by Maggie Gee
‘Relationships,’ Peter Pargeter seizes on this. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Now that is our business. The Council has to make relationships. It’s the quality of our relationships that matters.’
‘So why are you closing the bloody libraries? You’ve got people coming in to read the newspapers, and use the computers, and go online. You’re really going to cock up that relationship.’
‘It’s the old model!’ Peter Pargeter rises above him. He’s argued with too many people like Geoffrey. ‘You can’t get hung up on the old model. In fact, our libraries serve a very small readership. Our new projects will have throughput in the millions. We do have a vision, a real vision for the future. The library isn’t closing, Geoffrey. Far from it. Yes, it won’t exist in a physical space, but it will be accessible to everyone, online. Customers all over Uganda will be able to input and order titles. Then we’ll courier material all over the country.’ It was gleaming and whirring, his new model. ‘We’ve already put the courier business out to tender.’
‘Internet don’t work here, ’aven’t yer noticed?’ Geoffrey remarks, scornfully. ‘And ’ow will folk know what titles to ask for? You’re throwing the past out the winder, aren’t yer?’ He sounds more northern as he grows more drunk.
‘In the past, the Council’s been too risk-averse,’ says Peter. ‘I won’t be making that mistake.’
Vanessa vainly tries to join in, but they are too busy clashing antlers. She has a very clear view of Peter Pargeter’s ear, because his head is turned so firmly to the left, but its fleshy pink well is blocked with pale wiry hair. On the other side of her, the bottle-glassed midget is waving his card, assiduously, and Vanessa is getting a stiff neck, ignoring him, but she wants to join in this important debate. As an International Delegate, she needs to contribute.
‘What about novels?’ she says, suddenly loud as both the men fall silent at once. ‘Are they the old model? And writing?’
‘We don’t want to get hung up on text,’ says Peter Pargeter. ‘Look at it organically. We are partnering in so many new projects. It’s a very exciting time, in Uganda.’ He suddenly remembers her mention of Mary as a local writer, and feels uneasy. Perhaps he has spoken a little freely. ‘If you don’t mind, Vanessa, perhaps you wouldn’t mention our plans for the library to any of our local writers just yet. First I want to get all my ducks in a row. But I’m very pleased with our latest initiative, which we are trialling now in Nairobi. We’re going to be running graffiti workshops here. We think the takeup will be impressive.’ He sits back, delighted by his own daring. These silly old fogies will have to learn.
‘Graffiti workshops in Kampala?’ Now Geoffrey Truman is roaring with laughter. ‘They’ll all get bloody sent to jail, you fool. Whose idiotic bloody idea was that?’
Vanessa watches Pargeter’s large pink ear redden, flooding slowly with blood, yet he is still smiling, a professional smile, clench-toothed, diplomatic. He has got a mission statement: he will stick to it. Relationships, Organic, Leadership, Future. It is his mantra. He is the future. ‘Ah, excuse me, Geoffrey. I must just go across and have a word with my colleague Heather.’
After he has gone, like Superman, disappearing in a cloud of faintly acetone man-scent, Geoffrey Truman peers vaguely in Vanessa’s direction in something that seems like companionship.
‘Bloody dinosaurs, aren’t we, you and me,’ he says. ‘I could eat that little mammal for breakfast, though.’
Vanessa doesn’t want to be a dinosaur, though she likes the idea of Peter Pargeter as a tree-rat. ‘My work is rather modern,’ she says, then hears herself, disconcertingly; there is a note of hollow grandeur. Graffiti workshops. Is this the future? Shouldn’t the young be doing that on their own? It’s like policemen teaching schoolkids to burgle.
‘He’ll be gone in two years,’ says Geoffrey Truman. ‘Mark my words. Ambitious little shit. Then it’ll be All Change. Some other bugger, with some other big idea. And the decent people, the ones like that ’eather who loves books and reading – and believe you me, there are plenty of decent ones in the Council, poor bastards, you’ve met ’em, so’ve I – they won’t get a look-in when the jobs are given out. And poor old Kampala will have lost its library.’
