The Christmas Surprise (11 page)

Rosie’s head had drooped.

‘You always bloody do this,’ he said. ‘Something goes wrong and you bottle it up and screw everything up. How can we work like this, Rosie? How? You think if you live in a pretend sweetie dreamland, bad things will go away. But they don’t, do they? They don’t. They get worse.’

Neither of them got much sleep that night.

Jake drove them the two hours to the airport in his old Peugeot, chatting amiably with Stephen about the price of cattle most of the way, seemingly not noticing that they weren’t speaking to one another. Rosie stared out of the window, but saw nothing. Autumn was bright across the country, brown and red and orange displays of leaves framing harvested fields with their great rolls of straw. Huge grey clouds loomed across the sky; rainfall was visible on distant, shaded hills.

Rosie rubbed her arm reflexively where she’d had her injections, and tried to remember where her malaria tablets were. All she could think about was how Moray had tried to make her laugh by pretending to give her the injections without looking, and then had had to ask if she was pregnant, and of course she’d had to say she wasn’t. And at this rate, she never would be.

They were carefully polite to one another. Stephen slept for most of the flight; Rosie, edgy and upset, failed to concentrate on the films she’d been so looking forward to seeing (the nearest cinema to Lipton was forty-five minutes away). Stephen’s hair had flopped over his forehead as he slept. She wanted to stroke it, but didn’t dare.

Our first holiday, she thought bleakly. You’re returning to the scene of the worst day of your life; I’m an infertile old cow you’re almost certainly going to have second thoughts about marrying. Happy holidays.

The airport was the first shock: a massive roof, no air conditioning, boiling hot, everybody shouting it seemed at once. People approached them from all angles, speaking loudly in French, asking if they needed taxis, hotels, bags carried … Rosie, who had only ever been to Spain before, on a package trip, looked around her in bewilderment. Stephen strode past it all, looking, Rosie thought, in his khakis and collarless cotton shirt, very much like he belonged here. She, on the other hand, was already regretting wearing jeans; they were hot and felt thick and uncomfortably creased against her skin.

‘ETIENNE!’

A voice was calling insistently in their direction, and Stephen turned towards it. Standing waving furiously
was a tiny, strong-looking girl with short dark hair, a light tan, and a pair of khakis exactly like Stephen’s. Her face was animated, her teeth very white.

Stephen’s face broke into a smile.

‘FAUSTINE!’

The two of them jumped into a massive embrace, then they started speaking rapidly in French, of which Rosie understood not a word. She coughed, gently.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Stephen, his face still energised and excited-looking. ‘I haven’t seen Faust since … well, since everything.’

‘He was very naughty boy,’ said Faustine in the most charming French accent. ‘We write, we call, we send all the message,
tu sais
? And he does not answer us, he has forgotten us, he does not like us any more.’

Stephen shook his head.

‘Oh it wasn’t quite like that.’

Faustine smiled.

‘But now you are home, yes?’

‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m back.’

Rosie was glad he said this.

‘This is Rosie. My …’ he paused for a second, which caught at Rosie’s heart, ‘my fiancée.’

Faustine made a face.

‘
Oui? Alors
, my goodness, congratulations,’ she said, but she did not exactly smile. ‘You work in Africa too?’

‘It’s my first time,’ said Rosie. ‘But I can’t wait to see it.’

Faustine simply raised her eyebrows.

‘
Alors
, follow me.’

If the inside of the airport had been hot and stuffy, outside it was like stepping into an oven. Immediately Rosie pawed through her luggage looking for her sunglasses. She couldn’t remember feeling the heat of the sun so strongly before. Everywhere people in bright clothing were getting into cars, piling luggage on to scooters and bicycles, selling small boxes of bits and pieces, newspapers, SIM cards, bottles of water.

As if reading her mind, Faustine took out a large, dirty-looking plastic bottle and passed it round.

‘Drink,’ she said. ‘You’ll get thirsty.’

Rosie wanted to pour the entire thing over her head, but took a few mouthfuls and passed it on to Stephen, who winked at her conspiratorially as Faustine barked a few commands in French into her phone. About five minutes later, just as Rosie was hoping they were staying in a nice hotel somewhere with air conditioning, a rickety old van with the organisation’s logo on the side bounced up, the driver, also in khakis – Rosie was beginning to curse the flowery dresses she’d packed – waving to them brightly.

There was no suspension in the van, and they bounced uncomfortably in the back seat. There was air conditioning, of a sort, that puffed out occasional huffs of lukewarm air, as if in a bad mood, but it was pretty tricky to catch them.

Even so, the city was such a stunning sight that Rosie forgot everything: she just wanted to lean her head out and catch all of it.

Cars in varying conditions of terrible cluttered up the roads, with things attached to the top, mismatched wheels, men hanging off the back. There were some traffic lights, most of which were systematically ignored. Their driver spent a lot of time leaning on the horn, as did everybody else. Stephen and Faustine talked about all the people they had in common – none of whom Rosie knew – but she found she didn’t mind, as she stared at the colourful, chaotic, brightly lit scene in front of her eyes. Little children charged about – some, she noticed, carrying baguettes under their arms – men shouted angrily into their phones; there were animals everywhere; terrifyingly small mopeds laden with people and parcels weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic; music wailing from car stereos.

