar is here – makes
everything worthwhile.

We’re in the food aisles again, so it must be Friday night. No sign yet of
Rosa, but we’re still near the beginning. We have the whole evening to
track her down. Mama thinks I like to linger over the purchases, but really,
there’s so much else on offer here. There’s a woman in a fake-fur top,
combat trousers, running shoes. She’s grazing in fruit and vegetables. Her
face screams, Somebody look at me! It’s Friday night and I’m alone. I am
looking, but she’s not interested. I’m a whole other country to her. Too
much geography to learn. Someone else – she looks like a housewife – is
staring at me, but not in the way I’d like: sheer, dumb fascination, without a
hint of a conscience.
Glances ricochet around the supermarket as if there’s a battle going on.
Hungry eyes eat each other. This is gastronomic war. I’m on the sidelines,
watching everything. An international observer with no allegiances.
Sometimes I strip away the singing, the church, everything that fills my
life. I think of a life without Mama. I know she’s getting old. I look at it all
without the dressing, the accoutrements and I know that I’m alone. This
isn’t so much frightening as it is bewildering. I think, How did I get to this
place? When did this swath of desolation cut through my life? Mama says
the way of the Lord is an oasis in the desert of this world, but I don’t see
things so clearly. I’m not strong the way she is. Sometimes I see a parched
road stretching ahead of me, for ever. I’m trying, but I haven’t got her faith,
the way it’s gripped her and not let go.
We double back for carrot cake mix. Mama’s planning ahead for Sunday
lunch. We’ve covered all the floor space now and still no sign of Rosa. I’d
ask one of the assistants, but not with Mama by my side.
 I think of my disappointment now that Rosa isn’t here. I wonder where
she is, what she’s doing. Is there someone in her life? I gather up all the
kernels of her existence in my mind: her easy smile, the way her hands rest
upon her hips, her breasts huddled within that sour uniform. Her strawberry
lips. Then I remember, at night, the early morning, when the will is weak.
His face appears and it’s no longer Rosa I’m thinking of. I see his strong
arms, the hollow of his neck, the suck of his cheeks when he begins to
speak. His easy voice. Reassurance. Musk. And for a moment, here in the
aisles, there is nothing in this world that can wipe away that image. Not
Mama or a heavenly choir. Not Rosa and her smile. I think of him, Angus,
and I see my limbs moving of their own accord, leaving behind the singlet
of skin, the stagnant flesh, the useless bones. I get the strangest feeling; my
swelling chest, my cartoon heart leaping out of me. And almost as soon as
I’m in this state, something gives. I cut it out. It’s as easy as tearing out a
page from a book; pinch the edge of it and pull hard.
There’s no carrot cake mix, so Mama plumps for chocolate fudge
instead. It makes no difference to me – food is food – but Mama thinks it’s
second best.
‘We could make our own,’ she ponders.
‘Chocolate’s fine, Mama,’ I sigh. ‘Let’s go.’
She glances down at me. It’s not often I’m worn out. Something’s
drawn out of me like wind from a sail. But I’m not really tired. I would just
like to lie down on my own for a while. Mama raises a finger to her lips and
squints. I know what’s coming next: something for courage. I can see her
racing through her mind’s index. Something for the night, for the week, for
a lifetime ahead.
She tosses the cake mix into the trolley and we steer towards the tills.
All around us, the bright lights dazzle. Shoppers skate and slide into each
other’s sights. Circling, almost touching, gliding on. But we don’t care.
We’re moving slowly now. Mama’s singing, I’m humming – Onward
Christian Soldiers – in harmony, all the way along the aisle.
 THE LONG WAY HOME

to Extra Maths on Saturday mornings because he’s not so

W
E TAKE HIM
good in class. In the car on the way back from Eliza’s, I ask, ‘So,
what did you learn today?’ and J says, ‘When two polygons are
forced together, without gaps, they te … tessellate,’ without having to think.
I believe that’s a sign of progress, although I have no idea what he’s talking
about.
We drive to Tesco for the grocery shopping and although the store is
teeming at eleven, it provides a chance for us to talk. J is at school in
Eastbourne – two hours’ drive from here – so it makes sense for him to
board during the week. The drive from school on Friday nights is
exhausting for me. It’s different for V, who does alternate Sunday shifts, but
I’ve just completed a tough working week, so we’re both, J and I, a bit
distant. There’s usually a fight over who gets to listen to what: Jazz FM for
me, Radio 1 for the boy. Sometimes we’ll compromise with an audio
cassette: an actor reads a book in an hour, an hour and a half, two hours. I
used to wonder how they accomplished it – surely it takes longer to capture
the essence of a book? Then we borrowed the tape of East of Eden from the
library – it’s one of the few novels I have ever completed – and I realised
they had omitted large chunks of it. I kept waiting for the part where
Steinbeck writes, ‘A child may ask, “What is the world’s story about?”’ I
always liked that turn of phrase, and also, ‘What way will the world go?
How does it end?’ It made me shiver when I read it even though I was in a
warm place at the time. I listened hard for that part of the novel, and when
the cassette came to an end I felt cheated on behalf of J and anyone else
who had ever listened to a book on tape without ever having read the novel
itself. The next day I went out and bought the book for J, but up until now
he hasn’t so much as broken the spine.
 In the supermarket J reads out his mother’s shopping list; he’s
memorised the aisles and he knows where everything is. There’s hardly
ever any backtracking involved. I pointed out his unusual skill to Eliza one
day; it disturbed me, but she claimed it was a good memory aid. Sometimes
I test him.
‘Plum tomatoes?’ I say.
‘Aisle 7. On the le … le … le … left-hand side. At the bo … bottom.’
We’ll go and look and sure enough, most times, the boy’s right. If
there’s a tasting imminent, J usually hovers close by; it doesn’t matter
what’s on offer so long as it’s free and edible. He discovered a love of
anchovies one Saturday, and a hatred of Emmenthal cheese only last week,
both of which struck me as peculiar. Sometimes we’ll bump into friends, or
people who live along our street to whom we hardly speak. I’ll nod and
smile and maybe say ‘Hello’, often wondering when J’s stammer will
disappear. It’s much better than it used to be; there was a stage when he
could not complete a sentence without floundering. It happens less
frequently now, but often enough for me to worry whether I’m throwing the
money for speech therapy down the drain.
‘Dad, Amaretti biscuits!’ he announces. That’s today’s tasting. We
swing the trolley round for free food. I’ll go first, then J, then I’ll return for
J’s sake. The staff are less likely to object when it isn’t a child. J has no
problem with ‘Amaretti’, I notice. Why stumble on an unadorned word like
‘left’ or ‘right’ when ‘Amaretti’ is standing bolt upright, an upended paving
slab? Where is the sense in that? Where’s the reasoning?
Once we happened upon Eliza in the supermarket. This was during the
school break. This wasn’t a Saturday. We were both surprised to see her
there. She didn’t have a thing in her trolley.
‘Hello, J,’ she said to the boy. Her voice leaked out like fog from the
ice-cream compartment. ‘I can’t wait.’ She was looking at me.
I thought, What if V were here and not at home awaiting a mail-order
delivery? I stared hard at Eliza so she wouldn’t say anything else, then
glanced at J who only smiled and said, ‘Hello, Miss Fernandez,’ but her
eyes were tight and she seemed ready to spring. There was a moment when
no one spoke.
 ‘Tinned pineapples!’ I half-shouted, and J shouted back, ‘Aisle 10! On
the right! In the middle!’ And I thanked God for the minor mercy he didn’t
start stammering again. I sent him to fetch two unwanted tins of fruit, while
Eliza announced she needed me badly.
‘I need you too,’ I said, which was the truth. ‘But we have to be careful;
the supermarket is not the place to meet.’
She fled, abandoning the empty trolley in the aisle, while J ran back
with the two tins, beaming, wondering where his maths tutor had gone. I
really loved him then, the security of him. The innocence. My hands were
shaking.
I was concerned Eliza might still be in the building. Would she pop up
in ready-made meals or pet foods? She owns a dachshund, after all. But we
didn’t see her again until the next maths lesson and I had already visited her
on my own by then.
Eliza and I meet once or twice a week in the late afternoon or on my
way back from work. I drive quite a bit; I’m in telecommunications, on the
sales side of things. Often we go to her place, but if we want a change of
routine we might meet earlier in the West End for a meal or a matinée. She
likes her dramas, Eliza, films and the occasional musical. The King and I
was a favourite, and Art with the American cast, although we didn’t laugh
along with everyone else. I took it far too seriously, and I think Eliza did
too. My only explanation for this is that she grew up in Seville, while I
spent my formative years in Ibadan. Perhaps something’s lost in translation.
I don’t know. Maybe we’re humourless.
There were those feverish moments at the beginning when I dropped J
off on a Saturday morning. Eliza would set him up with maths exercises at
her dining table, then she’d dash to the kitchen where I would be waiting.
We’d be released to each other for two minutes, with the blinds pulled
down, the noises contained inside of us. That was all it took, to be honest,
two minutes. Often less than that. I couldn’t stay any longer with J in the
flat. We’ll never return to those reckless days.
After the supermarket, we’ll drive the long way home. The quick route
takes us past St Christopher’s, where J was a day pupil for a time. That
didn’t last. They didn’t know how to accommodate the stammering. There
was a rash of bullying, then two girls in the upper school became pregnant,
one by a teacher. That was enough excitement for me. We pulled him out at
the end of the Christmas term and sent him to Eastbourne. V wasn’t happy
for him to go, but I was adamant. Eliza thought it was a good idea, though.
V believes a child belongs at home, but what is the use if the school
environment turns him into a delinquent? That was my reasoning and it
didn’t take long to erode V’s resistance. This way we can argue to our
hearts’ content during the week and not worry about the boy overhearing.
Also, she’s progressing in her job in the City; she couldn’t have managed all
those late nights looking after J as well. Everyone wins eventually.
‘What happened to the maple syrup?’ V asks before she has finished
unpacking the bags.
I realise we have forgotten it, but I say, ‘Probably at the bottom,’ in
order to buy a millisecond of peace.
‘It wasn’t on the le … le … le … list, Mum,’ J attempts.
‘Yes, I know that, but I specifically asked you both before you left,’ she
says. ‘It was only a couple of hours ago. Just one little thing to remember.
And what’s all this pineapple for?’
‘Why don’t I run to the shop down the road?’ I say. ‘I’m sure they’ll
have some.’
‘No, don’t. Don’t bother. There’s still a bit left.’ V sighs. ‘We’ll finish it
off and I’ll buy the usual next week. They won’t have it in the corner shop.’
I don’t say anything and V doesn’t get herself worked up for a change. J
wanders off to his room, to his computer.
V rarely asks me where I go during J’s class, and if she does I’ll say the
library or the shops or I went for a drive. More often than not, I’m on the
road. It would make more sense for me to buy the groceries while J’s at
Eliza’s, but we have developed a routine of shopping together – he enjoys
it, we enjoy it – so I always wait.
I’ve driven all over London during that hour, and out of the city, as far
as time will allow. I’ll think of sales and marketing strategies, or ideas I
suggested at work that did not come to fruition, or words I should have
spoken but failed to because I thought of them too late or was embarrassed
to utter. Mrs Carmichael, one of our longest-serving secretaries, lost her
older brother to a stomach cancer that spread so fast he was gone within a
month of the diagnosis. He was buried last week. She was in the middle of
telling me that Brian Ferguson, who works in our Stockholm branch, would
be joining us for the quarterly sales meeting. There was a moment when her
words trailed off and she fell silent. I assumed she had lost her train of
thought. I glanced up – she had that look on her face; she wasn’t quite in the
room – and I guessed what she was thinking. I asked her what the matter
was, regardless, but she only shrugged. Then the tears began to swell and
spill. All I could do was stand and make noises – nonsense words – and
lead her back to the grip of her desk. I could have told her to take the day
off or taken her to a coffee shop or simply talked to her. Anything, rather
than send her back to work. But it’s too late now.
Sometimes I’ll think about J and Eliza in her living room, with the
dining table and chairs squashed into the corner and her spinster’s attempt
to fashion a homely environment for one when what she wants most of all
is a husband and four children. I’ll wonder what I’m doing with her, and
should I break things off, and what happens to J if I do? How would I
explain it to V? Should I stay with V? It goes on like this and becomes
muddled and irksome.

V and I met on holiday in the Bahamas. I went alone for a week hoping to
meet some carefree types in the bars and nightclubs. I was twenty-six. I had
booked a package deal, but the designated island was sedate, the hotel quiet
as a library. I went to the beach every day and cycled round the island and
sat by the pool devouring paperbacks. That’s where I read East of Eden.
I went indoors for a nap in the air-conditioned room one afternoon. The
heat was making me nauseous. When I returned a woman in a lime-green
bikini said she would like a bottle of diet Coke and a full glass of ice with a
slice of lemon.
‘Don’t forget the lemon!’ she called.
I was wearing khaki shorts and a faded yellow Shalamar T-shirt.
Somehow she had failed to notice the absence of the hotel livery. Even if
she had she might have asked all the same. I might have pursued her if we
had not met in those circumstances; she had a figure she wasn’t ashamed to
parade about, and when she eased out of the pool the dampness of the bikini
against her skin left nothing to the imagination. I walked on without
acknowledging her. I could hear her feeble apology trailing behind me,
getting caught in the humid breeze, drifting away.
I returned to the spot which I had reserved with the paperback splayed
open on the deck chair. Adam Trask is trying to persuade the mother of his
twins not to abandon the family, but instead she tells him to throw the
babies down the well. I was riveted by her callousness. I changed position
in order to catch the shade of the parasol and to get a clearer view of lime-
green. I’d ordered a club sandwich at the bar since I had eaten lunch as
early as noon, and I couldn’t manage until dinner without something else. A
waiter brought over the food and an icy St Clemence and, when he left, the
companion of the woman in the lime-green bikini was standing in front of
me.
‘I’m really sorry about Sascha. She’s such a berk,’ she said. ‘She hardly
knows her left from her right.’ The friend was more modest in an ochre
one-piece swimsuit and an olive sarong spotted with multicoloured starfish.
She had wrapped her hair in a bunch, but strands of it had come loose
around her neck. Her face looked naked without sunglasses. She held up a
hand to keep out the glare of the sun. ‘She’s so, so sorry,’ she continued.
‘She’d come herself, but she’s absolutely mortified.’ We glanced over at
Sascha who seemed, to me, to be asleep.
V had taken the trouble to walk around the pool. I was afraid she was
going to repeat the apology. A boy jumped into the water wearing a rubber
ring and slipped straight through it, leaving the ring to float on its own for a
while. When he surfaced he hooked his feet inside the buoy and waved his
arms to propel himself towards the shallow end.
In the silence that followed I thought V was about to leave. I had been
on my own for days and could hardly speak. But she only glanced at the
cover of my book and said, ‘Oh, Steinbeck. I’ve read something or other by
him.’ Even now she utters the phrase at least once a day. ‘It’s in the papers,’
she’ll say. ‘Someone said something or other about it. I can’t remember.’
And she will wave a hand dismissively.
 I found my tongue and helped her recall the title of the novel she’d read
– The Red Pony – from the list at the front of the book. We discovered we
both lived in south London and were both bored with the island. The next
day, along with Sascha, who wasn’t such a berk after all – at least she was
entertaining – we toured the neighbouring islands where there were shops
and clubs and a wider variety of water sports, and people in abundance. By
the end of the week it was difficult for me to leave; the two friends were on
a fort-night’s holiday. But a week and a half later, after returning to London,
I phoned V and we simply carried on.

I climb the stairs to ask J to turn off the computer, but then I stop; I can’t
think how to keep him otherwise occupied. I read the paper instead. We
have moved a few times since J was born, and once since he started school
in Eastbourne. It’s not easy for him to get to know people here. His old
friends come up from Lewisham, where we used to live, or V will drive him
down for the day, but it’s increasingly difficult for them to connect. They
lead different lives now and see so little of each other. V says that after we
move to a better area, we should send him to a good local school. But we
are both worried all this movement is disruptive and perhaps he should
remain on the south coast now that he’s settled. She blames me for sending
him away to begin with.
Sometimes the first I’ll hear of something about my family is when I’m
with Eliza. We’ll be lying on her queen-size orthopaedic bed which
occupies most of the room. I’ll have a hand cupped around her breast,
squeezing gently, releasing. Eliza will reach for her glasses; she can’t see a
thing without them. She’ll say, ‘So, what’s this about moving to Edgware? I
thought you were staying here.’ The squeezing will stop.
‘What do you mean?’ I’ll ask. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your wife says you’re planning on moving soon. You never told me
about Edgware. That’s miles away. It’s not even London.’
Of course this is the first I have heard of it. I’m sure it’s only V thinking
out loud. We have discussed areas before and Edgware has never been on
the list, but Eliza doesn’t know that. She won’t be reassured. After this she
will deny me her body. She’ll turn away, curl up and fall silent, or she’ll
reach down and stroke Dante the dachshund, the other man in her life.
 Last Thursday afternoon Eliza and I met in Chinatown for a late dim
sum. She was more garrulous, chirpier than usual. She wasn’t aware she
was doing most of the talking. Afterwards we walked to a local supermarket
so she could buy more jars of stir-fry sauce. That’s what she lives on: sweet
and sour, hoisin, black bean sauce. She filled up two carrier bags and
handed them to me to carry. I sighed because, really, I hadn’t bargained on
the shopping. It was biting cold outside. I couldn’t quite work out why I
was with Eliza then, how this affair had developed and why it was still
continuing, becoming complex. She must have noticed my distraction
because she looked across at me sharply.
She said, ‘You know, J’s terribly unhappy at that school you’ve sent him
to. He wants to come back to London. Even if it means returning to St
Christopher’s.’
Was there a correlation between my sigh and her bad news? I didn’t
think it wise to remind her of her own initial enthusiasm. I began to wonder,
were things I said reported back to V? Were we all using Eliza as some sort
of conduit to channel our desires and dissatisfactions?
On the drive back I thought about J and how long he might have been
feeling this way. Was it was serious or simply something he had said, then
forgotten?
‘I’m busy Monday,’ Eliza said. ‘Can we make it next Tuesday instead?’
I turned up the fan heater and nodded, but I didn’t say anything. I was
regretting the whole afternoon. When she invited me in for ‘coffee and a
cuddle’ I shook my head. I felt hurt J hadn’t confided in me. He tells his
mother everything – I’m used to that – but he only sees Eliza one hour a
week. I wondered what else they talked about, J and Eliza, what he felt he
could say to her and not to me.

On Sunday we might drive to town for lunch, then visit a museum or watch
a film, or stay at home. Usually it’s J or V who decides what to do as I am
quite good at choosing the unsuitable. Sometimes we’ll watch a film I have
already seen with Eliza, and I’ll laugh or glaze over or nap for a second
time. Now and then I’ll see the pair of them giggling at something I don’t
understand, or I do, but fail to find funny. It’s as if the air is pure inside the
space they inhabit, while outside I can even taste the pollution. It’s difficult
to explain. J and I were close until he was five or six, then things changed
imperceptibly. It’s as if he is drifting away.
V and I are thinking of having another child, but not until we move to a
bigger place, a better neighbourhood. That’s a contradiction in London, but
we’re looking. We are doing well enough in our jobs, and depending on
which way house prices travel, we will either be in Crouch End next July or
Arnos Grove. We keep moving north on the map and at this rate, in five
years’ time, we will no longer be Londoners.
When J was four V threatened me with divorce if I didn’t stop seeing a
woman I’d met at a sales conference in Leeds. How she found out I will
never know, but she confronted me with it and I did not lie. It wasn’t
serious; it was only three weeks old, but V snuffed it out before it had a
chance to develop. I think she is unaware of my involvement with Eliza
because Eliza is a part of all our lives and she doesn’t seem capable of
arousing another woman’s suspicions: that plain look, the cheap spectacles,
the lank styleless hair. I often imagine ways of ending it, but the deeper you
are involved in something the more difficult it is to extricate yourself.
It’s true, I don’t come out of this very well, but when I look back I can’t
see myself doing things differently. The important part is to recognise that
everyone is all right. It isn’t realistic to expect to be ecstatic in life, for
things to be perfect, for the sun to shine every day. J will get used to
Eastbourne, I will eventually leave Eliza, V and I will have another child. It
just goes on and what seems like a crisis at one time will retreat to a dusty
corner of the mind.

