The Teacher's Secret (26 page)

Emmanuel had laughed at the question. ‘The thing is,' he said, his voice echoing over the phone, ‘everyone's desperate to come. Everywhere people tell me this. You know what I think it is? I think it's the whales—I think it's because of the whales.'

That made her giggle. ‘What in the world are you talking about?'

‘The whales,' he said, ‘they're everywhere—every day I'll spot two, maybe three of them. All I have to do is walk down to the end of the street, and there they are.'

Well, the thought of that: the thought of a group of walking whales; that was enough to shake the funk and make her laugh. ‘You idiot,' she said.

And now, as she and Grace walk together, this is the picture that comes back to her: the image of a line of whales just ambling down the street; and once more, she finds herself laughing. When Grace turns to her, quizzical, she doesn't know what to say, how to explain such a ridiculous thought to a serious woman. ‘Just a stupid thing,' she says, and Grace doesn't ask for more.

They walk for some time—for close to an hour—before Rebecca turns into her house and Grace walks on to hers.

On the stairs to the front door, Rebecca trips up on something soft and dark. Only when she picks it up does she remember what it is: Grace's fleecy top, left there when she'd come to pick Rebecca up that morning. She'll return it after she has showered.

There are quite a few cars parked outside Grace's house, an odd sight in their quiet street, but Rebecca thinks nothing of it. The electric gate is wide open but, unconcerned, she just walks through. And when she gets to the front door to find that it, too, is open, still she is unperturbed. She just knocks and calls out to her friend.

There is no answer, not immediately. And when Grace does come to the door, there is something different about her, something strained. Her demeanour makes Rebecca uncomfortable, so uncomfortable she forgets to say why she has come and just stands there, helpless, at the front door.

From behind Grace comes the sound of footsteps: footsteps made by heavy shoes, footsteps made by a man. Grace's husband, Rebecca thinks, even though it is unusual for him to be home on a weekday. But when she looks up, she sees that the man who is approaching her is not Johnson, nor is it the gardener, nor the driver. He is no one Rebecca recognises. All she recognises is his uniform. So she shouldn't be surprised to see a gun slung over his shoulder. Yet it does surprise her.

When he gestures at her to approach, still she doesn't get it. Only when he steps forward to grab her is she seized with a sudden wave of fright.

Even when the worst of it is over, still the fright stays with her. It stays behind her smile when, some days later, she manages to change their flights. It stays, too, as she packs in secret, as she struggles to maintain her composure in front of Laety, in front of Benson and Mosy, in front of Sebastian. It stays with her at night when she can't sleep, when her mind won't stop hissing at her to
get out, get out, get out.

She has told no one, not even Emmanuel, that this is what she has decided to do.

The fright is with her now, too, as she makes her way to the airline counter, Sebastian quiet by her side. A change of plan, she has told him. This is how she has explained their hasty departure. He queries nothing.

Although she has always dressed well, tonight her clothes are loose and baggy, her shoes are flat and unremarkable and her short, chic haircut is hidden under a long, straight wig. No one gives her a passing look.

When they get there, the woman at the counter is neither friendly nor surly. Theirs is a late flight, and the woman seems tired. She asks for their tickets and their passports and Rebecca's heart beats more quickly as she passes them over. But the woman only glances at them before she asks for their luggage. ‘Just the two pieces?'

Rebecca nods. Her own bag weighs nineteen kilograms and it is only now she realises she could have packed more—up to twenty-five kilograms. She had thought the limit was twenty. So she had packed carefully. Two books only, two pairs of shoes only. Some photographs, taken out of their frames and kept flat in a folder at the bottom of the suitcase. Toiletries. Not much more than that. And after all that effort, she could have had an extra six kilograms. It upsets her not to have known that. And then it perplexes her that, after everything else, she should be angered by this. By a lost six kilograms.

The woman behind the counter tags the handles of their suitcases, prints out two boarding passes and, together with the passports, hands them over.

Rebecca tries to keep her hand steady as she takes the documents, clutching them tightly as if they might slip through her fingers.

It is customs that makes her most fearful. This, she knows, is where it might all unravel. But her media training stands her in good stead and, tilting her chin up, she walks into the customs area with a show of confidence that belies the fear pushing up inside her.

There are cards to complete before they line up to clear immigration. Carefully she writes out her name as it appears in her passport: Rebecca Chuma. This is not the name she is known by; Rebecca Vera—the name of her birth—that is the one people know. That is the one she uses when she would like something to be done quickly or well. So it is a good thing, then, that her passport is not in her birth name but in her married name. It is even better than her disguise.

