Lucky

by Rachel Edwards

  Robert walked past her desk, on the way to the meeting she was set to miss:

  ‘Etta. You’ll be off to the funeral shortly, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well. Sorry for your loss. See you tomorrow.’

  Etta felt she had no choice but to pack up her things and go through the motions of being someone who would not ever miss a funeral. To admit otherwise might prove career-limiting; it was possible that Winston had not heard her mutter that it was ‘too late’.

  She felt ill as she pushed back her chair and left the office to walk home, stopping only at the bank to deposit £650 of illegal and ruinously expensive cash into her personal account.

  Sick pay.

  At home, she gambled.

  The same heart that had somersaulted in the work loo now rocked steady; hers became the constant pulse of the serial offender; nausea subsided into nothingness as she returned to the spare room to spin, spin, spin until the £650 had become £4,300.

  She did not celebrate.

  She woke up in the dark, in the spare room, her nose touching a hard corner. Her laptop, which lay open on the pillow beside her. It took a second for her to remember why she was there: Cozee, always Cozee. She knew she should rise and go to Ola, but fear pinned her down. The curtains were open. She could not get up and put on the light. Someone might see in. Someone in the fields beyond.

  She lay still, too scared to move. Her breathing grew laboured, each breath rasping like a warning. More minutes passed, long seconds. A sharp night-bird’s call made her fingers twitch, breaking the deadlock of fear. She urged her muscles into action and slid herself off the bed. She got onto her hands and knees, and crawled under the window, in the dark, so no one could see her.

  Next morning, Etta took a tub of leftover egusi soup out of the fridge and nuked it in the microwave for a few minutes. She removed it, tested it with her finger and gave it another thirty seconds. Satisfied, she sealed the tub and heated some iyan, yam pounded with vigour and care, which she sealed into another tub. She placed the tubs, a spoon and a napkin in a thick hessian shopping bag and set off towards work.

  She had reached the end of their path and was about to turn right onto the pavement when she heard a noise from the houses that stopped her. Was that – shouting? Someone screaming at someone to get out?

  She looked to the source of the sound and saw that Jean’s front door was open. The shrieks were coming from within.

  ‘You killed her!’ the mother was screaming. ‘I loved her so you killed her!’

  ‘Mother, you know that’s not true.’

  ‘You did it. And you tell people I’m mad!’

  Etta hesitated. To do nothing would be disgraceful, but she couldn’t just barge in. Or should she?

  A wailing started up.

  ‘No, no, don’t touch me!’ cried the older voice.

  Was Jean trying to embrace her?

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  The front door slammed shut, the noise echoing into the indifferent street and dying.

  Etta had decided. She judged the distance from a speeding van and ran across the road to the house, trying not to jiggle her bag too badly. She tried to march up to the old women’s door and was almost there when lounge curtains were violently pulled back. Both women were standing at the window looking out, pale and furious.

  Etta readied herself to shout out to them, ask if they needed help, but seeing the steel in four watery eyes, she thought better of it.

  She gave one last stare to Jean and was met with an anger in her gaze that seemed to burn from deep within; it was festering, it was on fire. The woman had never looked like that behind her desk. Time to cut her losses: she turned and walked away, back up their well-swept path.

  Mad old bats.

  She set off for work, but five or six streets away from FrameTech she turned right rather than left and headed into the park.

  He was there, on the ground, still incongruous, still touting his heart-breaking haul of black boxes. A family was walking nearby; two older parents – or maybe younger grandparents – and a boy. The child broke away from his mother’s grip and ran. A flock of pigeons flew up in fright. He ran right up to the African man, who would, from the boy’s height, loom striking in his blackness against the pale grey cloud above. The boy regarded the man and his boxes with the guileless, raving stare of infancy that she could sense even from where she stood. She hoped his parents would not buy one of the man’s disastrous puzzles; that would make her mission harder. But no, the woman hurried after the child, headscarf slipping in her haste, throwing up her hands, crying ‘Hassan! Always he be running!’ She snatched her boy away from his staring and they wandered off. Etta picked up the pace, cutting a defiant diagonal across the park until she reached where the puzzle man sat, watching her approach, waiting for her.