After supper, it is rather a relief to Vanessa to join the women having drinks in the garden. Somehow, the white women have ended up together, and though in general Vanessa prefers the Africans, it can be a relief, for a while, to be with one’s own. And with women, after all that testosterone! She makes the others laugh by describing the row.
‘Oh men, they’re just different,’ says Deirdre Mullins. ‘That’s what all the wars are about, round here. If these African countries ever had a woman in charge ...’
‘Well Thatcher was hardly a pacifist,’ says Vanessa. ‘She went to war against the Falklands.’ Suddenly she isn’t quite so down on testosterone.
‘At least that was a sensible war, that we won.’
‘In retrospect, wars you win look sensible.’
‘Well, African wars just go on and on.’ That was Heather Hughes, the British Council literature officer responsible for the conference. ‘Have you read about the LRA? They’re terrifying. In the north of Uganda. It’s supposed to be over, but they are still abducting people. And some of them have fled into DRC. Along the border between DRC and Uganda.’
‘Things do seem to be, you know, different here,’ says Deirdre. ‘I don’t want to think it, but it’s true. I mean cutting off, you know, lips and noses ...’ She has been to Africa once before, ‘on safari’ with a friend, ‘you know, budget safari’. ‘We were staying in a banda on the Ssese Islands, just the two of us, and in the middle of the night, someone banged on our door ... We nearly died. We were terrified.’
‘I’m thinking of going to Bwindi,’ says Vanessa. ‘To see the gorillas. I always wanted to. But it is rather near the border with DRC.’
‘I wouldn’t go anywhere near Congo,’ says Deirdre, though no-one else seems to have heard what she said, which is a pity, since Vanessa hoped to make an impression.
Deirdre has spiritedly resumed her story. ‘I had this teeny-weeny nightdress on, and my friend Polly was sleeping naked, and this huge black man –’ She stops her story as a tall Ugandan waiter brings her another beer on a tin tray. ‘Enjoy your beer, dear,’ he says, but they cannot see his face, outlined against the palm trees and the blue starry night, and he walks away, silently, back to the hotel, to the bawling white men in the crowded bar.
‘What was I saying ... Oh yes. In fact, he was just bringing a phone message ... But of course, we were, you know, absolutely terrified. By the way, what do we do about, you know, tipping?’ Deirdre hasn’t tipped him, and now she feels guilty, only partly in case the others have noticed.
‘Well, what you’d do at home, I guess,’ says someone.
‘But I mean, we’re staying here. We can’t tip on everything.’
They sit and agree that they can’t tip on everything, and then Deirdre Mullins retells her story, and the white women sit and talk of rape and murder, growing louder and more graphic as the night goes on, and the crickets trill thrillingly, increasing their excitement, until at some point the delicate equation between alcohol and food and blood sugar slips into deficit, the night gets cooler, and the sober black waiters in smart Sheraton jackets who have ferried out beers come and take away their glasses, and address the women customers with lowered eyes and voices, and a little later on, alone in their rooms, as the women check their screens and find the internet is down, which makes them feel lonelier, and more disconnected, as they squint behind their curtains in case a tiny rustle might be the dry wings of a stray mosquito, little pangs of real fear, little headaches begin. They double-lock their doors and lie awake, hearts pounding.
But Vanessa feels quite safe, and not sick any more. Tomorrow the conference proper will begin: sessions on many things she finds interesting, and she will track down Mary at the Nile Imperial. And then there’s Bwindi glowing gr
een in the near future, something rare and special, her very own adventure.
As she listened to Deirdre and Heather and the others, she has started to think that age is an advantage. She does know things, and she likes men, really: she had warmed to Geoffrey Truman, despite his rudeness, and she likes Ugandans: she doesn’t fear them. She thinks, I have never really been racist. Or I would never have employed a Ugandan cleaner. Knowing Mary was certainly an advantage, for Justin ... If only he and Zakira had someone like Mary, someone calm and experienced, to help with Abdul Trevor.