Early Sunday evening I drive J back to school. It’s always awkward because
he has arrived at that difficult age where he tries to hide his emotions. It
rarely works. He’s subdued and he hugs his mother and then drags his feet
to the car. We’ll listen to the Top Forty or to the rest of an audio cassette or
sometimes we’ll get into a discussion, but that’s rare. It’s as if I am taking
him back to his jailer and he’s punishing me for it. Towards the end of the
journey he’ll say something like, ‘Hey, Dad, whe … whe … when we move
can I come back to sch … sch … school in London?’ as if he is simply
asking me to shut the window in his room when I return. I know it takes a
lot for him to ask this, to make it sound effortless, as if it doesn’t mean a
thing. It’s at times like this I almost relent and decide it’s all been a mistake.
‘We’ll see, J. Why don’t we concentrate on doing the best we can?
Maybe next year. Remember how miserable you were at St Christopher’s?’
This elicits a noise – not assent or otherwise – and then a period of
silence. I’ll change the subject and get no response for a minute or two and
then he gives up and talks as if he never asked.
We’ll pull up at the school; usually there are several other cars with the
motors running, and a clutch of boys straggling towards the main doors.
He’ll turn and hug me hard and then run to the building as if he’s afraid of
being locked out. Sometimes I’ll sit and watch, even after the doors close,
and then I’ll sit some more. If it’s summer, I’ll drive to the beach and stare
out at the sea for a time, just thinking, and after that I’ll drive back home.
 SOMETHING IN THE WATER

at the airport in Lagos, Marcia had finally fallen

W
HEN THEY LANDED
asleep. Femi did not bother to wake her. He gazed out of the window
at the landscape and sighed. His thoughts were still in London. He
had not been home in twenty years.
‘We’re here.’ He nudged his sleeping wife. Passengers had begun to
alight from the aircraft.
Marcia stretched and yawned and looked out of the window. ‘You didn’t
wake me up? Damn! Honey, you know I wanted to be awake for the
landing. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’
Femi shrugged. The temperature inside the aeroplane was cool. He
wanted to remain a while longer, but Marcia was up, hauling their bags
from the overhead locker, her face a sack of groggy irritation.
‘There was nothing to see, really,’ Femi said. ‘Only dry land.’ He tried
to recall. ‘Trees. Just trees.’
Marcia let his holdall drop to the floor.
As they shuffled behind the remaining passengers, she peered out of the
cabin windows for her first view of Africa. There was a large glass-covered
concrete building, winking in the sunshine. Not at all what she had
expected. It could have been Logan or O’Hare or anywhere. She sighed.
They shuffled some more. When she emerged into the sunshine, she
momentarily lost her bearings; the atmosphere blew her back a fraction
against her husband.
‘Oh my!’ she breathed and put down her bags.
Femi stared into the heat and felt already drained. He glanced at his
wife. She looked like a woman who was heavily pregnant; a hand against
her brow, the other supporting her back. She was a slim woman, but she had
struck this pose.
 ‘Oh my!’ she said again.
‘Well, here we are,’ Femi said. He kissed his wife but did not smile.

The first hotel they tried had an intermittent water supply. The next had no
generator and the area was in the grip of a power failure. The third had
constant running water and a powerful generator, but no air-conditioning.
They roamed the city in a battered black and ochre taxi. The windows did
not wind up and the shout and frenzy of the streets poured in to greet them.
‘I no get petrol wey for las lon time,’ the driver droned. ‘Mek you mek
choice, quick, quick. Produce more naira.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Marcia asked.
Femi shrugged, pretended he could not understand.
In the end they returned to the third hotel, the place with running water
and standing fans. The room was thread-bare, the walls smudged and faded,
like worn blue jeans. But it was clean and quiet, away from the road. They
ate a light supper of rice and goat stew in the hotel restaurant and retired to
bed early, exhausted and a little disheartened.
By noon the next day, they realised the city, if not the whole country,
was in the grip of a petrol crisis. Vehicles stretched for miles at petrol
stations while soldiers strutted in front of crowds, attempting to keep order.
‘I don’t get it,’ Marcia said. ‘I thought there was a lot of oil here?’
‘I thought so too,’ Femi replied.
‘Plenty, plenty oil,’ the taxi driver snorted. ‘Gov’ament chop money
fine, fine. No leave kobo for common man.’
‘What was that?’ Marcia asked.
‘I think he’s saying he’s hungry,’ Femi replied. ‘Now, lunch wouldn’t be
a bad idea.’

‘Perhaps we should make a move soon, honey?’ Marcia suggested. ‘What

about that place where your uncle’s from?’
They were walking along Bar Beach in the late afternoon, trailing their
feet in the cool gritty spume. A school of Sunday worshippers had set up
along the cinnamon sand. Their white gowns whipped and flailed in the sea
breeze like so many snow geese preparing for flight. Two of their number
had plunged into the water, the soaked white cloth clinging hungrily to their
limbs. Waves smashed all around them. The marooned hulk of a rusting
shipwreck lay in the distance. Not a beach for swimming, Femi thought. A
place to look out at the world, the earth’s edge, and step back, awe-struck
and grateful.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ he replied. ‘First thing. We’ll catch a flight.’ He
held his wife by the waist and kissed her neck.
That night the electricity supply was cut. The generators were not
switched on. Femi woke in the stillness listening in vain for the rotation of
the fan. He could hear his wife’s breath whistling out of her. Her contented
rest. His thighs squelched as he shifted in bed. His body steamed. He threw
the sheet away from himself and waited for sleep to arrive. After an hour of
staring into the dark he began to drift into something that was not quite
unconsciousness. A mosquito sang in his ear. He slapped his head, jolting
fully awake, his heart drumming with that old fear. He covered himself
again, despite the heat, and tried to be still.

The next day they took a domestic flight to Jos, flying over a huge swathe
of country. There was a sense of rushing away from things – from chaos
and heat – that Femi barely acknowledged to himself. He could not explain
to his wife this need for escape, his inability to breathe. It was like the past
repeating itself.
He remembered Jos as a place of happiness. He had travelled there on
holiday with his parents, spending time with his uncle’s family, his wealthy
cousins. The landscape was sparser here, less hostile. It was cooler too, the
air chilly at times. The uncle’s house was old colonial with a stone fire-
place that crackled in the evenings. He did not really need it; it was never
that cold. But the uncle was like that. He held onto things from the past,
from the old days. He could not see that people laughed at him. Tea and
scones in the afternoon.
Femi and Marcia visited the local museums. They drove out to a game
reserve where the animals were shut up in cages. A big zoo. They seemed
morose and lifeless, even the chimpanzees, as if each had come to terms
with a prison sentence.
 ‘Why are they all locked up?’ Marcia asked her husband.
‘Search me,’ he shrugged.
‘But there’s so much land here,’ she exclaimed. ‘It doesn’t make any
sense.’
Femi cornered a park attendant who did not seem to know the reason
either, who appeared more eager to have his picture taken with them, or
rather with Marcia. Femi gazed at her through the viewfinder. In London
people thought she was West Indian. In the Bahamas, where they had spent
their last holiday, they assumed she was African. Here people knew she was
different, but how? And then she opened her mouth and all the heavy words
fell out. She was a bit plain, but people flocked to her as to a movie star. His
American wife. Why was that so important here? A life of privation and
dreams garnered from videos highlighting success and convenience food?
He took two photographs and put away the camera. He could feel the
anger again, spiralling to the surface. ‘Let’s go!’ he called. His feet edged
from side to side. He thought only of the car and the journey back.
There were three park attendants now, enquiring about the Empire State
Building, asking about LA. Marcia had never been to New York. LA was a
place for fallen people, according to her mother.
‘Come on, Marsh! Come on! Let’s go!’ He had not meant to shout.
‘Well, honey, we were only talking.’ She turned to the attendants and
waved in apology. ‘Really, that was rude. You didn’t have to yell like that.’
Her eyes burned in her down-turned face.
He wanted to take it back, the outburst, but it was already too late. He
did not say anything.

The next day they drove to his uncle’s house. Other people lived there now.
It seemed smaller than the house in his memory; a tiny worn-down
bungalow, the expansive grounds nothing but a small yard now. Femi
knocked on the front door. No one answered.
‘We should leave a note, maybe,’ Marcia suggested. ‘Then come back
in the evening or tomorrow. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind showing you
around.’
 ‘Good thinking,’ Femi replied, but really, his heart was not in it. He
wrote a message to say they had called. That his uncle had once lived there.
That they were staying in town – he did not mention the name of the hotel.
Already he was moving away from this place in his mind. It was too close.
It reminded him of them, his parents, and it hurt somewhere he could not
locate. They walked around the perimeter, just once. There were trees he
had touched, had climbed as a child. He let the memories fly up, skirt
around him, flirt. But he would not allow them to touch him, and soon they
sloped away.
They visited the market before catching the bush taxi to Kano, where he
was born.
‘Oh, I just can’t wait to see it,’ Marcia gushed in the hotel. ‘Home sweet
home, no less.’
He smiled, but wondered. Home? He didn’t know quite what she meant.
The place you loved; that you returned to; somewhere that drew you back
again?
They went to the money changer to exchange some twenty pound notes
for naira. When they finished counting the money it filled a carrier bag.
Their hands were gloved in scum.
They bargained for leather goods as presents for friends and colleagues.
There were acres of printed material, bright as orchids, a chime of fuchsias;
their tubular bells. They walked about the car port until they discovered the
Jos–Kano bay.
‘Three thousand,’ a driver said.
‘Three thousand what?’ Femi barked. ‘One thousand!’ The haggling
was wearing him out. He wanted everything to be fixed, battened down,
made comprehensible. ‘One thousand, my friend.’
The driver laughed out loud. He spoke to the driver of the next car, in
Hausa. Femi could not understand. They laughed some more and sighed
and wiped the sweat from their foreheads as if the humour of the situation
had made them expend excessive energy.
‘Two thousand seven,’ the driver said. ‘Las price.’ He could see they
were from elsewhere, that they were different. Where else could they go?
 Femi sighed and handed over their bags.
‘You heard the man,’ he said to Marcia. ‘Pay him the money.’
‘You sure it’s okay to count it out here?’ Marcia asked, looking about.
‘There’s nowhere else,’ Femi replied. He forced himself to be
nonchalant, to hide his own anxiety.
She counted out one hundred and thirty-five notes, and handed them
gingerly to the driver. She retrieved a baby wipe to clean her fingers. They
sat and waited.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Marcia asked after ten minutes had passed.
There were three passengers already in the station wagon. The driver
and the other passengers were in no hurry. An old woman abandoned the
front seat and scuttled towards the market. A bearded man slept.
‘He need to full his moto,’ said a man in a navy caftan behind them.
Femi turned. ‘What do you mean? The car’s already full.’
‘Not full,’ the man replied. ‘Plenty space.’
Minutes later the old woman returned. A boy carrying a plastic bucket
of oranges trailed behind her. He set it down outside the open front door.
She fanned herself as he pared the rind off the fruit so rapidly it was a
wonder his hands were unblemished. He bored a hole in the centre of each
orange. The woman held up a limp regal hand, offered him some notes.
‘Where’s the camera?’ Marcia said. ‘I need to take this.’
‘What for?’ Femi asked.
‘For posterity. Quick, give me the camera before he’s done.’ She took
her photographs and re-entered the car, smiling. ‘Mom’ll just love these
pictures.’
Three people arrived all at once, a family: a woman and her grown-up
daughters. The driver told Marcia and Femi and the man in the caftan to get
out of the car. The bearded man still slept. The new arrivals squeezed into
the small area in the rear of the vehicle. Everyone bundled in again – all the
space was filled – and the car began to move slowly out of the market,
through the congested city, past petrol stations where people seemed to
have been thronging for days, into the wilderness.
 There was the division again between city and country. Between excess
and emptiness, turmoil and peace. No one could remember when people
began leaving the land to occupy the cities.
They stopped for food at a roadside buka two hours later. The bearded
man needed to relieve himself. They tumbled out of the cramped car and
stretched their limbs.
‘It’s boiling again,’ Femi noted. They had climbed down from the
plateau and the temperature had soared. He thought of the city back home.
London. Its midwinter shiver. The snow and ice they had left behind.
Home. When had that occurred, this subtle transference of affection for
another place? Like a love, adulterous and unwitting. He wiped the glaze of
sweat from his face, took a gulp of warm water from the bottle. He pinched
his shirt away from his stomach. It flew back, soaking, sucking greedily
against him. Never before had he longed for the icy embrace of cold.
‘Everyone’s so friendly here, honey,’ Marcia said, returning from a food
stall. She had bought chinchin and fried plantain chips, sealed in plastic
bags. ‘Let’s go join the others.’ She moved off without awaiting a reply.
They sat at low wooden tables with splintered formica surfaces. Marcia
ordered pepper soup because the woman in the back of the car
recommended it.
‘I’ll share with you,’ Femi said. ‘I’m not that hungry. You’ll never finish
it anyway.’
‘Oh yeah!’ Marcia said conspiratorially to the woman who had given
her the advice. ‘Just watch me.’ The women laughed.
The food arrived and Marcia could manage only two mouthfuls. She
drained half a bottle of Star beer in five minutes. ‘I feel like my mouth is
eroding,’ she whispered to Femi. She crunched the plantain chips, her teeth
making small, requisite moves. ‘Boy, could I do with some water.’
‘Drink the beer,’ her husband advised. ‘We’ll buy some more water in
town. When we get there.’
Femi ate the soup slowly, the way his mother had taught him. Even
though he was not hungry and his mouth burned, he finished the dish. A
memory savoured. His mother had always emphasized thoroughness in
cooking, never eating at the roadside, boiling the water. When she prepared
the fiery stews, she showed him how to approach them so that the pleasure
would overwhelm the pain. As a boy he could always outshine his friends
when eating pepper soup. He coughed now, just once, but that was the only
betrayal.
The travellers squeezed into the car again. Femi felt the wind on his
face with relief; he was feverish with heat. He wanted to leave this place
now, to be on an aeroplane high above here, sipping vodka on ice, watching
a blockbuster. But Marcia wanted to visit the town where he had been born.
There was a panic now inside him, a pressure behind the eyes, an angry
migraine. He was afraid it would reveal itself to anyone who peered too
closely. The wind lapped eagerly at his face. The driver said some words he
could not hear. Everyone else laughed.
Ahead of them the landscape grew more and more indistinct. In this part
of the country the dust from the desert was beginning to unravel. Soon it
would rise, thick and all-engulfing, sweep its way across the land, finding
its way into every crevice, covering surfaces in a thin beige blanket.
It was like a dream now, the horizon stretching on for ever, flat and
uneventful. Sparse vegetation. They had not passed a town or a village in
over an hour. The old woman and one of the women at the back slept. It
seemed to Femi they were moving in slow motion – the wind, the dust, the
slight swaying of the driver’s head. Marcia was spellbound by the scenery.
He saw her blink, her eyelids droop, resting closed for a moment, then
rising only halfway. Soon she too would sleep. He envied her ability to do
so in the discomfort of the car.
He wanted her to sleep and when she woke to be safe in bed in London.
He would bring her tea and the buttered waffles she loved. They would talk
and laugh. It would be easy. He could not remember why he had brought
her here. It felt reckless now and irresponsible. He did not know what he
would do if he lost her. There had been too much loss here. That was clear
to him now.
And then it seemed to him they were slowing. He could no longer feel
the wind or hear the churn of the engine. No one reacted. Neither the driver
nor the bearded man behind him, nor any of the other occupants.
 Femi nudged his wife. ‘Something’s happening,’ he whispered. He had
this sudden fear, a vision, a memory: here in the semi-desert, no authority
around – men with cutlasses appearing from the bush, pools of blood beside
still necks. The car was crawling now, but they remained on the highway.
At the last moment, the driver veered onto the lay-by.
‘Weytin dey pass?’ one of the men asked at last.
‘Humph! Petrol finis,’ the driver replied. He did not sound concerned.
The old woman fanned herself. The other man was fast asleep. The
family in the back stared out of the window, fascinated by everything
around them.
‘Now what?’ Marcia asked, excited. This was part of an adventure for
her.
‘Maybe they’ll send another taxi,’ Femi said, but his voice was
uncertain. ‘Either that or we’ll have to wait for a car to pass by.’
They tumbled out of the vehicle again, stretching along the side of the
road. There was no escape from the sun. No shade, no breeze. They waited.
Then two men on bicycles approached. Femi could not understand
where they were going in all this nothingness, where they had come from.
He could not remember the last time he had seen human life after the
restaurant. The cyclists stopped for the waving driver. He greeted them in
Hausa and explained the situation. Then he untied a jerry can dangling off
the side of the car, a baby against a mother’s hip. One of the cyclists
alighted while the driver took his place. He cycled off into the distance like
a man with all the time in the world. The man who had loaned the bicycle
ambled down the bank and into the bush.
‘What’s he doing?’ Marcia asked. ‘Where’s he going?’
Femi shrugged. He did not know these things, what lay off the beaten
track of life. How other people lived. He wanted to be back on the road,
safe and well-informed. He thought of trains and coaches, aeroplanes that
adhered to schedules. Running water, endless electricity. He craved these
things. They made him more secure in the world.
He glanced about. ‘Anything could happen out here,’ he said. He had
heard stories of highway robbers, groups of a hundred men and more with
guns and cutlasses, stopping whole stretches of traffic, killing everyone,
sparing no one. And here they were, a single car without a driver. Sweat
meandered down his sideburns, dripped off the edge of his chin. The panic
pushed up behind his eyes again.
‘Like what?’ Marcia asked. Her eyes were alive with the experience.
‘Whad’ya mean? There’s nothing out there.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Femi said. ‘Do you remember the last time we
passed a petrol station? Who knows how long the driver’s going to be.’
‘Oh, it’ll be all right, honey,’ she said. ‘Look, no one else is bothered.’
The family of three had climbed down the bank and were taking
photographs. The old woman had spread out her wrapper on the grass. She
and the bearded man unpacked plastic containers in preparation for a meal.
The other man walked off for a distance and squatted beside the bush. He
hitched up his caftan and a thick stream of urine bubbled into the soil.
‘Stop staring!’ Marcia nudged her husband, giggling. ‘How would you
like it?’
The old woman waved to them, but Femi remained rooted. He looked
off into the bush from where he could hear a faint tinkling of bells. Three
boys emerged. Behind them trailed a thin herd of cattle, the bones almost
jutting through the hide. They passed the stranded passengers, the
abandoned car, as if they were apparitions not to be paid attention to.
The man in the caftan joined the picnickers. He called out to Femi, who
only waved back and turned his head. He felt removed from the others, yet
compelled to stand aside. He thought of his mother then, and of all that was
lost.
He looked out at the wilderness wondering how he had arrived here, this
point in his life. The journey had been a mistake. The heat only fanned the
anger that stirred in him, but he could not explain it.
‘Hey there, honey.’ Marcia walked towards him holding something, he
could not tell what. She wore sunglasses, a light print dress and sandals.
Her brow was clear and dry. She had become another person here; this
unfettered creature emerging out of his wife’s skin. She looked the same,
made a similar sound, but there was no disquiet, no fluster in her. ‘Here,
have some water,’ she said, holding out a tin cup. ‘The nice lady gave us
some water. It’s too hot out here. You’re parched.’
‘Marsh, I’ve told you a thousand fucking times not to drink the water!’
The exasperation burst out of him, raw and uncontrolled.
She winced. The others turned to look.
‘Oh, be quiet!’ she said, but without passion. She was tired of his anger,
his strangeness here. She entered the car, leaned her head against the door
and closed her eyes.
Femi paced along the bank, avoiding the others, implacable. Was there a
word to describe this feeling? Could such a corrosive phrase exist? As the
heat from the chilli had leaked into the pepper soup, so he felt the wrath
being bled out of his pores. His damp skin tingled with rage. His mother
had died from the cholera. Something in the water. Then his father a year
later. From the loneliness. Ungovernable grief. And here he was, his own
invincible army of one. Who was there to blame? He could not make sense
of it, even after all the years. He looked out at the savannah. God isn’t here,
he whispered to himself. And then he wept, hard and bitterly, crouching
down to the soil.
In the car Marcia’s eyes were still closed. He did not know if she was
sleeping. He slid in quietly and sat for a moment, staring out at the
shimmering road. He leaned his head against her shoulder and she moved to
accommodate him. She sighed, long and heavily. ‘You are not alone,’ she
said.
 MRS MINTER

of Shree at night and sometimes when I wake – depending

I
OFTEN DREAM
on the kind of dream I’ve had – I’m afraid that she’s passed on. Often she
is staring straight at me, smiling, her peppered hair bunched loosely in
yellow netting. ‘You were dreaming, dear,’ she’ll say, or sometimes she
can’t locate the words. Her face looks blank. There are times when she is
sound asleep and still, and I’ll nudge her until she stirs. She doesn’t mind
this – she never complains and she nearly always smiles. She is happy
enough to see me in the middle of the night and, as for me, it is always a
relief to know she’s alive.
Last night I dreamed we were both under water. I kept trying to swim
towards her, but however hard I swam, I seemed to drift the other way. She
was young in this dream, I don’t think I was, but she looked about twenty-
five. That’s over half a century ago.
Shree almost never wakes me up or seeks me out in a blind panic and, I
suppose, that’s a measure of how different we are after all these years – one
calm, the other a worrier. I think that is how it has always been. It is hard to
remember; my memory is not so good these days – there are swathes of my
past lost in the wilderness.

