Housegirl Page 7

  11

  Gossiping like the dried women Belinda had seen outside Costcutter on Norwood Road, Mary talked about how Aunty and Uncle planned to build their children, Antoinette and Stephen, little ‘holiday cabins’ near the house. Belinda could have joined in, telling Mary about the Otuos’ flats, houses they didn’t even need to live in, houses built for strangers. Pim-lic-o. Vaux-hall. The newest one in Clap-ham, but she didn’t.

  The landing that surrounded her – painted in a polite shade she now knew to call ‘Duck Egg’ – was dull, so she played with the corsage Nana had bought her from Monsoon, an unexpected prize. Pretty, flopping and delicate. The sort of thing Belinda would have thought hard about before showing to Mother. Like if she had collected pebbles coming home from school, all miraculously equal in size, shape, and colour. Because, though difficult to imagine precisely how Mother might take the moment’s specialness, the ending of it was certain. It felt so very wrong to be frightened of your own mother.

  Belinda stopped touching the flower. She noticed a change in Mary’s speed at the end of the line.

  ‘And of yourself?’

  ‘Myself what?’

  ‘Don’t be a parrot parrot, Belinda.’

  ‘Am, am well. I suppose I am making tiny small moves to make it better.’

  ‘What better?’

  ‘With Amma. That’s the main thing, anyway.’

  ‘Aane! I said to you, not so? You are a winner.’ Mary’s noise implied a deep wisdom. ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘There’s not so much new, if I’m totally true. The most is that she, she decided to shorten my name. Give me nickname. Be. Not the whole Belinda as usual. Only “Be”. Good, eh?’

  ‘Be? As in … Be?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly right.’

  ‘Baby name – as though she trying to small you to littler than you are. A less scary one. What did my Belinda do to scare the queen white girl?! Ah ah, it must be big to have her cutting your name so you lose your power!’

  ‘I think she did it because is nice. Friendly.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe I misunderstand. That happens sometimes.’ Mary paused. ‘You have a way of naming her also? Your new thick as thieves, or however they call it?’

  ‘No. Not really. Same as last time, we don’t really talk to one another so there is no need for that. Only a few days she has used this Be so far. That’s the time she has said the most. So I’m hoping and hopeful.’

  ‘Her tongue still not opening? And you been there these two weeks? Kai! Not only me with a problems then.’

  ‘Problems? Like what?’

  ‘Only usual. Normal. Same.’

  ‘How you mean? Spit it out, Mary. Or “Mare”. Mare has good feel about it?’

  Mary breathed a serious whoosh down the receiver.

  ‘For the whole life I have to have only small small conversations with you and then I scrape up the bird poos on the veranda, and then a hundred years will be done and I will have Uncle’s grey hair on my head. Is it? I’m to only spend my days pushing that annoying glass cloth on all the glasses for so many hours to be sure when Aunty comes to check everything is correct. And you remember how the cloth itches my hands. And how long it take to get them white watermarks out. It make me even hate water, knowing how much time I spend on all those glasses, even though I have to drink it or else you would die.’ Mary kissed her teeth. ‘Is like I’m only waiting for Aunty to smile on me and tell me I can stop that one now to then do another job on the list. How can I do that forever? Is like a robot without dreams.’

  Belinda twisted the anglepoise lamp on the side table away, its glare unwanted. ‘Don’t forget, Mary: we are lucky to have found ourselves in that house.’

  ‘Lucky? I don’t feel that at all. Opposite.’

  ‘Yes, it can be a tough task sometimes –’

  ‘Sometimes? Is all times. Every day I’m sitting here in the kitchen with my crossed legs on the floor, trying –’

  ‘You have to imagine. That’s how I told myself.’

  ‘Imagine what?’

