2005 - My Cleaner

by Maggie Gee; Prefers to remain anonymous

  “Mary, why are you tired? You are not really working. I hoped you would do your bit with the cleaning. This is a big house. There is a lot to do. I am obviously very busy at the college. I cannot do everything here as well.”

  “You did not ask me here to do the cleaning.”

  I saw she was going to be aggressive. “Mary, I am paying you very well. I brought you here to look after Justin, and obviously help in the house as well. And now you do nothing and pretend to be tired.”

  And then she looked at me, full in my face, and said something terrible I cannot remember, and I lost my temper—I regret I lost my temper, I hardly ever lose my temper, except with Justin, of course, and Tigger—and I am afraid I shouted at her, “How dare you say such disgusting things! You are my cleaner! You are just my cleaner!”

  And now Mary Tendo is upstairs, packing. It is all over.

  But what shall I tell Justin?

  19

  Mary Tendo

  I am upstairs, pretending to pack. I have done this twice at the Nile Imperial, letting them see that I was emptying my locker, and each time, they have raised my wages.

  I have always known Miss Henman is crazy. But still this morning she has surprised me; I did not expect her to be quite so angry.

  I told her I was sleeping with Justin, and suddenly she was screaming at me. “You are my cleaner! You are just my cleaner!” Which shows you she thinks cleaning is something easy, and cleaners are stupid people, not worth listening to.

  And yet, she asked me here to look after Justin.

  (It is something strange about the bazungu: many of them fear us, or do not like us, and yet they give us their children to care for. They say very often how they love their children, even Henman, who used to call, ‘Kissy kissy kissy’ to Justin, every day, after she finished her writing, and stretched out her hands. Though often he ignored her, and clung to me.)

  She should have been pleased I am sleeping with him. (It is what we always say about the bazungu. They speak very nicely, but you do not really know them; you never know what they are thinking.)

  Justin begged me to, and I thought about it. I thought about it, and then I agreed. I knew if I slept with him it would help him.

  Besides, I enjoy it, although it is tiring. The Henman does not know how tiring it is.

  When I tried to tell her, she screamed even louder.

  And so I have come and started my packing. I am banging my case about on the floor. Soon she will come and apologise. I hope she will come and apologise. I cannot leave now. I have to earn more money.

  (£2,000. That is what I need. £2,000 is six million shillings. I do not much want to buy land or build houses, because I have seen it go wrong for others without quite enough money to bribe the officials. My friend Charles thinks he knows all about the system, the bibanja and poloti and the KCC, though sometimes his fingers have been burned, as well. My kabito puts his fingers in too many pies. He is an accountant, but he deals in cement, and sometimes lends money to other businessmen, and sometimes gets it back, and sometimes not. Still, let him get rich for both of us, and rent rooms to thieving tenants, if he wants to. I have my own plans for the six million shillings. I will not say why I need it for Jamey, but I need it for Jamey, most of all.

  It costs a lot of money to find people. And some people can never be found—

  I must think of the other things I shall do. Buy smart new dresses at Garden City, instead of going to Owino Market. Fill up Charles’s car with sugar and paraffin, with tea and coffee, with rice and aspirin, with shoes and hats and shirts for the children, and English books for the primary school, and my friend the accountant will drive us to the village.

  So I cannot go back to Uganda till Christmas. It will take four months to earn the money I need.)

  It is possible there has been a slight misunderstanding. I thought of this after she really started screaming. Surely even Miss Henman would not believe that I was doing bad things with her son? I Mary Tendo! A Ugandan Christian!

  And then I started to laugh a little. And then I started to laugh a lot.

  Of course, nothing bad is happening. Nothing, at least, that could make me pregnant. Of course it is different with my friend the accountant because he has promised to marry me. God is my witness, I’m an honest woman.

  Many things Miss Henman does not understand, but this is the one that made me so angry that I had to pretend I was going home.

