She’d arrived a little late, just as Tayo was being introduced, and he’d glanced at her briefly, without recognition, as she slipped quietly into one of the back rows. Only at the end of his talk, when she stood up, did he really see her.
‘Vanessa,’ he exclaimed, and everyone turned to look.
‘I’ll be right back,’ she called, not knowing what else to do but run out and gather her composure. Now, standing in the privacy of the ladies’ toilet, Vanessa looked into the mirror. She placed both hands flat against her forehead and pulled. This way she was able to hide the grey and take away the wrinkles, but when she removed her hands everything popped back: the grey hairs and furrows that ran along her forehead and spread like fine cat’s whiskers from the corner of each eye. She shook her head and sighed. Then, startled by a sharp knock on the door, she dropped the compact she was holding and watched as a powdery plume of blue and purple eyeshadow billowed across the floor.
‘Just a minute,’ she called, bending down to pick up the broken bits. The powder crumbled when touched, so she used her foot to kick what she could out of sight beneath the sink. Quickly, she washed her hands and opened the door, but whomever had knocked had left. She returned to the seminar room where people still waited in line to meet Tayo and have their books signed.
She smiled, calmer now, watching him interact, ever gracious and charming. He had only a sprinkling of white hair—he’d barely aged. He looked just as handsome as she remembered, though not quite as fashionable. He wore grey trousers, a little flared at the ankles, and a cream-coloured shirt with a wide collar. He looked up from where he sat and gestured for her not to leave. Take your time, she gestured back, taking a mint from her bag, as well as a notebook. Usually, the latter would have been filled with her scribbles capturing what the speaker had said, their style of presentation, the questions and responses, but today she’d been too distracted to write. What would they say to each other? What would she say? She jumped in surprise when he touched her shoulder. She hadn’t seen him coming.
‘Vanessa!’ he said, catching her before she tripped. ‘How wonderful to see you!’
‘And you,’ she said, steadying herself.
‘I was…’
‘You…’
They spoke simultaneously, stopped, then tried again. The same thing happened. For some minutes they stood awkwardly, Tayo still holding onto her arms — each of them saying how good the other looked.
‘Dinner?’ Tayo finally said, only then gently letting go of her. ‘There’s a nice Indian place not far from here.’
‘So where do we start? It’s been twenty years. More than…’ Tayo began as they left the building, stepping into early evening sunshine. Their arms kept bumping into each other. Vanessa stepped back to give them more space.
‘More than twenty,’ Vanessa nodded, ‘you left in ‘66 and I came in…’ she paused, making it sound as though she were just working it out.
‘Twenty-seven years,’ Tayo said. ‘And now you’re married. Do you have children?’
‘I have a son.’
‘And?’ Tayo held out his hand.
Vanessa wasn’t sure whether he was offering her his hand or whether it was simply a gesture. She chose to ignore his hand, looking across the street, waiting for the lights to turn so that they could cross.
‘And where did you meet your husband?’ he asked, his hands now in his pockets. ‘How old is your son? I want to know everything.’
‘Everything?’ She raised her eyebrows, feeling suddenly irritated by his words. Did he think he could simply waltz back into her life and ask whatever he wished? She thought of their first two years apart, and how they’d felt, at the time, like the worst years of her life. Did he know? Of course he didn’t. ‘I got a job with The Guardian,’ she said simply.
‘I didn’t realise you worked with them as early as that.’
‘Yes, but in the beginning it wasn’t as a journalist.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Making tea, mainly. Lots of tea,’ she smiled. ‘And being paraded about at lunches by my boss. I should never have stayed, but I was young and naïve.’
‘I’d forgotten how much I love your smile,’ he said.
They’d come to another junction in the road, waiting for the lights to change. He had the same broad shoulders, she noticed, and for a moment she was tempted to touch him, just slip a hand behind his back and rest it on his shoulder like old times. I’ve missed you, too, she wanted to say but couldn’t bring herself to. Her desire was tinged with resentment and anger.
