Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

“Say, from the point of view of the pigeon? That bug-eyed Daisy girl would really go for that!” Something in my expression must have stopped him, because he held up his hand, and mimed shooting his temple. “Sorry, I mean the point of view of the chicken!”

“No birds .”

But I can see it is hopeless.

Despite his long dark lashes, he is just another nutter.

Whereas Beardy — Alex — is really very interesting. I did completely underestimate him. Although I am usually a good judge of character. He brought my novels in for me to sign. I heard him praising them to the other students. When I think about that, it makes me feel better.

I must try to see the funny side of Derrick. Whenever I tell Tigger about my students, he seems to find it hilarious. True, that has always irritated me. In fact Tigger is exactly like my father, who was kind-hearted, but understood nothing.

But what if he understood more than my mother? What if the same were true of Tigger?

And suddenly, I am free to start writing. I start with the chickens. We fed the chickens. Their soft red wrinkly combs, their pink strutting feet, my father’s big hands throwing the corn, the patient way he let me help him, although my mother didn’t want me to get dirty.

After that I write for an hour without stopping, my very first memories of my father, my father in the garden when a bee stung me, my father picking me an apple from the tree. But somehow I know that the chickens are best.

By the time I stop, I am feeling much better. And this is the piece I shall send to the agent, the second submission by ‘Emily Self.

I haven’t seen Mary since our little quarrel, and Justin will be in bed, I suppose. The house is quiet, although I can’t help imagining I hear that thumping which unsettled me so, that regular bumping from Mary’s bedroom, but really I must not imagine things.

In fact, now I have managed some writing, I find I am no longer annoyed with them.

At least no one here is as mad as Derrick. I know I was a trifle sharp with Mary. I would say sorry, but I think she’d be embarrassed. I shan’t forget to tell her I’m grateful.

Yawning, I push open the door to my bedroom. I put on the light, and it is ghastly, awful, absolute horror has come into my bedroom, at first I can’t scream, I just stand there, not breathing.

They are all on my bed, black and sinister, sitting in a row like shrunken heads, beady eyes staring, teeth bared, waiting. Some of them have bodies that are short and stunted, stumps of limbs or hands like man-traps, crawling all over the place where I sleep. At first I don’t even understand what they are, it is as if they have climbed out of the depths of my head, come swarming up from some hideous cellar, but after a moment I recognise them. They are my African masks, my own possessions, and some little figures I found in Uganda, which Mary has always objected to, pretending she thinks they are bad for Justin, and now she has taken them off the walls and brought them in here to terrify me!

And I have to admit they are horrible, sitting there grinning and staring in the darkness. I stand there, frozen. My mouth is open, and noise and dribble are coming out. I hear myself screaming, a long way off. I cannot stop, and I cannot touch them.

But then something happens I could never have expected. I suppose I did make a lot of noise. There are feet on the landing, and then he appears, in green pyjama bottoms, his chest-hair golden, and his eyes are soft and anxious, as they used to be, and then his arms are actually around me, and Justin says, “Mum, darling, what’s the matter? Are you all right? Speak to me.”

And I sink against his chest like a homing bird, and my tears run down, warm and salty. Just for a moment he solaces me. As a good son should, as a good man can.

Then Mary pushes in through the door. “What is the matter, Henman? Why are you screaming?”

Which made me lose my temper again. “What the hell are these things on my bed, Mary? What on earth do you think you are playing at?”

And yet they are already not quite so frightening, now Justin is here, now I see what they are.

But Mary herself. Mary is frightening. “How dare you try to frighten me?”

“You told me you wanted to get rid of everything. You told me you wanted a new beginning.” Her eyes have got that strange, purblind look, which means she cannot see or hear, as if I am not a person to her. Africans can be racist too. “I did not have time to finish my work. I was going to put them on top of your cupboard.”

Now Justin’s arms are releasing me. “You see, Mum dear,” (that gentle Mum dear! It is balm to me, but he goes on talking) “it’s just a mistake. It’s nothing, really. It’s all OK. Don’t shout at Mary.”

“You’re taking her side!” I start to feel hurt. I have been betrayed. Justin’s turned on me. I can see the two of them exchanging glances, as if they have discussed me before, as if I am just a joke or a problem, and I feel left out, as I was at school, when everyone thought I was weird, and ignored me, but as an adult, I won’t tolerate it! And I am the person who pays all the bills! I have paid this woman to abuse me!

“Get out of my room! Both of you!” And I see them leaving, almost side by side, his arm touching hers, his broad naked shoulders — of course I don’t really want him to go, to leave me here with these horrible objects—

And before I know quite what I am doing, I find myself throwing stuff after them, hard, and a mask hits Mary on the head, and a pot-bellied manikin gets Justin on the shoulder, and then the door closes, and I just keep throwing them, crashing them hard against the painted wood, till the empty stupidity of what I am doing makes me too weak to throw any more.

And then I sit and cry and cry.

But the door opens, and Justin comes back. Justin comes back to comfort me.

Mary Tendo

Two thousand three hundred and twenty pounds. I keep it in cash, in my bedside table. The money is beautiful, thick and smooth, not thin and worn like Ugandan bank-notes. It has the sheen of wealth and hope. By Christmas I shall have nearly three thousand. By Christmas there will be ice and snow. I have had to spend money on warm jumpers, and I wear Miss Henman’s anorak. She told me I could wear it before she was angry, and now she is embarrassed to change her mind, though I see her looking at it thoughtfully. Also, at the moment, we aren’t really talking. So I carry on wearing her anorak, and gloves.

Omar has gone to Baghdad, to look for Jamil. I am happy because he is doing something. We are looking for our son, we have not forgotten him. Even if he doesn’t want us to find him. Even if indeed he is not there. Because since the first rumour things have grown less hopeful. Jamey’s friend Idries does not think it is him. Idries told Omar he was almost sure that Jamil had gone south to find his mother — but that is too bad to think about, because if so, my Jamie is lost. In southern Sudan or among the Acholi, in the battlegrounds of northern Uganda. Kidnapped by the Lord’s Resistance Army — it is impossible to contemplate. The God of love would not allow it. Ntekisobola okugwa ku mutabani ivange . And yet, people whisper. They hiss, in Kampala. They list the horrors of the northern war, where Kony makes children kill each other, dipping them deep in blood so they can never escape him—

Perhaps Jamie never even reached the border. The desert has killed so many young men. The suq lorries are unpredictable. Perhaps he never got beyond Wau—

This could not happen to my son .