by Lesley Lokko
‘You see?’ Iketleng leaned forward proudly. ‘I told you he was the best.’
Jen was too stunned – and scared – to reply.
Snip, snip, snip. Head turned to the left. Snip, snip, snip. Then to the right. His fingers were gentle. She sat under his hands, a lamb to the slaughter, conscious only of the sound of his scissors slicing through her hair, through the air. Snip, snip, snip.
She did not recognize the woman staring back at her. Her hair was feather-short at the back and sides with a long, dramatic sweep across one eye. Her jaw was square and well defined, her cheekbones high, her green-blue eyes staring back at her. Her right ear appeared as a delicate scroll pressed flat against her hair, the gold stud earring catching the light against her pale skin. There was a mole on her neck that she’d never noticed before, a dark beauty spot that caught and held the attention.
‘You see?’ Henning said, placing his hands on her shoulders as he willed her to look at herself. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’
Iketleng looked pleased. No, more than pleased, she looked satisfied, as though proven right.
She settled the bill, wouldn’t hear of Jen paying. ‘I can’t recognize you!’ She tucked her arm into Jen’s as they left the salon, something she had never done before. Jen’s head was reeling. Iketleng kept on talking, talking. ‘Now we just have to do something about these clothes you like to wear. At least you’ve kept your figure.’
Jen was too stunned to reply. It dawned on her that she was being given what television programmes called a ‘makeover’. She wasn’t stupid. She was being groomed.
François looked up as she got out of Iketleng’s Mercedes and approached the house. He said nothing, but from the look on his face she saw the new haircut had surprised him. He took the bags from her as the car rolled back down the driveway and disappeared.
‘It suits you, ma’am,’ he said suddenly, quietly.
Jen put up her hand to her newly bare neck in embarrassment. ‘Oh, this? I . . . I just thought . . . why not?’
He smiled faintly and strode ahead with the bags. Jen stared after him. She was oddly touched. Although they were a constant but discreet presence in their lives, she knew very little about any of the men whose job it was, in Solam’s own words, ‘to take a bullet for me. They’ll take one for you and the kids too, if the situation calls for it. So, treat them well.’
She walked behind him up to the front door, wondering what would prompt anyone to take a bullet for anyone else, or for her, for that matter? She hoped to God she’d never have to find out. She pushed open the door. Euan was standing in the doorway. His mouth dropped open in shock.
Well, there was one person who didn’t like her new look, she reflected wryly when all the fuss had died down. Euan had taken one look at her and burst into loud, heart-wrenching sobs. He didn’t recognize her.
Later that evening, when the children were asleep and the house was finally quiet, she took her plate through to the kitchen and put it in the sink. She’d made do with an apple and some cheese. No point in turning on the dishwasher for a single side plate and a wine glass. She rinsed both carefully and set them on the rack to dry. It was the second week in a row that she’d eaten supper alone every night. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to sit opposite someone and chat about their day, her day, the kids . . . her life, in other words. She glanced at the clock. It was only seven thirty. The empty evening stretched ahead. The bottle of wine she’d opened earlier was standing on the kitchen counter. She opened the fridge. There was still a large pot of curry left over from the evening before. She hesitated for a moment, then took it out.
She walked down the driveway, her heels crunching on the ground. Better to give it to François than throw it away. She half smiled. She could practically hear her grandmother’s voice. Waste not, want not.
She heard the click of the gun before she realized what it was. François was standing right in front of her, aiming straight at her head. She nearly dropped the tray in fright.
‘Oh, Jesus! Sorry, ma’am, sorry.’ He hastily put the gun away, tucking it behind him. ‘I didn’t see who it was, I just heard footsteps. You shouldn’t come up on us like that,’ he said, only half joking, as he took the tray from her. ‘Are you OK?’
She nodded, still trembling with fright. She pulled herself together. ‘No, please. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. It was stupid of me. You’re bodyguards, after all.’ She laughed jerkily. They stood looking at each other for a moment. ‘I . . . I just thought . . . well, there was some leftover food. It was going to go to waste . . . would you like a bite?’ It occurred to her that she’d never wondered how the men ate, or where they went after their shift, or what they actually did other than wait around for some idiot to strike . . . an idiot such as herself. ‘And there’s some wine, too.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks, ma’am. I’ll take the food, but not the wine, thanks. I’m on duty.’
