Authors: Mairi Wilson
Wall lamps splashed yellow pools of light over the cane chairs and coffee tables outside each room, mahogany floorboards gleamed, and potted palms and other plants she didn’t yet recognise cast living shadows against the plain white walls adorned with occasional paintings of African landscapes. Her footsteps echoed as she walked towards one of the two staircases that swept down from either side of the rectangle, then crossed the patio to make her way back to the reception area to ask for directions to the restaurant.
“Ah, Miss Shaw,” the sharply dressed receptionist greeted her as she approached the desk. “We have a message for you.”
“Really?”
“It just arrived. We were told not to disturb you but to wait until you came down.”
“Thank you.” Lexy took the proffered envelope, surprised to see her name handwritten in black ink across its centre. She turned it over, but there was nothing on the reverse to indicate its sender.
“Are you having dinner, Miss Shaw? Barney can show you to the restaurant.”
A flick of the receptionist’s forefinger summoned a short teenager, resplendent in a bellhop’s uniform, to her side.
“Please, follow me, Miss.” Lexy followed the boy across the lobby towards a gentle hum of conversation and the muffled sound of piano music playing in the background. He stood back to let her through to the restaurant ahead of him, to the greeting area where a magnificent ornate lectern guarded access to the tables. Double doors opened on to a bar on her right where the pianist’s bowed head was just visible beneath the slope of the grand piano’s lid. The few occupants of the room ignored him, more interested in each other, or their cocktails at least, than in the music: a lone drinker propping up the bar, a couple of tables taken by elderly, sun-leathered couples, a group of women in cocktail dresses giggling in armchairs by the window. Her mind still on the letter she held in her hands, she stopped in surprise as the lone drinker raised a hand to wave at her, then she lurched forward, dropping the letter as Barney stumbled into her back.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Lexy said, embarrassed, colliding with the boy again as they both reached for the letter at the same time. “Oh!” She rubbed her forehead, feeling herself blush at the sound of laughter from the bar, surely the lone drinker, amused at the effect he’d had on her.
“My fault, Miss Shaw. Allow me.” The boy ducked down, but not before Lexy saw a flash of white teeth as his mouth split into a grin. And she was sure he winked as he handed the letter back to her and ushered her forward again, up to the lectern and out of sight of the bar.
“Sorry – jet lag,” she offered by way of excuse, although she doubted the small time difference really made it a very good one. “Thank you.”
“No problem, Miss Shaw.”
“Barney.” A slightly disapproving voice behind her made Lexy spin round to the now-occupied lectern. “That will be all. I’ll take care of our guest now.” Attention turned to Lexy and the voice changed; its hard edge softened into a slippery obsequiousness that would have put Uriah Heep to shame. “How may I help you, ma’am?”
“I …” Lexy was mesmerised by the sheer height of the man, hovering over his lectern like a minister in a pulpit. Or, she thought irreverently, like a vulture. A Disney vulture, straight out of
The Jungle Book
. The hooded eyes—
“A table for Miss Shaw, please,” Barney prompted.
“Yes. Sorry. Yes, a table. For one, please.”
“Enjoy your meal, Miss Shaw.” Barney bowed and was gone before she could thank him.
As she walked the length of the busy dining room, aware of conversation slowing at the tables she passed, their occupants looking up to take in this newcomer, she became increasingly self-conscious. She was glad she’d ditched the backpack but knew it would take more than a pashmina to lend her the air of sophistication such opulent surroundings seemed to demand. At the far end, the restaurant extended out onto a long verandah alongside the same immaculate garden her room overlooked.
“Inside or out, madam?”
“Oh out, please. Definitely out.” There were fewer occupied tables on the verandah and these were interspersed with plants and carved fret screens, which offered greater privacy than the expanse of the inside room. As if intuiting her desire for concealment, or deducing from her appearance that she might cause less upset to the regular clientele if tucked discreetly away, the maître d’ led her smartly to a small table at the far end of the verandah, beyond the view of the other diners. He held a chair back for her, sliding it gently beneath her as she sat, then snapped a white linen napkin open and sailed it down onto her lap.
“Something to drink, Miss Shaw?” he asked as he laid an open menu down on the table in front of her. “One of our special cocktails perhaps, or might I suggest a glass of champagne as an aperitif?”
