by Yaba Badoe
She gave a worldly shrug, raising an eyebrow. ‘Some guys are like that, Aj.’
I realised that what she was saying was true. ‘My Aunt Rose says that some of them are like that even in the Bible. She doesn’t understand why people make such a fuss about it. But then Aunt Rose is a bit unusual. She likes men a lot,’ I confessed.
‘And Peter likes women. Adultery hurts, Aj. It hurts Isobel.’
I had believed until then that Polly didn’t appreciate her mother’s unhappiness. She did. Yet her acceptance of her father’s behaviour shocked me. Despite the wealth of my aunt’s biblical anecdotes, proving that even God’s favourites indulged in sin, at heart I was my mother’s daughter, imbued with Mama’s outrage at Pa’s infidelities. The idea that such behaviour could be taken for granted was disturbing. Yet, in itself, the behaviour was familiar.
‘Yes, some fathers are like that,’ I acknowledged. ‘It drives my mother crazy. Does Isobel go crazy as well?’
Polly nodded: ‘Yeah. She doesn’t understand Peter like I do.’
‘Just like my mother.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She hates it when Pa has girlfriends. She says some men can’t help themselves. Then she cries, and when she stops crying, she says they’re weak – like children.’
‘Isobel can’t understand why he loves me best. That makes her mad, real mad.’ Polly’s eyes settled on mine, disarming me with their frankness, until I remembered the time she told me about Isobel. It was the first time she came to my bed at night, and she’d talked about her mother as if she were a jewel she wanted to lose somewhere. I now understood how she could turn her back on her mother. They were rivals.
Polly smiled at me. – ‘Jeez, Aj, they’re so blatant. Emily started hitting on Peter the moment she saw him. The woman’s a dog, believe me!’ Just then a white Fiesta drove through the school entrance. A man I recognised switched off the ignition. Beside him, in the passenger seat, was a woman.
When she got out, for one glorious moment I thought she was Mama. She was doe-eyed and pretty and she had that laugh: the laugh, which made me want to laugh out loud as well. When I looked again, I realised my error. She looked like my mother, and the quality of their laughter was similar, but this woman was younger, plump, her braided hair threaded in luscious gold strands. And when she looked at my father, he took her by the hand.
‘Wow!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Your mom looks awesome, Aj! She’s totally cool.’
‘That is not my mother,’ I screamed, jumping down from the windowsill. I fumbled for a word to describe the woman. When it came to me, I spat it out with the same venom my mother had used at her angriest. ‘That’s not my mother. That’s one of my father’s whores.’
‘Holy shit!’ The expression on Polly’s face made it a word worth remembering. I wouldn’t forget it again.
Thanks to Polly I survived the ordeal of meeting my father and his new girlfriend: Nina, the woman who transformed his life, bringing the lightness of love to his eyes again. He hadn’t prepared me for her existence; he hadn’t warned me that he’d be arriving with her. I don’t think he set out deliberately to hurt me; few adults are consciously insensitive to children. It’s just that most of them are willing to sideline children’s needs to follow their own trajectory in the pursuit of happiness. Of course, most adults will say that they want nothing but the best for their children; they’d be willing to die for them, if it were necessary. That’s what they say at any rate. Yet seeing Pa with Nina, witnessing the intimacy they shared walking up the school steps in their matching flowing robes of embroidered red linen, I felt myself shrinking. It was like when Pa first left me at school. Only this time it was worse. I wanted to scream and cry at the same time. I wanted to howl in rage. But if I did, I knew I would break into irretrievable pieces. To stop myself fragmenting, I made myself so small that I shrunk into the heels of my outdoor shoes.
Malone and Leboeuf, taking hold of my fingers, whispered, ‘Shit happens, kid. It’s tough, but just remember, keep your eyes peeled.’ Polly, grabbing hold of my shoulders, looked me straight in the eyes: ‘The show must go on, kiddo! We’re in this together.’
Bolstered by Polly’s theatrical bent and Malone and Leboeuf, my ego rose to the occasion. I played the role Pa had designated for me: that of his clever daughter, confident, independent. Taking him by the hand, I showed him around the school. I took him to see the bed I slept on in Exe. And when I introduced him to Polly, insisting that she spend the day with us, I could see that he approved of her. I suspect he hoped that some of her poise and assurance would rub off on me.