  The scar was not so prominent today, as if he had used make-up, which of course he had not. Her own was camouflaged with skill each morning; she now wished it was more on show.

  As she closed in, she called out to him:

  ‘I have a problem!’

  ‘He-heh.’ No smile; now near, the scar looked sore as ever.

  ‘I have a problem,’ she repeated.

  Now he straightened his spine. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Etta put the bag down and delved into it.

  ‘You don’ like your puzzle, abi?’

  ‘No,’ said Etta pulling out the tub of soup. ‘My egusi. It tastes all wrong.’

  ‘Heh?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do with it. I think it is not enough melon seed, or too much stockfish. Help me, abeg. My mother is Jamaican. I have never been to Africa.’

  The man met her eye with such a clarity of understanding that she felt tears start. She averted catastrophe by dipping her head again for the spoon, her jet afro hiding her expression from him. Eyes wiped, she stood tall again and leaned in to pass him both the hot soup and the spoon. Now she was here, the napkin felt foolish, a total giveaway; she left it in the bag.

  He took soup and spoon with a solemn nod, unpeeled the lid and scooped out a mouthful. He tasted it and considered. Then he took another spoonful, pausing only to break out a white-toothed ha! before resuming the game.

  ‘This egusi …’ He looked to the heavens.

  ‘Yes,’ said Etta.

  ‘It no taste like egusi from home, Yoruba woman.’

  ‘Well, help me o.’

  He took two more spoonfuls in rapid succession.

  ‘Next time, yes, more stockfish. And the bitter leaves are too bitter.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Etta gave half a bow. ‘But I have another problem.’

  ‘Eh?’ he asked, warming to his role. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘My iyan. Is it too hard? I think it is too hard.’

  He took the second tub from her, tried the two together. He looked up at her; she knew she had to speak first:

  ‘I can see from your face that you do not like it. Ah! Never mind, you can keep it from me. I don’t want to carry that rubbish to my work.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I am English woman, heh? Today, I would prefer to eat a nice ham sandwich.’

  He paused his eating to flash her a smile that said he was enjoying the game even more than the food. He lit up for a second, and for that second his face held more dignity than ruin in it. It lent the illusion of handsomeness, for that second.

  Etta hesitated then reached in her pocket. Would this spoil it all? She handed him the card before she could think too hard.

  ‘I will be late for work if I stay.’ There was less play and no Nigerian lilt in her voice now. ‘But before I go, take this. Please phone them.’

  He glanced at the card and pushed it back towards her, a hollow look of anger trying to mask his embarrassment.

  ‘It’s just this group of people who help. Listen, you can walk to them from here.’ She took the card and read it for him. ‘The First Welcome Project. They’re go
od, I help out there once or twice a month and they give advice, you know? They help everyone, literally, anyone who comes through the door. They often help migr— people who weren’t born here. Help them with their papers, and to find jobs—’

  ‘Do I not have a job?’ He tilted up his damaged chin and gestured at the boxes, but there was no fire in his voice.

  ‘Mate. No one is going to buy your puzzles, I’m sorry.’ He had to listen, it mattered more than she could tell him. ‘Walk to 34 Grafton Road. The First Welcome Project. Please.’

  He gave the card a proper read: ‘Et-ta Ola-di-po.’

  ‘That’s me,’ she said.

  ‘You have a scar,’ he said. ‘Here.’

  He reached out and with almost a touch traced the mark under her eye.

  Etta’s face warmed. ‘So do you.’

  ‘One man jus attack me,’ he said. ‘For my money. I left Nigeria from the bad men and this man jus attack me on the beach.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Etta. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Man attack you?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I fell off a stool as a child.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry o.’

  ‘It’s cool,’ she said.

