Something to Hide (14 page)

BEVERLEY SWITCHES ON
the ceiling fan. In the sudden breeze, the condolence cards tumble off the shelves. There are lots of them and she says that more arrive every day.

‘So many people loved him.' She collapses into an armchair and wipes her brow. Her hair, so shiny and smooth in England, has gone frizzy in this humidity. So has mine – Irish hair.

Actually, I haven't a clue what I meant about that Irishwoman thing
, Jeremy said.
It's just that when I saw you, after all those years, you stopped my heart. So I babbled the first rubbish that came into my head.

Our conversations haven't ceased. He's with me, talking to me, all the time. He remarked on the town as we drove through it, pointing things out, buildings, stalls.
Look at that one, God Is Good Beauty Products. Isn't that a hoot?
I'm amazed his wife can't hear his voice booming in my ears.
This is my house. See that tree outside? Don't its flowers look like schooners? Never hear that anymore, do you, ‘I'll have a schooner of sherry', except in a golf club in Kidderminster. I've never been to Kidderminster, have you? Shall we go there one day?

He's been telling me to hold my nerve.
It's all right, darling. She won't guess anything, just think before you speak
. The thing is, I'm still committing adultery, but now it's in my head. And Bev's not thousands of miles away, but in the same room.

‘Are you sure you're all right?' Bev's looking at me.

‘I'm fine.'

‘I didn't like that vomiting last night.'

‘Honestly, I'm OK.' I start picking the cards off the floor. ‘It's
me
who should be looking after
you
. Now, what can I do to help? Sort things out with you? Do some shopping, do some cooking? What would be most useful?'

Bev bends down to stroke one of the dogs which lies there, panting in the heat. Several of them are allowed in the house; she's introduced them to me but I've forgotten their names. This one looks ancient. It gets to its feet, stiffly. She hauls it onto her lap and nuzzles its nose.

‘Know what you could do?' she says, her voice muffled. ‘It would be really helpful.'

‘What?'

‘Tell me about him.' She lifts up her head and looks at me. ‘Tell me about Jeremy.'

There's a silence. My heart starts hammering.

I'm rescued by a tap at the door. Clarence comes in, carrying two glasses of lemonade on a tray.

‘You shouldn't do that, Clarence,' she says, and turns to me. ‘It's because you're here. He wants to give a good impression.' She raises her voice. ‘Don't you, Clarence?'

He gives her a sorrowful look and puts the tray on a table. I wait until he's gone out of the room. ‘What exactly do you want to know?' I ask.

‘When he was in London, with you. Tell me about it.'

‘He seemed fine.'

‘No!' she says impatiently. ‘I want to know what he did, what he said, everything! Don't you understand? I want to picture him, and be there with him! He told me his version, now I want to hear yours.' She stops, breathing heavily. ‘I'm sorry, sweetie. The thing is, you haven't really been through this, have you? I know you lost your parents but it's not the same thing.' Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I wake up in the morning and just for a moment, when I turn over and reach for him …' She starts sobbing. ‘Count yourself lucky, Petra. I ache for him so badly I want to die! You've no idea what it's like, to lose the man you love.'

This time I don't comfort her. I pick up the glass of lemonade and take a gulp. It tastes of chemicals.

‘We went to the theatre,' I say. ‘But it was a full house so we watched it on the monitor, which wasn't the same thing.'

‘He didn't turn it into a joke? He always made everything such fun.'

‘It was OK. We had a couple of meals. Went to Tate Modern.'

‘What did you see?'

‘Actually we didn't go in.'

‘Why not?'

‘It was too sunny.'

‘Too sunny?'

‘Well, it was nicer outside.' Weirdly enough, I'm starting to feel disloyal to Jeremy – our time together reduced to this.

‘So what did you do?'

‘We had a cup of tea.'

‘What did he eat? I bet he ate something, did he have some cake? He was so greedy.'

‘I can't remember. Honestly, Bev, I only saw him a few times.'

She sighs. ‘Know something? I'm a teeny bit jealous.'

I pause. ‘Why?'

‘I wish I'd been there. I want to be there for every single moment he was alive.'

