The Darkening Hour (6 page)

It’s impossible for me to live in this mess, so I start by arranging the books and files on the shelves and tidying the heaps of DVDs and clothes. What would Ummu think of this? She makes
a point of snipping buttons and zips from worn-out clothes to sew back into newer ones, removing laces from shoes beyond repair. Saves tins to use as storage, bottles to refill. All this stuff is
worth hundreds of dirham, yet here it’s left to gather dust.

When the room’s to my liking, I finish taking my things out of my bag. My scrapbook with its photos of Leila and Ummu and, in the background, the chickens that live on the roofs. Some
incense, the sandalwood type I love best. Next, Ali’s blue handkerchief. A soft packet of black tobacco cigarettes for emergencies. The cosmetics I managed to grab here and there (Nivea face
cream, shampoo, a bar of soap in a pink plastic box). A book of English verbs. If I’m going to go home better quali-fied than when I arrived, I shall have to learn to read and write English.
My passport. I open it. My face peers up. I’m hunched up as if I’m afraid they’re doing something worse to me than taking my photo. I
was
afraid. That at any moment they
would refuse it, say
no passport for you
. I must guard it with my life. I tuck it into the bottom of my bag and place the other things on top.

That’s me. Squished into these few belongings.

I put my nose to the bag and breathe. It smells of journeys, airports, strange cars and of diesel oil. I hoped I might smell home. I pick up Ali’s handkerchief. Press my nose into it and
breathe, drawing in his smell, my eyes screwed tight shut. I want to believe, for a few moments, that I’m on our roof where we were at our happiest.

Before he left.

It’s just before dawn. Silver moonlight reflecting off the still water of the estuary. The warmth in the white walls contained since the day before. The scent of roses coming not from a
vase where the petals have brown frills, but from Didi’s basket on the front of his bicycle as he begins his rounds. And the smell of Ali, coming not from the 20 square centimetres I have
left of him, but from the warmth of his body through the cotton of his kaftan as he wraps his arms about me, puts his mouth to my ear.

I’m startled out of this daydream by a knock on the door. I’d forgotten Dora was in the house.

She looks different this morning. Dressed for work in a grey jacket and skirt, her amber-coloured hair that so far she’s worn tumbling past her shoulders in corkscrews pinned up into a
loose style off her face. I notice now things I didn’t on arrival, perhaps because of the lack of natural light – lines fanning outward from her eyes and furrowing her forehead. I guess
she’s a good ten years older than me, though it’s hard to say. She wears a gold chain around her neck with a word on it. It must be her name, Theodora.

I stare at it as it catches the light, wonder how much it is worth. It looks like real gold to me. Solid, precious. I’d like to touch it.

She says, ‘Goodness. Hmmm. You’ve cleaned the windows!’

‘Shall I clean the house now? Today?’

‘Yes. But you’re here to look after Daddy first.’

‘And shall I cook?’

‘Thank you, no need,’ she says. ‘Leo likes to eat at seven, but I’ll use the microwave. You can put the recycling out. It goes in there.’ She waves at some enormous
plastic bins beside the garden fence outside the window. ‘And you must take the wheelie bins out on a Wednesday night. Daddy needs breakfast, however. You should have done that before the
room. He can’t wait, the house can. He needs help with his toilet. Then you can take him out to the market, or for a walk by the river. He prefers the wheelchair. He tires easily.’

‘I won’t forget Charles.’

‘And here’s some money. You must look after it for him. He gets muddled about what he spends.’ She hands me a note, ten pounds. ‘When I’ve more time we’ll
discuss money: when I’m to pay you, what you’ll need for shopping and so on. Now you’re here I can cancel the delivery! Thank goodness. They’re always out of what I need.
And the substitutes! Last week they brought fabric conditioner when I’d ordered a lemon. The only thing they had in common was the scent!’ she laughs.

My heart races as she hands me the money. I think of the hours of credit this will buy.

‘Get him clementines. Any change, give it to me this evening.’ ‘Yes.’

‘Daddy will have a sleep after lunch and then you can clean. I’ll show you how to use the washing machine.’

She goes to the door, turns. ‘Oh, one other thing, Mona.’

‘Yes?’

‘Your headscarf. It’s fine to wear it out on the street – I understand it’s your religion. But in the house – it might startle Daddy.’

