The Darkening Hour (11 page)

He looks at me for some time, bewilderment furrowing his brow, before a tear trickles down his cheek.

‘Do you know, I completely forgot,’ he says.

I squeeze his old hand.

‘She died a year ago, Daddy. We had a funeral. Remember?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course I remember. Where’s Mona, that lovely girl who bought the roses?’

‘I’ll send her down.’

My chest hurts as I climb the stairs, and I’m not even sure whether it’s due to witnessing Daddy’s grief, or feeling a different kind of my own.

Mona’s at the cooker, stirring.

‘Won’t you have some yourself?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘I ate with Charles.’

‘He wants you again. He needs settling down for the night. Then you can come and sit with me for a bit.’

‘Yes. Very well.’

She comes back in as I’m helping myself to some of the dish she’s made. A lamb tagine. I try to remember if I’d asked her to buy lamb.

‘Daddy says you bought my mother a birthday present.’

She smiles, moves across to the sink to wash the pans.

‘Oh yes. He said it was your mummy’s birthday. So we bought flowers for her.’

‘But she’s dead,’ I say.

‘I know. But it made him happy. I wanted to make him happy. This is good, I think. To believe for a few hours, that his wife is alive. He enjoyed buying the beautiful roses.’

Mona may well be right, it might be kinder to go along with Daddy’s happy memories. Perhaps I’m wrong to jolt him back to reality.

‘And Leo was polite?’

‘Yes. I told him to go upstairs. I said he cannot stay all day in his pyjamas.’

‘You know, Mona, it might seem that I put up with a lot from him. But I want him to feel at home here, that he can do as he likes.’

I pour myself a glass of wine. Mona’s being here is softening the terrible things I’ve been dealing with. Leo’s depression, Daddy’s Alzheimer’s, the loss of Mummy.
Here I am, a meal made for me, my disaffected son doing something more useful than his usual indolent TV-watching, and Mona to look after me, to keep an attentive eye on Daddy. I let my remorse
about the argument with Gina fade.

‘Tell me about your family.’

She shrinks back a little.

‘Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?’ I ask.

‘One daughter,’ she says. ‘Six years old.’

I see her face plump out with happiness at the thought of her child.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s at home. In my mother’s village.’

‘But who is looking after her?’

‘My mother.’

‘Gosh. Don’t you miss her?’

She looks at me blankly, her mouth turned down at the corners. Of course she misses her – stupid of me to ask.

‘What happened, Mona? What happened to your husband?’

She turns her head aside. I’ve trodden on sensitive ground again. How silly of me.

‘I’m sorry. That must be painful. Tell me about your daughter?’

She smiles now. She starts to speak, her hands dancing as she does so, emphasising each word in a kind of mime.

‘She’s six years old. She’s funny, she loves the colour pink. She loves to dress as grown-up, and to play at houses. But where I live, there’s no money, no work. It costs
a lot for her to go to school, for books and clothes. I want to make a future for Leila. And she’s OK with my mother.’

I look at Mona, re-jigging the perceptions I have of her. If her daughter is only six, then perhaps she isn’t my age at all, but younger – quite a lot younger. I notice now that her
skin is indeed quite smooth, that the fatigue that had aged her when she arrived has lifted a little. Like tarnished silver after it’s been polished.

‘It’s hard being away from a child. When my marriage ended and I came back to London, Leo stayed with his father and I was heartbroken. It was like . . . it’s like having a bit
of your body torn from you. But he was at school out there and was settled and I didn’t want to disrupt him. It’s so wonderful that he wanted to come back for sixth form.’

The food is delicious. I take another mouthful, another glug of the red wine I’ve poured.

After I’ve eaten, I tell Mona to check on Daddy and then to take some time off. When she’s gone I fill up my glass – I’m going to take some wine up to
drink in the bath – and as I’m about to go up, I glance into Mona’s room. She’s left the door ajar, the lamp on. On the antique bureau is a vase of roses. They are pink
roses, in bud, in my tall glass vase.

The roses Daddy bought for Mummy.

I let the rose incident pass. I need Mona too badly to make an issue of minor transgressions.

The following Saturday I take advantage of her. I go to the gym, have my hair done, walk back along the river. It’s one of those crisp autumn mornings with a bright, low sun. I feel as if
Mummy is very close to me, maybe walking along beside me as I head home.

Feeling her presence, sensing that death has not torn her away from me but that she lies very close on the other side of an imperceptible membrane tensile as the cobwebs that veiled my walls
– until Mona arrived – soothes me.

