My Driver

by Maggie Gee

  Mary drives in silence for a mile or two. She is thinking hard behind her glasses. Every now and then, she shoots a little glance at Trevor, under lowered lids, and her mouth is soft. ‘I think we will stop to make a purchase,’ she says, and swerves decisively across the traffic.

  She leaves Trevor in the car with Mercy and Theodora and walks into the shop by the petrol pumps. A few minutes later she returns, not smiling, with a clanking plastic bag, from which she takes three cans of Fanta, two of which she shoots forcefully back over her shoulder at Mercy and the little girl in the back. There are cries of pleasure and surprise. ‘Are you happy, Mercy?’ she asks in English, as if she wants Trevor to know the maid is happy. ‘I think you are fine now, with your Fanta.’

  ‘Eeee aunty tweyanziza.’ A coo of assent, and a slurping noise.

  ‘And for you I have also bought a Fanta,’ she says to Trevor, handing it over, ‘and something else I think you like even better.’

  It’s twenty cigarettes. She is really trying hard. ‘Well, that’s kind of you, Mary,’ he says, mollified. ‘But tell you the truth, I’ve given them up. Didn’t I mention it, on the phone?’

  ‘I see! Vanessa has made you give them up.’ He spots the glint behind her glasses. (Now he thinks about it, he’s sure he told her.)

  ‘It’s not Vanessa,’ he protests. ‘I don’t have to be told what to do, like a child ... I suppose it might have been Soraya, though, partly. Anyway, I’d better not start again.’

  (In fact it was a newspaper article Soraya had left out on the breakfast table where Trevor couldn’t miss it, about the connection between smoking and erections, because when he stopped shagging her, she went a bit crazy. In fact, she had gone clean round the bend. Apparently, smoking decreased blood-flow, and therefore was a bit of a downer, as it were. But although the article definitely put him off smoking, because he reckoned he needed all the blood he could get, Trevor knew why he had gone off shagging Soraya, and it was nothing to do with smoking or not smoking. It was about warmth, and tenderness. When they started to run out, the sex did too. He had always been like that: sex and love were connected. Though they said it was only true of women. But men had feelings. He did, anyway.)

  ‘Perhaps I will give the cigarettes to the village,’ says Mary. ‘Of course I could also smoke some myself, though as you know, Trevor, I rarely smoke.’

  That was rich, thought Trevor, smiling at his paper. When Mary worked for Nessie, she was always smoking, and always having to pretend she didn’t.

  ‘You are smiling, Trevor,’ says Mary. ‘Perhaps you think that Ugandans are smokers. I know the Henman had the same delusion.’ They are butting their way out of the suburbs, now, passing a market selling blowing dresses, the hangers attached to the spokes of big umbrellas, dancing in the wind like riotous skeletons.

  ‘Did I say anything about Ugandans smoking? But come on, Mary, you did like a toke. You and me used to creep off and smoke in the garden. Or in the kitchen if Ness wasn’t there.’

  ‘Trevor, I will now explain about smoking. Your British tobacco firms are here in Uganda. They pay the farmers a dollar a day. And they make them cut down trees to cure the tobacco leaves, including the valuable shea butter tree, which is valuable because it makes shea butter. It is an English habit, smoking, that comes from the empire –’

  She is in the clear now, on a good, straight road, her voice rising steadily and gaining in power as she zooms beneath a banner of blue bright air towards the hills and fields of her childhood, which she has not revisited for over two decades, and although she sounds loud and confident, the truth is, underneath, she is a little nervous; but how’s Trevor to know this? He is a man. What he hears is a lecture, and he feels got at.

  ‘I don’t have a clue if smoking is Ugandan. Maybe you didn’t smoke before you came to England –’

  ‘Trevor, I never smoked before I came to UK, where I was forced to be a cleaner, once my grant ran out, and did kyeyo for dirty English people. In Uganda, only old and poor women smoke, in those parts of the country where these women grow tobacco. To make money, as I said, for the English tobacco companies, as they have been doing ever since the empire.’

  ‘Can’t see what the empire’s got to do with this.’ Trevor has never thought much about the politics of smoking. He isn’t too keen on doing it now. ‘How do you know these companies are British, Mary?’

