Читать книгу Love Tastes Like Strawberries - Rosamund Haden - Страница 11

On Monday afternoon Dudu is back at school and at sports practice. She is good at netball. She can shoot a hoop from the far side of the court and it will almost always go in. But when she gets the ball she never passes it on. From wherever she is on the court she will take the shot.

Françoise smooths down her hair and her skirt as she waits for the manager of the Spar. Things are beginning to return to some sort of normality. She waits on a plastic chair outside his office. She watches him drink a Coke, make a phone call, chat to customers, scratch his balls, go to the toilet, come back. When he finally beckons her in an hour has passed. When he asks her why she left she hesitates.

“A family emergency,” she explains, looking at the clock above his head. Dudu will be getting home soon. The manager says nothing. “A death,” Françoise adds.

“It’s always a death, then you people need money for the funeral.” He is bored, impatient. “You can come back. You were a reliable girl before you left. Not as stupid as some of them.” He doesn’t even look at her. “But no more deaths. Understood?” Then, “Are you legal?” Then, “Never mind.”

By the time she is back out on the street, dusk is falling. Instead of heading down to the main road to go back to their room, Françoise turns left and walks up the road towards the mountain and Timothy’s block of flats. She is nervous. He might not want to see her. What will she say? What will he do? What if Dudu . . .?

She feels her mind racing, gathering speed, exploding through the sound barrier. Suddenly she is floating.

A lightness fills her. She closes her eyes and sways on the hot tar.

There are the pale blue walls of the Catholic church on Isabano Street in Gisenyi. There are the flamboyant trees filled with red blossom. It is late in the dry season. There are the nuns walking in a row, their faces black against the white rims of their habits. The church bell is ringing for Mass. She looks down at her shoes, so polished, so shiny; she can see her ten-year-old face in them. She smiles. Her friend runs across the road laughing to point at the nun in front of them. She has her habit hooked up in her large white underpants. They puff out like a cotton balloon.

Then she hears Dudu’s voice behind her. “Wait for me. Papa says you have to take care of me.”

Her eyes open. She takes a deep breath and enters the bookstore where Timothy works. It is nearly closing time. The student behind the counter tells her, “Timothy is away but you can leave a message.” She hesitates then shakes her head.

“No. I will come back.”

He’s gone. She’s too late. Dudu has ruined it for her again.

“Didn’t say where he went,” the student calls after her. “And I’m afraid I can’t give out personal numbers.”

When she is outside the store she keeps walking up the road towards his flat. By the time she gets to the gate to his complex Dudu has caught up with her. She is still in her netball clothes.

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” says Dudu.

“None of your business.” Françoise senses someone watching them from across the street. But when she turns there is no one.

“What is it?” asks Dudu.

“Nothing,” says Françoise. “Go home.” Dudu looks crestfallen. “Here,” says Françoise and fishes in her pocket for money, “buy a Coke.”

“He’s not worth it,” is Dudu’s parting shot. Inside she is jealous and scared that Françoise has found someone who will separate them at last.