by Sharon Maas
* * *
The one person – apart from Jen and her gang of bitches – who didn’t seem to share her joy was Rajan. Rika was rather hurt about that. In the past couple of weeks – ever since the incident with Jen, in fact – Rajan had clammed up and seemed not as interested in her as before. In fact, he seemed bored at all she had to say about the ongoing situation. He certainly didn’t care about her hair or her clothes. Rika understood; it was because he was a boy.
But she couldn’t help talking about it. Rajan was really the only person she had to discuss things with, and she was so full of love and excitement and anticipation the words just bubbled out of her – she, who usually stumbled over the spoken word and never knew what to say. If Rajan was bored he never said so; he just didn’t react, and that was probably a good thing because all Rika really wanted was a listener, and at least Rajan listened.
So she told him everything. She told him all about love. That it was the most wonderful thing in the world. She had read about it in novels, of course, and seen in in films, but that was all second hand, a mere shadow compared to this, the real thing.
The problem with Rajan was that he turned everything into a deep philosophical discussion, which was all very well but could get boring and was beside the point. Now, after a long pause filled with pea-shelling, he said,
‘“We live that we may learn to love. We love that we may learn to live. No other lesson is required of Man.” Mirdad.’
There he was again, philosophising when she wanted to talk of her feelings for Jag. Rika shrugged. Probably she was just too shallow for Rajan.
She grabbed a handful of peas, laid them on her lap, and began to crack them open, letting the little green balls fall into the bowl between them on the bench.
‘I suppose, in the end, love is the answer to all the world’s problems,’ she added after a while. ‘I mean, I feel as if I could love everyone. It’s just there. And all the bad feelings I had, they’re just gone. And even people like Jen –I could even love her, if only she wasn’t so hostile. And my mother. And, you know what? She’s much nicer to me now. It’s as if love was the answer to all my problems. Oh Rajan! I’m so happy! And I can’t wait for the barbecue and to see Jag again and be with him for the whole night! And I can’t wait to see what he says about my new hair – it’s going to transform me, you wait and see!’
But again Rajan said nothing; he smiled to himself as if at a secret joke and shook his head, almost imperceptibly, but Rika noticed.
‘What? Why you’re shaking your head? You think I’m talking nonsense!’
He looked up then.
‘Oh, Rika! No you’re not talking nonsense but I just don’t want you to get hurt!’
‘But why should I get hurt? Even if Jag doesn’t love me the same at first, in loving him this way he’s bound to feel it – I just feel so strong, as if I could cure everything and everyone and everyone would have to love me back because – oh, because love is such a happy thing! So don’t worry about me getting hurt. It’s just so negative. It’s not like you to be negative – think of all the things you’ve told me, about having confidence that comes from within! I have it now, Rajan! I now understand what you were trying to say, and you were right! So don’t you go trying to spoil it!’
And Rajan nodded in compliance and said, ‘You’re right, Rika, and I really hope it works out for you. You deserve it.’
But Rika felt that somehow, there was doubt in Rajan’s words; he didn’t believe her. But never mind; she would prove to him that this was real; she would prove the transforming power of love. Love had already transformed her. It would go on to transform her whole life. She just knew it.
* * *
‘OoooooWWW!’ She clenched her teeth so the scream wouldn’t escape her lips; but it was there all the same. Her brain was on fire! It was as if her whole scalp was covered in red-hot coals burning their way through her head, bursting into flames at the core. She squished her face together to bear the pain, gripped the chair so hard her hands trembled. She screamed in agony, but only silently, because this was voluntary, and it was all for a good cause.
And in the end it was worth it. At last, there was the mercifully cooling rinse as Dolly washed out the chemicals, and then some fiddling, and drying and combing, and then – the mirror. The shock was almost too much to bear – Rika gasped in astonished joy. This was really her! Her hair! Straight, black and shiny, just as she’d always longed for, hanging down to her shoulders and swinging as she moved her head; soft and feathery to the touch as she ran her fingers through it. Rika grinned at Dolly in delight, and Dolly smiled back.
‘See? It make all the difference! Now you’se a real beauty!’
‘Yes, yes! Oh, I can’t believe it! Thank you so much!’
Dolly shrugged as she removed the shawl from around Rika’s shoulders, put away her utensils. ‘Just my job, Miss!’
As she cycled home, Rika felt for the first time the breeze in her hair, the coolness on her scalp; she was a new person now and nothing, nothing could ever go wrong again. She was beautiful, really beautiful! The sense of her own beauty filled her with such joy she almost burst open.
* * *
Granny’s jaw quite literally dropped in shock
‘Rika! What have you done to yourself!’
Mummy took one look at her and just spat ‘Pah!’ and turned away.
Daddy frowned. ‘Is that a wig?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
The boys laughed and pointed. ‘Rika got white-people hair! Rika got white-people hair!’ they chanted.
Only Marion approved. ‘Oh, Rika, it’s lovely!’ she said.
Rika, laughing, swung her head back and forth; oh, the sense of freedom that comes with hair that swings and flops and falls!
‘Look at it, Gran, just look! It’s so beautiful! I love it!’
