Right This Time

(Many thanks to my editor and friend Dawnj!)

*

Nonni sat on a flat piece of rock, staring into the river, and she felt for a couple of smooth pebbles. She threw them into the river, one by one; they didn't leave any mark on the fast-flowing water. She grinned, a little bitterly, and looked over her shoulder at her companion, who was sitting on his haunches, a few feet away. He nodded at her.

She sighed and returned the nod. She tried to formulate her thoughts, while taking in the view: the brown soil and the rocks, the sparse grass, a handful of white flowers, the lights on the water, the trees beyond and the shadow-play they cast on the ground. She loved this spot. She'd often gone here when she felt in need of some peace, no matter how brittle and short-lived; it was one of the few places where she had not felt any stress, and where the stifling unhappiness that had come over her so soon in her marriage seemed a little distant.

There was the buzz of insects, and the sound of the water over the stones, the wind in the trees talking of distances and far-off fields. The peace and quiet would make her relax a little. She could allow herself to let her shoulders sag; at home she'd always draw them up unwittingly, as if she were afraid someone would hit her. Not that John ever had; he hadn't been physically involved with her apart from the rare times they made love - she pulled a face. Made love, indeed. It was a strange term for something rather obnoxious...

Almost immediately in their marriage he'd started to find fault with most of the things she did. He would look at her, and when she'd spent some time at whatever activity she engaged in he would tell her that she ought to do it differently. He often took over with an aggrieved expression. She could hardly do anything right, and she annoyed him no end. He didn't want to eat any of the dishes she'd learnt to cook as a child. He held no truck with silly things like nature or poetry, and where he'd reacted favourably to her attempts at sharing her feelings with him before, he relegated those emotions to the dustbin soon after. There was work to be done, and life was too demanding for any such things. It did wonders for her confidence, being told she was hopeless all the time...

She'd taken refuge in her work. She had a nice job with nice people and there, at least, no one ever told her off or found fault with her; on the contrary, she was seen as an expert in her field. There, too, she elicited a smile with people now and then. She did have a sense of humour, even though John did not recognise it, and she loved words, and the others at her work held her in high regard.

She'd tried to get John to tell her what it was that irked him; he never responded. He simply refused to communicate and gave her a disdainful look. The one thing that was a blessing was the fact that he was so often away from home. He'd indicated that he was away for work, and it didn't feel illogical or impossible to her.

When they'd been married for ten years she'd tried to turn it into a festive occasion. She'd bought especially tasty food and cooked John's favourite meal. She'd laid the table with a nice bunch of flowers, a few candles and a bottle of wine, and she'd dressed nicely for the occasion... When John came home and saw her preparations he'd scowled at her. He blew out the candles, put the flowers on a side table and asked her what on earth she thought she was doing.

It had been the last straw; she'd broken down completely. John had watched her cry for a moment, with a look of sheer irritation, before he legged it out of the dining-room. Nonni heard him start the car and drive off.

She'd cried for a long time and when she'd completely drained herself she went into the kitchen, threw the food and the flowers away and put the dirty dishes into the sink. She made herself a few crackers with French cheese and poured herself a glass of wine, but it couldn't take the bitter taste in her mouth away. Now what, she thought. She realised that she was, quite simply, mortally afraid of him, and that she could not go on this way. She transferred her nightgown to the spare bedroom, and got some clean clothes from the wardrobe, just in case John were to sleep late, as he sometimes did.

He'd come home rather the worse for drink. She had not gone to bed yet, and when John saw her in the living-room he told her to go to the bedroom and undress. Nonni cringed, but for once she flatly refused. John was flabbergasted. He looked at her as if the cat had started to talk, and he grew very red, and he repeated his order in a loud voice.

