Housegirl Page 19

  Wafting her Kente scarf, Nana looked Belinda up then down. With her stubby French plait pointing as high as it could, Nana pushed away her trolley, a warrior ready for battle. In the weeks since the fireworks, Belinda had become excellent at ignoring that look, declining the possibility it was meant for her and sending away the nausea it brought by pressing her thumbs together. Releasing her thumbs now, she spoke to Amma.

  ‘Shall we go then?’

  ‘Suppose. I’m on bathroom stuff. So.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will see you.’ Belinda clicked her heels, keen for Amma to move forward first, and to avoid accidental bumping into one another. They must not touch. Something about Belinda’s hesitation annoyed Amma, who swore under her breath. Belinda picked up a wire basket and squeezed its thin handle.

  Belinda was annoyed that everyone was so cross with her. A trip to the supermarket was usually a treat. Mary thought so too. In Kumasi, they were often sent to A-Life! in Adum when extra provisions were needed if guests came for long weekends. In the tro tro on the way to the store, there was only one way Belinda could control Mary’s mad anticipation about steering the trolley around the aisles: Belinda had to face Mary head on and declare:

  ‘Let’s Freeze-Out – Three. Two. One. And we go … now!’

  Starting the game, Belinda would stare at Mary without blinking. Well practised at this, Mary stared back; showing Belinda the kind of determination she called on when carrying bolts of Aunty’s ankara that, at first, seemed too much for her skinny arms. As the tro tro hit pothole after pothole, Belinda would continue even through the prickling at the corners of her eyes, and as the image of the tensed child opposite her wobbled. Eventually Mary had to flap and gasp and shout ‘Pax! Pax! Pax!’ and the two would do battle again and again until the driver announced that they had reached the shop.

  Sweaty A-Life! – with its grey meat and crispy-haired cashiers – was not in the same league as gently lit, fragrant Waitrose Balham. Waitrose Balham was a place of many small wonders. Taking a long route, Belinda dawdled by Fruit and Veg. Curiosity on every shelf. The sound of names: pom-egran-ates, ki-wis, passion-fruits. And elsewhere: cho-ri-zo, hal-lou-mi, San-ce-rre. What of those? What could you do with those? In fact, Sancerre was in her favourite part of the store, the bit with the alcohols. Though it was a clearly sinful section, its green-red glow was magical. Mary would agree. Remembering her old friend so much was dizzying. Perhaps she hadn’t done the thumb thing properly. She stopped by the coolness of Dairy. She had saved three soaking saucepans at home, and they might return in time for Fame Academy, something nice to fix on and look forward to. That helped. She started up again, swinging her basket like a girl in a fairytale woodland. She hummed a tune, overemphasising the notes she strung together. She didn’t mind if those around – red-faced men with enormous eyebrows; a group of little, harassed women who seemed Chinese, but not quite – were keen to avoid her. She was busy singing a happy song and marvelling at all the different types of tea towels.

  She liked how politely the smart staff – most about the same age as her and Amma – spoke to one another. It was not a problem that most of the workers here were black and most of the customers not, because Belinda was quite envious of anyone with a job at Waitrose Balham. An amazing honour. She might even stop to ask one of the chatting shop girls opposite what their discussion was about. They had good nails, neat teeth, small sparkles pinned to ears. The two prettier ones wore small crucifixes that Belinda believed, not like Monique’s. She might see if she could join in with these potential new friends, perhaps she could talk to them about her latest essay, returned that afternoon – a mark away from an A*, and on difficult Lord of the Flies as well. She hadn’t been able to tell Amma that good news; Amma would have turned the story into one about herself somehow. Those gossiping girls, Belinda knew, wouldn’t do that. Then the smallest one caught her watching. The others noticed too. They giggled, patted each other and returned to touching products with clunky guns. Belinda searched Canned Veg, embarrassment making it hard to find the black-eyed peas.

  The overhead speaker tried to give its message but the crackles won. At the far end of the aisle, she noticed other, more serious members of staff. Their arms were crossed and one man kept tapping his shiny shoe. Their attention focused on a black man dressed like a police officer. This black man was at least three heads taller and spoke into a dark radio. Belinda listened to him shout numbers and mention ‘distress’ which seemed a strange word for such calm surroundings. But they were becoming less calm. Excited customers streamed down the aisle and then to the left. Belinda followed them. She heard Nana before seeing her.

