Cause Celeb (46 page)

The man spoke rapidly, in short bursts, his eyes focused on the middle distance. Every now and then he paused and made a little humming noise in his throat.

“He is saying that he left his village because his child was sick. The rest of the people have no food but they are waiting for the harvest. Only he has seen that the locusts are hatching around the riverbed and so he is afraid that these locusts will come before the harvest.”

“And what about the other villagers?”

“They are afraid but they are making ready to protect the harvest with sticks and with fire.”

“Don't they have any pesticides at all?” I asked.

“No. None.”

On the way back, O'Rourke said, “I think they've been sent here to raise the alarm, and got sicker than they thought on the way. I don't have the impression he needed to come.”

“Not yet, anyway,” I said.

“You may be right,” said Muhammad.

When we got back to the Toyota, a small crowd had gathered. Word had evidently spread about the arrivals. There were two
officials of RESOK, the Keftian relief association, wanting to talk to me. They spoke to Muhammad first.

“They want to know what it means for them,” he said.

“Of course.”

“They do not want their brothers to be turned away, but there is not enough food. They want to know when the ship is coming.”

I wanted to know when the ship was coming too. This was not the time to be running low on supplies.

“Could you say that I see things very much as they do and will do what I can? There is no need to be afraid.”

At this O'Rourke let out a disapproving tsking noise, which surprised me.

There was more point-making from the RESOK guys. The mood was restless and uncomfortable.

“I don't think this is the moment for a discussion group,” I said quietly to Muhammad. He nodded and said something to the group and they let us go. As we started up the hill I caught sight of Liben Alye standing at the side of the road, still holding Hazawi, who was sleeping now. He held up his hand and waved.

*

“Oooh, I haven't had pâté for eighteen months and then it was more of a terrine, which I'm not so keen on. It's the lumps of fat I can take or leave,” Betty was gushing.

The pâté was a present from O'Rourke. It turned out that he had brought a large crate of goodies as well as his one bag. The fridge was now full of exotic cheeses and chocolates from America. There was Earl Grey tea on the shelf, good olive oil, and several bottles of wine. He'd done pretty well to get those past Customs. O'Rourke was clearly a success. It was as if a rooster had arrived in a farmyard sending everyone clucking and flapping into the air. Henry seemed rather thrown. He was used to being the only man round the table.

After about half an hour of food talk O'Rourke was getting fidgety.

“What's our situation now in terms of supplies?” He said it quietly, just to me, but everyone turned to listen.

“Not good,” I said. “We missed the delivery before the June rains because the ship from France didn't come in time. By the time it arrived the trucks couldn't get through to us.”

“That's because of the mud, huh?”

“And the rivers,” said Debbie. “The water just comes rushing down in a torrent. You can't get through it.”

“So what did you do?”

“We had to go on half rations for August,” I said. “The trucks got through at the start of September but the UN had sent some of our consignment to the South so we only got two months' rations instead of five.”

“So where does that leave you now?”

“We should have had another delivery at the beginning of October but the ship is late again. I've been cutting down the rations so we've got enough for a few weeks, maybe four or five, but not if we start getting new arrivals.”

“And the rations come from UNHCR?”

“Yes.”

“Can't you get emergency food from SUSTAIN?” said O'Rourke.

I smiled wryly. O'Rourke was probably used to the big U.S. agencies who were able to throw money at a crisis.

“SUSTAIN are supposed to supply staff here, not food. They're good. They'll help if they can but they're just one little agency with no money.”

There was silence.

“It'll probably be all right,” I said. “The ship'll come soon.”

“You reckon?” said O'Rourke. Then he said, “Shall we have some cheese?” and, realizing the irony, he smiled. “Well, that's the starving taken care of. Pass the Brie, will you?”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Henry. “Let them eat Brie.”

After a while O'Rourke got up and went to bed and Linda followed soon after. There were lots of meaningful looks exchanged.
But they were not particularly satisfying as meaningful looks go because nobody quite knew what they meant.

“Anyone want any more cheese while it's still here?” said Henry, handing it round, leaning his arm across Sian's shoulder.

“Rosie, do you remember Monica Hutchinson—used to run Dessie in 'seventy-three?” said Betty.

Well, obviously I didn't since I had only just entered my teens at the time.

“It's funny, I don't know why, I was thinking about her today.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. She was a lovely woman.”

Silence, everyone continued to pick at the cheese.

“Lovely—but just a bit too easygoing. Oooh, they had terrible trouble in Dessie. The staff used to indulge in relationships, which I've always felt is most unwise in a small community, I'm sure you agree. Anyway, Monica just used to turn a blind eye to it, you know, people will be people. But they ended up in a most terrible situation with fights and dreadful scenes and in the end two of the nurses had to be sent home. But the worst of it was, they had complaints from the Ministry of Information office who'd seen it Going On.”

“Seen what going on?” I said.

“Well, you know,” said Betty.

More silent eating. I daren't look at anyone.

“I must say, Betty, I didn't realize ministers of information extended their line of duty to old Vera Voyeurism,” Henry remarked.

A laugh spurted out of Debbie which she turned into an only quite convincing cough/sneeze hybrid.

“She was a super girl was Monica.” As if she hadn't heard, Betty went on trying to convince us this wasn't a parable. “Married Colin Seagrove who was CMO at Wadkowli in 'seventy-seven.”

