If he never comes back, I know he loved me. I am lucky that my son and husband loved me.
And even now, perhaps I am lucky. I can go on waiting for the phone to ring.
I have asked my friend the accountant for Christmas. My friend has been to London before, when he got his qualifications in Britain, and when he travelled here for business. He will probably be able to get a visa. If he pays enough money, he will get a visa. He can give my address, and show photographs of us, and prove that he has a good job to get back to. Britain need have no fear of him. I have not told Miss Henman, in case he doesn’t come. But if he does come, he can sleep in my bedroom. She said to me, after Zakira came to visit, “Your Ugandan friends are always welcome here,” thinking because she was black she must be Ugandan. And if I had not understood Miss Henman so well, I would probably have thought she really wanted them to visit. It does not matter, she has given permission, and if she makes a fuss, I can remind her. Charles can eat fish and chips every day from the chippy. He can eat them in my bedroom, and throw away the paper.
And yet, I do not feel quite easy.
But soon after that, we will fly home together, and go to my village, with the car full of gifts. And so my mission will have been successful. And also, I have written about my childhood, thousands of words about my childhood that will make a book when I get home. Uganda has its own publishers and bookshops. Uganda has its own writers and readers.
But still, I also hid two chapters of my book among the writing of Miss Henman’s students, which she was sending to a famous British agent. Perhaps the agent will like my writing. Mary Tendo, the Ugandan discovery! Maybe my book will find a British publisher. Maybe my book will win a big prize. African writers sometimes win big prizes. Then people are surprised, and jealous.
I heard Miss Henman talking to her friend (I do not like this friend, called Fifi, at all. I think many people would say she was pretty, but her smile is like a caterpillar wriggling on concrete.) They were discussing a writer from Nigeria who had been shortlisted for a big prize. “It’s only because she is black,” said Fifi. “Come on, darling, let’s not pretend!” Miss Henman laughed, but she did not deny it.
I think, if I won, Miss Henman would be jealous.
But also she would be able to boast. “Oh yes, did you know she was my cleaner? I found her an agent and a publisher.” (Although she does not know she is finding me an agent.)
But still, if it happens, we might both be happy. I do not mind if Vanessa is happy. In fact, I would rather she was happy. When we were in the village, I was sorry for her.
And yet, at the moment we are not happy. She has not forgiven me about the masks, and I have not forgiven her about shouting. So I have not told her about Justin and Zakira. I tried to tell her when she came back from Paris, but she would not listen, she got in a temper.
I would like to tell her she is very lucky. I would like her to know she will soon have a grandchild. It must be the happiest time, for a mother. I remember my mother being happy in the village, although she had so many children, although she never left the village. So many children and grandchildren, even now that a few of them are dying.
In England, people never have enough children. It is as if here they have Slim in their brains. Something that makes them forget to have children. Here people have things instead of children. If I’d stayed in Kampala, I would have three children.
But Miss Henman is lucky to have her son. Miss Henman is lucky to be loved by Justin. Miss Henman is lucky to have a grandchild.
Maybe I will never be so lucky.
For two months or more I felt sick every morning. I knew I was being poisoned by London. And my flow was thin, and weak, and scant, as if I had become an old woman. But I bought some herbs from the African shop, and I prayed in church, and now I feel better.
So life is long. My son might ring. I am not so old. I might have more children.
Justin goes to Zakira’s every day. He takes her shopping, and looks after her. He has got a haircut and he looks much better. I asked him why he did not stay with her, but he said, “I don’t want to worry my mother. Besides, I would miss you, Mary darling.”
But I said to him, “Justin, you must do without me. Soon I am going back to Kampala. You must bring Zakira to meet your mother.”
But he pulled a sulky face like a child, with his lips like Cupid, and went away.
In some ways, he is still a baby. For instance, Trevor wants him to drive the van, because sometimes there are things to fetch from the store. “He still won’t have a go at it, Mary,” Trevor told me. “He’s lost his nerve. One day he’ll have to. I mean, it’s important. It gives me the willies, the way he sits there.”
Perhaps he will be better when the baby is born. Then there will be room for only one baby. Justin will have to be a man.
I am reading the book that Trevor lent me, My African Journey by Winston Churchill. Trevor did not want to lend it me, he changed his mind and became embarrassed, but I wanted to read it, I am not a baby, who cannot do things in case they upset me. I do what I please, I am not like Justin.
And I find I am enjoying Winston Churchill. He is a good writer, and very funny, and says what he thinks, as a young man should. Although of course he gets many things wrong. And some of it is funny by accident. But at least he is not frightened to say anything at all, or always saying sorry, like most English people, which makes it impossible to know what they mean.
And sometimes I want to laugh aloud, and shake young Winston by the hand. This is what he says about Ugandan man: “does he loll at his ease while his three or four wives till the soil, bear the burden, and earn his living?” I think I know the same men as Winston! Though my friend the accountant has always worked hard, and my father tried, until he fell off the bicycle (admittedly because he had been drinking waragi).
And this is another thing Winston said: “the all-powerful white man is a fraud.”
50
“Oh, one of your students rang,” says Justin, when he meets his mother on the stairs.
She looks at him, critically. His hair is short; he is fully clothed; his eyes look clear. She can’t deny it’s suiting him, helping his father. But the lists of MA courses are still there where she left them, lying ‘casually’ upon the table. Perhaps there is an MA in Interior Design?
“Which student?” she asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. He wanted your address, to send something.”
She wonders whether it was Beardy—Alex. He has been so attentive in her recent classes. She feels he is going to ask her for a drink. Perhaps he wants to send her something personal. A Christmas card. An invitation. Roses.
But she tells herself to stop dreaming. It will just be an appalling script from someone. “You shouldn’t really give them my address,” she says. “Never mind, Justin. You’re looking very handsome.”
She decides to ask him about Christmas.
“I’ve had another letter from Lucy. You remember, my cousin, the cousin in the country? Daughter of Aunt Isobel?”
He nods, vaguely. He wants to go out. He has promised to come round and give Zakira a massage. Rubbing warm oil into her wonderful belly, her huge belly, so big with his child. Now his mother seems tiny, irrelevant.
He realises this is a very good feeling. In an odd way, it lets him feel fond of her. How can she ever have seemed so important?