The Christmas Surprise

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘ETIENNE!’

  A voice was calling insistently in their direction, and Stephen turned towards it. Standing waving furiously was a tiny, strong-looking girl with short dark hair, a light tan, and a pair of khakis exactly like Stephen’s. Her face was animated, her teeth very white.

  Stephen’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘FAUSTINE!’

  The two of them jumped into a massive embrace, then they started speaking rapidly in French, of which Rosie understood not a word. She coughed, gently.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Stephen, his face still energised and excited-looking. ‘I haven’t seen Faust since … well, since everything.’

  ‘He was very naughty boy,’ said Faustine in the most charming French accent. ‘We write, we call, we send all the message, tu sais? And he does not answer us, he has forgotten us, he does not like us any more.’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘Oh it wasn’t quite like that.’

  Faustine smiled.

  ‘But now you are home, yes?’

  ‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m back.’

  Rosie was glad he said this.

  ‘This is Rosie. My …’ he paused for a second, which caught at Rosie’s heart, ‘my fiancée.’

  Faustine made a face.

  ‘Oui? Alors, my goodness, congratulations,’ she said, but she did not exactly smile. ‘You work in Africa too?’

  ‘It’s my first time,’ said Rosie. ‘But I can’t wait to see it.’

  Faustine simply raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Alors, follow me.’

  If the inside of the airport had been hot and stuffy, outside it was like stepping into an oven. Immediately Rosie pawed through her luggage looking for her sunglasses. She couldn’t remember feeling the heat of the sun so strongly before. Everywhere people in bright clothing were getting into cars, piling luggage on to scooters and bicycles, selling small boxes of bits and pieces, newspapers, SIM cards, bottles of water.

  As if reading her mind, Faustine took out a large, dirty-looking plastic bottle and passed it round.

  ‘Drink,’ she said. ‘You’ll get thirsty.’

  Rosie wanted to pour the entire thing over her head, but took a few mouthfuls and passed it on to Stephen, who winked at her conspiratorially as Faustine barked a few commands in French into her phone. About five minutes later, just as Rosie was hoping they were staying in a nice hotel somewhere with air conditioning, a rickety old van with the organisation’s logo on the side bounced up, the driver, also in khakis – Rosie was beginning to curse the flowery dresses she’d packed – waving to them brightly.

  There was no suspension in the van, and they bounced uncomfortably in the back seat. There was air conditioning, of a sort, that puffed out occasional huffs of lukewarm air, as if in a bad mood, but it was pretty tricky to catch them.

  Even so, the city was such a stunning sight that Rosie forgot everything: she just wanted to lean her head out and catch all of it.

  Cars in varying conditions of terrible cluttered up the roads, with things attached to the top, mismatched wheels, men hanging off the back. There were some traffic lights, most of which were systematically ignored. Their driver spent a lot of time leaning on the horn, as did everybody else. Stephen and Faustine talked about all the people they had in common – none of whom Rosie knew – but she found she didn’t mind, as she stared at the colourful, chaotic, brightly lit scene in front of her eyes. Little children charged about – some, she noticed, carrying baguettes under their arms – men shouted angrily into their phones; there were animals everywhere; terrifyingly small mopeds laden with people and parcels weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic; music wailing from car stereos.

  Rosie forgot she was uncomfortably hot and thirsty and would really like a long hot bath; she forgot that she was slightly jealous that Stephen was so animated speaking to this funny-looking little French firecracker. Instead, she simply breathed in the sights and the smells: the women in their bright prints; the boys, by contrast, in Western clothes; the children wearing incongruous outfits that she guessed must come through charitable giving: One Direction T-shirts, Justin Bieber, lots and lots of Manchester United. A little girl, her hair pinned up, sitting peeling corn by the side of the road, looked up as they passed and gave her a smile and a tentative wave, and Rosie waved back, wanting to stop the van and jump out and give her some of the large assortment of sweets she’d insisted on packing.

  She tried to take some pictures, but they were picking up speed; she wanted to remember it all for Liilan, who had insisted that she tell her everything. Despite Rosie’s rather weak exhortations to the contrary, Lilian would never travel again now; her old bones simply weren’t up to it. So she needed to see it through Rosie’s eyes.

  As they left the city behind, Rosie wiped her face with the back of her hand; both were covered in a fine light mist of red dust. Out in the countryside, the wind blew sand across harsh landscapes of dried-up fields. In a corner, she saw a large group of huts, huddled together as the sand scoured them. It must get into every nook and cranny. On the other side ran a single railway line.

  ‘Why is there just one?’ she asked, interested.

  Faustine laughed, which Rosie thought was unnecessary.

  ‘There’s only one train,’ said Stephen over his shoulder.

  ‘One train?’

  ‘Yes. In the whole country. It goes from one side to the other, once every few days. So they don’t really need another line.’

  ‘They DO,’ interjected Faustine fiercely.

  ‘Well, yes. They do. But it’s not on the priority list right now.’