Nonni stood firm. With her heart in her stomach she braced herself for the display of bad temper that was bound to follow. She trembled and backed away, but she didn't comply. She felt all blood drain from her face, and she looked at John's position in the room, ready to make a run for it - and then John started to shout. Nonni had experienced a lot, but she wasn't prepared for the torrent of abuse that came from his lips. He called her every name he could think of and enumerated all her faults. Her family was hopeless. She was a dolt, and he should never have started anything with someone like her; his parents had always warned him against her and her family. Then he started to compare her with Annabelle. It transpired that Annabelle was the paragon of womanhood. SHE never did anything wrong, SHE was good in bed, SHE was beautiful and HER skin was white, and SHE didn't look like - His words stung Nonni like a snake. She felt cold and hot and she picked up the vase and threw it at him. It grazed his shoulder. He shouted so much he had to stop, coughing violently. Then he took off his wedding ring, threw it on the floor, called her a worthless bitch, turned around and stomped out of her life.

John had never been here on the river, she thought. She was glad about it now; there were no connections with him here. After he'd left her, she found out he'd already known that Annabelle for years before they got married. She was a tall, pale, big-bosomed blonde, the exact opposite of Nonni in almost everything.

Nonni's grandparents had come from the Caribbean, and her father had made a fortune there while living in England. Still, she was not raised in luxury. Although her parents could easily have afforded sending her to public schools, they hadn't. Nonni'd gone to local schools, and to the nearest university, and she was well aware that her parents had always worked for a living. She was happy to do so, too.

Her parents did help her out, occasionally. The house was hers. Fortunately she had arranged some things well when she married. Hardly anybody knew. When she'd just been married they'd lost most of their money again when a business partner of her father absconded... Now they were just moderately well-off - nothing fancy, but quite enough not to have to worry.

Nonni looked at her companion again. Phil gave her a tentative smile, and got up to stretch his legs. Then he sat down again, and looked at Nonni. She was in her late thirties, and he was mesmerised by her. He had been impressed by her looks ever since he'd first set eyes on her: her skin was the colour of burnished copper, he thought, and she had long, almost black hair and beautiful brown eyes. She was a little over five foot tall, and just a little plump - she couldn't look any better. Apart from being a real beauty she usually was very good company, too. Especially the last ten months or so he'd felt immensely drawn by her.

Now, though, there was clearly something on her mind. Something was eating her, and he wondered if she noticed him at all. She had told him she wanted to show him a nice spot on the river, and he understood what she saw in it, but he wondered if she'd taken him along just for the beauty of the place or if there was another reason.

A squirrel came down the bole of a tree on the other bank. It sat looking at them for a moment before it vanished again.

Ten years, she reflected bitterly. Ten years. She'd never talked about the years of her marriage. She had not wanted to saddle her parents with her troubles, and her best friend had warned her when she'd started to date John. Whether it had been something in his demeanour or her female intuition Donna couldn't say, but John had made her feel extremely uncomfortable, so much so that she had never visited Nonni once she'd got married. She quite simply couldn't stand the man. Bastard, plain and simple.

Nonni had had too much pride left to go and confess; and so Donna and she had slowly drifted apart. Nonni knew that if she made the first move everything would be alright again, but the hurt and the disappointment and the self-accusations were quite raw still.

She felt her legs go stiff and got up. "Let's walk on a little," she said. "There's another nice place I'd like you to see."

They followed the narrow path along the river for about half a mile, to a spot where a couple of stepping-stones made it possible to cross. On the other side a path branched off into the wood. It ran to a sunny clearing where the trees had recently been felled. There were willow herbs, and foxgloves in abundance, and a few logs were still lying on the grassy ground. Bees were busily visiting the pink flowers.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "Very beautiful. Very peaceful. Do you come here often?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said. "Let's sit down. Phil, there is something I'd like to tell you."

She looked at him as he sat down on one of the logs. He had a very nice face; he had grey eyes, wavy, dark blonde hair, and lines in the right places. He had nice hands, too, with long nails that were clipped short. John had grown rather stout during their marriage, and his fingers had come to look a little like sausages, stuffed and without character. He smiled at her again.

