Housegirl Read online

  ‘Maybe you were. Maybe you were focused on the wrong kind of thing?’

  ‘You’re almost certainly entirely correct, Be. Even if it does feel shit passing the buck and blaming someone or something else for how I am instead of being, you know, personally accountable for my own actions. Like a proper person. Grown up and shit.’

  Belinda laughed. ‘And, and Amma – are you a proper person?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m trying to be. Just because I haven’t got all the answers, doesn’t mean I’m not. Just because I have an extraordinary tendency to fuck up, doesn’t mean I’m not. It’s the trying bit that counts, Be. And I like you because you really, really try.’

  Belinda smiled her biggest smile as a girl more ill-looking than the ones on Model Behaviour handed Amma a bottle.

  18

  Looking over the banister’s handrail to the landing below, Belinda saw Doctor yawn, scratch between his legs and rub his bald patch before slipping into his study. As his door closed, Belinda cradled the phone’s receiver to her ear. Mary was breathless.

  ‘So, Belinda, explain me again. Is hard to understand. You telling me there was no adults?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had free run of the house?’

  Belinda released her foot from its slipper and let it nudge a little pile of paint flakes collected on the skirting board. She would deal with it in the cleaning session later that night. That would be good.

  At the end of the line, Mary whistled. ‘How are adults to be sure you won’t do damage? Even on accident? It could happen. And then, then imagine how angry that will make the Mother and Father. They may even have put pepper in your anus as they did in my village too. Is true-oh.’

  ‘Some of the parents here, they, they trust the children to not mess. And no one did. Not from what we saw before we left. And they have, like, a clever spray to get rid of the smell from’ – Belinda grappled with the receiver again, whispering – ‘their smoking.’

  ‘Yey! And did you join in with that also?’

  ‘Madam!’ If Belinda mentioned the dancing or the kissing, Mary would never stop and the phone card would run out.

  There was crackling. Mary coughed. ‘You. You promised you will call me immediately after it. Now some three days have pass. I have waited and waited. Adɛn?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Also what did they wear? Any special dress? Did they have things newly sewed?’

  ‘It wasn’t, like, really a big deal, or like a party or anything, they called it –’

  ‘Also what food was prepared? Did they give you some to take home in a Tupperware? Have you eaten already?’

  Belinda dabbed her big toe into the flakes again and a stubborn, dry hexagon stuck. She tried to flick it off but the toe wasn’t clever enough.

  ‘Actually, now listen to me: they let me watch the interview for the next housegirl. Our Aunty and Uncle let me. I liked it. I got into the big reception room, the one they use to show off if the Nigerians come, that’s where they did it – you remember the place?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Eh hehhn. I sat on the long sofa, with the tassel cushions and in the middle of Uncle and Aunty like I am their real small child. They had a notepad and even gave me my own like I would need to take something down. I laughed. They didn’t seem to mind the laugh. But they didn’t join in either. So.’

  ‘So, so have they found?’

  ‘My sister. We spoke to about ten. A lot from the North with big scars and the scarves on the mouths. I, I wasn’t expecting that because Aunty thinks they are bad.’

  ‘Then they didn’t choose?’

  ‘No. And I was glad. I thought, if you are coming to act as you will be a good cleaning person, then how can you yourself be sweating and in a pata pata with oil and stew on it? Many of the girls were like this. Aba. Cynthia wasn’t very impressed either. But she kept it to herself.’

  Mary went quiet again. ‘Will you greet Amma for me?’

  Was it the irritating flake or the request that brought a sudden flush to Belinda’s arms? ‘I suppose I can do that, but. Like. She might find it weird. I mean, she doesn’t, like, know who you are? And, like, like I don’t want to … bring in any more things. You see? I have talked to her about you and stuff, but –’ She imagined Mary’s lower lip pushed as far as it could go – all pink and wet and those eyes: massive and pleading and familiar. ‘I’m being silly.’ The hexagon curled off.

  ‘Oh, I understand. Everyone is selfish.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘OK then.’ Mary paused, then burped.

  ‘Mary!’

