In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

Whenever the two got together they drank, smoked cigars, and reminisced about ‘the good old times’ and their chums in the Corona Club. It was not such a jolly time for Mother, who was left entertaining Nancy. Unlike some talkative types with whom one could ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’ without paying much attention, Nancy’s chatter was of the tiring variety that demanded responses. She spoke incessantly about herself, which was why, when Father refused to say no to the Murdochs, Mother insisted upon inviting Uncle Tony, to balance things out.

  Father disapproved of his brother-in-law just as much as Mother objected to Mrs. Murdoch, so this made things even. Uncle Tony was far too unconventional for Father — he’d never held a steady job or married, and rumours circulated about his preference for men. Moreover, his politics embarrassed Father, especially in front of people like the Murdochs, who shared Father’s conservative views. Uncle Tony was not a Communist Party member (his taste in clothes, art, and wine precluded this), but he sympathised with the Left. Father also resented his brother-in-law for having had the opportunities that he would have wished for: being born upper class and achieving a place at Cambridge. To make matters worse, Tony had, in Father’s eyes, squandered his opportunities, by dropping out of Cambridge and associating with people Father deemed socially and politically unsavoury.

  The Murdochs arrived on time, but Uncle Tony missed his train and because Father wouldn’t go back to the station, Jane drove to fetch him instead. Father had wanted to start the meal without Uncle Tony, but Madame Pagnole wouldn’t hear of it. To Father’s chagrin, Madame Pagnole exerted considerable authority over the home in France. She’d been chef to the Hume family since Mother and Uncle Tony were children, and when it came to meals, she was boss. She had a voice like thunder and a girth to match and nobody ordered her around, least of all Father. Because Madame Pagnole had a soft spot for her little ‘Antoine,’ she had planned the menu around Uncle Tony’s favourite dishes — foie gras, Coquilles St. Jacques with black truffles, and the famous Pagnole tarte aux poires.

  When Uncle Tony finally arrived, he sat next to Jane, wisely paying no attention to Father scowling at the far end of the table. Ooh là là, Vanessa thought to herself. At least Jane looked happy, which made for a change. She still didn’t say much in large groups, but there was a quiet confidence about her that Vanessa sensed, even when Jane wasn’t talking.

  Vietnam was the topic of conversation and Uncle Tony had plenty to say, as he described his participation in recent anti-nuclear testing demonstrations. Not surprisingly, Father grunted his disapproval, but that didn’t stop Vanessa from asking questions. Did Uncle Tony think America would be forced to withdraw their troops? She tried several times to ask the question but, true to form, Nancy Murdoch, in collusion with Father, kept interrupting. Mr. Murdoch said nothing when his wife talked, either because he was too intimidated or, more likely, because his wife embarrassed him.

  ‘Did you know that the number of black children in English children’s homes is on the rise?’ Nancy spoke in her affected high-pitched voice, making no attempt to link her comment to anything said before. ‘And did you know that the brown children are the hardest to find families for?’

  And did you know, Vanessa thought, watching Nancy babble, that you have chunks of green spinach in between your teeth?

  ‘And why is that?’ Jane asked, the only one kind enough to indulge the woman in conversation.

  ‘Well,’ Nancy paused. ‘Many parents won’t take the brown ones for fear of what others might think. If the children are properly black of course, there’s no mistaking the mothers. But with the brown ones, people gossip. You know, few women want to be mistaken as mothers of …’ Nancy paused again. ‘Mulattoes,’ she whispered, as though the word itself were poison.

  ‘That’s just stupid,’ Vanessa scoffed.

  ‘Fromages!’ Mme Pagnole announced, arriving with another course.

  ‘Well you can’t blame them, ‘Nessa,’ Father said, covering his nose as he pushed away the plate of Munster and Camembert.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘People will think it rape,’ Nancy answered, peering dubiously at the cheeses and opting for the date garnish.

  ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ Vanessa insisted.

  ‘I think ‘Nessa’s right,’ Uncle Tony added. ‘There are probably very few rapes; it’s just people being too racist to deal with the results of their actions, or should we say passions.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Vanessa nodded.

  ‘Et ça, c’est bien!’ Mme Pagnole exclaimed, happy to find dents in her cheese. She had returned with the salad.

