The Darkening Hour

by Penny Hancock

I force myself to laugh. I must not let this get to me, Max’s determination to bring Mona into the conversation.

  I think suddenly of the way she handed me my phone with his message on it as I left the house, and a burning anxiety creeps through my belly. She couldn’t have somehow taken his number, with the intention of contacting him? I think of her flirting with Bob that night. Of what she said about Madame’s husband. No. I’m being irrational. She can’t write – she can’t text. My thoughts are encroaching on what could be a perfect evening.

  ‘It’s not been easy, training her. She’s not all that bright, not educated.’

  ‘Sure. You don’t clean other people’s houses if you’re a professional with a string of letters after your name.’

  Another unpleasant thought I’ve been trying to keep at bay creeps in.

  Now I’ve been demoted at the radio station, Mona’s and my positions aren’t that different. Mona might not have had a formal education but she isn’t stupid. She’s probably as clever as I am. Maybe more so. She can, after all, speak our language while I’m monolingual. Her lack of qualifications are due to poverty, not a dearth of brain cells. And I think again about that sighting of her next to me in the mirror, how much more beautiful she could be, with my help; how her dowdy look, when she arrived, was, like her education, all down to lack of money. What am I afraid of? That somehow she is going to take away from me the last vestiges of what makes me Theodora Gentleman? That she might even steal my lover?

  When we’re eating, and halfway through the second bottle of wine, Max says, out of the blue, ‘I want you to ask me home one day soon, Dora.’

  This is so unexpected, so abrupt, I can hardly take it in.

  ‘You know we don’t do that, Max. It’s what we agreed.’

  ‘We’ve been together so long now, I want more of you. If you do too, that is.’

  ‘I don’t know. I . . .’

  He goes on, ‘Look, Theodora, another reason I want to leave work is so I can see more of you. I’m fed up with meeting in hotels. Yes, I know it’s a little unequal. I can’t ask you back to mine. There’s Valerie and the kid – and it’s too bad, because I’d like to sleep the night in a bed with you. Not an anonymous bed in a hotel, but in a proper bed, that shapes itself to you. To us. The only way we can ever do this is if I come to you. And I wondered whether, now you have help, I could come?’

  I examine his face. He’s looking at me earnestly. And I suddenly see myself through his eyes. This loving daughter who has taken her old father in while juggling her job as a successful radio presenter with a beautiful London home and a housekeeper, her long red hair, her carefully picked out clothes.

  I picture the day he comes back – putting any suspicions about Mona aside. I can show him a side of myself he hasn’t seen before. My house is looking gorgeous these days, restored to its original elegance, now I have Mona.

  The ceiling roses and picture-rails, the cornices and the intricate tiling around the fireplaces are now features to be proud of instead of the encumbrances I had previously found them, gathering dust so I was ashamed to expose them to him.

  I know Max will adore the charming cherubs on my porch, their chubby legs and their shipbuilders’ instruments, he’ll love the sculpture of my mother that adorns the steps down to Daddy’s basement. I have things to be proud of. My home is a true reflection of me as a person, I think wildly. It’s sophisticated with an olde worlde charm; it’s furnished tastefully and is artistic without being overstated.

  With quarry tiles in the kitchen that sparkle now Mona has polished them, the freshly laundered Egyptian cotton sheets I’ve told her to ensure are always on the beds, with gleaming mirrors and windows, and its polished wooden floors, it is a house of which to be proud.

  I could allow Max to come home, see a little more of me, see in a sense inside me a little. Perhaps he would heal the hurt I’ve been feeling about losing my job. Sharing more of my life with the man I love might be exactly what I need.

  ‘OK,’ I say at last. ‘I suppose we could consider it.’

  ‘I’m back here on the twenty-third,’ he tells me. ‘I was thinking, if I stayed overnight with you, then we could spend Christmas Eve together before I fly home. I can give you your Christmas present.’

