‘Go ahead.’
I looked down at the handwriting. It was a confident scrawl in blue biro; the sharp loops of a person in a hurry.
Lovely family,
Got the piece finished and sent off. On another story now, one I’ve been after for years. Take care of yourselves.
Love you all.
Mum/Deborah
I squinted at the description printed underneath the picture. ‘It says Zanzibar.’
He waved a thin hand, irritated. ‘Yes, I know it says Zanzibar, man. But look at the postmark.’
‘Ah, I see. Mombasa. Okay. But she’ll be long gone by now, surely?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He knew more than he was telling me, I was sure of it. He wasn’t just relying on a blurred postmark.
‘Perry, I—’
‘She’s blondish. Slim, medium height.’ He picked up the photo of her, the one taken by Lucy in Greece. Slid it out of the frame. ‘Better take this. It’s not the most recent, but it’s a close-up. Ask in the post office, the police station, ask the taxi drivers. Failing that, try along the coast. I don’t imagine she’ll be in one of the big tourist resorts, so look off the beaten track. There are less accessible places. Extremely basic. Campsites. Backpacker lodges. Someone will know.’
‘You’ve been?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious.
‘Not recently.’
‘When did you—’
‘You’ll need to hire a vehicle out there. Use your credit card, and I’ll reimburse you in full.’
‘No you won’t. The cost isn’t the issue.’
‘That’s good of you.’ He inclined his head. ‘I suggest you leave your car and all your things here, and have your mail forwarded to this address.’
‘Hold on, Perry. Whoa. I haven’t agreed to go.’ I held up my hands to halt his steamroller. ‘I don’t get it. I don’t understand what all this is about.’
This time he did smile, very briefly, and I caught a flash of gold tooth.
‘Come on, man. Where’s your sense of adventure?’
Chapter Eight
The fiftieth birthday party on Saturday night turned out to be a good one. Leila’s band—Dusty and the Defibrillators—consisted of two junior doctors from the Queen Elizabeth (keyboard and guitar), a student nurse (double bass), an administrator (drums), a GP (saxophone) and Leila. They played everything from Gershwin to Lloyd Webber via the blues—it was for fun, not for money, although Leila suspected that Patrick, the drummer, would have loved to give up his day job.
That night they were a success. The hotel’s dance floor heaved with lindy-hopping fifty-year-olds and embarrassed teenagers, and Leila brought the house down with a husky blast of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ before the band took a half-hour break.
‘Nice one, Leila!’ Maggie lowered her sax into its case. ‘Watch out, Ella Fitzgerald.’
Maggie’s surgery worked closely with Leila’s pharmacy; the two women were regularly in touch over the minutiae of prescriptions. It was she who’d dragooned Leila into the band.
‘They’re a fantastic crowd,’ said Leila, looking around happily. The sun had risen on the world, tingeing her future with gold light. Leila had new energy, clarity of mind, and affection for her fellow man.
Maggie was thirty: plain, perky and almost divorced. Separation had made her rebellious, and this evening she wore a bowler hat, a black basque and jeans. She had wispy hair and an uncomfortable nose, but no shortage of admirers.
The band had their own table. Maggie turned a chair around, sat astride it and poured two glasses of fizzy wine. ‘Cheers.’ She had to shout above the music, as she handed a glass to Leila. ‘Oh my God, someone’s asked for “The Birdie Song”. I thought this shindig was supposed to have a touch of class?’
Leila took the glass, sipped, remembered, and carefully put it down.
‘Can’t,’ she said firmly.
Maggie stared. ‘Can’t? You’ve not gone teetotal on me, you baggage?’
‘Temporarily.’
‘Why?’
Leila wriggled delightedly.
‘You’re not . . . ?’ Maggie leaned closer, hazel eyes widening. ‘You’re not? . . . No! You are !’
‘Shhh!’ Leila’s smile was dazzling as she put a finger to her lips. ‘Top secret. I haven’t even told David.’
Maggie leaped up, blasphemed merrily and spun her bowler into the air. It sailed onto a fan and began to have the ride of its life. ‘This is the best news I’ve had all year. When did you find out?’
‘Last night. It was one of those really early tests, which is why I haven’t told David yet.’