I wasn’t especially friendly to Nina. I remember I kept asking her to remind me what she was called (as if I would ever forget her name) and even though she told me again and again, I still managed to forget. At least I pretended to, until Pa, suggesting that I call her ‘Auntie’, forced me to come to a decision. I wasn’t going to call her anything at all.
To begin with, I think Pa must have felt proud of me. He seemed to relish my kiss of welcome and enjoy my new-found ability to hold his hand and hug him whenever I could. He didn’t seem to realise that I was doing everything possible to stop Nina drooling over him. I had been brought up to believe that Africans were undemonstrative in public, and that what was important was affection and respect expressed behind closed doors. I thought, at the time, that the change in Pa’s behaviour was because Nina was Senegalese, an ‘executive administrator’ with his organisation in Rome. The Senegalese must behave badly, I decided. Either it was the fault of the Senegalese or those wretched Italians again, with their grand operatic gestures and their love of death. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop them touching each other.
After lunch at McDonald’s, followed by a walk along the Cobb at Lyme Regis, I persuaded Pa to take us for tea at Ford Abbey. I don’t think he was used to dealing with two children at once. Whenever I made a request, Polly seconded me; whenever I made a statement, Polly confirmed what I’d said. But in the end, we were as unsuccessful as King Canute in holding back the waves of adult infatuation. King Canute, however, knew what he was up against. I did not.
They couldn’t stop touching each other, sharing smiles and tender asides. I understand now that after years of a difficult marriage, my father, having found a companionable woman to share his life with, was supremely happy. Finding Nina, Pa told me not so long ago, was like bathing in the warm light of a Sahelian winter’s day. After the harshness of a protracted dry season, the glare of the sun had softened, become dappled, luminous. ‘It was the difference between famine and rain, Ajuba. Night and day. For the first time for many years I was finally content with a woman who loved me. What more could a man want?’
To the child that I was back then, Pa’s joy was palpable, and Nina’s pleasure in his company intense. Their excitement with each other generated a force field that repelled me, no matter how hard I struggled to find a path through it. Despite all my attempts, the numerous times I omitted calling Nina by name, my efforts to drag Pa away from her along the pebbled beach of Lyme Regis, I was unable to find an opening into their new-found love.
‘Later, Nina,’ Pa murmured as Nina, stroking the hairs of his arm, began tickling them with her forefinger. ‘Stop it!’ he whispered.
Half-smiling at him, half-laughing, Nina kissed Pa’s nose. He picked a wisp of dandelion fluff from her braided hair, flicking it into the air. It floated down, landing on a burnished copper arm that glowed in the shade of a beech tree overhead.
We must have made an incongruous party sitting under the tree at Ford Abbey: Pa and Nina flamboyant in red while Polly and I, strait-laced in candy-striped dresses and straw hats, stared at them between mouthfuls of scones and clotted cream.
‘Michael!’ Attempting to look annoyed, yet apparently incapable of denying my father anything he wanted, Nina laughed again and kissed my father on the mouth.
‘Disgusting,’ I whispered to Polly.
‘Gross,’ sh
e affirmed.
‘Vile toad.’
‘Adults, huh?’
‘I want some more lemonade,’ I said loudly.
‘Me too.’
Pa ordered a second jug of lemonade and a few more scones and cream. When the tray arrived, Nina stirred the juice, pouring it out into clean glasses for us. Her movements were fluid, graceful; and though she was younger than Pa by fifteen years – to my father’s embarrassment, I’d asked her how old she was – I could see she was trying to please him by ministering to me. Even though she wasn’t particularly interested in me, she wasn’t as averse to me as I was to her.
It was a hot afternoon and, relaxing back in her seat, Nina removed a fan from her handbag. She whirled it in front of her face. ‘You two must be hot in those hats,’ she said languorously.
Polly and I ignored her. We must have given them the impression that we hadn’t eaten properly for days. As I was splitting the last scone in half to share with Polly, Pa said: ‘You’ve eaten enough to sink the Titanic.’
‘The who?’
