Tinned chestnuts and sugared almonds in a window at Fortnum & Mason. Candy-striped cotton shirts and cravats and handkerchiefs dressing the shopfront mannequins on Regent Street. Lorry drivers standing on their horns, clamouring for the right of way. The sights and sounds of London were dizzying and overwhelming. And then there was the cold. I’d left Mombasa on a sultry day. Standing at the ship’s rail, I watched Kilinidi Harbour shrink away, a warm wind blowing through my hair and thin blouse. In London, sooty snow clogged the cobbles. The walking was icy, and my boots were all wrong, and so were my clothes. I didn’t own an overcoat or galoshes and had only one address in my pocket to guide me on my way—for Boy Long and his new wife, Genessee, in Dorking. In so many respects, it was odd to turn up at the home of my ex-lover, but after what we’d been through I believed him when he let me know I could lean on him. And I trusted him. That meant everything.
When I got to Dorking, it was a bit of a shock to see that Boy was a different character here. He’d left the pirate back in Kenya and wore houndstooth trousers and fitted shirts with braces and fine, polished oxford shoes. Genessee called him Casmere, not Boy, so I did, too.
Thankfully Genessee was warm and kind, and also tall. She graciously lent me some of her clothes so I could go out without being stared at or catching my death—and it was in her knitted suit with Boy’s directions that I made my way by train to West Halkin Street in the fashionable Belgravia neighbourhood of London to search out Cockie.
It was late afternoon when I turned up at her house unannounced. I didn’t know much about Cockie’s family situation, but clearly there were resources somewhere. She was within spitting distance of Buckingham Palace, and the townhouse stood in a long, regal row of matching neighbours, all in a creamy stone, with black iron balustrades and deep front entrances. I screwed up my courage to knock at the grand door, but I needn’t have. Only the maid was at home. She looked me over, coatless as I was, seeming to place me as some sort of poor relation. I stared at my dripping feet on the marble in the foyer and couldn’t think of any message to leave. Finally I hurried back out into the cold again without even giving the girl my name.
I didn’t want to go all the way back to Dorking, so I wandered around Hyde Park and Piccadilly Circus and Berkeley Square until my toes froze solid, then found a hotel in Soho that wasn’t too dear. The next morning I went back, but Cockie was out again, at Harrods.
“Please wait,” the maid said. “She’s asked me to keep you here.”
When Cockie finally arrived, just before lunch, she threw her bags down and lunged at my arm. “Beryl! I somehow knew it was you. How did you get here?”
“It’s a terrible story.” I took in her plump good health, her lovely skirt and shoes and draping fur coat caught with snowflakes. Except for the coat she hadn’t altered much from the last time I’d seen her in Nairobi, and yet, for me, everything had changed. “Could we have a nip of brandy first?”
—
It took a long while before I could get the whole sordid affair out—in pieces—and even then there were bits of it I wouldn’t touch. I didn’t speak of Denys at all, or the way things with Karen had grown so uncertain. Thankfully, Cockie listened quietly, and held her worst faces for the end.
“Surely D will have you back when the waters are calm again.”
“I don’t know that he should. He’s got a reputation to protect.”
“Life is full of messes. Your mistakes aren’t bigger than anyone else’s.”
“I know that…but the brunt of them didn’t only fall on me. That’s what’s hard to live with.”
She nodded, seeming to consider this. “Where’s Jock now?”
“The last I heard he was running off into the night in Nakuru. I can’t imagine he’ll fight a divorce now.”
“Maybe not. But as long as you’re married, you can get financial support.”
“What? Take money from him? I’d rather starve.”
“Where else will it come from then?” She looked at my clothes, which were passable for country fare, but wouldn’t see me through in Belgravia. “You can’t have much.”
“I’ll find a way to work or something. Honestly, I will find my feet again. I always seem to.”
—
No matter how much I tried to reassure her, Cockie was worried about me and keen to be a sort of guardian angel. I stayed with her for the next few weeks and let her take me along to parties and introduce me to the best sorts of people. She also gently tried to explain the way money worked in London. I’d never been savvy about funds and had only ever known the chit system. In Kenya, shop owners would give you credit for anything you needed, stringing you out for years even in lean times. But in London, apparently you didn’t sign for anything unless you had the money to hand.