by Yaba Badoe
Sighing dramatically, Polly said to her brother: ‘She wants to look at the sea, stupid!’
‘I know she wants to look at the sea. There’s sea at Lyme Regis.’
‘But the water at Branscombe is far nicer,’ Mrs Venus remarked. ‘If it’s architecture you’re after, nothing compares to Brighton.’
‘Isobel dearest, we’re miles away from Brighton!’
‘I was only making a point, Theo.’
‘Well, there’s the Cobb at Lyme Regis, and the promenade, and its jam-packed with culture: Jane Austen, John Fowles. I’ll run you down to Lyme, Sylvie, if Isobel will lend us the car.’
‘You can borrow your father’s car, darling. And while you’re about it, you might as well take the children with you. It’s time they went out instead of reading under their beds all day.’
Glaring at her mother, Polly replied with perfectly modulated condescension: ‘What makes you think we’d even consider going to Lyme, Mommy dearest?’
‘Everyone needs fresh air once in a while, Polly. I’m sure Ajuba would like a stroll by the sea, even if you don’t.’
‘Hallo? Did anyone ask us what we wanted to do? You might want to cramp Theo’s style, Isobel, but we don’t. Anyway, no one strolls any more. We want to hang out here. Don’t we, Aj?’
‘What colour is the sea at Lyme?’ Sylvie asked dreamily. ‘I want to stare at the sea.’
That afternoon, having won the battle to stay home, we did imitations of the French girl upstairs. We were at that transitional stage before the hormonal riot of puberty when passion, turning in on itself, becomes enamoured with its own kind.
‘Sylvie has colossal breasts,’ Polly began, augmenting her chest with a pillow.
Adjusting a cushion beneath my T-shirt I moaned, ‘She has enormous tits.’
‘Gorgeous boobs as vast as Vesuvius!’
‘What’s Vesuvius?’
‘Some volcano in Italy.’
‘Does it erupt?’
‘Constantly.’
‘Do people die?’
‘They’re always dying in Italy, Aj. If it’s not volcanoes, it’s the Mafia. They can’t get enough of dying over there. They think it’s so cool they sing about it all the time.’
‘Do they?’
‘Sure! In operas.’
Relieved that my father had sent me to boarding school in England, I continued our game: ‘Sylvie’s bosoms are as big as Brighton?’
‘They’re much bigger. They’re so big her knockers are bursting with . . .’
‘Milk? Yuk! Polly, do you think Theo touches them?’
‘I’m sure he does. That’s what boys do. That’s why he took her to Lyme Regis, stupid!’
I screamed while Polly laughed at me. ‘Touching tits is no big deal, Aj. He can’t help himself. It’s his hormones. That’s what Peter says. Would you like to grow big bosoms when you’re older?’
‘Not as big as Sylvie’s perhaps, but I’d like them to get bigger eventually. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Maybe.’
Just as the afternoon was beginning to sag and we were tiring of enhancing our breasts with underwear and bedding, Mr Venus came out of his study. I knew because Polly stopped what she was saying. She seemed to have a sixth sense where her father was concerned, anticipating his movements as if his mere being could shift the mood in the house. He had spent the whole afternoon locked away. No one was allowed to disturb him. Yet even before his door opened Polly, sensing that he was available, ran to him.
The first thing Mr Venus did when he was out in the open was to put on a record, a family favourite: Van Morrison singing ‘Brown-eyed Girl’. The English are not all the same, I decided, watching the intoxicating effect Mr Venus had on his family. He took Mrs Venus in his arms and they began dancing, hip to hip.
He was a handsome man in early middle age, tawny hair flecked with grey. His eyes were of the same intensity as Polly’s, the result of some Irish pedigree in his blood, I believe; whenever he ate seafood, or drank excessively, his eyes took on a turquoise hue. Seeing him dancing, I immediately thought of Aunt Rose. Theo had grabbed hold of Sylvie and they were dancing as well. And Polly, suddenly gleeful, started leaping up and down. I tried to slip away, but she caught hold of my arm. I was to dance as well.
