This is Not a Fairy Tale Page 8

After dinner, Grace went off to begin packing up her toys, ever convinced that we were about to wing off to Africa and begin distributing largesse at any one moment. I’d managed to survive the rigorous grilling during dinner by proposing to investigate the possibility, and while this hadn’t really placated her, it did serve to buy me a little time before the necessity for one of those “because I said so” discussions arose. And as for the packing up of toys, I really didn’t mind. Between their father, who seemed to buy almost all of the contents of Toys R Us every time he saw them, probably as a way of making up for not paying school fees, and their paternal grandmother, who was trying to makeup for her son, we were overrun by toys.

  I had finished clearing the table and was gazing blankly into the fridge, trying to imagine what new and amazingly tempting school lunch I could concoct out of lettuce, three eggs and a jar of pickles, when Lillia wandered in and propped herself up on the kitchen bench.

  Out of both of my children, Lillia was the one who had suffered the most from the divorce. While Grace was understandably hurt and upset, her youth and very character gave her the power to push past the sadness. Lillia, on the other hand, was wounded to the core by her father’s actions, and even though she no longer cried herself to sleep or bit her nails, she bore an unmistakable aura of tragedy about her. Although she’d never been the kind child to be raucous and full of beans, more the drifty, dreamy type, she’d still been fairly happy-go-lucky. And most of all, she’d been the eternal optimist.

  Nowadays, although she wasn’t glum, it seemed that there was no way to remove the ever-present mist of tristesse from her. On bad days, I felt like the most terrible mother in the world to have let this happen to my beautiful first-born; on worse days, I wanted to shake her and scream “You’re alive! You’re healthy! You’re young and you can make any kind of life you like! People love you! Get a grip!”. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful or disagreeable, only that she’d lost the gift of finding joy and utility in life. In my head, an evil voice whispered that I wasn’t so different, but the nice thing about voices in our head is that you can ignore them.

  “What’s up, my chickadee?” I asked my daughter who, while physically present, appeared to be much elsewhere.

  Lillia looked up at me and smiled, swinging her legs back and forth.

  “Nothing much. I think I’m going to stop going to school though.”

  I closed the fridge door and walked over to her.

  “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons but unfortunately, it’s not legal. You have to go to school until you are sixteen, at the very least.”

  A mutinous frown appeared on her face.

  “That’s not true. I can be home-schooled. You can teach me.”

  Ah yes, an excellent idea. In addition to attempting to maintain some kind of professional motivation in life, at least enough to keep us fed and clothed, I would also take on the role of full-time teacher. I tried desperately not to snort cynically but failed, only to see my daughter’s eyes fill up with tears.

  “Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun of you. It’s just that it’s really hard for me to work and run the house and be a mummy all at the same time. I don’t know how I’d find time to be a good teacher too. Gosh, you know more than me anyway,” I joshed, trying to lighten things up a bit.

  “Anyway, wouldn’t you miss your friends? All alone here all day with your grumpy old mother doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  Lillia shook her head, keeping her eyes on her toes.

  “That’s the whole point. I don’t have any friends. Not real ones, best friends. Not since Maria moved away.”

  Maria was her best friend of two years who had, in an impeccably ill-chosen case of bad timing, moved to England just about a week after Lillia’s dad left home.

  I began to point out that she’d make more new friends at school than hanging around at home with me, when she interrupted me.

  “I don’t want any new friends. Everyone I love just goes away in the end and then I’m sad again. There’s no point.”

  I sank heavily into a chair and thought for a moment. This was far worse than I’d imagined. Lillia wasn’t depressed, she was demoralized, and the most horrible thing was that somehow, I understood her. I didn’t date for pretty much the same reasons; despite the occasional waves of lust and longing that hit me from time to time; I preferred not to have to get attached to people who were probably going to disappear from my life anyway. But that was different. I was past forty. Lilia was a baby and she couldn’t spend the whole of her life in isolation, scared to love anyone or anything in case she lost.

  Pushing the chair away from the table, I walked over and put my arms around my little girl. It wasn’t the right time to launch into any rallying pep talks. I needed to think this through and find a way to make my daughter understand that even though she’d lost some love, she’d gained experience, and that life was waiting to surprise her with so much more, more joy.

