Little Bee - Chris Cleave [40]
—I don’t know what to say. I thought you must be dead.
—I am not dead, Sarah. Maybe it would be better if I was.
—Don’t say that. You look very tired. You need some rest, I should think.
There was a silence that went on too long.
—Yes. You are right. I need some rest.
—How on earth did you…I mean, how did you survive? How did you get here?
—I walked.
—From Nigeria?
—Please. I am very tired.
—Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes. Would you like a cup of, you know…
I didn’t wait for the answer. I fled. I left Little Bee sitting on the sofa, propped up on the John Lewis cushions, and I ran upstairs. I closed my eyes and rolled my forehead against the cool glass of the bedroom window. I dialed someone. A friend. More than a friend, actually. That’s what Lawrence was.
“What is it?” said Lawrence.
“You sound cross.”
“Oh. Sarah. It’s you. God I’m sorry. I thought you were the nanny. She’s late. And the baby’s just been sick on my tie. Shit.”
“Something’s happened, Lawrence.”
“What?”
“Someone’s turned up I really wasn’t expecting.”
“Funerals are always like that. All the old skeletons come theatrically out of their closets. You can’t keep the bastards away.”
“Yes of course, but this is more than that. It’s, it’s…”
I stammered away and fell silent.
“Sorry Sarah, I know this sounds awful, but I’m in a terrible rush here. Is it something I can actually help with?”
I pressed my flushed face against the cold glass. “Sorry. I’m a bit confused.”
“It’s the funeral. You’re going to feel a bit scatty, aren’t you? I’m sorry, but there’s no way around that. I wish you’d let me come. How are you feeling about it all?”
“About the funeral?”
“About the whole situation.”
I sighed.
“I don’t feel anything. I feel numb.”
“Oh Sarah.”
“I’m just waiting for the undertaker now. I’m slightly nervous, maybe. That’s all. Like waiting at the dentist’s.”
“Right,” said Lawrence, carefully.
A pause.In the background, the sound of Lawrence’s children squabbling at the breakfast table. I realized I couldn’t tell Lawrence about Little Bee turning up. Not now. It suddenly didn’t seem fair, to add it to his list of problems. Late for work, baby sick on tie, tardy nanny…oh, and now a presumed-dead Nigerian girl, resurrected on his mistress’s sofa. I didn’t think I could do that to him. Because this is the thing, with being lovers. It isn’t like being married. To remain in the game, one has to be considerate. One has to acknowledge a certain right-to-life of the other. So I stayed silent. I listened to Lawrence taking a deep breath, on the edge of exasperation.
“So what’s confusing you? Is it that you’re not feeling anything much and you think you should be?”
“It’s my husband’s funeral. I should be sad, at least.”
“You’re in control of yourself. You’re not a gusher. Celebrate that.”
“I can’t cry for Andrew. I keep thinking about that day in Africa. On the beach.”
“Sarah?”
“Yes?”
“I thought we agreed it was best that you forget all that. What happened, happened. We agreed that you were just going to move on, didn’t we. Hmm?”
I pressed my left hand flat against the windowpane and stared at the stump of my lost finger.
“I don’t think moving on is going to work anymore, Lawrence. I don’t think I can just continue to deny what happened. I don’t think I’ll be able to. I…”
My voice trailed off.
“Sarah? Deep breaths.”
I opened my eyes. Outside, Batman was still poking fiercely at the pond. The Today Programme scolded away on the radio. Next door the neighbor had finished pegging his washing and now he simply stood there, eyes half-closed. Soon he would move on to a new task: the percolation of coffee, perhaps, or the application of replacement twine to the spool of a string trimmer. Small problems. Neat problems.
“Now that Andrew’s, well, gone, Lawrence. Do you think you and I will be…”
A pause on the other end of the phone.Then Lawrence—careful Lawrence—noncommittal.
“Andrew