The Christmas Surprise
Page 16
‘ETIENNE!’
A voice was calling insistently in their direction, and Stephen turned towards it. Standing waving furiously was a tiny, strong-looking girl with short dark hair, a light tan, and a pair of khakis exactly like Stephen’s. Her face was animated, her teeth very white.
Stephen’s face broke into a smile.
‘FAUSTINE!’
The two of them jumped into a massive embrace, then they started speaking rapidly in French, of which Rosie understood not a word. She coughed, gently.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Stephen, his face still energised and excited-looking. ‘I haven’t seen Faust since … well, since everything.’
‘He was very naughty boy,’ said Faustine in the most charming French accent. ‘We write, we call, we send all the message, tu sais? And he does not answer us, he has forgotten us, he does not like us any more.’
Stephen shook his head.
‘Oh it wasn’t quite like that.’
Faustine smiled.
‘But now you are home, yes?’
‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m back.’
Rosie was glad he said this.
‘This is Rosie. My …’ he paused for a second, which caught at Rosie’s heart, ‘my fiancée.’
Faustine made a face.
‘Oui? Alors, my goodness, congratulations,’ she said, but she did not exactly smile. ‘You work in Africa too?’
‘It’s my first time,’ said Rosie. ‘But I can’t wait to see it.’
Faustine simply raised her eyebrows.
‘Alors, follow me.’
If the inside of the airport had been hot and stuffy, outside it was like stepping into an oven. Immediately Rosie pawed through her luggage looking for her sunglasses. She couldn’t remember feeling the heat of the sun so strongly before. Everywhere people in bright clothing were getting into cars, piling luggage on to scooters and bicycles, selling small boxes of bits and pieces, newspapers, SIM cards, bottles of water.
As if reading her mind, Faustine took out a large, dirty-looking plastic bottle and passed it round.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘You’ll get thirsty.’
Rosie wanted to pour the entire thing over her head, but took a few mouthfuls and passed it on to Stephen, who winked at her conspiratorially as Faustine barked a few commands in French into her phone. About five minutes later, just as Rosie was hoping they were staying in a nice hotel somewhere with air conditioning, a rickety old van with the organisation’s logo on the side bounced up, the driver, also in khakis – Rosie was beginning to curse the flowery dresses she’d packed – waving to them brightly.
There was no suspension in the van, and they bounced uncomfortably in the back seat. There was air conditioning, of a sort, that puffed out occasional huffs of lukewarm air, as if in a bad mood, but it was pretty tricky to catch them.
Even so, the city was such a stunning sight that Rosie forgot everything: she just wanted to lean her head out and catch all of it.
Cars in varying conditions of terrible cluttered up the roads, with things attached to the top, mismatched wheels, men hanging off the back. There were some traffic lights, most of which were systematically ignored. Their driver spent a lot of time leaning on the horn, as did everybody else. Stephen and Faustine talked about all the people they had in common – none of whom Rosie knew – but she found she didn’t mind, as she stared at the colourful, chaotic, brightly lit scene in front of her eyes. Little children charged about – some, she noticed, carrying baguettes under their arms – men shouted angrily into their phones; there were animals everywhere; terrifyingly small mopeds laden with people and parcels weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic; music wailing from car stereos.
Rosie forgot she was uncomfortably hot and thirsty and would really like a long hot bath; she forgot that she was slightly jealous that Stephen was so animated speaking to this funny-looking little French firecracker. Instead, she simply breathed in the sights and the smells: the women in their bright prints; the boys, by contrast, in Western clothes; the children wearing incongruous outfits that she guessed must come through charitable giving: One Direction T-shirts, Justin Bieber, lots and lots of Manchester United. A little girl, her hair pinned up, sitting peeling corn by the side of the road, looked up as they passed and gave her a smile and a tentative wave, and Rosie waved back, wanting to stop the van and jump out and give her some of the large assortment of sweets she’d insisted on packing.
She tried to take some pictures, but they were picking up speed; she wanted to remember it all for Liilan, who had insisted that she tell her everything. Despite Rosie’s rather weak exhortations to the contrary, Lilian would never travel again now; her old bones simply weren’t up to it. So she needed to see it through Rosie’s eyes.
As they left the city behind, Rosie wiped her face with the back of her hand; both were covered in a fine light mist of red dust. Out in the countryside, the wind blew sand across harsh landscapes of dried-up fields. In a corner, she saw a large group of huts, huddled together as the sand scoured them. It must get into every nook and cranny. On the other side ran a single railway line.
‘Why is there just one?’ she asked, interested.
Faustine laughed, which Rosie thought was unnecessary.
‘There’s only one train,’ said Stephen over his shoulder.
‘One train?’
‘Yes. In the whole country. It goes from one side to the other, once every few days. So they don’t really need another line.’
‘They DO,’ interjected Faustine fiercely.
‘Well, yes. They do. But it’s not on the priority list right now.’
As the hours passed, and her bum grew increasingly numb, and the roads became harsher and worse, Rosie lapsed into a kind of passive dream state, taking in the unchanging landscape. Eventually they stopped at a kind of roadside inn, built roughly of wood in a pentagon shape.
Faustine jumped down.
‘She’s gone to put a rocket up their arse about not undercooking supper,’ said Stephen. ‘For your all-new African stomach.’
He looked at her carefully. There was an element of truce in his expression.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosie crossly.
‘Tell me that on the squat loo at four a.m.,’ said Stephen.
Rosie got out to stretch her legs, whereupon she was immediately divebombed by nine thousand mosquitoes, so she got back in the van and covered up with DEET and a long-sleeved shirt and a big hat that she had been vastly opposed to packing but now was delighted with; likewise the scarf.