  ‘Because the biggest one is called British American Tobacco. I think you will agree that is British, Trevor. Yes, the British manufacturers are killing Ugandans.’ And she sounds a long, triumphant blast on her horn as she forces a bicyclist off the road, an old man in shorts with skinny, wrinkled black legs who Trevor sees, with amazement, is balancing a light wood bedstead across his handle-bars, and the man veers wildly away over the verge in the blast of Mary’s slipstream. He is not too old to shake his fist after them: at which the bedstead finally topples, and the thin shape dives after it, in slow, gape-jawed motion, and the maid in the back has a loud fit of giggles, and Mary tells her off in a brief burst of Luganda.

  ‘Mary Tendo, you are killing Ugandans,’ says Trevor, after a judicious pause.

  18

  It’s just after 8.45 AM in England. ‘Say bye bye to Mummy,’ says Justin.

  ‘Not say goodbye,’ says Abdul Trevor, firmly.

  ‘Mummy will be sad,’ says Justin, conversationally.

  Abdul Trevor looks hard at the ground.

  ‘You want to go to Toddlers?’ Justin asks. ‘Cos you missed a go, while you were ill. And now you’re a big strong boy again.’

  Abdul Trevor looks unimpressed. Sometimes he is very like Justin’s father.

  ‘Bye bye Abdul Trevor, see you soon,’ coos Zakira, and tries to kiss him, but he turns his head away. ‘By the way, Justin, do be careful about the eggs. I think his skin is reacting again, poor little chap. Only if you get some from the organic shop.’

  ‘Hmm. OK. If we get time.’ Justin wonders if Zakira’s wholly sound on nutrition. Her ideas involve a lot of extra work for him. She has strong convictions, stronger than his, about everything to do with Abdy: vaccinations (no, especially MMR, which the middle-class mothers discuss with passion, because it might protect against mumps and measles, but it’s also been a suspect for autism!), nit shampoo (sometimes, when the social stigma becomes too great, as lice smoothly circulate the middle-class children, enjoying their clean shiny hair and sweet blood), organic food (always: Abdy’s sensitive; his light amber skin tends to marks and rashes).

  Abdul Trevor looks up, slowly, through long black lashes, to see what his parents will try next. They are looking at him uncertainly. So he tries a yell: long, exploratory, ear-shattering, and then takes a deep breath. Nothing happens, still, so he tries another, and within seconds he is screaming his head off, and, quite soon, he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, his whole being convulsed with crying, so preparations for his outing stall.

  ‘I thought it was terrible twos, not threes.’ Justin tries to stay calm, but his stomach curdles. It reminds him of something; himself, probably.

  ‘Mummy’s got to go out too,’ he tells his son. ‘Say “Have a nice day, Mummy,” Abdy.’

  Abdul Trevor goes on howling.

  ‘At least he’s not ill any more,’ says Zakira. ‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it. They’re up and down so quickly. Couldn’t you just, you know – yes, I think you’d better. Darling, you will have to take control of things. You’re his father.’

  She is smoothing her hair in the mirror, frowning at a lash which might be under her lens, worrying if she has her Oyster Card. It’s OK for him, he doesn’t go to an office.

  ‘Well, you’re his mother,’ Justin says. ‘Must I be the baddy? I suppose I must. In my family, Mum took control of all this.’

  ‘Well, as you know, I was raised by nannies. It’s obvious we are hopeless parents.’

  ‘Oh don’t say that,’ says Justin, wounded. ‘I really want to be a good dad. Are you saying I’m hopeless?’


  ‘Of course not, darling.’ And although she’s in a rush, she is halfway out the door, she stops and kisses him. She knows he needs it. Justin too easily thinks he’s hopeless. ‘Bye bye, Abdy darling.’ And Zakira is gone.

  Finding himself no longer the centre of attention, Abdul Trevor, meanwhile, has stopped crying.

  ‘Come on, Daddy. Going,’ says Abdul Trevor, bossily. He has found his coat, and gives it to Justin. ‘Daddy help,’ he instructs him, and Justin kisses the precious top of his son’s head, which always feels hot, with its silky hair, as he helps each small arm into its smooth tunnel: and then both arms suddenly give him a hug.

  Justin is filled with happiness. ‘Let’s go, guys,’ he says. And the show’s on the road.