I wanted to stay talking with everyone. It was reassuring, all the normal stupid chat, but they all started getting up and going to bed so I went and sat on the edge of the hill for quite a long time, thinking. Debbie came over after she'd had her shower and we chatted for a bit about the arrivals, and then did a bit of nodding
and winking in the direction of Linda's hut. When I got into my hut I'd forgotten to tuck the net in round the bed and there was a spider on the sheet, a brown one with thick legs covered in lumps. I flattened it with a copy of
Newsweek
and chucked it outside. I checked the bed with the hurricane lamp but it still wasn't nice getting in. I couldn't sleep because I kept seeing the family slumped against Betty's hut. The dogs were barking. Sometimes they used to bark all night, those bloody dogs. I wondered if Linda really was in bed with O'Rourke. I started to feel lonely, then reminded myself that there are worse things than being on your own.

CHAPTER
Seven

I
was crying in my bed beside him, but I think he didn't know. A thin wet line was trickling across my face into my ear. It was Saturday night, two months since I had first slept with Oliver. I got out of bed, and crept towards the door, trying to avoid the floorboard that creaked. I stretched out my hand for my dressing gown and as I reached across I knocked a glass off the dressing table next to it.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I froze, said nothing.

“What time is it?”

“I don't know. It's dark,” I whispered.

Oliver picked his watch up off the bedside table and threw it down. “Jesus Christ, it's five o'clock in the morning. I've only been asleep half an hour. Thanks.”

I stayed where I was till he settled down, then carried on towards the door. It was closed. I turned the handle very, very slowly and pulled. It let out a long, loud creak.

A book flew across the room. I slipped out and shut the door behind me.

In the kitchen I made a cup of tea and went through into the living room, where my tapes and books were now arranged in alphabetical order.

I had been looking forward to Saturday night all week. That was my date with Oliver. He was a busy man. He liked to sleep with
me, and seemed keen on me, but he didn't have time to see me more than once a week. I understood, of course I did. I was lucky to be sleeping with Oliver Marchant. Hermione was positively green. Sex was all the more wild and exquisite because I was unsure of him and had to wait. It was the fruit of days of fantasies. I used to feel him inside me and think I was still dreaming.

The relationship seesaw: What would you do if it was perfectly balanced? I thought. Sitting there, suspended boringly, legs dangling in the air. Much better to be slightly at a disadvantage; so much more fun that way, swinging to and fro trying to get a bit higher. Much better to have those passionate, tantalizing thrills than endless boring TV suppers, sitting snuggled on the sofa in jeans and an old cardi, not caring what you looked like because inside you were so sure he loved you just for you. I looked at the trail of stockings and suspenders on the living room floor and burst into tears again. What you don't want is to be on a seesaw with a maniac like Oliver, who keeps lifting you up high then banging you down on the tarmac, so that all your most sensitive inner parts are bashed about and broken. I knew that I should dust myself down, thumb my nose at him and walk away. I couldn't do it.

*

On the Friday he had called me at the office and said he was sorry, he'd forgotten, he had a party on Saturday night.

“Oh, great. That'll be nice, whose party?”

“Rosie, the thing is, it's just a small do, invitation only. I mean I don't really want to go but . . .”

So I couldn't come. Saturday night was off. Every time he did this I thought he meant it was over. Hermione was listening.

“That's fine. No problem,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Look I'll call you tonight. OK?”

“I thought you were busy tonight?”

Why couldn't we go out tonight instead?

“Look, I just need a night in, all right, it's been a long week.” So why not have a night in with me, watching telly on the sofa? I said nothing.

“I'll call you tonight.” He was angry now. I had offended the mysterious unwritten code.

“I might go out tonight.”

“Who are you going with?” he said angrily.

I said nothing, startled by his tone.

“OK, if that's the way you want to play it. I'll call you in the morning. Bye.” Slam.

“All right, that'll be great. I'll see you then. Yes, lovely. Talk to you tomorrow,” I said to no one, smiling at no one, looking up at Hermione. “Bye, sweetheart.”

That night I went round to Shirley's and moped a bit, had a bottle of wine with her, giggled about men—“Men? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em”—tried clothes on, went home in a taxi and a good mood.

When I got in there was one message on the answerphone.

“Hello, my little Devon plumpkin. Just wanted to hear your voice. Sorry I was so vile this afternoon. It's been a filthy week. I'll tell you about it. Mmmmm. Wish you were here now. Give me a ring when you get in if you like.”

I was a bit drunk. I called him. He was sweet, we talked dirty. We arranged to have lunch on Sunday. We talked dirty some more. I felt romantic. Poor old thing, with his pressures and horrible work and social demands. He said, “I'll tell you what. I'll come round after the party tomorrow. I won't be late. It's just a duty job.” And I thought, Why not?

*

On Saturday I spoke to Rhoda. She was going to the same party as Oliver. It was in an old church in Notting Hill. Five hundred people were expected. Maybe he didn't realize. Maybe it didn't seem like that on the invitation.

“Ditch him, girl,” said Rhoda.

I stayed in. I thought he'd come round before midnight. At eleven, I slipped into a little black silk teddy and stockings. He really liked stockings, Oliver did. At one o'clock, I got into bed, still in the stockings. I slept in fits and starts. I was awake at three when
the doorbell rang. He was rolling drunk. This time, even when we were having sex all over the living room, I was annoyed.

When we lay in bed afterwards I asked him about the party. “Were there a lot of people there?”