  ‘Imagine that you are the kind of girl that can cope with it, even if you are not. Even, imagine you are the type that enjoys it all. If you cannot do it as Mary, be someone else when you work, eh? Wa te?’ Mary hummed. ‘You tell me, eh, tell me now, let’s play – what is the girl who doesn’t mind fishing in the plugholes for the hairs? Let us give –’

  ‘She a mad girl; you can have that for free.’

  ‘Let us give her name and age and story. Come on, Mary. At least try. Close your eyes.’

  ‘OK. Only so you are happy.’

  ‘Hey, mini-madam! I can see they are still open.’

  ‘A witch! My sister is an oversea witch.’

  ‘Close them!’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Now, can she have any name I like to choose?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Errrrrrm. I like for her to be Cynthia. Obviously is far too white for me, but I always think that it sounds how an angel would breathe.’

  ‘That’s very grand and for a princess. OK. OK, Cynthia. And how old is Cynthia?’

  ‘Thirteen. The beginning of grown-ups.’

  ‘Excellent … you doing well.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘And … tell me, what is Cynthia’s favourite task to do around the house? What is the one when she wake up, she’s most looking forward to?’

  ‘Is a hard one, but … maybe she really enjoys to grind the pepper for Kontomire. She mash it in the mortar very well to give it the most delicious taste.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And also, the onion part also. She thinks is amazing and magic that from only slicing them, it waters your eyes as much as that, as though you really have something to cry about even if you’re feeling in a normal or even a fine fine mood.’

  ‘And here I put something else about Cynthia – if, if you don’t mind me adding also?’

  ‘I suppose I will let you.’

  ‘She has no fears. So when she has to climb on the step ladder to get to the dirty ceiling corners or to wipe the fans, even though inside she is trembling a little, she can still do it. And another one of her favourites is cleaning the glasses.’

  ‘Why would any human being on earth choose that one?’

  ‘She, she loves how the glasses all look when they lined up on the shelves. She calls it perfect: with the light … She sees them and she thinks of heaven, like her angel name. And, yes, the cloth can hurt her fingers a bit sometimes. But the tingle tingle is good. It means that she’s not a lazy person, like all the old men from her village who are drinking on the road and then crying for their wife to get their food for the evening when the bottle is empty. She’s a doing person –’

  ‘Adjei! We have left Cynthia homeless and without a hometown! That’s very bad of us. We call her Fante, for that nice yellow-yellowy skin. Maybe she is from some small place by Takoradi.’

  ‘Main point is Cynthia likes the hard work. It gives her a pride, to, to feel as though she is doing something not nothing.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Very. Miss World 2002.’

  ‘She has very nice white teeth, all neat, and a nice dress with all patterns on the arms that was very expensive to sew.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And she stands very tall and straight. And when she walk anywhere is with her head up, and she is very proper, never dragging her feet in the floor like when I normally walk.’

  ‘Exactly. So, when next time you doing the latest chore or Aunty is asking you for a help with something else – remember that you are Cynthia, and, and Cynthia will leap up for it with a big smile and that head up.’

  ‘I suppose I will do it the first time. Even if it sound a bit weird. You clear that it sound weird, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is like I heard on one of Aunty’s Oprah. You remember her? The black billionaire with the jewels on her throat?’

  ‘Your Aunty is still a
fan for it: GTV, 3 p.m. every day. I’m still watching it round the door. All those ladies moaning and moaning around the place.’

  ‘On one I watched, Oprah she told one of the crying ladies, “Fake it ’til ya make it.”’

  ‘Wo se sɛn?’

  ‘Is like … you pretend to be as Cynthia for long enough and then one day you will see that you have … have become her.’

  ‘Sa?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I like the idea. Of changing, magically. Remind me of how you became different when you used to read to me. One minute you are like a monster, and then you are like you are a dog, and then like you are dead. And I nearly believed it all. Very entertaining. You were top marks at it, is true-oh.’

  ‘Me da ase.’

  ‘Maybe is right for you again, Belinda.’

  ‘Wo se sɛn?’