  19

  ‘It’s a beautiful country,’ Trevor remarks. ‘Old Winston Churchill did not exaggerate.’ His spirits are lifted to find everything so bright, whereas he had imagined something dark and jungly. Instead, the green land stretches away to low hills on the horizon, with flowering deciduous trees along the roadside, big red tulip flowers blazing against glossy green leaves and the white clouds towering up towards the sun, or spectacular pyramids of yellow blossom that Mary Tendo insists are ‘common. It is not even Ugandan, it is just cassia.’

  ‘The gardeners of London would love that tree.’

  ‘We are used to it. We do not like it.’

  It is the food trees which Mary points out: the mangoes and papayas, the yams and avocados, and everywhere low-growing banana trees, their strong palm-like leaves neatly serrated.

  ‘It’s fantastic, Mary. You wouldn’t have to work. I mean, breakfast must just fall at your feet, out here.’ And indeed he does seem to see people not working: they are standing by the side of the road, in the heat, some with big hats, some with bags or buckets to shade them from the enormous sky.

  Mary snorts. ‘You think Ugandans do not work? In fact they are working in the field all day. The people you see are waiting for lifts, because their journey is too far to walk. And it is true Uganda has many fruit trees, but firstly, the fruit trees are usually on somebody’s land, and secondly, you cannot only eat fruit. Or you will spend your time in the pit latrine.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I think you got these ideas from Winston Churchill, in his famous book, My Ugandan Journey. And he thought the black man did not like to work. It was what they believed during the empire.’

  More than ever, he regrets lending Mary the book. ‘Well, I have got a lot of time for old Winston, but I don’t take everything he said as gospel.’ He is trying to be conciliatory, but he can’t quite resist going on, after a pause. ‘Though he did have a point about the Asians, didn’t he? That because, well, you Africans are more laid-back, the Asians might take over if the white man pulled out. Old Idi thought the Asians were too good at business. And that was why he chucked them out, in the ’70s –’

  ‘And this is the ideology of empire!’ snaps Mary. ‘And this is why the British built three different toilets. One for the Africans, which, of course, was disgusting. And one for the Indians, who they called “Coloured”. And one for you bazungu, our colonial masters.’ She almost spits those three words out.

  ‘I am not your colonial master, Mary,’ says Trevor, annoyed. ‘You worked for Vanessa, remember, not me. I never gave a bugger about the cleaning –’

  ‘I am talking about the days of the empire. Fortunately, Trevor, you no longer rule us.’

  ‘Look, Mary, I don’t bloody want to rule you. Did I do much ruling in Vanessa’s house? Remember, she ordered us both about!’ And yet he finds he has begun to shout. Is Mary’s whole intention to aggravate? In the back, the little girl begins to cry, quietly, but Mary, as usual, ignores the sound.

  ‘As I said, Trevor, I am talking about history.’ Her voice is softer, but she still sounds self-righteous.

  ‘If you think I’m, you know, laden with guilt. If you think I came out to atone for the empire. You couldn’t be more wrong, my friend –’

  ‘I am your friend, Trevor,’ says Mary, swiftly. ‘But you should not praise Idi Amin, and Winston Churchill –’

  ‘I feel glad to be here, I’ve come out to help. And as for the empire – look, we’re in the same boat. My ancestors weren’t generals and lords and ladies. They were private soldiers and cooks and midwives. One of my great-grandpas, the best set-up of them all, I should think, was actually a blacksmith, out in Essex –’

  Mary Tendo nearly crashes into a lorry as she swivels, unbelieving, and stares narrowly at Trevor’s pale blue eyes and pink skin. ‘Your grandfather was black? I am surprised.’ She starts humming, self-protectively. He sees she is no longer listening, but her shoulders, which were raised towards her ears in temper, have collapsed, as if pole-axed, and her mouth is uncertain.

  ‘No, a blacksmith, Mary, he looked after horses. And then when he got old, they threw him out of the house, and he ended up in a hellhole called the poorhouse. According to the records, which I’ve looked at. You’re not the only one who’s interested in history. Point is – the same people who were grinding you lot down out here, were grinding my lot down, in England, Mary.’