Twice a week we are driven to the centre for what Shree likes to call her
morning workouts, her exercises for the mind. We are more or less at the
beginning of the route, but I like that; I enjoy the journey in. The staff who
do the rounds – Yvonne and Bernie at present – maintain a constant banter.
As we pick up other people – singles mostly, mainly women, a few couples
– there is the impression of bustle and conversation. But it’s only Yvonne
and Bernie filling the space with their chatter, and sometimes one or other
of the passengers speaking quietly, and Mr Cooper who can be
unpredictable. Sometimes you cannot get a peep out of him, but some
mornings he talks non-stop. His voice is a small car screeching to a halt in a
motorway pile-up. It’s good to have a little extra noise, but after five
minutes of Gervase Cooper I am ready to return to the quiet. We collect him
towards the end of the journey, so I only have to endure his voice for
minutes at most – seven minutes on the way in, same again on the journey
home – unless he joins us for lunch. Mr Cooper suffers from a condition
which leaves him in a dead slump one day, bafflingly overexcited the next.
There is a physical change too: his face comes alive, his eyes glisten, his
body becomes more animated – and then there is this voice that could
subdue an aviary.
When she left St Lucia, Shree was twenty-two and I was already living
in London. I had arrived two years earlier, but I was still unused to the pace
of things – the change in seasons, the damp cold. A man who lived above
me once developed a terrible hacking cough. All night he barked alone and
bitterly in his room, so forcefully that I was convinced he would die. But he
had no visitors the whole week. No one came to care for him in all that
time. That was a revelation to me – how other people live. Zaria already
seemed a distant memory, like something I had once imagined – the dry,
lazy heat and the amicable noise of people. Had I dreamed it? Had it all
been real? Often I craved the sight of something familiar: a market seller in
a bright buba and head-tie hawking her wares in the afternoon sun. Or the
smell and taste of fresh egusi soup. It is surprising what you can miss –
such little things – when you are away from them for too long. Shree used
to tell me she remembered the sound of birdsong in the mornings, the way
the separate households stirred at dawn, familiar voices in the
neighbourhood: her mother’s warbling as she washed the family’s clothes,
her father’s uneven footfall – one step slow, the other quick – the result of a
birth defect. Her three loquacious sisters. All that she left behind.
When we arrive at the centre, we move off in separate directions. Mrs
Walters, who is confined to a wheelchair, is taken to a wing I have never
visited. Mr Cooper, depending on his mood, will either skip ahead of us or
straggle behind. Sometimes Bernie will have to help him along, but that’s
rare. Usually he makes it on his own.
Shree and I meander along the corridors until we arrive at the green
waiting room. Green because of the spinach-coloured carpet, I suppose, and
the walls, which are pale and watery as spring onions. There is plenty of
time since we always arrive about twenty minutes early.
‘Tea, dear?’ Shree sometimes asks at the entrance.
‘Tea?’ I’ll reply. ‘Well, let me see …’ And we’ll stand in front of the
kiosk vacillating for a minute or two before we walk away. In all the time
we’ve been visiting the centre, we have never bought anything to eat or
drink as soon as we’ve arrived.

The ground floor corridor doubles as a sort of gallery, with drawings and
paintings by local school children, sometimes from even further afield.
Once there was a set of black and white photographs by an American
woman artist. Strays and runaways. Children, I mean. I don’t know how she
discovered them, but there they were with their various expressions:
scornful, bewildered, skittish, despondent. Shree liked these very much, but
they disturbed me. I wanted to know why they had run away in the first
place, what they were thinking at the time, where they were planning to go
after the photograph had been taken. The pictures were displayed on the
walls for several months and each time we travelled along the corridor and
Shree smiled or gazed at one of her favourite portraits, the same question
would return to haunt me: Where is this particular child now? The
possibilities seemed endless and I always feared the worst. I was glad when
they replaced the photographs with a contribution of finger paintings by a
group of nursery-school children. I did not have to worry about those and
they brightened up the corridor.
Usually there are ten minutes or so of waiting time in the Green Room.
Shree and I leaf through old magazines or glance around, perhaps make
comments – there might be someone new there and we’ll talk quietly about
that. Just last week there was a newcomer – a young man – who whispered
into his mobile phone before he was collected. Nerves, I suppose.
Sometimes we sit in silence. We are not great talkers, Shree and I, or at least
I’m not. Shree used to be, but things have changed now. Sometimes it’s
difficult for her.
At precisely ten o’clock Mrs Minter’s face looms up from behind the
glass panels of the double doors. She breezes through, smiling politely. It
often seems as if there’s a gust of warm air spilling out from the corridor
behind her, but I suspect that’s just the effect she has; her dresses billow
around her and she always holds herself erect. She reminds me of
something ocean-going. She is ample, Mrs Minter, and that gives her a
certain presence. She has a slight moustache above her upper lip.
Her arrival at the doors is our cue to get up. She waits patiently for us,
still smiling, holding the door ajar. I always accompany Shree the fifteen
feet or so to Mrs Minter. It’s habit I guess. She once said that Mrs Minter
thought me chivalrous for doing so, but I don’t believe that’s the reason at
all. Shree and I are not apart for much of the day, so there is always an
empty feeling when I leave her for any period of time – or rather, she leaves
me. When we are in bed at night, falling asleep, I’ll look across at her, or
she might say something, and there is always this anxiety that I will never
see her again. A last word, a final look – it isn’t much, but it brings some
comfort. That is how I feel when I’m walking with Shree to Mrs Minter,
handing her over, being left behind.
‘Good morning, Mr Akinsola,’ Mrs Minter says to me, or more often
simply, ‘Morning.’ And then the double doors are swinging behind them
and I am left to my own devices.
My granddaughter Evelyn once asked me whether I got tired of waiting
for her grandmother in that place. She had come to stay for a couple of days
and she had driven us to the centre the morning she was due to leave. It was
kind of her to offer, but I missed the routine of the bus, its occupants,
Yvonne and Bernie’s running commentary. Evelyn read magazines while
we waited for Shree, or, rather, she flicked the pages vigorously. I felt
obliged to sit with her. It made me tense, her boredom. I always find things
to do: there is a television room, there are newspapers and magazines,
sometimes I like to sit and think. Evelyn is of a generation where
everything moves too quickly. There is no time to reflect.
A couple of years ago Shree underwent hip-replacement surgery and
even though the operation was a success, she did not seem to recover her
spirits. She was listless and enervated, although walking was much easier
now. What worried me most was that she spoke less. She did not seem to
have the energy or the inclination to talk. She did not complain about pain
or anything else. She only claimed that the operation had taken a lot out of
her and that she simply needed rest. But she was resting constantly, when in
fact, the time had come for her to begin to exercise her joints, to be more
active. She wasn’t interested in that. After several follow-up consultations
at the hospital during which the doctors repeatedly confirmed what an
improvement the artificial hip was, it was gradually deduced that Shree was
not feeling so good in herself – that is to say she was depressed. In all the
years I have known her, Shree has always been buoyant, the life-force of the
family – so this new development surprised and troubled me. It seemed like
something unwieldy that could not be tended to, unlike Shree’s hip, or the
chicken pox all of my children endured, or the time I broke my arm. It was
a mystery to me. Our doctor suggested she talk to someone – to a
professional – but she wasn’t having any of that, and I agreed. I tried to talk
her out of her low mood. I even lost my temper on two occasions when, to
me, she did not seem to be trying hard enough to help herself. She cried
both times and I felt ashamed. Our children visited more often, with their
own children. We went out more. But nothing seemed to work. The
situation began to feel hopeless. In the end we went back to our doctor who
repeated his original suggestion. That is how we have ended up travelling to
the centre, listening to Yvonne and Bernie, wondering whether Mr Cooper
will be shrieking or stunned into a stupor, looking out for new patients on
the bus. Shree talks to Mrs Minter twice a week and I know she enjoys
everything about the day: the journey in, the moments before the session,
her fifty-minute therapy, lunch in the canteen afterwards. When Evelyn
drove us that one time, she insisted we drive back immediately after the
session, rather than wait for lunch. ‘I’ll make you a lovely meal myself,’
she suggested. ‘Or we can go to a restaurant. Much better than canteen
food.’
It was kind of her, but secretly we missed the extra time in the centre,
the familiar faces at lunch, the bus journey back. It’s a routine we have got
used to. Mr Cooper sometimes eats with us, especially if he’s in an
agreeable mood. Otherwise he sits by himself in a corner, waiting quietly
for the bus to take us back to our homes. Or we might eat with Mrs
MacDiarmid who visits the centre once a week with her daughter Philippa
and sometimes Philippa’s two boys, but that’s rare. I see them, those boys,
like Evelyn, scratching a nose or an eyebrow, eyes roaming the room,
fingertips tapping the table top incessantly. Can I blame them? Was I the
same at their age? If I had stayed behind to take care of my mother, my
grandfather, would boredom have been my fate?
I didn’t stay. I left home when I was a young man. I was impatient for
life to begin and the navy afforded me that possibility. There were places I
travelled to I could not record in letters, sights so wonderful it was
heartbreaking to be unable to share them with family and friends. But the
more I saw, the more I thirsted, fearing I would spill memories along the
way. I began to dread the return home, that small and inconsequential place.
Home became, in my mind, a kind of prison; once it got hold of me again it
would never release me. When I arrived in Liverpool for the third visit,
England began to seem like a place that could become another home to me.
I was a much braver man then than I have ever been in my life – my
spirit of adventure was strong. It led me to places and situations that, even
shortly afterwards, I would have been wary of. Perhaps I was foolish in my
youth? Everything seemed driven by impulse. But when I met Shree in
London, she made me calmer in myself and my priorities began to change.
When she was pregnant with our first child, Comfort, I held down three
jobs so that we could cope. I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that before I
met her. And those early jobs – school caretaker, security guard, cleaner –
did not seem so loathsome to me then. I was happy enough to do them for
Shree and the baby – for all of us – and Ronke and Nicholas who came after
that.

Sometimes when I’m waiting for Shree, I’ll wander back to the canteen for
lemon tea, the only hot drink my stomach agrees with. It means walking
through the gallery again; usually I don’t give the pictures a second glance.
But when that American photographer exhibited all those months ago, I
would always return to the corridor to study the photographs. I could not
manage them all during one of Shree’s sessions – I cannot stand for too
long at any one time. But whenever I looked at a photograph, something
new would present itself to me: a battered car in the background or a bird or
the shape of the clouds, some detail. A child would hold a hint of a smirk
whereas the time before he or she had simply looked vacant to me. I would
never spend more than a few minutes in front of each portrait, except for the
one that Shree liked the most – a photograph of a boy who looked too small
for his years, as if his body had followed a more languid schedule. It was
entitled Kentucky-8. His skin was so dark it swallowed his eyes, which
seemed sallow and squeezed from squinting. He looked Malinke, but his
bearing betrayed his American upbringing – a little unfocused and wary, yet
he held himself intrepidly. Despite that the boy grinned out of the frame at
Shree and me for months as we walked to the waiting room and back. This
was her favourite photograph and the one I liked the least. We did not talk
about it, but I guessed what drew her to it. Sometimes I would stand in front
of him and think of all his possibilities: would he run further away from
home, would there be danger ahead, unscrupulous people who might harm
him or turn his head? Or would he become discouraged as each minute of
his new-found freedom elapsed and long for the family he had left behind? I
hoped it was the latter. I tried not to consider the family at all, what he
would return to, what had made him flee in the first place.
It annoyed me when Shree lingered in front of this photograph. I would
want to walk straight past it, but she would always stop and gaze, perhaps
spend a few minutes looking at some of the others. It’s strange, but Shree
did not seem to mind when the photographs were replaced. She said, ‘Oh,
those lovely photos have gone, dear. But look, these ones are nice too,’
referring to the finger paintings. Perhaps they reminded her of the days
when she was a school teacher. She could always find some detail to praise
in something a child assumed he had struggled with unsuccessfully.
We had a boy, but he died when he was barely a man. There were
pressures in his life, this life, and he did not come to us for help. He left us,
much as I had left my own family, although he did not leave behind a
country or even a city. He was right here in London, but he was lost to us
and we could not reach him. We could not find him. He seemed determined
not to be located and when he returned to us, he was no longer living. They
said he fell in with some rough types and one day he got into a fight with a
so-called friend. This was along a fairly quiet street, but there were people
there – it was the middle of the afternoon. When Nicholas fell, and he was
dying when he fell, he was not alone – there were people who could have
helped him. But in the end, no one was prosecuted. There were vague
rumours among his acquaintances but they were a wild bunch. No good
could have emerged from them. Perhaps I shouldn’t say that? After all,
Nicholas was one of their number. They were all boys once who ran and
smiled, who may have giggled deliriously when they were tickled. But
everything about it hurts me. There is not one single aspect of the situation
that provides consolation: Nicholas’s disappearance, the people he
associated with, the manner of his death, the failure of anyone to come
forward as a witness. There were men and women and children who saw.
Who understands these things?
Nicholas was the baby and our only son, and I think for Shree his death
was so much harder to bear. They used to talk freely with one another, but it
was always difficult for me to know him, to be easy with him. I don’t know
why this should have been, except to say that my own father was a stranger
to me from beginning to end.
When Shree returns from Mrs Minter her face is impenetrable; I’ll have
no idea what she has been talking about. Sometimes she will tell me a little
of what they have been discussing. Sometimes I will ask whether
everything is all right and she might say something about it. But I don’t ask
outright – it is not my place to pry and I don’t feel she’s keeping secrets
from me.

A few months ago, after one of her sessions, Shree seemed upset; she would
not look me in the eye and she answered in monosyllables. At lunch she
shifted her food about the plate. When we arrived back home, she kept
getting up to tidy this or to wash that, so that there was a sense of constant
motion which began to unsettle me. I slipped into the bedroom to take a nap
and escape her irritability. No sooner had I lay down and closed my eyes,
than she appeared – dust cloth in one hand, furniture polish in the other –
spraying and wiping the chest of drawers, the bedside tables, brushing
imaginary dust from the lamp shades.
‘Oh, did I disturb you, dear?’ she asked when I forced open my eyes
and groaned (I had been wide awake). ‘You go back to sleep, dear. I’ve
finished in here.’ And with that she left the room.
At dinner she seemed to have calmed down. She was eating and was
less restless than earlier in the day. But still quiet.
‘Jide?’ She broke the silence. I knew something was coming, but I
could not guess what. I could hear the faint clamour of an ambulance siren
from one of the neighbouring streets. I wondered whether it would draw
closer. Sometimes I think, we both do, that it has come for someone we
know.
‘Yes, dear,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s nothing,’ she sighed. Like the ambulance, she was
drawing away.
But I was curious now. ‘This chicken is delicious. Much better than the
one we had at lunch. That was all grease,’ I tried. ‘But you didn’t eat very
much of yours. Were you not feeling well?’ She had not touched the roast at
all.
‘No, I wasn’t so hungry,’ she replied. ‘I shouldn’t have taken the food in
the first place.’ And then she fell silent again.
I did not want to ask outright what the matter was, but I did not want
that to be the end of it. After another few minutes of quiet I said, ‘I may be
mistaken, but I’m sure Mrs Minter is getting fatter. I thought so today, for a
while now. Such a young girl – she should be careful not to let herself go.
She’s only asking for trouble.’
Mrs Minter’s first name is Deborah. We hardly ever call her that.
‘Oh, she’s just fine,’ Shree rallied to Mrs Minter’s defence. ‘She’s not
getting bigger. In fact, I think she’s losing weight. Just a little. But certainly
she’s not putting any on.’
‘Oh, yes?’ I said.
‘Mmm,’ Shree continued. ‘I’ve even wanted to tell her so myself, but I
don’t, of course. It might cause offence.’
When we were younger, throughout our thirties and forties, Shree had a
spirit coupled with a temper that could take on the most arrogant bully. I
learned to argue with her in quiet ways, without recourse to shouting or
bellicosity. If I lost my temper and began to yell, I would always lose the
argument, regardless of whether I was right or wrong. But after Nicholas
died, Shree could never rise to her old heights again and I began to miss
that part of her. Something had been peeled away from her, from both of us,
and it had left her exposed and vulnerable.
 ‘Remember when you were talking about retiring and we couldn’t
decide what to do?’ she began quietly.
‘Oh, yes?’ I said again.
‘It doesn’t seem so long ago, does it? But it’s been years and years.’
‘Um … yes, it has,’ I replied. I did not know why she had to bring up
that business again. I lifted a forkful of chicken and sweet potato curry to
my lips, let it hover, then lowered it again.
‘That’s what we were talking about this morning, Mrs Minter and I.’
I sighed, which could have meant anything – fatigue, contentment,
annoyance, gluttony – but I did not say a word. When Shree retired she had
been teaching for over thirty years. She was one of those people who love
their work; if it had been financially viable, she would have done it without
the salary. She was always good with children – with our own as well as her
school kids. I would watch her sometimes, sitting at the back of a class in
which our daughter Ronke was a pupil. She had a way of making even the
slowest student feel cared for and appreciated; she gave them all the
encouragement they needed to thrive and in return she was loved more like
a mother than a teacher.
She wanted to return to St Lucia after she retired. She was fed up with
the winters, and except for our children who were grown anyway, there was
no reason for her to stay. There was me, of course. I hadn’t retired, but that
would happen soon enough. She wanted to be close to her sisters again. She
felt it like an ache within her. She grew excited, drew up plans for the
future. Everything was clear in her mind then.
Meanwhile, I continued to work, past my retirement date. Every day I
would think about Shree’s spoken plans and would consider my own desires
which I had not verbalised. I too wanted to escape the cold, but to my own
country, not to St Lucia – that wasn’t my home, the place where I had lived
as a boy. Its smells and foods and geography were unfamiliar to me. Even
though I had travelled many times to visit Shree’s family, settling there
seemed like starting out all over again.
When I eventually vocalised my thoughts, so much time had elapsed
that Shree’s plans were almost concrete in her mind. She could not take
what I had to say seriously. She kept expecting me to yield, to see things
from her point of view. But the opposite occurred – with each passing day, I
dug in my heels until I was adamant that we would return to Zaria. Of
course Shree would not come back with me and I would not live in
Soufrière. It was too far away. We were both strangers to the other’s
country. So we remained in London; our children and grandchildren were
here.
‘Look, you’ve only eaten half your chicken,’ Shree pointed out as we
cleared the dining table. She was becoming more animated now.
‘It’s probably best that we’re still here,’ she said, rinsing a side plate
under a lukewarm tap. ‘I mean, we get to see the children whenever we
want, right? I would have missed them too much if we’d moved away.’
‘Everything we need is right here,’ I said. ‘Besides, it’s too late to
change now.’ I hoped that would be the end of it.

