Little Bee

On the other side of the glass, the day smelled of summer. My neighbor had shuffled along his washing line, three feet to the left. He’d finished pegging Y-fronts. Now he was on to socks. His washing hung like prayer flags, petitioning daytime gods: I seem to have moved to the suburbs, I’m afraid. Can anything be done?

A thought of escape presented itself, rascalish and unannounced. I could simply leave, right now, couldn’t I? I could take Charlie, my credit card and my favorite pink shoes and we could all get on a plane together. The house and the job and the grief would all shrink to a point behind me. I remember realizing, with a guilty thrill, that there was no longer one single reason for me to be here—far from the center of my heart, cast away here in its suburbs.

But life is not inclined to let any of us escape. That was the moment I heard a knock at the door. I opened the door to Little Bee, and for the longest time I simply stared at her. Neither of us spoke. After a few moments I let her in and I sat her down on the sofa. Black girl in a red-and-white Hawaiian shirt, stained by the Surrey clay. Sofa from Habitat. Memories from hell.

—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.”