  ‘Amma Danquah Otuo. Amma. Danquah. Otuo. Stand from there.’ In the section with the detergents, Belinda and an audience of perhaps twenty found a black girl in black clothes with scrappy braids sitting amongst and trailing her hands through mess.

  ‘Stand.’

  Someone – and it was clear to Belinda and probably everyone else, who – had turned the aisle upside down. Like a crazy Art class. Piles and puddles of white, blue, pink, peach. Lenor, Daz, Bold, Comfort, Persil spoiling the floor. Torn packaging and empty bottles everywhere. Each time Nana yanked Amma, Amma said no. Belinda stepped towards the struggling two. Nana’s arms stopped fighting and changed, openly begging. While the watching white women muttered away, the big black man persuaded Amma with a voice that moved towards shouting. Then Amma picked up a nearby bottle of Toilet Duck and skidded it at Belinda. The bottle slid through a splash of green liquid and Belinda stopped it with the side of her ballet pump like the football-playing boys in the village when they paused their game to let her walk across the pitch, whispering as soon as she had passed. Belinda bent to collect it, found the space where it was meant to go and pressed it into place before turning back to the emptiness of Amma’s stare. Amma’s cool look made Belinda tilt her head as if she were about to softly ask a question. Then Amma got to her feet, brushed off her top, punched the air and flopped onto Nana. From that slumped position, Amma trembled. Belinda thought it was right to do that. It was a struggle in the body, a fight against a tough demon. That was what happened before the pastor came to strike the forehead with the Bible, knock the beast out and bring stillness. Nana looked at Belinda in complete confusion and petted Amma’s back. Belinda wanted to hum her tune again. The crowds dispersed and went back to the safe order of their tiny squares of papers: Milk, Bread, Cheese, Apples, Tea.

  ‘I will pay for all these damages,’ Nana splurted. ‘You only give me a number. Me and my husband we will pay, don’t worry for that one.’

  The big black man cleared his throat to show his importance. ‘Madam, it’s not as simple –’

  ‘What else do you need but cash money –’

  He bowed, stepped back and Belinda studied how Nana now held her daughter’s head. With thoughtful fingertips, Nana grazed the fluffy beginnings of Amma’s sideburns and traced the pretty bulge of the lower lip. Belinda was surprised that Amma let her, as if Amma had waited for this to happen, or needed it. Perhaps if Mother had touched Belinda as tenderly, instead of giving her softest touches away to strangers. Maybe then Belinda might have known how and what to feel as she saw those two sad people doing their best to be close with one another. Belinda heard Nana talk to her daughter in a way she couldn’t have learnt in any village.

  ‘Amma, what is this? A mental sickness?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Darling. Darling. When I’m coming here to see you, and what you up to – you looked as if … you want to destroy yourself. Please. I thought it was … better. I.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening.’

  ‘It was like … you having out-of-body experience. Smashing this Waitrose. What has it ever done to – Amma!’

  Belinda felt air rush. Not worried about slipping or sliding or knocking into already disturbed strangers, Amma ran, kicking her legs up and sending her loose laces wild.

  28

 
The next night, in the small hours, Belinda stopped in front of the kitchen’s longest window and the moody moon it showed. She dragged the mop again. It drooled over the tiles as it had for the last twenty minutes. She returned it to the bucket and swiped her forehead with knuckles like a labourer. The dishwasher ticked, a red timer winked a change in minutes, and a tear came from her eye. It might have been best to stop then as it rolled out, but it was the loveliest of feelings as the second tear rose: a rushing, like Mary sprinting for leftover meat bones. She didn’t want to think about Mary. She shivered, sniffed the third and fourth ones back. The mop slid in the bucket to an angle it found natural.

  She shuffled up the stairs, the usual radio-murmur from Amma’s door guiding her. Amma sat cross-legged on her bed with a book. In her pink pyjamas, with hair pouring down a shoulder she had an innocence that calmed Belinda. The gesture Belinda wanted to make to her seemed possible, if it were to a girl as gentle as that.

  ‘You?’ Amma tucked the book beneath her pillow.

  ‘We need to start somewhere. To get back on the track. I suggest this.’

  ‘Be.’