There was a time when I was younger, when I wanted to return home to see
the people I had grown up with – cousins, neighbours, even primary school
friends. My parents were no longer alive then, but there was this pull that
made it uncomfortable for me to be in England, an awkwardness in my
geography. I travelled back a few times over a period of years, searching for
opportunities. I almost invested all our savings in a soft-drinks company,
and although Shree wasn’t keen on the idea, she did not hold me back. At
the last minute I shrank away from the venture – the pitfalls seemed too
great to gamble everything we owned. In the end the company struggled for
years and then flourished. It is doing well to this day, but I can’t agonise
over that. I am glad, in a way, that I withdrew. There were times in Zaria
when I did not know who to turn to, who to trust. All the sure foundations
of my life in London did not apply there. Nothing seemed without an
element of risk: the contractors we considered, the other investors, even the
night drive from the airport in Lagos to the hotel seemed hazardous. I was a
stranger again as I had been in London all those years ago. This did not
come so much as a shock to me, but as an observation – this gradual loss of
something as I invested my life in Shree and the children, our house, my
work, the friends we gained. I could only gaze at both extremes in my life
and accept that the changes were beyond my control.
 There were a few years before I settled down with Shree when I felt
adrift in the world. Everything was strange. I did not wish to return home,
but I did not feel comfortable in this new place – and I was hungry for
something else. Often I wanted to jump aboard a ship and set sail. But there
was nowhere I could go, nowhere I needed to be. I changed jobs frequently,
moved from flat to flat. There were many affairs in my life, and parties, but
nothing could assuage my restlessness. Only years later did I understand
that there had been a great need then to make the choice to settle. No one
tells you you need a firm sense of place in the world until it’s too late and
you’re floundering – a poor skater on black ice.

Several months ago we stopped using the upstairs rooms; we live on the
ground floor now. It was a problem for Shree to manage the stairs with her
difficult hip, and I had no need to journey between both floors. Late one
night I wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water; the distance from our
bedroom to the kitchen is now very short. I drank looking out of the sliding
doors. In the moonlight, roaming about in the garden, were two foxes and
their cubs. At first I was startled – they looked like apparitions. I woke
Shree and told her what I had seen. She crept into the kitchen, and I feared
the foxes might have gone; they may have been a figment of my
imagination. But there they were – Shree grinned like a girl when she saw
them. She sucked in her breath and held a hand to her mouth.
After five minutes the foxes disappeared. We couldn’t sleep. Shree
switched on the kitchen light and began to prepare a pot of lemon tea. Her
hair was still bound in its netting and she kept tugging at the sleeves of her
nightdress to prevent them getting wet. We sipped the tea in silence,
occasionally looking out of the sliding doors.
‘It’s nice like this,’ Shree said at one point. ‘So quiet outside. Peaceful.’
In a while the dawn would materialise and another day would begin. I
thought of Mrs Minter then, sleeping soundly, her large frame rising and
falling, the breath whistling out of her.
 ANOTHER WOMAN

there?’ the barman asks. ‘Want another?’ He glances at

‘Y
OU ALL RIGHT
her, quickly shifts his gaze to a table near the centre of the room
where a group sits, watching. He reddens. She makes him nervous,
the old woman sitting by herself. Not talking.
‘No, I’m just fine with this,’ she smiles. ‘Thank you.’ She cups the half
pint of stout with her small dry hands as if it is something warm. Life
giving. She glances at her watch and sighs, looks at the weathered old men,
the young people, the girl near the door, her watch again. Barely a minute
has passed.
Someone laughs, too loud, and she feels it in her spine. A table of
youngsters in the corner, all of them with too much to drink, and still only
early evening.
She waits until eight and drains her glass. With relief she swings away
from the bar and gingerly steps off the stool. She takes time to fix the
buttons of her cardigan. She wants to draw feeling back into her legs which
are stiff and sore from so much sitting.
‘Goodnight.’ She smiles at the barman.
‘Night,’ he says.
She walks past the glances, noticing how the conversation dips, past the
girl by the entrance who does not look at her, who has her eyes fixed firmly
on the door, into the parched mouth of the summer evening.
She hails the first bus that arrives, taking her south of the river, over the
bridge with the glinting water below. She knows it is another kind of
journey in the winter. Colder. Wetter. Miserable. But she does not want to
remember that now. The conductor walks past – he does not stop – all the
way to the front of the bus. He peers at the road ahead, turns and walks
towards her. She rummages for her pass in the pockets of her cardigan. As
the conductor draws close she looks up. Again he does not stop. She squints
then sits back. She holds her breath, not knowing where she is, what is
happening, seeing her own brother who has twice walked past, not
acknowledging her, not checking tickets, not smiling, moving on.
She turns to gaze at him as he stands on the platform. His hair is not as
neat as she would like; bushy at the back and sides, with the smooth lake of
brown skin at the crown, the whole effect peppered with grey. She realises
her mistake. She sees the resemblance, but nothing else. This man is taller
and too lean and he does not smile. But she cannot take her eyes off him. It
leaves her troubled for the remainder of the journey.

‘Taiwo? Is that you? Tai? How was it?’ her husband calls from the
bathroom when he hears the clunk of the front door.
‘Fine, dear,’ she calls back. ‘I’ll tell you later. You have your bath.’ She
can see him in her mind, standing, dripping there, wondering whether to
come down immediately or finish his bath, unable to reach a decision. She
hears the bathroom door shut.
She stands in the hallway of their home listening to the gentle tinkling
of bath water, the faint revving of traffic outside. She cannot shake off the
shock of the bus conductor. The terrier barks once and she looks down.
‘Delphi, look at you!’ she says. ‘You nearly gave me a fright.’ She
opens the patio door to allow the dog outside. She draws the curtains on the
ground floor and prepares the tea and sandwiches they always have upstairs
before bed.
‘I hope you opened the window, Raymond,’ she calls as she approaches
the landing. ‘I don’t want it all misty in there.’
Her husband opens the door and stands in his dressing gown, his grey
hair damp and dishevelled, his skin pink, almost steaming. She likes it that
at his age he has retained most of his hair.
‘Oh, Raymond, cover yourself. I’m too old for shocks.’
He turns and fastens the cord of his dressing gown.
‘I hope the bath wasn’t too hot,’ she says. ‘I keep telling you not to use
too much hot water, Raymond. It’s not good for your heart.’
 ‘I didn’t use too much hot,’ he protests. ‘Stop worrying so much.
You’ve got enough worry for ten people.’
She glances into the bathroom, at the open window, and makes a barely
audible click with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Neither
approval nor disapproval. ‘Let’s have the sandwiches before the tea goes
cold,’ she says. ‘Nothing worse than lukewarm tea.’
They sit in chairs at one end of the bedroom styled after the many hotel
rooms in which they have stayed. Two easy chairs frame a small circular
glass table where they sometimes have breakfast. They both loved to travel
when they were younger, and this replica of a hotel room is a way to
perpetuate their visits abroad.
‘How did it go?’ Raymond asks after he has eaten a first triangle of
sandwich.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It was boring,’ she says. ‘I didn’t talk to anyone
except the barman … Sometimes it was interesting, seeing the different
people – tourists and what have you. But once is enough. I won’t do it
again.’
‘I told you not to go, didn’t I?’ he says. ‘Did I force you?’ He bites off
another piece of triangle and stares at the teapot on the table between them.
‘No, you’re right, Raymond. I didn’t have to go. Maybe I shouldn’t
have gone. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened the front door today. Maybe I
shouldn’t have got out of bed.’ She looks out the window, and sits forward a
little, squinting. ‘The neighbour’s tree will have to come down soon. Look
how it’s leaning. I don’t like it at all. It’s dangerous.’
Raymond looks away from the teapot and scrutinizes the neighbour’s
garden. ‘Who even lives there now, I don’t know. They come and go in
those flats, I’m surprised the garden gets a look-in.’
‘Well, someone needs to be told before there’s an accident.’
‘I’ll phone the council,’ he says. ‘First thing in the morning, before we
go to Tom and Kiki’s.’
Taiwo makes the clicking noise again and they finish their tea in silence.
After her bath they watch the news in bed, then the weather report, then
Raymond turns off his lamp. ‘Goodnight, dear.’ He brushes his wife’s lips
with his own, then rolls onto his side, away from the glow of her lamp.
She picks up the memoir she is reading, about a woman whose children
are kidnapped and taken overseas by her husband. For many years the
woman fights to have the children returned to her. They are older and
strangers to each other when they are reunited and they are forced to learn
to know one another again. Taiwo reads the first few sentences of a new
chapter then looks at them once more, realising she cannot remember what
she has read. She puts the book down on the duvet and fans out her fingers
to examine her nails, her tiny hands. She should have used more
moisturiser, she thinks. Already cracks are appearing where the skin is loose
above the veins. She cannot remember the last time her skin was taut and
soft and smooth.
‘Raymond?’ she whispers. She coughs. ‘Raymond, you’re not sleeping
are you?’
Her husband stirs.
‘Raymond?’
‘Yes … dear. What is it?’
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘No. No, not now … Anything the matter?’
‘No, no. I was just thinking. I couldn’t concentrate.’
‘Oh … Oh well. Goodnight then.’
‘Raymond, you … you won’t brush your teeth?’ she asks. ‘Oh
Raymond, that’s not nice. I’ll be smelling sardine all night now.’
Raymond sighs and raises himself into a sitting position. He rubs his
thighs, on account of the sciatica, before limping to the bathroom. Delphine
follows from the foot of the bed and waits for him, lying on the carpet
outside the bathroom door. When he returns his wife is quiet.
‘Tai?’ He goes to her side of the bed seeing the slow rise and fall of her
body, hearing the shallow, measured breathing that will soon deepen and
break into subtle snores. He removes the book from the duvet and turns off
the lamp and feels his way back to his side of the bed, careful not to tread
on Delphine.
The next day, in the afternoon, Raymond attaches the leash to the terrier
while Taiwo pulls on her raincoat.
‘There’s no sign of rain,’ he says. ‘Not for the next few days. Didn’t you
listen to the weather report?’
‘It’s for just in case,’ she replies. ‘One never knows. No one can predict
the weather, Raymond. They’re always getting it wrong, you know that.’
They leave the house and plunge into the warm still air. A single vapour
trail splits the cloudless sky. Delphine skitters to one side of the pavement,
cutting across the old couple, forcing Raymond to change places with his
wife.
‘It’s like an oven today,’ Raymond says. ‘I hope they managed to put up
the umbrella.’
‘Kiki says they went out and bought a new one. The other one kept
collapsing. Something wrong with the catch.’ She unbuttons her raincoat as
they walk. By the time they have reached the end of their road she has taken
it off and folded it. ‘Raymond, let me help you with Delphi. She’s going
this way and that. You hold this for me for a minute.’
Raymond accepts the raincoat and remains silent until he cannot help
himself. ‘I told you not to bring it,’ he says.
‘What did the council say,’ Taiwo interjects, ‘when you phoned them?’
Raymond looks ahead and says nothing.
In seven minutes they are at the house. Raymond often jokes that they
do not have to use the telephone; the two couples can always shout across
the houses to one another. Taiwo lags behind, encouraging Delphine away
from the pavement, away from a handsome Doberman pinscher. Raymond
waits. The door opens and there is Taiwo again, an exact replica of her,
apart from the buba and iro, the head-tie. His own Taiwo is wearing mock
denim trousers and an oversized yellow blouse with a faint blue-green
smudge near the armpit where the colour of something has run. Her hair is
combed back in a bun.
‘Raymond! Come in. Come out of that hot sun,’ Kehinde exclaims.
‘Taiwo, oya now. Thomas is waiting outside.’
 Taiwo removes the leash and Delphine scrambles into the house, along
the hallway, into the kitchen and out into the garden. Thomas sits sprawled
beneath the parasol in shirt-sleeves and jeans, poleaxed by the heat. The
contrast between his skin and his shirt makes the shirt appear brilliant
white.
‘Jus’ catching my breath,’ Thomas calls. He touches Delphine on the
head, just once, then wipes his fingers on the lawn. ‘Come and sit down and
drink something before you pass out.’
They all gather beneath the parasol except for Delphine who
investigates the periphery of the garden and sniffs around the barbecue area.
‘Raymond, why you carry your raincoat in this weather? Heh?’ Thomas
asks. ‘You English, you always hoping for rain.’
‘Well, actually …’
‘Rain wouldn’t be a bad thing today,’ Taiwo cuts in. ‘I for one hope we
get some soon. Poor Delphi – she didn’t even have a drink before we left.’
‘Don’t get up,’ Thomas says. ‘I got to turn the food. May as well kill
two birds.’ He stands, stooping slightly so as not to bump his head against
the parasol, and goes into the house for Delphine’s water. At seventy-three
he is younger than Raymond by two years, older than ‘the girls’ by three.
He places Delphine’s water bowl outside the kitchen door and lopes to the
other end of the garden to turn the meat. ‘It’s very slow,’ he says, sitting
down again, sighing. ‘Will be ages till it’s ready.’ He casts a cool eye
towards Delphine at her water bowl. ‘She’s not a bad bitch, you know.’
Taiwo flinches.
‘Well behaved.’ Thomas again.
‘Raymond said you went to the pub by yourself,’ Kehinde says, drawing
attention away from her husband. ‘All the way to the West End?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Yesterday evening.’ Taiwo shrugs. ‘It was nothing
really.’
‘It was a daft thing to do is what it was,’ Raymond says.
‘You go all by yourself?’ Thomas asks. ‘Why you want to do a thing
like that?’
 ‘Exactly what I said,’ Raymond continues. ‘We went to the same pub in
Soho several weeks ago, after some shopping. Only, there were two of us
then. Taiwo discovered that there were lots of couples and groups. Only one
or two people on their own.’
‘And they were men,’ Taiwo says. ‘We didn’t see any women. Not by
themselves, anyway.’
‘That’s how the trouble began,’ Raymond says. ‘I said, “Why would a
woman want to sit by herself in a place like that?’’’
‘An older woman,’ Taiwo adds. ‘A granny.’
‘And we had an argument about why that should be. I said it would
never happen, a woman of a certain age sitting by herself in a pub. Only
with a chap. Next thing I know, Tai’s announcing that she’s off to town.
Said she’d see me later. I really didn’t know what to think.’
‘She could have met someone,’ her sister giggles. ‘Then where would
you be, Raymond? Hmm?’
‘I told you not to go, didn’t I?’ Raymond says, staring at the green
plastic surface of the garden table.
‘I just wanted to sit there for a while, that’s all,’ Taiwo says. ‘Just for a
few minutes. It seemed straightforward when we were there before, but
actually sitting on my own, well, I couldn’t relax. People kept looking at me
as if they had never seen an old woman before. Or a black woman. Or both.
I wanted to be anonymous. In the end I was glad to leave.’
‘It was a daft thing to do!’ Raymond exclaims. He stands and takes
several faltering steps towards the rhododendrons, and sifts the mulch for
something to throw. ‘Delphi!’ He hurls a small piece of bark to the opposite
side of the garden. Delphine watches its progress and takes a few steps and
looks to Raymond again, puzzled. She turns and resumes her explorations.
‘Come and sit, Raymond,’ Taiwo says. ‘You’re going to get sunstroke
standing there.’
Raymond retrieves the bark and throws it, calling Delphine again, trying
to rouse her interest one more time. But she only meanders towards it,
discovering other smells on the way. She sniffs the bark and carries it
towards another part of the garden before discarding it. Raymond gives up
and returns to the shade of the parasol.
‘So, anyway, I decided to take the bus,’ Taiwo is saying. ‘You’ll never
guess what I saw as I was going over the Thames.’ She looks straight at her
sister.
‘The royal yacht?’ This is Thomas. ‘The Britannica?’
‘Eh? No, I mean on the bus. Who.’
‘The Britannia, Thomas,’ Kehinde says. ‘Anyway, it’s out of service,
isn’t it?’
‘Someone on the bus?’ Raymond asks. ‘Tai, please don’t keep us in
suspense. We’ll never guess.’
‘Oh, you’re no fun, you,’ she says. ‘Well, can you guess?’ She looks at
her sister again.
‘Um … no, I don’t think so. You know I’m no good at guessing games.’
‘Oh, well … I saw someone who looked exactly like Idowu,’ she says.
‘The spitting image.’
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ Raymond huffs. ‘You never tell me anything.’
‘Oh my!’ Kehinde says. ‘What did he look like? Did you talk to him?’
‘I said he looked like him. It wasn’t him, though. And no, we didn’t
talk. He didn’t even ask for my ticket – he was the bus conductor, this man.’
Her eyes flit towards Raymond, then away, to the end of the lawn.
‘How exciting,’ Kehinde says. ‘I wish I’d been there. I would have
talked to him. Maybe he’s trying to reach you. Do you think he’s trying to
tell you something? I’ve heard of things like that. You see someone – there
is a powerful resemblance. But only for you. And a moment later it’s gone;
they look like they’re the person they’re supposed to be again.’
‘Stop it,’ Taiwo says, but without force. ‘It was just someone who
looked like him, that’s all. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it now. He just looked,
for a moment … It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t him.’
‘How could it be him?’ Raymond snaps. He is still staring at the table
top, not looking at anyone, his face set. His fingers are doing a frenetic jig,
but he does not notice this.
 ‘Raymond?’ Taiwo says. ‘Raymond, dear?’
There is a silence and no one looks at anyone else. Raymond rises and
moves towards the barbecue. Delphine scampers ahead of him, anticipating
his destination.
The two sisters and Thomas remain beneath the parasol. Raymond drags
his left leg, moving slow, then fast. He hears the women laugh at something
Thomas has said, and then Kehinde stands and calls, ‘Sit Raymond! Come
and sit!’ as if she is talking to the terrier. ‘Let Thomas help you with that!’
But Raymond does not listen and Thomas fails to rise. Delphine
watches eagerly as the sausages are inspected and the chicken drumsticks
are forked onto a wide ceramic dish. Taiwo keeps glancing up to see what
her husband is doing, before being drawn back into the conversation. The
air is thick with heat and only occasionally does a light breeze shift the
smoke from the barbecue across the neighbour’s lawn.
‘Mrs Arkwright, she talks to her husband all day long,’ Kehinde is
saying. ‘As if he is right there next to her. Talking about all sorts. As if he
never left.’
‘You think Mrs Arkwright see her husband?’ Thomas snorts. ‘Mad old
witch with her cats, talking her head off to no one. She crazy, that’s all.’
A wasp circles the plate of food. Raymond tries to swat it and misses
and brings down the spatula hard against the side of the dish. It flips into
the air and the drumsticks sprawl across the concrete slabs. When the plate
smashes, Taiwo screams.
Delphine gawks at the scattered chicken. She sits, then stands again and
yelps, not knowing whether to lunge or remain at an obedient distance.
‘Sorry about the plate,’ Raymond says, stooping to gather
the broken crockery. He does not kneel because he knows he will not be
able to stand up again easily.
‘Don’t worry, Raymond,’ Kehinde says, picking up the pieces, storing
them in the cup of her hand.
‘Chicken just need rinsing,’ Thomas says. ‘Will be good as new.’
‘Raymond, come in and wash your hands and let’s sit down,’ Taiwo
says. ‘You’ll hurt your back bending like that. Please. Please leave it.’
 He straightens and sighs and is still for a moment. Then he follows his
wife into the house.
‘I’ve made an awful mess of things, haven’t I?’ he says, rubbing his
soapy fingers under the cold kitchen tap.
‘Nonsense dear. You were only frightened by the wasp. I would have
been much worse, you know that. Let’s just sit and relax and let Kiki and
Tom look after us.’ She looks at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re so angry
about. He was my brother, not yours.’
‘What do you mean? No. No, it wasn’t that.’ He dries his hands on the
tea towel she is holding out for him. He leans his hands against the edge of
the sink and straightens his arms by pushing out. A line of ants trails along
the window sill and down the wall beside the door frame. ‘It wasn’t …
Anything could have happened, Tai. I waited two and a half hours, not
knowing, thinking the worst – that you were lost or that you’d fallen or
someone had said something to you. Something unkind.’
She wonders if he is referring to the colour of her skin, but she does not
say anything.
‘I didn’t know, that’s all, and it made me panic, like I panicked with the
wasp out there. I’m just a fool, I know. Now I’ve made a mess of the
lunch.’
‘Oh, Raymond. Stop saying that. You haven’t made a mess of anything.
Kehinde’s second-hand plate broke, the chicken got a bit of dirt on it. We’re
both worriers, you and me. We’re never going to change, let’s face it. Let’s
have some lunch before Thomas finishes it, hmm?’
They eat the sausages and chicken and salad. Taiwo strips two
drumsticks and feeds Delphine who sits blinking at them. There is lemon
drizzle cake for dessert, but they are too full and only pick at it.
‘So when is your next trip to town?’ Thomas chuckles.
‘Next time my sister wants to take off like that, you let me know,
Raymond. You hear? I’ll go with her and we can have an adventure.’
They laugh and Delphine looks from one face to another, and barks until
Raymond scolds her. Thomas stands and moves his chair closer to
Raymond’s in order to chase the fleeing shade.
 ‘There was someone else,’ Taiwo says. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you, but
… I keep thinking about it. It won’t go away.’ She looks at her husband.
‘Someone else?’ her sister says.
‘Yes. There was a woman. She was on her own, too. Another woman.
Young. She was very well dressed. Nails nicely done, bangles on both
wrists.’ Taiwo holds out her arms to illustrate. ‘And a necklace – not showy,
but you could tell it wasn’t cheap … Beads. Very neat. And a lovely linen
dress, in lilac. A little tint of red in the hair. Not too much, though. You
know, like Patricia’s daughter? Very smart. But there she was, sitting on her
own near the door with a glass of something on the table. Could have been
water. Could have been gin for all I know. Well, I arrived there. I smiled,
but she didn’t smile back.’ She stops and looks down at Delphine who is
gazing up at her.
‘What is it, dear?’ Raymond asks. ‘Did something happen?’
‘Well, yes and no. This woman … she seemed to be looking for
someone. At first I wasn’t sure. She kept checking her watch, twisting it
around her wrist. The bangles were making this noise; they must have been
made of wood, or I don’t know. Not metal. When a man came in she would
ask, “Didier?” or “Are you Didier?” She didn’t seem to know this man she
was looking for. I thought, maybe she was waiting for someone – that they
had agreed to meet for the evening – you know, when they don’t know each
other?’
‘Blind date?’ Thomas suggests.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ Taiwo says. ‘But later I noticed she was asking all of the
men who came in, young or old, whether they were in a couple, in a group,
on their own. It didn’t seem to matter. Even when someone went out and
came back again, she would ask. She would ask him again. Well, that’s
when I knew something was wrong.’ She shakes her head and stares at the
table as Raymond had done. ‘She didn’t care whether people were laughing
at her – and some of them were, some boys. I couldn’t think of them as
men. Well, I had to look away. She seemed so lost, this woman. I began to
be afraid.’
Delphine moves away from the table to lie in the shade by the kitchen
door. She has discovered an old tennis ball and is chewing it vigorously.
 ‘But what were you afraid of?’ Raymond asks.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Taiwo says. She picks at the sleeve of her yellow
blouse, removing imaginary lint. ‘It seemed all wrong. I don’t know. She
seemed so adrift there. I couldn’t imagine that she had anything else. I tried,
but I couldn’t see it. I thought something had gone very wrong. Like Mrs
Arkwright. Mrs Arkwright and her husband. I had this feeling that we …
that woman, me, the boys who had drunk too much, everyone talking and
laughing, drinking. Everyone. We were all alone.’ She throws up her hands.
‘I’m not explaining it well, I know. It seemed clear to me then, very
suddenly. Now I don’t know what I was thinking.’ She looks up – the sky is
so blue she winces – then back to the table top. ‘I only hope that he has
peace and comfort wherever he is – our brother. I hope he is not alone.’ She
shrugs and manoeuvres a pinch of cake to her mouth and savours the lemon
zest.
‘What a dreary evening you must have had,’ Kehinde says. ‘I thought
you were going to say you’d met someone. A man. Now, that would have
been exciting.’
Taiwo looks at her sister, her twin, and smiles. ‘You too will never
change.’ She wipes the cake crumbs from the tips of her fingers and reaches
under the table for her husband’s hand.
 MRS MAHMOOD