‘Oh, of course you are. Gosh, I am being a bit dense tonight. Sorry, I’ll take it back.’ Was that rude? she wondered. Offering someone half a bottle of wine? ‘I hope you enjoy it. Mercy cooks rather well.’
‘I’m sure I will. Thank you again, ma’am.’
‘You’re welcome. Have a good night.’ She turned and walked quickly back to the house, feeling very foolish.
She poured herself a small glass of the wine and sat down at the kitchen table. She looked around. The kitchen was immaculate. There wasn’t a surface that hadn’t been wiped, polished, buffed; not a thing was ever out of place. She took a sip of wine. Was this all it came down to? A clean kitchen, someone else on hand to take care of her children, a husband who was never there? If he wasn’t at dinner with colleagues, he was on a plane somewhere, giving a speech or preparing for a speech. Come to that, when was the last time they’d had sex? She actually couldn’t remember. She put her head in her hands. A distant memory surfaced of her mother sitting alone in the kitchen in Morningside, in exactly the same position, right down to the glass of wine. She’d sometimes come upon her by accident, creeping down well after bedtime to fetch a glass of milk or an apple from the bowl that Mrs Logan always kept in the pantry. One night she saw her mother crying. Her shoulders were shaking. She cried in silence. Jen turned around soundlessly and crept back upstairs. She thought then it was the saddest thing she’d ever seen. Crying without making a sound.
Suddenly there was a tap at the kitchen window. She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was François. She hurried to the door. ‘You didn’t have to bring it back,’ she said, taking it from him. The bowl had been neatly washed. ‘I’d have sent the girl out to get it. Thanks.’
‘It was very good.’ They looked at each other again for a moment. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. ‘Goodnight, ma’am.’
‘Goodnight.’ She watched him walk down the steps to the garden. ‘Please call me Jen,’ she called out suddenly. ‘This “ma’am” business makes me feel so old.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, lifting his hand in a half-salute.
She smiled and closed the door. At least he had a sense of humour. She was glad someone did. She put her glass in the sink, turned off the lights and walked slowly upstairs.
83
There was a loud thud which went all the way through the house. It reached Alice on the second floor, whilst she was watching her favourite morning television programme. Her tea spilled over the lip of the porcelain cup, splashing into the saucer. Irritated, she pulled the cardigan around her shoulders and turned back to the screen. Suddenly a scream ripped through the house. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Then she heard someone running down the stairs. She turned the sound on the television up. She could hardly hear a thing! The thuds continued, doors banging and slamming and more screams, and then finally, footsteps pounding down the corridor and her door bursting open. It was the maid.
‘It’s Mr McFadden,’ she all but shouted, her face wide-eyed with fright. ‘He collapsed! Mrs Smith’s ca
lled an ambulance! Oh, Mrs McFadden, he doesn’t look well!’
Alice frowned at her, trying to work out what the silly girl was blethering on about. ‘Who’s that? Who’re you talking about?’
‘It’s Mr McFadden. He was in his bathroom. Mrs Smith says she thinks he’s had a stroke! Oh, Mrs McFadden, ye’d better come!’
‘Me?’ Alice frowned even harder. What was she supposed to do? ‘Whatever for? Has she called the doctor?’
The maid’s head went up and down vigorously. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Well, then. No need for me to interfere.’ Alice turned back to the television, turning the volume up to maximum.
The maid stood at the door for a second, obviously unsure of what to do, then she turned and ran down the corridor. Seconds later, Alice heard the distinctive wail of an ambulance coming up Jordan Lane. She stood up and peered out of the window. Two burly men in green jackets were running across the lawn carrying a stretcher. Yes, the ambulance had arrived. What more did they want from her?
It was a massive stroke, Mrs Smith informed her. ‘Just like that!’