  ‘Excuse – but don’t pretend some don’t come from your body sometimes – is not like you are like the purest and built from fairy dust.’ Mary burped again.

  ‘Ma–’

  ‘I will give you some words to mention next time I am in your chatting with Amma. I will like you to –’

  ‘I will tell her I have a very clever and very nice and a very special friend back in Africa. A friend who has a very big light inside of her. That is the best phrase for you.’

  Belinda waited for the bright response, at this proof that she wasn’t selfish at all; was in fact the opposite.

  ‘Will you, really, use all those verys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And mean each one?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so. I mean, yes –’

  ‘You only think so? Ha! You give nicely and then in two second flat – kai! – you take it back! Wicked, wo ye wicked paaa.’

  ‘Don’t play rough and tease.’

  ‘But, Belinda, is my very favourite thing to do.’

  AUTUMN

  19

  The third week of October saw the predictable spreading of a cold that had both Belinda and Amma off sick for two days. Throughout the girls’ first morning as invalids, Mum was both panicked and thrilled to bits. Transformed into a veritable Mary Seacole – albeit one with a magenta Hermès drooping from her neck – she listened with concern to the spluttered recounting of symptoms. She rushed between Amma and Belinda’s bedrooms, applying too much Vicks to their foreheads and shoving her generous bosom in their faces while plumping pillows. Through her wall, a sweaty Amma heard Belinda’s thin apologies for causing trouble and fuss. Amma then heard – at fast-dwindling volume – Mum listing the contents of the fridge before making promises to be back from her shift at the Barnardo’s shop as soon as she could. The letter flap thwacked as she slammed the front door.

  Amma’s idle arm swung across the bed, knocking over the Kleenex, the half-read Orlando, and threadbare Langston, who always offered such cuddly support during times of strife. She spat greasy phlegm into a ragged tissue and threw it towards the wastepaper basket. It landed perfectly. Her subsequent irritating run of coughs was not enough to detract from the joy of that victory. Reaching over, tasting chalky Lemsip on her tongue, she grabbed the novel and shoved it into her tracksuit bottoms’ fleecy pocket. In her grinning piglet slippers, she padded along the corridor to collect snotty, puffy Belinda.

  ‘Twins?’ Amma offered, pointing at their matching, inflamed noses.

  Belinda nodded slowly. They descended the stairs, tentative on the sisal runner and holding the banister like elderly women frightened of what lay ahead.

  Amma loved a good sickie – especially when Mum wasn’t rattling around at home. The sick day was a day of untrammelled luxury! It ignored the boring business of being presentable, and instead made completely reasonable the need for things that brought on delicious, drowsy forgetfulness: sticky linctus, eye-watering hot toddies. Settling into the front room, Amma poured herself into Dad’s Lazy Boy and sighed until she started coughing again. She undid the top buttons of her striped pyjama shirt and flapped the collar for more air. Belinda took the sofa opposite, robing herself with its patterned throws.

  ‘I only don’t want to fall behind with my studies. Today we have an important question about Banquo and –’ Belinda stopped to consid
er. ‘In every lesson if, if you blink then you will miss. And I must pass. I must pass the exams or –’ Belinda massaged her neck. ‘My attendance record in Adurubaa was always consistently at 100 per cent. I’ve never had a staining like this.’

  ‘A staining! A. Staining?! Total fucking jokes!’ Amma grabbed the remote control. ‘A little allusion to her “damned spot”, am I right? Titch had us learn it off by heart when we were in, like, Year 10. Fucking terrifying sound, all of us droning it out together. Yikes.’

  ‘I think you’re talking of Lady Macbeth? Miss mentioned a bit about it in a passing, but we haven’t properly studied it in full, so don’t spoil please.’

  ‘You’re in for a treat. Seriously. Lady M is a-maz-ing.’

  ‘That’s what Miss says too.’ Belinda looked even more crestfallen. ‘Miss will be so disappointed in my absence. She may even tell me off when I return. It’s. It’s not right.’

  ‘I think she’ll find some way of coping, Be. Eh? People get ill. Then they get better. The world turns.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Amma hoisted her legs up to her chest and swivelled herself in the direction of the screen.

