But if Justin is happy. Really happy…
Maybe I have always got things wrong.
Derrick came to see me (it’s becoming a habit) and wanted to read his new story out, something he’d written in the reading week, and apparently it couldn’t wait till the class. I particularly wanted to be left alone, because now I am really getting going with my writing, and I do think the stuff about my father might be good. So much so that I’m going to take a risk and send the agent, rather naughtily, another extract by ‘Emily Self. (I think I’ll say she’s ‘quite promising’!) If there were no students, I could finish it by spring. But the young are selfish, and sap one’s energy. They think we only exist to serve them.
I’m afraid Derrick reads in a monotonous voice, stopping every so often to see if one likes it, cocking one of those thick black brows. (At first I found his hairiness appealing. Not any more, not any more.) Also, he does smell strongly of sweat. Perhaps he was nervous, I don’t know, but his manner was—over-confident. Maybe I have given him too much encouragement.
I had to be honest with him in the end and say I found the subject-matter difficult. It was about a red-headed woman who kept hens, and killed them by hacking through their necks with a knife. Very detailed, with too much blood. I said, “I’m not sure of her motivation,” and he said, “She hates birds, and, like, thinks she’s a fox. That’s why I made her a red-head, obviously.”
It wasn’t entirely obvious to me. “I’m not absolutely sure about the chicken motif.”
“You said you loved my metaphors. But you said I was writing too much about pigeons.”
“Well, yes. Perhaps I meant, birds generally.” (I was having to suppress my irritation. How much did he know about this subject? After all, we had a hen-house in our garden. And not a word of Derrick’s story is true.)
“Didn’t you dig the bit where the chicken goes on running and her head is like flying around on its own, like a balloon with the air rushing out, and the woman sucks up the blood from the knife? It’s a metaphor for oral sex, obviously.”
The metaphor had passed me by, thank God.
He looked hard at me, with a small smile. If they find one attractive, it’s because one is a teacher. I said, “I wasn’t entirely persuaded. Most women do not like raw hen’s blood.”
“See, I’m not writing for most women,” he muttered, staring at his knees.
“Surely you are not just writing for men?” It is bracing for the young to meet a feminist.
“No.” There was a pause, while he pulled at his neck as if he was trying to strangle himself. “Thing is, I am writing for you, Dr Henman.” And then he looked me right in the eyes. His eyelashes were thick, and black, but there was something odd about those hot dark eyes. “I have found your comments very inspiring. No one has encouraged me before. Everyone else always thought I was mad!”
There was a long silence. I could not think what to say. Now he was patting himself like a puppy. I wished I had been franker with him.
“It’s just so great that you appreciate me. I’ve never, you know, had that before. Thanks to you, I’m writing, like, all the time, obviously. I just can’t get enough of it. You know, I once showed some stuff to my psychiatrist. He told me it was better ‘not to fixate on it’. Don’t you think that’s amazingly funny? In fact, he suggested I take up football!” He hooted with mockery at this suggestion. “What kind of criticism is that?”
“You have a psychiatrist?”
“Obviously.”
I suggested he go away and write something different.
“Say, from the point of view of the pigeon? That bug-eyed Daisy girl would really go for that!” Something in my expression must have stopped him, because he held up his hand, and mimed shooting his temple. “Sorry, I mean the point of view of the chicken!”
“No birds.”
But I can see it is hopeless.
Despite his long dark lashes, he is just another nutter.
Whereas Beardy—Alex—is really very interesting. I did completely underestimate him. Although I am usually a good judge of character. He brought my novels in for me to sign. I heard him praising them to the other students. When I think about that, it makes me feel better.
I must try to see the funny side of Derrick. Whenever I tell Tigger about my students, he seems to find it hilarious. True, that has always irritated me. In fact Tigger is exactly like my father, who was kind-hearted, but understood nothing.
But what if he understood more than my mother? What if the same were true of Tigger?
