Another Woman's Daughter (5 page)

“Miriam, your mummy cannot look after you anymore. She has other children to care for, and your father gives her no help. Four children is too many for one mother. Michael and I, we have
no
children. Your mother has given you to us. We are your new parents. You're very lucky, you know, because—”

Her words crashed into each other inside my head like trapped grasshoppers.
Your mother has given you to us, given you to us, given you . . .

“I want
Mme
,” I cried, jumping up and running out of the room, past Michael, who was coming in through the door. He caught me in his long arms. I screamed, kicking and hitting out at him, but he held me tight.

“Miriam, settle down. What is it?”

“That's quite enough,” Madam Rita said, grabbing my arm.

I turned away. I didn't want to see her—ugly Madam Rita.

“Miriam,” Michael said, his breath tickling my ear. “Miriam?”

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked worried and my anger went all floppy. “I want
Mme
,” I whispered into his ear, so Madam Rita couldn't hear.

“Miriam, you get to have two mummies and two daddies.
Imagine that. Your mother loves you a lot. We love you too.” He stroked my back.

My sobs fell into a pattern like the drawings on the wall, which Michael said were called wallpaper.
Sob, sob, breathe; sob, sob, breathe
. They filled my head with their loudness and, like big pieces of furniture, left no space for anything else.

“You're so light,” Michael said, hoisting me up. “We'll have to feed you up so that when you see your mother again, she'll know we've been looking after you. We promised her.”

Sob, sob, breathe.

Next door, he laid me down on the bed and took a scratchy blanket from the cupboard to cover me. I curled into a ball and turned my back on him.

Michael stayed there for a very long time, until I finally fell asleep.

Later that night I was woken by loud voices. At first I didn't know where I was, but the angry words soon reminded me.

“She's six years old. Just a child, Rita.”

“Don't you think I know—”

“But there are ways of saying things. It's all so new for her.”

“Well, you can't tiptoe around the truth forever, Michael. Better she understands now, and gets over it, than perpetuating half-truths.”

“She's just lost her mother.”

“She hasn't
lost
her mother, for goodness' sake! Not like
I
did
.
And I wasn't cute or pretty like her. No one wanted me after my mother died, I can tell you. Can you imagine what it was like being sent to boarding school at the age of eight? Eight! But I coped. I had to.”

“Reet, this is not about you.”

“I'm just saying, the child has no reason to be miserable when there are two people who very much want her.”

“She's still going to miss Celia; it's only normal. It is going to take time to adjust. Have a bit more understanding.”

“Just because I haven't given birth to the child doesn't mean I don't know how to care for her. I am not completely devoid of maternal instinct.”

I stood in their doorway. Madam Rita's eyes were all dark and pointy. Michael's back was turned.

Madam Rita saw me first, then Michael. Both moved toward me.

Michael reached me first. He swept me into his arms. “Miriam, I'm sorry. Did we wake you? We're both just a bit tired and cranky. That's all.”

“Yes, that's all,” Madam Rita said, glaring at him and opening her arms to me.

He stepped back.

She moved forward and tried to pull me away from him.

“Rita,” he said very slowly, then walked past her out of the room. He was holding me so tightly I couldn't breathe properly.

“She's mine too—” I heard her start to say, her voice as wobbly as jelly.

But Michael had already pulled the door shut behind us. It banged loudly, shaking the lamp in the hallway and making pockets of pale light bounce all over the walls.

It was my fault. All my fault. I felt sad for Madam Rita, but all I wanted was
mme anga.

January 1961

Miriam

The squirrel was standing so still it didn't look real. Michael and I waited. The animal's small black eyes flitted about, inspecting the treasure in my hand. My arm was aching. I couldn't hold it straight for much longer.

After the longest time, it finally moved, edging closer. I tried not to breathe, except every now and then, when I had to let out a burst of stored-up air.

Suddenly, without warning, the little guy darted forward, grabbed the piece of biscuit from my hand—his whiskers tickling like a feather duster—then shot back up the tree.

“Let's give it some more. Come on, Michael!”

“There'll be nothing left of your lunch,” he said, rolling closed the top of the brown paper bag. “Anyway, we'd better be going. Don't want to be late for your first day at school, do we?”

School. It had taken forever for this day to come—but now I wasn't so sure I wanted it to be here.