A voice was calling insistently in their direction, and Stephen turned towards it. Standing waving furiously was a tiny, strong-looking girl with short dark hair, a light tan, and a pair of khakis exactly like Stephen’s. Her face was animated, her teeth very white.
Stephen’s face broke into a smile.
‘FAUSTINE!’
The two of them jumped into a massive embrace, then they started speaking rapidly in French, of which Rosie understood not a word. She coughed, gently.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Stephen, his face still energised and excited-looking. ‘I haven’t seen Faust since … well, since everything.’
‘He was very naughty boy,’ said Faustine in the most charming French accent. ‘We write, we call, we send all the message, tu sais? And he does not answer us, he has forgotten us, he does not like us any more.’
Stephen shook his head.
‘Oh it wasn’t quite like that.’
Faustine smiled.
‘But now you are home, yes?’
‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m back.’
Rosie was glad he said this.
‘This is Rosie. My …’ he paused for a second, which caught at Rosie’s heart, ‘my fiancée.’
Faustine made a face.
‘Oui? Alors, my goodness, congratulations,’ she said, but she did not exactly smile. ‘You work in Africa too?’
‘It’s my first time,’ said Rosie. ‘But I can’t wait to see it.’
Faustine simply raised her eyebrows.
‘Alors, follow me.’
If the inside of the airport had been hot and stuffy, outside it was like stepping into an oven. Immediately Rosie pawed through her luggage looking for her sunglasses. She couldn’t remember feeling the heat of the sun so strongly before. Everywhere people in bright clothing were getting into cars, piling luggage on to scooters and bicycles, selling small boxes of bits and pieces, newspapers, SIM cards, bottles of water.
As if reading her mind, Faustine took out a large, dirty-looking plastic bottle and passed it round.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘You’ll get thirsty.’
Rosie wanted to pour the entire thing over her head, but took a few mouthfuls and passed it on to Stephen, who winked at her conspiratorially as Faustine barked a few commands in French into her phone. About five minutes later, just as Rosie was hoping they were staying in a nice hotel somewhere with air conditioning, a rickety old van with the organisation’s logo on the side bounced up, the driver, also in khakis – Rosie was beginning to curse the flowery dresses she’d packed – waving to them brightly.
There was no suspension in the van, and they bounced uncomfortably in the back seat. There was air conditioning, of a sort, that puffed out occasional huffs of lukewarm air, as if in a bad mood, but it was pretty tricky to catch them.
Even so, the city was such a stunning sight that Rosie forgot everything: she just wanted to lean her head out and catch all of it.
Cars in varying conditions of terrible cluttered up the roads, with things attached to the top, mismatched wheels, men hanging off the back. There were some traffic lights, most of which were systematically ignored. Their driver spent a lot of time leaning on the horn, as did everybody else. Stephen and Faustine talked about all the people they had in common – none of whom Rosie knew – but she found she didn’t mind, as she stared at the colourful, chaotic, brightly lit scene in front of her eyes. Little children charged about – some, she noticed, carrying baguettes under their arms – men shouted angrily into their phones; there were animals everywhere; terrifyingly small mopeds laden with people and parcels weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic; music wailing from car stereos.
Rosie forgot she was uncomfortably hot and thirsty and would really like a long hot bath; she forgot that she was slightly jealous that Stephen was so animated speaking to this funny-looking little French firecracker. Instead, she simply breathed in the sights and the smells: the women in their bright prints; the boys, by contrast, in Western clothes; the children wearing incongruous outfits that she guessed must come through charitable giving: One Direction T-shirts, Justin Bieber, lots and lots of Manchester United. A little girl, her hair pinned up, sitting peeling corn by the side of the road, looked up as they passed and gave her a smile and a tentative wave, and Rosie waved back, wanting to stop the van and jump out and give her some of the large assortment of sweets she’d insisted on packing.
She tried to take some pictures, but they were picking up speed; she wanted to remember it all for Liilan, who had insisted that she tell her everything. Despite Rosie’s rather weak exhortations to the contrary, Lilian would never travel again now; her old bones simply weren’t up to it. So she needed to see it through Rosie’s eyes.
As they left the city behind, Rosie wiped her face with the back of her hand; both were covered in a fine light mist of red dust. Out in the countryside, the wind blew sand across harsh landscapes of dried-up fields. In a corner, she saw a large group of huts, huddled together as the sand scoured them. It must get into every nook and cranny. On the other side ran a single railway line.
‘Why is there just one?’ she asked, interested.
Faustine laughed, which Rosie thought was unnecessary.
‘There’s only one train,’ said Stephen over his shoulder.
‘One train?’
‘Yes. In the whole country. It goes from one side to the other, once every few days. So they don’t really need another line.’
‘They DO,’ interjected Faustine fiercely.
‘Well, yes. They do. But it’s not on the priority list right now.’
As the hours passed, and her bum grew increasingly numb, and the roads became harsher and worse, Rosie lapsed into a kind of passive dream state, taking in the unchanging landscape. Eventually they stopped at a kind of roadside inn, built roughly of wood in a pentagon shape.
Faustine jumped down.
‘She’s gone to put a rocket up their arse about not undercooking supper,’ said Stephen. ‘For your all-new African stomach.’
He looked at her carefully. There was an element of truce in his expression.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosie crossly.
‘Tell me that on the squat loo at four a.m.,’ said Stephen.
Rosie got out to stretch her legs, whereupon she was immediately divebombed by nine thousand mosquitoes, so she got back in the van and covered up with DEET and a long-sleeved shirt and a big hat that she had been vastly opposed to packing but now was delighted with; likewise the scarf.
