The house is the same, but surely bigger, greyer. Mary’s heart beats hard as she walks up the path and sees the same clouds of dried lavender heads, the same red rambling roses, grown enormous, bending over the porch and encircling the window, and the hedge now almost as tall as she is.
When she was here before, her Jamie was little. She was still breastfeeding him at night. The rosebushes were small. She had loved their scent. Her own little boy. Her precious darling. How can he have gone so far away?
Mary makes herself think about Justin instead.
As they walk up the path, she says to Vanessa, “I am excited. I am longing to see him. I think he is tall. Tall like his father.”
Vanessa’s face clouds, and Mary remembers she never thought Justin at all like his father, although the two had the same nose, the same smile. How much about this family has Mary forgotten? Yet now she has thrown in her fate with them.
“I’m afraid his father is still rather hopeless.”
“Mr Trevor? I hope he is well.”
“Tigger, I’m afraid, is a typical man. He has just got himself a teenage girlfriend. A foreigner. She speaks no English. One really can’t see the point of it.”
Mary swallows hard and thinks of the money. She will make sure she gets it as soon as she can. She will keep a record of everything she earns, and add to the sum every day, every week, until she has enough to go home again, to meet her kabito, to go to her village.
In the meanwhile, though, she is here on her own. Where the late sun has left it, the house looks dark, and she cannot see inside the windows.
Suddenly Mary is a little afraid. These English houses are like lost worlds, detached from each other, buried in trees, overgrown with plants and strangled with secrets. Whereas life in Kampala is lived outside. The houses there have thin walls and big windows, and quarrels and weddings are all in the open, though sometimes people are beaten in secret. But here in London, everything is secret.
Vahessa is ringing hard on the door. “Justin promised to get up for us,” she says under her breath, half to herself. “I left a chicken in the oven for you, Mary.”
Mary is pleased: she smiles at Vanessa.
“Yes, as I mentioned, I have been to Uganda, so I know you cook chicken for honoured guests.”
Mary’s heart lifts. Henman has killed a chicken! And then she reflects, she would not have to kill it, she simply had to buy it from the supermarket. But all the same, they are cooking a chicken.
After three more rings, Vanessa hunts for her key and lets them in. The house smells warm, of chicken. It is silent, except for a faint sound of sizzling. Vanessa cocks her ear towards the stairs. She shakes her head, with a small frown of disappointment. “I’m afraid he’s asleep. I will show you where you’re sleeping. You could wash your hands, and then we will eat.”
Mary thinks, I have never slept here before. What will my dreams be like in England?
The house feels enormous. There are five bedrooms. She only knows the bedrooms because she had to clean them. She does not remember which is which. The house seems older than before. At any rate, it is safe and dry.
Mary tells herself she is not too impressed. She tells herself she will find it old·fashioned now that she has her own flat in Kampala, so bright and modern, with wipe-clean surfaces and everything within reach of her hand.
Vanessa opens a door, and looks anxious.
But the bedroom Mary will sleep in is pretty. It is larger than Mary’s front room in Kampala. There is a fine bed, a small pink armchair, a dark dressing-table with a table-lamp, a framed picture of sheep in a flat green field. The room is light, because it doesn’t have the insect screens which cut out the sunshine in Kampala. It has a nice view across the front garden to the road and beyond it the motorway to Heathrow. In the blue-and-flamingo-pink-streaked sky, Mary sees a plane sweeping up into the clouds. Perhaps it is leaving for Uganda. A red sun is sinking. She will see the sunsets.
My life is a story of arriving and leaving.
“I like it. Thank you for my room, Miss Henman.” She says it before she thinks about whether it is better not to thank her until she has been paid, and Vanessa is relieved, since she has spent an hour agonizing over whether to give Mary a better room, with its own basin, and a view of the back garden, the long lawn and the willow trees, which is normally the guest bedroom. But Mary is Ugandan: this must seem like a palace. “You will see you have got your own television, Mary. And do remember to call me Vanessa.”