  ‘The easy wisdoms of Mr Robert Kilroy Silk! Perfection. Entre nous, I –’

  But Belinda wasn’t listening. Instead she had reduced herself; hidden the lower half of her body further within the throws’ fuzziness. Like some purposeful bird, she nibbled the tip of her thumb. Kilroy kept talking about forgotten Blitz spirit, so everyone in the audience had to clap. The sudden report of their applause seemed to underline Belinda’s stillness. Amma repositioned herself. The chair’s springs responded to the movement.

  ‘I can help you catch up if you miss anything really important, you know. We did Macbeth for fucking years so I’ve got tonnes of notes and handouts and stuff. You probably won’t need them, but anyway … And of course you’ll bloody pass, Be. You’re really on it. Working the whole time. It’ll be piss.’

  ‘I don’t always like to ask for help. But if I need it, is really nice to know that’s there. So. Thanks. Thank you.’

  Belinda took a tissue from the bulge inside her sleeve, wiped a nostril and tried being more positive. ‘So, so now we’ll sit here for a whole day? And do what? Waste?’

  ‘We can read a bit later, if we really want to. Have you finished the last book I lent you?’

  ‘Nearly. I find Achebe’s writing … well … hard to describe actually. Sometimes he sounds like any person you might hear speaking on the street. Like, I mean to say he … he sounds ordinary. But then, on other pages, it feels … heavier. I don’t know.’

  ‘No. Totally. Absolutely.’

  The two girls sat in a pleased silence, concentrating on Kilroy again. Kilroy’s hands moved a lot as he spoke, as if his gesticulations sought to stir into life the passive, hooded dude being interviewed.

  ‘Why did the guest come on to national television like this? See the corner of his mouth there? As if he has never come across water and handkerchief.’

  ‘That’s the least of his worries, Be.’

  ‘And how come this Kilroy interrupts so often and everyone allows? Eh? Listen again, he’s even doing it now. Each time someone wants to speak he only jumps on top of them. If anyone in the audience did that in their daily lives, someone will surely tell them about themselves.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And, also, can you explain to me his skin tone? He seems fully white, and his speaking and accent agrees with that view also, but the face is more … more orange than usual. Like … like a cross between an English and a Hausa. But then I doubt that. Doesn’t seem likely that is his origin.’

  Amma laughed herself into another fiery succession of coughs until she had to go for water, flapping aside Belinda’s offered assistance as she went. In the glitzy kitchen Mum had bought herself to celebrate early retirement, Amma squeezed two glasses of orange juice with the suggestively shaped juicer and placed them on a tray. She then loaded the remaining space on the tray with Cool Original Doritos, Maryland Cookies, a knife, Nairn’s oatcakes, a block of Duchy Original cheddar, five tangerines, salted cashews and – for fun – some Haribo. As she wobbled forward, Amma looked at the pile of crude, inflated packets with their screaming logos. Nothing had the delicacy of the food Belinda had prepared for them in the weeks since she’d arrived; fried yam without the usual bitterness, still crumbly and soft within; shitoh with heat that didn’t strip the tongue of feeling, but still managed to be spiky and exciting. And, yeah, maybe it was anachronistic etc. to be praising the lady for her domestic prowess as opposed to some higher quality. But, whatever. Amma edited the excess, eventually only taking up the juice and a jug of water.

  In spite of Belinda’s initial protest, they proceeded their way through varied televisual offerings, with Belinda especially enjoying Fifteen to One, astounded at contestants’ powers of recall. Bargain Hunt also went down really well – even if Amma did have to go through the concept of heirlooms at length when her throat prickled most. Belinda nodded through Amma’s careful example: the story about the lightbulb Dad had given her as a memento of his first job in England, on the production line of an Osram factory where he’d met Belinda’s Uncle and Aunty of Daban-fame. At the end of the explanation and through the scratchy coughs it forced out of Amma, Belinda rested her eyes on the corner table’s calla lilies wearily. As painful and annoying as it was for Amma to do it, switching to Dawson’s Creek surprisingly reanimated Belinda; as the show went on, Belinda wriggled in the throws, brushing aside her hot water bottle, brimming with wonder at the interesting words they used. Belinda admired the pretty actors as they hopped on and off yachts, but said that the skinny Joey-girl’s beauty was spoiled by her constant shrugging of one shoulder. When Joey and Dawson kissed, Amma noticed that Belinda turned from the screen. Amma wanted to tease her for such childishness, but Belinda’s frowning and pulling on her Totes socks stopped the urge. As did Amma’s embarrassment at immediately thinking of the Brookside kiss.