And suddenly, I am free to start writing. I start with the chickens. We fed the chickens. Their soft red wrinkly combs, their pink strutting feet, my father’s big hands throwing the corn, the patient way he let me help him, although my mother didn’t want me to get dirty.
After that I write for an hour without stopping, my very first memories of my father, my father in the garden when a bee stung me, my father picking me an apple from the tree. But somehow I know that the chickens are best.
By the time I stop, I am feeling much better. And this is the piece I shall send to the agent, the second submission by ‘Emily Self.
I haven’t seen Mary since our little quarrel, and Justin will be in bed, I suppose. The house is quiet, although I can’t help imagining I hear that thumping which unsettled me so, that regular bumping from Mary’s bedroom, but really I must not imagine things.
In fact, now I have managed some writing, I find I am no longer annoyed with them.
At least no one here is as mad as Derrick. I know I was a trifle sharp with Mary. I would say sorry, but I think she’d be embarrassed. I shan’t forget to tell her I’m grateful.
Yawning, I push open the door to my bedroom. I put on the light, and it is ghastly, awful, absolute horror has come into my bedroom, at first I can’t scream, I just stand there, not breathing.
They are all on my bed, black and sinister, sitting in a row like shrunken heads, beady eyes staring, teeth bared, waiting. Some of them have bodies that are short and stunted, stumps of limbs or hands like man-traps, crawling all over the place where I sleep. At first I don’t even understand what they are, it is as if they have climbed out of the depths of my head, come swarming up from some hideous cellar, but after a moment I recognise them. They are my African masks, my own possessions, and some little figures I found in Uganda, which Mary has always objected to, pretending she thinks they are bad for Justin, and now she has taken them off the walls and brought them in here to terrify me!
And I have to admit they are horrible, sitting there grinning and staring in the darkness. I stand there, frozen. My mouth is open, and noise and dribble are coming out. I hear myself screaming, a long way off. I cannot stop, and I cannot touch them.
But then something happens I could never have expected. I suppose I did make a lot of noise. There are feet on the landing, and then he appears, in green pyjama bottoms, his chest-hair golden, and his eyes are soft and anxious, as they used to be, and then his arms are actually around me, and Justin says, “Mum, darling, what’s the matter? Are you all right? Speak to me.”
And I sink against his chest like a homing bird, and my tears run down, warm and salty. Just for a moment he solaces me. As a good son should, as a good man can.
Then Mary pushes in through the door. “What is the matter, Henman? Why are you screaming?”
Which made me lose my temper again. “What the hell are these things on my bed, Mary? What on earth do you think you are playing at?”
And yet they are already not quite so frightening, now Justin is here, now I see what they are.
But Mary herself. Mary is frightening. “How dare you try to frighten me?”
“You told me you wanted to get rid of everything. You told me you wanted a new beginning.” Her eyes have got that strange, purblind look, which means she cannot see or hear, as if I am not a person to her. Africans can be racist too. “I did not have time to finish my work. I was going to put them on top of y
our cupboard.”
Now Justin’s arms are releasing me. “You see, Mum dear,” (that gentle Mum dear! It is balm to me, but he goes on talking) “it’s just a mistake. It’s nothing, really. It’s all OK. Don’t shout at Mary.”
“You’re taking her side!” I start to feel hurt. I have been betrayed. Justin’s turned on me. I can see the two of them exchanging glances, as if they have discussed me before, as if I am just a joke or a problem, and I feel left out, as I was at school, when everyone thought I was weird, and ignored me, but as an adult, I won’t tolerate it! And I am the person who pays all the bills! I have paid this woman to abuse me!
“Get out of my room! Both of you!” And I see them leaving, almost side by side, his arm touching hers, his broad naked shoulders—of course I don’t really want him to go, to leave me here with these horrible objects—
And before I know quite what I am doing, I find myself throwing stuff after them, hard, and a mask hits Mary on the head, and a pot-bellied manikin gets Justin on the shoulder, and then the door closes, and I just keep throwing them, crashing them hard against the painted wood, till the empty stupidity of what I am doing makes me too weak to throw any more.