  As the hours passed, and her bum grew increasingly numb, and the roads became harsher and worse, Rosie lapsed into a kind of passive dream state, taking in the unchanging landscape. Eventually they stopped at a kind of roadside inn, built roughly of wood in a pentagon shape.

  Faustine jumped down.

  ‘She’s gone to put a rocket up their arse about not undercooking supper,’ said Stephen. ‘For your all-new African stomach.’

  He looked at her carefully. There was an element of truce in his expression.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosie crossly.

  ‘Tell me that on the squat loo at four a.m.,’ said Stephen.

  Rosie got out to stretch her legs, whereupon she was immediately divebombed by nine thousand mosquitoes, so she got back in the van and covered up with DEET and a long-sleeved shirt and a big hat that she had been vastly opposed to packing but now was delighted with; likewise the scarf.

  ‘They really are bastards,’ she said.

  ‘They are,’ said Stephen, batting them away. ‘But look.’

  Over the flat plains in the distance, the bright orange-gold sun was sinking at a rate faster than Rosie would have believed possible. As it did so, the sky took on a fierce flat line of bright purple. The sun dipped quickly behind the mountain range in the distance, the purple flared brightly then turned speedily to black and, like diamonds popping out of a necklace, suddenly there was one star, then another, then another, and within minutes the entire sky was raining on them, great crystal stars so close Rosie felt she could put out her hand and simply pluck them down.

  ‘Oh my,’ she breathed.

  Stephen came across from behind the van to the rock by the side of the road she was standing on.

  ‘I know,’ said Stephen. He touched her shoulder and, meeting no resistance, moved his arm around her. It felt like they were the only two human beings on the face of the earth. She had never felt further away from home, nor more in touch with the planet she’d been born on. She turned her face to his.

  ‘I should have told you,’ she said.

  ‘You should have.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Everything felt so—’

  ‘You do this all the time, Rosie. You’re worried I’m too fragile for bad news.’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘I know. I know. I don’t mean to, but—’

&nbs
p; ‘You don’t need to protect me. But you do need to let me protect you when it matters.’

  Rosie shook her head, and he took her in his arms.

  ‘Aren’t we a team?’

  Rosie nodded again.

  ‘Are we going to get through this together?’

  ‘I was hoping I’d think up a really good way how.’

  Stephen smiled.

  ‘And stun me with your amazing genius?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There is only one way, Rosie. Together. That’s the only way. Whatever happens.’

  She looked up into his face, almost more handsome for being unshaven.

  ‘All right,’ she breathed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good.’ Stephen turned her to face the sky. ‘Because together, we’re amazing. Look where we are!’

  Rosie took in a great breath of the warm, scented air.

  ‘What can’t we get through together?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Apart from that squat toilet,’ said Stephen. ‘There, you’re on your own. Come on.’

  He took her hand, batted the bugs out of the way and led her over to a low stone wall. Apart from the odd wooden structure behind them, there wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere, but the moon that was starting to rise was absolutely huge, the largest Rosie had ever seen, and the stars lit up the landscape so it didn’t feel dark, not really, not like down in the Lipton valley in the depths of winter when the clouds rolled off the dales and you could barely see the icy breath in front of your face.

  ‘You never know who’s going to like it and who’s going to hate it,’ Stephen said. ‘Sometimes the most unlikely kids come out here and just get stuck in and have a marvellous time.’

  ‘Like Prince Harry,’ said Rosie promptly.

  ‘Ha. Well I don’t know about that. But then other people who really want to be here and do good, they can’t bear it. Can’t bear seeing people suffering, and living in hardship.’

  ‘And getting their faces eaten,’ pointed out Rosie, flailing at another mosquito.

  ‘And that. Can’t live without eyelash extensions, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Well you always knew how high-maintenance I was.’

  She looked up. One star was glittering more brightly than the rest. ‘It’s beautiful here. And I’m getting in the mood to think about our wedding again. Can’t you propose to me? Just one more time.’

  ‘No! I did it already! And my knee isn’t up to it.’

  ‘It’s so dry and warm here,’ said Rosie. ‘Ideal conditions, I’d have said.’

  ‘You’ve got a big insect bite on your face.’

  ‘So you DO want to take it back?’

  Rosie was pretending to take her ring off, and Stephen was observing that she couldn’t seem to get it over her finger and had she started putting loads of weight on already, and was he too going to let himself go and grow man-boobs, when Faustine appeared with two plates of food.

  ‘I got them to make it specially,’ she said, watching unsmilingly as they horsed around. They followed her to an outside table. Two men sitting there shook Stephen’s hand but looked at Rosie suspiciously. She fiddled again with her ring, then sat down.

  The food wasn’t at all bad: grain, tomatoes and stringy chicken.

  ‘You got meat?’ said Stephen cheerfully. ‘You’re good.’

  ‘You’re paying for it,’ said Faustine.

  Once they had eaten, Rosie began to feel incredibly sleepy. They had had a very long day.