  The next day, I was busily hassling more potential clients when a gentle knock at the door alerted me to the presence of Mrs. Brinkley. When I opened the door, I found myself facing a huge and somewhat terrifying African mask, its rictus invoking cannibals and painful death rather than cool holiday trophy.

  Mrs. Brinkley’s head popped out from behind the mask.

  “Oh hello dear, I hope I didn’t startle you. It’s just that the only way I can hold this thing upright is to stand behind it.”

  Shaken out of my state of surprise, I rushed to hold the mask so that the elderly lady could let go.

  “Um,” I began tentatively. “Should I ask why you are dragging this enormous … relic … through the hallways?”

  She looked at me, nonplussed.

  “But it’s yours. I couldn’t just leave it there – someone might have stolen it.”

  I refrained from remarking that such a solution could only be wished for, and concentrated on the “mine” part.

  “Mrs. Brinkley, I’m sorry that you’ve dragged that thing all the way up here but it’s not mine.”

  “Of course it is, dear,” she said, foraging in one of her usual voluminous pockets, big enough to store any kind of miracle. “Ah, here it is. This was attached to it but it fell off when I put the mask in the lift.”

  She handed me a cream cardboard tag with a piece of red string hanging from it. I turned it over and saw that it bore my name and address, as well as a postmark from… Jinja.

  “I don’t suppose there was a letter with it, was there?” I asked hopefully.

  Mrs. Brinkley clicked her mouth to indicate no and then spent a minute perusing the mask, her head cocked to the side as she ran her fingers over the wood grain.

  “If I’m not mistaken, this is Arawa. She’s the moon goddess. Daughter of Tororut, the creator god, and Seta. She’s mostly worshiped in Uganda and Kenya.”

  She stepped back.

  “A lovely piece of work, my dear. You’re very lucky.”

  She laughed when she saw the look of surprise on my face.

  “A long time ago, I lived in Africa and got to know quite a bit about the mythology. It was when I was working in a mission, before the war.”

  Mrs. Brinkley gazed at the mask, clearly remembering a different time and place, and when she spoke, her voice witnessed her nostalgia.

  “The people used to call me Malaika, which means angel sent from the gods. Every time I see a falling star, I remember the good old days.”

  I manhandled the giant mask into the entry hall and invited Mrs. Brinkley in for a cup of tea. There was no way I was going to get anything done now. Talk about being beaten over the head. First Ombeline, then Grace and now my next-door neighbor, all African missionaries in disguise.

  “A cup of tea sounds just lovely, my dear. And I made an orange cake this morning. I’ll just pop home and get it while you make the tea.”

  While the kettle was boiling, I stepped out and look at the mask again. Now that I looked more closely, I realiz
ed it wasn’t as ugly as I’d first thought. The carving was remarkably fine and the detail was incredible, right down to the grain of the skin. A line of seven tiny stars framed each of the eyes, and when I looked closely, I saw that what I had thought were bumps near her left ear were actually tiny horse-like creatures, each with a single horn.

  I was just warming the pot when I heard Mrs. Brinkley come back in. She was bearing a beautifully decorated cake on one of her precious unicorn plates, but her eyes were worried.

  Pushing aside the question of what I was going to do with the mask and how I was going to turn down Ombeline – in spite of the mask, which she had obviously sent – I ushered Mrs. Brinkley over to the table.

  “You seem upset. Is everything alright?” I asked, pouring the tea.

  Mrs. Brinkley visibly pulled herself together and flashed me a bright smile.

  “Oh yes, dear, everything will be fine.”

  She faltered for a moment, stirring her tea with a trace of agitation.

  “It’s just that I’m going to have to move out much sooner than expected. Apparently the owners have decided to begin work almost immediately in my apartment and given that I don’t have a rental contract, they are well within their rights to have me move. And you know dear, I haven’t found a single thing to rent, not even at a distance.”

  Another tremulous smile.

  “Apparently, I’m too old to rent an apartment.”

  I could see that she was very upset, despite her attempt at a cheery tone. Leaning over to pour some more tea, I tried to reassure her.

  “You can stay here with us for as long as you like. I know it’s not the same as having your own apartment but we’d love to have you…”

  Mrs. Brinkley smiled gratefully at me.

  “That’s very sweet of you, my dear, but I could not impose like that. Something will work out before the end of the month. It always does. Now tell me, who’s been sending you moon goddess masks all the way from Uganda? A secret admirer?”