And then I sit and cry and cry.
But the door opens, and Justin comes back. Justin comes back to comfort me.
PART 5
49
Mary Tendo
Two thousand three hundred and twenty pounds. I keep it in cash, in my bedside table. The money is beautiful, thick and smooth, not thin and worn like Ugandan bank-notes. It has the sheen of wealth and hope. By Christmas I shall have nearly three thousand. By Christmas there will be ice and snow. I have had to spend money on warm jumpers, and I wear Miss Henman’s anorak. She told me I could wear it before she was angry, and now she is embarrassed to change her mind, though I see her looking at it thoughtfully. Also, at the moment, we aren’t really talking. So I carry on wearing her anorak, and gloves.
Omar has gone to Baghdad, to look for Jamil. I am happy because he is doing something. We are looking for our son, we have not forgotten him. Even if he doesn’t want us to find him. Even if indeed he is not there. Because since the first rumour things have grown less hopeful. Jamey’s friend Idries does not think it is him. Idries told Omar he was almost sure that Jamil had gone south to find his mother—but that is too bad to think about, because if so, my Jamie is lost. In southern Sudan or among the Acholi, in the battlegrounds of northern Uganda. Kidnapped by the Lord’s Resistance Army—it is impossible to contemplate. The God of love would not allow it. Ntekisobola okugwa ku mutabani ivange. And yet, people whisper. They hiss, in Kampala. They list the horrors of the northern war, where Kony makes children kill each other, dipping them deep in blood so they can never escape him—
Perhaps Jamie never even reached the border. The desert has killed so many young men. The suq lorries are unpredictable. Perhaps he never got beyond Wau—
This could not happen to my son.
So I am happy when I think about Baghdad, when I let myself picture Jamil at the zoo. My Jamie was always good with animals, knew how to talk to them, to calm them down. It was part of his kindness. Part of his goodness. Jamie deserved better parents than us. If we had not divorced, he might be at Al Fateh, starting his veterinary course. Did he leave because he despaired of us?
Five years ago, not long after the divorce, I went to Libya to see him. I spent a year’s wages on the flights to Tripoli. He had shot up a foot in eighteen months, but still he was not as tall as me. He was polite and awkward, and had nothing to say. I thought, I must go, I am giving him pain. We were sitting together in his father’s hot courtyard. People seemed to be watching from every window. He did not know how to behave with me. Then Omar’s new wife came out and took pity. “You should go for a walk with your mother,” she said. The road roared along by the side of the sea. Big liners docked there, alongside the mosque. Everything was green to honour Ghadaffi, and his face grinned from posters, and I felt he was mocking me. We walked in silence, then Jamil started talking. He wanted to explain his new country to me. Tripoli was a modern city which was rapidly starting to go out of date, because they couldn’t get parts to mend things, because they had angered the US and UK. Jamie’s voice warmed up, and his English came back. He took my arm, beside the river of traffic, and the sky was blue, and so was the sea, and just across the channel was Malta, and suddenly I felt entirely hopeful, for the world was all about us, and one day he would be free. The feeling didn’t last, because my head was uncovered and my blouse, though decent, didn’t have long sleeves, and the cars started hooting, and some drivers called out, and Jamie was ashamed that I was his mother, or ashamed of the hooting, I didn’t know which, perhaps he just wanted to protect me—but he was a boy of thirteen, how could he? And I said, “Dearest son, we should turn back. One day we shall meet in Kampala, or London. Never forget you were born in London. Never forget you are half-Ugandan.”
I think that the world was too painful for Jamie, this complicated world which tore him in two. He said, “I hate the UK, but I still love London.” I think he was saying he still loved me.
And later he came to see me in Kampala, the last time that we saw each other. I will never forget how tightly he held me, and I held him, we held each other, when we picked him up at Entebbe airport, and there he was, dwarfed by his sprawl of cases, and then getting bigger as I ran towards him, and when I got there, he was taller than me, and everything I wanted was in my arms.
If he never comes back, I know he loved me. I am lucky that my son and husband loved me.