Rosie forgot she was uncomfortably hot and thirsty and would really like a long hot bath; she forgot that she was slightly jealous that Stephen was so animated speaking to this funny-looking little French firecracker. Instead, she simply breathed in the sights and the smells: the women in their bright prints; the boys, by contrast, in Western clothes; the children wearing incongruous outfits that she guessed must come through charitable giving: One Direction T-shirts, Justin Bieber,
lots and lots of Manchester United. A little girl, her hair pinned up, sitting peeling corn by the side of the road, looked up as they passed and gave her a smile and a tentative wave, and Rosie waved back, wanting to stop the van and jump out and give her some of the large assortment of sweets she’d insisted on packing.

She tried to take some pictures, but they were picking up speed; she wanted to remember it all for Liilan, who had insisted that she tell her everything. Despite Rosie’s rather weak exhortations to the contrary, Lilian would never travel again now; her old bones simply weren’t up to it. So she needed to see it through Rosie’s eyes.

As they left the city behind, Rosie wiped her face with the back of her hand; both were covered in a fine light mist of red dust. Out in the countryside, the wind blew sand across harsh landscapes of dried-up fields. In a corner, she saw a large group of huts, huddled together as the sand scoured them. It must get into every nook and cranny. On the other side ran a single railway line.

‘Why is there just one?’ she asked, interested.

Faustine laughed, which Rosie thought was unnecessary.

‘There’s only one train,’ said Stephen over his shoulder.

‘One train?’

‘Yes. In the whole country. It goes from one side to the other, once every few days. So they don’t really need another line.’

‘They DO,’ interjected Faustine fiercely.

‘Well, yes. They do. But it’s not on the priority list right now.’

As the hours passed, and her bum grew increasingly numb, and the roads became harsher and worse, Rosie lapsed into a kind of passive dream state, taking in the unchanging landscape. Eventually they stopped at a kind of roadside inn, built roughly of wood in a pentagon shape.

Faustine jumped down.

‘She’s gone to put a rocket up their arse about not undercooking supper,’ said Stephen. ‘For your all-new African stomach.’

He looked at her carefully. There was an element of truce in his expression.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosie crossly.

‘Tell me that on the squat loo at four a.m.,’ said Stephen.

Rosie got out to stretch her legs, whereupon she was immediately divebombed by nine thousand mosquitoes, so she got back in the van and covered up with DEET and a long-sleeved shirt and a big hat that she had been vastly opposed to packing but now was delighted with; likewise the scarf.

‘They really are bastards,’ she said.

‘They are,’ said Stephen, batting them away. ‘But look.’

Over the flat plains in the distance, the bright orange-gold sun was sinking at a rate faster than Rosie would have believed possible. As it did so, the sky took on a fierce flat line of bright purple. The sun dipped quickly behind the mountain range in the distance, the purple flared brightly then turned speedily to black and, like diamonds popping out of a necklace, suddenly there was one star, then another, then another, and within minutes the entire sky was raining on them, great crystal stars so close Rosie felt she could put out her hand and simply pluck them down.

‘Oh my,’ she breathed.

Stephen came across from behind the van to the rock by the side of the road she was standing on.

‘I know,’ said Stephen. He touched her shoulder and, meeting no resistance, moved his arm around her. It felt like they were the only two human beings on the face of the earth. She had never felt further away from home, nor more in touch with the planet she’d been born on. She turned her face to his.

‘I should have told you,’ she said.

‘You should have.’

‘I’m sorry. Everything felt so—’

‘You do this all the time, Rosie. You’re worried I’m too fragile for bad news.’

Rosie nodded.

‘I know. I know. I don’t mean to, but—’

‘You don’t need to protect me. But you do need to let me protect you when it matters.’

Rosie shook her head, and he took her in his arms.

‘Aren’t we a team?’

Rosie nodded again.

‘Are we going to get through this together?’

‘I was hoping I’d think up a really good way how.’

Stephen smiled.

‘And stun me with your amazing genius?’

‘Something like that.’

He shook his head.

‘There is only one way, Rosie. Together. That’s the only way. Whatever happens.’

She looked up into his face, almost more handsome for being unshaven.

‘All right,’ she breathed. ‘Okay.’

‘Good.’ Stephen turned her to face the sky. ‘Because together, we’re amazing. Look where we are!’

Rosie took in a great breath of the warm, scented air.

‘What can’t we get through together?’

‘Nothing,’ said Rosie.

‘Apart from that squat toilet,’ said Stephen. ‘There, you’re on your own. Come on.’

He took her hand, batted the bugs out of the way and led her over to a low stone wall. Apart from the odd wooden structure behind them, there wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere, but the moon that was starting to rise was
absolutely huge, the largest Rosie had ever seen, and the stars lit up the landscape so it didn’t feel dark, not really, not like down in the Lipton valley in the depths of winter when the clouds rolled off the dales and you could barely see the icy breath in front of your face.

‘You never know who’s going to like it and who’s going to hate it,’ Stephen said. ‘Sometimes the most unlikely kids come out here and just get stuck in and have a marvellous time.’

‘Like Prince Harry,’ said Rosie promptly.

‘Ha. Well I don’t know about that. But then other people who really want to be here and do good, they can’t bear it. Can’t bear seeing people suffering, and living in hardship.’

‘And getting their faces eaten,’ pointed out Rosie, flailing at another mosquito.