I shrug. ‘You should have come to London.'

‘What, and leave the dogs? A day or so's OK, but I can't trust Clarence. Not if I left them for weeks.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because he's lazy, and he hates animals. They all do, unless they can eat them.'

‘Isn't that a tiny bit racist?'

‘You haven't lived here, Pet. You don't know what they're like.' She leans over the dog and reaches for her glass. ‘And don't even start me on the poaching. There was a big tusker, up in the tribal area where the Kikanda live. He was called Bomi, he was famous, all the safari groups knew him and loved him, he was even on postcards. Last week he was found with his face hacked off. All for a few hundred quid.' Her eyes fill with tears, not for Jeremy this time, but for the elephant. Her hand is shaking as she puts down her glass. ‘It was probably his frigging Kikanda who did it.'

‘Really?'

‘You can't stop hunters hunting. I didn't trust them an inch. Jem had such high ideals but honestly, Petra,
he
was exploited just as much as they were. He was so naïve. I mean, those computers he bought them disappeared overnight.' She sighs. ‘And that's the least of it. I was getting really frightened for him. There was all sorts of murky stuff going on, it was getting quite dangerous.'

‘But he was drawn to that, wasn't he?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Danger. Sailing close to the wind. I mean, that business with the car.'

‘What car?'

‘The one he pushed into the river, for the insurance.'

She puts down her glass. ‘He did what?'

‘Didn't you know?' I feel a jolt of satisfaction, that I know something she doesn't.

She looks at me, frowning. ‘When did he tell you?'

Hell, I have to be careful. ‘Oh, ages ago. When you two first got together.' This is a lie; he told me during our walk in the Cotswolds.

‘Why did he tell you, not me?'

‘Maybe he thought you'd be shocked, and go off him. And it was long before you met him, when he was young and foolish.'

The ceiling fan whirrs. Across the room, the leaves of a pot plant gently rise and fall, as if warning me to mind my words.

‘That figures, I guess,' says Bev. ‘After all, with you he had nothing to lose.' She claps her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, that came out all wrong. He was very fond of you, you know that. He used to say what fun you were, and how clever – much cleverer than me – and what a shame it was that you couldn't find a bloke.' She stops. ‘I mean, a bloke who could make you happy, who could really appreciate you. We used to worry about you, you know.'

I don't reply. Instead, I gaze around the room, their room. It's cluttered with cane furniture and spindly little tables; they're covered with lacy cloths which shiver in the breeze. Every surface is covered in knick-knacks – carved zebras, antelopes, a family of elephants ranged in order of size, a collection of puppets from their time in Malaysia. On the walls hang African masks and a picture of Bev's I remember from the flat – a Parisian view, complete with street urchins. One of them is even peeing.

‘I've been so lucky,' says Bev. ‘I must remember that. The right man at the right time.'

‘You're right. It's all a matter of timing.' I give her a smile. ‘And I
so
get it wrong.'

When this is over, will you marry me?

Darkness has fallen and I'm sitting in the garden, drinking beer. Beverley is indoors, talking on the phone to her mother. A breeze tinkles the wind chimes; cicadas are rasping away in the bushes. The dogs have fallen silent and I'm steadily getting pissed in the limb-loosening desire of the ambrosial night.

I still can't quite believe that I'm in Africa. I'm on another continent, in a strange garden, with my future snuffed out. I'm still in a state of shock. All I have is Jeremy's voice to keep me company.

I wish I'd married you instead. I wish I could turn back the clock and start again.
He never actually said this but he would have done if he'd lived longer. Anyway, he's saying it now.
I wish you'd been sitting in the doctor's waiting room with some minor and undisfiguring affliction, like tennis elbow, and you were reading
The People's Friend
so you were desperate for an interruption, so I sat next to you and we started chatting and I knew straight away that you were the love of my life, we both knew, didn't we darling? And I grabbed your hand and we buggered off to a Caffè Nero
. There weren't any Caffè Neros then.
Don't be a pedant. So we didn't go to a café, we just walked and walked, we walked for so long that we walked right out of London
. Talking all the time.
Talking all the time. And we've been talking all the time since then, haven't we, dearest heart, we've had one long conversation all these years that's only stopped because I've inconveniently died.

