2005 - My Cleaner

by Maggie Gee; Prefers to remain anonymous

  “Why do all the black people sit over here?” she asks Mary. “Is it because English people are racist?”

  Vanessa feels proud to have used the ‘R’—word. It is the beginning of their new frankness. After all, if they are friends, there must be no secrets.

  But Mary, who was praying for Zakira and the baby, the granddaughter of whom Vanessa knows nothing, just laughs, and points at the radiators. “It is because the heaters are here at the back. English churches can be very cold places.”

  Mary has many things to pray for today. First of all for Jamil. Always Jamil. For Zakira and Justin and the baby. And for herself. For her own secret. The autobiography that she is writing. And about the agent. As she promised Vanessa, she is going to pray hard about the agent. Though Vanessa does not have any idea why.

  It is Vanessa’s first time in a church since she sat by her father for her mother’s funeral. “It’s what she would have wanted,” she remembers him saying. According to her father, they used to go often, when she was just a tiny girl, before her mother’s world was warped by illness, and perhaps that accounts for the shock of love Vanessa feels this morning when the second hymn turns out to be a rousing ‘We plough the fields and scatter’; and though she is wary of sentiment, she finds there are tears pricking in her eyes. She is part of the singing, and part of the people, and part of all people everywhere who have ploughed the fields and loved the earth, who have scattered the good seed on the land, who are watered by the Almighty hand; and somewhere in that surge of feeling is an almost forgotten love for her father. The congregation belt the hymn out, and she is surprised to hear Justin singing, a fine tenor voice, and she squeezes his hand.

  But Mary is looking at the harvest display, which is on a table in front of the altar. Can the Reverend Andy be pleased with it? There are small ziggurats of tins, rows of packets, a pineapple with a label still on it, some faded, supermarket-style apples, and somebody has brought a pumpkin, but for some reason, it’s been tucked behind the tins (in fact, Andy’s female curate hid the pumpkin, at the last moment, as they all came in, because of the association with witchcraft). Mary and Vanessa’s offerings stand out well against this patchy, unsatisfactory landscape.

  I was the child who came with the harvest, Mary Tendo thinks, half the world away. But it seems that in UK, they have forgotten how to grow things. One day they will starve, like Ethiopians. Although they have rain, and this is not a desert.

  As usual, Mary tries to listen to the sermon, but Andy speaks as if to small children, making jokes about TV that are not very funny (though maybe she is wrong, because Justin, who watches TV all day long, laughs happily, pleased to be included, and so do some of the scruffy white people). Soon her attention wanders again.

  Not everything in England is better, Mary thinks. Perhaps it will be different in the country, when I go to the village with Vanessa. Perhaps there are still harvests in the country.

  Mary’s never been to the English countryside, though twice she and Omar went to the seaside, and stayed in what they called a ‘B and B’. They were the only black people, and everyone stared, in that English fashion where the eyes flick away and then they pretend they are not interested, though they were kind to Jamie, and not unfriendly, and Jamie loved the water, and played on the sand, and he could be naked, and no one bothered…

  She sees him, suddenly, gilded by the sunlight, maybe three or four, running for the sea, and his laughter is blown back towards them by the wind, and his sturdy body gets smaller and smaller as his little legs pound down the firm sand, and she suddenly sees he will run straight into the water and sets off after him, hurrying, but he goes faster, and the tiny black figure plunges into the wide band of wavery silver and screams at the cold, then disappears, and she runs faster, and at last she finds him.

  Omar was untroubled, reading a paper. Omar thought Allah would look after him.

  And she prays, silently, fiercely, clearly: Jesus, please bring me news of my baby. You who see everything, find him, please.

  Vanessa sees Mary staring fixedly at their offerings on the meagre table, and whispers in her ear, “Well done, Mary. You saved the day.”

  Mary blinks at her, startled, far away. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your Savoy cabbage. Look. I’d say it’s the absolute star of the show.”

  “Thank you, Vanessa.” Yet her face is almost haughty. “Vanessa, it is time for the collection.”