  ‘This is not all that I am. Do you understand that? I am more than this. I had good-good life and now this … There is more to me than just this, the same as for you. We are more than we look, heh?’

  He stared at her with an intensity that shifted something between them; she felt seen, and sad.

  ‘I hear you. But I’ve got to go now, sorry.’

  She forced herself to break away from his gaze and walk off; his food had to be cooling fast.

  It was a First Welcome Thursday and she set off at a good pace: every step brought her closer to the chance to atone. The credit card fraud weighed on her mind at all times, joining her other heavy misdemeanours, so many rocks on a crumbling cliff edge. But she still had to function, put one foot in front of the other.

  She arrived back at Seacole Community Hall wearing an expression of optimism that she did not yet feel, for the benefit of the clients once more starting to queue at the door.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ she smiled as she walked past them into the building.

  In she went: everyone’s informed and buoyant best friend, if only for a few minutes. For the next six hours, she would bury her doubts and fears in good deeds. Here, she was her best self.

  The first few clients rolled up like a messed-up midsummer Christmas carol: three pregnant girls, two jobless men and an Eritrean refugee. All left with a form, or a phone call made on their behalf: tangible gifts of hope.

  During a lull, Etta slipped into the tiny galley kitchen to make a coffee for her, Janie and Kim. When she returned, a broad-chested brown man with a face full of moles was hovering at her desk.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, handing the drinks to her fellow volunteers. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ the man said.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ asked Etta.

  ‘I must be able to stay longer in the UK.’ The man had a strong Indian accent. ‘I’m here to marry Nadia. I tried the Citizen’s Advice in High Desford, where she lives, but they said to try here. Can you help me please?’

  ‘OK. One thing at a time … Do you mind telling me your name?’

  ‘Abhinivesh Gupta.’

  ‘OK, Abhinivesh, let’s break this down a little. When did you arrive in the UK?’

  ‘Seven weeks ago, and I only have up to six months. It’s too little.’

  ‘Too little for what?’

  ‘I need to marry. I’m not a … what you might call a scrounger. I wish to stay and to find work. It is unbelievably important.’

  ‘OK, of course. I understand. Do you have family here?’

  ‘Nadia will be my family. Our families are set on that.’

  Etta hesitated. This was delicate but she needed the bigger picture to be able to help.

  ‘Does she agree?’

  ‘I don’t know. We haven’t exactly … spoken that much. She is a reasonable person, though, intelligent. She works in finance, but her family say she wants to settle down, you know?’

  As she thought. Still, as long as the bride-to-be was willing, was it any worse than an online form or algorithm deciding who should be your life partner?

  ‘Maybe talk to your – Nadia was it? – about this. It may help.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yeah, you definitely should if you’re going to marry her, right?’

  ‘OK, yes. I’ll start by telling her I’ve been here to the First Welcome Project. I think she’d like that, you know.’

  ‘Shows you’re serious about her.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  They smiled at each other, she widely; he showed shy yellow teeth. There was a softness, an open demeanour to the wide face, under the bumps and moles.

  They spent the next half an hour discussing his situation, going through possible scenarios, possible forms. Etta had gone to the largest filing cabinet, returning with a thick clutch of papers. She waved one set of papers.

  ‘OK, Abhinivesh, could you fill in this form next?’

  ‘So many forms!’

  ‘Yes, and there’s even a couple more we could look through which might help, if you have the strength.’

  He laughed. ‘A true love is worth it! And anyway, my name, Abhinivesh, do you know it means love? I will tell her that, too. Pass me more forms; more forms please! A true love is always worth it.’

  His words struck Etta hard, a honeyed slap. He was right – her own meeting with Chris was a necessary sacrifice, a smart detour on her way to fully uniting with Ola. This mess with money was no more than elaborate form-filling.

  ‘Nice, Abhinivesh; you sound like a man who means business. Now read through these, then I’ll explain if you have any questions, OK?’

