The Darkening Hour

by Penny Hancock

  Gina and I haven’t mentioned our conversation in the pub, or my churlish leave-taking – and I hope it’s forgotten. I’ve done my best to gloss over it, and we seem to be getting on all right again.

  ‘The usual load of loonies.’ I laugh. Gina hands me the list of callers she’s found.

  ‘There don’t seem to be many,’ I say, looking at it.

  ‘It’s all I could get.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could try a bit harder. Put a few more tweets out. There must be a way.’

  I take a sip of my coffee.

  ‘God, this is hideous. It tastes like dishwater. Where’s Hayley? Hayley – look, we’ve got a cafetière for coffee. Make it again. Three spoonfuls.’

  I look back at my computer, start to read through the emails.

  ‘You OK?’ Gina asks me.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You were a bit abrupt with Hayley. She’s only a young thing. Go easy on her.’

  ‘She’s here to get work experience,’ I say, ‘not to droop about making weak coffee. She needs to do what she’s asked quickly. I’ve a programme to run. I need efficient people about me.’

  If I’m to be fronting the biggest programme, I feel like reminding Gina, people need to understand I mean business!

  ‘She’s not being paid, you know. It’s just work experience. You could speak nicely to her.’

  ‘I think you should get on with your job and I’ll do mine,’ I say, without looking at her.

  We’re on air at eleven.

  The first conundrum, the sister who thinks she’s entitled to one of her father’s swimming medals, creates quite a furore. One after another, people phone in saying it’s only right that since there were two, the sisters should share them. I work through the calls, enjoying the power I have that allows me to cut off the more bigoted opinions.

  At the end of the call I sum up.

  ‘So let me recap. One of these women has sacrificed her life to look after her father. All she asks in return is to have her father’s swimming medals. Her sister has done nothing, yet she expects to have one of them. Is that fair? Surely the sister who’s put in all the time should have first shout?’

  I wonder if Anita’s listening to this. She probably isn’t. She makes a point of ignoring my show. But maybe one of her friends will report back to her.

  Gina’s gesticulating at me across the studio. What’s wrong with her?

  As I pull on my coat, Rachel puts her head round the door. She’s had her grey hair cropped.

  ‘Your hair – it looks fantastic,’ I say.

  ‘You OK, Dora?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘You got prickly with the callers.’

  ‘None of them could see the issue. I don’t know why Gina let them all through.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to give your opinion, Dora. You know that. You’ve always been impartial, but today you were pontifi-cating. Are you tired?’

  I don’t say that I felt for the poor bloody sister who had done all the work. That there was a point to be made here.

  ‘No, I’m not tired.’

  Rachel frowns. ‘Is your dad stressing you out still?’

  ‘Well, of course he’s a concern,’ I say. ‘No, Rachel, I felt, on this occasion, there was no argument. It needed saying.’

  Doesn’t she recognise that I am, after all, the expert here? It’s my show. I’m the one they’re head-hunting for the prime slot.

  ‘Would you come into my office? I need to have a quick chat with you.’

  I’ve been waiting for this. I picture Max’s face when I tell him it’s happened.

  I’ve even secretly started to imagine the posters, my face, on billboards across London.

  I’ve been working for Rachel for over two years – we’re friends. We’ve had dinner at each other’s houses. We’ve discussed clothes and hair endlessly over coffee. But sitting here in her office, on the chair strategically placed opposite and lower down than hers, I remember that I am in fact her employee, someone she can pick up and drop at a second’s notice. I’m at her mercy.

  I sit up. Shift a little in my chair, link my fingers in my lap.

  ‘I need to tell you that we’re having to do some reshuffling,’ she says. ‘This economic downturn is affecting us like everyone else. The listening figures for your programme have dropped recently.’

  ‘Have you any idea why?’ I ask. I try not to sound alarmed.

  ‘Who’s to say?’

  ‘You’d think people had more need of a programme like mine in these times, not less.’ This could be a good thing though, I think; if my programme is losing listeners, all the more reason to move me to the celebrity chat show.

  ‘Yes, it’s odd,’ she agrees. ‘People seem to want to unburden their problems when other things are going well. When they’re fighting to put meals on the table, minor emotional issues perhaps seem less urgent.’

  ‘They’re not minor to the listeners or they wouldn’t be phoning in.’

  ‘Whatever, the directors are asking everyone – not just you, Dora – to apply for a limited number of positions. I’m sorry. You know I’ve always championed you, your programme, but things change.’

  I can’t speak for a few seconds. It’s as if the horizon has suddenly swung away and I’m looking at a different one entirely.

  ‘Rachel.’ I hear a strange, urgent plea in my voice that startles even me. ‘I assume you still want me to apply for the prime-time show you mentioned to me only a couple of weeks ago?’

  She moves a few things about on her desk, uncomfortably. Swings back in her chair to face me.

  ‘Things have changed, Dora. They seem to have re-thought the whole thing . . . I’m sorry. I feel rather responsible for having misled you.’

  ‘You certainly have.’ Max’s delighted face looms into my mind, the way he looked when I told him I was to move to the prime-time slot.