  “Oh heavens, Mary, I hope I’ve got some money.” Vanessa starts digging through her handbag. Mary knows there is always money in that handbag, untidy bunches and sheaves of notes. She decides to help Vanessa get into heaven.

  “It is OK, Vanessa. Twenty pounds is enough. If you have not got anything larger.”

  Vanessa draws her breath in, sharply, but the maroon brocade bag on its wooden handle is almost there, carried by an ancient sidesman, and resignedly she finds a twenty, and pushes it in to the maw of the bag, though she’s almost sure Mary only gives five, there is a glimpse of blue-green in Mary’s dark pink palm, and further along the row she hears the chink of coins, and she wonders why Mary Tendo is smiling.

  And then Vanessa thinks of the phone-call this morning, and the voice, so unfamiliar, drops into place, a voice she knew from over a decade ago. “Mary,” she hisses, “I’ve just remembered. Somebody rang. I mean, once or twice. I think it might possibly have been your husband.”

  She is not prepared for Mary’s ghastly face, the smile dying, the sharp intake of breath.

  And now Mary Tendo starts praying in earnest, she sinks to her knees on the hard stone floor, there is no time for the embroidered hassocks which hang unused on the back of the pew, and she squeezes her eyes into concentrated darkness, she prays for light, she prays for help: Please not now, Jesus. I cannot bear it. Mwatttu sikati yesu! Jamie is young, he understood nothing. Please take this cross away from me.

  But even as she prays, she knows it is hopeless, she has known ever since the first news came of her son leaving home in Tripoli. And yet, if she hears Omar say those words—if she must hear her husband, and Jamie’s father, saying the words she fears so much—

  Lord, take this cup away from me. But if it is your will —Mary cannot go on. She fixes a polite smile on her face, pushes along the pew, passing Vanessa and Trevor and Justin with the faintest acknowledgement, because they have slipped into a world of ghosts, and walks out of the church, the swing doors crashing.

  40

  She runs all the way home, breath tearing, heart thumping, Mary who never hurries, never runs, and rings her husband in Libya, which Vanessa owes her, and has always owed her, she thinks, as she furiously punches out the numbers: “Omar,” she says, as his familiar voice answers in guttural Arabic. “It is I, Mary. Is there any news?”

  Omar sounds strange, surly, in rusty English. “I have been ringing you since three weeks…Mary, you promised to give me your mobile number.”

  “I lost my mobile. I will give it to you now.” (But even his surliness is a relief. If Jamie were dead, he would not be surly.)

  Omar’s story is long and fractured, full of ‘if and ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’. There has been a possible sighting, in Baghdad. But it comes at three or four removes. The source is ‘a crazy boy called Mohammed’, the cousin of a cousin of Omar’s new wife—Omar is going to meet him tomorrow. Mohammed is one of the rash young men who trekked to Iraq as volunteers, hoping to fight the Americans. He came home, injured, some time after the war, and spent months in Tripoli recovering. “He says the volunteers had a terrible time. No one in Baghdad was ready to trust them. The civilians were worse than the military. You see, people think they are suicide bombers. No one was going to let them fight—”

  “I do not care, Omar. Tell me about Jamie.”

  “There is a zoo, you know. A zoo in Baghdad.”

  “What are you talking about, a zoo? Is Jamie alive? Do not torture me.”

  “Be patient, Mary. Let me finish my story.”<
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  And so she stands and suffers, clutching the phone, while the story continues at Omar’s pace.

  Baghdad Zoo was in a desperate state, because of the bombing, the shortages. There was a blind bear, some mangy wolves that once belonged to Saddam Hussein’s son, everything half-starving or half-mad. “According to Mohammed, a Libyan was there. He heard about him from another volunteer. This boy was young, like Jamil, and from Tripoli, helping out because there was no one else. Mohammed is not sure of his name. But then Awatef asks Mohammed if it could be Jamil, and he says maybe. But only maybe. Then I ask him on the phone, and he says he thinks it is.”

  “He is not certain.”

  “He is not certain. I think he never met him, he just heard about him.”

  “It could be nothing,” says Mary, slowly.

  “It can be everything,” says Omar. “You know our son, how he feel for the animals, how he wants to take care of them.”

