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On the table is a small box of groceries. ‘Oh, Mike. Thank you.’ Asante. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Just a few things to tide you over until you can go shopping. Wouldn’t want our boy to starve.’ He flicks a look at Archie’s Oscar-worthy performance. ‘I’ll go and put the casserole on to warm,’ my neighbour says. ‘See you in a hour?’
‘That will be lovely.’
And with that, Mike takes his leave.
I look around my tiny cottage and it seems like an alien place. There’s a weird sense of disconnect that I can’t begin to explain. My twee little knick-knacks, my floral curtains. Did I really choose these? I hardly recognise my own home. How can that have happened in so short a time? It seems so unutterably English. Ridiculously so. This is a million miles away from the Maasai Mara. A fiddly little watercolour compared to big, bold brushstrokes. I wonder what Dominic would think of it here? He’d bang his head a lot, that’s for sure.
It’s five in the afternoon and already I need the lights on. The cottage feels chilly as no one has been here for the week and I click the central heating up a notch or two and the pipes clang into life. No campfire to snuggle up to around here.
I feed Archie, who then turns his back on me to eat – cupboard love – and I go upstairs, heaving my suitcase behind me. In the bedroom, I plonk it onto the bed and open it. On top of the case is Dominic’s kanga, his Maasai blanket which he gave me as a keepsake. I hold the bright red and orange striped fabric to me and inhale deeply. The scent of Dominic, of Africa, comes flooding back and tears rush to my eyes.
Part of me should be happy to be back at Little Cottage. Isn’t there usually a sense of relief when you land on home turf once again? The going away is marvellous and, usually, the coming back is even better. Your own bed, your own pillow, your own cup of tea made exactly as you like it. But not this time. This time I don’t care about these things. This time a part of me has stayed in Africa and I wonder how long it will take for me to feel whole again.
The red light on the answerphone is flashing and I flick it on to play back the messages. One is from Nina hoping that I’m back safely. All of the others arefrom Lewis ‘The Moron’ Moran, wondering when we’ll be able to ‘hook up’ again. Never, I think. Not in my lifetime nor the next. Not until Jimmy Carr tells clean jokes. Not until Terry Wogan stops waffling. Not until Simon Cowell needs to claim Jobseeker’s Allowance.
I wrap Dominic’s kanga around my shoulders and sit on the bed, thinking about where I was just the night before last, on the plains of Africa, lying happily in his arms.
After a few moments, I realise that I’m going to have to move myself, otherwise Mike’s casserole will be burnt and I’ll still be sitting here, pining. In the bathroom, I run the hottest bath you’ve ever known while thinking guiltily of a people to whom water is the most precious commodity. I strip off my travel-worn clothes and sink into it, letting the water soothe my weary bones and my weary heart.
Half an hour later and the water is cold and the colour of caramel. It seems as if I brought half of the Maasai Mara home with me on my body. I wash the dust from my hair and it feels strange using my hairdryer and straighteners again.
I slip on an old Juicy Couture velour tracksuit – I can hardly stand up, let alone posh up. And it’s only Mike, for goodness’ sake. He won’t expect me to make an effort. Then I root in the bottom of my carry-on bag for the presents I bought for my neighbour – a hastily purchased bottle of Amarulu and two CDs of African music at Nairobi airport. Downstairs, I also grab a bottle of wine from the rack.
Kissing Archie, I say, ‘I won’t be long, just going next door,’ and he looks at me reproachfully as if to say, ‘you’re back five minutes and you’re going again?’
Knocking at Mike’s door, I feel nervous and I don’t know why. He’s all smiles as he lets me in.
‘Perfect timing,’ he says. ‘It’s just ready.’ There are wonderful aromas coming from the direction of the kitchen.
‘Here.’ I hand over my presents and the bottle of wine.
‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘Just a little thank you for my lift.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, Janie,’ he insists. ‘You know that.’
‘Thanks, anyway.’
‘I’ll put this on.’ He takes the CDs, slots one into his player and the sounds of rhythmic African music fill the room. It seems strangely out of context here in swinging, ringing Nashley.
Mike’s cottage is much bigger than mine, but still has a homely feel. He has three bedrooms to my single one and a much larger living room and kitchen. It’s a lovely place, but I have to say that a lot of it remains a shrine to Tania. The telly is bigger now and there’s also a Wii and a selection of boys’-type shoot ‘em up games, but little else has changed. I don’t think that his wife took very much with her when she left. Though today, I note that the dozens of photographs of them doing coupley things have been removed from the windowsill. Another sign, perhaps, that Mike is keen to move on?