  The wigwam-shaped building with bunks round the walls was cooled by a wheezing, anaemic fan, though Rosie was so exhausted she hardly noticed it. She did what she could in the toilet area, which was not much, brushed her teeth, kissed Stephen good night – he was sitting outside by the campfire, drinking some kind of tea and speaking in French again – and fell asleep in minutes, listening to the scuffling noises of animals, the quiet murmur of voices and the buzz of the mosquitoes in the room (she was under a net Stephen had bought her, and she thought fuzzily that she might just wear it all the time). The glimpse of the bright stars through the little hole at the top of the wigwam was the final thing she registered before dropping off into a surprisingly deep sleep.

  Chapter Six

  O Little Town of Bethlehem

  How still we see thee lie

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

  The silent stars go by

  Yet in thy dark streets shineth

  The everlasting light

  The hopes and fears of all the years

  Are met in thee tonight

  Rosie woke, hot, thirsty and disorientated, with bright sunlight heating up the structure from outside. There was no one in there with her, but the other bunks had been slept in. She got up, stretching and cursing her hair, which had now frizzed out about a metre either side of her head. She thought of the chic scarf tying back Faustine’s hair. She needed one of those.

  Outside she smelled coffee and headed towards it cheerfully. Faustine was busying herself over the campfire with a coffee pot whilst their driver cooked some eggs.

  ‘Hey!’ said Stephen. ‘Hello, sleepyhead! Now this is why you want to be with the Frenchiest aid organisations. They care about their coffee.’

  He handed her a cup, loading it with sugar even though she didn’t normally take the stuff. It was dark, strong and delicious. Rosie blinked in the bright sunlight, looking at the pale, barren landscape.

  ‘It is better when you get up earlier and you do not miss the cool of the morning,’ pointed out Faustine. Rosie looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said.

  There was a little stream for washing – Stephen warned her not to drink the water – then they were on their way again, bumping along endless potholed roads, occasionally seeing old, overstuffed vans, crammed with thin cattle or large groups of men or sacks of flour, rumbling up the road towards them, often on the wrong side or straight down the middle. The roads got worse, and it was hot, and Rosie started to feel herself getting a bit tired, then told herself not to, but to keep her spirits up. Stephen was looking distant and faraway, which could be good or bad, she knew. She squeezed his hand and was reassured when he squeezed back.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she whispered.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said, his hand moving instinctively towards his injured leg, his jaw set.

  Eventually the minivan turned down a smaller road, cutting through a forest, then a smaller one again, and finally, at least three hours since they’d seen anything that looked anything like a town, they came to a clearing at the end of a sandy sort of path.

  All the way, Rosie had tried not to have preconceptions about what it would be like; but here, undeniably, there were huts with straw tops in a circle around an open area, and a fire with a huge old metal tin hanging over the top of it.

  As soon as the van drove in, there was a roar, and a huge heap of children, yelling and shouting enthusiastically, ran towards them, seemingly unbothered by their own safety.

  For the first time Rosie saw Faustine smile, as she stepped down from the vehicle. Earlier, Rosie had mentioned the sweets she had brought, and the Frenchwoman had frowned and demanded them, saying, ‘You’ll cause a riot handing those out. Give them to me and I’ll use them as vaccination bribes.’

  At the time Rosie thought she was being bossy. Now she could see exactly what Faustine had meant. There were so many of them, all of them excited and delirious just to see the car. Handing out sweets would have been awful.

  ‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ said Rosie as she got down, and the boldest of the children flocked around her, chattering like birds and touching her hair. One little girl who must have been the same age as her niece Meridian clambered up on to her hip. Rosie looked at Faustine, who already had a child in each arm, and the Frenchwoman motioned that it was fine.

  The children followed them across the open space. There w
ere, Rosie noticed, children everywhere, and women wearing long skirts and headbands (she desperately wanted to tie back her own hair, but all she had was a spare pair of knickers and she didn’t feel it was quite the time or place). Some women had babies tied to their backs, not wearing nappies, just with a cloth between them and their mothers. The babies looked incredibly comfortable, Rosie couldn’t help noticing. And there were old men, with sticks and white hair and bare chests, wizened and bent over by the sun. But there were no young men. There were no fathers, no chaps to help with the work that was obviously going on – wood chopping, water carrying and fetching. Stephen had said they had all gone, to join the army, or to look for work in Dakar or Mali or Nigeria, but Rosie didn’t realise what that meant until she saw it: a place devoid of men. The women looked tough and strong. She imagined you had to be.

  One old man came up to Stephen, looked at him for a long time, then burst out into conversation. Stephen nodded, and more came over to join in. It reminded Rosie of the Red Lion.

  Eventually they were beckoned towards one of the huts. They passed one building, relatively modern, that Faustine indicated had been built by the charity. Inside, a heavy-set woman with extremely short hair was standing in front of a class of at least fifty children sharing a few slates in an airless, scorching room. The boys sat at the front and the girls were behind them, despite being much smaller. Faustine rolled her eyes but nonetheless waved cheerily at the teacher, who waved back.

  A few feet from the hut they were heading for, the children stood back, looking anxious. Faustine was deep in conversation with the woman who had brought them there. Rosie couldn’t follow the language but could tell by the increasingly exuberant gesticulations that something was displeasing her.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked Stephen.