“You most certainly might,” Lexy said with feeling. She’d earned it after running the gauntlet of that dining room. A slight raising of an eyebrow led her to reappraise him. Not Disney at all. That look was pure Vulcan, all those nights with Danny watching
Star Trek
reruns …
“Um, yes.” She realised he was waiting for her to speak. “A glass of champagne, please.” Champagne? Again? Her conscience pricked her. Hardly appropriate for a grieving daughter. Anyone would think she was celebrating, which she wasn’t, or rich, which she most definitely wasn’t, but she’d worry about budgeting tomorrow. Besides, she hated to think what would happen to the Vulcan’s eyebrows if she ordered a pint of cider.
A slim flute was brought over by a waiter who took her order and then left her in peace to contemplate the still-unopened message she’d tucked inside the cover of her notebook. She was intrigued but reluctant to open it, didn’t want to disturb her sense of isolation and distance. Not running. Or hiding, of course. Who was she kidding? Danny had seen straight through her bluster.
But this message. No one was expecting her. No one even knew her here, or knew what had happened to her mother, or to Ursula, which was a big part of why she’d come. Had she even told anyone she was coming? Danny, but this wasn’t him. And the lawyer. She was going to contact the office here, but this hardly looked like an official letter. Besides, Lexy hadn’t said when she was coming, or where she’d be staying.
She was rattled. She’d been relishing the feeling of anonymity, of freedom. That someone had found her, had seen fit to communicate with her already had dispelled that all too quickly. She’d open it after dinner.
Procrastination, thy name is Lexy
. She tucked the note away at the back of her notebook again and pulled the Manila folder towards her. This too she’d been putting off, despite carrying it with her since the lawyer gave it to her. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to face up to her responsibilities and sort out Ursula’s affairs. And then her mother’s. How dare Danny think she was running away? She flicked open the folder and started browsing through the pages of numbers and legalese. A foreign language, in black and white and—
“Miss Shaw?”
She swept up the folder and sat back, expecting a plate to be placed in front of her, looking up when it wasn’t. A tall, fair-haired man sporting a blazer and what had to be a regimental or old school tie smiled down at her. The lone drinker.
“Yes?” Lexy managed, remembering the wave, wondering if she should know him, certain she didn’t.
“Forgive the intrusion.” He paused, as if expecting her to say something, but she had no idea what.
“Pendleton,” the man continued, smoothly. “Hugh. Consular service. Saw you come in. How do you do?”
“I’m sorry … Do I … Is there a problem?”
“Good heavens, no. Didn’t mean to alarm you. No problem at all. I always try to make visitors welcome, you see, show them around, help them get the most from their time in Malawi and so forth. Make sure they know who to come to if they need a hand, which is me, of course. Pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, I see,” Lexy said, shaking his damp hand, although she didn’t see at all. Surely this level of attention wasn’t normal from a consular service. Even somewhere like Malawi. More likely some lounge lizard ploy to chat her up. She’d stop that in its tracks. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Nonsense.” Hugh’s free hand waved dismissively. “All part of the service. Anything I can do and all that. Join you for a moment, shall I?”
Releasing her hand, he crashed heavily into the seat opposite, sending a shockwave across the table that upended Lexy’s champagne glass, its contents frothing over the notebook and Manila folder she’d just laid back down like spume from a breaking wave.
“Oh I say!” He snatched up the notebook and Lexy grabbed the folder. Waiters with cloths appeared almost immediately and a flurry of wiping and rearranging of linens and cutlery ensued.
“Awfully sorry about that. No harm done, though, all salvageable.” He was flicking through the notebook to let the pages dry without sticking together, but a little too slowly, as if trying to read what was written there.
“I’m sure it’s fine now, thanks.” Lexy reached across to reclaim the notebook, giving him no choice but to drag his eyes up from the page and hand it over. As he did so, the envelope she’d tucked inside the back cover fluttered down onto the tabletop between them. Hugh picked it up, turned it over and back, studied her name scrawled on the still-sealed envelope and frowned.
“You don’t seem to have opened this. Forgot it, did you?” The affable, cultivated bonhomie reappeared, but she could feel his eyes watching closely as she took it from him.
“It’s just arrived. I haven’t had time.”