Alice rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’d hardly expect to be given notice of your own stroke, would you?’ she said tartly. ‘Is there any more tea in that pot?’
Mrs Smith got up without a word and poured her another cup. ‘Will you no tell the bairns?’ she asked after a moment.
‘Catriona?’ Alice considered the question for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose she ought to be told.’
‘And the other one?’ Mrs Smith asked. ‘Will you no phone her?’
‘Mrs Smith, I don’t know how many times I’ve asked you not to mention her in this house,’ Alice said crossly.
Mrs Smith wasn’t to be put off so easily. ‘I’ve nivver understood it,’ she declared loudly, loud enough for the maid to hear. ‘Why ye’ve taken against her all o’ a sudden. I dinnae understand it. She’s a lovely girl, she is.’
‘Mrs Smith! I’ll thank you not to poke your nose into our affairs. I’ve asked you not to mention her and that should be the end of it.’
Mrs Smith walked through into the scullery, still muttering.
Alice got up and walked into the hallway. She’d better phone Catriona. Now, how was she to know her number? She’d never phoned her before. Catriona was always the one to call, not that she called very often. She was forced to summon Mrs Smith for help. Together they went through Robert’s phone, searching for Jen’s number. Alice had never quite got used to those little handheld devices with names instead of numbers. They finally found it, a long number with lots of zeros and ones. She had Mrs Smith dial the number. She held it slightly away from her ear and shouted into it.
‘Catriona? It’s your mother. Your father has had a stroke. You’d best come home. What? I can’t hear you. Is he alive? Yes, of course he’s alive. It’s a stroke, not a heart attack. I don’t know. I haven’t been to see him. All right, bye for now.’ She put the phone down, ignoring Mrs Smith’s questioning glance. Let Catriona tell the ‘other’ one.
84
Jen put her phone back into her handbag and stood still for a few moments. She was in the mall, shopping for the children. She had no idea how serious the stroke was, what hospital, whether he was likely to recover . . . nothing. She opened the flap of her handbag and pulled out her phone again. It took her two tries to get hold of him.
‘Solam? It’s me. Listen, my father’s had a stroke. My mother just rang. I’m going to have to go home.’ She heard him swear indistinctly. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. Too quickly. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s had a stroke,’ Jen snapped. ‘Of course he’s not all right. Mother didn’t say very much. He’s in hospital. What’ll I do with the children? I can’t take them on my own.’
‘Well, I can’t come,’ Solam said brusquely. ‘Leave them with my mother. She’ll be only too happy to take them. How long d’you think you’ll be gone?’
‘I don’t know . . . a week? Ten days?’
‘Have you told Kemi? Why don’t the two of you go together?’
‘I haven’t told her yet. If it looks serious, of course I will, but it’s better if I go alone for now.’
‘Fine. Can you ring my mother? I’m in the middle of something.’
‘All right.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, I’ll phone you later.’ But he was already gone.
85
The plane circled lazily around the Firth of Forth before making its approach to Edinburgh Airport. Jen sat with her face pressed against the window, taking in the distant but still unbelievably familiar view of the city as they dropped below the cloud cover. Her heart lifted almost unbearably as they flew over the austere grey city centre, then across fields so green that it dazzled the eye just to look. There was a gentle bump as they hit the tarmac and then the screech of brakes as they skidded to a stop. ‘Welcome to Edinburgh,’ the flight attendant said disinterestedly into the microphone. ‘The local time is just after twelve.’ Jen peered out of the window. It was early autumn but the light was soft. After the fierce, blinding light of Johannesburg, it was a welcome relief.
She was one of the first passengers off the plane. She walked through the airport, which was still undergoing renovations, she noticed. It had been a few years since she’d been back but it seemed to be always in a state of repair or renewal. She walked downstairs to baggage claim, picked up her black case within minutes, and went out to hail a taxi. It was a typical Edinburgh day – windy, a little on the chilly side, but fresh. She inhaled deeply. She was home. Christ, she’d missed it. She clambered into the waiting cab and gave the driver directions to the house. She’d see her mother first, then brave the hospital. Kemi had wanted to come, of course, but she’d held firm. She would be absolutely fine on her own. Kemi had enough to do with the clinic only just opened. ‘Let me handle it,’ Jen said. ‘For once. I promise I’ll call if I need you.’ The driver attempted to strike up a conversation – it was Edinburgh, after all, not London – but Jen was too tired to respond. He gave up after a mile or so and they continued to Morningside in silence.