Embarrassed, I made the movements my aunt had taught me, swaying in time to the music. And when the chorus came, a deep gravelly voice rasping, ‘Do you remember when we used to sing?’ I joined in the ‘shalalas’. The Venuses shouted them, dancing around the kitchen table. Peter kissed Isobel, Theo kissed Sylvie, then we all changed partners.
Peter put the record on again. His brown-eyed girl was Isobel, he told me, but Polly was his heart’s delight. He danced with her the second time, while Theo danced with me. His hand caressing my arm, Theo said that I reminded him of a Benin bronze. I thanked him – although I didn’t know what he was talking about, I was aware that he was paying me a compliment. Then I shook his hand away.
I quickly realised that Mr Venus liked music from the Olden Days. He orchestrated the family’s impromptu party, choosing songs from an extensive collection of vinyl in his study. He had all of Bob Dylan’s LPs, Roy Orbison, old Chess records, Elvis Presley’s Sun collection and shelves upon shelves of classical music and jazz CDs. After Van Morrison, he put on a record that I recognised immediately. It was one of the songs that Aunt Rose used to ‘release the spirit’, as she called it. ‘To dance, Ajuba,’ she would say, dragging me onto the veranda at Kuku Hill, ‘you must connect with the spirit between your legs and hips. Dance is sacred joy and this song of all the songs I know will teach you every move necessary to party well. Now shake!’
The man singing told me to shake as well, and copying Aunt Rose’s movements, following the singer’s instructions on how to slither like soup, shoulders and hips swirling, a whip in motion, I learnt how to move, arms unfolding as my body looped and rolled.
The moment the opening chord struck in the house and Sam Cooke tickled the soles of my feet, inciting me to shake, Aunt Rose appeared, yelling encouragement. I trembled in anticipation of my aunt’s sacred joy; my shyness evaporated and I was dancing. ‘Roll those hips,’ Aunt Rose called out. ‘Faster. Put your hands on your hips, make your body slip. Yeah, you’re looking good, Mama! The spirit’s with you at last! You’re flying, Ajuba!’
So when Polly, slipping into Aunt Rose’s shoes, shouted: ‘Go girl!’ I laughed loudly with the spirit inside me. ‘Aj, where on this planet did you learn those moves? You must teach me, kiddo. I want to move like that.’
Aunt Rose used to say that obronie – white people – couldn’t dance to save their lives. But she hadn’t seen Mr and Mrs Venus dancing. They moved with the practised grace of old adversaries locked in motion. ‘Bodies never lie,’ I heard Aunt Rose say. ‘You must listen to your own, Ajuba. And watch those of the people around you.’
And then as if to prove that it wasn’t just at school that the English were strange, even as Sam Cooke’s song was binding us together, beads of panting expectation hanging in the air, the family suddenly stopped dancing and trooped upstairs.
They were going to change for dinner, Polly told me as I followed: not into formal clothes, but into clothes that marked the transition of day to night. If Peter was at home, it was part of their daily ritual to celebrate Mrs Venus’s culinary efforts by candlelight, when, like a high priestess officiating at a shrine, she administered to family and friends.
The English learn how to cook from books, I explained later to my cousin Esi, Aunt Lila’s daughter in Ghana. I was writing her a letter in my head to help me make sense of the Venuses. I had noticed, looking at the collection of books in the kitchen, that Mrs Venus was an admirer of Elizabeth David. When I got to know her better, she told me she swore by Jane Grigson for anything to do with fish.
And Polly hadn’t lied to me. Isobel cooked well, from the books or adapting recipes she’d discovered on her travels. Nothing was too much trouble. The ratatouille
we ate at dinner that night had taken over three hours to cook, thickening slowly on the Aga. And when her offering was laid out (as much care was spent on the colour and presentation of her food as on the objects in her home) Mrs Venus relaxed, allowing her husband to come into his own.
After a second glass of wine, Peter Venus’s interest in people revived. He became voluble, extracting with ease the amusing events of everyone’s day. While his wife sat back, he gossiped with Sylvie and Theo, demanding details of their expedition to Lyme Regis. He asked me how my cycling was coming along. And was I getting the hang of rollerblading? Polly replied on my behalf, while I listened and watched.