I live above the route of an underground line. We hadn’t been

I
SOBEL AND
told this before we moved in so it came as a shock the first time the 6.25
rumbled beneath our heads. Isobel thought it might be an earthquake. I
knew exactly what it was. My heart sank. Now, sometimes I lie awake at
night waiting for another train to pass so that I can fall asleep; I find it
comforting somehow. The regularity, the mild vibrations, the dim, distant
thrum of carriages carrying other people elsewhere. I couldn’t live in a quiet
place now. My tolerance for tranquillity has gone.
In the sports shop where I work it’s noisy too; it can quite often seem
overwhelming. We are not large area-wise but we have a high concentration
of stock. Also, being near the university is a boon during term time. It gets
busy, and I prefer that to sparse custom.
What happened the other week should not have come as a surprise.
Deidra was serving on the cash till. I was balanced on a ladder, rehanging
the tracksuit bottoms, smoothing them down where people had thrown them
back haphazardly. Cedric was serving a boy of about thirteen, helping him
choose a pair of running shoes. Nike. Size nine.
I shifted the ladder to another section of the shop. I think a clean,
immaculate appearance is the essence of a caring, responsible enterprise. It
sends out a message beyond the doors: Experience and Understanding you
will find here. That’s what I believe in. Understanding. It’s what I strive for.
They do not like me doing this, the other staff, the rinse and interference
of it. I think they would prefer me out the back taking care of the accounts,
harrying suppliers, rushing in new stock. I don’t know this for certain. I am
the manager, I should have mentioned. Perhaps it puts them on edge, as if I
am constantly watching, scrutinising. But that isn’t my priority. I’m just
particular about order, things running in straight lines. Dust doing a
disappearing act. Perhaps I get this from my wife.
 I wasn’t paying particular attention to what was happening in the shop. I
tend to run on automatic pilot when I’m doing the mundane tasks. That way
I can free my mind to concentrate on improvements, long-term plans. The
boy with the trainers was wandering around the shop floor, testing out the
shoes. He walked a few metres, stopped, then reached up on his toes.
Sometimes I’ll look at the young, wonder whether they are headed for great
things. This one seemed to soar like a gazelle, he did not waver on his feet.
Then he crouched down low, stood up again and made his way back to the
chair. I like that in a customer, someone who really knows what he wants.
Someone who can pick out strengths and weaknesses and isn’t afraid to do
so in the setting of the shop. A lot of people are quite shy. They’ll wear a
pair of shoes, stand up, sit down, then immediately say, Yes, I’ll take these.
They might look flushed, a little sheepish, as if they have caused an
inconvenience, put out a member of staff. Often I will want to say
something to them. Ask them to walk around a bit, deliberate. But I don’t
say anything of course; it’s money in the till after all.
Cedric asked the boy some questions, went through the usual routine
about the feel of them, what they might be used for. The boy looked down
at the shoes and scrunched his feet around. He wore a slight grimace as if
he couldn’t quite make up his mind. There was another boy then. I don’t
know where he appeared from, but he had been inside the shop all along.
He called for assistance and Cedric moved to help him. It occurred to me to
step down from the ladder, to assist, but then I did not.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy in the trainers walked out of the
shop. He did not run or look behind himself or suddenly tear off down the
street. He walked away as if he had been wearing his own shoes, walking
out of his own house. I watched impassively. By the time I had reached the
door, he was some way down Tottenham Court Road. I started to run. He
glanced around, noticed me, and then he began to sprint. There were
pedestrians about, tackling their Christmas shopping. I like this time of day
because people seem less brusque; they are more relaxed. The hard, brittle
city edge that coats the beginning of the day has worn down.
Perhaps it is odd to see an older man puffing down a street. The clumsy
sweep and sway of it, the heavy body bounding along. All I know is that
very few people were looking at the boy, but all eyes managed to fix on me.
Paths cleared. People stood back. It may have been an alarming sight.

When I was seventeen, I took a coach to Hastings. There were thirty of us

on board. There was an athletics meeting between four or five schools and
we all knew this occasion was important. Gold medals in any event might
lead to county representation. Our athletics instructor, Mr Mayers, paced the
coach, dispensing pep talks, trying to steel our morale.
The track at the school in Hastings was new, better than anything we
had previously used. This was a school where no one thought anything of
flying abroad for the half-term. Most of the other competitors had arrived
before us. They looked polished, almost professional, as we straggled off
the coach. My stomach yapped a little, then growled and I could feel my
lunch lurch.
As the start drew near we poured onto the field, talking, stretching,
warming up. A group from another school turned to look at us, then folded
in among themselves like bats. It was no secret I had broken a string of
county records for my age group the previous year. My picture had
appeared in the local newspaper. And then there were some sentences in the
gazette. I hung medals and certificates on the walls at school. I talked
incessantly of my own prowess. I make no apology for this, either now or
then: I used to think it was an essential ingredient of success. I could
envisage my life stretching out ahead of me, consisting of adulation and
accomplishment in equal measure.
Thirty minutes into the games and it was clear we had serious
competition. People were not even qualifying in the heats. Suddenly it
seemed to me that the bar on the high jump was insurmountable, distances
on the field too arduous. I felt tired in a way I had never experienced before.
Not from fatigue or from running too hard. It was simply exhausting to
watch success slip so quickly away.
There comes a time when you realise all the effort you’ve put in – all
those early mornings, the rigorous diet, the training, pushing yourself to the
limit – amounts to nothing. I told friends I would return the next year,
invigorated. I convinced myself of that at the time. But I never picked up
another pair of running shoes, never stepped onto another track.

I don’t think the boy ever guessed I would catch up with him. He probably
thought he could shake me, an old dog giving up the chase. But I caught
him all right. I could tell he was shocked; he didn’t say a word. He did not
struggle. Halfway back to the shop we met Cedric. There was a queue of
traffic alongside us. The air was beginning to thin in the onslaught of winter
darkness.
I caught a glimpse of the other boy lurking behind a pillar. I realised
then he had been a decoy. I cannot describe how I felt then. Cheated?
Flummoxed? Enraged? All three?
Cedric told him to take off the shoes. They were unsaleable now. The
boy slipped them off nonchalantly, kicked them to one side. Then he began
to put on his own worn-out trainers. I should have noted that from the
beginning; no one enters a shoe shop wearing decrepit shoes. I’ve noticed
that. The boy sat there, saturnine, bored, as if this happened every other day.
When I said I would call the police, his expression did not change. I don’t
know what I was expecting. Remorse? Something, anything to let me know
he had registered regret. But that did not happen. Not after my threat to
resort to the law or my rising tone of voice or Cedric’s more temperate
approach. The boy’s face just expressed contempt.
You could say I lost my temper. I could feel suppressed rage seeping
from my chest, like a disturbed wound. I raised my hand, then slowly
brought it down again and scratched the back of my neck. I was ready to
strike out. The boy didn’t even cringe. He showed no emotion whatsoever. I
don’t like to see that in children, coldness, valves already shut off. Perhaps
that’s exactly what he expected. Quite possibly he had been struck before.
It’s a good thing we haven’t any children, Isobel and I. I can’t abide
surly behaviour. I am just the sort of person who could so easily lose
control.
Cedric told me to cool off. Deidra led me back to the office, like an
invalid. When I sat down my hands were trembling, the knuckles doing
some kind of dance. In the end the boy’s mother was contacted. She
apologised, even paid for the shoes, and thanked the staff for not alerting
the police. That’s what Cedric told me the next day. I left early. That’s not
something I often do.
I drove to the supermarket, bought sea bass, mineral water and a bottle
of white wine. For once I had arrived home before Isobel and I wanted to
surprise her. Also, I needed something to do with my hands, to keep myself
occupied. I turned the music up loud, opened the wine and started on that.
Isobel doesn’t drink during the week. She says it impairs her judgement, her
reasoning, and she likes to keep her mind clear. She is an orthoptist at a
children’s hospital, not that it would make any difference to her work.
I heard the door shut. Then the music was turned down so that it was
almost inaudible.
‘Turn it back up!’ I shouted from the kitchen. I was still simmering. I
walked into the living room, a glass of wine in one hand, a bowl of
steaming white rice in the other.
She was lingering by the stereo, wearing her long beige coat, her bag
limp over her shoulder. I waved the bowl about so that steam plumed into
the air. It was supposed to be a jovial gesture. She took one good look at
me. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
I shrugged and sauntered back into the kitchen. ‘Time to eat!’ I called.
In Isobel’s work with the children she often gets to see a side to life I
am unaware of. Sometimes she strikes a tone with me that isn’t appropriate.
‘Now then,’ she might say quietly, ‘tell me all about it.’ Her hands held
gently together, her voice smooth, modulated. I know she would like
children of our own, but me, I’m not so sure.
I explained what had happened during the day. The shoes marching out
defiantly, the high-street chase, how I’d wanted to lash out. I have always
thought of myself as a particular kind of man, the kind that could never
strike a child. No matter what. But that’s all over now.
Isobel made a few cooing noises. I didn’t know what she meant. She
gathered up the dishes and walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a batik
wraparound the colour of blueberries swirled in yoghurt, a white T-shirt and
an oversized tan cardigan. You could say that Isobel is stunning and you
would not be exaggerating. I could hear the hot tap gushing, the basin
filling up with suds. When she returned, I was in the middle of pouring the
last of the wine.
‘Well, Mr Mahmood,’ she shrugged, but she didn’t sound upset. ‘Theft
is something you just have to get used to. I thought you’d be used to it by
now?’
‘Theft?’ I repeated. ‘I’m not worried about that,’ even though I always
have been. I explained again about the insolent boy. I thought she might be
shocked.
‘Oh that! That’s nothing new,’ she said. ‘I’ve sometimes wanted to hit
out, you know. You can’t help that.’
I nibbled the edge of my glass.
‘It’s only natural to feel anger at that kind of behaviour,’ she continued.
‘They’re doing it for a reason, though. You have to remember that.’
I wasn’t quite sure how to take this, the ease with which she’d said it. I
stood up and the table swam before me. I was a bit drunk – I am not often
that way – I simply couldn’t settle down. I placed the rest of the crockery
into Isobel’s foamy sink. My muscles were aching already from the mid-
afternoon sprint.
I picked up the car keys and announced I was going for a drive. She
immediately grabbed them off me and said, ‘Let’s go,’ as I knew she would.
We decided to visit the hill in order to walk off the alcohol. The evening
was slick with fresh-fallen drizzle and as soon as we reached Elsworthy
Road neither of us was in the mood to leave the warmth of the car. Instead
we carried on, through Camden and then to the centre of town to look at the
lights along Bond Street. Isobel was driving slowly. She didn’t want to miss
a thing.
‘I simply have to go there.’ She kept pointing to shops. Expensive
shops.
‘Yes,’ I said, agreeing too quickly. I felt nauseous. I opened the window
a crack and leaned up against the door. Isobel looked across at me. ‘Eyes on
the road, please,’ I snapped. By the time we reached Piccadilly, I felt
calmer, more refreshed.
 Isobel, I think, was led to expect an undemanding life. To have things
easily provided, frequent trips around the world. I don’t think she ever
envisaged being with someone like me. It must have come as a surprise,
gone against everything her parents had encouraged her towards, to
suddenly find on her wedding day, me and not some high-flown tycoon
exchanging the marital vows. I know her mother was crest-fallen. It wasn’t
difficult to notice that. Mr Hamilton put on a brave face, but in the
beginning none of that mattered to us. Young love, as they often say, is
blind. Life in a warm milky sea.
Perhaps it was the mother, her insistence. Dreams she had always
aspired to, and been let down, so she turned to Isobel. I am only
speculating. Perhaps I’m way off the mark. My mother used to say, when
she was living, that it did not matter who you loved, what you did in this
world as long as there was a little happiness in it.
I used to get annoyed with Isobel because sometimes she would remind
me of her mother. Her distrusts, her exactitude, the way she held herself so
stiffly when I wanted her simply to let go. The way she turned from certain
things – music, say or people, raised voices – because they seemed to crowd
the light. Who and what she thought she ought to be.
There was a time fraught with difficulties when I wasn’t sure what we
were doing. But that’s passed. I fought for Isobel the way I’ve fought for
most things in my life. I know she did not want me in the beginning. Not
for a long time after that.
We’ll catch a bus sometimes, a train, discover a part of town or the
country we have never been to before. Occasionally we have caught the
wrong train, a bus going in the opposite direction. But there won’t be any
panic, a rushing towards the exit. Quite often we’ll remain seated and let the
vehicle lead the way. Isobel doesn’t mind this, although I know she would
never allow such a thing to happen on her own.
Like me, she has lived in other places – Guadeloupe, Martinique, New
York City after that – so she doesn’t mind the travelling. Perhaps it comes
from living a fractured existence. All that broken geography. Learning to
live a different life.
 Isobel once said I was abrupt with people, I cut them off, that
underneath a warm exterior I harboured a cold nature.
‘When?’ I demanded. ‘When am I like this? Examples please.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she laughed. ‘All the time, really. In a way.’
At the back of my mind I feared she was thinking about having children
again, but she did not mention it. I think a part of what she was saying has
something to do with living in the city. I often strike a particular note with
people and I can’t say why. The sales representatives, for example, who
come into the shop. Sometimes I make them feel as if they are the most
important encounter of my day. That what they are saying bears close
attention. What they are doing is admirable. At the end of it all – the bright
photographs illustrating technicoloured shoes, leotards, samples of baseball
caps, something that has happened in their day, their lives – there comes a
point when they realise they have done most the talking. They’re talked out.
And all I have given of myself is the minimum, the bare bones, while I
know everything that has happened to them, the dry reality of their day.
Sometimes there will be a moment when they realise this. It is awkward
because it’s a signal to me that they might want something in exchange –
muscle, blood, a heart, something more vibrant. And I know that there isn’t
any of that, only bones. Does that make me cold?
My customers, on the other hand, I treat as if we’ll meet again. That’s a
favourite part of my job, the interaction, so I try to get it right. People don’t
like to admit they don’t know, that they might need some help. I have
learned that over time, so I ask the staff to approach them in a particular
manner – not invasive or aggressive – so they are put at ease. People don’t
like to feel crowded. There is a kind of satisfaction in watching them select
an item, try something on. I love it when they walk out with bags of
shopping in their hands, contented. Or the ones who ask demurely if they
can wear the shoes out of the shop.
That happened today, this afternoon. Someone came into the shop.
Someone famous. I’d seen him during the summer on my television screen.
He wasn’t shopping for himself; he had a young boy with him, most
probably his son.
 I let Deidra do the talking, make the sale, do all of that. He bought a pair
of football boots. Not the best, I noted. It was the boy’s choice.
They were warm people, relaxed. I watched them from where I stood,
half-heartedly checking the stock. They smiled along with Deidra. The boy
kept giggling. His father laughed out loud. A few customers sidled up for
autographs. He was in the last Olympics, that one. An Olympian. He had a
winner’s smile.
At one stage he caught me looking and I turned away. I think I lost my
nerve then. I don’t remember, I just felt weak. I fled into the office and sat
staring at the paperwork. Half an hour may have passed. I thought I should
telephone Isobel at the hospital. ‘Who?’ she would say. ‘Which Olympics?’
Instead I slipped out of the building. It was wrong of me; I wouldn’t
tolerate that kind of behaviour in anyone else.
It was cold outside, but bright and still. People moved less briskly in the
streets, the reality of the new year setting in. I walked to Charing Cross with
the intention of turning back. But then I just kept moving.
Along Whitehall a bus waited patiently for its passengers to alight. It
was stationary when I caught up with it and so, without hesitating, I stepped
on. I didn’t check where it was going. I just wanted to go and go and go, be
carried somewhere far away.
It is a helpless feeling to know that no matter how hard you run,
however much you exert yourself, you are never going to move faster than
this, overtake the man in front. Perhaps I understood that then, when I was
seventeen. I could, in a minor way, have grasped something early on: that
there is a moment or a series of moments in life when you must wear a
different pair of shoes, walk in another direction from the one you had
planned, and however well you succeed in your pursuits, there will always
be an element of regret.
The bus shuddered across the river. A refuse container made its sluggish
progress beneath the bridge. I got off at the next stop and crossed the road
into the park. It surprised me to see people there in the middle of the week,
in the cold. I left the path after a while and slipped onto the field. There
were some children at one end playing at the long jump. I walked around
the perimeter slowly and I could hear their laughter. The track seemed
warm and buoyant beneath me. There were signs – paint peeling off
wooden benches, sections of the track torn out – of decay and neglect. The
trees in the distance rustled slightly, but I did not feel the breeze.
I don’t know why I behaved the way I did, that day in the shop with the
thief. He had looked so angry with me. As if I had been in the wrong. What
if Cedric had not been there? Would I have struck out? I would like to think
not, but I’m not so certain now. Sometimes I think I would take better care
of my shop – the expensive shoes, the labelled clothing, the sports
equipment – than I would my own child. And I am blind with fear.
I took off my jacket, laid it down to one side of the field. I stretched my
limbs slowly, deliberately, the way I had been taught, because at my age
things can so easily go wrong. I took up position and cast my eye to the end
of the track. The children had stopped what they were doing. They were
quiet now. Watching. And then I was sailing, the wind unfurling round my
ears, the soft rubber track making me feel supple. As I neared the end of the
straight I didn’t stop as I had intended, but instead, rounded the bend and
ran at a slower pace back to the start. When I finished there was a faint
applause and when I looked up, there were the children in the distance who
must have been cheering me on. I hadn’t heard them. I had heard nothing
except the wind and my quick heartbeat, my laboured breath.
Perhaps I have failed in my life, in my endeavours. Perhaps the meaning
of it all has passed me by. I cannot say for certain that it has. I just don’t
know. I cannot say that in a year from now I will be lulled to sleep by
underground trains. I could be someplace very far from here. Sometimes I
long for heat.
If it came right down to it, if I thought about it clean out, pared back the
skin, the tired flesh and arrived at the bones, I realise the one certainty in
my life is Isobel.
 GIFTED

