Sankofa(14)

There was a segment for prayer. They prayed for nations at war, for the Amazon rain forest, for children in the inner city, and then a tiny window to pray for ourselves. I, too, decided to suspend disbelief.

“Please let my mother’s flat sell so I won’t have to ask Robert for money to go to Bamana.”

It was a selfish prayer. Its chances of success were therefore limited. When it was over the vicar returned to the stage. This was more familiar. There was no lectern nor was he using notes, but it was a sermon, this much I recognized. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love does not boast. The mic was clipped on, barely visible as he moved from one side of the stage to the other, pacing and stopping. His manner was engaging, funny even, when he told a story about the first time he changed a nappy. We moved from this bouncing sermon to the solemnity of Communion. The chalice was raised to the light. Violence was done to the host. It was snapped in two—the sound of breaking, the wafer brittle as bone. It was theater, as all religion was theater, but it was well done. When the velvet collection bag was passed around, I placed a five-pound note inside.

“You don’t have to,” Katherine whispered to me.

“I know.”

Katherine was in charge of the refreshment table afterwards. There were tea, coffee, hot chocolate, biscuits, and store-bought muffins. Perhaps this was why she was so popular. I stood by the table with my coffee and biscuits, watching as she spooned sugar with one hand and wiped spills with another. I could imagine her trotting up and down a banking floor, efficient but distant. The children were back from their Sunday school. They ran in between the legs of the adults.

“Hello, there.” It was the vicar, descended from the stage and walking now, amid his flock. He put out his hand to shake me.

“Carl Offor.”

I motioned that my hands were full.

“Anna Graham.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s my first time.” I felt the need to offer some confession. “I haven’t been in a while.”

“You are welcome.”

“Thank you.”

I expected him to turn away, but he remained by my side.

“I hope you enjoyed the service.”

“It was lovely, really. Short and sweet. Things used to go on a bit when I was a child.”

“There’s been reform in the Church of England.”

“I can see.”

He snorted, and I glimpsed the gap in his teeth.

“Well, I hope you come again, Anna. This is your home.”

“Thank you.”

It was trite, but in a sense true. The Church doesn’t pay tax.

He moved on. A woman who must be his wife came up to him. She touched his arm and said something into his ear. She had dreadlocks that fell down her back in thin ropes. The ends had been dipped in honey dye. Of course he was married. The pool dwindled with age.

Later, I helped Katherine clear the refreshment table and fold its stiff metal legs. We were among the last to leave.

“So, what did you think?”

“The vicar asked as well.”

“He’s new. Only been here about a year.”

“It was a good sermon,” I said. “He seems nice and his wife is pretty.”

“Yes, very pretty. So, same time next week?”

“A lot of it was familiar.”

“Except the biscuits, surely? We never had such good biscuits at mine.”

“Except the biscuits,” I say.

“So, you’ll come next week, then?”

“Maybe.”

“And you’ll let me know if you find out more about your father. Imagine meeting him after all these years. It would be a wonderful experience.”

“I hope so.”

I unlocked my front door and stepped on a folded sheet of paper. It was a note pushed through my letterbox while I was in church. My name was on the flap. The handwriting was Robert’s, large letters all the same size, perfectly formed as though with a stencil.

My breath was uneven from Katherine’s brisk pace or from the latent excitement my husband could still arouse. I flicked his note open.


Just wanted to make sure everything was all right. I returned your call and left a message. You’ve changed the locks or else I’d have waited for you to come home. Let me know you’re okay.

All my love, Robert



I found out about his affair by chance. He went on holiday with his mistress but told me he was traveling for work, to Brussels or some other bland decoy. They’d taken pictures together. Afterwards, she sent a photo while I was texting Rose from his phone.

At first, I’d admired the woman in the bikini, the muscle definition in her stomach, the large sunglasses perched on her head. And then I wondered why a bare-chested Robert was next to her, arm around her hip, lips pressed to her blond weave.

You think it can never happen to you. It is the hubris that makes daily life possible. The bomb explodes for someone else; the sky always crashes on their head, until the ticking parcel stops with you.

Self-pity threatened to sweep away the pleasant residue of the church service. All Robert’s love. How trite. I tore the note into pieces.





7


A bronze Isaac Newton sat naked and bent over a compass in the British Library courtyard. The building was overwhelmingly brick. A child might have put it together with pieces of toy blocks. Inside were pale marble and white columns, airy and light, a surprise after the dense exterior. Registration was on the second floor.