Aunt Rose used to say that you can tell what sort of man you’re dealing with by the way he eats a mango. If he sucks it slowly, tenderly squeezing out all the juice before he devours the skin, then he’s a man who likes women, and he’ll treat you well and will satisfy you. But if he tears at the skin, hungry for the pulp inside, then he should be avoided. We didn’t eat any mangoes that evening, but watching the care with which Peter Venus sliced a pear, savouring its scent before he slipped one piece after the other into his mouth, I decided Aunt Rose would approve of him. I liked his hands best of all: they were firm and dry, the fingers long, the moon of his nails large. I noticed them then, and later on when he played with Polly’s hair. At the end of the meal, chocolate wrappers and half-eaten pieces of fruit and cheese littering the table, he cleared it for coffee. Later, with one hand warming a brandy, he slipped the other into his wife’s open palm, gently kissing the tips of her fingers.
In England, I wrote in my letter to Esi, children are allowed to be rude to their parents and adults serve their children.
Mrs Venus was loading the dishwasher. I got up to help. She stacked the plates while Theo and Sylvie whispered to each other over coffee, and Polly, on her father’s lap, nuzzled against him.
I handed plates to Mrs Venus, and then I passed cutlery, bowls and glasses. When the last utensil was in place, she smiled at me, touching my cheek. ‘You’re a sweetheart. Thank you, pet,’ she said, stooping to kiss my forehead.
Polly’s people are always touching each other, I told Esi. They’re nice but they’re not like us. Struggling to suppress my misgivings, I watched the Venuses lavish affection on one another: Theo embracing his mother after berating her (he claimed she was too much of a perfectionist), Peter kissing Polly and then, a moment later, tweaking his wife’s ears. The Venuses were tactile. Fondling came easily to them, to kiss and be kissed.
I don’t know which frightened me more: their sensuality or my aching desire, stirred by seeing them together, to have my own family around me again. Starved of affection as I was – despite their love of nature, the Derbys were not life-affirming huggers of trees or people – I found myself succumbing to the Venuses’ charm.
My initiation began that evening. The meal over, Polly kissed her parents goodnight. To my dismay, they expected me to kiss them as well. I complied awkwardly. But with Isobel’s third kiss and Peter’s first, my enchantment with them ignited. The next evening, performing the same ritual, I discovered that I wanted to be kissed; indeed, I craved it. Like a kitten brought in from the cold, thawing out before a fire, I warmed myself against the Venuses. Without realising what was happening, I began to relax, to lower my guard.
As if by mutual consent they held back from asking too many questions. They left me alone until, seduced by affection, I was ready to talk. When the time came, it was Mr Venus who encouraged me: gently, carefully. I remember it clearly, for I was drinking my first glass of diluted red wine, poured for me by Theo. We were eating Chicken Veronique, a meal Polly picked her way through, eating the grapes and discarding the chicken, while Peter asked me questions. He already knew that my father was a lawyer working with an international organisation in Rome, yet he still asked me: where my father lived, what work he did. When I answered, he asked more questions.
‘Is your mother in Rome as well, Ajuba?’
My mouth was full, so he turned to Polly, chiding her for playing with her food. Irritated, Polly turned on her mother.
‘Why don’t you cook regular food, Isobel? Like –’
‘Like pizza and hot dogs and french fries?’ Isobel replied.
‘Because junk food isn’t good for you, Polly!’ Imitating her mother, Polly pushed her plate away in frustration.
My mouth empty at last, I answered Mr Venus. ‘My mother’s in Ghana staying with my aunt Lila. She’s not very well.’
‘Nothing serious I hope.’
I replied without thinking, speaking out of a need to share a side of myself I had long kept concealed. ‘She’s quite ill, I think. She’s ill because I’m her only child. You see, my father wants more children, and she does too, but his family said they had to divorce. Then he took me away.’
‘Your poor mother. She must miss you terribly.’
At that moment, Theo caressed my forearm. Whether he touched me out of sympathy or because he liked the texture of my skin, I don’t know. He startled me, and I withdrew my arm quickly, knocking my glass over. The wine spilled over the lace tablecloth, spreading to the centrepiece of lilac and bluebells that I had picked for Isobel that afternoon.
Afraid that the Venuses would not want me to visit again, I mumbled: ‘Please forgive me. I’m terribly sorry.’
