Free The Christmas Surprise by Jenny Colgan Page B

stared at the colourful, chaotic, brightly lit scene in front of her eyes. Little children charged about – some, she noticed, carrying baguettes under their arms – men shouted angrily into their phones; there were animals everywhere; terrifyingly small mopeds laden with people and parcels weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic; music wailing from car stereos.
    Rosie forgot she was uncomfortably hot and thirsty and would really like a long hot bath; she forgot that she was slightly jealous that Stephen was so animated speaking to this funny-looking little French firecracker. Instead, she simply breathed in the sights and the smells: the women in their bright prints; the boys, by contrast, in Western clothes; the children wearing incongruous outfits that she guessed must come through charitable giving: One Direction T-shirts, Justin Bieber,lots and lots of Manchester United. A little girl, her hair pinned up, sitting peeling corn by the side of the road, looked up as they passed and gave her a smile and a tentative wave, and Rosie waved back, wanting to stop the van and jump out and give her some of the large assortment of sweets she’d insisted on packing.
    She tried to take some pictures, but they were picking up speed; she wanted to remember it all for Liilan, who had insisted that she tell her everything. Despite Rosie’s rather weak exhortations to the contrary, Lilian would never travel again now; her old bones simply weren’t up to it. So she needed to see it through Rosie’s eyes.
    As they left the city behind, Rosie wiped her face with the back of her hand; both were covered in a fine light mist of red dust. Out in the countryside, the wind blew sand across harsh landscapes of dried-up fields. In a corner, she saw a large group of huts, huddled together as the sand scoured them. It must get into every nook and cranny. On the other side ran a single railway line.
    ‘Why is there just one?’ she asked, interested.
    Faustine laughed, which Rosie thought was unnecessary.
    ‘There’s only one train,’ said Stephen over his shoulder.
    ‘One train?’
    ‘Yes. In the whole country. It goes from one side to the other, once every few days. So they don’t really need another line.’
    ‘They DO,’ interjected Faustine fiercely.
    ‘Well, yes. They do. But it’s not on the priority list right now.’
    As the hours passed, and her bum grew increasingly numb, and the roads became harsher and worse, Rosie lapsed into a kind of passive dream state, taking in the unchanging landscape. Eventually they stopped at a kind of roadside inn, built roughly of wood in a pentagon shape.
    Faustine jumped down.
    ‘She’s gone to put a rocket up their arse about not undercooking supper,’ said Stephen. ‘For your all-new African stomach.’
    He looked at her carefully. There was an element of truce in his expression.
    ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosie crossly.
    ‘Tell me that on the squat loo at four a.m.,’ said Stephen.
    Rosie got out to stretch her legs, whereupon she was immediately divebombed by nine thousand mosquitoes, so she got back in the van and covered up with DEET and a long-sleeved shirt and a big hat that she had been vastly opposed to packing but now was delighted with; likewise the scarf.
    ‘They really are bastards,’ she said.
    ‘They are,’ said Stephen, batting them away. ‘But look.’
    Over the flat plains in the distance, the bright orange-gold sun was sinking at a rate faster than Rosie would have believed possible. As it did so, the sky took on a fierce flat line of bright purple. The sun dipped quickly behind the mountain range in the distance, the purple flared brightly then turned speedily to black and, like diamonds popping out of a necklace, suddenly there was one star, then another, then another, and within minutes the entire sky was raining on them, great crystal stars so close Rosie felt she could put out her hand and simply pluck them down.
    ‘Oh my,’ she breathed.
    Stephen