Mary hadn’t seen it. It looks small and smart and she doesn’t yet know it is just black and white. On impulse, she kisses Vanessa again, and Vanessa flushes with shame and pleasure.
“I shall go down and finish the supper.”
By the time Mary joins her, Vanessa is carving, her long blade shearing the white like silk. The dining room has been painted yellow, and there is a light Mary thinks very beautiful, made out of thousands of pieces of glass, hanging like a waterfall, full of rainbows. This light must have cost a lot of money. Perhaps Miss Henman has become a rich woman. Mary begins to smile with pleasure.
She sees that the table is set for three. It bears a vase of yellow roses, two shiny candlesticks, three patterned glasses, a decanter of wine, with fine writing on the side: yellow squiggles of butter like caterpillars, and creamy-pinky shells of white bread. Mary loves white bread, though she prefers slices. The curtains are soft velvet, with twisted gold cords. The walls are lined with crowded bookshelves.
For a second Mary doesn’t know what to look at. Everywhere you turn there is something to see. It has been years, and she has forgotten. Life is so much barer and simpler in Kampala.
And yet it is cold. Mary starts to feel chilly. She is shy at the prospect of a meal with Vanessa.
“I may go and wake Justin?” Mary inquires.
“To be honest, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ll go, Miss Henman.”
“Don’t be long,” says Vanessa. She is carving the chicken, and she is hungry. She goes on slicing for three or four minutes, and pours some wine, and puts the vegetables in dishes, although that will make more washing-up for Mary—
No, she thinks, I must wash up myself. This first evening, I’ll wash up myself.
Vanessa finds she wants to eat quite badly. She takes a long swig of the red wine. The chicken smells glorious, so does the gravy. Please may we eat before it all cools down.
She can hear a low murmur of voices from upstairs. Mary has succeeded in waking him, then. A very small, secret part of Vanessa is hoping it won’t be too simple for Mary, that Justin won’t just put on his clothes and come down meekly as if nothing’s been the matter, that his love for Mary will not be the single perfect key to unlock all the misery.
Because if it is, what does that say about Vanessa?
Why have I been such a useless mother?
The fat on the gravy is a solid sheen. With a sigh of impatience she sets off upstairs. The murmur of voices is getting louder.
She pauses for a second outside Justin’s door.
What Vanessa hears astonishes her. She feels the blood come and go in her cheeks. He is actually laughing. Laughing quite loudly. She hasn’t heard him laughing in ages. Curious, envious, she opens the door. Justin is entwined with Mary on the bed. Both of them are giggling. They could be lovers. Justin’s face freezes as he sees his mother.
“Are you coming down to eat?” Vanessa says abruptly. She tries to smile, but her face is stiff. “I have carved the chicken. It is getting cold.”
But Justin is retreating under the covers.
“Coming, Miss Henman,” Mary says.
Neither of them looks her in the eye. Justin is just a blind mountain of bedclothes. Mary follows the older woman downstairs. She sees Miss Henman’s hair has grown thin.
Vanessa scoops out potatoes clumsily so that one rolls on to the tablecloth, tears off a chicken wing and gives it to Mary, though there are neat pale slices ready on the platter. “Look
for goodness sake don’t call me Miss Henman.” Vanessa sits down and gnaws like a fox, suddenly desperate for nourishment.
But the food soon starts to work its magic, restoring the blood sugar the wine had sapped. Within minutes, Vanessa feels better again. Mary is chewing guardedly, thinking about the advance on her wages. Vanessa takes a deep breath and smiles, wondering if Mary has noticed her teeth. “What happy times we all had together. And you are looking well. Not a day older.” She lifts her face to the chandelier, waiting for Mary to compliment her.
“It is because of our skin,” Mary says, pleased. “Ugandan skin is very strong. It does not go in wrinkles like English skin.”
Vanessa remembers that Mary is tactless. Never mind, she is here at last. She gazes on Mary and is satisfied. She looks so solid, healthy, happy. She looks like someone who can—save the day. Mary, Mary. Stay here and save me.
“How did you find Justin on the whole?”
“He is tall and handsome,” says Mary, carefully.
