Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

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.”

“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?

“She’s invited us to go for Christmas. The extension will be finished, there is room for us all. One of her daughters will be in Australia, but Serena is going, the one who is a lawyer…She might have contacts that would be helpful for you.”

It’s like half-watching a programme on the television. He knows the set is on, but he’s somewhere else, wondering which is the best oil to buy, wondering if it will be nice for the baby, wondering if it is a girl or a boy. He, Justin Henman, is going to be a father. The world is changing, utterly. His mother understands nothing of this. And he is glad that she understands nothing. Last time she only caused problems with Zakira. For the moment, it needs to be entirely his, this new, this magical beginning of a family.

“Will you come, Justin? Are you listening?”

“Um, yes.” He means he is listening, though it isn’t true, and he’s already gone downstairs. But Vanessa thinks he is saying ‘yes’ to Christmas.

“That’s agreed, then, darling. Have a good day.”

Now Vanessa feels a little surge of joy. For she will have a child to show off to Lucy. It was rather odd turning up with Mary. This time she will drive up proudly with Justin. Vanessa will have to do the driving of course. Justin is still not driving again. But at least they will be safer than she was with Mary.

“The twenty-second,” she shouts down the stairs. “Coming back on the twenty-eighth.” She thinks she hears a grunt before the front door closes.

There is a note from Mary on the kitchen table: “I have gone shopping. If anyone telephones, please tell him I will be back soon.”

It’s unusual for Mary to leave notes. It is unusual, indeed, for Mary to give any information at all about what she is doing. And who is this ‘him’ she expects to call? Vanessa remembers the shouting, cheerful man who rang one morning from Uganda. She can’t quite remember what it was all about, though she does remember how annoying it was that Mary took the phone-call on her bed, before Vanessa had officially got up. She planted her great bottom right on my pillow. Right on the place where I put my face .

Mary must be thinking about going home.

Vanessa realises how much she wants this. They’ve had a wordless truce since the night of the masks, but underneath it, she senses they are both making plans. Mary has been out of the house a lot, or talking to Justin or Tigger in the kitchen, and they still fall silent when Vanessa comes in, which brings back Vanessa’s old sense of isolation. There is really no more reason for Mary to be here. Yet Vanessa hopes to bring things to a graceful conclusion. If they cannot be friends, they should not be enemies. She feels a kind of duty to Uganda.

Yet the money she is paying out is enormous. Not that she resents it: it makes her feel better about bringing the whole chapter to a close. Should there really be notice, with an arrangement like this? After all, it has been informal, friendly.

Mary’s note gives Vanessa an idea. The easiest thing would be to write her a letter, and slip it underneath her door.

She goes to her study and begins to write, but after a moment, she tears it up. A handwritten note seems a tad too casual. There is just the possibility, the tiniest worry, that Mary will not be keen to go. After all, every week Vanessa’s handing over money, great bundles of notes, cash in hand. In a way Mary’s on to an easy number.

Vanessa tries again on the computer, a formal but friendly letter of notice. “Obviously I’ll pay you until the New Year, and this will hold even if you decide to leave sooner.”

Yes, she could not be fairer than that. The blunt truth is, she doesn’t need her any more.

There is a ring on the door. That will probably be Mary, who has a tendency not to take her key. It is one of her more annoying habits. Vanessa goes rather slowly to the door, and opens it with a reproachful smile.

But it isn’t Mary. The day is cold, and dazzling. The shape of a man, blank on the light.

A young man. Standing too close to the door. He is in her face. For a moment she is startled, but then her eyes grow used to the light, and she sees it is just Derrick, the boy from college, hunched in a navy military jacket. He looks thinner than ever, and his hair is too short, which makes the bones of his face show through. His eyes are rather bright, today.

She steps back, instinctively, and says, “Oh, hallo,” as he steps forward, half across the threshold.

“I have brought something to read to you.” He is already unfastening his bag, he is in.

She says, “I’m sorry, I’m rather busy. Really you should bring me work at college,” but he laughs, a short, strange laugh like a dog, and pushes straight past her down the hall. And yet he is her student. She will have to be civil.

“Where do you write?” Can his voice be trembling? “I want you to show me the place where you write.”

She realises he is merely nervous. “Why don’t I make us a cup of tea? I mean, I can give you twenty minutes or so. Just this once, but really, in general—”

“Show me your study, please, Vanessa.” Now he is talking more quietly, but there is still that tell-tale tremble. Yet Vanessa has never meant to be frightening. Probably the context is overawing. She smiles at him, trying to look kind and maternal and yet, at the same time, authoritative. He cannot make a habit of doing this.