2005 - My Cleaner

by Maggie Gee; Prefers to remain anonymous

  Perhaps he will be better when the baby is born. Then there will be room for only one baby. Justin will have to be a man.

  I am reading the book that Trevor lent me, My African Journey by Winston Churchill. Trevor did not want to lend it me, he changed his mind and became embarrassed, but I wanted to read it, I am not a baby, who cannot do things in case they upset me. I do what I please, I am not like Justin.

  And I find I am enjoying Winston Churchill. He is a good writer, and very funny, and says what he thinks, as a young man should. Although of course he gets many things wrong. And some of it is funny by accident. But at least he is not frightened to say anything at all, or always saying sorry, like most English people, which makes it impossible to know what they mean.

  And sometimes I want to laugh aloud, and shake young Winston by the hand. This is what he says about Ugandan man: “does he loll at his ease while his three or four wives till the soil, bear the burden, and earn his living?” I think I know the same men as Winston! Though my friend the accountant has always worked hard, and my father tried, until he fell off the bicycle (admittedly because he had been drinking waragi).

  And this is another thing Winston said: “the all-powerful white man is a fraud.”

  50

  “Oh, one of your students rang,” says Justin, when he meets his mother on the stairs.

  She looks at him, critically. His hair is short; he is fully clothed; his eyes look clear. She can’t deny it’s suiting him, helping his father. But the lists of MA courses are still there where she left them, lying ‘casually’ upon the table. Perhaps there is an MA in Interior Design?

  “Which student?” she asks.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He wanted your address, to send something.”

  She wonders whether it was Beardy—Alex. He has been so attentive in her recent classes. She feels he is going to ask her for a drink. Perhaps he wants to send her something personal. A Christmas card. An invitation. Roses.

  But she tells herself to stop dreaming. It will just be an appalling script from someone. “You shouldn’t really give them my address,” she says. “Never mind, Justin. You’re looking very handsome.”

  She decides to ask him about Christmas.

  “I’ve had another letter from Lucy. You remember, my cousin, the cousin in the country? Daughter of Aunt Isobel?”

  He nods, vaguely. He wants to go out. He has promised to come round and give Zakira a massage. Rubbing warm oil into her wonderful belly, her huge belly, so big with his child. Now his mother seems tiny, irrelevant.

  He realises this is a very good feeling. In an odd way, it lets him feel fond of her. How can she ever have seemed so important?

  “She’s invited us to go for Christmas. The extension will be finished, there is room for us all. One of her daughters will be in Australia, but Serena is going, the one who is a lawyer…She might have contacts that would be helpful for you.”

  It’s like half-watching a programme on the television. He knows the set is on, but he’s somewhere else, wondering which is the best oil to buy, wondering if it will be nice for the baby, wondering if it is a girl or a boy. He, Justin Henman, is going to be a father. The world is changing, utterly. His mother understands nothing of this. And he is glad that she understands nothing. Last time she only caused problems with Zakira. For the moment, it needs to be entirely his, this new, this magical beginning of a family.

  “Will you come, Justin? Are you listening?”

  “Um, yes.” He means he is listening, though it isn’t true, and he’s already gone downstairs. But Vanessa thinks he is saying ‘yes’ to Christmas.

  “That’s agreed, then, darling. Have a good day.”

  Now Vanessa feels a little surge of joy. For she will have a child to show off to Lucy. It was rather odd turning up with Mary. This time she will drive up proudly with Justin. Vanessa will have to do the driving of course. Justin is still not driving again. But at least they will be safer than she was with Mary.

  “The twenty-second,” she shouts down the stairs. “Coming back on the twenty-eighth.” She thinks she hears a grunt before the front door closes.

  There is a note from Mary on the kitchen table: “I have gone shopping. If anyone telephones, please tell him I will be back soon.”

  It’s unusual for Mary to leave notes. It is unusual, indeed, for Mary to give any information at all about what she is doing. And who is this ‘him’ she expects to call? Vanessa remembers the shouting, cheerful man who rang one morning from Uganda. She can’t quite remember what it was all about, though she does remember how annoying it was that Mary took the phone-call on her bed, before Vanessa had officially got up. She planted her great bottom right on my pillow. Right on the place where I put my face.