  Because I was her cleaner, she thinks I always will be. When she looks at me, she sees ‘my cleaner’. When we had the argument, she called me ‘my cleaner’. She thinks that Mary Tendo is a name for a cleaner, like Vanessa Henman is a name for a professor.

  (And when I was here before, eleven years ago, the Henman made me laugh when she talked about me. She thought I was too stupid to understand. But I noticed that, after I started looking after Justin and tidying up a little in the afternoons, she changed what she called me from day to day, when different people came to the house. Sometimes she said, ‘This is my cleaner’ and sometimes she said, ‘This is our nanny’. So she got two servants. But she only paid one.)

  In fact, Mary Tendo is educated, as educated as Dr Henman. I am BA Hons, Makerere.

  And when she screamed at me, I answered her politely. “I was your cleaner. I’m not your cleaner now. I was your cleaner, Miss Henman, Vanessa.”

  The Henman thinks that cleaning is something easy. But Henman never really cleans her house. Every now and then when she cannot do her writing she chooses something small, like a light or a bath tap, and polishes it like a crazy woman. She rubs it like a wasp that is trying to sting. She shines it as if it will light her path to heaven. Then she comes to me and shows me her work. “You see how nice it looks when one makes an effort.”

  I do not say, “But it took you two hours. When I was your cleaner I had only three hours to clean the whole house, which is big, and old, with five dusty bedrooms and three sitting rooms.” I repeat what she says, and look at the floor. I say, “Very nice, when one makes an effort,” but it comes out wrong, and I almost laugh, and she notices, and looks at me strangely.

  In fact, I am starting to rebel against her, because I am tired of pretending to be humble. I remember a story about Idi Amin, who was our leader when I was a child. He was a terrible man, but also very funny. When the British economy was in trouble, he started a ‘Save Britain Charity Fund’ in Uganda, and telegrammed the UK prime minister to tell him he was sending 10,000 Ugandan shillings ‘from his own pocket’, and a lorry-load of vegetables from the people of Kigezi.

  The British government ignored his offer. Probably the British think Ugandans are simple, and do not recognise our sense of humour. And yet Amin renamed himself ‘The Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in general and Uganda in particular’!

  PART 3

  20

  Justin lies awake in the moonlit dark, looking at the back of Mary’s head, its crisp curls just visible, springy and resilient, tough enough to survive, and save him. Mary could not sleep with the curtains closed, and so now he sleeps with the curtains open. Everything is different now Mary is here.

  Perhaps he does not need to wake her up. Perhaps the panic will not come tonight, the feeling of falling and falling for ever, the demon voices that come and accuse him of all that he has left undone. Sometimes it’s enough just to see her there. To know that someone is there just for him. Someone who will let him reach out and touch her. Who came round half the world to find him.

  His mother had tried to send her away. Although she denies it, he knows it is true. Two days ago he woke to the sound of voices, and his mother was screaming at Mary in the hall. Mary stood there with her coat on, a poor cotton thing with big shoulder-pads and shiny buttons, and her cases beside her, ready to go. She was calm, but she was talking loudly. Neither of them was listening. Mary was wagging her finger at his mother. Justin stood on the stairs, his heart in his mouth. Both of them were ignoring him. In this house, Justin is sti
ll a child. But he made himself go down and join them.

  “Are you driving her away?” he remembers shouting. And other things he should perhaps not have said. “I hate you, Mother. You’re driving her away.”

  “You don’t understand.” She had turned on him. Her mouth was thin and furious, her pupils were tiny, her nose big and bony, like a witch. He had been shocked by how old she looked, which made him wonder, for a second, whether his mother was going to die, and then he could go and live with his father, if his father would let him live with him.

  Will he always have to live with his parents?

  But he loves his mother, painfully, deeply. He is like a sucker, still joined at the root. How would he live without his mother? How would he live without Mary?

  All his life he has felt abandoned. He has been left at so many places: Baby Reading, Junior Einstein, gym for toddlers, swimming for tiddlers.

  How could he stop what was happening? “You’ve driven her away, you’ve driven her away,” he had sobbed, stupidly insistent. “Mary is the only person who can help me.” But it only made his mother scream louder.