to the sound of screaming. One was trying to take

T
HE MOTHER WOKE
something from the other, and the youngest had found his lungs. She
moved swiftly, past fatigue, throwing the robe over the places where she
had been beaten, past the bedroom door, into the chill of the corridor, into
the room where the screaming was. She shut the door behind her and
cupped her mouth as if she were about to vomit. The boys looked round at
her and fell silent. She did not have to speak or scold or raise her hand.
They understood.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Why are you misbehaving this early morning?
Don’t you know your papa is sleeping?’
The boys’ eyes grazed the carpet and then each other guiltily. The
youngest tried not to smile with shame.
‘He stole my toy!’ the other one started. ‘He won’t give it back.’
His brother held the bright red plastic machine behind him, and inched
away.
‘And so what!’ the mother said. ‘He is your brother. Don’t you know
you must share your things? Ah, ah! You must show a good example. How
many times do I have to tell you?’
He shuffled his feet and glanced at his brother. He did not feel generous
towards him at all. He felt everything would be taken from him eventually
and given to the younger one.
‘And you too, Dayo – did you ask your brother if you could play with
his toy?’
‘Yes!’ The boy looked wildly about and clutched the machine to his
chest. He could not meet his mother’s eyes.
‘Hmm – always ask before you take something. Otherwise you’ve done
a wrong thing. You understand?’ She held the flat of her palm against her
hip. She had been ignoring the pain; now the danger had passed and she
winced as she remembered the kick.
‘What’s wrong?’ the older boy asked.
‘Nothing’s wrong. Oya now, time to get ready for school.’ The mother
left the room and checked on her husband who was still sleeping, and went
to the bathroom and locked the door. She removed the robe and inspected
the nightgown which had been torn beyond repair. She squeezed her
shoulders, trying to ease the ache, and moved her head from side to side.
She could hear her own breathing in the silence and it disturbed her so
much she turned on the taps for the bath. She returned to the mirror and
removed the gown and stared at the places that were spoiled like old fruit.
She touched herself: her shoulders, her breasts, her thighs. She examined
the new areas – the ladder of her ribs, the imprint of his shoe against her hip
– kneading the flesh gently. She did not know whether anything was
broken. The bath filled and she lowered herself into the water and felt the
heat leaching away the pain. Foam drifted to the floor. She craned her neck
and listened, but there was only silence now. She did not have to worry
about the boys. She lay back and thought of nothing except how tired she
was and how her head felt like wet twisted cloth.

‘I don’t like it,’ the youngest boy complained stirring the porridge back and
forth, not eating.
‘You will eat it,’ the father said.
The boy looked up and moved the spoon towards his face, turning his
mouth down, feeling the slimy pulp against his tongue.
‘Who was making so much noise this morning?’ the father asked.
The boys looked at each other and then to their mother and back to their
breakfasts again. No one said anything.
‘Eh?’ His voice was a calm river, but it was the calm before the
waterfall. They knew this.
The youngest one began to whimper.
‘They were excited because of the snow,’ the mother said.
‘Snow?’ The older boy pushed away from the table and ran to the
window. His brother followed.
 ‘Everything’s white!’ the older boy said.
‘I can’t see!’ the younger one cried.
His brother dragged a dining chair to the window and together they
gazed out at the city from the apartment window.
‘Is that your school?’ The youngest one pointed to a high-rise towards
the centre of the city.
‘No, silly – my school isn’t high like that. It’s over there – see where the
park is?’
‘Who told you to stand on the chair?’ The father came from behind and
brought his hand down, hard, on the backs of their legs. The youngest one
buckled and lost his grip on the chair, but his brother caught him before he
fell. ‘Who told you to carry the chair to the window?’
The youngest one began to cry while his brother clenched his teeth, his
head shaking a little. The mother looked at them, the china cup of tea
against her lips, but she did not drink. She knew what was coming.
‘Why do you let them behave like this?’ he began. ‘Every day they
deteriorate. They are becoming wild, these children, and you sit there
looking at them. Why don’t you do anything, eh?’
The boys were quiet. They looked at their mother and then stared down
at their bowls. They could not eat. They could hear the father’s breathing,
and in the distance, the rumble of the Odakyu express train.
The door bell rang and the mother flinched. Her husband noticed this
and smiled. ‘Oya, oya – time to go!’ he said to the older boy. ‘Go and carry
your satchel.’
As they waited in the hallway for the elevator, Mrs Nakamura arrived
with her little girl. The mother and father greeted them in English and then
the younger boy used the Japanese words. They rode the elevator with only
the giggles of the younger boy and the girl to diffuse the silence.
The embassy bus shuddered outside the lobby doors while the other
children and staff talked among themselves as they waited. Beyond the
entrance the snow still fell. Mrs Nakamura and her daughter waved to the
family and walked in the snow towards the bus stop at the bottom of the
hill. The father and the older boy entered the embassy bus, and the mother
and the other son waved as it departed. She exhaled as if for the first time.
‘I want to go to school too.’ The boy looked up at his mother. ‘ I want to
go in the bus.’
‘When you are older,’ she said. ‘Don’t you want to see your friends in
the nursery? You don’t want to stay at home with me?’
‘I do, I do!’ the boy cried. He had already forgotten about his brother’s
school and the crowded embassy bus. He skipped across the marble lobby
as his mother collected the letters and they rode the elevator back to the
seventh floor.
This was a ritual: sometimes when she was tired she would carry her
son and tiptoe the length of the corridor so no one would hear them. Today
she could not lift him. She touched a finger against her lips so that the boy
would play the game, and they moved quietly across the tiles. But the door
opened.
‘Gooden morgen,’ Mr Mihashi said. ‘Mrs Odesola, small Dayo. Enter.
You must enter.’ The old man stood at the door wearing a navy wool
kimono and grey obi, waving them in.
The boy looked up at his mother and grinned. They had lost the game
again. She touched his head and smiled and they moved into their
neighbour’s apartment as he shuffled behind them in worn Western slippers.
‘Mr Mihashi, you are cooking something – something sweet,’ the
mother said. She stood in the centre of the living room and closed her eyes
and inhaled. She counted: ‘Nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon,’ bouncing the palm
of her hand on her son’s soft curls. ‘What is Mr Mihashi cooking today?’
‘Ah, sit, sit. Assey-vous,’ he said. ‘Beginning, you must take some tea.
And then I must illustrate to you.’ He clapped his hands in excitement. ‘Am
I correct, Mrs Odesola – I must illustrate? I have been learning.’
The mother thought for a moment and said, ‘Show, Mr Mihashi. You are
going to show us something?’
‘Yes, yes. I must show to you what it is, and then you will eat it.’ He
clapped his hands again and looked from the boy to the mother, and fled to
the kitchen, the kimono creating a breeze as he moved.
 The boy left the dining table and switched on the television set in the
corner of the living room. He located the remote control and began to
search for the cartoons about the machines that talked and fought and
changed their shapes, like his brother’s toy. The mother looked out of the
window, at the snow which was falling faster now. She shifted in the seat to
ease the gnawing in her hip, her shoulders. She turned away, towards her
son and the aroma-filled room. There was a painting on the wall between
the television and kitchen, of the sea, showing exaggerated waves and a
ship’s crew, terrified.
‘Snow, so much snow,’ Mr Mihashi said as he carried in the tray of tea.
‘In your country you do not have so much snow? Am I correct, Mrs
Odesola?’
‘You are correct, Mr Mihashi. In my country there is no snow at all.
Only hot, hot sun and sometimes plenty of rain. How it can rain, Mr
Mihashi. You cannot imagine.’ She thought of the time she had played with
her sisters in the road outside their house during a downpour. How quickly
their dresses had been soaked. How they had carried on regardless, their
faces upturned, drinking in the rainwater as it fell.
‘Come and have some biscuits,’ she said to her son who was now
engrossed in a documentary about bowhead whales.
‘Biscuit and what?’ he asked.
‘Biscuits – biscuits and tea,’ she said. ‘And Mr Mihashi has made you
some cocoa.’
He came to the table and sat between them and tasted the hard biscuits
the old man had baked.
‘It is good?’ Mr Mihashi grimaced, the lines of his face moving,
wavering, the eyes darting like flies.
The boy nodded and continued to eat, staring at the television screen.
‘Mrs Mihashi, she could make it very nice, no problem,’ he said. ‘So
many things she could do; I can make only this.’
‘It’s very good,’ the mother said. ‘Isn’t it, Dayo?’
The boy nodded again as he sipped his cocoa, both hands wrapped
around the cup.
 ‘You must eat more,’ the old man insisted, and he pushed the plate of
biscuits towards him.
The boy took a handful of biscuits and carried his drink to sit on the
floor in front of the television set.
‘She could make many delicious things,’ Mr Mihashi continued. ‘She
was very beautiful woman, Mrs Odesola. She was speaking French; it was
her work – French teacher. My children, now they can all of them speak
French. She had many, many skills, Mrs Odesola. How do you say it, when
someone can do many things?’
‘Well, you were right the first time – your wife had many skills, you
could say, or talents. She was talented, or you could say that she was gifted.
There are different ways to describe your wife, all of them correct.’
Mr Mihashi closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Gifted – I must write it on a
paper. She will like it.’
This time the mother did not correct him.

When it was time, the boy and his mother went downstairs to walk to the
nursery. The snow had stopped falling then. It was so fresh it hurt their eyes
to look at it. She inhaled and it felt like crystals were forming in her lungs.
The mothers huddled in the entrance to the nursery. When Mrs Odesola
arrived, one or two turned to smile at her. The other mothers had formed
groups according to where they came from. She did not have her own group
and she did not stay. She left the boy, happy enough with the other children,
pulled her coat tight around herself and hurried down the hill.
The stallholder asked, ‘You want two, three? How many do you want?’
The mother shook her head and squinted and held up four fingers. He
threw the mangoes into a plastic bag and wrote the figures on a pad of
paper. She counted the money quickly and hastened away from the stall, her
heart pounding against her will. But she was warm now and she could take
her time as she waited for her son to finish at the nursery. She stared in the
windows, at the shops with their impossible prices: the clothes, the gadgets,
the parade of glazed food. She looked at the rows of televisions on display
and saw the machines again: changing, moving, fighting. She did not know
why they were always there. She began to shiver and it intensified the ache
in her body.
She had grown used to so much in such a short time: the language, the
cold, her husband’s violence. She did not know why he hated her now. He
was so strange in this country, away from their home. She could not
understand it. Every day she waited like this – she lived her life, but she
was waiting – for him to return from the office, for the anger to surface
again. She began to anticipate it, to long for it almost, so that it would be
finished for a time. She looked around her – everything was a shade of
white: the snow, the people, the sky above. Too often she felt utterly alone.
She thought of her sisters, how they had danced in the rain. She wanted to
dance in the snow this minute. A van hooted and screeched and she moved
away as it came skidding beside her. Her heartbeat quickened again.

The mother collected the boy from the nursery and they made their way
back up the hill. He ran ahead of her, kicking furiously at the snow until he
grew tired of this and settled beside her.
‘What should we do?’ he asked.
She was quiet now, and he noticed this. She looked at him, her head
tilted slightly.
‘Can we play a game?’ he tried again.
She continued to stare as if she could not recognise him, and he began
to be afraid.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, finally. She smiled and held his hand. ‘We
will play later. It’s too cold now. Wait until we get inside.’
Later, the older boy arrived and she let them play in the garden at the
back of the building while she watched from the warmth of the lobby. They
became tired quickly and felt the winter in their hands and it wasn’t long
before they returned to the apartment.
The mother began to prepare the evening meal. She made small
movements and did not speak. At the same time the boys grew raucous. At
one point she missed the onion she was slicing and cut her finger, but the
knife was not sharp. She wiped away the blood and sealed the wound with a
plaster.
 ‘He keeps coming into my room and I don’t want him there!’ the older
boy shouted.
The younger boy ran into the kitchen and beamed at them. And then the
chasing began and the screaming, and she could not concentrate. She stood
with the knife in her hand listening to the racket of her children in the
apartment, and to the thoughts swirling in her head. Her limbs dragged and
she could not continue with the meal. She did not know whom to phone,
whom to talk to. The trouble would soon begin again and the days seemed
never-ending.
The boys ran into the kitchen, breathless. They stood at the door and
wondered why their mother was so quiet, why she did not scold them.
‘Did you cut yourself?’ The older boy walked towards her and touched
the injured finger.
The other boy followed. ‘I want to feel it too.’
‘It’s nothing.’ She turned back to the chopping board. She looked
outside at the snow which was falling again in the late afternoon, the lights
of the city beyond. She could see the reflection of the boys in the window
as they waited quietly for her. She saw her own face, how her cheeks were
sunken, the ghost’s eyes. She put down the knife. ‘Are you going to help
me?’ she said at last.
‘Help? How?’ the older boy asked.
‘How?’ the younger one mimicked.
‘Well, you could bring me the silver pot. And Dayo, you carry the lid.
And you could take the juice to the table, and draw the curtains. Could you
do that for me?’
They carried out their tasks slowly, conferring all the time. Soon she
heard the sound of the television set in the living room, but the boys were
no longer fighting.
She allowed them to turn on the television in the kitchen as they ate
their meal. She only picked at her food, but they did not notice this. She
watched them, the curve of their necks as they twisted to look at the screen,
their glistening eyes, the way their hair grew – the youngest would have a
widow’s peak like his father – how one would always be darker than the
other. She noticed everything about them. She tried to imagine them grown,
living independent lives, but it was too strange for her. She glanced at the
oven as it hummed, keeping her husband’s meal warm.
‘Bath time!’ she clapped. ‘We have to hurry.’ She got up to clear the
table.
‘Now?’ the older boy asked.
‘Yes, now,’ she replied. ‘I don’t have time to do it later.’ She filled the
tub while they undressed, and after a moment she went to help the younger
one with his shirt buttons and shoes.
‘Are you cold?’ the older boy asked her.
‘No. Why?’
‘Look, your hands are shaking.’
The younger one reached out to touch her fingers.
‘Well … maybe I’m a little cold,’ she said. She rubbed her hands
vigorously along her arms, but the trembling did not stop.
The boys bounded to the bathroom, shrieking, chasing one another. The
mother switched off the televisions in the kitchen and the living room. She
drew the curtains they had only partially managed to draw.
‘Can we get in now?’ the older boy asked.
She nodded and closed the door behind her and rested on the stool next
to the bath.
‘Will it snow again tomorrow?’ the younger one asked.
‘I think so,’ the mother replied. ‘Maybe for a long time to come. Did
you like it?’
The boy scrunched up his face and looked away. ‘Mmm, maybe. But it
was too cold. It hurt my fingers.’
‘Yes … it’s cold,’ she said, but she did not say anything else and she
moved back into her thoughts.
The boy plunged his face into the water in front of him and blew
bubbles. When he surfaced, he laughed, then tipped his head backwards.
When he was beneath the water he opened his eyes for a moment, then
floated up again.
 ‘Very good,’ the mother said. ‘You might become a diver one day. You
like being underwater, don’t you?’
‘I can’t stay long,’ the boy complained. ‘Can you hold me?’ He rolled
back so that he was submerged again.
The mother reached out and held his chest for a moment, then released
him. When he emerged he began to shriek with delight. ‘Again! I want to
go again!’
‘Me too!’ his brother cried.
They both dipped their heads back and then there was no more noise.
She held them there, quietly, beneath the surface, as they looked up at
her. They were smiling, but the mother could no longer smile. There was a
thin film of scum around the edge of the bath. The extractor fan laboured to
remove steam from the windowless room. She sighed and closed her eyes.
If she screamed no one would hear. She knew this; she had screamed
before. She looked down at their smiling faces, their wide eyes, the brown
skin against white enamel. She wondered how a person could live, yet not
be alive. The only sound was the whirr of the ventilation.
‘Quickly!’ she said. She pulled the boys up and spoke urgently to them.
‘It’s time to move quickly, you hear me?’
‘I want to play under the water again,’ the younger one cried.
‘I promise, we’ll play again next time.’ She pulled him out of the water
and wrapped him in a towel. She helped his brother climb out of the bath
and rubbed his wet hair. The youngest one opened the door, threw his towel
to the floor and ran across the apartment, yelling.
She knew where everything was, what she would take, what she would
leave behind. She had rehearsed this many times, but it had only been
fantasy: the money, the passports, the essential clothes, the diary containing
her sisters’ phone numbers. She worked hard and fast and in no time she
was ready. She told the boys what was going to happen, and they were quiet
and afraid.
‘Should I put my clothes on again?’ the older boy asked. They were
both wearing pyjamas.
 ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Just wear your socks and sweaters. There are
clothes in the suitcase. You can wear them later.’
She fetched their jump suits and gloves and helped them to dress over
their nightwear. She pulled on their fur-lined boots. They watched
obediently while she tied the strings of their hoods. Their little faces peered
out from within their enclosures and she began to cry. They were her boys
and she loved them more than her own life. She could not go on without
them, but she could not go on. This was the only solution she could think
of.
She touched the front door handle and then withdrew her hand. She
looked at the boys and closed her eyes and said some words in her head to
whomever was listening.
‘Where are we going?’ the older boy asked when they were in the
hallway.
‘Sshh,’ the mother said. ‘We must be quiet now.’
But it was already too late. The door was opening, and he stood peering
at them, Mr Mihashi. The mother stopped, paralysed.
‘You … you are going out?’ Mr Mihashi asked.
‘Yes, yes. We are going … We are going to …’ She could not find the
words, the excuses, the lies she needed.
‘You go on holidays?’ Mr Mihashi suggested, noticing the suitcase.
‘Yes, yes. We go on holidays,’ she nodded quickly. ‘We are going on a
holiday.’
But he could see the face, tear-stained, and the way the hands shook,
and he had an inkling he might never see her again.
‘You … you must wait. One moment. You must wait, Mrs Odesola,’ he
said. He shuffled into his apartment.
The mother glanced at the elevator doors at the end of the hallway. If
the doors opened and her husband appeared she did not know how she
would survive. She thought she would leave now, before it was too late. But
then she heard his voice.
‘I can find not so many things.’ Mr Mihashi came towards them stuffing
fruit and biscuits and rice crackers into a shoulder bag. He gave it to the
older boy to carry. ‘When, when you are on holidays my English will
decline.’
‘Your English is very good, Mr Mihashi,’ the mother said. ‘You have
nothing to worry about.’
‘Our talking, Mrs Odesola, it brings me many, many pleasures. You
must have a good holidays, a good rest,’ he said. ‘Gifted, Mrs Odesola. You
also are gifted. You see, I use it already.’ He gave a broad smile.
‘Thank you, Mr Mihashi. You are very kind. You have always been kind
to us. But we must go now or we will be late.’
They walked to the elevator and waited. As the doors opened and the
mother picked up the suitcase, Mr Mihashi called, ‘Mrs Odesola,’ from his
open door, but then he was quiet. He waved to the boys.