‘Oh.’ Maggie’s enthusiasm slipped a little. She ruffled her flyaway hair, calculating. ‘So you’re still only . . . ?’
‘Four weeks. Max. I’ll do another one soon, but it’s all fine. I just know it is.’
Maggie bustled around the table to hug her. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake. Have an orange juice . . . here. How are you feeling?’
‘I feel absolutely fantastic,’ said Leila. ‘And incredibly lucky.’
Maggie held up two sets of crossed fingers. ‘Come in and see me at the surgery. This week. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Monday. Come in on Monday.’
‘Okay. Maybe. But that’s enough about me. What about you? What’s Harry been up to?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘Poor old Harry has finally lost the plot,’ she said pityingly. ‘I got a solicitor’s letter last week. They reckon I’m stashing about half a million quid in an offshore bank account.’
‘Incredible.’ Leila laughed. ‘You wish!’
‘It’s this new boyfriend putting him up to it,’ said Maggie, rolling her eyes. ‘Paranoid Peter. If my husband had only had the sense to run off with a woman, we might have settled everything amicably.’
‘Meanwhile the lawyers charge like car batteries.’
Maggie scowled. ‘He’s not even asking to see Toby. I had to insist that he take him tonight.’
‘Oh, no.’ Toby was Maggie’s three-year-old son. ‘How is the poor little man?’
‘Confused. I never expected it to turn out like this.’ Maggie picked at the lace on her basque. ‘I knew we had to split up when I caught Harry taking a shower with the plumber. But I thought we’d do it with panache. With style. Be bestest of friends. All this aggro is so . . . mediocre.’
She downed her glass in one go, and poured another. ‘If your David ever starts wearing Lycra shorts and going cycling, get a private detective. It’s a very, very bad sign.’
‘David would look ridiculous in cycling shorts.’
‘So what’s he really like, under all that lovely lanky charm? Is he incredibly holy?’
Leila’s eyes danced. ‘He was a womaniser of the worst kind when I first met him. Drank, swore, broke hearts and went to church on Sundays to ask forgiveness.’
‘Until you came along.’
‘Perhaps.’ Leila looked slightly rueful. ‘He’s a real teacher’s pet nowadays. Gets up at six every morning. Reckons he needs the space to pray.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh, me . . . My family were pillars of the church. That’s how I got into singing. Through gospel. I was the choir leader.’ Leila smiled and then shrugged. ‘But my faith seems to have slunk away, tail down, like an old alley cat. I’d be an atheist, but I’m too much of a coward.’
‘Not a very good vicar’s wife, are you?’
Leila leaned closer. ‘I promised God I’d join the choir and do the altar flowers, if the test was positive. I even said I’d start a Bible study group. So now I’ve got to do all that stuff, just in case he exists.’
Maggie laughed extravagantly, choking on a mouthful of wine.
Suddenly, Leila giggled and pointed across the dance floor to where Maggie’s hat had flown off the fan, to the delight of a group of young men.
‘Look at that!’ Maggie cried. ‘They’re using it as a Frisbee, cheeky sods.
Hoi! That’s mine, you thieves!’
A body builder type brought back the battered headgear, apologising. He had a square jaw and broad shoulders, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy arms. Maggie looked him up and down, thanked him cordially and then winked at Leila. When he asked her to dance, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet.
‘Look after this for me,’ she yelled, resting the hat on Leila’s head.
Leila tipped it forwards so that it covered one eye, and touched her upper lip with the tip of her tongue.
‘Very alluring. God, woman, everything looks better on you,’ complained Maggie. ‘Some people have all the luck.’
The luck held until Monday morning.
As soon as she saw the blood, Leila knew. She recoiled, gasping as though she’d seen a snake. She riffled with numb, shaking fingers through her handbag and took out another pregnancy test kit. It was the one that was supposed to be just for confirmation, before she told David. She went through the old routine. Waited. Waited, willing the line to appear. But this time the little window sneered at her, leered at her, cruelly, sickeningly white.
For a long time, she leaned against the basin of Kirkaldie’s staff toilet in a cold sweat. She felt faint. Panicky. Finally, she splashed water on her face and dug her phone out of her bag. Mercifully, Maggie was between patients.