  ‘But I’m afraid I have to tell you: there have been some concerns too about your attitude on air.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just, you know, be aware that you’re veering towards a bit of bias. We’ve had a few tweets.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That you have to keep your feelings out of this. You know that, Dora. Just lately, you’ve been letting a few things slip. Last month it was the university fees issue. Then there was the time you said it always falls on the shoulders of the oldest daughter to look after their parents. Listeners are like vultures. They swoop on anything they can. Stay neutral! It’s always been one of your strengths. Don’t let me down now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘When everything in radio is so precarious.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Dora! We’re up against smartphones, people downloading what they want when they want. Stay on your toes.’

  ‘I’m trying to, Rachel. I’ve perhaps not been up to scratch lately, with my mother dying and everything, but I can get the figures back up. Give me a couple of months. I can apply myself fully now I’ve got this carer for Daddy.’

  ‘Dora, believe me, I’ve argued your corner. And they’re willing to consider your application. But please do be aware that things are not looking good. You’ll be receiving notification about the application processes and so on. And if there’s anything I can do to keep Theodora Gentleman on air, please believe me that I’ll be there.’

  ‘Keep me on air? You mean there’s a chance I won’t have a programme at all?’

  ‘It’s not up to me, Dora,’ she says.

  ‘Right.’ I stand up. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t hang about. I need to get back to my father. I need to check he got on all right with Mona today. For some reason,’ I can’t resist this, ‘it seems to have fallen upon my shoulders as the oldest daughter to take him on.’

  I take the river walk home. It’s late November and has turned colder.

  I need to do something to secure my place at the radio station, not just my present place but the p
romotion I have begun to think myself into. To rely on.

  I pass a window glowing in the lamplight and see a group of people laughing around a table. There’s a woman waiting on them. She’s wearing a blue overall, and it suddenly occurs to me that this is the way to denote a person’s position. Mona has been overstepping the boundary because she forgets she is an employee in my house. The women who worked for us in Morocco never forgot because we made them wear overalls.

  Filled with a sense of renewed optimism, I begin to plan. I haven’t had a dinner party for ages. Rachel’s my friend. A dinner party wouldn’t go amiss. My house is looking good these days with Mona there to clean and she’s a pretty amazing cook as well. I could do some gentle socialising, a little schmoozing.

  I’ll get Mona to make the whole thing look beautiful. She can serve drinks and canapés the way the women did when I was married to Roger.

  I turn off the main embankment into the alley. The streetlamps throw off a murky light along the river path ahead of me. I have to squint to see through the dark and a mist that has rolled in off the Thames. The mist catches in my throat; it’s cold, with the harsh taste of London fumes. My feet make barely any sound as I walk. I reach the creek where the path turns inland a little way to circumnavigate what is now a small marina. It’s lonely here.

  I begin to hurry. The path immediately ahead is narrow, lined on either side by converted warehouses, now in darkness. I’ve forgotten how remote parts of this walk can seem by night, as if, however many new buildings are constructed, the hinterland of the river remains stubbornly forlorn and hostile, just as it must have been in Dickens’s day.

  There’s someone behind me. I increase my pace. I can hear the blood bang in my ears. I’ve been foolish deciding to walk when I could have got on a bus amongst the crush of commuters.

  I take the next bend, into more shadows, fear propelling me so that I’m almost running. There’s no one else around. Down below, the river rolls against the wall, the slosh of the water the only sound, apart from the distant rumble of traffic and the occasional plane overhead. I see myself as if from above, a lone figure, insignificant, hurrying along this dark ribbon of riverside path, the water below waiting to swallow me. My vanishing without trace.

  So different from the image I had of myself the other day, able to contain and orchestrate the whole of the south-east. One day the whole country, even.

  Surely it can’t be true, what Rachel’s just implied – that instead of moving up, I may end up with no show at all? My heart’s racing and I’m no longer sure if it’s due to this news, or the darkness that seems to be full of grey shadows.

  At last I see the welcoming sight of the pub, its sign lit up, a crowd of people with cigarettes standing about outside, blue coils of smoke rising and mingling with the misty night air.

  I ease my pace. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and I swing round.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Leo!

  ‘Hello, darling. Where have you been?’

  ‘The gym.’

  ‘The gym?’

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m surprised, that’s all.’

  Exercise is anathema to him. I haven’t mentioned that I was worried he was putting on weight. I tiptoe around him so as not to cause conflict.

  ‘What, Mum? What’s that look supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s just . . . What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Just decided I’d like to do weights.’

  ‘You know it costs a bit?’

  ‘Not that much. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I am, darling. I didn’t think it was your sort of thing, that’s all.’ I nod at the cigarette he’s lighting to emphasise my point, hoping he’ll see the irony and laugh.

  Instead, he ignores me and says, ‘Mona suggested it.’

  ‘Mona? What does she know about the gym, what it costs? She’s in no position to tell you to go to the gym when you don’t earn anything and she doesn’t have to pay for it.’

  ‘Fuck that then. I won’t bother. You go on and on about me getting out. When I decide to do something, you manage to spoil it.’

