Mary absorbs this advice, and smiles. She will enjoy being ruthless with Vanessa’s garden. “Trevor, I like the cut of your jib,” she says, and pats him on the shoulder.
But Trevor sits lost in his own thoughts. Trevor has never been ruthless with anyone. Trevor has given Vanessa her head. Perhaps he should have done more for Justin. Perhaps it is not too late to try. “You know the boy, Mary. You’re close to Justin. Do you think he’s well enough to give me a hand?”
“I think it is good for him to see his father. I think it is good for him to get up and work.”
“Only problem is, the old girl won’t like it.”
They puff reflectively. She says, “Never mind. Mr Justin is young, he should be working.”
“See, she’s always been terrified he’d be like his father. He was always the wonderkid, you know, super brainy. She always insisted he took after her. Whereas I was a bit of a dunce at school.”
“Once you are a man, school is not important.”
Trevor thinks, Mary is very wise. “Well, Nessie has never got to grips with that thought. See, for her, being brainy was the only escape route.”
“I don’t understand,” says Mary. The truth is, she doesn’t want to hear about Vanessa. It is enough that she puts up with her.
But Trevor keeps talking about Vanessa’s family. How they were ordinary country people. Her father was a farm labourer, who lived all his life in a tied cottage. “The mother was ill, as I remember. Ness told me all about it when we were first together. By now I don’t remember the details. Vanessa never wanted to go and see them. Not after we were married, and not before. So we went and got hitched in a register office. I asked my brother and my parents, but we didn’t tell her lot till afterwards. She said she couldn’t get married if they had to be there. Pity, really. I did love her. I know her Dad never had any money but I wouldn’t have minded footing the bill, you know, if she’d wanted to push the boat out, have a church wedding with all the trimmings…When I first met the mother, I thought she was bonkers. Poor woman, she kept asking if I was cold, and making cups of tea, but she hadn’t boiled the kettle. The father seemed to have given up. In any case, Nessy was a swot, and brainy, so she managed to get away from all that. So far as I know, she’s hardly looked back.”
Mary stubs out her cigarette in the grass. She has tried not to listen to what Trevor says. She does not intend to feel sorry for Vanessa. She remembers his advice and weeds with vigour, pulling up the cosmoses, the seeded delphiniums, the dull-leaved peonies, the Nerine lilies, but leaves the splendid pink spires of willow-herb, which she has never seen before.
“Miss Henman always wanted Justin to be clever,” she says, after a while, thoughtfully. “Perhaps this is why he was always studying, at this class, or that class, or doing his homework. Sometimes I thought his head would burst.”
“Well, maybe it did,” Trevor replies. “Maybe that’s just what happened to the lad. But you, Mary, are a sensible woman. You just carry on the way you’re going. And let me know if I can help you out.”
Mary knows at once how she wants him to help her. “First, you must help me to print my writing.”
“Blimey, you’re not another writer.” Trevor is joking, but Mary doesn’t laugh.
“Yes, so you must find me a printer. Next, tell me everything about London wages.”
“Do you mean, for a cleaner?”
“I am not her cleaner.”
She goes into the house and returns with a notebook, and listens attentively, and writes it all down.
29
Mary rings on the door as loudly as she can, to hide the nervousness she feels. Canaan Gardens is smart, in an expensive part of London, though the door itself is scruffy, with several bells beside it. It is number 20, which she thinks is right. Today November feels like winter; she knows she must go and buy more warm clothes — in Uganda, of course, she did not need them — but Mary is waiting for her next week’s money. In fact, her money seems to go quite quickly, once she has topped up the credit on her mobile, which she finally found in Justin’s room, and bought relaxer for her hair, and cocoa butter, all of which cost five times what they would in Uganda, and sent money to her sister through Western Union, though the notes in her bedroom are still mounting up, the delicious little stack is getting thicker.
Perhaps it is the cold that makes her feel sick. Since she came to London, she has often felt sick. Perhaps it is the grey cloud that hangs over London. It must be heaving with dirt and pollution. And perhaps Mary ate too much English porridge before she went to church this morning. She has started cooking it for her and Justin, since Vanessa told her it was ‘energising’. Because it is true, the Henman has energy, always running everywhere, upstairs and downstairs, and being bossy, and doing her sit-ups, quite unpredictably, anywhere, so that Mary opens doors and steps on her hair, and then Vanessa screams, and says, ‘Sorry, sorry’, though really Mary sees she is annoyed. All this takes a lot of energy. But porridge just seems to make Justin sleepy, and today even Mary is feeling lethargic.
Still, she knows she must make a good impression, and tries to stand straight on the tall white steps. She is wearing her best dress, which is yellow, and her best cardigan, which is blue, and her best shoes, which are summer espadrilles, no good for walking or Ugandan rains, so her feet hurt, but she ignores them. She is carrying her notebook, like a good detective, in case there are things she must write down. There is silence inside. The big windows stare at her.
She stands even straighter, and rings again, all three bells in succession, since she does not know which one, and makes herself smile, like someone important, a private detective, a Linen Store Keeper, an Autobiographer and Life Writer. She reminds herself she bears a message from Justin, even though Justin does not know she is here. Like Cupid, she thinks, in the romantic stories, and then she thinks how unalike they are, because Cupid is white, and sweet, and fat, and this makes her laugh, as she stands on the pavement, so when the door opens, rather fast and hard, Mary really is smiling a joyous smile.
But the woman who stands there is not Zakira. She is young, and beautiful, but she is black. Less black than Mary is, but still black. She has an orange scarf knotted round her forehead. She is clutching a large plant in front of her body, with mauve daisy-heads, and earthy black roots. She has been gardening, then. She looks annoyed.
She takes in Mary and her face is stony.
“Good morning,” says Mary. “How are you?”
“Sorry, I’m not interested,” the young woman says. “I keep telling you lot I am a Muslim.”
Mary looks puzzled, and then understands. The woman thinks she’s a Jehovah’s Witness. They come to Vanessa’s house, too, always smiling, carrying their Bible, and they’re often black. Last time Mary actually asked them in, thinking perhaps they would pray for Justin, but they stayed for hours, talking nonsense, and she soon realised they did not believe in Jesus.
“I am not a Jehovah person,” Mary says. “I am looking for Zakira. She is young, she is English.”
“She isn’t,” says the young woman, very decidedly. They stare at each other, deadlocked, for an instant. Earth falls on the floor from the roots of the plant, and the woman kicks it away, crossly.
Then Mary continues, polite, professional. “I am looking for Zakira. I have a message.”
“Carry on,” the woman seems to say, but this doesn’t make sense, so Mary tries again. “Where is Zakira?” she asks, very slowly. This time she pronounces the ‘Zakira’ differently, in case her accent has caused confusion. “She is young. She is an English woman.”