  But she won’t be argued down by a muzungu, at least not when the subject is her own country. ‘I am sorry about your black grandfather who was treated badly by the English. And yet, Trevor –’ she begins, with renewed vigour ...

  And then all conversation stops as, with horns blaring and a rumble like thunder, two long open lorries roar past Charles’s car, both loaded to the brim with khaki-clad soldiers, standing up and swaying, shoulder to shoulder, lean and muscular, nervous and strong, and their hungry dark eyes stare in through the windows at Mary Tendo and the maid with the baby and the sturdy old white man slumped in the front, and for once Mary Tendo yields, brakes.

  ‘Not keen on the army, then?’ asks Trevor.

  ‘The soldiers do not concern me,’ says Mary. ‘But the lorries are always causing accidents. In fact we call them I.F.A, Imported for Accidents. I do not want an accident in Charles’s fine car.’

  ‘What worries me is, where are they off to?’ says Trevor, remembering the headlines in the paper.

  Both the driver and her passengers feel smaller, lighter. They are on the same road as the beasts of war, and they sit in silence through the minutes it takes for the lorries to be lost over the horizon, diminishing to hornets boring into the far hillsides, their darkness disappearing in a haze of dust, blurring westward, always westward, fast and low towards Congo.

  Justin sometimes feels odd, coming out of the house: the light’s very bright: people, traffic. He leads a quiet life, with his son. But Yoga for Toddlers is a favourite outing. As he walks through the door, tugged forward by Abdy, who is yelling, wild with joy, the name of his best friend, he breathes a small sigh of pleasure and relief. Of course, he enjoys their life at home; the certainty that he can give care. For the first time in his life, he feels like an adult. And yet, it can be lonely, in there on his own. What he likes about classes is meeting other fathers.

  Davey Lucas is one of them. He’s almost two decades older than Justin, but his son, Dubois, is the same age as Abdy, born at Christmas, like him, and the two boys are best mates. Davey has done it all before; he’s got a seven-year-old, Harry, named for Davey’s stepfather, Harold Segall, while Dubois is named for his wife’s father. He likes sharing fatherhood tips with Justin.

  ‘So do you mind me asking why you left having kids so late?’ Justin had asked Davey, soon after they met.

  ‘Do I look so old?’ said Davey, grinning. In fact, though in his mid-forties, Davey still seems vaguely youthful, in that old-young way typical of city-dwellers, with good hair, and teeth, and ‘urban youth’ clothes.

  ‘No –’

  ‘It’s OK, you’re right. See, Delorice and I were both just so busy. No-one would remember this, but I was famous, for a bit, I was on this crap programme called the Starlite Show – I know no-one young ever watches TV �
��’

  ‘No, I used to watch TV all the time,’ says Justin. ‘Matter of fact I still do, when I can. The Starlite Show! Of course I remember! You’re “TV’s Mr Astronomy”. Cool.’

  ‘Are you being ironic?’ Davey asks, cautious.

  ‘Well, saying “cool” is always, you know, faintly ironic. But not in this case. What a fantastic job! You got to look through all those telescopes.’ (Justin’s trying to remember. Hadn’t something gone wrong?)

  ‘Well, it all went pear-shaped – long story. Life sort of came to a T-junction. Now I’ve got my own company, we make stuff for the Beeb, and for Four, when they want us to. I’ve stopped presenting stuff. Too long in the tooth. They want babies, like you.’

  ‘I would love to work in TV,’ says Justin, then (since living with his mother has made him hypersensitive) reads the ambivalent response in Davey, who has heard a hundred people say the same thing, and goes back to praising the Starlite Show. ‘Really, you were one of my heroes.’ From then on, the two men had liked each other, and fortunately, the two boys palled up. Maybe partly because they were both mixed race, though in the group of fifteen, half a dozen are mixed race.

  (This is London, after all; city of plaiting and twining, throwing new ropes of life, in the instant of conception, across thousands of miles of the surface of the planet, across mountains and oceans that were once uncrossable, threading the blue air to their amazing destinations. Zakira is Moroccan, but born in England: Delorice is British, but her parents were Jamaicans and her distant ancestors were stolen from Ghana, on the other side of the same continent to which Zakira’s mother has mournfully returned, missing her birth family, warmth, love. They have the world in common – Africa, Europe – these two little boys who know nothing about it.)