  Amma would have been nine or ten. Mum hadn’t been a regular viewer or a fan, but in the run-up to that particular episode – maybe because of all the heated coverage in the papers and on the news – Mum went on about definitely watching it, and about how Amma had to be in bed when it came on. But of course Amma, ever the rebel, evaded bed. After story time, after lights out, she crept back down the stairs with trusty Langston in tow. She hid herself in shadows by the front room’s door. She waited, frozen like in Grandma’s Footsteps, and peered through when the two delicately featured girls put their lips against each other’s with such speed and lightness it seemed like it had never happened. But it had happened. Because as soon as the curly-haired one pulled back, Mum stood up, spoke to the screen in Twi and made outraged noises. Then Mum changed the channel and appealed to Dad for equivalent disapproval. Amma had tiptoed away, confused by Mum’s determination to watch something she clearly knew would upset her so much.

  In the front room now, as the Dawson’s Creek credits rolled, Amma smiled to herself while Belinda hummed along to the theme tune with impressive accuracy and collected the empty glasses. She rested them on the side table and picked something from Amma’s shoulder with a punishing pinch: blue fluff, which she proudly showed on the end of her finger, like proof of something long-contested. With a curious lack of sympathy at the yelp Amma released, Belinda bent down for the tray again. Chatter emerged from outside, beyond the shuttered windows. And it got louder and livelier: Helena ‘doing polite’, asking to help carry Mum’s shopping and complimenting Mum’s scarf and clutch bag. Mum replied in her reedy Parents Evening voice; the one she specifically used for talking to posh white people. Amma rolled her eyes and breathed into her palms to check the depth of her unbrushed teeth’s stench.

  ‘Oh. Your friend has come to pay a visit to see about your illness. That’s nice. It will be nice for me to greet her also.’

  Amma noted the sharpness and formality of Belinda’s tone that somehow seemed to
rhyme with Mum’s high-pitched affectations that now filled the passageway. Helena appeared in the door frame.

  ‘Observe! Weep! Bow! Scrape! I did it in Period 3 at Ellie’s. Comments? Thoughts? Hey, bootylicious Be! How goes?’

  Helena kept shaking her hair. Helena had dyed her hair pinkish. All Amma could think was that it clashed with the green school blazer terribly.

  * * *

  After hearing the sound of Amma’s radio speaking what Belinda now knew was the weather for the sea, that night while the family slept she topped up the lilies’ water. She moved the flowers around in the vase so they were less floppy. Then she gathered, quietly crushed and threw away the leaves fallen from the long stems and wiped the vase’s damp bottom. She wrestled a Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose quietly.

  Next, she sat in the utility room among bedlinen from the tumble dryer, watched by a slow, pointy fox in the garden that she tried to shoo away with a shaking fist. The copper pipes snaking the wall opposite talked as she worked. Folding such huge sheets seemed more difficult without a small friend to help. As she moved on to the towels, she wondered again why she had lied earlier. Because her attendance hadn’t been completely 100 per cent at school, back home. More like 98.9 per cent.

  Once. There was once. Harmattan, so the stormy morning air had been a mess. She’d had pains in her stomach similar to the ones before her monthlies. But these were much more like punching than the familiar wringing. Normally, in class, she could manage the wringing, breathing through each twist as she copied sentence after sentence from the blackboard. The pains that particular morning were deeper, longer, more cutting, and forced her chest to do scary hops to find air. When using the latrine only hot, brown water had come from her behind and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from crying. Mother had insisted she stay home and roughly tucked her into their small bed.