‘Look, it’s still snowing,’ the older boy said.

The ground was thick with it as they trudged down the hill towards the
bus stop. The mother struggled with the suitcase as the pavement was too
soft with snow to wheel it.
‘Is anyone inside?’ Dayo asked as they walked past the nursery.
‘No, stupid,’ his brother said. ‘Everyone’s at home.’
The boy thought about this for a moment. ‘I’m not at home,’ he said.
They walked in silence until they arrived at the bottom of the hill. It was
busier here; cars came and went, and passers-by stared at them. When they
turned to cross the road, the mother slipped. She came down hard and lost
her grip on the suitcase. She felt it all in her thin body: her thighs, her ribs,
her neck, the bruised places. But the snow cushioned the impact. The boys
came running to her, making noises of concern. She looked at them. She
looked up at the sky, at the snow falling in her face, and she began to laugh.
When they saw her laughing, the boys smiled uncertainly. They helped her
up and the older boy dragged the suitcase for a while, but he was not strong
enough to take it across the road.

When they were in the hotel room, the mother began to remember things
she had forgotten: their slippers, her nightgown, all their toothbrushes, her
underwear. She would have to buy these things the next day. She thought of
everything she would have to do: the phone calls, the travel arrangements,
the decisions she would make back home. The chaos.
‘I left the oven on!’ she gasped.
The boys turned away from the television to look at her. They were
sitting on the carpet, eating the biscuits Mr Mihashi had packed for them.
The older boy asked, ‘What should we do?’
The mother shrugged and said, ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ She began to
notice a side to herself that wanted to return to switch off the oven, to be
back in the apartment, and she would always have to fight this side.
The boys still looked at her because they were all anxious.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You watch your programme. You shouldn’t
worry.’
She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing beyond their heads at the glowing
television screen, at the machines that changed and moved and fought just
like humans. She saw them everywhere.
 IN THE GARDEN

a plastic chair by the sliding doors, gazing out at the people in

H
E SITS ON
the garden. He spots you, then
quickly looks away, pretends not to notice your arrival.
You place a hand on his shoulder and he says, ‘Oh!’ He’s surprised. You
reach down to brush his forehead and he looks out at the garden again. He
does not want you to think he has been waiting.
‘Look!’ He points. ‘Mrs Emmerson.’
You follow the wavering line of his index finger. Mrs Emmerson is
being guided by a nurse’s aide with tiny twists for hair and a heavy jaw line.
She steers the old woman with an iron grip. You think, she’ll do. I wonder
what she would be like? As firm as she is being with Mrs Emmerson?
‘She’s looking good today, Mrs Emmerson,’ you say to your father. ‘We
haven’t seen her up and about for a while.’
Your father nods, pleased you have noticed this, noticed something he
has pointed out. You drag another chair and sit beside him, watching the
two women’s slow progress beyond the patio. There are other people too:
Mr Garcia, Sheila Wickham, Grumpy Les. You do not know all their names.
A flotilla of clouds passes, cooling the air. It disappears and the warmth
returns. You wish he would say more, your father, that he could say more,
but it is an effort for him.
‘Look!’ he says, and you look again, but only for an instant. You smile
at him and he smiles for you. This is when your patience is tested. You are
ready to leave after less than ten minutes, but you do not want to see his
face collapse. You do not want to be responsible for that again. You think of
words you can say. Sentences. The child who fell into the Thames, who
could not swim. By the time you arrived he was nearly dead, but he came
back. ‘I rescued him,’ you could say. Or, ‘Sometimes we speak on the
phone, but she’s more and more distant. I don’t think she’ll ever come
back.’ You could mention the roses at the edge of your garden. Your
Ferdinand Pichards. How their bloom surprises you constantly. How the
view from the kitchen window is changing. Like television, you want to
say, only slower, without actors.
Mrs Emmerson and the nurse’s aide have moved beyond the ash tree.
You cannot see their faces now, only their shapes and the brilliant white of
Mrs Emmerson’s house dress, the azure blue of the aide’s uniform.
‘What are you thinking, Papa?’ you ask. He only wants to stare through
the glass and smile. ‘There is someone at work,’ you say. ‘Edna – she’s
always asking after you. Maybe I can bring her sometime? If we’re in the
area? She’s nice; you’d like her. I can tell. She’s a nice person.’
Your father nods and smiles and repeats ‘nice’, but you do not know
what he feels. Sometimes you talk and you wonder if he really knows you,
understands the words you say.
‘She had a ring through her nose when she first started, but they asked
her to remove it. “Potentially dangerous”, they said. She made a big stink,
but she looks much better without it.’
You smile at the memory and your father laughs along with you. It is
time, you think. You reach across to him. There is a visible recoil, a look in
his eyes. Fear. You hold him, but there is no response. He is so thin against
you, a person wasting away. You leave him there in the plastic chair by the
patio. He looks at you, at the floor, back to you again. He does not want you
to go, but you cannot stay. He watches you limp out of the room – he must
know who you are now, one leg shorter than the other. His crippled son. He
will never forget that.

Edna says, ‘What are they looking at? Really, just what are they looking
at?’
You shrug as Victor parks the ambulance. They make the shape of a fan,
a butterfly; the men up front, the women, the children in-between, as they
peer on tiptoe over the people ahead. Two or three dirty-faced children
squeeze to the front, but they do not know what to focus on, not really. You
move as swiftly as you can holding the blanket like a matador’s cape, your
stiff clover uniform, the muted clip of your shoes against the road. Your
head is bleating already in the afternoon sun when you see her pinned
against the fence.
‘Jesus!’ Victor says under his breath, and he tries to disperse the crowd.
There are two thin lines of raspberry lipstick sealed against her face. But
the people do not witness this; her face is turned away from them. They do
not see how beautiful she is, only the twisted ribbon of her body, the thin
arms wrapped around the pylon, the summer dress, the newly waved hair,
the stocking still clinging to the leg, the separated knee. She looks alive,
but, on the other hand, she is as far from life as it is possible to be. Perhaps
it is because she is beautiful. Was beautiful. You wonder – where is her life
now, her soul, her essence? She looks up, resigned. Not startled or angry or
even afraid. Her eyes barely register surprise.
A battered Datsun sits several metres away, the dent of her body in its
side, the blush of her existence sprayed onto its white surface. The driver
sits sideways, feet on the tarmac. His mouth is moving, but the words do
not arrive. You look at Victor, nod towards the driver, and keep walking,
holding the blanket. You cover the woman so the people can no longer see.
Why do they always congregate; their open mouths, the curious, nervous
eyes? A woman in a crocus-yellow cardigan drops to her knees, crosses
herself and begins to mutter.
‘There’s nothing to see,’ Edna calls. ‘Stand back.’
‘Time to move on,’ a policeman shouts. He uses his hands to push them
away.
They pick up their bags, their laundry, hitch their belts, shuffle back, but
no one is willing to leave. The woman in the cardigan is praying openly
now in the clear space vacated by the others. After a moment, the crowd
surges forward again near to where she kneels. A child stands staring at her,
the praying woman, as if she is the spectacle.
You and Victor release the woman from her grip on the fence. You do
your checks, but they are superfluous now. Edna and another paramedic
bring the stretcher, and the people part so you can carry the body away. You
watch them in the wing mirror as the vehicle departs. They stand there,
waiting. You notice the woman praying still, facing the now vacant fence.
Perhaps she is still there for them, the woman in the back of your
ambulance. Her soul. Something.
‘I’m starving. Anyone for food?’ Victor asks.
‘I’ve just eaten, thanks,’ says Edna.
‘Sunday?’
‘I’m fine. Not hungry. Later maybe.’ But you will not eat.
You drive and you wonder what your father is doing. You do not think
about the woman in the back, her face a porcelain doll’s, the body ruined
beyond repair. Is he sitting by the sliding doors, is he occupied with
someone else, has he eaten? Is he alone? The thoughts swim in your head.
You must stop thinking, worrying. You like the work you do. It takes you
away – the drama, the variety, the times you are useful. Sometimes you are
shocked by what you see, but you have a job to do and you do not think;
you are only working, working, working.
Edna asks, ‘How is your father these days?’
You are rolling cigarettes on the hospital balcony. A warm wind lifts her
copper coloured hair from her face. For a moment she looks younger,
fresher. Less like Edna.
‘Still the same,’ you say. What can you say? ‘He’s smiling, noticing
things. Don’t think he recognizes me, though.’ You huddle away from the
breeze to strike a match while Edna waits for you. You suck in the nicotine
and let it linger and exhale and it feels good. You light her cigarette with
your own. You say, ‘All medicine involves critical thinking and problem
solving, right? A problem is presented to us. We take what we know about
the human body and use that knowledge – with equipment and medication –
to create a positive outcome … There’s no positive outcome with him.’
You are both quiet for a minute with your cigarettes. Edna peers over
the railing at the parking lot, at the path leading from the Tube station to the
hospital, the procession of patients and staff.
‘You should visit more often,’ she says. ‘That might help. It might
trigger something. Do you take photographs?’
‘Take photographs?’
 ‘Of when you were younger. Of the family. It could help trigger his
memory. Help him to remember.’
‘Sometimes I do,’ you lie. You do not want the conversation to
continue. To satisfy her you say, ‘Perhaps you’re right; I should go more
often. There never seems to be enough time.’ But you know you will not
increase your visits. Everything will remain as before.
Edna reaches out, touches your arm, returns to the staff lounge.
It would be nice, you and Edna, you think sometimes. She does not
overtax you. She is not unattractive. She knows what to say, what to do in
situations other people would balk at: when there is a loss, a calamity,
people needing to be spoken to honestly, soothed. She would be a good
mother. Sometimes you notice when she is with you, she talks too much.
Fidgets. You know there is an interest there. But you do not want that
‘lovey-dovey’, that connection, the tenderness.

Crème brûlée. You work backwards in your mind. What should precede the
dessert – veal, chicken? Even that is too heavy, too bloating for tonight.
Fish would be perfect, but you would like something new, something you
have never tasted before. You ask for red snapper at the counter, and hurry
to fruit and vegetables, and make your selection. You do not like to linger
under the cold fluorescent light. Other people’s idiotic stumbling irritates
you. By the time you arrive in your kitchen, everything is planned, even the
timing.
You fry the sauce – okra and red-green tomatoes – and cover over the
red snapper. You dip the cauliflower florets in batter and fry until lightly
browned. In the minutes when there is nothing to do, you dash to the dining
room and arrange things: the candles, the three place mats, the spray of
white lilies in the centre of the table.
While you are eating the cauliflower, savouring the zest of lemon in
tahini sauce, the alarm sounds – the fish is ready. This is inconvenient. Do
you allow it to bake for another five minutes, do you interrupt your first
course to turn off the oven and lower the snapper? Decisions. You gather
the two untouched dishes and empty the florets into the bin. This is a
shame, but there is a schedule to adhere to. The fish is tender and steaming,
not a minute over-cooked. The eyes have shrunk, the tip of the tail only
slightly curled. The white wine is cool and fruity – a hint of melon – a
perfect complement. You raise your glass to the two other chairs: at the
head of the table and opposite you. You do not sit at the head since this is
not your place. According to the clock you are eight minutes late. No time
for pause between dishes now.
You hobble back to the kitchen. The blow torch is nowhere to be found.
Eleven minutes behind schedule. Will you be late, are you already late, are
you trying to be late? You could forgo the dessert and be on your way, but
that is not what you choose to do. Instead, you descend to the cellar and
scour your work things. Nothing is out of place. Each drawer needs only a
cursory glance and you can move on and there it is. Middle drawer, between
tape measure and spirit level. You bound upstairs and crisp the crème brûlée
with the flame. When it is perfect – not too caramelised – you sit to eat. You
savour the crunch of the skating-rink surface against the soft underbelly.
You do not look at the wall clock again until the ramekin is empty. You
glance at the two ramekins ahead and beside you, the nervous energy of the
candles, the soft fading light of the summer evening. Your mother loved this
dessert.
There is a diversion which takes you out of your way. The traffic is
worse than expected. By the time you park outside the house there is no
longer any point in worrying. You ring the bell to number fifty-four and
there is such a long silence you think no one is in. Several children are
playing hopscotch on the pavement – three girls, and a boy with Down’s
syndrome. The boy jumps in when it isn’t his turn, tries to imitate the girls’
moves. But he is hopeless. The girls allow this, though. They seem patient
and kind. A middle-aged man walks a terrier towards the park at the end of
the road.
‘You’re late,’ she says. She is standing in the doorway in her work
clothes – the pinstripe skirt and jacket – as if she is not going to let you in.
She looks you up and down, then moves to one side, jerks her head. ‘Get in
there, you.’
‘Sorry. I lost track of time. There was a diversion. I’m sorry.’ You
stumble at the entrance in your clumsy right shoe, swaying slightly,
balancing.
 ‘I’ll give you sorry,’ she says. ‘Like I care. Pathetic. I don’t know what
I’m going to do with you.’
She leads you to the utility room at the back of the house. There is an
assortment of clothes and contraptions heaped in a basket. She tells you
what to wear and you do not question her. She watches you undress,
watches as you put on the outfit she has selected.
‘These are too tight,’ you complain, indicating the thigh-high boots.
She looks at you, then looks away. Sniffs. ‘Come with me.’ She leads
you to the room downstairs. You know where everything is, what
everything does, what it is all used for. But you do not know what she has
planned for tonight. You wonder when she will get changed.
She leaves you there, your head under the guillotine, ankles and wrists
tied together, neck squeezed in the lunette. Facing the floor. You hear her
movements on the stairs, in the rooms above. What has she chosen to wear
tonight? You liked the rubber body suit she wore last time, but she does not
wear the same outfit consecutively. Will she use the paddle, the hose pipe, a
switch from the garden? Please, not the leather bullwhip. Your mind is full
of the possibilities and it excites and frightens you both.
Her footsteps clunk on the stairs – the slow, sideways descent of
stilettos. She is wearing a raincoat. You wonder what it conceals.
‘I’m going to the pictures,’ she says. ‘You won’t go anywhere, will you
now?’ She lets out a brittle laugh.
‘To the pictures? When will you be back?’ You are be-wildered. Is this
part of things? You are careful not to show impertinence.
‘I don’t know. Might stop off for something to eat. Be a good boy now,
and we’ll see.’
The front door slams. You swear never to return to this place, but at the
back of your mind you know you will. The days will drag, the weeks may
turn into months, but you will run back here, pleading for your correction.
You rest your neck against the lunette, but in a while it begins to bite.
Already your knees are beginning to ache. You would like to scratch your
face, blow your runny nose. She should not have tied your hands together.
You think of all the things you could be doing: visiting your father,
watching television, sleeping with Edna, sleeping. But really, nothing
compares.
You remember when you were eight. This was parents’ night. Your
mother was discussing your work with one of the teachers. Your father was
staring straight ahead; there was a boy – you cannot remember his name
now – but he was walking, limping, mimicking you. Finding it amusing in
front of his friends. Your father watched him a moment longer, strode
across the room, walloped him, hard. And he walked back and sat down
again, the other boy wailing now, his parents outraged. You felt glee and
pride and fear all at once. Now your father hardly recognizes you and you
wonder – what has happened to all his memories?
What would he think of you kneeling here in the rubber diaper, the
black boots, the guillotine, the clamps eating your nipples? Would he know
who you are? Would he think anything of it? You pull up your knees into a
squatting position and this takes some of the pressure off your thighs, your
lower back. Perhaps she will not return until morning. You push the
thoughts out of your mind and think of things you could prepare with …
with mangetout. There is soup – you have never thought of that before –
and omelette, and juice, and mangetout cake. These are all possibilities.
There are hands pushing gently against your bladder, rubbing in circles,
insistently. You could eat it with anything as an accompaniment, as a side
salad. You are not sure how to incorporate it, but it would make, perhaps, an
interesting ice cream. And there is bread and stir-fry and mangetout curry
and pizza and, oh … the sweet release, the hot flow of liquid swirling
around the crotch, seeping out of the rubber, soaking your thighs, your
encased feet. For a moment you forget the pain.
You hear the front door slam, the click of heels across the hall. You
know you could not have endured much longer. Your legs are shaking. Your
back howls. If your neck is marked or bleeding you do not feel it. You are
beyond pain now. Only willpower can keep you from breaking, from
shouting for help.
‘Oh, look,’ she says. ‘We haven’t been so good, have we? I was sure
you were going to behave. Who’s going to clean this up, eh? Not me.’ She
unties you, raises the lunette from your neck. ‘Lousy picture in the end; we
treated ourselves afterwards. Dinner, drinks. You would have liked it. You
should have come.’
You can smell the alcohol, the aroma of the bar: cigarettes, perfume,
perspiration.
When she unlocks the manacle, you can only fall to the floor, into the
cold pool of piss. The release from your limbs, your back, is indescribable.
She reaches down, touches your face, a small tenderness. ‘What do we say
now?’ she whispers.
‘Thank you.’

Edna says, ‘Mangetout? I’m not so sure about this.’ Takes a drag on her
cigarette.
‘Go ahead,’ you say. ‘Just one bite. Look at Victor.’
And there is Victor who will eat anything, his mouth full, reaching for
more. Crumbs on his bleached goatee.
She prods the cake, sniffs it, nibbles. ‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘You can’t
taste the vegetable.’ She smiles, the smoke undulating between the two of
you.
‘What’s that on your neck?’ Victor asks.
‘Oh that.’ You touch your neck self-consciously. ‘Bought a new shirt the
other day. An allergic reaction, I guess.’