  ‘You can do anything now you are over in that different place. All different sorts of things from how you behaved here. But all you are doing is sweet pastry and getting all happy because she gives you name as for a puppy dog.’

  ‘That’s rude. Aren’t you ashamed to speak like that to someone who spent the money and time to call you?’ The space between Belinda’s shoulder blades seemed to contract and throb.

  ‘Sorry. I. No, you’re right.’ There was a shy shuffle. ‘Shall we talk about some other? I don’t want my sister to leave thinking only badly of me when she put down the phone.’

  Belinda could see Mary’s thinking face, deeply lined, as if it were in front of her, glowing dark against the pale walls. ‘Go on, discuss again about Christina Aguilera and the half trousers she wears. They sound really impossible and nasty!’

  12

  The third surprise – after the ease with which Belinda knocked, and the calmness of Amma at the bedroom door – was the poster. Belinda shivered at it. It wasn’t nearly as big as the grand Sunlight Soap billboard in Daban. But, as a darkly smocked Amma invited her in and Belinda positioned herself on the edge of the bed, the image punched her. The black woman in it was possibly singing, more likely screaming. She had wide, bush baby eyes, pricked ears and bared teeth. Her licked lips wanted to swallow the microphone, a microphone with a foam head as perfectly round as the woman’s bald one. A costume of glossy black feathers like those on vultures sprouted from her shoulders and beneath this, chains dripped. In the corner, written in razored letters, was the word ‘Skin’. Belinda turned her whole body away from the juju picture. She wanted to get started. She placed her hand on the top of her thigh, her new jeans absorbing some of her palm’s wetness. She wished the sweat would stop, wished that her heartbeat could be a little less persistent, demanding. She tried to focus. She would begin with the music; the odd, shaking whine in the background that Amma twitched and swayed to.

  Belinda did a smile and tried twitching too.

  ‘Yeah. Not everyone likes it,’ Amma said.

  ‘It’s new for me. Usually I only know some of the Highlife artists and a few Americans. But this isn’t one of those. So, what, what is the song, and who is the person singing, anyway?’

  ‘It’s Thom Yorke, it’s Radiohead, from Romeo and Juliet, the film? I’ll turn it down. Sorry.’

  Amma crawled across the duvet and pressed buttons. ‘I dunno, I suppose, like, I like the haunting quality his voice has? And the guitars: how they plod through. I’ve never been the best at describing music.’

  ‘What is the quality you mean?’

  ‘It’s … searching, and … I don’t know. Nothing. Nothing.’

  Belinda reached past Amma, and turned the same buttons in the opposite direction. The song came back louder; now the voice spat out hard questions and rude words, over and over again.

  ‘I hope you never feeling as angry like this man. Would be dreadful.’

  ‘Is he angry?’

  ‘Of course. Listen to the abuse.’

  ‘Is anger the only reason for sentiments, words, like that? Really?’

  Belinda shrugged, trying her best to be light, cheerful. Her spit tasted bitter like bad kenkey.

  ‘That’s all you’ve got? A little humph? A little blah humph.’

  ‘Amma?’

  ‘Blah humph.’

  ‘Amma?’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Amma rolled over and buried herself under pillows. The girl would not speak or move, but Belinda could be patient; she had learnt patience in Daban. She nodded to herself and looked around the room for help.

  The room was a big hexagon, sliced horizontally across its middle. Two walls slanting towards long windows were plastered with messy sketched drawings that spread out around the Skin woman. If Amma was responsible for these, she was very clever for sketching them so realistically. But as well as being almost as sharp as photos, they were also very horrible. Most seemed to be of small animals – curled storybook mice or things like grasscutters – only with their faces twisted in on themselves. Painted in the thin greys and nearly greens Belinda knew from dishwater, they seemed injured, some oozing a blackness that could only be old blood. In between these were scratchy pencil scribblings, bits from newspapers and wise phrases written in red; there were woolly receipts, letters with grand letterheads, more newspaper cuttings; drawings of women with melon heads, saucer eyes and balloon breasts; black and white shots of people marching with banners. And the books? Piled in tall stacks between the small tables and the armchair. Open, closed, upturned.