And she leaves.

‘Bye, Daddy.’ I bend down and kiss the cool loose flesh of his cheek. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to leaving him in someone else’s care.

‘Be a doll and buy me a paper before you go, will you?’ He looks up, takes my hand in his.

‘Daddy, Mona’s here to do that for you today.’

It’s like leaving a child at playgroup for the first time, accepting that another adult must stand in your shoes. Not allowing your child to see it’s as hard for you as it is for
them. Keeping quiet when you see your status as the centre of their world fade, another taking your place. It’s hard but necessary. I can no longer leave Daddy unattended all day. I want him
to understand that it’s Mona’s job now, to get him his meals, to fetch him his paper.

But when I’ve torn myself away, to hurry along the High Street towards the river, I feel light. Daddy’s being looked after! I can switch off, concentrate on work. It’s market
day. Stallholders, wrapped up against the cold in scarves and fingerless mittens, are setting up. There’s the scent of fried breakfasts wafting from cafés, mingling with the constant
stench round here of the market debris that’s left to rot. It occurs to me that now I’ve got Mona, I could leave early, stop for a coffee in Greenwich on my way – I don’t
frequent the cafés on the High Street, with their dubious hygiene. But not this morning. This morning I’m eager to hear the latest on the chat show that’s being discussed –
a potential promotion for me.

I get to the corner and turn along the river path to the pier. I think of Max. Check for texts. Wonder when I might next see him. It’s going to be so much easier now!

Last time it had all gone horribly wrong. It was over three weeks ago when a text arrived on my way home from work.

Arrived early at St Pancras. Get here soon! I’ll book us a room.

My body responded, as it always did when I heard from him, as if Max was right here, now. There wasn’t the usual time I’d spend preparing myself to meet my lover. I rued the days
when I could have been spontaneous, when throwing on a T-shirt and jeans and washing my face was all it took to look glamorous. Getting older meant paying more attention to the details –
make-up, hair, all took that little bit longer to get right, but that night there wasn’t time. I dressed in a linen shirt-dress, with rope-soled wedges. I would have to ask Max to start
giving me more notice. Our spontaneous rendezvous would have to become a thing of the past. I begged Leo to see to Daddy, and called a cab. My mobile went as I came up the escalator at St
Pancras.

It was Daddy. ‘I’ve lost my pills. The white ones I think they were, the ones in the silver poppers.’

‘Daddy, I’m out this evening. You’re to ask Leo. He’s there, he’s not doing anything.’

‘Leo’s not there. I’ve called. I’ve banged.’

When he’s particularly demanding, Daddy bangs on his ceiling – our drawing-room floor – with a broom handle, something that riles Leo.

‘I’ll phone him.’

I thumbed Leo’s number into my phone – he wouldn’t answer if I called the house phone, he’d think it was Daddy from downstairs again – just as I spotted Max waiting
under the statue of the embracing couple. There he was, crisp white shirt open at the collar, a linen jacket thrown over the top.

‘Leo, didn’t you go?’

‘I did. I’ve been.’

I knew this tone. If I pressed Leo in one of his moods I’d end up with two dramas on my hands.

The demands exerted by my son and Daddy tussled with the pull I felt from Max. He was here now. I’d reached him. I could smell him, I could feel the brush of his cuff against my cheek as
he put his arm around me.

He bit my ear. It contracted with his breath. Tonight Max made me think of caramels, golden, smooth, sweet. I wanted to sniff him, savour him, lap him up.

‘I’ve booked us a table in the restaurant.’

He put his warm hand on my neck – I wasn’t going to be able to resist.

‘You’re to relax,’ he said. ‘You look stressed. I’m buying us champagne and you’re to choose the most expensive dish on the menu.’

‘Have we time to eat?’

‘My train’s not ’til after midnight.’

I followed him helplessly into the restaurant.

My martini arrived, the glass frosted with ice, but my mobile went again before I’d taken a sip.

‘Mum, he’s being awkward. He says he’s lost his prescription. He’s on about Grandma’s birthday present. You’re going to have to come home.’

‘I’ll have to go, Max.’

‘Theodora! If Leo can’t cope, phone one of your three siblings. He’s their dad too.’

He was right. They were always offering to help out if I was stuck.

I phoned Anita.