  ‘Justcome. Justcome. And now.’ Belinda’s neck did not show the weakness of turning to check if instruction had been carried out. Amma followed, whispering her confusion as they picked down the flights. ‘Shh – I only tell you that I want you to help.’ Belinda hissed into darkness near the living room as they crept on. ‘Is not big. Is not much.’

  ‘I’ll – I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘I think I need to not be by myself, OK? Is that clear? That’s all.’

  ‘Are you all right, Be?’ Amma clicked the kitchen’s light switch. Black, white, silver. ‘Oooh, it’s chilly.’

  ‘Now the central heater won’t wake up until six. I want you to wipe the front of the fridge. You need take the alphabet magnets off first, of course. I will take care of the surfaces and some other things.’

  ‘It’s, like, way way after midnight and I’ve got – we’ve got. What?’

  ‘This helps me. I do it often. And it may you, also.’

  ‘Be, this is like some fucking slave labour shit. It’s out-rage-ous. Has Mum got you doing this? Or, or was it Dad? Did Dad make you? Is this you, like, paying your way? Like the level of exploitation is un–’

  ‘I choose to do it. I say I choose. It helps me and may do good for you too.’

  Amma sniffed. ‘I doubt domestic chores will work, love.’

  ‘Have you tried?’ Belinda waited as Amma picked the skin between finger and thumb. ‘And, also, I am not your love. I don’t ask for you to, like, call me words of that kind, please.’

  ‘So this is how it’s going to be now. Fucking fabulous.’

  ‘Take the magnets off. Careful on the floor as I will be attending on it again, so it will become slippy.’

  Amma plucked lower case letters. The circling of the sponge on the granite tired Belinda.

  ‘You think cleaning will magic it away, Mum thinks it’s therapy that’ll do the trick. To deal with my … what did she call it … my rages and madness and strong emotions. Therapy! What marvellous ideas you all have.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Belinda pressed into the sponge.

  ‘What did she call it this morning … the most ridic phrase … yeah, “getting a white help”. As if.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Professional help, dearest. Medical. Head Doctor. Like, I’m totally interested in the workings of the mind, all of that, and like, gushing to paid ears is probably excellent, if you’re properly damaged or whatever … and there was this girl from JAGs and it helped her to stop cutting herself, but I’m not like that. Oh, and plus they love shoving tablets down your throat, and like tablets are a definite no-no. They use those things to control black women.’

  ‘Maybe I like it better when we are silent.’

  ‘Ha.’

  Though there was no real need, Belinda abandoned the sponge and searched for another cloth. ‘You should perhaps also throw out the rotten courgette in the bottom drawer of the fridge. There are one or two to get rid of. Sorry for the smell.’

  But Belinda had more, made Amma jump. ‘Was it nice, yesterday? Did you like what you did and what you caused?’

  ‘That’s all rather convenient, isn’t it? Palm it off onto me and then you needn’t think about it, or your own shit, any more. Blissful blissful blissful pretendy.’

  ‘And your meaning is what?’

  ‘My meaning is … my meaning is. Fuck it. Pass me some of that fucking spray … please.’

  For a time, nothing but the squeak of chamois and the hiss of Cif. Belinda liked the gentle strain stretching and disappearing along her arms as she worked.

  ‘I only feel you need to watch your behaviour, Amma. I’m a good friend to suggest it.’

  Amma pinned Belinda with a bloodshot stare and pointed with a shaking finger. ‘My behaviour isn’t your real worry though, is it? Your worry is what I’m like, Be. It’s, it’s what I like.’

  ‘However you want to put it is however. Look, listen, with, with this your … sad problem…’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘You have a great power to leave your own mum the most unhappy person I can imagine. And all for the sake that you want to say your foolish words about girls. Why? If it was my daughter I might even collapse. Would you like that?’

  ‘You’re nearly funny.’

  ‘There are no jokes. We can joke no longer. Because of you.’

  ‘Your whole perspective –’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Your whole perspective about this is, like, blame-centric. Unbelievably blame-centric. I haven’t actually done anything. I’m trying to figure –’

  ‘I don’t need to be arguing. I try to help by telling what is true: whatever this you have done or want to do with a girl is no natural thing. Is not. Is wrong. End of the line. If you have any common sense in the head, you better come to learn how to sit on it and shut it down, not go to make a show of everyone and yourself.’ Belinda snapped the cloth and sighed. ‘Is part of the adult life, Amma – why cannot anyone else see? You don’t always get to be the thing that you want or think you deserve, or whatever. You don’t, and you have to live with it and move on.’

