The remaining pages are blank. I flip through them twice. It is the end of my father. Francis Aggrey is gone and I don’t know if we will ever meet again. This is a portion of the grief my mother must have felt.
I settle the bill, tip my waiter, and step into the cold. The streets are full and the evening lights are on. I join the throng of workers marching in step, trying to still my thoughts and loosen the constriction in my chest.
Why had he not come back? I imagine him in Segu, writing off his affair with the obroni and moving on with his life, while my mother waited in London, frantic and disgraced. Did he find out my mother was pregnant? Did Thomas or Blessing get news to him? Did he reject me before I was born?
What difference will it make if Francis Aggrey knew of me? With or without Francis Aggrey, my life has run to this moment where I am standing in front of the London School of Economics struggling to breathe with tears on my cheeks.
London sidesteps me, the stream of workers flowing around an obstacle. A woman crying in the street is nothing new. I call Robert. He does not pick up.
Rose is in Mumbai. I call my neighbor Katherine. She had left her number on my kitchen table, alongside a Tupperware box of pasta, with the words: Call me if you need anything.
“Hello, Katherine speaking. Hello?”
“It’s Anna from Windsor Street.”
“Anna. How lovely to hear from you.”
“I still have your Tupperware. I’ve been meaning to bring it back.”
“I didn’t even notice. How are you?”
“I’m in front of the LSE building in Holborn. I think I’m having a panic attack.”
“Right,” she says. “Are you close to the station?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you can get on the tube or will it aggravate things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you walk to the station?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“What did you get up to today?”
“I went to the British Museum.”
“That’s nice. Did you go to see anything in particular?”
“Some African artefacts. A couple of masks. Some beautiful leopardesses.”
“Are you walking now?”
“Yes, I am,” I say.
“What else did you do?”
“I ate alone in an Italian restaurant.”
“What did you have?”
“Pasta.”
“Nice?”
“A little dry. I’m at the station now,” I say.
“How long do you think it will take you to get home?”
“Forty minutes.”
“I’ll see you on the other end, then.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.”
“Get on the train. I’ll see you soon.”
There are no free seats. I stand with strangers packed close, holding on to a bar drenched in germs. A passenger rises to leave; another slides into his place. It is a game for the young and agile. I stand all the way to my stop. I feel numb. The whirlwind has passed. When I get outside Katherine is waiting with a flask.
“I thought you might like some tea. Did you manage all right?”
5
Katherine sits opposite me in my kitchen. Her hair is tied-back brown that is going grey. She is older than me but slimmer, with the rangy physique of a runner. Her clothes are casual: sweater and jeans, but expensive. Cashmere. I have nothing to offer except expired crackers and chocolate ice cream.
“I’ll have the crackers, thank you. The date’s always a suggestion.” In the familiar space of my blue tiles and granite worktops, I wonder if I have made it all up.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
“I don’t know if I have the words. I’ve never felt that way before. I don’t feel that way now.”
The urge to confide in someone presses. I would rather Rose or even Robert were here, but this kind stranger is all I have.
“I found a diary that belonged to my father among my mother’s things,” I say. “She died six months back, if you remember. Francis, my father, returned to West Africa before I was born. I don’t think he knew about the pregnancy. He may not even be alive.”
“Are you sure it’s his diary? Your mother never mentioned it?”
“I’m sure, and for whatever reason—maybe a good one—she kept it from me.”
I do not want her to think ill of my mother. Already I feel I have shared too much.
“Did you like what you read in his diary?” Katherine asks.
“Yes. I liked his writing voice very much.”