“Thank you,” says Vanessa. “He has always been wonderful. Everyone has always said so. Handsome, brilliant, so polite. But now he is terribly ill, you know. He hardly eats. And I never see him. If he goes on like this, I’m afraid he will die.”
“Here I am, Mother,” Justin says.
He stands in the doorway, in ill-matched clothes, heavy track-suit bottoms and a pink Hawaiian shirt, his beard gingery and formless. But he is here, and he is awake. He takes a plate, and begins to load it with dark leg meat, potatoes, bacon. “‘Obviously I’m not going to die.”
For a moment Vanessa thinks she has been dreaming, that the last six months have been a bad dream. But she knows her son has been very ill. And almost at once she starts to worry.
“Have some breast, Justin, it’s better for you. There’s plenty, darling. Lovely white breast.”
His hand, which is vigorously spooning out gravy as he bends right over to the centre of the table, stops in its tracks, and he freezes for a second, the light from the chandelier brilliant on his hair, which looks so blond it is almost colourless, the ash-white ringlets of a giant baby. He puts his plate down on the table with a crash. A little spill of juice darkens the cloth, a little emission of mess and chaos. He stays bent over, as if waiting for blows.
“I will get a sponge,” says Mary automatically, and gets to her feet, and pats at Justin. Then Justin straightens, and his head hits the light. There is a tinkling sound, and hundreds of pieces of rainbow light spin around the table. He puts up his hand, perhaps to calm the crystal pendants, but Vanessa cries out, sharply reproachful, “It’s a new light, for heaven’s sake be careful! Honestly, poppet, you don’t know your own strength!” and he changes his mind and lurches upwards again, butts at the chandelier like a goat, laughing peals of riotous, masculine laughter, and strikes it again and again with his forehead until the white skin is pitted with red. “Goal, Mother! Three goals to me!”
And then he charges back upstairs, thunderous, a weight that will surely break the stair-treads, leaving his meat to go cold on the table.
Vanessa sits stunned. Mary wipes the stain, then thinks, I will not do this again. I have not come here to wipe the table. She wishes she could say Mpa ku ssente. Give me some money, you miserable woman.
Perhaps Mary looks discontented, for Vanessa reaches out one thin white hand. It shines like a hen’s claw in the sharp glassy light. “Oh Mary, so sorry, are you all right? What a dreadful way to welcome you. Now, I daresay you are tired from your journey. I don’t suppose there’s anything I can get you…?” As she says it, she gets up and walks away.
Mary is surprised to find herself saying, “Miss Henman, I will need some money,” and after a brief pause, the other woman says, “Yes.”
13
Mary Tendo
A hundred and twenty-one pounds and thirty-seven pence. £121.37.
I have been in London for seven days, and earned the advance that she gave on my wages. Of course I have spent a little money. I bought some postcards and some postage stamps so I could write to my friend the accountant. Soon I will buy a mobile phone, but fifty pounds is a lot of money when you think about it in Ugandan shillings. One hundred and fifty thousand shillings. Next week, when I have earned more, I will do it, and send some money to my sister in Luweero.
I also put three pounds in the church collection. The English church seems to have grown more friendly, though it has changed, American style, and we are supposed to call the vicar ‘Andy’. It is strange for me not to respect the pastor. And most of the black people there are old. I must find a church where Ugandans go. It was always a problem when I was with Omar, because he did not like me going to church, but now I am free, and go where I like.
What else did I spend my money on? Ah yes, I bought some sanitary towels. Although the travelling has upset my body, which has often happened to me before. It used to happen when I travelled with Omar—my period would come when I least expected it. I suppose Miss Henman no longer has periods.
It is too late for Justin to have a brother, though he used to pray for one every day. When I told this to Miss Henman, many years ago, because I thought she would like to know, she was angry, which was a surprise to me. “And who will the father of this child be?” I did not see what was wrong with Trevor, although she laughed at him and called him Tigger, which is a childish way of saying Tiger.
