The Darkening Hour (13 page)

‘The only drawback,’ I say out loud now to Mona, ‘was that Max was married, with three children, and was not about to smash up his family to be with me.’

‘But you left Roger for this man,’ Mona says.

‘It wasn’t as simple as that.’

Leo was still a child then. I had no intention of breaking up his home. Neither did I want to let Daddy down. I tried to keep my love for Max secret – I even tried to kill it, to stifle my
feelings. Roger and I returned to Morocco and carried on as before. But each time I came back to London – I’d got a little work on the radio with the World Service and had to come for
meetings at the BBC – Max and I would meet, returning to our respective families after each liaison. Roger need never find out. I thought that I could lead a double life and get away with it,
without hurting anyone.

One day, the inevitable happened. Roger found my phone, the erotic texts.

‘You must promise not to see him again, or else you can get out of here and I’ll file for divorce,’ he told me. He was so used to me doing as he said, I think he believed
I’d agree never to see Max again.

I left.

‘It broke my heart, of course, leaving Leo. But they’d offered me work if I came back to London. We were in the fortunate position of owning a house here. And it meant I could see
Max without guilt.’

‘So this Max, you love very much?’ says Mona.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I think I do.’

‘But he is married. To another woman. He is not your husband. And a husband is good – he makes money, for you, for your child. Lovers don’t do this.’

I look at her. Remind myself again that she is widowed and must only feel the absence of a husband. I know how people elevate the dead in their imaginations.

‘I fell in love, Mona. You don’t behave rationally when you’re in love! Anyway, I’m telling you all this because I’m going to see Max on Friday. Now,’ I say
at last, realising I’ve gone on far too long. ‘Tell me more about yourself. Where did Roger find you?’

A closed look. A look that would begin to frustrate me. A discreet, polite smile.

‘There is not so much to tell,’ she begins. ‘I used to work in a garment factory, before I married. But I gave it up later because Ali was earning money. So when he died, I had
nothing. The factory had cut back on their employees. I couldn’t find work.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible.’

‘Yes, but then Amina, my friend – she works for your husband and Claudia – found me work near their house with their neighbours. A Saudi family. Very wealthy, with a big house.
I thought I was lucky when I got this job, cleaning for Madame Sherif, looking after her children.’

‘Where did you learn your English, Mona?’

‘From this work. I learned to speak, but I can’t write or read English very well. This is something I’d like to learn.’

She looks at me as if she expects me to say something.

When I don’t, she continues, ‘But then I had to leave.’

‘Yes. Roger says the family were going back to Saudi.’

‘That’s not the truth,’ she says. She turns, her eyes are full.

The light’s gone, and the bench underneath us is cold. I want to get home now, we’ve been here long enough. But she goes on.

‘She and her husband were not going back to Saudi. But her husband, he touched me, he tried to . . .’ She stops.

‘That’s terrible,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Very terrible for me.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to tell Madame. But one day she saw me in her room, her husband behind me. His hands were on me. She called me bad names. She said I made him
do these things.’

‘You poor woman.’

‘She said I had to go. She said it was all my fault.’

‘It’s disgraceful that he took advantage of you being in the house, in that vulnerable position where you couldn’t object.’

‘Yes. If I complained, nobody believed me.’

I gaze at her. She doesn’t look like the kind of woman a man would try to take advantage of – although, of course, men are unfathomable. She doesn’t look as if she would let
him get away with it. She’s not a young innocent thing, as Zidana was, though I’m beginning to see that Mona has a certain allure. She’s more rested these days, and her hair, now
she’s washed it, is thicker, glossier. Yes, I can see with a little makeover and the right clothes, she could have her own kind of beauty.

‘I said to Madame, “But I am married – why do I want your husband?” And she said, “Your husband is dead. You are trying to get a new one. You see he is rich, and
you try to steal him from me. Now you get out of my house.” She was a very bad employer.’

Mona begins to cry.

Tears, I think, are useful things. Therapeutic, yes, when one is overwhelmed by emotions, but they can also be turned on easily when someone’s desperate to prove something to you. I see it
every day on the phone-in.