‘And your laugh,’ he added. ‘I’ve missed that as well.’
‘How is your family?’ she asked. It was an awkward transition, but he didn’t seem to mind. He told her about his daughter and her chosen field of study — of how she’d gravitated toward drama or music when architecture was what he’d hoped she would study.
‘Why not something in the arts?’ Vanessa asked.
‘It’s hypocritical of me, isn’t it?’ he nodded. ‘But it’s so hard to be an artist in Africa these days. You must know. To be honest, I just don’t want my daughter to be discouraged when she returns home.’
‘If she returns,’ Vanessa added.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I suppose one can never take these things for granted and, to be honest, I don’t think she will.’
Vanessa noticed the frequency with which he said ‘to be honest.’ The irony of it.
‘But look, I’m doing all the talking. Tell me about you, Vanessa. And how are your parents?’
Mum, she was sorry to inform him, had died some years earlier from cancer. Father was fine, just getting old. She asked him about his family and was sorry to hear that he too had lost his mother.
‘And your husband? Who’s the lucky man?’
She knew he would ask, but it didn’t make it any easier. ‘Well, actually, you know him,’ she said. ‘It’s Edward. Edward Barker.’
If Tayo was shocked, he did a better job of disguising it than she did of trying to make things sound less awkward. She told him about Edward’s divorce and Isabel’s return to Italy. She felt compelled to make it clear that nothing had ever happened between them when they had been at Oxford. It was only by chance, she explained, that she met Edward years later in London, after she’d returned from Dakar. She had not told Edward that she would be seeing Tayo, and she was glad that Tayo didn’t ask.
‘You must tell me about your time in Dakar,’ Tayo said, changing the subject. ‘That was when I started reading your articles, all those fantastic pieces on Senghor, Ousmane and Ba. It must have been wonderful. You know I’ve been following your career closely, Vanessa.’
‘Have you?’ She turned to better face him.
‘Do you remember when you asked me, while we were at Oxford, what I thought of you becoming an African journalist?’
‘I do.’
‘And now you’re Africa’s favourite writer. I have a file at home with all of your articles — at least, those I could get hold of in Nigeria.’
She had followed his career too. It was her job to keep track of African artists and scholars, but in Tayo’s case she would have done it anyway.
‘Here we are,’ he said, pointing to the restaurant. As they approached, the smell of curry reminded Vanessa of Tayo’s New Year’s culinary experiment. The smell of curry always reminded her of him. She was about to tell him so when she remembered that it had been in Edward’s old house and she said nothing.
‘You know the first piece I read of yours was that article on FESTAC,’ Tayo continued as they sat down. ‘It was a superb article. You were critical of the organisers and you used Fela’s Zombie lyrics so powerfully to make your point.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, remembering her initial excitement at being in Nigeria where she’d kept hoping to run into Tayo. ‘So you never went to FESTAC?’
He shook his head. A waiter had arrived to deposit glasses of water and a basket full of papadums. She broke a papadum
and handed half to Tayo.
‘Doesn’t this remind you of Oxford?’ Tayo smiled. She nodded. ‘What was the name of that Indian place we went to? Viceroys, or Raj, I think it was called. Something with a colonial ring.’ Tayo tapped his forehead to remember.
‘The Taj.’
‘That’s right,’ he laughed, longer than was necessary.
The conversation had grown awkward again, and Vanessa wished the waiter had given them more time before returning to announce their choice of condiments: Mango chutney, spicy sauce, and yoghurt.
‘You must tell me more about the books you write for children,’ she said, searching for a neutral topic of conversation.
‘Initially inspired by you, Vanessa.’
‘Really?’
‘You gave me a first edition copy of Winnie the Pooh, remember? Well, that was what started me thinking about children’s literature. But I want to know more about you. Are you still in touch with friends from St. Hugh’s?’
‘I’ve been to a few gaudies, but other than that I don’t really stay in touch.’ She didn’t feel like saying more. She was happy to see him but sad and irritated with him at the same time. It bothered her that he seemed so calm. She wasn’t hungry any more.