And even now, perhaps I am lucky. I can go on waiting for the phone to ring.
I have asked my friend the accountant for Christmas. My friend has been to London before, when he got his qualifications in Britain, and when he travelled here for business. He will probably be able to get a visa. If he pays enough money, he will get a visa. He can give my address, and show photographs of us, and prove that he has a good job to get back to. Britain need have no fear of him. I have not told Miss Henman, in case he doesn’t come. But if he does come, he can sleep in my bedroom. She said to me, after Zakira came to visit, “Your Ugandan friends are always welcome here,” thinking because she was black she must be Ugandan. And if I had not understood Miss Henman so well, I would probably have thought she really wanted them to visit. It does not matter, she has given permission, and if she makes a fuss, I can remind her. Charles can eat fish and chips every day from the chippy. He can eat them in my bedroom, and throw away the paper.
And yet, I do not feel quite easy.
But soon after that, we will fly home together, and go to my village, with the car full of gifts. And so my mission will have been successful. And also, I have written about my childhood, thousands of words about my childhood that will make a book when I get home. Uganda has its own publishers and bookshops. Uganda has its own writers and readers.
But still, I also hid two chapters of my book among the writing of Miss Henman’s students, which she was sending to a famous British agent. Perhaps the agent will like my writing. Mary Tendo, the Ugandan discovery! Maybe my book will find a British publisher. Maybe my book will win a big prize. African writers sometimes win big prizes. Then people are surprised, and jealous.
I heard Miss Henman talking to her friend (I do not like this friend, called Fifi, at all. I think many people would say she was pretty, but her smile is like a caterpillar wriggling on concrete.) They were discussing a writer from Nigeria who had been shortlisted for a big prize. “It’s only because she is black,” said Fifi. “Come on, darling, let’s not pretend!” Miss Henman laughed, but she did not deny it.
I think, if I won, Miss Henman would be jealous.
But also she would be able to boast. “Oh yes, did you know she was my cleaner? I found her an agent and a publisher.” (Although she does not know she is finding me an agent.)
But still, if it happens, we might both be happy. I do not mind if Vanessa is happy. In f
act, I would rather she was happy. When we were in the village, I was sorry for her.
And yet, at the moment we are not happy. She has not forgiven me about the masks, and I have not forgiven her about shouting. So I have not told her about Justin and Zakira. I tried to tell her when she came back from Paris, but she would not listen, she got in a temper.
I would like to tell her she is very lucky. I would like her to know she will soon have a grandchild. It must be the happiest time, for a mother. I remember my mother being happy in the village, although she had so many children, although she never left the village. So many children and grandchildren, even now that a few of them are dying.
In England, people never have enough children. It is as if here they have Slim in their brains. Something that makes them forget to have children. Here people have things instead of children. If I’d stayed in Kampala, I would have three children.
But Miss Henman is lucky to have her son. Miss Henman is lucky to be loved by Justin. Miss Henman is lucky to have a grandchild.
Maybe I will never be so lucky.
For two months or more I felt sick every morning. I knew I was being poisoned by London. And my flow was thin, and weak, and scant, as if I had become an old woman. But I bought some herbs from the African shop, and I prayed in church, and now I feel better.
So life is long. My son might ring. I am not so old. I might have more children.
Justin goes to Zakira’s every day. He takes her shopping, and looks after her. He has got a haircut and he looks much better. I asked him why he did not stay with her, but he said, “I don’t want to worry my mother. Besides, I would miss you, Mary darling.”
But I said to him, “Justin, you must do without me. Soon I am going back to Kampala. You must bring Zakira to meet your mother.”
But he pulled a sulky face like a child, with his lips like Cupid, and went away.
In some ways, he is still a baby. For instance, Trevor wants him to drive the van, because sometimes there are things to fetch from the store. “He still won’t have a go at it, Mary,” Trevor told me. “He’s lost his nerve. One day he’ll have to. I mean, it’s important. It gives me the willies, the way he sits there.”
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