Mickey?'
'Miss. it?' he laughed with her. 'Your turnmy damn near knocked out my trained journalistic eye!' 'Pretty, isn't it?' Isabella pushed it out as far as it would go, and patted it proudly.
'Stunning!' Michael agreed. 'And I am sure that Pater and Nana would agree if they could see it.' 'You won't tell, will you, Mickey?' 'We don't tell each other's secrets, you and me. Never have, never will.
But what are you going to do with the eventual, ah, result?' 'My son, your nephew - you call that a result? Shame on you, Mickey. Ramsey calls it the greatest miracle and mystery of the universe.' 'Ramsey! So that is the culprit's name. I hope he's wearing bullet-proof knickers when Nana catches up with him toting her trusty old shotgun, loaded with buckshot.' 'He's a marquds, Mickey. The Marquds de Santiago y Machado.' 'Ah, that might make a difference. Nana is enough of a snob to be impressed. She will probably reduce the charge from buckshot to birdshot.' 'By the time Nana finds out about it, I'll be a marquesa.' 'So the nefarious Ramsey intends making an honest woman out of you, does he?
When?' 'Well, there is a little bit of a hitch,' she admitted.
'You mean he's married already.' 'How did you know that, Mickey?' She gaped at him.
'And his wife won't give him a divorce?' 'Mickey!' 'My love, that's the hoariest old chestnut in the packet.' Michael stood up, cascading soapy bath water, and reached for the towel.
'You don't know him, Mickey. He's not like that.' 'May I take that as an impartial and totally unbiased opinion?' Michael stepped out of the bath, and began to towel himself down.
'He loves me.' 'So I see.'
'Don't be flippant.' 'Make me a promise, Bella. If anything goes wrong, come to me first. Will you promise me that?' She nodded. 'Yes, I promise. You are still my very best friend. I promise, but nothing is going to go wrong. You just wait and see.' She took him to dinner at Ma Cuisine in Walton Street. The restaurant was so popular that they would never have got a table had not Isabella made the reservation the very day that she heard Michael was coming to London.
'I like escorting a pregger,' Michael remarked as they settled at the table. 'Everybody smiles at me, as though I am responsible.' 'Nonsense. It's simply because you are so handsome.' They talked about their work. Isabella made him promise to read her thesis and make suggestions. Then Michael explained that the main reason he was in London was to write a series of articles on the anti-apartheid movement, and the South African political exiles living in Britain.
'I have arranged interviews with some of the leading lights: Oliver Tambo, Denis Brutus...' 'Do you think our censors will let you publish the article?' Isabella asked. 'They'll probably ban the entire edition again, and Garry will be furious. Anything that affects the profits makes Garry furious.' Michael chuckled. 'Poor old Garry.' That title was habitual but no longer appropriate. 'Life is so simple for him -not the black and white of morality, but the black and red of the bank statement.' With the dessert Michael asked suddenly, 'How is Mater? Have you seen her lately?' 'Not Mater, nor Mother, nor even Mummy,' Isabella corrected him tardy. 'You know that she thinks those terms terribly bourgeois. But to answer your question - no, I haven't seen Tara for some time.' 'She is our mother, Bella.' 'She might have thought of that when she deserted Pater and the rest of us and ran off with a black revolutionary and bore him a little brown bastard.' 'And you might be a shade more charitable when it comes to bearing bastards,' Michael said mildly, and then saw the hurt in her eyes. 'I'm sorry, Bella, but as in your case there are reasons for all things. We shouldn't judge her too harshly. Pater can't be the easiest man in the world to be married to, and not everybody can play the game to the rules that Nana lays down. Some of us don't have the killer instincts finely enough developed. I don't think Tara fitted into the family at all, not from the very beginning. She never was an dlitist. Her sympathies were always with the underdog, and then Moses Gama came into her life... 'Mickey darling'- Isabella leant across the table and took his hand -'you are the most compassionate, understanding person in the world. You spend your life making excuses for us, protecting us from the Fates. I do love you so much. I don't even want to fight or argue with you.' 'Good.' He squeezed her hand. 'Then, you'll come along to see Tara with me.
She writes to me regularly. She adores you, Isabella, and she misses you terribly. It hurts her when you avoid her.' 'Oh, Mickey, you set a trap for me, you devil.' She thought furiously for a second. 'But what about my condition? I was hoping to be a little more discreet.' 'Tara is your mother, she loves you, and they don't come any more broad- minded than our Tara. She's not going to do anything to hurt you, you know that.' 'To please you,' she sighed, and capitulated. 'Only to please you, Mickey.' So on the following Saturday morning they walked down Bromptyn Road, and Michael had to stretch his long legs to match her flowing athletic stride.
