Mark Lee - The Canal House

Laura was always awake when I came home. “Did you sleep with him this time?”

“No.”

“Did he kiss you? Put his hand on your leg? Anything like that?”

“Not at all. It isn’t that way.”

“It’s always that way. Eventually.”

“We’re not wildly emotional with each other and I like that. Things are emotional enough at the hospital.”

One night after dinner, Richard finally kissed me. A delivery truck was parked in the middle of the street, so Billy stopped the car at the corner and Richard walked me down the sidewalk to Laura’s flat. He took my hand which startled me. Richard had only touched me a few times, guiding me through a crowded restaurant or helping me with my coat. When we reached the door, he stopped and pulled me closer. I knew that he had decided to kiss me; perhaps he had been considering it for several days.

The kiss itself was firm and precise, without a hint of doubt. When it was done, he squeezed my hand and let go. “I admire you, Julia. You’re very important to me.”

The excitement of the kiss, the giddiness of it, came afterward as I climbed upstairs to the first floor. The next morning, two dozen roses arrived and Billy called to ask if I would accompany Mr. Seaton to a weekend party at his friend’s estate in Kent. I flew off to Freetown, and when I returned I found Laura in the living room surrounded by open packages.

“I am sorry,” she said. “It’s all clothes, from Richard, for that party you’re going to. I inspected the first package, then I had to look at everything.”

Richard or Billy or some employee at the Riverside Bank had discovered my shoe and clothing sizes. There were wool pants for hiking through the forest, sweaters, shirts, and a little black dress for a cocktail party. I called up Richard that night while Laura rolled her eyes in the background.

“Do they fit?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure they do, but it’s too much,” I said. “I don’t feel comfortable being given all these things. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“I’m sorry, darling. I know you don’t have time to shop.”

“I’m keeping the dress, but I’m sending the rest back.”

The weekend in Kent turned out to be a political gathering. Our host was a cabinet minister and most of the other guests were connected to the government. They gossiped about who was up or down and talked about Public Opinion as if it were a simpleminded giant who needed to be coaxed down the right road. Two experts from London were there to give lectures on monetary policy, with slides. I nodded and smiled and spent most of my time with the wives, more intelligent but less powerful than their husbands. On the second day they began to tell me about Richard’s former girlfriends, who all seemed to be actresses or television personalities. “They weren’t suitable,” said one of the wives. “Not like you, dear.”

Richard looked happy as we traveled back to London. “Let’s go to my place,” he said and Billy glanced up in the rearview mirror just to confirm the statement. Richard put his arm around me. “Is that all right with you, darling?”

“Yes,” I said and leaned into him.

It was very late when we reached Richard’s house in Highgate and he led me upstairs to his bedroom. A coal and wood fire was burning in the fireplace and it felt magical that everything had been planned for us, that someone was anticipating our needs. Richard looked nervous after he closed the door. He circled the perimeter of the room. “Is it warm enough, Julia?”

“Quite warm.”

“Would you like some music? A little more light?”

“Wait here,” I said, and when I came out of the bathroom Richard was in bed.

I can’t remember much about what it was like to make love to Richard though later it felt as if we had accomplished something. We were together now. We were lovers. In the dim light I could see Richard’s pale eyes evaluating me as we lay there without speaking. The fire had burned down to dark red coals. A mantelpiece clock ticked softly but never chimed the hour.

“Do you want a drink, Julia?”

“No. Not now.”

“Or some food? It’s no trouble, really. There’s a man downstairs, on duty.”

“I’m all right.”

He put on a bathrobe, then sat beside me on the bed. “Those people in Kent liked you. Everyone thought you were very impressive.”

“They’re somewhat deluded,” I said and laughed. “All that political talk made me sleepy.”

Neither one of us mentioned love, but I decided that didn’t bother me. My emotional life had always been haphazard and foolish. My past relationships had been flimsy little sailboats that could never withstand a longer voyage on deep water. Now that I was with Richard, my life felt easier. We were going to be partners, working together toward the same goal.

The next morning Richard told me that he had to eat breakfast with some American bankers. “The house is yours,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. Order some tea.”

He kissed me lightly as he left the room. I lay in the Queen Anne bed, warm and relaxed beneath the silk coverlet. Frost was on the outer windows, but flowers were in a vase on the night table and I could smell the faint, sweet fragrance of jasmine. I felt protected at that moment, safe. I realized that I didn’t quite know where the frayed blue toothbrush was at that moment, but there was a new one waiting for me in the bathroom. When I got dressed and went downstairs, Billy Monroe appeared in the dining room. He said good morning and, for the first time, called me Julia.

AFTER THE CAMP was organized, Richard flew to Nairobi and took a charter plane to Kosana. I couldn’t image how he would react to the dust and the sick children and the black flies buzzing around the tents, but he was friendly with everyone and he even tried to learn a few phrases of Swahili. Erik Viltner had brought two coolers filled with ice, so we had fresh meat and cold beer for dinner. Richard and I shared the same tent and he noticed the Gucci case. Before he arrived, I had dug a little hole in the ground to pour out some of the shampoo and half of the makeup.

Richard zipped open the case, inspected the little bottles, and smiled. “So you actually used this.”

“Yes. Although not all the makeup. It has been very busy here.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have my staff send some refills from London.”

A few days later, Paul Rosen’s airplane roared over the camp. Paul had called on the radio a day earlier and said that he was flying up from Kampala with a connector valve for the broken water pump. I left the medical tent and walked to the landing strip. Paul and Tobias got out of the plane, followed by two other men. I could tell that they were journalists. The photographer was short, plump, and sweaty. He raised his camera and took a few photographs like someone who had once worked in a war zone; the photographers I knew in Bosnia had always gotten a quick shot the moment they arrived in case they had to jump back in the car and flee. The reporter was tall and had unruly hair. He was wearing sunglasses and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I noticed how calm he was, not smiling nervously the way most people acted when they first came to a refugee camp.

As I approached the plane, the photographer took two pictures of me, which I still have. The first is from a distance and all you can see is that I’m a woman with a sun hat surrounded by a half-dozen Karamojong children. A casual observer might decide that the children adored me, but of course that wasn’t true. There was very little to do in the camp and I was like a walking television show, a never-ending source of amusement. Billy carried an Uzi submachine gun and had an even larger group of children following him around.