‘And Jane?’ he asked.
‘The last I heard, she’d married a rich American and was living somewhere in California. We haven’t stayed in touch. And you? What about the Balliol crowd?’
‘No, I’m not in touch with many of them except for what I’ve read through The Record, but the other day I found one of my notebooks. I don’t think I ever told you this, but I used to keep a record of all the titled people I met at Oxford. I did it for my father, but the funny thing is that most of the names I wrote down became nothing, or not famous in any case. And you, my friend Vanessa, have become the most famous of all!’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘But it’s true.’
‘So I wasn’t in your book of names?’
‘You were so much in my head, Vanessa, that I didn’t need to write your name down.’
She broke off a piece of papadum, aware that he was watching her. She wished he wouldn’t; papadum bits burst inelegantly from her mouth. He hadn’t touched his.
‘I was so much in your head that you found someone else,’ she ventured.
He looked down at his plate as two waiters now struggled to find room on the table for the various platters of rice and chicken. In the end, Vanessa removed the large vase of plastic carnations, impatient for the waiters to leave.
‘I was young then,’ he spoke quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the food.
‘Well, to Tayo!’ she said finally, lifting her glass.
‘To Vanessa,’ he clinked his glass against hers.
She helped herself from the plate he was offering. The rice clung stubbornly to the plate so she pressed harder. Tayo’s grip on the plate remained firm.
‘I’ve missed you, Vanessa.’
Silence hung uncomfortably between them and just when it looked like he might say more, someone broke the silence for him.
‘It’s you, Tayo!’ exclaimed the man who was striding across the room towards them. ‘Look at you, old chap! You don’t recognise me, do you? It’s me, Samir from Bradford! Remember?’
For several moments, in their excitement to see each other, the men seemed to have forgotten that Vanessa was there.
‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. Tayo, is this your wife?’ Samir turned to Vanessa, curious.
‘This is my friend, Vanessa Richardson.’ Tayo replied. ‘She writes for The Guardian.’
‘Not another of your girlfriends then!’ Samir laughed, slapping Tayo across the shoulders in friendly greeting. ‘Don’t mind if I join you, do you?’ He pulled up a chair from a neighbouring table. ‘So tell us Tayo, what’s going on with this country of yours? Any real chance of returning to civilian rule?’
‘Who knows,’ Tayo replied, glancing at Vanessa.
‘Still waiting for your Nehru dynasty?’ Samir laughed. ‘And I mean, just look at what a bloody mess India has got herself in now. What to do? Bloody power hungry, all of them. And I thought you were bound for politics old chap. What happened?’
‘No, not politics. I teach.’ Tayo said, sending an apologetic look to Vanessa.
‘Ahh well, that’s wise then, old chap. So look, where’s your wife?’
‘She’s here, well not here,’ Tayo added, ‘but in London.’
‘Doing the holiday shopping, is she?’
‘No, she lives here now and my daughter too. My wife runs a nursing facility for the elderly.’
‘Then you must all come to visit; I have three daughters now, you know.’
‘Excuse me,’ Vanessa said, standing up.
Tayo looked up, anxious, but Vanessa wouldn’t look at him. She was angry with Samir for interrupting them and annoyed with Tayo for letting the man stay. She went in search of the restaurant phone and left a message for Edward letting him know she’d be late. She contemplated a cigarette, but it had been years since she last smoked. She went to the ladies’ room instead and fiddled with her hair, straightening the side parting. ‘What am I doing here?’ she muttered to the mirror. She returned to their table and told Tayo that she had a train to catch. Samir offered to drive her to the station. She told him it wasn’t necessary. Samir insisted.
‘Now what?’ Vanessa thought, staring angrily at the empty tracks as she and Tayo stood, finally alone, at Birmingham New Street. A rat scurried along one of the metal girders. Vanessa closed her eyes and sighed.
‘You’re angry with me, aren’t you?’ Tayo touched her arm.
