Dear Beneficiary (36 page)

The customs officer explained that they had to be thorough, and hoped I could understand that the spaniel they used for drugs checks was particularly fond of peanuts, hence his interest in the package. They asked if I needed a lift, but I assured them my friends and family were waiting to take me home.

I refrained from telling Mabu I knew his mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The family were surprised at my decision to return to Nigeria, even though I'd kept the gory details of the kidnap to a minimum – and my affection for Darius to myself. Bobbie cried and said she'd miss me; Tom thought it was ‘cool'; Titch wanted to know if she could visit, and the boys gave the impression they thought I was a very silly old woman indeed.

‘So where are you going to live?' asked Jonjo. ‘In a mud hut or something?'

If I'd thought he was sneering I would've given him a cuff round the ear, but his belief system suggested he thought all Africans lived in tents with bones through their noses. I held back from describing Darius's coffee-making machine, which not only filtered the beans but the water as well.

Mavis pretended to be interested in the teaching, but I could tell by the flat expression on her face she was unconvinced about the reality of my exciting future. Her lips stick to her teeth when she attempts animated enthusiasm.

‘So it's like an extended holiday really?' she said when I announced I planned to stay for six months to see how I got on.

‘What qualifications do you need to teach Nigerian children?' asked Mavis. ‘Can anyone do it?'

‘No,' I replied, as I had an inkling she thought she might be able to come and join me. I didn't think her presence would work too well. She's the last person I'd want to have to entertain in Darius's living room, which featured strongly in my daydreams about how I would spend my evenings. I still had carpet burns on my knees from what we'd decided to call our ‘rug of love'.

While I was at home I sorted out a few administrative things such as cancelling my subscription to the gym. I also asked Tom if he'd look after the house while I was away. He agreed with a degree of enthusiasm I doubted had anything to do with a desire for home-making or quiet nights in. I refused to worry about what state the place would be in should I return, or what the neighbours might think about having an eighteen-year-old with a strong interest in loud music and parties, living on their street. I also visited Mr Gamble to arrange my finances and a transfer of funds to my new Nigerian bank account, set up legitimately by Buke for the purposes of paying expenses for my new job.

‘Are you sure this is what you should be doing?' he asked. I looked at his dismal appearance and wondered if he'd already given up on a life he'd barely started. We were only a few years apart, but I was embracing the excitement of new ventures, while the pile of Saga Holiday brochures and a choral society pamphlet on his worn, wooden desk suggested he had entirely different views on late middle age.

‘No, I'm not,' I answered. ‘Which is what makes it so thrilling.'

With my banking sorted, I made my way back to the car, which I'd parked in the Waitrose car park so as to avoid a repeat of any altercations with passing police officers. I vowed to never, ever go on a holiday designed exclusively for the over fifties, for fear of meeting the likes of Mr Gamble and his world-weary wife.

I sorted out insurance on my car so Tom could drive it. The condition was he had to pass his driving test so he could take me to the airport for my return journey to Nigeria. Good to his word, he passed first time and, despite driving like a roadrunner on speed, was relatively responsible behind the wheel. At least he had two arms to hold it.

There were a few more family conferences and a couple of disapproving discussions with Jonjo and Paddy, after which I decided to book my flight as soon as possible. Surrey didn't have the same appeal as Africa, and while I was aware my family attachments would be a pull, my new life and love were pulling me to another place.

When I landed at Lagos on the second occasion, Darius was there to meet me. He arrived on his own, and when he saw me, he ran through arrivals and picked me up in his arms and swung me around until my spasm-stiffened spine clicked delightfully back into place. I made a note to call on his help next time my back was giving me problems.

‘There you are,' he said, kissing me all over my face to the point where I asked him to stop.

‘You're making me all wet with that slobber,' I said, secretly enjoying every moment of his attention.

He picked up my bags and carried them to his car, placing them carefully in the boot before opening the passenger door. My seat was taken by a huge bunch of red roses, which I knew would not only be a rarity in this country, but very expensive.

‘For you, my English rose,' said Darius.

My heart was fluttering in a place of delight, brushing its wings against the gossamer of perfection.
Had I died and gone to heaven?

Darius got me to his house and I asked him if he had found me any accommodation, as he promised he would before I left.

‘Say no if you think it's a silly idea,' he said, as he set my bags down in the hallway. ‘But why don't you come and live with me?'

The idea had crossed my mind, but I never thought for a single minute Darius would want to publicly announce his relationship with a white woman of sixty.

‘What would everyone think? I'm more than twenty years older than you,' I said, thinking what a marvellous proposition he'd just made.

‘I don't care, if you don't,' he said, as a screech came from the kitchen.

‘Get yer kit off,' Pussy said.

‘Now there's an idea,' said Darius as he swept me up into his arms. Something I'd been looking forward to throughout the journey back to Nigeria.

‘So here's to you, my very own Mrs Robinson.'

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Copyright ©
Janet Kelly
2015

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Janet Kelly
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