She wipes her eyes on the back of a wrist. Sniffs loudly.

‘You can see it is hard to work for a bad man who is unfaithful to his wife. And for a woman who won’t see what’s happening under her nose. I wanted to help her. To make her
see the man she was with. But Madame, she shouted, she said, “You are wasting my time, my money! I am not paying you to steal my husband.” She told me to leave!’

‘Awful for you.’

‘I told my friend Amina. Amina was working for Roger. She asked Roger to help. So Roger told me about you. And now I’m here.’

‘Yes. You’re with me now, Mona, and no one will take advantage of you.’ I stand up and brush the creases out of my coat. ‘Time to go home,’ I say. ‘It’s
cold.’ And as I start to walk back along the river path, I notice she falls naturally behind, in my shadow as if, in spite of our recent intimacies, she knows her place, after all.

I’m busy tidying my room, after our walk by the river, when my door swings open. Startled, I look up.

Dora’s standing there.

For a moment I’m afraid that she’s going to accuse me of stealing. Her face is stern. But when she speaks she’s as polite as anything.

‘Excuse me, Mona, I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ she says, ‘but I want to pay you. I’ve taken off the first instalment of the cost of your passport and ticket, for
Roger, but here’s the month’s money that I owe you.’

‘Thank you.’

When she’s gone, I fold the banknotes, put them into an envelope and write Ummu’s address on the front.

In the morning, early, I phone home.

‘I’m sending money, Ummu. Look out for it. It’s not as much as I’d have liked, but I have to pay off the passport and the ticket first. Tell me some news from
home.’

‘You missed a spectacle yesterday,’ my mother says. ‘Fahida found her employer knocked out on the floor. He’d been climbing out of his bath and collapsed. You know him?
The old English teacher. There was a gas leak. She got the whole medina up to help her move him. She covered him up with a towel, she said, because he was stark naked – his little thing
curled up like a dried date.’ She laughs her rough rasping laugh, then starts to cough.

I picture her there, shouting into the phone, her friends in the room behind her, slapping their thighs.

When she’s quiet again I speak. ‘Did you get my gift?’

‘The hand cream?’

‘I thought you deserved it. Your hands get so sore, immersed in water every day.’

‘It’s very nice, thank you, Mona. But you mustn’t go spending your money on luxuries. Things aren’t any easier here.’

‘It didn’t cost much, Ummu. Only the postage, in fact.’ I don’t tell her that I hadn’t bought it at all, or how I paid for the postage – out of a little bit
of Charles’s shopping money he’ll never miss.

‘Last time we spoke, you sounded as if you needed a little bit of pampering. When you get the money, please do see the doctor about your cough. You can’t look after Leila if
you’re unwell.’

‘Stop your fussing, Mona. I’m perfectly well.’

I’d believe her if she didn’t break off every two minutes to hack and splutter.

‘I know you don’t want me to ask, but I need to know if you’ve heard from Ali. Or if anyone has – Yousseff, maybe.’

‘Not a word.’

‘I’m afraid he must be trying to get in touch. Something’s stopping him.’

‘You know what I think.’

‘You’re wrong.’

‘A man who doesn’t get in touch doesn’t want to.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You must give up on Ali. If people find out you have a husband who’s vanished – especially one with his record . . .’

‘Don’t, Ummu!’

‘They won’t want you in the house. Careful what you say, Mona, the walls have ears.’

‘It’s OK. She believes I’m a widow.’

‘Good. Let it stay that way. You should be looking about for a proper husband with a nice well-paid job. Surely this Dora can introduce you to an Englishman with a bit of spare
cash.’

‘Stop this, Ummu.’

‘And there’s no husband, who might have friends, colleagues?’

‘No, but she has a lover.’

‘Ooh. Interesting. What’s he like?’

‘A doctor, she tells me. Max.’

‘Rich?’

‘What difference would that make?’

‘Well, you won’t get much out of a man with nothing.’

I laugh. My mother’s determination is amazing.

‘Since you ask, he’s a doctor. A professor. Of course he’s rich!’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Not yet. He’s American, she told me.’

‘Oooh!’