  We walk on a few steps.

  ‘Look! Go to the gym. I’ll pay. It’ll be good for you. But you know . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe one day you could also think about getting a job.’

  ‘Maybe one day you could think about cooking a decent dinner for once, like Mona does, instead of filling me up on junk food. Then maybe I wouldn’t need to go to the gym.’

  I wonder if he’s doing this deliberately, knowing how his words sting.

  We walk the rest of the way home in silence, and once back, Leo stomps up to his room.

  In a little while Mona appears in the kitchen door.

  ‘Dora?’

  Her eyes are wide as if she’s frightened of what she’s about to say.

  ‘I haven’t had any time off since I came. I need to go home, just for a few days. Can I go? Take maybe four days, in a row. Then no more.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Next weekend?’

  ‘No. I’m having a dinner party next weekend, and I need you to cook. You’ve still got to pay off the fifty pounds a month you owe for the air fare, and you know very well you’re supposed to pay for your own food and toiletries. You can’t afford another flight.’

  ‘I wonder if maybe you can lend . . .’

  I could do without this. I need Mona here. She’s part of my plan. If she’s such a wonderful cook in Leo’s eyes, then I should be benefiting from it as well.

  I think of Anita again, reminding me I must stay in control, that I’m paying Mona to do what I want her to do.

  ‘I’m having six people for dinner next Friday. You’re to make the dining table look beautiful. You’re to serve drinks and canapés and your lamb tagine.’

  ‘So I can’t take some days . . .’

  ‘You must buy the meat from Waitrose. I don’t want you getting that stuff from the butcher’s.’

  She blinks. Speaks quietly.

  ‘It’s cheaper at the butcher’s on the High Street. It’s very good there – I know good meat. And the butcher can do the bones for me.’

  ‘I don’t want you buying things for me from the High Street. I can’t risk my guests getting food poisoning. You go to Waitrose, I’ll draw you a map. And you can make some of the bread you made that Saturday, as well,’ I say. ‘Organic flour. You might as well get some of the stuff today, I’ll write you a list.’

  After dinner, I go on the internet and Google maids’ uniforms. I should have guessed that the first images to pop up would be of women in sexy French maid outfits. Demeaning and ridiculous. Max’s clichéd fantasy comes to mind. These outfits are exactly the opposite image to the one I want to create for Mona. I scroll down until I reach some plain uniforms. I buy three of the least appealing I can find, and will offer them as a gift to Mona to wear while she’s in my house. I want her to understand that she’s at work, that she dresses appropriately when she’s cleaning for me and caring for Daddy.

  My status on the radio may be in question but I am, after all, Mona’s employer – and I intend her to remember it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Ummu,’ I whisper into the phone, ‘I can’t come home. There is some important work Dora needs me to do.’

  ‘Oh well. I thought it might be difficult. Don’t worry, Mona, we’re coping. As long as you keep sending the money.’

  ‘Have you had your scan?’

  ‘It’s tomorrow. The doctor says I may need treatment afterwards, depending on the results. I’m sorry, Mona, this is all costing more than I imagined.’

  ‘If I could find Ali,’ I blurt out before I can stop myself, ‘he could provide for us. We wouldn’t be in this situation! If he’s got citizenship, you could come over too – hospitals are free here. And we could all be together!’

  ‘Ali Ali Ali!’ she says. ‘I told you
to forget Ali. A man who leaves his wife and child and doesn’t get in touch . . .’

  ‘Ali is my oldest friend as well as my husband,’ I say. ‘He would never just leave us. I will find him. I’m making enquiries.’

  ‘Yousseff had some news,’ Ummu says then.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Yousseff. Says he had some news of Ali. Says he’s living in London for sure. He doesn’t know exactly where.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’

  ‘Because Ali hasn’t told you himself. It makes me wonder if he wants you to find him.’

  ‘But perhaps he can’t. Perhaps he’s in some kind of trouble and can’t contact me. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to help him.’

  ‘If he’s in trouble, Mona, you should stay away.’

  ‘I don’t mean in trouble with the law. I mean perhaps he’s not been able to get work, has no money, is living rough somewhere. Perhaps he lost his phone or had to sell it – I don’t know, Ummu. There are lots of things that happen to people when they come to find work – tragic things, you know that. He may be being exploited somewhere: you remember the things Rachida told us, about immigrants getting picked up. I’m afraid for him.’ My heart’s racing. ‘Please ask Yousseff to give you all the information he’s got.’

  Ali in London! Closer than I dared to imagine! He could be round the corner. My imagination starts to work. You never know in a city like this, you can go for years without knowing who is living right next door to you.

  Sayed’s words come back to me: Everyone round here . . . all the guys at the cab office, they’s all from somewhere else. Some is legal, some is illegal.

  I’ll ask him to make enquiries for me. The thought that I can do something definite to find Ali at last fills me with the kind of hope I haven’t felt for weeks.

  The street’s bright and cold this late-November morning, and it smells of something sweet and smoky, masking the usual toxic odours of cooking fat, diesel fumes and stale alcohol.