  “If it is him,” asks Mary, suddenly agonised, “why hasn’t he rung us? Does he hate us, Omar?”

  “Perhaps he is ashamed of running away. Perhaps he is ill. Or perhaps it is not Jamie. Mary, I am going to Baghdad next week. I could not go before, because my wife—my other wife—is ill, Mary. I cannot leave her with the little son.”

  “The other son,” says Mary, sadly.

  She sits, face blank, the tears streaming steadily, for several minutes after putting the phone down.

  News. Some news. It is better than nothing.

  But it is so much worse, as well. Stirring up all she has tried to bury. Hope is painful, like the pains in her hands after going outside in the UK winter—the worst pains come when she is back in the house, when the blood pushes slowly back into her ringers.

  Mary goes upstairs and washes her face, and puts on lipstick, and starts cooking lunch. Whatever happens, people have to eat. She hears the door open as the Henmans come back. “Coo-ee, Mary. Are you all right?” And in fact, in an hour or so, she is all right.

  But a little hope can grow too quickly, even in darkness, with nothing to feed it.

  She prays to Jesus, “Help me to hope. But help me not to hope too much.”

  41

  Two days later, Vanessa and Mary Tendo set off for the village, with Mary driving, since she’s always enjoyed it, and Vanessa responsible for map-reading the puzzle of lanes at the end of the journey. Justin is not coming, after all. At the last minute he has cried off, claiming to have a painting job to finish for his father. (It is true, but he also means to sleep with Anya, who does two hours on Saturday morning. He’s noticed she means to sleep with him. Justin has almost stopped being depressed.)

  “You are coming as a friend, and not to work,” Vanessa says to Mary, regally, as the two women pack the car. “I wish that Justin would come as well, but he is being obstinate.”

  “I think he has something to finish for Trevor.”

  “Oh honestly, Mary, it’s not a real job. Tigger’s only getting him to help as therapy. He could sometimes try to please his mother.”

  “He has to be a man now,” says Mary.

  “As if I did not want him to be a man!” Vanessa stares at her, indignant, but something in what Mary says strikes home, and settles there, so they do not quarrel.

  Mary has remembered something she needs. “I have forgotten my Bible,” she says to Vanessa.

  “Oh honestly, Mary, you won’t have time to read it. The whole village will want to talk to us.” (As Vanessa says this, she hopes it will be true, that they won’t think her weird for bringing Mary, that they won’t be, well, racist, that Mary will be happy.) “In any case, we really must get started.”

  But Mary looks unhappy, and gazes at the house. “There is something else that I have forgotten.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to buy it in the village. Now get in, Mary, we have to go.”

  “Vanessa, I think it is important—” But Vanessa’s in the car, and has slammed the door.

  So Mary gives up, and climbs in beside her. God will protect them, if he chooses to.

  Soon they are whizzing down the motorway. Mary Tendo loves speed, and drives rather fast, mouthing Luganda oaths at men who try to cut in. She leans forward slightly, towards the windscreen, and seems to scan the far horizon. It is as if by leaning, she can make them go faster, like a sprinter dipping towards the tape. She uses the horn with brutal vigour, marking each time she changes lane.

  After a bit, Vanessa says, “You don’t look awfully comfortable like that, Mary. If you keep leaning forward, you’ll strain your neck.”

  Mary smiles and nods, but she keeps leaning forward. They are going 90, and burning up the distances, but Vanessa is anxiously aware of the lorries, enormous as houses, thundering beside them. It is as if Mary enjoys a good race. She never willingly yields her space. Of course, she must be a competent driver. When she was younger she drove Justin everywhere.

  “Perhaps we could slow down a little. We don’t have to fight to stay in the fast lane. ”

  The volume of traffic is slowly mounting as the late October day gets underway. If anything, Mary is leaning further forward, her eyes screwed up tensely, her dark head bowed.

  “Mary, honestly, that is a very odd position.”

  “But Miss Vanessa, I must drive like this. Do not worry, I am a very good driver.”