‘What's the matter?'

Bev's looking at me. I didn't hear her come out.

‘Nothing.' I wipe my eyes. ‘I'm just sweating. It's still really hot, isn't it?'

‘Oh honey-bunch.' She sits down beside me. ‘I've been so selfish. I keep forgetting that other people are upset too. Go on, cry your eyes out. Mum's been bawling down the phone too, she adored him, as you know.' She slaps a mosquito. ‘She's ever so pleased that you're here and wishes she was too, but she can't come out, not in her condition. She's just waiting for me to come home.'

We sit there, listening to the cicadas. Somewhere, far off, there's the sound of drumming. I remember my tea with Jeremy, drumming drifting through the silver birches. That magical moment when he was transformed, and my love for him grew strong and rooted.

‘Remember old Panty, our geography teacher?' Beverley's voice jolts me. She's a bit squiffy; she's had a drink too, and she's always had a weak head.

‘With the moles.'

‘And little hairs growing out of them.'

‘We thought she was ancient but she was probably about thirty, poor thing.'

‘We were so cruel to her, weren't we?' says Bev. ‘Such nasty little girls.'

You were cruel to me, I think, remembering the slugs. At the time I had no idea why she would do such a thing.
She was jealous of you,
said Jeremy.

And all these years, I've realized, I've been jealous of her. Jealous of the singing and the talking and the silliness. Jealous that, somewhere across the world, she was sleeping with a man who could have made me happy.

It's all chance, the toss of a coin. You meet somebody who will change your life; at that moment, the story of your future begins to be written. If Jeremy hadn't been injured playing rugby, Bev and I wouldn't be here in the middle of Africa, in the middle of the night, harbouring our separate sorrows.

He and I used to talk about chance.
It's thanks to a sniper's bullet that I'm alive at all,
he said. We were walking on Hampstead Heath; just for a moment we were one of those couples I used to envy.
My grandmother's husband was killed in the First World War
, he said.
She was utterly devastated, of course, but after a while she married again, and had my mother. And my mother had me. So it's thanks to some German sniper that we're here in the sunshine, insanely happy, isn't that amazing? I wonder what his name was, and if he survived.

‘Did you have sex?'

I freeze. ‘What did you say?'

‘I said, did she have sex, do you think? I bet not, she was a born spinster, wasn't she? I mean, those moles, poor dear.'

‘Poor Panty.'

‘Treacherous little cows, weren't we?'

We listen to some creature snuffling amongst the leathery leaves. Not as treacherous as I'm being now. A bag of slugs is nothing compared to this.

During the next few days I make a monumental effort and devote myself to Beverley. We hardly leave the house. After the flurry of activity in Assenonga she surrenders to grief and is too raw to face the noise and chaos of the streets. She says she feels skinned – vulnerable and fragile – and the outside world is an assault course. I feel the same way. It's too foreign out there, too unnerving. Little does she know that I'm companioning her. I feel the waves of it, buffeting me as it's buffeting her, and I too am helpless in its current.

Sometimes she's angry. ‘How could he do this to me?' she demands. ‘How could he leave me behind? Why did he have to die when so many horrible people are still alive? The fucking President, who rigged the election and built himself a palace costing ten million pounds with its own private zoo, God knows how he's treating the animals, he's probably barbecuing them for his blooming birthday party.' Her voice rises. ‘Why was I so stupid? Why didn't I take Jem to hospital? Why didn't he tell me how ill he was feeling? Why was he so bloody English?'

Sometimes she's filled with guilt. ‘I keep thinking of the times I was irritable with him.'

I can't follow her there, she's on her own. He and I didn't quarrel, we were too newly in love. Bev and Jeremy, however, had a whole history together. ‘I was angry with him for never fixing the car, it's falling to bits but he was always too busy. And being so hopeless with money, letting people take advantage of him. I had to do all that and I hated it too, he never understood that, all the bills and boring paperwork, and having to ring people up and being the bad cop. And then we used to argue about the dogs.' She sighs, as if he's still here. This exasperation is more painful than the happiness because it makes the marriage so real.