  Amma stepped forward in her piglet slippers; their softness was the only thing reassuring Belinda that Amma would not hit her. ‘I probably loved her. She is an absolute twat and she’s gone and I loved her. Love. Do you understand what love is? Stupid fucking question. Stupid. Fucking. Question.’

  Belinda straightened her back and walked to the sink to wring the dirty rag in the basin. Grey dribbled into the plug hole.

  ‘Be? Sorry. That was harsh,’ Amma puffed. ‘Be?’

  Belinda thought of the boys in Adurubaa, the ones who messed around on the steeper dirt road. Up high, they played with brittle trucks pieced together from sardine tins and bits of tyre. When an unwise push sent one of those battered trucks too far and too fast, there was no immediate panic. They let the toy whizz down, bouncing all the long way until it reached the dip at the bottom and crashed or rolled into stillness there. Then they scurried to check the damage and remake. They never stopped it in the middle of its run.

  29

  Four lethargic days at school. Momentary intrigue came in the form of a sticky rumour that Millie Lyons from 13S had been off for so long because she was actually pregnant with Mr Lowell’s baby. As inconceivable as the tale might have been, Helena set about informing everyone excitedly. Amma did not assist. Evenings at home were no better. Amma returned to spending hours in her garret, the stacked books on the floor joined by more gritty cafetières and smeared saucers. In that festering cage she listened to a lot of Skunk Anansie, annoying herself with the intensity of her need for a role model.

  On the Friday morning, Amma swept out of the front door into an inky winter dawn with an impassive face. The air carried the smell that Nana always said meant rain would come soon, and she braced herself
against the icy blasts and the lingering shame at how she had spoken to Belinda in the kitchen the other night. Instead of going towards Railton, Amma turned onto Dulwich Road. She went past the tumbledown Regency villas and the long wooden benches outside the Prince Regent, turned upside down until the evening. She picked up her pace by the unloved lawns fronting the Meath Estate. As Herne Hill approached, she tried to remember the last time she had bunked lessons. The guilt that it would waste Dad’s hard-earned, immigrant-thriving-against-the-odds cash usually suppressed her desire to truant. On that particular morning she couldn’t be bothered to feel empathy for a man so rarely around.

  At the train station, she stepped onto the Thameslink along with harassed commuters. Nudging through the packed carriage, she went into the tiny toilet. In the cramped space, she stripped off her uniform and pulled her charcoal Elastica T-shirt, black denim jacket, black Levis and trainers from her rucksack. She changed and checked her hair in the savaged mirror opposite; let her braids fall wherever. She stuffed everything into the bag and returned to the carriage. In the crush, Amma found herself stuck between the turned back of a thin man and the twisted front of a woman in Lycra, fresh from the gym. The train lumbered through south-east London. Amma craned her neck and saw outside, in the gaps between other uncomfortable passengers, lampposts festooned with dormant Christmas lights, wily pigeons, bloated graffiti; the watermelon brightness of the Elephant and Castle then concrete severity rising around them again. Amma enjoyed the feeling of being effortlessly suspended between the two bodies, as well as the woman’s tart sweat and the pressure of the woman’s stomach against her side. Amma heard her heart accelerate and pressed her lips together. It had often been like that – with Helena, Roisin, all the termly crushes in between – initially exciting to think that her attraction was so powerful and delicious that it could not leave her body and enter the world either as language or action, because its force was so strong and otherworldly that it might make anything happen. That kind of self-silencing, all electric feeling, made Belinda’s advice to keep shtum seem a little bit sexier. The woman’s warm breast pressed into her, and Amma’s shoulder contracted as the river rolled into view. Wasn’t it as dangerous to keep something so strong locked in? It could eat from the inside out. The real fear came again as the train stopped between stations and waited in darkness. Even if Amma managed to find some other person ‘like’ her, to be with and to touch, she could only imagine it being just the two of them; alone, protecting one another by distancing themselves from the harshness of other people. But hidden away from the real world like that, love would become pretend, something false, turned inside out and not itself. The train started up again, its rocking inconsistent. All the strangers in the carriage became uniform as they swayed together, stumbled together, froze.