The tide’s out. I can hear people with children down on the beach, hunting along the tideline, and pleasure boats pootling about on the water purring gently and sending waves rippling
across to lap the shore. I breathe deeply, drawing in the silty smell.

As I walk, my mobile pings and my heart leaps. I barely dare to look. To see if it’s Max. It’s only 7 a.m. in New York. But maybe he’s not in New York – maybe he’s
here.

Hi gorgeous, I’m coming through London on Wednesday. Meet me under Boudicca, Westminster Bridge, 5 p.m.

I text back immediately, telling him I’m free. Free! I have Mona! I can accept an invitation from my lover with no hesitation for the first time in months.

I feel good. Cleansed inside and out. From the gym, from the hair-do. And from the release of the anxiety that hounds me until I hear from Max.

You could almost be at the seaside here, if you shut your eyes. I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face, the rattle of the waves on the shore, the mewl of the seagulls. Yet the view itself has
its own beauty, the black spikes on the railings echoing the spires of an old church on the other side of the river, which itself reflects in miniature the Gherkin. The towering blocks of the
City’s Square Mile dwarf old rooftops and chimneys beneath. Layers of London history. The masts of a galleon that has moored a little way downriver are like a marvellous apparition from the
past. I feel relaxed and at peace. I walk, rounding bends and taking short cuts between new buildings, following the river walk beneath its cranes and round its creeks and marinas.

At Paynes Wharf, I stand and admire the majestic arches of the old shipbuilders’ palace, which frame and contain the sleek skyscrapers on the other side of the river on Canary Wharf. I
find the image interesting, the bigger contained within the smaller. Here I am, like the arches, small yet able to contain all this within my vision.

Theodora Gentleman, counsellor to the whole of south-east England.

A woman in mid-life, still able to summon a lover all the way from the States. Daddy’s ‘gift from god’, caring for him when no one else in my family is prepared to.

By the time I get home my face tingles with the cold morning air, and as I open the front door, I’m greeted by a scent that takes me straight back to Daddy’s
restaurant. The waft of spices, cumin, coriander, paprika.

I stand in the hallway, for once clear of shoes, which Mona has organised onto shelves. Clear of junk mail, and of Leo’s discarded clothes that are usually draped over the banisters and
across the floor. I remember how when a house is fresh and aired it also feels calmer, and I breathe in the tantalising North African aroma and a warmer, cosier scent of fresh yeast coming from the
kitchen. I move down my hallway towards the end, push open the door.

Mona’s squatting on the kitchen floor, a floured board in front of her, kneading dough. I stare at her. It’s a vision of perfect domesticity and I’m overcome by a sense of
appreciation and goodwill – of being looked after. As if my mother had risen from the grave. Not that she had made a loaf of bread in her life, certainly she’d never squatted on the
floor like this to bake. But seeing Mona there, lit up by a ray of sun sliding in from the window, gives me a feeling of contentment I haven’t experienced for a long time. The scene is like a
Dutch painting, a glimpse through the door of a quiet private moment of feminine labour.

‘It smells fabulous in here,’ I say.

I move into the kitchen, aware that I’m not needed, that Mona is happy here on her own. A fleeting sense that I’m in the way in my own home passes through my mind and away again.

Mona glances at me and smiles before looking back down as if embarrassed.

‘I’ve cooked lunch for you all. Charles and Leo and you. A national dish – I haven’t made for a long time. This is our special bread. And I’m making something
piquant. Leo likes spicy food.’

‘That’s lovely, thank you, Mona.’ Does she think I don’t know that Leo likes spicy food? ‘I look forward to it,’ I say, taking off my scarf.

‘Your hair, it looks nice,’ she says.

‘Thank you. I’ve been to the hairdresser’s.’

‘Very good, very fine,’ she says. ‘In my country, we don’t have this style, we find it very beautiful, like something precious.’ She smiles, her fingers dancing in
a rippling motion around her head.

‘What, curly hair?’

‘Yes, like you. And people try to make your colour. With henna. But it’s difficult, with our hair.’ She pulls a face.

I smile at her. ‘Don’t be silly, Mona, your hair is beautiful too. Oh, and I bought cupcakes. So we are both thinking of our stomachs today!’ I pat mine, and she laughs.
‘I got them from Borough Market.’

‘Another market?’

‘Yes, much nicer. Up the river.’