  Mary must be thinking about going home.

  Vanessa realises how much she wants this. They’ve had a wordless truce since the night of the masks, but underneath it, she senses they are both making plans. Mary has been out of the house a lot, or talking to Justin or Tigger in the kitchen, and they still fall silent when Vanessa comes in, which brings back Vanessa’s old sense of isolation. There is really no more reason for Mary to be here. Yet Vanessa hopes to bring things to a graceful conclusion. If they cannot be friends, they should not be enemies. She feels a kind of duty to Uganda.

  Yet the money she is paying out is enormous. Not that she resents it: it makes her feel better about bringing the whole chapter to a close. Should there really be notice, with an arrangement like this? After all, it has been informal, friendly.

  Mary’s note gives Vanessa an idea. The easiest thing would be to write her a letter, and slip it underneath her door.

  She goes to her study and begins to write, but after a moment, she tears it up. A handwritten note seems a tad too casual. There is just the possibility, the tiniest worry, that Mary will not be keen to go. After all, every week Vanessa’s handing over money, great bundles of notes, cash in hand. In a way Mary’s on to an easy number.

  Vanessa tries again on the computer, a formal but friendly letter of notice. “Obviously I’ll pay you until the New Year, and this will hold even if you decide to leave sooner.”

  Yes, she could not be fairer than that. The blunt truth is, she doesn’t need her any more.

  There is a ring on the door. That will probably be Mary, who has a tendency not to take her key. It is one of her more annoying habits. Vanessa goes rather slowly to the door, and opens it with a reproachful smile.

  But it isn’t Mary. The day is cold, and dazzling. The shape of a man, blank on the light.

  A young man. Standing too close to the door. He is in her face. For a moment she is startled, but then her eyes grow used to the light, and she sees it is just Derrick, the boy from college, hunched in a navy military jacket. He looks thinner than ever, and his hair is too short, which makes the bones of his face show through. His eyes are rather bright, today.

  She steps back, instinctively, and says, “Oh, hallo,” as he steps forward, half across the threshold.

  “I have brought something to read to you.” He is already unfastening his bag, he is in.

  She says, “I’m sorry, I’m rather busy. Really you should bring me work at college,” but he laughs, a short, strange laugh like a dog, and pushes straight past her down the hall. And yet he is her student. She will have to be civil.

  “Where do you write?” Can his voice be trembling? “I want you to show me the place where you write.”

  She realises he is merely nervous. “Why don’t I make us a cup of tea? I mean, I can give you twenty minutes or so. Just this once, but really, in general—”

  “Show me your study, please, Vanessa.” Now he is talking more quietly, but there is still that tell-tale tremble. Yet Vanessa has never meant to be frightening. Probably the context is overawing. She smiles at him, trying to look kind and maternal and yet, at the same time, authoritative. He cannot make a habit of doing this.

  She leads him to her study, and indicate
s, with an airy hand, her chair and desk. “It’s all ergonomic, of course,” she says. “Worth thinking about, once you have some money. Makes such a difference to one’s working day. Now sit yourself down and I will put the kettle on.”

  “I don’t want tea,” he says, too vehemently, and sprawls on her turquoise futon sofa, though she had pointed him towards the armchair. “I have things to read to you, and things to show you.”

  Vanessa remembers the annoying voice with which he reads, too loud and too slow. She really can’t put up with that now. “I think it would be best if you just give me an outline. Then we can discuss any problems you have, and I will read the whole thing in due course.” She sits on her typing chair, which means she looks down at him, and instantly begins to feel better. “Shoot,” she says, feeling brisk and powerful.

  “It’s a short story. Called ‘Creative Fire’, but I think that might be a bit old·fashioned. I might call it ‘Feu‘, or ‘Liver’.”

  “Liver?” says Vanessa, taken aback, but then, smiling, on automatic pilot, “very striking. Yes, much the best title of the three.”