  I think of Anita’s invitation to spend Christmas with her. My mind quickly adjusts the plans. I can send Mona and Daddy over to Anita’s and have the house to myself on Christmas Eve with Max! The whole world suddenly feels warm and bright.

  Max is looking at me with that guileless smile – so sweet, so trusting, I feel overwhelmed with love and appreciation for him.

  We sit for a while longer, silently watching the snow fall outside, getting faster and thicker, and I feel that, despite everything, things are going to start to get better.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The snow doesn’t settle. When I go to work over the next few days, the sky is grey again, the river restless. Leo has gone off to Roger’s in Rabat and the house feels empty. My show was dismantled last week. I’m asked to shadow Charlotte on the consumer programme so I’ll be ready to front it in the New Year.

  Ben, the receptionist, doesn’t look up when I arrive.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, waiting for his usual greeting. He glances up.

  ‘Oh yes. You’re to go down to Charlotte – she’s waiting for you in the IT suite.’

  The administrative staff’s eyes glaze over as I pass them. Even the longer-standing cleaners who usually smile and wave look away. People who would have gone out of their way to shake my hand, to sit next to me in the canteen, don’t even glance at me.

  I move on towards the windowless office at the back of the building, where people’s heads are bowed over their work. No one looks up.

  ‘Oh, Theodora.’ It’s Charlotte. ‘I’ve been asked to show you the ropes.’

  Charlotte came to the station only a year ago, a new fresh-faced presenter whom I’d had to mentor. How come the wheels have suddenly turned, that she’s mentoring me?

  ‘What we have to do,’ Charlotte says, focused on her computer screen, clicking on various emails, ‘is chase up two main complaints. We’ve got one here about a games console that the vendor refused to exchange though it was faulty when the purchaser bought it. We need to track down the manufacturer and the retailer. You could perhaps take the retailer. Get them to give you a comment.’

  It’s only nine thirty. I wonder how I’m going to get through the day, how I’m going to force myself to focus. I’ve never had to do anything so dull.

  I spend the next two hours talking to gormless salespeople on the end of the line, trying to find a manager who’s prepared to talk to me. Half the time I’m put on hold listening to tinny renditions of Vivaldi as the minutes tick by.

  By eleven I’m wondering whether Gina might come down to see me, as she’s researching upstairs, but the day drags on and she doesn’t appear.

  I’m about to go out for my lunch, when Charlotte comes across and leans over me, her heavily pregnant belly almost in my face.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of contacts to phone back this afternoon,’ I say. My stomach’s rumbling, I want to get out, buy a sandwich. I need fresh air. The office is stuffy, and the work so tedious I can barely keep my eyes open.

  But: ‘This afternoon’s no good,’ Charlotte says. ‘We have to have something now – it’s going out tonight. Phone them again, hassle them. Let’s get something in the bag.’

  ‘I really need a break,’ I say, standing up. ‘It’s lunchtime.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dora, we’ve got to get a story. Have another go. I’ll ask Hayley to bring some sandwiches in. What else would you like. Coffee?’

  I can’t believe this is happening, that I’m working for my inferior. Charlotte’s tight-lipped tone is beginning to irritate me. I wonder why she’s left it so late to go on maternity leave? She looks as if she’s about to drop any minute.

  ‘When you
’ve finished on this, we need to speak to other consumers, get quotes on their similar experiences.’

  I’m supposed to grovel to these sad consumers, beg them to speak live. It’s like the work Gina used to do for me. Her work, however, required skill and sensitivity, an eye for a good story and a nose for what was genuine and what wasn’t. The pinnacle of excitement in this one involves vacuum cleaners that don’t suck and package tours that were disappointing.

  ‘It’s all got to be researched and the facts verified by the end of today,’ Charlotte goes on.

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t already died of boredom,’ I mutter.

  ‘What was that?’ she asks, frowning.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I put my head down and make a show of being fascinated by the small print on a gas supplier’s contract.

