Freeing Grace by Charity Norman Page B

his slaves and fathering their children. For several seconds she battled with her desire to spill a ladleful of scalding gravy onto his bald patch—she could see it gleaming, even though he’d brushed his hair across it. Ooh, sorry, Christopher! So clumsy. Still, they can work wonders with plastic surgery these days.
    Looking up, Leila caught Elizabeth’s eye. The rector’s wife taught in the local secondary school. In fact, she was their longest surviving member of staff, surpassed in longevity only by the janitor, who was deaf and therefore had an advantage. Her hair was pewter-coloured and cut like a helmet, but somehow she managed to look young and alert. Her glance whisked from Leila to Christopher and back again, and then she winked. It was the merest flicker, but it made Leila smile.
    ‘A stew!’ tinkled Hilda, as David reappeared and began to open another bottle. ‘Leila, I don’t know how you do it, in that tiny kitchen. Is it a Caribbean recipe?’
    Leila raised one eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Mum!’ David rounded on his mother, exasperation twisting the strong, spare lines of his face. ‘You know perfectly well Leila isn’t from the West Indies.’
    ‘Nigeria, isn’t it?’ asked Elizabeth.
    ‘Yes, Nigeria. Although I was born and bred in Peckham.’ Leila regarded her mother-in-law mischievously. ‘But perhaps we all look alike to you, Hilda?’
    Hilda’s Persian-cat eyes snapped wide open.
    ‘Leila’s father was a lecturer at the School of Oriental and African Studies,’ David explained hurriedly, filling glasses. ‘Magnificent man, Ayotunde. Terrifyingly clever. He’s retired, but they keep asking him to come back and give guest lectures.’
    Elizabeth played the game, carrying the conversation in her sandpaper voice. ‘When did your parents come to this country, Leila?’
    ‘In the sixties.’ Leila handed her a plate. ‘But they’re still very much West African at heart. Civil war was brewing in Nigeria at the time . . . Angus, is this enough for you? . . . My mother lost a brother in the crossfire.’
    ‘Have they been back?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Often. Their families are still there, mostly. Mum and Dad follow the politics avidly, read newspapers online, keep in touch with everyone. And they’re ardent supporters of the Nigerian football team.’
    ‘They’re going over soon, actually,’ said David. ‘For a cousin’s wedding. When are they off, Leila?’
    ‘Mid November, lucky things. They’ll be gone about a month.’ Leila replaced the lid on the casserole dish. ‘Angus. Will you say grace?’
    ‘Certainly.’ Angus folded authoritative hands. ‘Bless, Lord, this food to our use, and us to thy service.’
    ‘Amen,’ breathed Leila, sitting down. ‘That’s the starting gun.’
    As if on cue, the trill of the telephone wafted gaily in from the hall. David winced, met Leila’s eyes, then pushed back his chair and went to answer it. A short time later he stuck his head around the door.
    ‘Gatecrashers at the youth club,’ he announced, shrugging into an overcoat. ‘Getting a bit out of hand. I’d better nip down.’
    Angus stood up, but David waved him away. ‘Please. Carry on.’
    Leila followed him into the hall, sliding her arms around his waist, imprisoning him. ‘What if I refuse to let you go?’
    He chuckled. ‘I’d look pretty funny, walking down the street like a mutant ninja turtle with you attached to my back.’
    ‘Come home in one piece, then,’ she grumbled, releasing him. She reached up to grip his nose. ‘That’s an order.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Angus, when she rejoined them. ‘They won’t mess with David.’ He glanced at Christopher. ‘Your son’s already brought so much to this parish, you know. Started a football team, and they’re queuing up to join.’
    ‘I’m sure they won’t mess with him physically,’ Leila struggled not to sound petulant, ‘but do they have to interrupt all of his meals? You’ll help yourselves