‘Leila! I’m still hung-over from Saturday night, and I’ve got post-alcohol paranoia. Did I do anything disgraceful? Do I need to apologise to anyone?’
‘No,’ said Leila.
‘Remember hairy Howard, the body builder? He’s actually a physics teacher. Turned out his girlfriend had just dumped him. All he wanted was a shoulder to cry on.’
Leila couldn’t speak. The ground was spinning away from under her feet.
‘Anyway.’ Maggie was cheerful. ‘What’s the problem, you bossy baggage? Don’t tell me you can’t read my writing again. When are you coming in, like I told you?’
‘Um,’ said Leila, and cleared her throat. ‘Now.’
Maggie had half an hour free before evening surgery. She did a blood test. But there wasn’t really any doubt.
‘Be honest, Maggie,’ said Leila. ‘I just need to know.’
‘Okay.’ Maggie took a deep breath. ‘Well. It looks like a chemical pregnancy.’ She washed her hands at the basin. ‘Probably never even had a chance to implant.’
‘So . . .’ Leila perched on a chair, hands twisting together. ‘So my baby never existed?’
Maggie’s face was pinched with sympathy. ‘Oh, Leila. Yes, it existed. But very briefly.’
‘And now it’s gone?’
Maggie laid a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘This is very common. Incredibly common, but normally people never even know. Look, you’re in no state to get yourself home. Let me phone David and ask him to come and get you.’
‘No.’ Leila blinked, hard. ‘Please don’t do that. I told you, he never knew. It was going to be a sur—’ Her voice failed her, and she pressed her palm to her nose. ‘A surprise. Sorry.’
Maggie handed her a wad of tissues from a box on her desk. She picked up the phone and asked her receptionist to bring in two mugs of tea. Then she bent tactfully over her computer, pretending to type up notes.
‘Is it my fault?’ asked Leila tearfully. ‘Because I went out singing, and dancing, and . . . ?’
‘No.’ Maggie held up a hand. ‘No. Definitely not your fault. There was nothing you could have done differently. This pregnancy was never going to be viable.’
‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Leila. After a few seconds’ thought, she looked up at Maggie. ‘I have poor . . .’ She gulped. ‘Sounds awful. Like a hen. Poor egg quality, apparently. I suppose that might fit with what’s happened?’
‘Yes, poor ovarian function and miscarriage can be related. But the thing is, Leila, most pregnancies actually end in miscarriage. Maybe as many as seventy percent. It’s so early that people never realise. They just get their period, maybe slightly late, maybe bang on time, and they’re none the wiser. You see? These very early tests . . . they don’t always do us any favours.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Leila dabbed her eyes with the tissues. ‘It was a miracle while it lasted.’
There was a gentle knock on the door, and Maggie went to collect the tea.
‘I s’pose I can drink alcohol now,’ sniffed Leila, with a twisted smile.
‘Only got this stuff, sorry.’
‘Thanks.’ Leila took the mug and held it between her hands.
‘I can refer you back to—’
‘No. No, thank you, Maggie. No more referrals. No more treatment. I’ve been through all that. I’ve tried everything conventional medicine can offer, had natural treatments coming out of my ears. Even acupuncture. And my chances are . . . well. You know.’
Maggie finished the sentence. ‘Worse, the older you get. Yes. Will you tell David this has happened?’
Leila thought for some time. ‘I will. Once I’ve pulled myself together. After all, it’s the closest he’s ever come to fatherhood. Perhaps the closest he will ever come.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I lost his baby.’ Leila stood up and wandered to the window. ‘How very careless of me, to lose a baby. Have I checked in lost property?’
Maggie smiled sadly but said nothing.
‘My poor mother,’ said Leila, still looking out through the window. ‘I don’t think I’ll tell her I’ve mislaid her grandchild. You know, in my family’s culture women are often known by the name of their first-born child. Mama-David, say.’
‘So the mother is defined by the child, in a way.’
‘In a way. Family is fundamental. Mum seems to struggle with our childlessness almost as much as we do. I try not to moan to her about it.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you did.’