Vanessa wouldn’t dare criticise Zakira, but she’s very busy, so it all falls on Justin. He doesn’t always answer his mother’s texts. About one in five, she thinks, drifting, drifting ... But at least the vital bit of information has arrived: ‘Abdy is fine. Temp down. Do not worry!’ It’s a worry, though, that they haven’t got a nanny. Though Trevor became almost too fond of Mary ... Trevor, Trevor ... so far away.
13
‘I can hardly believe I’m in Uganda,’ says Trevor. ‘It’s great, Mary, honestly.’
They are bowling along the road from Entebbe; they’ve left behind the lake, they are hurrying through forest that has recently been cleared, leaving pearl-pale stumps, and new buildings are rising, and workmen are singing, and others are walking to work along the road. Huge billboards ask questions: ‘ARE YOU READY FOR CHOGM?’
‘So it’s a very big deal, this CHOGM?’ he asks, as they drive past the umpteenth billboard. ‘What does it stand for again? Commonwealth Heads of what?’
Mary tuts scornfully. ‘No, it is nothing. Commonwealth Heads of Government. The Queen will come. For half a day, maybe. And they tell us to get ready.’ She speeds up, crossly, then brakes deftly as a bicycle wobbles in front of her. He notices she is wearing her glasses. With her glasses on, she is a very good driver. In London, once, she had picked him up in Vanessa’s car when his van was in the garage, and she’d had to drive with her nose on the windscreen, peering short-sightedly at the road.
‘Nice car, by the way. You must be doing well.’ Not that he himself would drive it. It’s a red Toyota, circa 1998.
‘It is Charles’s car. Soon he will buy one for me. If you talk to Charles, he will say something different about CHOGM. Charles is delighted the Queen is coming, I do not know why, she will do nothing for him. But many Ugandans think like Charles.’
‘Good woman, in my view,’ says Trevor, cautiously. ‘Better than a president. But then, you Ugandans have presidents.’
‘They are useless,’ says Mary. ‘They have all been useless. And Museveni will come and meet the Queen, and he will wear his bush-hat, which is supposed to remind us that he was in the bush with the NRA, and was a soldier, and a hero. But we do not believe that he was a hero, because it was his brother who did all the fighting, and even then, he got children to fight for him.’
‘Right,’ says Trevor. ‘I see. I’ll have to read up on Ugandan history. I had the impression things were better now. You know, more peaceful than under Idi.’
He looks across at her; he wants to get things right, but her nostrils are flaring in a scornful way, and her eyes behind her small gold glasses have narrowed.
‘That is like saying a day in the Sahara is cooler than the middle of Virunga volcano. And we must stop talking about Idi Amin, because he is the only thing you bazungu know about Uganda, and he does not help us. First because he was a lunatic, though funny, and second because everyone says, like you, ah everything is good now, because he has gone.’
She is talking rather fast, and quite loudly, and Trevor remembers that Mary has a temper. Plus, she’s glaring at him, and not looking at the road, and although it’s very straight, it is not without its hazards, since the oncoming traffic is fast and heavy.
‘I don’t mean to annoy you, Mary, old thing. You’ve got to remember, it’s my first time in Uganda.’
‘Yes, it is your first time in Uganda, Trevor. I remember that. So I must give you information. You told me many things, when I was in London. And I was grateful. But now things are different.’
But she suddenly smiles at him, forgivingly, and looks back at the road just in time to miss a truck that says ON THE WAY TO HEAVEN on its windscreen.
‘Are you tired, Trevor? If you are not tired, we will go to lunch at Lake Victoria. It is not far. And you will learn something about water in Uganda. And then, tomorrow, we will go to my village. I hope you have got your implements with you.’
‘My tools? What do you think’s in the leather bag?’ He cranes round his neck for a moment’s reassurance. Battered and stained, his whole life is in there. It sits on the seat, heavy, solid. ‘At your service, Madame. Trevor Patchett Plumbing.’
‘Though of course, Trevor, you will not be charging callout.’
It is very hard to read Mary Tendo’s expression. Trevor settles, with a small sigh, back into his seat, in which he can detect one spring is broken. Now they’re on a section of road that’s not mended. Why does he always seem to deal with difficult women? Bumpy ride, he thinks. Hang on to your hat.