She pushed open the gate to the house and stood in the driveway for a moment. The house looked exactly the same. Handsome in the way of all Edinburgh grey-stone homes, shuttered and austere. The Japanese maple in the centre of the lawn was in full, splendid bloom, its beautiful red leaves trembling lightly in the wind. She walked up to the front door, put her bag down and firmly pressed the brass bell.
The door opened almost immediately. The house smelled exactly the same; a mixture of beeswax polish, last night’s supper, whatever it was, and cold, slightly stale air as though summer had never quite found its way inside. It was the smell of her childhood. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the slip of a girl who answered the door.
‘Isla, miss,’ she said shyly. ‘I’m new here. I only started in January.’
‘Is that her,’ Mrs Smith shouted from the kitchen. ‘She’s a wee bit early, is she not?’
Jen walked down the two stone steps into the vast kitchen. Her feet had picked up the rhythm of the house without faltering. A step up into the hallway, a step down into the dining room, and then two steps down to the kitchen. The body remembers all. Mrs Smith was at the table, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her thick, meaty arms covered in flour. ‘Och, there ye are! Oh, Jennifer . . . my, don’t you look bonnie! What’s happened to all yer lovely hair? Ye’ve cut it all off. I’d no hae recognized you!’ She was genuinely pleased to see her. She held up her arms. ‘I’d gie ye a wee hug but I’d get yer clothes all messed up. Oh, it’s guid to see ye, so it is!’
Jen walked up to her and put her arms around her shoulders anyway. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Mrs Smith. You’re looking well.’
Mrs Smith’s face was pink with a mixture of embarrassment and delight. ‘Get away wi’ ye. Have ye seen yer mother?’
Jen shook her head. ‘I came straight to see you. Where
is she?’
Mrs Smith hesitated. ‘Ye mustn’t pay her too much attention,’ she said quietly. ‘She disnae know what she’s sayin’ half the time. She comes an’ goes.’
Jen nodded. There was already a lump in her throat.
She left Mrs Smith giving instructions to Isla about where they ought to put her bag and what bed to make up and when to serve lunch and supper. She smiled faintly. Mrs Smith was still very much in charge.
She walked upstairs, passing the landing that led to her father’s rooms. The door was closed. She paused for a moment. She knew the house so well, but not as a place of particular rooms or objects, rather as a quality, a feeling. There was something emanating from her father’s closed door. She put out a hand as though to touch it . . . then let it fall. She gathered herself and turned to the next flight of stairs.
The door at the top had been painted since she’d last been home. It was now a creamy off-white gloss, where before it had always been varnished pine. There was a new brass plate and escutcheon, both diligently polished. She tapped gently on the door but there was no answer. She tapped again, louder.
‘Who is it?’ Her mother’s voice came from behind the door, muffled and indistinct.
She turned the brass knob and the door swung open easily. There was a small entry hall, then another closed door. She pushed it open. Her mother was sitting with her back to her in an upright, upholstered chair placed by the window. When Jen was thirteen or fourteen, she’d come home one Christmas holiday to find the whole of the second floor converted into a small, self-contained flat for her mother. All her possessions – clothes, books, paintings, perfumes – had been moved out of the first-floor rooms and brought upstairs, along with the heavy, ugly mahogany furniture that her grandmother had so loved. Over the years pieces had been replaced . . . a more modern-looking chest of drawers, a side table, a new television and stand, and a new sofa. The paintings were the same though, a strange collection of pastel-toned watercolours of Scottish landscapes and a few abstract paintings, garishly colourful in the muted light. A shaft of sunlight briefly pierced the cloud and came to rest for a moment on Alice’s face and hair. She turned her head and for a moment, the two women looked at each other. Alice clearly struggled to place her for a second, then the fog cleared.