  ‘Well you can’t just blame the English for being racist, you know.’ Mrs. Murdoch raised her palms meekly. ‘The blacks are just as bad, if not worse. They reject them too. It’s terribly distressing, but at the end of the day we just need to find these little dearies a home, don’t we?’

  ‘So ‘Nessa darling, how is Oxford these days?’ Uncle Tony asked, changing the subject.

  Vanessa smiled, knowing that her uncle felt the same way as she did about Nancy Murdoch. Everything about the woman was irritating: her high-pitched voice, her supercilious tone, her feigned generosity, and the green in her teeth.

  ‘She’s having a jolly time, aren’t you, Vanessa?’ Father answered.

  ‘And what’s this I hear about you writing for the Oxford newspapers?’ Uncle Tony asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a few things for Isis.’

  ‘So, you’re a writer now?’ Nancy interrupted. ‘How delightful! I’ve always thought it a super career for a woman — something to pass the time when you’re raising children. You must also learn to type, darling.’

  Vanessa rolled her eyes.

  ‘Vanessa’s very interested in Africa,’ Mother added. ‘She supports all their independence movements.’

  ‘Well, she might not be supporting them for long. Wait and see if they last,’ Father added, dryly.

  ‘Jonathan, please?’ Mother tapped the side of her glass again.

  Vanessa shook her head, wishing she could disappear from it all. Mother had been doing so well, but now with Nancy’s stupid comments and Father’s equally stupid remarks, Mother was back to her drink and it was only going to get worse.

  ‘So, tell me more, darling,’ Uncle Tony urged, offering cigars. ‘Cuban, Lizzie?’ Mother declined. ‘Jane?’ he added with a wink.

  Vanessa watched with curiosity as Jane accepted. So this was the new Jane!

  ‘Tell me more about your writing ‘Nessa,’ Uncle Tony probed.

  Vanessa mentioned a few of her articles, including the one she was most proud of — a critique of American foreign policy as it pertained to their previous discussion.

  ‘Rather silly if you ask me,’ Father mumbled.

  ‘Well, luckily nobody’s asking you,’ Mother replied, pouring another brandy, as Mme Pagnole entered with the prized tarte aux poires.

  ‘Vanessa has lots of foreign friends up at Oxford, especially from our colonies,’ Father continued, ignoring the tarte that brought a round of applause from everyone else.

  ‘Ex-colonies you mean!’ Vanessa said. ‘And Madame Pagnole, this is délicieux. Fantastique!’

  ‘Bien se nourrir pour bien se porter.’ Mme Pagnole winked.

  ‘Ahh, Gisèle.’ Uncle Tony was the only one who could call Madame Pagnole by her first name. ‘What do you think? Should Vanessa become a writer?’

  ‘Il faut d’abord qu’elle aprenne faire la cuisine.’

  ‘And why must I learn to cook?’

  ‘Parce-que,’ Madame Pagnole paused, looking mischievously in Father’s direction. ‘Savoir faire la cuisine, c’est savoir controller les hommes. You cook, you control the mens,’ she said, laughing at her own translation.

  ‘We’ve had quite the foreign lot to visit, haven’t we, Elizabeth?’ Father persisted. ‘One feels rather obliged to show them the world. It’s very civilising for them really.’

  For many years, Vanessa thought that this was just Fathe
r’s way of speaking, that he spoke condescendingly on most subjects without really meaning to. This was also how Mother explained it, but Vanessa no longer believed it.

  ‘Didn’t we meet some of them at the Christmas party?’ Mr. Murdoch asked. ‘There were Indians, I believe, and a coloured man, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Father replied. ‘They must make special concessions for them to get into Oxford these days. They’re still bright for Africans mind you — future ministers and leaders of their countries.’

  ‘Oh really, Jonathan, don’t be so stupid!’ Uncle Tony replied.

  ‘Well, I’m simply telling you what I observed at Oxford,’ Father continued.

  ‘I hardly think a summer course counts as having gone to Oxford.’

  ‘Please,’ Mother pleaded.

  ‘Well, some of us did go to Oxbridge,’ Tony insisted.

  ‘And dropped out,’ Father added.