John had only scowled at her. She wished, as she had so often, that she knew what it was he held against her, and why on earth he had married her. He had seemed to love her so much; she had no inkling why all that had suddenly been reversed. It was over a year and a half ago now that he had walked out on her. About half a year after he had left her, they happened to be at the same party together. It had been a minor disaster. John had exploded again as soon as he saw her. Fortunately everyone had taken her side, and John and Annabelle had been asked to leave, but it had shaken her considerably.

She had used the last eighteen months or so to get herself going again. She had rigorously freed her house from any sign of John's former occupation, and she had restored it to the way it had been before he moved in with her. It was a great relief to do so; she could vent some of her anger on the arrangements John had made, and she really enjoyed getting her place up her own way. John had relegated her collection of poetry to the attic, and she gave it pride of place in the living room again. She made sure there were fresh flowers every week, and she played the music she liked, all those songs that John had dismissed as sentimental or puerile - she'd never understood what music he liked, if any.

She shook her head. She looked at her hands: she had short fingers and she always painted her nails red, another habit she'd resumed after the divorce. She didn't know if they were nice hands; she knew what she liked in others.

Phil shifted his legs on the log. He sat watching Nonni, wondering what was the matter with her. He worked in the same firm, and he'd always enjoyed looking at her, and talking to her. He'd always regretted the fact that she never took part in corporate outings or parties - she apparently always had to be home soon - until she suddenly did - with a vengeance. He'd heard from one of the typists that her marriage had stranded. He didn't want to make a nuisance of himself, but he did talk to her much more often, and he tried to have more contact with her. He enjoyed her sense of humour, and he loved her smile, especially when, as happened now and then, it was directed at him, engendered by something he said, or something she thought.

Lately she really seemed to notice him. At the parties they laughed together, and talked together. They could share little jokes and they found they both had a smattering of Spanish, and he'd got the impression that he didn't seem too awful to her. He devoutly hoped so; he thought she was great.

About a year after she'd been on her own again he had ventured to ask her out for a meal. She had politely declined, as she didn't feel up to it yet. But she did enjoy their talks, too, and she'd told him she'd like to take a rain check on it. Slowly but surely they talked more and more often, and they highly enjoyed each other's company.

She had asked Phil to tell her all about himself. She had learnt that he was a bachelor, slightly older than she, that he had a sister their parents had adopted from somewhere in East Africa - Kenya or Tanzania, she couldn't remember - and that his parents had been rather wild in their youth. Now they were staid citizens, more or less, although they still went in for the sort of things her own parents definitely wouldn't - visiting pop festivals, for one thing. Phil definitely wouldn't be disparaging about music.

She sometimes wondered if there were any reason for his living alone. He was nice, good-looking and intelligent; he had a good income and he ought to be attractive to a lot of women, she thought. But she didn't know him well enough to ask.

A few weeks ago she had decided that he really was the nicest person she knew around, and she didn't want to keep him dangling; she didn't want to lose her chances with him, either. But she found it hard to talk about her preoccupations to him, and the atmosphere at her work was definitely not conductive to real talk at all. Eventually she had ventured to ask him out for a walk, one Saturday afternoon, and taken him to her favourite stretch of wood.

She shook herself and looked at Phil, and smiled a little nervously.

"I have taken you here because I'd like to explain some things about myself," she said. "You've told me a lot about yourself, and I haven't, yet. Er - you see, I would like to take up that rain check, if your offer's still on -" Phil nodded - "but I think it's only fair to tell you who it is you may get involved with. I really like you a lot..."

Nonni looked away from his face and stared at the foxgloves that stood near to her. She held one hand in the other and squeezed it.

"I think that you should be told. John, my ex, said the worst thing to me he could have said. You don't know how deeply that hurt. It still does. I've got mixed blood, so he had the geography slightly wrong -" a hint of a smile passed over her face, but Phil saw it wasn't a happy one - "but it told me he hated all I stand for, all that makes me me - my skin colour, my ethnicity... You know."

Phil nodded. He did; his sister had accounted various forms of discrimination at sundry times, and he'd always felt angry and helpless when she told him about it.