  “Do you remember you talked about using myth?” he says. He is sounding calmer now. “In our last class. You told us to make modern versions. Well, I researched Prometheus on the net. The guy who went and stole fire from the gods. I guess, in a way, this dude could be a writer. So I changed the name to ‘Metheus’. You get it, don’t you? Me, Metheus.”

  “That’s good,” she says. On the screen, to her left, she can glimpse the text of her letter to Mary. She finds her mind is wandering.

  “So Metheus needs to have creative fire. In the time of the Greeks I guess you couldn’t do drugs, so he goes and steals it from Mount Olympus. He writes two or three really big sellers, but then he gets caught by the father of the gods. Who is really, you know, just this dude’s Dad. And then of course Metheus gets punished.”

  Vanessa starts to see where this is leading. After all the times she has told him not to!

  “So his Dad gets Metheus staked out on the patio, with his liver being pecked by—” Something dawns on him. He looks at her anxiously, and finishes, “…his liver’s being pecked by a -rabbit. No, a rat.”

  “You know perfectly well that it is an eagle. Everyone knows about Prometheus. I said to you, Derrick, please, no birds.”

  But he ignores her, he rushes on by. “And then Metheus has to defend himself, and defend, you know, the creative spark, so he gets a knife, and kills the eagle.”

  It is out. He looks at her, sweating, triumphant. “Do you like the way I have rounded it off?”

  Some of them are totally unteachable. And yet he is a little too worked up for her liking. Vanessa decides she had better be tactful. “Derrick, I have said you must broaden your palette.”

  “You didn’t like Metheus. You thought it was shit.” He is rummaging compulsively in his bag. Oh God, she thinks, he’s going to take it out and read it. Instead he drags out something big and heavy, wrapped in a cloth and puts it on the floor, beside the futon. “I’m serious,” he says, and unwraps a knife. It makes a heavy, clunking sound on the floorboards, a serious knife that could cut through bones, a butchery knife, a killing knife, not a silly knife in an invented story. The blade is long and very shiny. “I’m a serious artist. This inspires me. Remember you wanted us to show you the things that were important to our creativity.”

  “I don’t like knives. Please put it away. And I think you should write another story.” Vanessa can hear herself talking on empty. What do you say to a boy with a knife? “I mean, this one has verve, and pace, and you have a beginning, middle and end—”

  “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he says. He moves forward on the futon so his knees touch her calves. His eyes are darting all round the room, his lips are working, smiling, nervous. And there is something strange about his breath.

  “You’re like everyone else. You think I am mad. You’re just too cowardly to say so. It was obvious, when I read you my story about the chickens. You didn’t really like it at all. You didn’t understand the metaphor. You just pretended to encourage me. I trusted you. I respected you.”

  “Let’s talk about this,” she says, but it’s hard, her breath is short, the words don’t sound right. “I do want to help you with your writing. First you must put that knife away. Perhaps I was a little too negative.”

  “Well, are you sorry?” he demands, voice breaking, of everyone who has ever upset him, parents, policemen, therapists, teachers—stupid, lying, greasing teachers—

  “Sorry, sorry,” Vanessa breathes.

  And before she can react, he is kissing her, his large wet tongue pushing into her mouth and his thin hard hands grabbing her shoulders, and she falls sideways off the chair, so for a moment her mouth is uncovered, and she gasps, “Derrick, will you stop being silly,” before his fingers cover her face, he puts his whole hand over her face—They struggle, unsuccessfully, clumsily. Vanessa is fit from her exercises, her arms are sinewy, her calves are strong, but she is no match for a fit young man. He is saying, “What’s the matter, I just want to kiss you, I love you, you know, I really love you—” His mouth tastes horrible, of metal.

