‘Cool!’ I feigned surprised enthusiasm.
‘What you have to do — right — is hang out in the station forecourt at the rush hour between seven and ten a.m. and four and seven p.m., wearing a Bertie Bean outfit, and handing out free samples. Like these …’ He passed me a small cotton bag, which looked as though it contained six coffee beans.
‘Cool!’ My heart froze. Bertie Bean. Oh, horror, horror, horror!
‘We pay twenty quid for the day, cash in hand. No deductions.’
‘Isn’t the minimum wage —?’
‘That’s the apprentice rate, man.’ His voice was slightly high-pitched, as though the stress of lying had contracted his vocal chords.
‘But I’m —’
‘You may as well start at King’s Cross. Come here just before seven on Monday and pick up your costume. How tall are you?’
‘Er, six foot, actually.’ (For your information, that’s an inch taller than George Clooney.)
‘Cool.’
He jotted it down on a Post-it note.
‘See you on Monday, right. Seven o’clock.’
‘Cool.’
As I descended the stairs after my cursory interview, I heard him locking the door of the office.
Seven o’clock. That meant getting up at six. It was several years since I had been out of bed so early. It would be a challenge.
Violet: Decisions
It’s funny, sometimes you make the big decisions in life, and sometimes they just make themselves for you. The NGO interview was at nine o’clock, but by seven o’clock she was already up, and trying on different outfits. Something told her the lilac and dove grey that fitted in at GRM would look out of place here. She chose a straight skirt and black tights. At the last minute, she swapped the high heels for a pair of flat pumps.
The three interviewers in the tiny meeting room of the Action for Women in Africa headquarters in Bloomsbury conferred for a moment.
‘Would you accept the job if we offered it to you?’ asked Maria Allinda, the youngest of the three.
‘For sure,’ said Violet. ‘I like a challenge.’
And the die was cast.
After the interview she leans against the railings of the Georgian terraced building and feels the world spin beneath her feet like a roulette wheel. All that is familiar about London will become unfamiliar with time, and she will grow in a new direction like a plant exposed to a different sunlight.
Before the job starts she’ll have to say goodbye to her friends, return the duvet and kitchenware to Jessie and spend some time with her parents in Bakewell.
Pidgie is waiting for her back on her balcony, coo-cooing his heart out, not knowing that tomorrow she won’t be here. She watches him hop across to the balcony next door to forage for stray seeds from the parrot’s cage. ‘Goodbye, Pidgie.’ He’ll miss the toast but he won’t miss her.
Taking down the pictures from her wall she stows them one by one in her life-sized suitcase, and unpins the night-blue sari which she wraps around the yellow mugs. She’s excited, of course, and her mind has already started racing ahead to the dusty streets of Nairobi; but she feels a prick of sadness too. This funny flat has been the first home of her own; she did some growing up here. There are people she must say goodbye to.
Her next-door neighbours, Berthold and Inna, are both out when she rings on their doorbell. She hopes she will get a chance to say goodbye to them before she goes. Mrs Cracey makes her a brew of strong tea, and shoos a scrawny white cat off the sofa to make a space for her to sit. He lopes away on black-socked paws, throwing a glare of resentment over his shoulder.
‘Africa, did you say, poppet? Never mind. The late Pastor Cracey always used to say a prayer for the little black babies, you know.’
Violet smiles, remembering how her Grandma Njoki would always add a prayer for all the white people who had strayed from the Lord’s path.
‘Did you hear about poor Len? He collapsed yesterday. I had to call the ambulance.’
‘Oh no!’ She feels a stab of bad conscience. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry for her meeting with Gillian Chalmers, she should have taken him to the doctor. She wonders how Mary Atiemo has got on with Arthur and Greg.
When she rings on the door of their flat, half an hour later, it’s Mary who answers, wearing a pinafore over a baggy T-shirt and a pair of leggings which emphasise the thinness of her legs. ‘Come on in, ma’am!’ Her smile is still wide, but already she has taken on a slightly smug, proprietorial air that reminds Violet of the stray cat on Mrs Cracey’s sofa. ‘Arthur just got back from school. I’m making him some toast. Will you have some?’
‘No, thanks. I can’t stay long. I just came to say goodbye. I’m leaving soon.’
The flat already looks cleaner and tidier than before, and there’s a delicious smell of something spicy cooking. Arthur is sitting at one of the desks, his head bowed over a page that reads: She dwelt among untrodden ways. Homework, no doubt.
‘Hey, Violet, Warrior Queen.’ He looks up. ‘Good to see you. Everything okay?’
‘Fine. I just got a job in Nairobi. I came to say goodbye.’
‘Oh. Goodbye, then.’ He looks dejected. ‘Dad’s not back yet, but I’ll tell him you came. Hey, did you hear about Len?’
‘Mrs Cracey just told me. What happened?’
‘I reckon it’s the Curse of Rameses?’ The kid looks grave. ‘Len told me about it. It’s this ancient mummy that emerges from the tomb every time Arsenal scores?’
‘Really?’ This seems implausible. ‘Well, when you see him, will you say goodbye from me?’
‘Yeah, course I will. But we’re moving too, in a few days? Our house is ready, only the swimming pool had to be filled in? The council surveyor said it was undermining the foundations of the next-door house? Dad says that’s utter crap and he’s going to sue them.’
‘Mmm.’ She remembers Mr Rowland and his flexible attitude to developers. ‘Won’t you be sorry to leave your flat?’
‘Nah, it’s a dump. Dad usually rents it out? It’s part of his portfolio? He owns yours, too? Thanks, Mary.’ Mary sets down the plate of toast beside him, and a cup of tea. ‘Mary’s coming with us when we move, aren’t you?’
Mary shrugs and glances over her skinny shoulder as if she’s afraid her good fortune will escape. ‘If God grants it.’ Then she looks up and meets Violet’s eyes. Her eyes are shiny and brown like coffee beans. A cheeky smile tweaks the edges of her lips. ‘You see, ma’am, I am already standing on my own legs.’
‘Be careful. One day you may need them for running away.’
Berthold: Bertie Bean
Darius was just unlocking the office as I arrived at seven o’clock, and he handed me my Bertie Bean costume.
‘Sorry it’s a bit short in the leg. It’s the only one we had left.’
The best thing to be said about the outfit was that it provided total anonymity. Rather like a pointy burqa made of brown shiny material, and gathered at the ankles, it covered me from head to toe, with round eyeholes, a breathing hole somewhere between my mouth and my nose, and two hand holes. Well, not quite head to toe. The costume was about six inches too short, revealing my socks and trainers.
Darius eyed me critically. ‘You’re wearing odd socks.’
‘Am I? One must have got lost in the wash.’ I smiled disarmingly. ‘Heaven must be full of angels wearing odd socks.’
He failed to be disarmed. ‘Wear black socks this afternoon. And black shoes, right?’
‘Sure.’ A random memory from my childhood snuck up on me. I started to sing. ‘Black socks, they never get dirty, the longer you wear them …’