"My parents were modern enough to allow me to choose my husband myself; I sometimes wish they hadn't. Although their choice might have been a disaster, too. My marriage lasted ten years. Ten years wasted, ten miserable years. I don't want to fall into the same trap again."

She looked away from the foxgloves to the sandy stretch of path where a line of red ants moved from one clump of grasses to another. It lay looking very white in the warm sunshine; the ants, by comparison, looked almost black.

"You heard John shout at me at that party. He often did so, and when he didn't, he'd either tell me what I did wrong or ignore me. When I tried to celebrate our ten years together..."

She shook her head.

"I'd never have believed he could be like that beforehand. I was so lonely, all those years. You know, you start wondering if it's really something within you that's wrong. It was only when he ruined everything at our tenth anniversary... I couldn't take it any more. I was afraid he would hit me; but that wouldn't have been as awful as what he did."

She looked at him. He sat looking at her quietly, with a thoughtful expression. When their eyes met he raised his eyebrows and gave her a lopsided smile.

"I am still lonely," she said. "But I prefer a loneliness of my own choice to one that is forced on me by someone pretending to love me. Don't get me wrong, I don't necessarily want to stay alone for the rest of my days; but I want to be very sure first. If one can ever be sure..."

She shook her head again.

"So, you see, if you do feel for me I cannot offer you anything yet. I think you are a truly nice person. But the thought of committing myself to anyone scares the hell out of me."

She took a stick and made a ridge halfway the line of ants. It caused considerable commotion; but after a minute or so order had been restored, and the task, whatever it was, resumed.

"I hope you won't give up on me. But I cannot promise you anything, and I don't know if I'll ever feel confident enough to try, and if you don't want any of this I will certainly understand."

She gave him some time to let her words sink in and then she looked up at him, to see how they had affected him. She was met with a nod and a smile.

While trying to get his words right Phil scratched his neck and pulled a face.

"You must have had a rotten time," he said. "My sister is very sensitive to any mention of her skin colour. She's grown quick to take offence. Too quick, perhaps; some people are stupid rather than vicious, I suppose. But then, maybe I just don't understand how awful it feels - how it hurts. There's this Kevin Ayers lyric that says, 'Brown is the colour of skin / that I'd like to be in / 'cause it doesn't seem right / to be coloured so white.' I think yours is beautiful."

He smiled a little to himself. "My sister is always busy with her appearance; she spends no end of money on hair-extensions. She doesn't have to, I think. She's really attractive, but she has her hackles up all the time. I hope she'll find a nice African husband in the end."

He shook his head and looked at Nonni.

"I know there are people like John, but I cannot for the life of me understand them. Oh, girl, if I had been in his shoes... I'll be very happy to learn more about you - though if you feel there are things you'd rather not say, you certainly shouldn't."

He smiled a little ruefully. Then he looked at Nonni's face, and he saw she looked very white and tense.

"Come," he said. "Maybe you can tell me something about the things you really like. Or would you rather stop talking and walk back to the uncivilised world?"

Nonni brushed the hair from her face. "We could combine the two," she said.

It was late afternoon when they parted. Phil asked her if she would like to bring a friend and have dinner with him the next weekend. He could bring his sister; it would make for a much less threatening situation, he thought. Nonni thought about the idea for a while and then she accepted.

"I'll go and see Donna," she said. "She's an old friend I lost touch with. It's high time I saw her again."

Phil asked his sister and explained the situation. Wambui agreed to come; she understood at least one part of Nonni's fears only too well. Phil thanked her and went on to book a table for four.

Nonni drove to Donna's old apartment. To her relief she still lived there. She was in. When she opened the door and saw Nonni standing there she broke into a wide smile.

"Come on in, come on in!" she said and she embraced Nonni closely. "So you're still alive! How's life?"

She led Nonni into the living room. It was as untidy as always; one of Donna's children was playing on the floor. Another one sat on the couch playing a video game and there were heaps of clean washing waiting to be folded or ironed. The TV was on in a corner but nobody was watching.