And she loved herself, for the first time ever; and she knew without a doubt that Jag would love her too.
There was one more person she had to impress, so the next day – Saturday – she was out the back, down the alley and in her grandmother’s back yard. Rajan was nowhere to be seen; then she heard the rhythmic swish of a scythe and followed the sound, which led to the front gate.
Rajan was cutting the grass on the parapet outside the gate; it was a twice-a-month job, for the grass grew quickly and it grew tall; and he did it for the whole street. It was done on the first and third Saturday of the month. When he was finished and all the parapets were neatly clipped and the gutters freed of overgrowth, Rajan would harness the donkey – whose name was Sunny – and drive away with the cart piled high with grass, which he would sell to one of the stables. Usually Rika loved to come and chat with Rajan as he worked and pet the little donkey tethered to a lamp post and grazing beside the donkey-cart, and help rake the cut grass and load it on to the cart; but today she had completely forgotten to help.
Rajan didn’t see her come; she had to call out. He looked up, pulled out a cloth tucked into his trouser waist, and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Hi,’ he said.
Rika swung her head so that the hair flew back and forth.
‘Well? Do you like it?’
‘If you like it, that’s all that matters,’ said Rajan, and returned to his work. Rika was hurt; offended even; she’d expected a compliment. She stood there waiting for a moment, hoping that Rajan would take a break and go into the shade under the house with her, have a drink and a snack. Surely that was the natural thing to do. But Rajan just continued to work as if she wasn’t there, so after a while she shrugged and went home, not through the alleyway, but along the street, her head held high and proud.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
INKY: THE NOUGHTIES
Reluctantly, I reconciled myself to the fact that Gran was not going to sell the stamp. Mum had known it from the start, and that’s why she’d curbed my enthusiasm. Gran, she said, clung to relics from the past as if they were limbs from her own body, might as well cut off one of he
r legs, or her nose. Once I’d accepted the idea, I too became adept at telling callers to ‘haul tail’.
And there were callers, and offers. The last offer was for £10,000. And, painful as it was to reject such sums of money, I did so with great pleasure, knowing as I did now that our stamp – pardon, Gran’s stamp – was worth so much more. The mounting drama in our lives was almost palpable as the third week passed; Gran’s stamp the centrepiece of our family life.
‘We really should put in a bank safe,’ I said to Mum. ‘I’m terrified Gran’ll lose it.’
‘She won’t,’ Mum assured me. ‘You can bet your bottom dollar that the moment we leave that room she hides that album in a place you or me or even the most skilled burglar would never, ever find it. She’ll protect it with her life.’
But Gran’s life seemed a very precarious protection for a mere scrap of paper – a scrap of paper worth a fortune. I began to seriously worry the following weekend when Sal, a film buff, brought over Charade for us all to watch. Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn helter-skelter through Paris; three murders for the sake of three precious stamps … was it only fiction?
Watching the stamp-dealer scene in that film, we all shot bolt upright. When one of the stamps in question was declared the rarest in the world because of the postmaster’s signature, we all cheered, knowing that the DuPont stamp had been the screenwriter’s inspiration.
A few moments later, Gran clapped approval of the film’s honest dealer, who returned the precious stamps to their rightful owner, grateful only to have had them in his possession for a while. ‘See!’ She said in triumph to me, ‘That’s what I mean! It’s the stamps themselves that are precious, not the money you can get for them! That dealer understands it. You get it now? You understand I not crazy?’
I understood. I nodded. Immediately I felt the ice in Gran’s voice melt away. ‘You young people,’ she said in forgiveness, ‘You really believe happiness is money. Not true. Not true at all. That stamp dealer – now, he knew happiness. Where it come from? Not from money. You must learn that, Inky.’
She reached out and laid a bony hand on mine, and for the first time ever, I rejoiced at the feel of her shrivelled touch. Our eyes met. I covered her hand with my own. My eyes grew moist.
‘Gran, I …’
‘Shh!’ She withdrew her hand and pointed to the film. I returned to 1950s Paris.
* * *
Early the following week, a delivery van stopped outside our house just as I was leaving for work; I had lunchtime shifts again. The deliveryman removed a box from the back of the van and set it on the pavement. It was huge; big and square. As I opened the gate to the pavement, he nodded at me.
‘Dorothea Quint? Special delivery for you.’
‘She’s my grandmother. Come inside.’
I led the way to the front door and opened it. The deliveryman followed, wheeling the box on a trolley.
The first thing I saw was Gran, on the stairs, about five steps up. She was clinging to the handrail, but jumped and almost fell backwards when the door opened and I walked in.
‘Gran! Where on earth are you going?’ I rushed up to grab her elbow. She didn’t miss a beat.
‘Child! Thank goodness you come back.’
She clutched my hand in hers, and lowered herself to sit on the stairs.
‘But where were you going to?’
‘I going to the bathroom.’
‘But why? What d’you need in the bathroom?’
Whenever Mum and I went out, leaving Gran alone in the house, we placed the potty on a chair so that she could help herself when she needed it.
She ran her tongue over her dentures.
‘I need to clean me teeth again. They feelin’ furry.’
The deliveryman, standing in the hall, coughed. I looked down at him, remembered.