Peter Venus chuckled. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, little one,’ he said. ‘Spilling wine is a form of baptism in this family. You’re one of us now, Ajuba. Welcome home!’ He raised his glass and everyone started laughing. ‘Here’s to our new daughter!’ he said. And they all drank to my health.
In six days the Venuses had extracted more information from me than anyone else had managed in a year.
6
EVERY OTHER THURSDAY, at around seven o’ clock in the evening, my father called me from Rome. He telephoned from his office at an hour when he knew I had finished Prep and eaten supper. Pa was punctilious in reaching me during the lull between the end of school and Lights Out – if only for a few minutes – before he dashed out to dinner. Our conversations were stilted, punctuated by long, gaping pauses while I struggled to think of what to say to captivate him a little longer. When Polly and I became friends, I found talking to Pa less daunting. I now had someone, apart from Beth, to tell him about: another family to interest him in. Prompted by Mrs Derby, I asked my father’s permission to visit the Venuses regularly. ‘Of course!’ he replied, delighted I was finally settling down.
After half term, I became a frequent visitor to Graylings. I went home whenever Polly went home, which was almost every weekend. I was always made to feel welcome, yet my primary concern was how to get around calling Polly’s mother by her Christian name.
Isobel insisted that was what she wanted. My suggestion of prefixing Auntie to her name she found anathema; the first time I tried calling her Auntie Isobel, she fell about laughing. I found it easier to use her Christian name after that, although it went against everything my mother had taught me about the deference a child owes an adult, to respect the gulf between us.
One weekend, when Theo and Peter had come home for the first time in ages, I sensed that Isobel was tense. She couldn’t keep still. She went from room to room rearranging the position of lamps and ornaments, her hands fluttering over a spray of lilies which dusted her fingertips with pollen.
It was a hot day in June and I put her restlessness down to the weather. We were in the middle of a heatwave and I was aware that the English were inclined to find too much sun unbearable. Unloading the dishwasher, Isobel appeared tired. She seemed to want us out of her way; ‘Out from under her feet’. ‘You two had better hurry up,’ she said. ‘Beth Bradshaw will be here soon.’
Polly and I were loitering in the kitchen, downing milkshakes. Beth? We hadn’t been expecting Beth. Despite her notion of equality between adults and children, it was typical of Isobel to make plans without consulting us.
‘Don’t you want help clearing out the t
runks in the attic?’ Isobel asked. This was a job she had asked us to do over the weekend and one we had avoided.
‘Not today . . .’
‘Today!’ she insisted.
Within the hour, Beth was at the house, ferried over by her mother, who stayed for coffee. Polly, Beth and I ran up the two flights of stairs to the attic, which was to the left of the top landing, under the south-west slope of the roof. Polly pushed the door open and switched on the light.
Wooden beams ran across a low, cobwebbed ceiling, giving the space the closed, inward feel of a room for discarded objects. In a far corner was a pile of dusty old lamps, packing cases and broken furniture, which Isobel had already sorted. She was thinking of transforming the attic into a studio for herself, to open it up by putting in skylights, painting it white, clearing out the rubbish. To help her achieve her aim, she wanted us to unpack two trunks of clothes left by the previous owner of the house. We were to sort them out into two piles, one for a bonfire, one for charity shops. Isobel had made her plans without considering the mayhem three pre-teenagers can cause with a treasure trove of clothes.
The large rectangular trunks were made of wood covered in varnished brown material, protected by strips of rusting plate metal. The lids were held in place by bronze-coloured lever catches. Polly tugged at the levers of the first trunk, and, after wrenching them apart, she flung the lid open and then pulled out an embroidered shawl that had been spread over the top. She sniffed it, wrinkling up her nose before throwing the shawl at me. I draped it around my shoulders, inspired by the rich tapestry of its colours: gold and red roses writhing against a black background, green leaves and stems twisting beneath the flowers. And tassels, tassels everywhere. I started dancing, curling the shawl around my arms, while Polly threw out three large blouses and a faded riding jacket.
‘Whose are they?’ Beth asked, donning the jacket.
‘Miss Olivia Fielding’s, I guess. She used to live here with the Bag Lady down the road.’