  As her client read through the paperwork, Etta let her mind drift away and refocus on her own life. She had to risk it all to get the money, and it had to be from Chris. Who else could offer a loan of thousands? He would ask no questions, not flinch at a peek into the gory pit of her finances. He was a spinner, like her, a chancer.

  Abhinivesh looked up, satisfied. ‘OK, I get all this. Thank you, this would definitely help.’

  ‘In that case, you need to sign here … and here.’

  Yes. A true love was worth always it.

  That evening Cozee was in more than usually capricious mood. A promising £7,300 had swelled to £9,900 then shrunk down to £3,950. Etta was starting to flag, spinning in an energy void. The feeling was this: a killing defeat; a drubbing that stuck to your bones like dried blood.

  The ringing phone shook her out of her torpor. Ola.

  ‘Hi, hon!’

  ‘Hi. Listen, really sorry but I forgot I’m out tonight.’

  ‘OK, no problem. Where are you going?’

  ‘Tom’s birthday drinks. He’s off to Rome with his wife tomorrow so we’re heading to the pub tonight. It’s his fortieth.’

  ‘Fair enough. Have fun.’

  ‘Without you? Ne-vah!’

  Etta laughed the way he wanted, then hung up. He was networking harder than ever, hoping to safeguard his role on the study. No denying it: Ola’s every absence was now a double gift. They added up, these transactional sacrifices. His time away bought him hope and her time to buy their future. Strange though that he did not perceive the seismic shift in her, the tectonic movement of age-old emotional crust, that saw her waving him out of the door when she would once have pulled him closer. Did he not suspect? He mouthed his own amiable goodbyes back with his default complacency. To give him credit, he probably read her jitters as a reluctance to see him go. He could not guess the twisted truth: an eagerness that he should leave, matching a dread of being home alone.

  She was, in fact, worse than alone; she was crowded by dark thoughts even on the brightest afternoons. Ola – amiable, complacent – had failed to contact their land
lord about fitting a security light in the back garden. Only a thin wooden fence lay between them and anyone who might want to get to Etta in the night. What would stop a malicious chancer on the prowl? Someone who hated her enough to deliver rottenness to her door could be observing her movements, biding their time. The back of their house was not overlooked; no concerned neighbour would call the police. The spare room gave onto their rear garden which bordered fenced-off fields; sprawling edge-of-town terrain in which unknown harms could be done. She knew she was watched, she sensed it as old women sense the coming rain in their stiff knees. The neighbours’ dog was a plus, but he barked too much to be a reliable alarm. The curtains, though cheap and dated, were lined. With only the desk lamp and her laptop’s glare, she ought to be undetectable.

  So why did she feel all on show?

  Time to take a break. She swung away from her desk and reached into the back of the wardrobe. Despite its new home of an over-sized handbag, stashed among outgrown gowns and folded woollies, the gin bottle remained cool to the touch. She filled the glass on her desk, sipped, and stared at the screen, willing it to speak.

  After a few minutes, indigestion gurgled in her stomach, or it could have been a twinge of hunger. No way would she cook a dinner when Ola was not coming home. There was a long stub of saucisson sec sitting in the fridge, a shared continental weakness, and she pictured herself gnawing into it without shame or witnesses.

  She went down to the kitchen and grabbed the deli sausage from the middle shelf and their best red-handled knife from the top drawer. She skipped back upstairs and sliced little meat chunks straight onto her desk, not bothering with a plate. She popped each piece into her mouth, chewing slow as if to savour each small taste of triumph. She was nourishing herself, surviving. The fatty pork should have been mitigating the gin, yet after a while the tang of triumph left a queasy aftertaste. She felt shrunken and unusual; could see herself floating on the surface of the glass and starting to sink.

  She needed Cozee. She needed less challenging company than herself, alone with her night thoughts.

  Chris. Time to up her game. She could email him, but that felt too formal, too slow. She wanted to communicate in closer to real time; she wanted to chat.