  Though the desk and the fancy box that sat on it amongst torn pages interested Belinda, it would be very inappropriate to rifle through someone’s papers. So she bounced over to the busiest wall, where photos wept blue glue – or gum. In the photos, Amma became a dark, smudged stillness in the middle of gleaming white girls, all of them with pink on their cheeks and clutching one hip like they were scolding. Twinkly and smooth-skinned, in each moment they were having a better time than in the last. Sometimes, they were in small photos like the one in Belinda’s passport. In those they clung to each other and Belinda noted how easily Amma seemed to let these people push up close to her, and how much she seemed to be enjoying it. Amma’s prettiness – proud cheeks and fine lips – was obvious.

  A soft patting noise encouraged Belinda to turn.

  ‘Actually you should sit. If you like. Or whatever. You look ridiculously awkward.’

  Belinda moved back to the bed where Amma had now stopped talking, and instead was crouching forward, pursuing a splinter in her toe. The black Skin woman caught Belinda’s attention again. The expression was frightening but full of strength. Belinda shifted and sat up taller.

  ‘You never even ask me. Not even your ma, now I come to think of it. None of you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we talk of our homeland. No chance for Belinda to add anything at all. So, so don’t I even have an opinion worth counting? And I’m the one who was there basically some minutes ago. I’m the one who has it fresh in the mind as though it’s here to hold in front of me. I’m the one who sees it in their sleep.’

  ‘Oh God –’

  ‘Don’t use His name like that.’

  ‘I’m actually an atheist.’

  ‘Of course a girl like you is atheist.’

  ‘What’s a girl like me?’

  ‘Is an expression. Isn’t it? Have, have I got the wording wrong?’ Belinda flicked her glance towards, then away from, the pointed teeth in the poster. ‘Listen, I … I only want us to hear each other. Eh?’

  In Belinda’s pause, Amma grabbed a teddy bear as big as a well-fed toddler and pressed it against herself.

  ‘Even if I only have some seventeen years in my life, I have had a great, great pain. And even sometimes I closed my eyes hard to hope that when my eyes come open, if I have squeezed enough, the pain will have disappear into thin air. It never did. I don’t need that kind of sadness again. No one does. Wa te?’

  ‘And people tell me I’m fucking melodramatic.’

  Blood swelled Belinda’s temples. ‘Name it as you w
ant.’

  ‘I’m only saying you’re coming on quite strong. Chill.’

  ‘Was strong. The feeling was strong. And that’s the best I can describe. Maybe you cannot understand and cannot even care to give an attempt to understand.’

  Belinda watched Amma pull the toy’s ears until neat and symmetrical, then bring his paws up, as if to protect him from difficult sights. Belinda needed to move before the softness of the moment passed.

  ‘I think you are going to come with me and your mother.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How you’re acting and behaving – is achieved nothing. So now do another.’ Belinda let the rising inside keep on and on. ‘It’s a cultural event your ma wants for us to attend.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I only say is something cultural. Your ma promises there will be Nollywoods and people talking of our politics and serving Chichinga and Kelewele. And is something you will do for me. Because I hope, under it all, you are a human being with a soul. I have hope.’

  ‘But – but not fucking that Ghanafoɔ group thing! No fucking way.’

  ‘Aba?! Adɛn? Ghanafoɔ sound very nice to me. Is good for people from our community to come together and to discuss our traditions and so on. Is –’

  Belinda dodged the flying bear. Perhaps it was a joke, a joke the whites liked to play, but Amma’s burnt expression didn’t seem like that. Belinda wanted to run down the stairs and reorganise the strange ordering of tins in Nana’s cupboards. She wanted to de-ice the chest freezer she had seen was thick with white fuzz and smelly. Anything. Anything was better than having things hurled at her by the girl turning the music back up.