‘I’d like to see.’

‘I’ll show you.’

We’re interrupted by the doorbell. Anita and Simon are on the steps.

‘We thought we’d come and see Daddy,’ says Anita. ‘Wondered if we could scrounge a coffee first. Blimey, it smells fab in here. What are you cooking?’

‘It’s Mona,’ I say. ‘Something Moroccan.’

They follow me down to the kitchen.

‘We thought we could take Dad out for lunch,’ Simon says. He’s wearing a beanie, his headphones strung round his neck. Simon’s in his thirties but still resembles an
errant schoolboy.

‘You’re a bit late,’ I tell him. ‘Mona’s just made Daddy’s lunch, haven’t you, Mona?’

Mona nods, lifts the tray she’s laid for Daddy and carries it out of the kitchen.

It’s typical that my brother and sister’s good intentions are mistimed.

‘We were going to take him up to the Mayflower. They serve most of the afternoon, I think,’ says Simon.

‘It’s not the pub that’s the problem,’ I say. ‘It’s Daddy. He has to eat at twelve so he can sleep after lunch. Anyway, who would drive him? I’m the
only one with a car here.’

‘We could catch the bus.’

‘Have you tried getting Daddy on and off a bus recently?’

‘Dora, we just want to help out a bit,’ Anita says. ‘I’ve roped Richard in specially. He’s taken the kids to his mum’s this afternoon. You never let us help.
You haven’t changed! It’s like when we were kids and you always had to be the best, the favourite.’

‘You can’t spring surprises on Daddy. He’s only just got used to Mona. A change of routine would throw him completely.’

‘Oh well, it’s been a wasted journey then,’ says Anita. ‘Typical.’

‘Mona looks nice,’ Simon says. ‘Kind of maternal. Reliable.’

‘Terence says we should all contribute to her pay,’ Anita says. ‘He says we could dip into Daddy’s savings. It isn’t fair that you should shoulder the whole
bill.’

‘Oh, that’s a turn-up – Terence thinking of someone else for once!’

‘He wants to help, Dora. We all do. He’s our father too. No one would be expected to pay for his care costs as well as having him downstairs. Even if you’re getting the benefit
of a clean house thrown in!’

‘It isn’t just the cost that’s a drain.’ I feel the old resentment course through me – my sister has no idea! ‘There’s the space Mona takes up in my
home. Keeping an eye on her. Live-in carers have to be watched. You can’t just trust them and leave them to get on with it.’

‘Blimey, Dora, you’re impossible to please,’ says my sister.

‘Oh come on, you two,’ says Simon. ‘Enough sparring.’

‘I’ll accept graciously then,’ I say.

‘So it’s all going OK?’ Anita asks. ‘With her, I mean?’

‘It’s going fine so far,’ I say. ‘She reminds me of someone. Someone to do with Daddy’s restaurant maybe. One of his waitresses?’

‘God, we worked so hard in those days,’ Anita says. ‘In his restaurant. All that ridiculous stuff he made us do, getting the most slices out of a tomato, the most batons from a
carrot!’

We sit silently, remembering Daddy’s mood swings when he was at work, how we’d all try our best to stay on the right side of him. I worked twice as hard as anyone else, yearning for
Daddy’s praise, to show everyone I was his favourite. One or two staff members bullied me behind his back, calling me a sneak, a Daddy’s girl.

I should have learned then that being favoured could evoke resentment. I suspected this was behind Anita’s snide comments about me as a child.

‘Which waitress does she remind you of?’ Anita asks.

‘I don’t know. I keep trying to think . . . it won’t come back to me.’

‘Right,’ says Simon suddenly, jumping up. ‘I’m going down to see him. Laters, Dor.’

When he’s gone I say, ‘I’m sorry, Anita. It’s just that having Mona isn’t all a breeze. I worry she looks down on me. The house, I mean. She was working for a Saudi
in Morocco, and those ex-pat houses were palatial. You remember Roger’s? Chequered hallways, marble work surfaces, all those bloody leather sofas. It’s different here.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Anita says. ‘Women like her are not in any position to judge. Anyway, you live in one of south-east London’s most desirable streets.’

Anita knows I’m sensitive about where I live. I have a theory about London. That the affluent reside on its hills: Highgate Hill, Notting Hill, Primrose Hill. At the base of these
salubrious areas are the places where drug abuse, gang culture and prostitution reign: Tottenham, Archway, Wood Green.