The seventy pounds disappears very quickly, and afterwards, my purse is empty, and I feel empty, and my hands are shaking.
I do not want to go back again to the house where the Henman and Justin are waiting together, where she is waiting for me with her son, and she has everything, and I have nothing. Perhaps she will be nosy, and look at my presents, and perhaps she will be angry, and send me away.
And if she is nosy, what will I tell her? How could I bear to share my sadness? She would peck at it. She would dirty it. And then I would not even have that. She would wave her busy little hands at me, and say we must search, and telephone people. But nothing would happen. He is in God’s hands. In the hands of the God of glory.
I will not tell her about my trouble. How Omar phoned, and his voice had grown old. He told me that our son had gone missing. And this was at the time when the city of Tripoli was boiling with anger against America, because of the war against Iraq. There had been big marches. The young men were in a passion. Jamie went to all the demonstrations. There were arguments at home, more arguments. Omar insisted he did not lose his temper. Then one morning, Jamil was not there. And Omar had heard that a few of the young men, those rich young men with their empty lives, had set off for Iraq to volunteer, travelling through Syria, by bus, overland, burning to fight in their own jihad. I did curse Omar, which was unfair. He swore he had tried to restrain our son, but sometimes restraining him made him more angry. In any case, nothing at all was certain. No one could confirm where Jamie had gone. Omar has heard nothing since Jamie left, or if he has, he has not told me. I long for his call. I dread his call.
Besides, there are other possibilities. That Jamie was trying to find me in Uganda. But he had no money to fly to Entebbe. Better if my son has gone to Iraq. Because no one can cross, by land, into Uganda, not from the north, where the boy would be. Only Kony’s devil army and the children they capture.
If Jamie did that, he is no longer alive.
If Jamie did that, my life has been wasted.
I will not tell my secret to the Henman, who has her son, and complains about him, and wails and moans, and is pleased with nothing.
And so, although my feet are weary, although my legs are like lead this morning, I catch a bus towards Zakira’s flat. Perhaps she will come back with me to the house. I will bring her back with me as evidence that I am a good and helpful person.
Of course I am afraid that the Henman will sack me. But surely, not if I can bring her a grandchild. Although Zakira is frightened to meet her, because she is a Muslim, and Moroccan; but she grew up in England, and has a degree, and will soon be rich, with her MBA. And the child will surely be beautiful, with parents like her and Mr Justin.
The wind is deafening, shouting and battering, howling his name, Jamie, Jamie. I ring the bell as loud as I can. Zakira must let me in out of the cold.
After what seems like days, Zakira comes to the door, and she asks me inside, but she does not smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting, I couldn’t turn the tap off, it’s driving me mad, drip drip dripping.”
When I ask her to come with me, she looks serious. “Look, I’ve thought about it. I was mad, last week. I can’t just butt in there, eight months pregnant. Have you told him about me?”
“You said I must not.”
She has made me some tea, but I still feel empty, and I ask her, has she got bread, or a biscuit, and she gives me some biscuits, and I feel better, and the tap keeps dripping, like a tiny gun.
Then I think, how hard Zakira’s life must be, here all on her own, with the baby coming, and the wind howling around the windows. And then I start to feel more cheerful, or perhaps the biscuits were good for me. I start to forget about my shopping. I start to feel like myself again.
Because Mary Tendo is a happy person. When there is a chance, I am always happy.
Zakira tells me, “It is all hopeless,” and this reminds me of Mr Justin, who said it was hopeless when I told him to ring her.
And yet, I know that nothing is hopeless.
(Except only some things are completely hopeless. Zakira is lucky not to know about them.)
I say to her, “Zakira, nothing is hopeless. I do not know how, but I am going to help you.”
And then she smiles, and says, “Mary, I believe you.” But still she refuses to come with me today. “Besides, the pipe under my sink is leaking. I have to get everything out and clean it. The flat must be right before the baby arrives.”
And then I think about Trevor and Justin. “Zakira, I can find someone to help you, who will mend your tap, and the pipe under your sink.”
“Thanks, but at the moment I can’t afford it. It is a hundred pounds to get a plumber.”
“These men are my friends. They will be your friends too.” I am so excited that I can’t wait to call them, and Trevor’s card is in my handbag.
But Trevor is booked for the next three months. “I’m a popular chap. You wouldn’t believe it. All over London, they’re crying out for me. No one can mend their own things any more.” But when I explain it is a friend of mine and Justin’s, he promises to try and do it sooner.
“And Mr Justin must come as well.”
“Well, maybe. He doesn’t help every day.”
“Because it is his friend, it will be good for him,” I say, as strictly as I can.
“If you say so, Mary. Catch you later.”
As I walk home, the sun comes out. Together, Zakira and I are stronger. Suddenly the bare trees are very pretty, like the fine black lace I saw in the market. We do not make lace in Africa. I don’t feel so cold with the sun shining.
I realise I have forgotten my shopping, but it doesn’t matter, it never matters, I will not think about it, not think. Because I must get on with my life.
And so I must make friends with the Henman. I do not mind if I have to say sorry. Pretend to be humble, as she would wish. The woman is wrong about everything, and yet it is true that smoking is not healthy. Perhaps that is why I am out of breath.
Still, I stop at the Henman’s newsagent — the owner, Dinesh, likes talking to me; he left Uganda when he was twelve, when Idi Amin sent the Asians away, and perhaps he misses Kampala, like me — and buy cigarettes with the Henman’s money.
38
Vanessa Henman
That African sweetness I had almost forgotten. Like the children who ran along the side of the road when we drove in our jeep towards the west of Uganda, yelling, “Good morning, tnuzungul How are you?”, and smiling, though I would never see them again, their voices like bells, and those huge white smiles, even when the driver was grumpy with them, pretending that they were after my money. I know that it was just their innate good nature. You would never see that with English children. Africans smile so much more than we do.
And Mary Tendo is pure African. I am ashamed of myself for forgetting, and getting such small things out of proportion.
She came to see me with her head bowed, looking not so very different from the shy young woman who answered my advert in the newsagent, sixteen or seventeen years ago, though this time she didn’t call me Madam! But she said ‘Miss Henman’, and was very polite.
She admitted she was in the wrong. She said she knew smoking was bad for her, and I said, “Of course everyone smokes in Uganda,” and she looked puzzled, but said, “Yes, I am sorry.”
“You see, I do worry about Tigger. He isn’t as young as he was, you know.”