“Don’t mind me. Might be urgent.”
“I very much doubt it.” Lexy looked around for a waiter. Vulture or Vulcan, she was relieved to see the maître d’ acknowledge her from deep within the restaurant and start off in her direction.
“Won’t know unless you open it.”
What was the matter with the man? “Look, Mr Pendleton—”
“Oh
Hugh
, please.”
“I don’t wish to be rude or unsociable or anything, but I really am rather tired.”
“Anything I can do for you, ma’am?” The maître d’ cast the briefest of glances in Hugh’s direction. “Sir.”
“No, we’re fi—”
“Thank you, yes,” Lexy cut in. “I wonder, could you arrange to have my supper sent up to my room? I think the jet lag’s catching up with me.”
“Of course, ma’am. Right away.” He melted away as smoothly and swiftly as he’d arrived.
Lexy stood and Hugh stumbled roughly to his feet.
“I say, nothing I said I hope.”
“Not at all, Mr Pendleton.” Lexy saw a sudden scowl crumple his face.
“
Hugh
.”
“It’s just it’s been a very long day and I think I was a bit overambitious coming down for dinner. Please excuse me.”
She smiled as best she could as she struggled to mask the irritation she was feeling. All she’d wanted was a quiet dinner, alone, looking through her notes and planning how she’d spend the next few days. Which, whatever else, would not be in the company of Mr Humongous Pain Pendleton.
“Another time, then. Spot of supper perhaps. Could show you some of Blantyre’s—”
“Thank you, but I’ve got quite a busy schedule ahead of me. Goodnight, Mr Pendleton.” Cheap shot, but she couldn’t resist. Lexy smiled sweetly as the scowl returned to his pink, fleshy face. She sincerely hoped that was the last she’d see of it.
Lexy was relieved to return to the sanctuary of her room, even though she’d forgotten just how much of a mess she’d left behind her. It looked like a crime scene, as if she’d been burgled or a spook from MI5 had ransacked the room looking for that missing microchip or whatever. But no. She knew she was quite capable of creating this level of turmoil all by herself.
Her backpack had fallen from the bed, where she’d flung it before going down for dinner, and Ursula’s unopened post was now scattered over the floor along with Dr Campbell’s letter and the other paraphernalia of travel. Her suitcase, too, seemed to have developed a will of its own, maliciously tangling clothes and papers and spewing them randomly from its open jaws.
More haste less speed.
Her mother’s voice again. Her mother had had an amazing repertoire of proverbs and sayings, something for every occasion. Even now.
She flipped open the suitcase and started to shake out clothes. Her mother was right, of course. If she’d taken the time to unpack properly rather than just rummaging and yanking out what she’d needed, it wouldn’t be such a chore now. In fact, if she’d taken the time to
pack
properly in the first place … She wished she could tell her mother she’d always known she was right, but it was just that teenagers didn’t admit to stuff like that. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t be telling her mother anything ever again.
She shoved the last of her underwear into a drawer and slammed it shut. She wouldn’t be sad. Not on her first night here in Malawi, the place her parents had met, where she’d been conceived. Happy thoughts, not sad ones, were more suited to memories like that.
She ate her supper on her balcony, with cicadas and moths for company. Far more amenable than Pendleton. She left the tray outside her door, locked herself in for the night, then curled up on the chaise longue on the balcony with the first of the photograph albums. A trip down memory lane could be dangerous territory after she’d been drinking champagne, albeit not very much before that man knocked it over, but nonetheless she’d chosen carefully. This one was labelled
Africa
, so she was unlikely to be hijacked by any unexpected glimpses of herself growing up with her parents. She couldn’t face anything like that yet.
The album had been painstakingly assembled, each photograph fixed in place with corner mounts, with a brief description inked beneath it or to one side in evenly spaced copperplate handwriting:
Zomba, May 1st 1947, Danish Embassy Upper Shire River Orphanage Fundraising Event, Helen and Ursula seated, Frederik Stenberg (Cultural Attaché) and Jurgen Axelsen (Director) standing.
Or later:
Blantyre Hospital, March 22nd 1949, Outpatients’ Clinic Opening Ceremony, L to R: Dr Campbell and his wife Evelyn, Matron Proudfoot, Sister Reid, Padre McFee
.