‘Almost ready.’
‘Every day almost ready; every day almost ready —’
‘I want to do fine job; have patience, you will like the place when I finish.’
‘Is all right for me now.’
‘Oya!’ said Lajide suddenly. ‘Let’s go now. We see the house, then you sign!’
•
Finishing touches were being put to the house at 163B Clifford Street West. The painters, electricians and carpenters had been working hard in the last few weeks. It was painted in a sun- and rain-resisting cream on the outside, the inner walls in a very pale green. The garage was spacious enough to take Zamil’s car without its tail preventing the doors from closing. There were quarters for the ‘small boy’, cook and steward.
Beatrice thought it was a much more useful house than the one she shared with Grunnings on Rokiya Hill. But where in all this scheme did she fit in? She decided not to accept a room here, if Lajide gave her one. She might just as well be Zamil’s mistress.
Zamil got into his car, and held the door open for Beatrice to come in and sit beside him. And there she sat between two men, each trying to please her, while her mind dwelt on Amusa Sango and his plight.
They drove into a side street and Zamil who had been showing signs of impatience burst out: ‘What’s matter, is this Clifford Street?’
‘We go and see my solicitor. Have patience!’
Lajide drew his pouch, selected a cigarette and lit it. ‘You want the house, or you don’t want the house? Ah-ah! I never see hot temper man like you. If you don’t want the house any more, let me go back!’
‘I’m sorry, Lajide. I thought —’
‘Park your car and follow me. Beatrice, you wait for us.’
She watched them go up a narrow lane. When they emerged a long time afterwards, smelling faintly of alcohol, the agreement to lease 163B had been signed, sealed and delivered.
Beatrice heard Lajide say: ‘The house will be your own for five years now.’
He took out a cheque from his pocket-book and looked at it once more. He acted like a man slightly tipsy, waving it in Beatrice’s face and saying with his drunken breath: ‘Five thousand pounds on this paper. Ha!’
Zamil said: ‘Lajide, we must celebrate. I want you to come with me for a bite – anywhere.’
He drove to the department store by the lagoon. Gingerly Beatrice walked along the pavement between the two men. As usual the snack bar was crowded with people of the city out to relax and look at the lagoon. They were mostly girls of the Dupeh type, fashion plates of the most devastating type – to young men. With every swing of the doors, the restaurant filled more than it emptied.
They sat down and made their orders. Beatrice could see at once that Lajide felt ill-at-ease, and shortly after the steward had taken their orders he begged to be excused.
‘I’ll see you later, Beatrice. I got business at home.’
Beatrice looked up and saw a man, notebook in hand, just coming in through the swing doors. It was Amusa Sango. He had not seen her. Her heart fluttered till she was giddy.
‘Is a big day for me,’ came Zamil’s voice beside her. She was not listening. ‘Name anything you like downstairs in the shop and is yours . . .’
The waiter arrived with a tray full of orders for three. Beatrice looked beyond the waiter and saw that Amusa had come in with a girl. Who was she? She could not see the face behind the make-up and sunshade.
‘I must leave you now,’ and she got up, smiling, and walked across the restaurant conscious of admiring eyes. Sango looked up as she approached.
‘Beatrice!’
She took the only vacant seat next to Sango, beaming happily. ‘What brings you here?’
‘You want to hear my hard-luck story? Well, I couldn’t find a place in the city. My work has to go on, so what did I do? I took my things to the railway station and deposited them in the Left Luggage Office, and here I am!’
‘And your boy – what did you do with him?’
<