‘Angry?’ Vanessa asked, knowing she was no good at pretending.
‘I’m sorry about Samir.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I meant what I said when I told you I’ve missed you, Vanessa,’ Tayo said. ‘And I’m sorry, very sorry, for the way things ended between us. Not that it means anything now, but I loved you Vanessa. I always did.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed, for what was the point in being angry? It was too late for that now. She reached for his hand, half clutching at his fingers and half stroking them. He stepped closer, just as her train arrived, bringing their joined hands up to his heart.
‘May I kiss you?’ he whispered.
‘I’ll miss my train, Tayo,’ she said, gently squeezing his hands before letting go.
Chapter 28
Vanessa sat in the grass at the top of Brockwell Park, looking down towards Herne Hill Station. It had been two weeks since she’d seen Tayo, but memories of the dinner, the waiting at the station and his offer of a kiss still lingered in her mind. She tried picturing him back in Nigeria, in his office, or at home, but found herself always returning to his room in Oxford, or the offices at Chiekh Anta Diop, which was her only model for a West African campus. She wondered what he would think of where she now lived and the life she’d created for herself.
Herne Hill used to be nothing fancy, just another nondescript borough of south east London with rows of Victorian terraced homes, a local pub, bank, newsagent, and post office, but things were changing. It started in 1990 with two new art shops — first the one under the station bridge and then Artemidorus on Half Moon Lane. Next came the French bistros and an ultra-pricey Indian fusion restaurant. Now, clustered around the station, were expensive shops and eating-places, marking Herne Hill as part of the new south London — trendy, but not gentrified. There remained enough of the old Herne Hill to prevent it from becoming a second Dulwich. The bakery, for example, hadn’t changed. It still sold greasy sausage rolls and stodgy buns drizzled with confectioner’s sugar, topped with glacé cherries. It had some new competition from the Jamaican pattie shop across the street, tastier fare, but still not upmarket. Then there was the Nigerian man with his clothes shop that was also a tailoring business and also offered secretarial services. It was hard to tell which of its operations was core, especially as it
was almost never open, in contrast to its neighbour, the 24-hour taxi rank. Station’s Taxis was a seedy shack of a place that reeked of tobacco, even more than the pub across the street. Many of the drivers were Nigerian which meant she could never pass it without thinking of Tayo.
She stretched her legs, enjoying the tickle of grass beneath her calves. Down at the bottom of the hill, men and women were cleaning the park. They wore plastic sleeves and used long stick devices to pick up discarded beer cans, paper plates and plastic knives and forks. Yesterday, the annual Brockwell Park Fair had taken place and hundreds of Londoners had trampled across the grass, eating, drinking, and dropping their litter. She had come by herself. It wasn’t the sort of thing Edward enjoyed. Too raucous, he complained. Her son, Suleiman, had come, but not with her. He went with friends, to flirt with the girls and no doubt smoke some hash. And so with Edward at home and Suleiman out of sight, she had wandered from stall to stall, sampling West African cuisine and buying things to support local artists. As usual, when the African vendors learnt that she’d lived on their continent, she was greeted with added enthusiasm. Suleiman laughed at her whenever she said she felt more at home with Africans than with the English, but it was true. There was a saying that once you’d tasted the waters of Africa, you would always thirst for more, and she was ready to return.
She’d left Dakar in 1975 when her mother was very ill. Had it not been for this, and the subsequent need to help Father adjust to living alone, she might never have come back to live in England. Her years in Africa, most of them at least, were the happiest of her life. The sun always shone and she’d felt fulfilled in her work. In Dakar she had never worried about how to raise her son and she was never alone, but here, even though she had Edward to help, mothering was a lonely job. Suleiman in his early twenties was a very different child from Suleiman as a boy. The charming, chatty toddler was gone, replaced by a silent, troubled young man. Other mothers empathised, blaming it on his relative youth, but she knew what they really thought: that’s the problem with having a black child.
In Dependence Page 18
