The Darkening Hour (39 page)

He’s the only person who knows, he and Mona, and no one will ever believe Mona.

I’m Theodora Gentleman, about to become a household name. Daddy mustn’t tell them, I have to stop him.

I stand, staring at my daddy, the cushion in my hand as they come up the steps.

‘She sent me to find you,’ Leo says.

I nod. ‘I knew she would look for me.’ I’m too exhausted to fight.

‘And then I saw Sayed on his scooter. He told me about your husband – Ali, who you’ve been looking for on my computer. Asking questions in the High Street. Sayed told me he was
afraid for you because he knew this Ali was already married. That you would be in deep shit once you found out, because you were counting on finding him so you could go home. Or get a proper job
and a British passport. Or whatever.’

I turn my eyes down. ‘I was counting on him to provide for his child,’ I say.

‘And you don’t want to come back to us either – which I understand. It’s not a great job, though my mother does need you. And Grandpa loves you.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I understand you want to go home to Morocco. It’s a lot warmer there.’

I smile.

‘It’s hard to make a living out there, though. I know from the people who used to work for Dad.’ Leo sighs. ‘I never wanted to come back here either. They made me –
Mum and Dad. Thought I should go to an English sixth form. Look what good that’s done me!’

He has a brown envelope in his hand, and holds it out to me. I take it. Inside is my passport, my visa. Ten twenty-pound notes.

‘It’s all I had,’ Leo tells me. ‘I can’t take you any further. I can’t ride a scooter like Sayed. It’s all I can do. I hope it’s enough. Gotta get
back. Grandpa’s not well.’

I take the river-walk west, knowing there must be a tube station eventually. The water reflects the lights on either bank and a moon that ducks behind the clouds.

The water is smooth and silent below me, as if it could never hurt anyone.

I walk quickly, but keep to the narrow paths, avoiding the roads, hoping not to be spotted. Once at the tube station I will be able to travel swiftly under the city. I go into an all-night Tesco
and ask for directions to the nearest tube station. An Indian man stacking shelves tells me I want Bermondsey and directs me past more flats, down more dark roads to the station.

I sit in the bright lights of the tube, my bag clutched on my lap, Leo’s envelope stashed inside it, melding once again into the throng. No one notices me. I’m aware of how shabby I
look, of my smell of sweat, of the twitch in my eye, but they draw no interest.

I am just another body moving through London’s bowels, moving to what I now simply have to pray will be a passage home.

The tube is packed even at this time of night. I have that feeling again that everyone except me belongs. They belong whether they are tourists or Londoners, workers or leisure seekers, students
or parents, or even if they are homeless, coming down the carriage asking for money. People are reading or talking or swaying about under the influence of an evening’s drinking or thumping
their feet, wires coming out of their ears. Everyone belongs. That is how it seems to me.

I think of Charles, how I did feel I belonged for a short time, when I became close to him, and I wonder how he’s got through the evening without me.

By the time I arrive at St Pancras I am missing the old man.

I think about how he liked to dress in his best suit and imagine he was back in the restaurant that he ran when he was a younger man, and how no one could see the man he once was, with his
Michelin stars and his chef’s outfit. Why is it, I wonder, in this city of stone figures, that some people are immortalised and others allowed to sink without trace?

I get off the tube and am carried along by the crowds up the escalators, and down miles of tunnel.

I go over and stand beneath a statue of an embracing couple, called
The Meeting Place
. I gaze up at the statue of the lovers and let myself wish for one minute that this is how it had
turned out with Ali. And when the minute is up, I tell myself that my longing must now be – will have to be – over forever.

I think of my months at Theodora’s. I wonder how she and Charles and Leo will manage without me?

But it doesn’t matter now. I have become strong. Stronger than the statue Dora and Max met beneath – the queen called Boudicca. I’ve read about her. She said, ‘Let the
men live as slaves, I will never do that.’ And nor will Leila ever have to do what I had to do.

I think of the things I know, the things I’ve seen. Madame’s husband with his wandering eye, and his grasping hands.

Ali stumbling in weeping and bleeding, after mowing down the tourist.

And Theodora heaving the body of her lover into the river.

I have seen all this – looked on and said nothing.

I have kept the silence of statues.

So far.

I have enough money for a ticket, with what Ali and Leo gave me. It is time for me to leave this cold country.

I shall get on board, keep my face down, let the train carry me along another tunnel, through another underground world, beneath the English Channel – at last I will emerge into some kind
of light.

I am hugely indebted to the women from Justice for Domestic Workers (J4DW) who generously shared their stories with me, especially Marissa Begonia and Khadija Najloui, and to
Steve Rowlatt for answering endless questions about domestic workers rights.

Huge thanks also go to:

Emma Lowth and Maxine Hitchcock for all their ideas and patience! Florence Partridge and the team at Simon and Schuster, Stephanie Glencross for inspirational early in-put, my fabulous agent
Jane Gregory for all her work and her great initial reaction, Claire Morris, Linden Sheriff and everyone at Gregory and Company. Joan Deitch for the title, Beatrice Pemberton for encouragement,
Anna D’Andrea for reading, Victoria Rance with whom research always turns into its own story, John Davy, Kate Rhodes for suggestions, Jethro Pemberton, Tanya Pemberton, and the amazing
Cressida Downing for feedback, coffee and reassurance at just the right moment.

Special thanks to Andrew Taylor and Polly, Emma and Jem who always come up trumps when I’m stuck.

From 6 April, 2012 domestic workers who apply to accompany their employers to the UK are tied to one employer. If they experience abuse and exploitation they will face the
choice of continuing to suffer or fleeing and becoming illegal.

You can read more about this at:

www.j4dw.org

www.kalayaan.org.uk