  And then his father rang on the door. They had all stopped dead, in total silence.

  Before he rang again, Justin managed to say, “If Mary goes, I will never forgive you.” His mother stared at him, eyes wild.

  Then his father came in and it all calmed down, though Mary refused to go from the hall or move her cases till his mother said ‘Sorry’. She did say ‘Sorry’, which astonished Justin. His mother has never said ‘Sorry’ to him.

  And his father made them all a cup of tea, and then his parents had begun to quarrel, as they usually did, and life went back to normal.

  In the end it turned out it was his father’s fault, according to his mother, for not being there.

  How could his father cause the quarrel by not being there?

  It is true that his father’s been away more than usual. He has a new girlfriend, whom they’ve never met. His mother had told him she was practically a schoolgirl, but later he found out that this wasn’t true. Soraya is twenty-nine, and an art teacher. His mother calls Dad ‘the cradle-snatcher’, which makes Justin feel ashamed for his father.

  Of course his father is really old, so Soraya must be blind, or desperate. All the same, Justin would like to meet her. Perhaps she is easier to live with than his mother.

  Sometimes he thinks that his mother is a demon. Sometimes she makes him feel hopeless, useless. His heart starts beating too fast again. Can he ever be good enough to please his mother?

  Mary stirs in her sleep and snores gently. The sound is soothing, like a pigeon cooing. Justin stretches out his hand and feels the heat of her shoulder, very gently, not quite touching her, just sensing the living, easy warmth, and his body relaxes, and he breathes deeply.

  He thinks about some of the things Mary says. He knows his mother believes she is stupid, although she has never actually said so: but when he was a child, and Mary looked after him, he used to pass her sayings on to his mother, and she would get a strange, superior expression, and say, “Remember she is African. They have a different way of doing things. Remember that you are an English boy.” And he would feel embarrassed, and wish he had not told her.

  But now he thinks Mary might often be right. For example, she believes that his father is clever. Justin has been brought up to despise his father, but Mary claims he is interesting.

  “But as Mother says, he is not educated,” he said to Mary, a few days ago.

  “Sometimes education makes you stupid. Your father is not a stupid man. Your father is clever, but also kind. You, Mr Justin, are very like your father.”

  “My mother says I am the image of her.” But even as he’d said it, he knew it wasn’t true. He is big, not bony: he is slow and lazy, not jerky and speedy, like his mother. (Now he is lazy. Once he was not. Once he worked so hard that his brain burned out.)

  “I think you should get to know your father.”

  As he lies in the dark, he remembers Mary’s words, and thinks, “I shall try,” and falls asleep gently.

  But half an hour later Justin wakes up sweating, his heart thumping, from a terrible dream. His mother has discovered him down on the lawn, which is dry as straw, in midsummer. He’s drinking beer with his father and his father’s girlfriend, who is nine years old. She is pretty, and happy, and Justin is as young as her, and he suddenly knows that this is his sibling, the sister he has always wanted, and his mother has kept him away from her. They are pouring the beer on to the yellow grass, and it pushes up instantly, dark green and shaggy, a wonderful game they can go on playing, but suddenly they hear his mother screaming, and she bursts from the house, yelling, “Justin, get up! Get up and get on! You are all useless!” and he sees that the glass door she came through is shattered, and daggers of glass stick out from his mother, and she is bleeding, and it is his fault, and everything that happens is always his fault.

  He reaches for the sweets underneath the bed, and then he remembers that they are not there, and turns over, and reaches out for Mary.

  21

  Mary Tendo

  Every night, Justin is frightened of demons. He cannot sleep deeply, he dare not wake.

  When I was a child, I never slept alone. Of course, all the children slept together. And later when I was at Makerere, whenever I went home I slept with my sister. The English make their children sleep alone. It is not surprising that demons attack them. Of course, I am educated, and do not believe in demons, which are a projection of the unconscious mind. Belief in spirits drags us back into the darkness that hangs like a shroud over the north of my country, where Kony listens to spirit voices and then makes children eat other children. His army cuts off lips and noses. The war in the north goes on for ever, too terrible to think about, for no one who travels that way is safe—

  The people of Uganda must escape from spirits! And yet, they can attack you when you sleep alone.