‘I don’t want to make it worse for her.’ Leila rested her head against the glass. ‘You know, Maggie, if one good thing comes of this, it’ll be that we finally let go of the dream. It’s not going to happen. I’m not going to conceive and carry a baby to full term. I’ve got the message, loud and clear. It’s adoption or nothing. Probably nothing, by now.’
Maggie twiddled a pen around her fingers. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘From the adoption people?’ Leila turned away from the window. ‘No. It took two years to jump through all their hoops. That was two years ago, and there’s been hardly a whisper since then, except that when we moved here we had to navigate more hoops.’
Maggie leaned closer. ‘After a miscarriage—even a very early one like this—sometimes people need time to grieve. You might need to work through that, put adopting on the back burner for a while.’
Leila laughed shakily and sat down. ‘You sound like the bloody social workers. That’s how they talked about IVF.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m fine, really. I’ll grieve for this baby—the baby that never quite was—but at least we hadn’t started celebrating, at least we weren’t out buying cots and car seats. And, Maggie, time is exactly what we don’t have. It’s been four years since we first enquired. I’m thirty-six. I’ll be on a Zimmer frame soon. Now, more than ever, I’m ready. Just need a bloody miracle.’
‘Is there an upper age limit?’
‘Not officially. But there’s no shortage of contenders for babies. If there’s a choice, the younger couple will be picked for sure.’
‘I don’t see why they should. You’re not old by modern standards.’
Leila shook her head. ‘They ask the birth parents what they’d like for their children, then try to take it into account. They all want younger adopters. Understandably. David and I are probably as old as their own parents!’
‘That isn’t saying very much. I’ve got a twelve-year-old patient at the moment, due any time.’
‘Twelve !’ Leila’s brow wrinkled in disbelief. ‘That’s the same age as Freya, David’s niece. But . . . twe
lve? She’s had no childhood! Isn’t she scared?’
‘Difficult to tell. She doesn’t say very much.’
‘Well.’ Leila blinked and took a long breath. ‘That puts my problems into perspective. Perhaps I should adopt your patient instead. Then I get two kids at once.’
The telephone rang. Leila looked at her watch. ‘That must be surgery. I’d better get out of here.’ She stood up, whisking her velvet scarf into a complicated knot. ‘Thanks so much for . . . you know.’
‘Drink tomorrow night?’ said Maggie. ‘I’ll give you the results of the tests.’
‘Okay. But we both know what the results will be,’ said Leila. ‘And—let’s be realistic—we both know something else. That was my last chance.’
Maggie didn’t even try to argue.
Leila made a dash past the receptionist with her curious, sympathetic eyes. She passed the main entrance to Kirkaldie’s, which was just about to close, and wandered dazedly along the rush-hour street, letting the crowds wash around her, feeling utterly detached from them. She wasn’t one of these people. She wasn’t a part of their world.
Others couldn’t comprehend the loss that is childlessness. Sometimes it made her whole existence seem pointless, yet people brushed it off as though it were a minor mishap. ‘It obviously isn’t meant to be,’ they said, or ‘There’s more to life than children.’ Aunts, doctors, perfect strangers on trains, all overflowing with apple-pie wisdom.
New Street Station. On autopilot now, she bought a takeaway coffee and checked the platform number. It wasn’t until she’d shown her pass to the kind, moustached man at the barrier that she began to cry. And then, for some reason, she couldn’t stop.
Chapter Nine
The Tanzania road had seen much better days. By now I knew every pothole.
South of Mombasa, I’d taken the Likoni Ferry and then set off through the rust-coloured landscape, houses and corrugated-iron stalls strung out along both sides of the road. And people walking. There were always people walking in Kenya.
I found the track exactly where I’d been told it would be—opposite a school. Turning onto it, I crawled at a snail’s pace through banana plantation and scrub. It wasn’t possible to go any faster, even in the solid little jeep I’d hired from some Ugandan Indians. The track made the main road look like the M1, and I endured at least twenty bone-shaking minutes of skidding and sliding and steering around holes that could have swallowed a bus. My back was sticking to the seat, and floating swirls of dust coagulated the sweat as it ran down me. I tried closing the windows, but the stuff seemed to seep in through every crack and the temperature rocketed; so I opened them again and wound a towel over my mouth and nose. And all the way, I wondered what the hell I was doing there.
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