Vanessa’s in Reception at the Sheraton, trying not to get cross with the receptionists. Two or three of them have gathered protectively around Rachel, the girl to whom Vanessa addressed her query.
‘It can’t not be there, my friend works there. Look, Nile Imperial. N-I-L-E, I-M-P ...’
The little gaggle of girls in their golden jackets exchange looks with Rachel nervously. They have all been taught not to contradict, but then how are they to deal with deluded bazungu, these strange, blind people who know they are right?
‘Yes, Madam. I know the Nile Imperial –’
But Vanessa interrupts. She is in a hurry! She will miss the minibus to the first session! They are dragging their feet deliberately!
‘It’s terribly near. I mean, I could walk there, but obviously it’s easier if I phone first. I am just asking you to connect me. To phone, you know, to the right number.’ And she mimes phoning, elaborately.
Now none of them will meet her eyes, and they are calling over an older man, to whom they speak rapidly, in their own language. Vanessa can’t believe how slow they all are. Outside she can hear some vehicle hooting.
‘Good morning, Madam. I would like to ask, is it possible your friend is at the Serena?’ His smile is professional, intentionally soothing.
‘I have told them eight times, it’s the Nile Imperial!’
‘Madam, there is no more Nile Imperial. It has been demolished, two years ago. It has been replaced with the Serena Hotel.’
Vanessa is silenced. ‘Demolished. Oh.’ A stone of disappointment. ‘Why couldn’t they explain? Nobody told me.’
And with that, leaden-hearted, she turns away, leaving a cooing chorus from the women in reception, who are genuinely sad they cannot help her. ‘Ah, sorry, Madam. Ah, sorry.’
But what she really feels is hurt about Mary. She had thought they were friends. Why didn’t she tell me? And how can she possibly search for her, in this suddenly large and unknown city? She could be anywhere. She could have gone away.
Is it possible Mary never liked me?
She gets into the minibus, with the others, but looks out of the window as they chatter. At first she stares at every woman they pass, all those smartly dressed women, walking steadily onwards down their own paths, smiling, impervious, the morning sunlight blanking out their features and making all of them, potentially, Mary.
Were we ever close? Did we share my son? – Of course a carer was very different from a mother, but Mary had certainly done a lot for Justin, both when he was little and as a young man, when the strange shadow came over him. I thought, in a way, we loved him together.
– I wasn’t always good at loving him.
She rejects this thought in a split second.
But Mary – poor Mary had lost her own son. Their driver suddenly hoots, in a long deafening wail, as a lorry teeming with dusty workmen cuts in front of them onto a roundabout. No, they’re
not workmen. She looks again. Khaki battle-fatigues. Oh, they’re soldiers.
‘Soldiers,’ says Bernardine.
‘They make me nervous,’ says Deirdre Mullins; but they all feel a chill.
Vanessa tries to focus on Mary’s son. His name was Jamil. She called him Jamie. I didn’t encourage him to play with Justin. I felt she would be getting away with it, somehow, being paid by me to look after Justin and caring for her own child on the side. Perhaps I was jealous, since I was too busy to spend whole days with my own child. And then obviously, when Jamil was ill, it was unreasonable of her to want to bring him with her. I couldn’t let Justin be infected. Even when he was well, I had concerns about language. The child’s father spoke Arabic, Mary Luganda. Her English is more than adequate, but I thought Jamil might be less forward than Justin. A second child would have held Justin up, a second child less gifted at language.
But then of course Jamil disappeared. Which was a tragedy. Somewhere in Libya. Or on the way back. Mary hardly ever spoke of it. If she had confided, I might have been able to comfort her. I would have tried. She didn’t trust me.
In any case, Mary had been very lucky. When Vanessa last saw her, she had been pregnant.
(They look so strong, all the women on the pavement, with books on their heads, or baskets, or fruit, so glossy and unstoppable that Vanessa feels jealous; Mary doesn’t need her; she’s gone on into her future, powerful and fertile, ignoring her.)