  At the end of the day, I leave work feeling drained, but unsatisfied. How has it come to this? I used to leave work on a high – with that wonderful glow a job well done gives you, a buzz from the sense of achievement, and the knowledge that my voice had been heard, sorting out the issues of my confused and troubled listeners. Today I feel as if the energy has been sucked right out of me. I catch the bus and sit amongst other exhausted commuters, women who look as if life has passed them by, men whose eyes reflect despair, a freight of souls who have lost everything.

  I get off the bus on Creek Road and walk along the High Street, avoiding the rubbish that’s collected on the pavement, recoiling at the ripe smells that always linger at the end of a market day. I wish again that I lived in a more salubrious area. The possibility is vanishing fast, now my career’s taken a nose-dive.

  By now I’m craving a piece of my white sliced bread and a cheese triangle – the only thing along with a martini that might afford some comfort when I get in.

  I don’t like to ask Mona to buy the bread for me – it’s a pride thing – so I pop into the minimarket, grab some Kingsmill and a packet of The Laughing Cow cheeses and move towards the counter where the lottery tickets and game things I never buy and don’t understand are on sale. At the end of the aisle I stop. There, talking to the person behind the counter, is Mona, gesticulating, for all the world as though she belonged here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I wait for Sayed to finish serving someone, then call him over.

  ‘Have you had any luck? Have you got any news of Ali?’

  ‘Been asking around,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a man who says he has contacts at an immigration detention centre up north. Says he can give you the details, but it’s all a bit hush-hush. Don’t know why. He wants to meet you.’

  My heart leaps.

  ‘Tell me more! Who is this man? What contacts? When—’

  ‘Hey, calm down, man. He thinks someone might have seen your Ali, he isn’t sure. A guy who sounds a bit like the way you describe. Dark skin, blue eyes. Moroccan Berber. Seeking asylum over here. Ended up in detention – he’ll be waiting for the authorities to check over his application. But the guy who found him, Hamid, he’s cagey. I don’t know what his business is. All I know is, he says if you want the info you need to meet him. You must take all your documents, passport and so on. He says he can’t do anything without those. And he’ll need money.’

  My heart sinks.

  Ummu phoned only this morning to tell me the result of her scan.

  ‘They found something in my lung, Mona. It means I need an operation and some treatment. More cost, I’m afraid to say. They can do it soon, if you can just send as much money as possible.’

  ‘How much?’ I ask Sayed.

  ‘He’ll tell you. He lives on the creek.’

  ‘Can you find out more?’

  ‘I can ring him if you like.’

  ‘Please.’

  When he’s finished the call, Sayed looks at me. ‘He says he can meet by the statue of Peter the Great. I know where it is, can do you a map. One o’clock, tomorrow.’

  I stare at Sayed. He looks so nice with his green eyes and his smiley face, I want to trust him. But has this Hamid really seen Ali, or is there some other thing going on? Do they want to use me in some way? And why does he want my documents?

  I’ve heard about women coming to Europe thinking they’ve found work, and then being forced to sell themselves. I’ve heard of others who have simply disappeared, their families left distraught at the lack of contact. I’ve heard stories that make me grateful for everything Dora asks me to do, cleaning the toilets included.

  I don’t want to put myself in a situation that might be far more dangerous. But if this man has seen Ali, if Ali is locked up unable to contact me, then . . . this might be our only chance to find each other. One I can’t afford to lose. Thoughts race through my head as Sayed sketches a map on a piece of paper, showing me where the statue is on the river.

  ‘Meet there at one tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Bring all your stuff. Hamid was very clear about it: without your papers, he can’t help you. And, if you find your husband, you won’t want to go back to that woman to work, will you? So you’ll need them. Or, if you’re found wandering undocumented, Immigration will have you out. Just like that.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, pushing the loaf into my bag, the cheese Dora will also want when she gets in. My heart speeds up. I know that even with my passport, it is illegal for me to look for other work here. I came as Theodora’s domestic worker, and my visa forbids me to seek other employment. If I take this step, I’ll risk losing my right to stay here. But if Ali’s in a detention centre he’ll be desperate. Lonely, waking every day longing for me to find him, to help get him out. He would do it for me! So I must do it for him.