  I shook my head and tried to prevent a snarky cynicism in my response.

  “I doubt it, or else it’s the world’s best kept secret.”

  While we sipped our tea, I told her about Ombeline and the orphanage, and then about Lillia and work, or the lack of it. That was the problem with Mrs. Brinkley – she was such a good listener that sooner or later, you ended up telling her everything.

  When I had finished my own tale of woe, she patted me gently on the hand.

  “My dear, you really do have a lot on your hands. Of course you can’t go rushing off to Africa, with all of that going on.”

  She paused to sip her tea.

  “It’s such a pity that I’m too old or it would have been the perfect solution. I loved my days in Africa. I can’t remember the last time I felt so useful. We think we have problems but until you live with people who have less than nothing and are still filled with the joy of being alive, you really can’t understand how terribly lucky you are.”

  She entertained me with tales of her adventures in Africa until it was time for me to go and get the girls from school. We were one week away from the dreaded two months of summer holidays, and the teachers were cleaning out the classrooms. I knew the girls would have far too many things to carry home on the school bus, so I’d arranged to pick them up.

  As I was driving to school, I thought about how I’d have to get cracking on finding some activities for the girls to keep them distracted during the summer break. We weren’t going away because I really couldn’t afford to spring for a holiday, especially given that I had virtually no income planned for the immediate future.

  As always, there was nowhere to park near the school, so I drove into the car park of the local shopping centre, hoping that no one would catch on. One of the school mummies I know had had her car clamped there only a few weeks ago – the car park was strictly limited to shoppers.

  Given that I was actually a little early, I decided to go for a quick window browse through the shops. At least that would make it seem that I wasn’t abusing the car park hospitality. As I headed off into the centre, I noticed that the strange little mystical shop – the kind of place that sold Buddhas and incense and crystal rock formations with intergalactic names – had morphed into a travel agency. On impulse, I walked into the agency. Perhaps I could find a last minute, cheap trip somewhere not too far, after all. It couldn’t hurt to look, although I really didn’t expect to find anything much in my budget. Heaven knows, pony club and tennis club and art classes were going to cost a fortune anyway.

  The tall black guy behind the counter stood up as I entered and smiled at me. His tee shirt bore the ANC flag and a map of Africa with the names of all of the countries on it.

  Before he could speak, the words were out of my mouth.

  “Could you give me an idea of prices for flights to Uganda? One adult, two children, return tickets for early next month.”

  He looked at me in surprise.

  “It’s funny that you should ask, because we received some extraordinary package deals this morning for holidays in Uganda and Kenya. I was just about to send them back to the head agency because this is not exactly the kind of place to sell adventure holidays. Club Med maybe, but not gorilla trekking or white water rafting on the Nile…”

  He indicated a seat and started pulling some brochures out of an envelope. I was about to interrupt him and tell him that I really only wanted flights, not a holiday, when he passed me a brochure.

  “Here we go. This is what I was looking for. The price is all-inclusive and they have an impeccable safety record. You fly into Entebbe airport. A bus takes you to Jinja, about 45 kilometers away…”

  I sat up in my chair. Enough already. I looked around nervously to check that there wasn’t a snippy talking unicorn lurking in the corner.

  “I’m sorry, where?”

  “Jinja. It’s right on the Nile and one of the best places to go for adventure holidays. The rafting is even better than Zimbabwe, and much safer too.”

  I turned the brochure over in my hands. Even with the three of us, the prices were slightly less than what I’d been expecting to spend on holiday entertainment for the girls. I quickly scanned the pictures of laughing, smiling tourists of all ages. The camps seemed clean and respectable and the airline had won safety and service awards three years in a row.

  The travel agent was busy with his computer, muttering to himself as he worked.

  “Ah, that’s it. Goodness me, I don’t know why they send me these promotions if they’re already sold out…”

  Breathing a sigh of relief – one sign from above shot down – I was getting up to go when the man reached over to his printer and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he handed to me.

  “You’re very lucky. There were only three places left to go and I’ve reserved them for you but you’ll have to book quickly. There’s an extra twenty percent off if you book before five pm. The departure dates are fixed but you can change your return dates if you want to spend a little extra time exploring the region.”

  I looked at my watch. It was half past three, time to go and get the girls. I grabbed my handbag from the floor and drew out my credit card.

  “Then let’s do it now.”

  9

  The first step of the journey