Read Online The Darkening Hour by Penny Hancock - Free Book Online Page B

says, waving his stick towards the far end of the street. ‘Don’t tell Dora. She doesn’t believe in
bargains. Though it’s the same as she buys from her fancy shops.’
    The 99p shop is a supermarket, shelves and shelves of food all costing less than one pound. Multipacks of tins of vegetables and beans and crisps. I’m amazed that the bigger the items, the
cheaper they are. Bars of chocolate the size of Ali’s leather babouches for 99p each! Yet small things cost a lot.
    ‘What are these, Charles?’ I point at rows of little jars of powder the size of coffee cups.
    ‘Herbs and spices,’ he says. I stare at them. I want to laugh to think that in this country they sell spices in such tiny quantities. I picture the mountains of cumin and paprika and
turmeric on the stalls at home, pyramids of bright colours, so tall you can hide behind them, and feel a rush of longing to be there. I yearn for the mountains of mint the boys at the café
used to sort through in the mornings, its fresh scent mingling with the salt air from the sea.
    We pay for Charles’s chocolate and now only have four pounds left.
    ‘Charles.’ I squat in front of him. ‘Can we buy stamps here?’
    ‘Do I need stamps?’ he says. I notice how pale his irises are, clouded like pools of milk. How frail his old skin, like paper. His mind is going, he’s easily confused.
    ‘Yes, you do! Remember? Dora said when she left, “Don’t forget the stamps, Charles.” ’
    He looks bewildered.
    ‘When she left this morning, she said, “Buy fruit. And don’t forget stamps!” You remember?’
    The tears that came to my eyelids earlier threaten to spill over. Without stamps, without credit, Leila and even Ummu will believe I’ve disappeared like Ali. It’s so easy to vanish
when you’ve got nothing.
    No wonder I haven’t heard from him.
    ‘Yes, now you mention it, I think she did,’ he says. I’d like to hug him. ‘There’s a post office here somewhere, but they’ve hidden it at the back of a
newspaper shop. No one seems to use them any more now there’s all this e-this and that. Over here, my dear – follow the direction of my stick.’
    Back we go, down the street, past dark doorways and strange signs I can’t read, past a shop full of stone heads – made for English gravestones. I imagine them watching me, that they
have seen my lie.
    Charles directs me into a newspaper shop.
    ‘Stamps for North Africa?’ The man behind the counter smiles at me incredulously. ‘You
writing
to North Africa? If you’re sending money, I can do it for
you.’ He slams the stamps down on the counter. ‘Electronically. It’s safer and it’s instant.’
    I look at him. He’s handsome, with green eyes in his brown face and closely cropped black hair. His eyes twinkle as if he knows exactly what I’m doing, what he can get out of me.
    ‘How much does it cost?’
    ‘It all depends how much you’re sending. Say you send a hundred pounds, it’ll cost you a tenner. Two hundred, a bit more. But I can do you a deal. They’ll charge you more
up at the hairdresser’s. You ask them and I’ll undercut them.’
    ‘I’ll think about it.’
    ‘You won’t get it cheaper anywhere else.’
    When we’ve left the shop I ask Charles if I can take him for a walk. I tighten his scarf around his neck. It’s cold out here and I don’t want him falling ill. I’m hoping
if we stay out a little longer, the stamp incident will fade from his mind. He mustn’t tell Dora I’ve used her money for my own needs.
    ‘Yes yes, a little walk. I’ll show you the river. A spot of fresh air. It’ll give us an appetite.’
    I push him across the main road, and under tall trees that shed their golden leaves about our feet as we go. At last the noise drops. The busyness ceases and we’re in front of the great
brown river. It’s even wider than it looked when we crossed it at night from the bridge, the water a massive beast heaving its weight against the walls. On