‘I’ll let you know all about him if and when I do meet him. But no, as yet, I’ve only seen a picture.’

‘Is he handsome?’

‘You are unbelievable!’

‘Mona! You are a woman in need. A man with money is useful. If you keep your wits about you, you may find he can help you. Citizenship, for example. He might have connections. That’s
all I’m saying.’

‘OK. I’ve got the message.’

‘You’re not in a position to turn down help.’

‘OK. Now, hand me to Leila.’

Leila seems better, tells me she’s been playing out on the alley with Ahmed and some other children, that they’ve invented a new hiding game. Judging from her happy chattering I
guess she’s beginning to get used to me not being there. What a mixture of remorse and relief this brings.

But when I’m about to finish the call, she whispers, ‘I miss you, Ummu,’ and I wonder just how much she’s having to put on a brave face for my mother’s benefit.

I also think about Ummu’s words:
Things aren’t any easier here
– and I wonder what she means.

It’s time to go to Charles, to get him up.

Dora’s in the kitchen already. We greet each other and I go down the hallway to the front door and round to the back steps.

‘Mona!’ Charles is calling me from the depths of the house. ‘Mona! Where are you! I need you! Mona!’

I stand for a few more seconds at the top of the steps, my hand resting on the stone head of the woman, thinking about Leila at home wanting me too, knowing that however loudly she shouts, I
won’t come.

I wait for my tears to subside.

And then I go down.

‘Your lover, this Max. He comes to the house?’

Mona’s twinkling at me, a sponge in her hand, pink rubber gloves enveloping her arms.

‘No, Mona,’ I say. ‘Max is not coming to the house.’

It’s Sunday morning – a time I always enjoy having to myself.

When I came down, I could hear Mona’s voice behind the study door, talking rapidly on her mobile. I made my tea – Earl Grey – in my favourite bone-china mug – and settled
at the table in my dressing-gown with the paper. But her voice was too loud, I couldn’t concentrate, and I put the paper down. I couldn’t understand a word of what she said, of course,
but I heard names, and a wave of paranoia flowed over me as I realised she was talking about me. ‘Dora . . . blah de blah . . . Max.’ And then a giggle. ‘Max’ again.

What a massive disadvantage you are at if you cannot understand a language that is being spoken within your own home. She came out after a few minutes and hurried past me, her head down, telling
me she was off to check on Daddy.

Now as she bustles about, her eyes are full of laughter, as if she finds something about the thought of me amusing.

That look! It stirs that odd feeling again, the memory of a face from the past that I cannot quite identify. Or is it simply that there is something more behind it than she likes to give away,
as if she knows more about life than she appears to?

I assume that Mona is innocent – a woman with little education and whose life experience has been limited by poverty. But could this be some kind of act?

She continues to move about, wiping surfaces, putting dishes away, for all the world as though my kitchen were hers. This is a time I like to sit in my dressing-gown lingering over a cup of tea,
buttering my sliced white toast rather more abundantly than is necessary, listening to the radio, or reading the paper. I don’t want anyone to observe me in these private moments.

‘You told me,’ she says, ‘that you are going to see Max this week. So I think perhaps you want me to make the house beautiful for him? I’ll do it for you. Make it smell
good, put some flowers out for you?’

Her tone is conspiratorial, full of intimacy. I think of how I opened up to her yesterday. It is perhaps not surprising that she assumes this is how things are between us now.

I don’t like her implying that she knows better than I how to please my own lover, however. If Max were coming here, it would be my job to worry about the house, not hers.

‘Mona, I want you to look after Daddy today. You could take him to the park. I’ll show you how to get there. Then cook him dinner. Daddy’s your job.’

She bows her head, a gesture that has begun to rouse in me a mixture of discomfort and irritation. I realise how rash I’ve been. I’ve told her all about my feelings for Max when I
know so little about her. The expression comes unbidden into my head: ‘You should not cast pearls before swine.’

Is this what I’d done?

When I was married to Roger and having help in the home was the norm, the staff had their own quarters and knew to keep out of ours until we’d vacated them. It was easy
to maintain a polite distance. We could treat them as though they weren’t there.