He is sitting in the same position in an easy chair with faux-leather

covering. He looks alone and sad and crumpled there gazing out through the
doors, not seeing anything.
‘I brought you something, Papa.’
He looks up – apprehensive, smiling, apprehensive again. Does he know
who you are?
You fetch another chair, making sure he can see your limp. Surely he
must have some idea?
It is so warm the glass doors have been rolled back. Your father sits in
his shirtsleeves, the top button undone. He is freshly shaved, wearing the
pink poplin shirt you bought him for his birthday two years ago. It makes
him seem younger now, more alert, more able to think.
Grumpy Les is in the garden, arm in arm with the woman with twists in
her hair. Two short steps, then a rest before he begins again. She turns to
you and your father and waves, and moves off after a pause. The ash tree
soughs, the leaves shiver, then lean one way, but gently, as if caught in a
baby’s breath.
‘Everything’s so fast,’ you say to your father. ‘And in here it’s all so
slow. The people, the cars, the lives everyone leads. It’s no surprise there
are so many accidents. I’ll never be short of work. Here, this is for you,
Papa.’ You hand him a plastic tub containing the rest of the cake. ‘I’ll go
and make the tea, okay?’
When you return with the plates and the cups of tea, you notice he has
not opened the container. You set down the plates on the table and cut the
cake, place a fork near your father, and begin to talk. It makes you feel like
a mother, like you are your mother. You speak the nonsense words all the
while. You do not like to pause between the sentences, but you have little to
say in a one-way conversation.
‘She was maybe mid-forties, early fifties, but she looked good,
considering.’ Considering what? That she was smashed up against the
fence, that she was dead, that she had lost half a leg? You do not want to
talk about it, but there is nothing else to say. ‘Victor says it’s like a freak
show when they come to watch. Voyeurs, he calls them. But I don’t think
so. I’ve been thinking – it’s perfectly understandable. A person is alive and
minutes later they’re not. People want to see, to understand what it’s like,
what happens in that time. Where the person goes. They’re afraid, I think,
or anxious or curious. But not indifferent. Indifference would be freakish.’
Your father chews slowly and glances at you, your hands. Mostly he
regards Grumpy Les in the garden.
‘Remember this?’ You take out the photograph of the time you went to
the beach when you were four or five: you, your mother, your father. In the
background is the Bight of Benin.
He peers at the image. The chewing slows. He looks at you uncertainly,
then returns his gaze to the garden where nothing has changed. Why do you
bother to come here? Why did you even listen to Edna? You could return to
the house of correction tonight. There may not be an opening, but it is
something to consider, to anticipate. Perhaps tomorrow. You were not
prepared for the guillotine, but then, it is not for you to decide.
Your father starts to talk, but he is speaking in the other language. He
says her name, once, in among all the words, the only word that makes
sense to you – Aina. And then he goes on, but it no longer matters to you.
He has spoken your mother’s name. He is remembering something. You sit
there, the two of you, looking out at Grumpy Les. You do not understand
him, your father, and he does not know who you are. Sometimes you
wonder where he has gone, his essence, when everything else is declining,
but still functioning. He is leaving you and there is nothing for it.
He finishes the cake – all of it, though he is not a good eater. He says,
‘Every day the sun shines, there – in the garden.’ He points as if you might
not know where he means, then reaches out and touches your neck very
lightly, for a moment.
 JUMBO AND JACINTA

second hand rotate one more time before turning over and
J
ACINTA LET THE
swatting Jumbo. She wasn’t going to allow him to lie in and waste their
holiday. Not after they had saved up so much to get here in the first place.
She thought about what they could have been doing – queuing up at the tills
in the shopping centre, or for the coach that would take them across the city,
perhaps to New York, or even, and she saved this for last, queuing up to see
the magnificent waterfall they were planning to visit later that day.
Whatever it was they could have been doing, they would have to wait
because it was only five forty-five in the morning. But Jacinta did not care.
She was annoyed and excited at the same time. Annoyed at her husband for
ruining their holiday by oversleeping, for resting dammit, and excited
because today they were going to visit the falls.
She swung her legs out of bed, rubbing them gently for circulation, and
counted to ten before standing up. Once she had woken abruptly in a
bladderful haze, and rushed out of the bedroom not fully conscious. She had
walked into their sitting room, not sure where she was headed, then
slumped slowly to the floor, her deflated body propped against the wall. She
had picked herself up, retraced her steps to the bathroom and then returned
to bed. It was only later the following day, when she caught herself
dreaming about salted fish stew, that she remembered what had happened in
the night. She could not remember feeling any pain in the fall and the
thought of it frightened her. Why, one day she might wake up, walk out into
the street and get knocked down by one of those speeding jalopies the
youths were so keen on these days. And that would be that. She had
shivered at the thought.
She sauntered to the balcony and drew open the curtains. The travel
agent had been correct; they did have a good view. She could see the
waterfall in the distance and as she slid apart the slick sliding doors and
stepped outside, she was sure she could hear the roar of something that
might have been water, but could just as easily have been her husband’s
laboured breathing. She squinted at him through the spotless glass door,
trying not to notice the ponderous rise and fall of his stomach.
She stood with her back to the glass, not daring to approach the railing.
It might just be waiting to collapse. One touch from her and the whole thing
could go crashing the ten floors to the ground. These things happened. She
had read about them. She could not remember where.
She peered at the streets below, at the few people walking to work,
walking their dogs, running. She wondered whether they could see her up
here, a little brown woman in a long salmon-pink nightie. Her skin warmed
in the morning sun. She was not a little woman, she reminded herself. It
was only Jumbo who made her feel small with his constant asides about her
size, her tiny, nagging voice.
‘Don’t get lost now,’ he would joke if she went to freshen up during a
meal at a restaurant or if they had to separate while shopping. Next to
Jumbo, anyone would feel small, she thought. She quickly checked herself
for being wicked. He only teased her because she was always begging him
to lose weight.
‘It’s not healthy,’ she would say, reaching out for leaflets which were
often sinisterly close to hand, and she would read the more gruesome ones
aloud. ‘Hypertension and stroke are twice as likely to occur in obesity,’ she
would start. ‘Other common conditions are coronary artery disease and
diabetes mellitus.’
She liked to pronounce these words and she would enunciate extra
clearly, rolling them in her mouth like gum balls, looking sweetly at her
husband so he would realise she had a command of the terms without
looking at the brochures. I could have been a doctor, she sometimes thought
wistfully. Perhaps if I had been born in America I might have studied and
would now be saving lives, delivering babies, massaging tired hearts. This
was a secret drink of a fantasy she sipped occasionally, rarely getting drunk.
When Mrs Morris from her bridge group had suffered recurrent
abdominal pains, Jacinta swiftly diagnosed a femoral hernia and advised a
daily abdominal rub and a radically altered diet with plenty of liquids and
rest. The other women had stared blankly at Jacinta. Only Mrs Kuramu,
known for her fiery temper, dared to eye her up and down.
‘Jacinta, sweetie,’ she said, trying to suppress something closely related
to rage, ‘why don’t you stick to your lima beans and your fish jambalaya
and leave the diagnostics for the doctors, my dear.’ Lacine Kuramu knew
nothing about medicine and the fact that Jacinta had garbled anything
remotely analeptic, plunged her into a slow simmering stew.
Jacinta was not bothered. She tossed these terms so liberally about in
her dreams she no longer cared whether she prescribed a gastroenterostomy
for simple diarrhoea or a gargle of analgesic drugs for a bout of
appendicitis. These were gardens that thrived in her mind and she had only
made the mistake this time of allowing anyone apart from Jumbo to tend
them.
A few cars had stopped at a set of traffic lights in the grid of streets
below. Jacinta liked the orderliness of things here. Even though the streets
were deserted, these few cars would not move until the lights turned green.
She leaned in closer to see if there were any policemen in the area. As far as
she could tell, there were not. If this had been St Lucia the cars would not
have stopped. It would not have made sense. Even she would not have
stopped. If she had been driving. If she had had a car. If Jumbo had not
forbidden her to drive. She found herself getting annoyed again so she
checked herself with a quick tsk. She wondered whether the people in the
cars could see her. She narrowed her eyes to see better, and then she
shivered and flushed at the same time when she realised what she was
doing; standing in her nightie in a cool dawn breeze on a hotel balcony for
the whole city to see. She scampered back inside, alarmed at herself. This is
what a holiday had done to her. She had relaxed and thrown her inhibitions
into a pot of seafood gumbo. She had become a wanton woman. This would
not do.
She trotted over to Jumbo and whacked him on the buttocks. ‘Wake up,
Jumbo!’ she hissed. ‘There’s sightseeing to be done.’
He woke up in a grunt. ‘But it’s only six o’clock!’ he cried. ‘Please Jaci,
we’re on holiday. Let me sleep.’
 She flounced into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Jumbo lay in bed for a moment, guilt working in him like a restorative. He
groaned, then peeled away the layer of blankets covering him. He started
for the bathroom, but stopped when he realised he would have to wait for
his wife.
‘Be careful, Jaci,’ he called. ‘Don’t go losing yourself down the
plughole now.’ Then tittered. He waited for the sound of her tsk before
sinking back into bed for a few treasured minutes.

There were people already eating breakfast when they arrived in the dining
room.
‘Oh, look, someone’s taken our table,’ Jacinta complained. ‘We’re
latecomers. You know, we’ll have to get up extra early tomorrow.’
Jumbo had already started moving towards another table. Jacinta sighed.
He had probably not heard her.
She studied her husband from behind. He filled his T-shirt, pouring so
much of himself inside it it seemed like an ‘O’ with horns for arms rather
than the simple ‘T’ it should have been. As he moved, the reckless heap of
him danced behind in a procession, in a kind of hula. Sometimes children
snickered and called out to him if they were together in groups. This never
happened when they were on their own. Jacinta noticed these things.
She noticed how people were looking at him now. She knew what they
were thinking and it embarrassed and angered her at the same time. A
couple was staring at him this very second. She wanted to give them good,
hearty slaps, slip cayenne chillies into their breakfasts, a dash of curdled
goat’s piss into their tea.
The couple smiled at her husband. Jacinta was confused. Jumbo stopped
to exchange words with them and she hid behind him because she thought
her venom might be apparent. She listened. They were talking about sights
they had seen or had yet to see. Jacinta could not pinpoint the accent. It was
languorous and unusual, although the English was good. She strained to feel
the kinks in the conversation, the kneading of words that might provide
clues to their nationality.
‘This is my wife, Jacinta,’ Jumbo said.
 She was so startled she almost looked behind herself to see who her
husband was referring to.
‘Oh, good morning,’ she nodded, not knowing why, trying to regain her
composure.
The man stood to shake her hand.
‘Please, sit,’ Jacinta waved him down. She had become coy, almost
girlish. The man’s napkin had fallen to the floor, she noticed. ‘I must not
pick it up.’ She fought with the impulses in her head. ‘The wife will think I
am too fresh.’
They were from Denmark, the woman said. She had short brown hair
and freckles, a cluster of which danced about her nose. Jacinta raised her
eyebrows. She had assumed all Scandinavians were blond with pale, papery
skin.
‘Today is our last day in Canada,’ the woman was explaining.
‘Tomorrow we go south of the border.’ She smiled at her husband when she
said this.
Jacinta thought the woman’s hair was too deep a brown for her age and
decided she probably doused herself in hair dye as often as Jacinta did. She
liked this couple and as they approached their own table she carried a warm
feeling inside her.
After breakfast they strolled around the hotel lobby as it was still too
early to go out. Jumbo gathered leaflets at the reception desk and they
mulled over the various available tours. They chose one that departed from
the hotel, swept through the major sights of the city, even providing lunch
in a restaurant at the top of a tower.
‘It says here, the restaurant revolves as we eat,’ Jumbo said. ‘We’ll wait
and see.’
A woman in a pink leotard burst out of one of the lifts and jogged down
a passageway to one side of the lobby. Jacinta frowned.
‘I wonder where she’s going?’ Jumbo said.
‘They should have laws for people dressing down like that,’ Jacinta
muttered. ‘The shame of it.’
 ‘Come, let’s see where she’s going.’ Jumbo pulled his wife by the arm
as she grumbled and cursed under her breath.
They lost track of the woman, but to the left of the corridor they could
hear the earnest rolling and clacking of machines.
‘Oh! Look it’s a gym!’ Jacinta exclaimed as they approached the
triangular windows where the noise was coming from.
The woman in the pink leotard was bouncing up and down on a step
machine. A hefty young man pushed a weight above his chest very slowly.
Jumbo could see the man’s face trembling, the lips stretched in a snarl.
When he lowered the weight, the man growled, kicking out his legs as if his
body had given up. Jumbo winced.
‘Oh!’ Jacinta shrilled. She covered her mouth with her fingertips.
The man began to lift the weight again. Jumbo started to feel nauseous.
‘You know, we could come here tomorrow morning. Extra early,’
Jacinta suggested. ‘I could come and watch you exercise,’ she clarified.
‘I’m too old for that nonsense, Jaci,’ he complained.
And fat, she thought. An image of Jumbo in the throes of cardiac arrest
sprung up in her mind. She could see doctors and ambulance men and
flashing sirens. Worst of all she could see her husband stretched out at the
bottom of a weights machine, the life pummelled out of him by a dumbbell.
‘I’m afraid there’s just no hope,’ a white-coated paramedic would say to
her, his soft, strong hands resting lightly on her shoulders, massaging
gently, steadying her grief. She thought of herself, alone in this country with
a dead husband. She let out a whimper.
‘What’s wrong, Jaci?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she replied, and then added, ‘Maybe you’re right, dear.
Maybe it isn’t such a good idea.’ And they returned to their room to prepare
for the rest of the day.

The coach ride was pleasant enough, but it involved a lot of hopping on and
hopping off and by the time the tour ended they were feeling tired and
irritable. A British couple in the rear of the coach had argued earlier and
now sat glumly across the aisle from each other, staring at views through
opposite windows, pretending to be fascinated. The coach stopped at the
base of a towering building, while the guide carried on in an untiring flurry,
his arms gesticulating like the wings of a dragonfly. They were bundled into
the building, their group fighting for the first available lifts. Jumbo and
Jacinta found themselves in a lift with several Japanese tourists and an
Argentine couple who had remained uncomfortably close to the guide
during the entire tour. Jacinta eyed them. They reminded her, the pair of
them, of Rosa Duchene who had sat at the front of the class when Jacinta
was a girl. Rosa sometimes brought in fresh flowers from her mother’s
garden for their teacher, Miss Kimberly. Jacinta had hated Rosa, and this
couple was annoying her now. She squeezed in closer to her husband while
they waited for the doors to shut.
A tall man and two children ran up to the lift before the doors began to
close. The tourists glared. The man and his children decided to wait.

‘I can’t see nothing moving,’ Jumbo said as he stared out of the window
beside their table.
Jacinta peered into the distance, trying to see if they were turning.
‘You’re moving your head,’ Jumbo pointed out. ‘Keep it still.’
‘Perhaps the restaurant’s broken down today,’ she said.
They ordered two glasses of cold beer and decided to ignore the view of
the city.
‘I wonder what Alex is doing now?’ Jacinta thought out loud.
‘He’s probably set fire to the house, found the keys to the car and driven
into the sea,’ Jumbo laughed.
‘Oh, Jumbo,’ Jacinta complained, but she was smiling in spite of
herself. Alex, their youngest son, had been left in charge of the house while
they were away. Their other children, Sam and Rebecca, had moved out
several years ago. Sam to get married, Rebecca to study law at a university
in California. Jacinta was constantly worrying about her children. She was
determined not to think about them now.
A waiter came to take their order. After he had gone, Jacinta said
quietly, ‘You know, Jumbo, I don’t think you should be eating steak right
now. It’s not so good for you.’
 ‘Come on, Jaci. We’re on holiday now. Relax a little.’
She had tried relaxing, but she only ended up fidgeting like a blue tit,
jittering about, all hyperactive and wired. Her hands losing control, startling
her.
‘Too much red meat, Jumbo … ,’ she started and then her face bunched
up and she went quiet.
Jumbo looked out of the window at the sun-showered city. He could see
his wife’s face in the reflection. He could see a fat tear rolling down it now.
‘Oh, Jaci, why you crying?’
She remained silent, staring down at the table top.
Jumbo could tell when his wife was crying for effect and when she was
genuinely upset. Sometimes she sniffed and dabbed at tears squeezed out
under coercion, but her face remained as pretty as ever. Other times her face
would move into another place, morphing like the pictures on television.
She became another person then and it astonished him. It was as if she had
lost control of her face as it spread like butter left out in the sun. The
creasing eyebrows, the jut of the lips, the sour childlike eyes made her lose
her beauty momentarily, and right now, Jumbo thought, she was very ugly.
‘Jaci, don’t cry,’ he said, rubbing her hand, squeezing it gently.
She sobbed quietly, still staring down at the table, at her husband’s
hands which were covering her own. He had long, powerful fingers that did
not seem to belong to the rest of him. They were not huge and clumsy, but
graceful and nimble as athletes.
‘Oh, Jumbo. I’m just worrying, that’s all,’ she said. ‘You know me,
always worrying.’ And she smiled an awkward smudge of a smile.
‘Be back in a minute,’ Jumbo said, getting up, disappearing into the
washrooms in the centre of the restaurant.
Jacinta sighed, watching the swing and sway of his body.
There was something about Jumbo that unsettled people. He had a
looseness, a slackness about him that perfect strangers wanted to fix, to tidy.
Something they wanted to pick up and fold so he would not stumble over
himself. Those close to him, however, had grown used to this quality,
grown to love it even. It was something they could not quite place,
something reassuring, though, that they could take up and share. Something
soothing that relaxed the tightness in themselves. Jacinta tried to imagine
Jumbo as a thin man, but she could not do so without losing this quality that
was her husband’s essence.
‘Look, Jaci, the waterfall!’ Jumbo pointed as he sat down again. They
could make out a part of it if they craned their necks.
‘We must be moving then,’ Jacinta marvelled. She looked about the
restaurant for signs of rotation, but there were none. ‘I can’t even feel it.’
During a dessert of vanilla ice cream and blueberry meringues, the
waterfall lay before them in its full splendour. They could make out the tiny
shapes of people dotting one side of the river as plumes of spray gusted up
at them. Jacinta wanted to be where those people were. She wanted to close
her eyes and feel the cool mist settle on her face.
After lunch, the tourists were shepherded back to the coach. Some were
dropped off at the waterfall while others, who had probably seen it before,
were driven back to their hotels.
Jumbo and Jacinta climbed hesitantly off the coach. The roar of the
water unsettled them. Jacinta had not counted on this deafening noise that
shook the ground. It was as if the earth were about to give way. They
moved slowly to the barrier where people were staring into the foaming
water.
‘Jumbo, I’m scared. Hold me tight,’ she said, and he did so.
They watched the river flow over the wide crest that stretched all the
way to America. Then their eyes followed the drop, crashing down into the
basin below. Jacinta screamed.
‘Jumbo, there are people down there! Look at them!’ And there were.
Jumbo could see them. Jacinta held one hand against her galloping heart
while the other covered her gaping mouth. She stared at a boat bobbing in
the water below and felt dizzy. Then she grabbed her husband’s hand when
she realised she was not holding onto anything. ‘Those people are surely
going to die,’ she whispered.
They watched the tiny boat with its cargo of yellow-coated passengers
float towards the crush of water, disappearing into the clouds of mist. When
it re-emerged, Jacinta squinted, trying to make sure the people were still on
board. They followed the course of the boat to its mooring by the side of the
basin, then walked down the descent of sodden steps, taking them past
onlookers.
‘They’re probably just young boys having some fun,’ Jumbo said. They
reached the boat as the passengers were alighting. There was a woman,
laughing, holding onto another woman as the people stepped back on land.
‘These are not men,’ Jacinta noted. ‘They are not young either …
Jumbo, that woman there, she’s older than Ma Kuramu, Lacine’s mother,
isn’t it?’
Jumbo nodded. Jacinta was perplexed.
‘Look, Jaci, it says the next trip is in fifteen minutes.’ Jumbo rocked
from side to side, unable to keep still. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
She eyed him suspiciously. Rocking. Idiot savant. She had read this
somewhere. She did not have her medical aids to hand. She would ask later
at the hotel reception. She watched the passengers emerging from the boat.
They did not seem shaken or hysterical. ‘Pay the man the money and let us
get on!’ she blurted.
Jumbo’s eyes darted between his wife and the boat. If he gave her the
slightest chance she would change her mind. He charged to the counter and
paid the fare while Jacinta remained stock still, looking unnaturally
composed.
‘No use coming all this way and missing out on an experience like this,’
Jumbo said when he returned.
‘Jumbo,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s been so long. You know, I think I’ve
forgotten how to swim.’
‘We’re not going swimming, woman!’ he almost shouted.
Jacinta looked at him, but was distracted by the call to board. The
steward handed them each a hooded raincoat. The boat filled up quickly, so
quickly others had to be turned away to await the next outing.
They began to move, swinging out to the centre of the basin, then
heading directly towards the waterfall, like suicides. Jacinta was no longer
afraid. She looked up at the people on land watching the passengers from
above. She felt safer down here, even in this disaster of water, the white
foam bubbling and churning all around them.
The spray fell thickly now, drenching them in a constant shower, but it
felt cool and good. Jacinta remembered taking the children to the beach
once when they were very young. Alex had brought his pet fish in a plastic
sandwich bag, dipping it into the sea so they could have a view of their own
wide world. She knew how the fish must have felt then. Small and
bewildered and alone.
She stretched her arm across her husband’s back and looked up at him
and smiled. The boat entered the confusion of mist, the chaos of water,
secretively, inching into it, like a child into the sea.
 With thanks to Ellah Allfrey and Anne Dewe.

Thanks and love to Rosemarie, Richard,

Ethan, Sol and Chris.
And Aunt Grace (Oyelude).

The following stories were originally published in slightly different form:

‘Monday Morning’ in Wasafiri; ‘Arithmetic’ in Tampa Review; ‘Two
Sisters’ in Salamander; ‘The Husband of Your Wife’s Best Friend’ in
Tampa Review; ‘Moses’ in Pretext and The Malahat Review; Now that I’m
Back’ in Dream Catcher and The Kenyon Review; ‘Something in the Water’
in the text; ‘Mrs Minter’ in New Welsh Review; ‘Mrs Mahmood’ in
Edinburgh Review; ‘Gifted’ in Granta; ‘In the Garden’ in Prism
International and Wasafiri and ‘Jumbo and Jacinta’ in London Magazine.
www.vintage-books.co.uk