‘The Titanic was the most famous liner of its day. It sank on its maiden voyage. Aren’t they teaching you general knowledge at school? Now when I was at Achimota . . .’ Pa continued in a tone of voice he used whenever he was intent on improving my mind.
‘I know all about Nelson Mandela and his long walk to freedom,’ I retorted.
‘I should hope so too. Do you remember your African capitals?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘OK, what’s the capital of Cote d’Ivoire?’
‘Abidjan.’
‘Burkina Faso.’
‘Ouagadougou.’
The questions and answers went back and forth across the table with the speed of machine-gun fire. We had covered most of West Africa and a part of southern Africa, when Nina prodded Pa’s arm with the fan.
‘Michael, she’s a child,’ she reminded him.
He had asked for the capital of Mauritania, knowing full well that by returning to West Africa, he’d interrupt my flow. His strategy proved correct. I couldn’t remember. Pa turned to Nina: ‘Do you know the capital of Mauritania?’
‘What do you take me for?’ she giggled, tickling his palm. ‘I didn’t learn what I know at school, did I?’
Pa grinned. He was about to start groping her again, when I slapped him on his thigh. ‘Pa, Pa,’ I cried. I tugged at his leg, pushing Nina away. His linen outfit felt harsh and stiff when I touched him. ‘Pa, why don’t you talk about Mama any more? Is she happy? Will I ever see her again?’
‘Ajuba, this isn’t the time or place to discuss your mother. We can talk about her later; tomorrow.’
‘But you’re going tomorrow.’
‘Ajuba, what’s past is past. It’s over. Finished.’
‘But I miss her. I miss her.’
In a rare gesture of affection, my father lifted me onto his knee, patting my arm in sympathy. ‘I miss her too,’ he said. ‘But I want you to be patient. We’re going to find you a new mother.’
I glanced at Nina with open hostility. ‘Do we need a new wife?’ I demanded.
Pa trailed a finger down my cheek. I believe he saw my mother in my eyes: her anger, her venom. A trace of exasperation entered his. ‘Yes, we do need a new wife,’ he admitted. ‘You want me to be happy, don’t you, Ajuba?’
I laid my head against his shoulder, struggling to answer his question. Of course I wanted him to be happy but my well-being depended on Mama’s return. I knew my parents were ill-matched – indeed, they made each other miserable – and yet, faced with the impossible choice of putting my father’s happiness before my own, I couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to hear. In my dilemma I rubbed my head against the abrasive fabric covering his shoulder. I felt my hat slipping off, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be my father’s friend again; to be thrown up in the air and held by him, like when we’d lived at Kuku Hill. For the life of me, I couldn’t say the words. I couldn’t say, Yes, I want you to be happy Pa, I’ll take Nina for my new mother.
Then I remembered. Pulling away from him, I screamed, ‘Nouakchott! The capital of Mauritania is Nouakchott!’
Pa embraced me. ‘That’s my girl!’
My straw hat fell to the ground, exposing my tough, matted curls. Nina touched them gently. ‘Mon dieu! These people have no idea how to do our hair. You poor baby.’ Tapping Pa’s arm, she said, ‘Darling, let’s go back to the hotel. I’ve got to do her hair.’
In a flurry of activity, Nina broke the first moment of intimacy that I’d shared with my father for years. She slung her bag over a shoulder, hurrying to the car as Pa paid the bill. As I watched her rolling down the windows before sliding inside, I came to a decision.
‘Are you going to ask him or shall I?’ I asked Polly.
‘Ask him what?’
‘If I can spend the summer holidays with you?’
‘You want to? You really want to, Aj?’
Adopting a pose I’d seen Polly assume many times before, I shrugged nonchalantly: ‘Well, they’re going to get married, aren’t they? They’re not going to want me around. I’m not stupid.’
‘I guess not. They won’t want you for a while, anyways. Hey, I’ll ask him if you like.’
Walking arm in arm, Polly and I wandered back to the car.
She cut my hair. She cut my hair short, and with every snip of the scissors I found myself hating her more. My father’s whore, my soon-to-be stepmother: Nina. She cut my hair so short that if she had seen me, my cousin Esi would have shouted ‘Sakola! Sakola! Bald-head! Bald-head!’ Who would think me beautiful now?
