Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

So I am happy when I think about Baghdad, when I let myself picture Jamil at the zoo. My Jamie was always good with animals, knew how to talk to them, to calm them down. It was part of his kindness. Part of his goodness. Jamie deserved better parents than us. If we had not divorced, he might be at Al Fateh, starting his veterinary course. Did he leave because he despaired of us?

Five years ago, not long after the divorce, I went to Libya to see him. I spent a year’s wages on the flights to Tripoli. He had shot up a foot in eighteen months, but still he was not as tall as me. He was polite and awkward, and had nothing to say. I thought, I must go, I am giving him pain. We were sitting together in his father’s hot courtyard. People seemed to be watching from every window. He did not know how to behave with me. Then Omar’s new wife came out and took pity. “You should go for a walk with your mother,” she said. The road roared along by the side of the sea. Big liners docked there, alongside the mosque. Everything was green to honour Ghadaffi, and his face grinned from posters, and I felt he was mocking me. We walked in silence, then Jamil started talking. He wanted to explain his new country to me. Tripoli was a modern city which was rapidly starting to go out of date, because they couldn’t get parts to mend things, because they had angered the US and UK. Jamie’s voice warmed up, and his English came back. He took my arm, beside the river of traffic, and the sky was blue, and so was the sea, and just across the channel was Malta, and suddenly I felt entirely hopeful, for the world was all about us, and one day he would be free. The feeling didn’t last, because my head was uncovered and my blouse, though decent, didn’t have long sleeves, and the cars started hooting, and some drivers called out, and Jamie was ashamed that I was his mother, or ashamed of the hooting, I didn’t know which, perhaps he just wanted to protect me — but he was a boy of thirteen, how could he? And I said, “Dearest son, we should turn back. One day we shall meet in Kampala, or London. Never forget you were born in London. Never forget you are half-Ugandan.”

I think that the world was too painful for Jamie, this complicated world which tore him in two. He said, “I hate the UK, but I still love London.” I think he was saying he still loved me.

And later he came to see me in Kampala, the last time that we saw each other. I will never forget how tightly he held me, and I held him, we held each other, when we picked him up at Entebbe airport, and there he was, dwarfed by his sprawl of cases, and then getting bigger as I ran towards him, and when I got there, he was taller than me, and everything I wanted was in my arms.

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.