  “Why must you, Mary?” Vanessa is indulgent. Perhaps it is a Ugandan style of driving. (But wasn’t Uganda famous for car crashes?)

  “Because, Vanessa, I am very short-sighted. When I lean forward, I can see the road.”

  The speedometer is showing 95.

  “What do you mean? Don’t be ridiculous!” Vanessa shouts as Mary swings out and edges a petrol tanker out of their way. They both have to shout; the noise is deafening, and Mary is adding to it, blaring her horn. “Do you actually know what short-sighted means?”

  “Yes, Vanessa. It means I perhaps need glasses. I sometimes wear glasses when I am driving, but today I left my glasses in, the house.”

  “You’re crazy! You should have gone back for them!”

  “Miss Henman, you said that we must leave.”

  As the argument intensifies, she seems to go faster. Vanessa sighs, and shrinks back in her seat, and consults the still safe surface of her map, and attempts to fold herself into that miniature world, to ignore the thunderous, terrifying racetrack, but when she shoots a glance across at her driver, she sees that Mary is enjoying this, she is gripping the wheel in her strong broad hands, her eyes gleaming, her lips curving upwards or muttering gentle encouragement to herself as she cuts up yet another juggernaut, and leaves another man making gestures in her mirror, the impotent rage of the defeated male ape.

  Vanessa shuts off. They will live, or die. She cannot always take control of things. At least, now, Justin is finding his feet, in however feeble and hopeless a way. So if she did die, it would not be so awful. And perhaps her novels might survive in libraries. And her cousin would know that she tried to come back, and did not entirely forget her family.

  Her mind wanders away to Beardy. Or Alex, to give him his proper name. He did say that he admired her novels. Of course he was aggressive, as many men are, but in his short story, he had described her as ‘tensile, like a dancer. And ‘in a good light, beautiful’. Vanessa is feeling rather old today, because she is anxious about going to the village, where her coevals may look younger than her, where her pretty cousin may still be prettier, where everyone who once loved her may have vanished, where people may think her a sad old stick…

  But a man in London thinks her beautiful. Reads her novels. Believes in her.

  The car swerves left, but she knows they’ll survive.

  42

  Vanessa arrives at her aunt’s in a state. Things went wrong once they left the motorway. Here was the straight, noisy main road that had always cut the village in two, and then the patchwork of lanes on the map she expected to know like the lines on her palm. But she recognised nothing. The
y drove in a circle, and ended up back on the main road.

  She found her landmarks: the steeple, the old school, perched like toys athwart the rushing traffic. But they didn’t help her when all around them was a sprawl of raw red, which meant nothing to her, small modern houses with small tight gardens spread along the lanes like beads on a necklace. Everything looked different. Where was the centre? There didn’t seem to be one any more. She tried to rotate her brain, but all it did was make her feel giddy. For a moment she thought it was the wrong village, and stopped a cross cyclist who grunted the name, and it was her village, although he was Indian. “Where are the shops?” she called after him, pleading, although he was already two metres away. “What shops?” he asked, and grinned unpleasantly. Evidently he had not understood her. The traffic was so loud that he probably couldn’t hear. “Garage,” he called back over his shoulder. “Over there,” but Vanessa was too deafened to hear him.

  But they did find the garage—at least there was a garage. It sold sweets, papers and birthday cards. She recognised, with a leap of the heart, the glitter-scattered card that Lucy had sent her. The man behind the till had a local burr and was probably not much older than Vanessa. Or maybe around the same age as her. She showed him the address, which she had written down, and he scratched his head, as if it meant nothing, but when she asked for her cousin by name, his face lit up. “Oh, Lucy Henman! I’ve known the Henmans all my life. The old man isn’t doing so well. And who may you be?”

  “Vanessa Henman.”

  “Oh, I heard about you. Didn’t you go off to Cambridge? Course I was only a kid at the time.” He gave her directions, and touched his cap, and she would have felt better if they had then found it, but Mary seemed obstinate and obtuse and didn’t listen carefully to her instructions, so they ended up driving in more circles.

  Then Vanessa focussed. It was there, like a dream. “Stop, Mary! We’re here!” The old gate, the blue door.