  ‘Will you two stop it!’ Mother snapped.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Father continued, ‘we’ve had quite the foreign lot to visit, including the Nigerian chappie at Balliol. Now there’s a bright fellow for you, with good manners, reading PPE at Balliol, and he’s Yoruba of course. They’ve always been the most straightforward. With the Hausa you can never tell what they are up to, and the Igbos are always so sly.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, you can’t say things like that!’

  ‘Why ever not? They would tell you the same thing if you asked.’

  ‘Actually, I recall that chap looking rather like your gardener in Jos,’ Nancy remarked. ‘A lovely young man. Why ever did you sack him?’

  ‘Because he was an idiot,’ Father barked.

  ‘Oh dear! I always thought …’

  ‘Nancy!’ Mr. Murdoch glared at his wife, cutting her off mid-sentence.

  ‘Jonathan’s the idiot,’ Mother muttered, filling her glass without looking as she poured.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mum!’

  ‘So tell me, ‘Nessa,’ Uncle Tony winked again at Jane, ‘Are Oxford women still being treated as second-class citizens and what about …’

  ‘Jonathan’s the bloody i-di-ot,’ Mother slurred.

  ‘You’re the one that looks idiotic, Elizabeth,’ Father answered. ‘You and your beloved gardener. Did he know you’re a drunk?’

  ‘Oh, I say!’ Nancy exclaimed.

  ‘You say what?’ Mother shouted, glaring at Nancy and then at Father. ‘Don’t you remember the gardener’s name? He had a name, you know.’ She banged the bottle back on the table.

  ‘Mother!’ Vanessa pleaded, but she was already up and marching unsteadily, but determinedly, out of the room.

  ‘Well, that was quite some drama for one night,’ Jane remarked as she and Vanessa went to their room after helping Madame Pagnole clear the plates.

  ‘I can’t believe my mother,’ Vanessa muttered.

  ‘You shouldn’t let it bother you, ‘Nessa. Nancy’s enough to drive anyone to drink! Now listen, you’ve got to tell me, who is this very nice chap from Balliol? She asked, imitating Father’s accent.

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Vanessa tossed a pillow at her.

  ‘So let’s have a look at that photo again.’ Jane hopped from her bed to Vanessa’s.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to see it, silly! Come on. Not all of us are lucky enough to have handsome boyfriends, or even a boyfriend at all. And have you done it yet?’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘You know…’ Jane cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, don’t be such a prude.’

  ‘I’m not being a prude!’ Vanessa picked up the fallen pillow and lobbed it back at Jane.

  ‘Yes, you are!’

  ‘No, I’m not!’

  ‘Promise then to tell me all about him and I’ll tell you a secret.’

  ‘What secret?’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘What secret?’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Okay, yes. Promise.’ Vanessa nodded impatiently.

  ‘Me and your uncle, did it on the way back from the station.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Had sex.’

  ‘You what?!’

  ‘You’re so dramatic, ‘Nessa. This isn’t Victorian England. It’s the 1960s for God’s sake.’

  ‘You and…’

  ‘Your Uncle Tony.’

  ‘But he’s not that way incl…’ Vanessa stammered.

  ‘Inclined? Oh yes he is!’

  ‘Oh God, Jane! Is this serious?’

  ‘No! Tony’s far too old for me, though I must say that older men really have that touch. The way he …’

  ‘Jane! I don’t want to know!’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to hear, tell me about your boyfriend. What do you two get up to?’

  ‘Obviously nothing compared to you.’

  ‘So?’ Jane rolled her hands in continuous circles for more detail. ‘It’s not like you to be at a loss for words, ‘Nessa.’

  ‘Oh Jane, what does this mean for you and Tony?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. Read some Freud. It’s just sex. Speaking of which, is it really true what they say about size?’

  ‘I have no idea!’ And with that Vanessa pushed Jane off the bed.

  ‘Okay, so what did your parents think of him?’ Jane asked, jumping back. ‘Come on ‘Nessa, don’t be so cross.’

  ‘They like him.’

  ‘But how about what nattering Nancy was saying? Wouldn’t they worry about the way people would view your children?’

  ‘It’s just a skin colour, Jane.’

  ‘I know that, and you know that, but your father’s not exactly the most liberal of thinkers.’