  Then Vanessa thinks she hears a sound in the hall. Derrick has his back to the doorway of her study, but she’s facing it, and with a lurch of the heart, between the bars of his fingers, through her stretched, hurt lids, she sees the front door opening, a lifetime away, and the dark, solid figure of Mary coming through it—

  Agonized, she watches it disappear again, Mary’s tired, everyday, unfrightened face, carrying her bags through into the kitchen, and at least it seems the boy has heard nothing, for he’s busy, dragging off his jacket with one hand while he holds her down on the floor with the other—but what really makes her cry out with pain is the moment he tries to change position and places one knee on top of her thigh, so his whole young weight bears down on her femur, and she grunts a stifled “No!” because she feels it is breaking—

  And then her door bangs hard against a pile of books which knocks over another pile beside it, and they fall like thunder on the struggling couple as Mary pounds into the room. Derrick’s hand relaxes and the fingers peel off. Oh Mary, Mary, nostrils flared with fury—

  “What are you doing?” Mary shouts like a man, her voice hoarse and strong, but she sees in an instant, she snatches up the knife and flings it hard across the room, out of reach, then hits the boy with the flat of her hand, a hand made hard by decades of work, once, twice across his bony temple, and he staggers off Vanessa, stunned, and then Mary punches him hard on the nose, and a rose of blood bursts out of the nostril, and then with a furious cry in Luganda, she knees him with brutal force in the balls.

  He collapses forwards on to the carpet. Mary is holding him down by the neck. Vanessa staggers to her feet, but the leg Derrick knelt on does not seem to be working.

  “We will call the police! Ono mubbi! Mutemul Stinking thief and murderer!” says Mary, panting. “You will sit on him, Vanessa, while I call the police. Did you steal my money?” she shouts at Derrick, but the blood is pouring from his nose, he is gathering himself, one hand over his face, and he pushes her off him and staggers from the room, no longer human, a wounded hyena, yelping angry, inaudible swear words, with Mary after him, she has him by one shoulder, she shouts, “Villain, villain!” and pulls his hair, but seconds later, he is through the front door while she aims one last kick at his legs, his bottom, and he crouches for a moment, winded, on the porch, with the garden path sunlit and ordinary behind him, framed by the door, which is gaping open on an everyday, astounded morning, and the rose leaves bob towards his face, his blood-stained, sorrowful, hurt child’s face.

  “Leave him, Mary,” Vanessa gasps. “Just let him go.”

  “But he is a thief. In Kampala, we deal with them! Every week, the crowd catches someone on the street. Next day they report a death in the papers!” Mary is shouting this at Derrick. “Villain, I will kill you if you t
ake my money.”

  “He hasn’t taken anything.”

  Now he is limping away down the path. Mary is torn between following him and running upstairs to check on her money. But she sees the outside broom in the porch and snatches it up and throws it after him, whirling the head like an Olympic hammer-thrower, and hits her mark, and he yelps again, and then he is gone, and the tall hedge hides him.

  Vanessa has crumpled on to the floor, and sits in the hall, her head in her hands. Mary is erect, regal and glowing, full of the passion of the fight.

  “Thank you, Mary, I don’t know how to thank you—”

  “Are you all right, Vanessa? You are not bleeding?” Mary crouches, briefly, and looks her over. “Now, Vanessa, I will check my money.” Mary goes upstairs two at a time, faster than Vanessa’s ever heard her move. Indeed she did not know that Mary could run, but she returns in her normal leisurely fashion. “I was in time, he did not take my money.” When Mary tries to lift her, Vanessa collapses.

  The rest of the day passes in a dream-like fashion. The police, Trevor, Justin all come. Mary is heard giving stirring descriptions that always end with the rescue of her money. Everyone is full of praise for Mary. Vanessa is taken off to hospital for an X-ray on her painful leg, not in an ambulance, as she had expected, but in Trevor’s van, which is white with plaster dust, and she is not too ill to complain. “Sorry, old girl, no one gave me notice.” But Trevor is loving, worried, kind, and Justin is almost too upset to talk.

  Still Vanessa is left with a puzzled feeling that somehow Mary is the centre of all this, that the heroic role, which was surely hers, the stoical, plucky victim of attack, has passed to Mary, and will not come back, however much she tells her own story.

  The police pick up Derrick not far from his lodgings. He turns out to have a history of violence, and has been seeing a psychiatrist since he was eleven.