When she finished, Nina brought out a looking-glass for me to see myself. I refused to touch it, I wouldn’t look at it. Instead, I turned my back on her. I believed that her face, kind though it seemed, was one of the many my mother had seen in her mirror. She was one of my father’s whores.
What surprised me was my relief. I couldn’t understand why I was pleased my hair was gone, when my mother had spent so much time nurturing it. I felt unencumbered with cropped hair. And when Nina gave me a proper comb for African hair, a jar of blue pomade for my scalp and some moisturising cream for my skin, I remember saying ‘Thank you’. Yet I pulled away when she tried to pat me on the head. It was then that Polly asked about the summer holidays.
Before he replied, my father looked over at Nina. She nodded, yet Pa hesitated. Eventually he said he wanted to meet Polly’s parents to discuss the holiday with them.
‘But they’re in London!’ I cried.
‘Then I shall meet them in London on our way back to Rome,’ he insisted, taking Peter’s numbers from Polly. Once he’d met the Venuses, Pa explained patiently, he would let me know his decision.
I’d like to think that if I hadn’t seen Nina nod I would have given her more of a chance. After all, she was trying to be kind to me; yet when I saw Pa turn to her for advice, the course of our future relationship was determined. First of all, I knew with certainty that they were going to get married. I had witnessed the signs that afternoon; but in that single gesture, the almost involuntary turn of his head, I saw my father’s need for Nina. And her nod of acquiescence I took as rejection of me. I hated her with the silent ferocity of a frightened child. I blamed my mother’s absence and my father’s equivocation on her. So when her head came down, I swore in that instant that one day I would pay her back. One day, I would have my revenge.
I can only wonder at myself. Can a child make such a decision? And having made it, act on it? The answer is yes. I know because I did it. I’ve been picked over by enough specialists to know the jargon. I can talk about my ambivalence towards my stepmother and my father’s ambivalence towards me. I can talk about the symbolism of having my hair cropped, my stepmother shredding me of femininity. And then there’s my mother’s part in this story: her tremendous anger towards Pa and his women, which I swallowed whole through being her child. I loved my mother, so I’d learnt her lessons well.
I can discuss all these things until the burden of responsibility shifts, as is the fashion nowadays, away from myself onto those around me: my father especially. I was only a child, and how can a child be held responsible? Wasn’t I the principal victim in their pursuit of happiness?
Of course I was a child. Of course it wasn’t going to be easy becoming Nina’s stepchild. But my hatred of her propelled me into an act of devastating violence that I deeply regret.
10
FOR THE REST of term we returned, time and time again, to our favourite topic: the babies in Miss Fielding’s trunk. It was like revisiting a place where the most hideous of crimes had been committed, revisiting it because it held a clue which, if unravelled, would enable us to understand everything we would ever experience. We discussed the babies incessantly, we played games involving them, we kept a scrapbook about them. When, eventually, we were banished from the Glory Hole and it was locked up and made Out of Bounds, we brought our obsession into the open air.
It was a bright July evening and the sun was still warm in a cloudless sky as we searched for wild strawberries at the edge of the front lawn of the school. Mrs Derby had sent us outside, saying the weather was too fine for us to remain huddled in Exe. She didn’t know it, but we were discussing the opening of the inquest for the babies.
The proceedings had begun a week previously and Alexander James had written about it in the Devon Gazette. The Guardian newspaper had picked up the story, and in both accounts we were mentioned. I had already put the clippings in our scrapbook and hidden it under my pillow when Mrs Derby came in and hustled us outside.
It was Polly’s opinion that now the parameters of the police case had been laid out, we could accelerate our own investigation. According to Alexander James, the police were launching a full-scale inquiry to establish the provenance of the babies. The Home Office pathologist who had examined the corpses explained that they were so decomposed it had been impossible to establish any relationship between them without testing their DNA, which in due course would be done. Furthermore, from the fragmentary evidence available, there was no way of determining whether the babies had been born fit and healthy or not. ‘We shall never know the answer to these questions,’ the pathologist was quoted as saying; though he then went on to suggest that it seemed probable that one of the infants was stillborn.