  ‘Liberal enough to marry against his parents’ wishes. Anyway, who said anything about marriage?’

  ‘Of course you will!’ Jane thumped the mattress with her hand. ‘Oh ‘Nessa, you’re smitten, it’s obvious. I can already imagine you married to him. He’ll be the next Nigerian Prime Minister, and you’ll be living over there in one of those fancy mansions with servants fanning you and bringing you food. You’ll have all those lovely brown children running around. The local papers will carry the headlines: Prime Minister … what’s his name again?’

  ‘Tayo Ajayi.’ Vanessa smiled, forgetting her annoyance.

  ‘Prime Minister A-ja-yee and his wife Vanessa A-ja-yee,’ Jane announced, wriggling under the covers, ‘visited by Dr. Jane and somebody so-and-so. Sounds good n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘More likely Professor Ajayi than Prime Minister Ajayi. He wants to teach.’

  ‘Well, that’s a shame. Never mind, I’m sure he’ll be somebody important one day. A Chancellor perhaps, and won’t that be nobby?’ She rolled onto her side. ‘Hey!’ She rolled back. ‘Let’s go see Jean-Pierre and Olivier tomorrow. They ought to be back by now.’

  Vanessa shrugged. She wasn’t as excited about them as she was a year ago. It was Tayo she thought of now. Perhaps Jane was right, perhaps he would be a Chancellor one day. Perhaps she’d be the professor. Or perhaps she’d write for one of the national newspapers. They would live on campus or in the city maybe. She imagined shopping in the outdoor markets and at weekends enjoying long walks by the beach and nights of music and dance. She wondered what Tayo was doing at that moment without her. Hopefully he wasn’t meeting women. She didn’t like it when he flirted with other women and especially with coloured women. It didn’t help that whenever Christine’s name was mentioned he became withdrawn, and when she remarked on it, he accused her of not understanding his culture, which made her cross. She was doing all that she could to understand.

  ‘So, let’s just say, just hypothetically, if I marry Tayo, would you definitely come to Africa and visit me?’ Vanessa peered over Jane’s shoulder. ‘Jane?’ she whispered, but Jane was fast asleep.

  Chapter 12

  Le Carrelat

  06230 St. Jean-Ferrat

  France

  18th June, 1965

 
; Dear Tayo,

  How could you possibly think that you were boring me? I want lots of letters — beaucoup de lettres! — and even longer ones, but make them less polite and formal next time. Tell me how much you’ve been missing me and how much you dream of me, otherwise I’ll start to wonder what you’re up to with those northern lasses!

  I do wish you were here. The weather is beautifully warm, just as you’d like it, and we spend most of our time outdoors. Most days I cycle to the nearby town of Beaulieu, to the outdoor market where we buy fresh breads, pastries and smelly cheeses (I know you’re not a fan, but just wait till you come). In the afternoons I visit the local café and sip my café-au-lait, while fending off all the French men (ha ha!), and then I gaze across the Côte d’Azur and dream of you.

  And in between these dreams, I’ve been reading the books you suggested, starting with Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and No Longer at Ease. I enjoyed them and think I might review one for Isis, so you’ll have to help me. Achebe has such a wonderful way with descriptions! Do you remember the scene in No Longer at Ease when, in the words of Obi, Achebe describes the dancing women with waists swivelling as effortlessly as oiled ball bearings? What a wonderful image! I’m looking forward to discussing his writing with you when I see you. I only wish that his stories were not so tragic, but perhaps the tragedy highlights the dilemmas of post-independence, which brings me to your Perham review.

  I feel so flattered that you sent it to me and asked for my opinion. What do I think? I think it’s fab! I don’t have much to add except that reading Achebe made me wonder whether it might be worth mentioning somewhere in the piece that Africans themselves are sensitive to the difficulties inherent in the new post-colonial world.

  I also have a few more minor suggestions. First, for the purposes of Spear magazine and its West African readership, I think you should provide background information on Dame Margery. Mention that she’s an Oxford don and that her family has a lengthy history within the service. By the way, Father says that Perham was ‘a royal pain’ for the Colonial Service and much more provocative than we give her credit for. Also, I think you should consider structuring the review more tightly around what I see as your principle criticisms of Perham’s work.