'Are you training to have a sprog-bod, or for the next Olympics?' he asked with a grin.
'You smoke too much,' Isabella scoffed at him.
'My only vice.' Tara Courtney, or Tara Gama as she now called herself, was the manageress of a small residential hotel off Cromwell Road, and her clientele was composed almost exclusively of expatriates and new immigrants from Africa and India and the Caribbean.
It always amazed Isabella that an area like this existed only twenty minutes' walk from the grandeur of Cadogan Square. The Lord Kitchener Hotel was as shabby and run-down as its manageress. Again it amazed Isabella that her mother was the same person who had once presided over the great chiteau of Weltevreden. Isabella's earliest memories were of her mother in a full- length ball-gown, with yellow diamonds from the Courtney mine at H'ani glittering at her smooth white throat and on her earlobes, her dark auburn hair piled high on her lovely head as she came down the sweep of the marble staircase. Isabella had never suspected the terrible dissatisfaction and misery that must have festered beneath that regal facade.
Now Tara's magnificent head of hair had greyed, and she had touched it up with a cheap home-dye job that came up in variegated tones of ginger and brazen plum. Her skin that Isabella had inherited in all its silken perfection had withered and bagged and wrinkled with neglect. There were little blackheads lodged in the enlarged pores around the creases between her nose and cheeks, and her false teeth were too large for her mouth, distorting the sweet line of her lips.
She rushed down the front steps of the hotel to embrace Isabella in a cloud of pungent Cologne. Isabella returned her hug with the strength of a guilty conscience.
'Let me look at my darling daughter.' She held Isabella at arm's length, and her eyes dropped immediately. 'You have grown more beautiful, Bella, if that were possible, but the reason is pretty obvious. I see you are carrying a little bundle of fun and joy.' Isabella's smile crooked with annoyance, but she ignored the reference.
'You look well, Mummy - Tara, I mean.' Tara wore the self-conscious uniform of the militant left-winger: a shapeless grey cardigan over a full-length granny-print shift and men's open brown sandals.
'It's been months,' Tara complained, 'almost a year, and you live just down the road. How can you neglect your old Michael intervened smoothly, deflecting Tara's self-pity, embracing her with unfeigned warmth and enthusiasm. She turned to him with theatrical mother-love.
'Mickey, you were always the sweetest and most loving of all my children.' And Isabella's smile began to hurt her lips. She wondered just how long she had to stay and when she could escape. She knew it wasn't going to be easy, and that for once she could expect little support from Michael. Tara linked her arms through theirs. Michael on one side of her and Isabella on the other, she led them into the hotel.
'I've got tea and biscuits ready for you. I've been in an absolute tizz ever since Michael called to say you were coming.' On a Saturday morning the Lord Kitchener's public lounge was filled with Tara's guests. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the cadences of Swahili and Gujarati and Xhosa. Tara introduced them to everybody in the room, even though Isabella had met many of them on her previous visits.
'My son and daughter from Cape Town in South Africa.' And she saw how some of the eyes flicked at the name of her country.
The hell with them, too, Isabella decided defiantly. Funny how at home she thought of herself as a liberal, but when she was abroad and encountered that reaction she thought of herself as a patriot.
At last Tara seated them in a corner of the lounge, and while she poured the tea, she asked in a bright and cheery tone that carried clearly to everybody in the large room: 'So now, Bella, tell me about the baby. When are you expecting it and who is the father?'
'This is hardly the time or the place, Tara.' Isabella paled with irritation, but Tara laughed.
'Oh, we are all just one big family here at the Lordy. You can talk freely.' This time Michael murmured gently: 'Bella really doesn't want all the world to know her private business. We'll talk about it later, Tara.' 'You funny old-fashioned thing.' Tara reached across and tried to hug Isabella again, but spilled some of her tea on her granny-print skirt and gave up the attempt. 'None of us here worries our head over bourgeois conventions.' 'That's enough, Tara,' Michael said firmly, and then to divert her: 'Where is Benjamin and how is he doing?' 'Oh, Ben is my pride and joy.' Tara took the bait. 'He just popped out for a few minutes. He had to go down to the school to hand in an essay. He's such a clever boy, he's taking his A-levels this year, only sixteen and his headmaster says he is the most brilliant, the cleverest child he has had in Ryham Grammar for the