  Every night when the Henman is asleep I fetch my duvet and my pillow and take them along to Justin’s room. He puts a low couch beside his bed. The first night he told me to move it myself. I told him no, I would go back to my room. So after that, each night Justin did the moving, and put it back each morning, in case the Henman saw it.

  I lie beside him and comfort him. For the first few weeks, each night he sucked my breasts, which gave me a sharp feeling like pain in my belly. It was like pain, but also like wanting. I said nothing, I accepted it. I have always wanted another baby. Now I have no milk, but I can still give comfort. Soon Justin will no longer need to do it.

  When I was here, Justin was like my baby. He was three years old, but I suckled him. Because he butted at me like a goat, like the skinny goats back home in the village who push their muzzles at their mother’s teats.

  I did not do this when the Henman was watching. I knew from my friends who were also nannies that the mothers did not like us to do this. But many of us did it. I had plenty of milk, I was still feeding Jamil, though because of my work, I could only feed him in the evening and the morning. Maybe Justin drank more of my milk than Jamil.

  I know he drank more of my time than Jamil. When I remember this, it makes me angry, and so I shall not think about it. Yet this is what happens to very many women. We look after other women’s children, not our own.

  I dream that in heaven it will be made right. Our children will be young again, and we will care for them. God will put Jamie in my arms.

  The Henman is very proud of feeding Justin. Some English women do not feed their children. She told me this, when she finished in her office, she took Justin from me and tried to hold him, though he wriggled and kicked and reached out to me. “We are very close, as you can see. I breastfed Justin for two whole years. It was very tiring, but I’m glad I did it.” I smiled and said, “Very nice, Miss Henman.”

  I did not tell her that in Uganda, we breastfeed our children till they are four or five.

  There are many things
that I have not told her. One day I am going to speak my mind, once Justin is better, and I have earned my money. In the meanwhile, I will write everything down on my precious computer, which is sitting in my bedroom.

  I have decided I do not hate her. She is old and alone, and will not live long, because she told me she will soon be sixty. Though some of the bazungu live for ever. I hope she will learn something before she dies.

  I have told Miss Henman that she needs to hire a cleaner. It was easier to say because Trevor was here, and when Trevor is here, there is one sensible person. We were drinking tea after the argument. Trevor always smiles at me as if he likes me.

  When I said, “Miss Henman, you must hire a cleaner, because I think your house is dirty,” her face went very red, although I smiled politely. But after a bit, she said, “Very well.” Then I told her that I would help her to find one, and she said, “This beats all.” Which must mean, “Good idea,” so I told her, “Please write an advertisement, and then we shall stick it in the newsagent.” And then Trevor laughed and said to Vanessa, “I bet you would like to tell her where to stick it.”

  But in fact she stuck it where I suggested, which is where I found the postcard, all that time ago. And she wrote the same thing, about the ‘nice family’, though she didn’t say the nice son stays in bed, and walks around all day without any clothes on. Since then many people have been calling the house, and I have a shortlist of seventeen. I have told Miss Henman I will interview them. I thought she would be pleased, but she did not look happy.

  22

  Trevor Patchett approaches the house rather gingerly.

  Last time he was walking up the path he heard screaming inside, at the same moment as the rose scratched his arm and made an awkward triangular tear in his new work shirt. He is still wearing it: a battle scar. Last time he arrived they were all crying except Mary Tendo. It hurt to see his tall son crying, big teardrops running down and soaking his beard. And Vanessa screeching and crying with temper. And Mary Tendo wagging her finger and talking in her sing-song African way. All of them turned and stared at him. “I’ll make us a cuppa,” he had said, as usual, and made a pot of her Earl Grey rubbish. By the time he left, everything was calm.