‘Oh, right, sorry to keep you. Gran, you stay right here. I’ll be with you in a mo.’
I signed for the delivery and the man left. Gran pointed at the thing he’d left.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know! It’s for you!’
‘For me? Aieeee! Come, child, help me down the steps!’
She had obviously forgotten all about cleaning her dentures. I helped her down to the hall and positioned her over the rollator, which she had abandoned at the foot of the stairs. I really had to go to work and I ought to have left her right there, but I was bursting with curiosity.
‘Shall I open in for you? Do you know what it is?’ I looked at the label. ‘It’s from America! From Norbert!’
‘Ah, Norbert. Such a good boy! Take good care of his old Mama. Not like some people. Hurry up, child.’
I tore open the outer box. Inside it was yet another box, big and square, but with a picture and writing on the white background.
‘Luxury Commode Chair’, it said. ‘Your hygiene needs filled with comfort and dignity.’
The picture was of a wide, squat wooden chair with a red upholstered seat and back; another, smaller picture showed the same chair with the seat lifted, revealing a potty. I ripped away the cardboard packaging and the polystyrene casing, to reveal that very chair, made of a dark hardwood with velvet upholstery. Nobody could tell from the outside the secret it hid in its bowels; the potty was well concealed within the seat. Gran beamed.
‘Ah! Lovely! See, Inky, that’s my Norbert! All I got to do is speak the word, and he rush to help me. He send this t’ing all the way from America. Y’all could learn a t’ing or two from him. If y’all don’t behave I gon’ go live with Norbert in America. Take the t’ing into me room.’
I lifted the chair – which was quite heavy, being of solid wood – and carried it into her room. Gran followed and gave instructions as to how to rearrange the furniture to give the new chair pride of place. After which she dismissed me. I assumed she wanted to try it out.
* * *
Two weeks following the arrival of The Chair, Neville invited Gran to visit him for a week. Gran didn’t even think twice. That very evening she instructed me to pack her suitcase, and the following Saturday Mum drove her up to Birmingham. I breathed a sigh of relief. The house without Gran felt like swimming out into the ocean after escaping a pond full of sharks.
That week, Mum and I did all the mother-daughter things we’d missed lately. We went to the cinema, we went out for a meal, we went for a walk in the park, and, the night before Gran’s return, we had a long, cosy talk, both cuddled against a heap of cushions at each end of the sofa; we hadn’t done this for years.
Mum was not a talker. She was the most private person I’d ever known, and even to me, her own child, she’d always been more a silent yet solid backdrop, rather than a proactive guardian, assuming I knew what I should know without her having to tell me. A natural ascetic, she was as strict with herself as she was laid-back towards me, and left me to raise myself, trusting somehow in my own wise judgement. Somehow, by a process of trial and error, it had worked. It was as if, without lectures on her part, I’d discovered right from wrong, and even when I failed myself – for instance, in the nasty matter of smoking – I knew that the strength was there to overcome it, and all I was waiting for was the right motivation.
But now we had all this time to talk, and there was something I had to ask her.
Mum had never spoken to me of her own childhood. Not one word. I’d grown up a London child, all family roots buried within her memory and my genes, invisible and unknown to me. I had no relatives, no family to speak of, beyond Mum, and I was very much bound to my home territory. I’d never thought of leaving it more than for a short holiday. Certainly not forever.
And here was Mum; she had left her territory at only sixteen! Gone out into the wilds, never to return! How had she done it? How did she feel? Did she miss it? Was the very texture of Guyana merged into her consciousness, as South London was in mine? Did she deny that sense of home; push it away from her awareness; and if so, was she somehow damaged, stunted, broken? Who was she? Maybe
that was why Mum always came across as weird. Maybe, deep down inside, she missed that sense of home. And family. I mean, who were all these people Gran constantly talked about? Humphrey Quint and Freddy Quint, Aunty Agnes, Lurleen, Mabel, Uncle Mervyn, Wolf, Uncle Matt? Gran’s arrival into our life stirred all them all into my awareness. I was curious.
Mum only shrugged when I asked. ‘I don’t know all of them. Granny, of course. Ma Quint; She’s dead. Humphrey was my father. I didn’t know him that well; he kept to himself. An academic; sweet-natured, mild, kind but distant as a father. Dutiful. He’d take us to the cinema and kite-flying and swimming in the sea. But you always felt he was dying to get back to his stamps. He loved stamps more than people; and Mum. He adored her. Uncle Matt – he was different. He was an American, a close friend of Dad’s. A philatelist, and my Godfather. I loved Uncle Matt. He was more of a father to me than Dad sometimes. Once I went to visit him in America, when I was a child. We’ve lost touch. I guess he’s pretty mad at me.’
‘Why d’you think that?’
She smiled ruefully.
‘Well – it’s my fault. I just left, ran away, never contacted him again. At least, not till you were born.’
This was it. Just the lead I needed, handed to me on a silver platter.
‘Mum … why? Why did you go off like that? I spoke to Marion and she said I had to ask you and it was pretty awful. You were only sixteen! I know Gran did something terrible – but for you to not forgive her for thirty years … what was it?’