  ‘What, so I need to be at the statue at one o’clock tomorrow? But who is this guy? How do I know he’s trustworthy? Is he your friend, Sayed?’

  Sayed looks at me through his laughing green eyes and winks.

  ‘Not exactly a friend,’ he says. ‘I must admit. But he’s got contacts. And he might be your only hope.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I take a step back and hover behind the Bombay Mix and the poppadoms as the man behind the counter passes a piece of paper to Mona.

  He seems familiar with her – intimate, almost, the way he leans on the counter as if he wants to be closer to her. He points out of the door as if he is giving her directions, too. I move around to the front of the aisle and approach them.

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’ the man is saying. ‘The statue is of Peter the Great.’

  They’re arranging to meet, like me and Max, beside a statue! The statue of Peter the Great that I pass whenever I walk downriver to Greenwich.

  Mona looks up. She gasps audibly and takes a step away as if I were about to bite her.

  ‘I came to get a magazine,’ I say, not wanting to admit to my bread compulsion.

  The man at the counter has slicked-back black hair and oddly lit-up green eyes. I’ve never had a conversation with him. Now I see that he’s handsome with those lucent eyes and lips that turn up at the corners as if he can’t help smiling.

  I don’t make conversation with the shopkeepers in the High Street. A lot of them are crooks, running fronts for other businesses. There are dealers who hang around at night in their Audis and BMWs, and the arches behind the High Street house dodgy enterprises run by heavy-looking gangsters whose paths you wouldn’t want to cross. I’m cautious about who I mix with around here, and I’ve warned Mona to be circumspect too. I’m concerned for her that she’s mixing with someone who’s clearly not to be trusted.

  ‘I got your bread,’ Mona says. ‘Look – I have it here in my bag.’

  She opens the big pink floral shopper she uses and shows me: she’s got Daddy’s fruit and some chocolate Christmas novelties, but she’s even remembered my bread, and the little processed cheeses I’m ashamed to like so much. Stupidly, I find myself blushing.

  ‘Oh. That’s good,’ I say awkwardly. ‘So I can put these back.’

  She shrugs. ‘As you like,’ she says.


  I imagine she and the man exchange a look as I retreat, to put my purchases back on the shelves.

  ‘It’s gone six o’clock,’ I say into her ear. ‘You need to come on home or you’ll be late getting Daddy ready for bed.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I know. Thank you, Sayed, for your help. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  As soon as we’re alone, walking towards my house, I speak.

  ‘You were arranging to meet that man?’

  She lowers her head. ‘Sayed,’ she says. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mona, you’re here to work. For me.’

  ‘But I’ll be meeting him at lunchtime,’ she says. ‘While Charles is having his sleep.’

  I stop. Place a hand on her shoulder and turn her to face me. We’re under a tree whose roots have pushed up the paving stones, so that I, on the elevated part of the pavement, gain the advantage by appearing quite a bit taller than her.

  ‘You can’t leave Daddy to sleep,’ I say. ‘What if he wakes up and wanders out? You have to stay in the house with him, now that Leo has gone.’

  ‘It would only be for an hour.’

  ‘Who makes the rules around here?’ I ask.

  She hesitates, cowers a little.

  ‘You do,’ she says eventually.

  ‘Yes, I do. You’re not to chat with the local shopkeepers or to meet with them. It’s not what you’re here for. You’re here to work for me. Apart from anything else, you know nothing about them. They could be dangerous. I’ve already told you.’

  She stares at me, but she doesn’t object.

  We arrive at my front door. The putti look on as I turn the key in the lock and Mona stands on the threshold as if hesitating about going in. I give her a little push, just a gentle one to urge her to go ahead of me, but she stumbles on the step and falls forwards, putting out her hands to catch herself.

  ‘Oooh!’ she says.

  To avoid tripping over myself, I step over her, my foot catching her thigh as I do so.

  She stands up, gathering the shopping that’s tumbled out of the bag, and follows me.