(In many ways, English people are like children. The Henman still has a toy bear on her bed. Though I once heard an elderly, shrivelled muzungu sitting in the bar at the Nile Hotel say exactly the same thing about Ugandans: “The African, you see, is like a child.” I wanted to tell him he was like a tortoise, with his wrinkly neck sticking out under his shell.)
My own Jamie also wanted a brother. Instead he had a hamster, then a kitten, then a puppy, though at first Omar said all dogs were dirty, and tried to stop Jamil having one. It is one of the things I like about UK, the way the people love animals. The English buy their dogs from a pet shop, where they are kept in bright clean boxes. In Uganda, dog-owners like their dogs, but we don’t cuddle them like babies. I always enjoyed taking Jamie to pet shops. In the end Omar came to look at the puppy, and after he had seen him, he could not refuse. Jamie loved the small white and black dog like a brother, and he called it ‘Liquorice’, like his favourite sweet. It was very funny: it jumped up and down, and licked Jamie’s face, and liked television, barking at other dogs in the dog-food advertisements. I wanted to take Justin to see Liquorice, but Miss Henman always said ‘Another time, Mary’, and somehow the other time never came.
I shall not think about Jamie today.
On the whole, everything is excellent. I am doing well in Miss Henman’s house, though I must remember to call her Vanessa. I am finding my feet and beginning to save money.
The truth is, I am here as a detective. I thought they wanted me as a nurse, but I cannot nurse an unknown illness. In fact, I do not believe Justin is ill. He is certainly not ill as people are in Uganda, with TB or AIDS or malaria. He is not unwell like he was as a boy, the only time I remember him ill, his cheeks as fat as a football with mumps. His skin is clear and his eyes are white, and so his illness is a mystery.
Frankly I think he is ill in the head. But this is harder for me to judge, for in some ways, all the English seem ill in the head, as I found out when I lived here before. They stand in queues, frowning and worrying, touching all their bags to be sure they are still there, and when they talk, it is almost a whisper. They keep saying ‘Sorry’ or ‘Excuse me’, and if you look at them, their eyes dart away. And they usually look sad, or in a hurry. They stream into the underground, eyes down, like ants.
But Justin is what? He is a moper, a sleeper. He is not in a hurry about anything. Once I understand, I know I can help him.
On the second day that I was in England, I went to see Justin and was stern with him.
“Mr Justin—”
He opened his blue eyes, amazed. “Mary, you can’t
call me Mr Justin. Won’t you call me Junty, like you did before?”
“I do not know.” I had to think about this. “Because you are no longer a baby, I will call you Justin instead of Junty. But if you prefer, I will not call you Mr.”
He sulked a little, with his lips like a Ugandan’s, which make him beautiful as a woman.
“Justin, I have run you a very nice bath.”
“I don’t need a bath.”
“You smell like a donkey.”
This made him laugh, and cover his face.
“If you go on this way, you will grow a tail.”
When he was in the bath, I inspected his room.
I found out why he never eats his dinner. Underneath his bed, it is schoolboy heaven. A jewellery box of sweets is spilled everywhere. (Miss Henman would see them as hellish, though. Miss Henman thinks that sweets are poison. Perhaps it was sweets that ate her teeth. My teeth are perfect, without fillings.)
I myself like chocolate and peppermints, though I never had them till I came to the city. But obviously Justin has too many sweets, and they are too easy for him to pick up, so he does not have to get up for his meals. And his sheets are full of sweet papers. When he went to his bath, they stuck to his skin. A white boy covered in butterflies.
I swept up all the sweets into a carrier bag, and changed his sheets, and opened the windows. The wind from the garden came into the room. The clean green wind, so beautiful. This house is greatly in need of fresh air.
When Justin came back he smelled warm and sweet. I did not tell him what I had done, I did not want to fight with him. I was going to put the sweets in the dustbin, although they were not really ebanisiko, but when I looked, it was full of food, packets of half-eaten, expensive food, and the carcass of the chicken, which still had meat on, but Miss Henman had not bothered to make soup or stew, and I did not want to add to the waste, so I hid the sweets at the back of my wardrobe. In Uganda, the ants would have eaten them by bedtime.
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