my homework books carefully in her huge slabs of hands and turn the pages slowly, nodding wisely at the cack-handed drawings and uneven writing. Every evening, when she came to pick up our copy of the Express and Star once my papa had finished reading it (an arrangement devised by my mother, ‘Why should the poor lady have to spend her pension when she can read ours?’), she’d always check up on me, what I was doing, whether I was in my pyjamas yet, whether I was mentally and physically prepared to retire for the night. At least, that’s what I read in her eyes, for she never spoke. Just that quick glance up and down, a slight incline of the head, a satisfied exhalation.
I wondered if she was like Mrs Christmas, childless, and maybe that was why she was so protective of me. But mama told me, with a snort of disgust, that she had three grown-up sons and a few grandchildren also. ‘But I’ve never seen them! Do they live far away?’ I persisted.
‘Oh yes, very far. Wolverhampton!’ she quipped back.
It had seemed quite a long way to me when we had driven there for my birthday treat, but I guessed by my mother’s flaring nostrils and exaggerated eyebrow movements that she was being ironic, the way Indians are ironic, signposting the joke with a map and compass to the punchline.
‘But why don’t they come and see her then?’
My mother sighed and ruffled my hair. ‘I will never understand this about the English, all this puffing up about being civilised with their cucumber sandwiches and cradle of democracy big talk, and then they turn round and kick theirelders in the backside, all this It’s My Life, I Want My Space stupidness, You Can’t Tell Me What To Do cheekiness, I Have To Go To Bingo selfishness and You Kids Eat Crisps Instead Of Hot Food nonsense. What is this My Life business, anyway? We all have obligations, no one is born on their own, are they?’
She was into one of her Capital Letter speeches, the subtext of which was listen, learn and don’t you dare do any of this when you grow up, missy. I quite enjoyed them. They made me feel special, as if our destiny, our legacy, was a much more interesting journey than the apparent dead ends facing our neighbours. I just wished whatever my destiny was would hurry up and introduce itself to me so I could take it by its jewelled hand and fly.
She paused for oxygen. ‘I mean, Mrs Worrall is their mother, the woman who gave them life. And she on her own with Mr Worrall, too. I tell you, if my mother was so close, I would walk in my bare feet to see her every day. Every day.’
She turned away then, not trusting herself to say anything more. There was still something else I wanted to ask but I knew it would have to wait. I had grown up with Mrs Worrall, I had seen her every day of my life, but I had never seen or heard Mr Worrall. Ever.
My mother emerged from the shed holding aloft an old dusty glass vase which she blew on, and then scuffed with the sleeve of her shirt before handing it to Mrs Worrall who took it with a pleased grunt. ‘Please, Mrs Worrall, have it. We never use it.’
Mrs Worrall nodded again and cleared her throat. ‘He knocked mine over. I was in the way, in front of the telly. Crossroads. He likes that Amy Turtle. So he got a bit upset, see.’
Mama nodded sympathetically. ‘How is he nowadays?’
Mrs Worrall shrugged, she did not need to say, same as always, and went back inside her kitchen.
‘Mum, I’m starved, I am,’ I wheedled. ‘Give me something now.’
She busied herself with shutting the shed door, not looking at me, her face drawn tight like a cat’s arse. ‘There’s rice and daal inside. Go and wash your hands.’
‘I don’t want that…that stuff! I want fishfingers! Fried! And chips! Why can’t I eat what I want to eat?’
Mama turned to me, she had her teacher’s face on, long suffering, beseeching, but still immovable. She said gently, ‘Why did you take money for sweets? Why did you lie to
I wondered if she was like Mrs Christmas, childless, and maybe that was why she was so protective of me. But mama told me, with a snort of disgust, that she had three grown-up sons and a few grandchildren also. ‘But I’ve never seen them! Do they live far away?’ I persisted.
‘Oh yes, very far. Wolverhampton!’ she quipped back.
It had seemed quite a long way to me when we had driven there for my birthday treat, but I guessed by my mother’s flaring nostrils and exaggerated eyebrow movements that she was being ironic, the way Indians are ironic, signposting the joke with a map and compass to the punchline.
‘But why don’t they come and see her then?’
My mother sighed and ruffled my hair. ‘I will never understand this about the English, all this puffing up about being civilised with their cucumber sandwiches and cradle of democracy big talk, and then they turn round and kick theirelders in the backside, all this It’s My Life, I Want My Space stupidness, You Can’t Tell Me What To Do cheekiness, I Have To Go To Bingo selfishness and You Kids Eat Crisps Instead Of Hot Food nonsense. What is this My Life business, anyway? We all have obligations, no one is born on their own, are they?’
She was into one of her Capital Letter speeches, the subtext of which was listen, learn and don’t you dare do any of this when you grow up, missy. I quite enjoyed them. They made me feel special, as if our destiny, our legacy, was a much more interesting journey than the apparent dead ends facing our neighbours. I just wished whatever my destiny was would hurry up and introduce itself to me so I could take it by its jewelled hand and fly.
She paused for oxygen. ‘I mean, Mrs Worrall is their mother, the woman who gave them life. And she on her own with Mr Worrall, too. I tell you, if my mother was so close, I would walk in my bare feet to see her every day. Every day.’
She turned away then, not trusting herself to say anything more. There was still something else I wanted to ask but I knew it would have to wait. I had grown up with Mrs Worrall, I had seen her every day of my life, but I had never seen or heard Mr Worrall. Ever.
My mother emerged from the shed holding aloft an old dusty glass vase which she blew on, and then scuffed with the sleeve of her shirt before handing it to Mrs Worrall who took it with a pleased grunt. ‘Please, Mrs Worrall, have it. We never use it.’
Mrs Worrall nodded again and cleared her throat. ‘He knocked mine over. I was in the way, in front of the telly. Crossroads. He likes that Amy Turtle. So he got a bit upset, see.’
Mama nodded sympathetically. ‘How is he nowadays?’
Mrs Worrall shrugged, she did not need to say, same as always, and went back inside her kitchen.
‘Mum, I’m starved, I am,’ I wheedled. ‘Give me something now.’
She busied herself with shutting the shed door, not looking at me, her face drawn tight like a cat’s arse. ‘There’s rice and daal inside. Go and wash your hands.’
‘I don’t want that…that stuff! I want fishfingers! Fried! And chips! Why can’t I eat what I want to eat?’
Mama turned to me, she had her teacher’s face on, long suffering, beseeching, but still immovable. She said gently, ‘Why did you take money for sweets? Why did you lie to
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