‘Oh Dora, I’m sorry, I’ve got a girly evening planned. I was about to go out of the door. It’s been a nightmare finding a babysitter. Have you tried Simon?’

I could have argued but didn’t want to waste time. I phoned my little brother.

I could hear the titter of young foreign students in the room behind him. ‘Sorry, Dor, I’m in the middle of an English class.’

‘At this time?’

There was laughter, the clinking of bottles. I jammed the off button down and tried Terence. He was away on some conference.

By the time I’d got home, fetched Daddy’s prescription, administered his pills, put him to bed, it was gone midnight. I was disappearing into the depths of my house to care for
Daddy, while my siblings did as they pleased. I thought with resentment of Roger and Claudia with their cleaners and gardeners and cooks. I’d been no good at playing the diplomat’s
wife, it was true, but there were aspects of that life I felt I shouldn’t have had to forfeit, just because I’d left it. I wasn’t a lesser person for following my career, or for
choosing passion over marriage.

But worst of all, I sensed Max drawing away, not just literally on the train that would be snaking under the Channel by now to France, but also in his heart. I wondered how long it would be
before he tired of being let down and gave up on me. I’ve come to know, since Mummy died, that each moment happens only once – there are no second chances. My evening with Max was lost.
I couldn’t afford to lose another one. After all, he didn’t have the same imperative to see me. He had a wife.

I only had him.

Now there’s Mona I’ll be able to see him without interruption, and the thought lifts my spirits. I’m walking along the river path now. The tide’s low,
but the river is dark today, turbulent. As I hurry towards Greenwich a crazed voice rises from the shore: ‘For whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall
be exalted.’

I stop for a moment. On the high, weed-strewn wall across the inlet a thick rope has caught on a steel mooring ring, and has been twisted by the tide in such a way as to mimic a crucifix; the
Christ figure’s head is swinging to one side, his arms akimbo, his feet, the soggy ends of the rope, dangling in the encroaching tide. The owner of the voice stands beside this accidental
rope effigy, preaching his sermon to the waves.

Another of the local lost souls, I think, and hurry on.

By eight I’m on the Clipper from Greenwich Pier. Winter is coming. The cityscape, as the boat lifts and drops on the swell, is all blue and grey: pale October sky, glinting tower blocks,
slate-grey riverwater chopped up by the wash from the boat.

I wonder how Daddy and Mona will get on. I mustn’t worry. Mustn’t think. There was no other choice.

It’s a relief to walk into the normality of the offices, to wave at Ben on reception.

‘Morning, Theodora!’

‘You’re looking lovely as ever,’ calls Beatie, one of the admin staff.

The voices come at me as I move through the building; people look up from their desks, smile and wave.

I’m a big name. Theodora Gentleman – turning southeast England’s worries around. I nearly kicked up a fuss when I got shifted to radio from TV. I could have taken them to a
tribunal. Whatever their arguments for shifting you, the fact is you’re no longer twenty-something, but a mature woman who doesn’t, in the view of the powers-that-be, pull in the
viewers the way younger ones do. I wonder when it is one slips from being a presentable face to one that no longer cuts it. I come to the conclusion that it’s arbitrary. How can one wrinkle
tip the scales from acceptable to unacceptable? But some divinity decrees that one day, you have crossed an imperceptible line, and if you kick up a fuss you’re out anyway.

If you’re a woman.

However, there are things about radio I’ve come to prefer. People are open in a way they aren’t on TV – I can probe deeper, get stories out of them. It’s the psychology
of the confessional or the therapist’s couch: if they can’t see the face of the person they’re talking to, they’ll reveal more. It’s challenging, and I’m good at
it. I’m on the way up. My goal is to have a show during prime time and Rachel, my boss, has been working at it. She’s asked me to go and see her today. So I grab a coffee from Hayley
our intern and go to her office.

‘How are you, Dora?’ I feel as if Rachel examines me as she speaks. ‘You’re looking better, I must say.’

‘Better than what?’

‘Well, you’ve had a lot on your plate. Ever since your mother died, really. Caring for your father.’

‘Maybe it’s because I’ve got a live-in carer for Daddy now, ’ I tell her.

I have to emphasise this. The day I told Rachel that Daddy had moved into my granny flat, she’d frowned at me.