They reach the head of the line quickly. The officer who serves them doesn't return her smile. Instead he looks hard at her passport before he turns to consult the computer screen to his left. Because there is a glass barrier between them, she can't see what is displayed on the computer. She tries to read what she can from his expression, which is solemn and focused. Her heart pounds as she watches him and she has to work to keep her face relaxed.

Shifting in his seat, the officer moves his head closer to the screen, as if to scrutinise it more closely.

He knows, he knows, he knows.
These are the words that push out against her ribs. What now? she thinks. What will happen now? What happens is this: the man behind the glass leans back in his chair, swivels back to face her and, with an expression she can't read, returns their passports and waves them through.

Relief makes her speechless and, in silence, she and Sebastian walk out of customs and into an over-lit dome of duty-free goods.

Gate five is at the end of it and, when they get there, the departure lounge is only half filled even though they're due to board in less than thirty minutes.

When, forty minutes later, there has still been no announcement, it occurs to her that she has made a mistake, and that this is not the right departure lounge after all. In front of them is a television screen that lists, it seems, only arrivals and no departures. She starts to panic. Perhaps they aren't even in the right terminal, she thinks. And God, oh God, oh God, what then?

Calm down, she tells herself, calm down. Now that they are so very close, she needs to stay very, very calm. She turns to speak to Sebastian, but her mouth is so dry no words come out. She clears her throat. ‘I'm just going to check about the flight,' she tells him.

He nods, but stays seated when she stands. ‘I'll stay here,' he says.

‘No,' she replies, her voice urgent, ‘come with me.' It is not enough that he should be within sight. She needs to have him within reach, too.

There is a flight attendant behind a desk at the far end of the departure lounge and together they walk over to her. Although Rebecca is not accustomed to waiting, this is what she does until the woman looks up from her computer.

‘Oh,' she says, surprised. ‘You scared me.' Her accent is not local and when she smiles at Rebecca, her face is young and unguarded. ‘Can I help you?'

Rebecca struggles to reply. ‘I wanted to make sure I'm in the right place,' she says finally.

‘Let me take a look at your boarding passes so I can check.'

Rebecca nods, but when she looks through her handbag, the boarding passes aren't there. Alarm sets in and her hand starts to shake as she searches for them.

‘Take your time,' the woman tells her. ‘This always happens to me—I know I've put something in my bag, but as soon as I need it, I can't find it for love or money.'

The zippered part, she remembers. She put them in the zippered compartment. And as soon as she slides a hand into it, her fingers rest on the first of two curved edges of cardboard.

‘Yep,' says the woman when Rebecca hands them to her, ‘right place, right flight. Seats 17A and 17B. We'll be boarding in about twenty minutes.'

They are long minutes and when, finally, the first boarding call comes, Rebecca stands up too soon, for theirs are neither first-class nor business-class tickets.

When the second announcement comes—for economy passengers rows fifteen to thirty—she and Sebastian are at the head of the line.

The flight attendant who guards the walkway entrance shows little interest in either of their passports and as he feeds Rebecca's boarding pass through the machine, he looks not at her but above her, his eyes flat. A sharp beeping from the machine suddenly brings him to life.

‘Wait over there, please, madam,' he says without meeting her eyes.

A wave of fear washes through her as she grabs Sebastian and pulls him over to her. As they wait, they watch the others—all the others—pass through the scanner, down the walkway and out of sight.

When there is no one left to process, the flight attendant leaves the scanner and comes over to them, their boarding passes in his hand. His earlier lethargy is gone. Now he is frowning. ‘Mrs Chuma,' he says, ‘there is a problem with your seats.'

She waits for what she knows will follow.
The plane is full. There is no more room on the plane.

Instead he puts a hand out towards her and says something she doesn't catch, because his words are quick and mumbled, and hard to understand. ‘Sorry?'

This time he speaks loudly and more slowly, exaggerating each syllable. ‘We have had to change your seats. These are your new boarding passes.'

Suddenly, it dawns on her that everything will be all right. They will catch the plane and it will be all right. But the flight attendant is looking concerned. ‘Do . . . you . . . speak . . . English?'

Rebecca hardly registers the question and so it is Sebastian who answers for her. ‘Yes,' he says, in his beautiful accent, ‘English is the language we speak.'

And so they pass through the scanner and go down the walkway and onto the aeroplane. At the entrance, another flight attendant greets them with a smile that seems genuine. ‘You must be our lucky last.'

Rebecca has been allocated a window seat and through the darkness, the lights of the airport terminal are bright. There are entertainment screens on the back of the seats in front of them and earphones are handed out together with hot towels. For Sebastian there is a children's activity pack and, even though he is already eleven and getting too old for pencils and mazes, still he seems pleased to have been given it.