We marched on through the park, three of my steps for every one of Michael's long strides. It was tricky walking fast in my new pinafore; my legs kept getting caught in the thick pleats of material. Madam Rita said the uniform had cost a lot of money—English money was much more expensive than African money—so she'd bought an extra-big size, hoping it would last a very long time. She took up a wide hem, but I was worried her wonky stitches would come undone, and then I'd be walking around school in a long dress that went all the way to the ground.

We arrived at the serious brick building just in time. I'd driven past with Michael once before, but now I was walking
through
the big, important gates.

“‘Semper Verum,'”
Michael said, reading the shiny words off one of the pillars. “‘Always True.' Remember, Miriam, that—” I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but my mind kept skipping ahead.

As we climbed the deep concrete stairs, a huge bell started to chime. With each peal, the ground shook. Michael cupped his warm hands over my ears, but still every clang hurt.

Then bodies, bags, shorts, and shoes were sweeping past us, separating me from Michael's safe arms. Before I knew what was happening, I'd been pushed hard up against the rough brick wall opposite.

I screwed up my eyes, trying to block out the hullabaloo.

It didn't last long. As quickly as the flood of children had started, so it dried up—a short burst of shouting and the banging of doors, and then silence.

I opened one eye, then the other. Michael and I were alone.

“You okay?” he asked, rescuing me.

I nodded.

“That's my girl,” he said with a wink.

I winked back. Properly. I'd been practicing.

We continued with our journey, turning a corner into a snake-thin corridor with a shiny maroon floor. Rows of satchels hung lopsidedly off hooks—some spilling jumpers and books onto the floor—and frosted-glass doors revealed hazy silhouettes. My nose started to prickle. There was a smell of Domestos in the air.
Mme
always used Domestos to clean the toilets in Saxonwold.

“Seven . . . eight . . .” Michael counted aloud as we walked past the numbered doors. “Here we are!”

We were outside a door with a small brass number nine nailed lopsidedly to the frame. Inside, children were singing.

Michael tapped on the glass.

Nothing.

“They're busy,” I said quickly. “Better we go home.”

Michael knocked again, louder this time, and the singing stopped. Then a fuzzy figure was moving toward us. I closed my eyes and held my breath.

The door squeaked open.

“You must be Miriam,” said a strange voice, smelling of bubble gum and air freshener.

I took a quick look. A madam with stiff yellow hair was standing in front of us.

“Welcome,” she said, through a thin pink smile.

It was hard to understand her. Michael told me later that her
words were wrapped in a thick Norfolk accent. We had to unwrap each word to understand what she was saying.

She looked just like the doll Madam Rita had bought me at the airport—small white hands, small white feet, and puffy yellow hair. I knew she'd have a small bottom too. You could just tell.

She wore a skirt the color of the sky—an African sky, not an English sky—and a jacket so tight it pushed her bosom right into her neck.

Her legs looked like two bendy spring branches and ended in the highest shoes I'd ever seen. They made a
click, clack, click, clack
sound when she walked. Later, when I tried on Madam Rita's only pair of high shoes, the chunky brown ones, they didn't make the same pointy sound.

The madam had a lot of powder on her face and pink paint on her lips. She smiled very carefully so her long teeth didn't smudge the color.

I looked at her nose. It was long too, with tiny slits at the end, which wouldn't easily let in a finger.

“You found us all right?” she asked, in a friendly Norfolk voice.

Before we could reply, she went on. “My name is Mrs. Dee. I'll be your teacher this year, Miriam. So have you brought a bag with you?”

Michael tilted his body and the green canvas rucksack slid off his shoulder.

“Good. Find a free hook and then come on inside.”

I peeked through the gap between her and the door. There were lots of
who's-she
eyes inside. I wished we could go home.

“Quiet, class!” the teacher shouted, swiveling around. Then
she was taking my hand. Her fingers felt like brittle twigs. “Now, Miriam, say good-bye to . . .” Mrs. Dee looked at Michael, then at me, then back at Michael. She swallowed, red washing up over her bosom, neck, and face and seeping into her hair. I thought she was going to explode, just like the plums
Mme
used to cook.

“Her father,” Michael said, patting me on the shoulder. He smiled at me. I made my mouth smile back. “Pick you up at four.”

Then the door had closed behind me and I was standing in a room filled with rows of wooden desks. Behind each desk sat two children. They all had white skin and a few had Milo-brown speckles on their faces.

At the front of the classroom was a dusty blackboard with yellow writing across it. Someone had written the letter
P
over and over again, from one end of the board to the other.

P
for pin,
P
for pot,
P
for pan . . .

“Everyone, this is Miriam,” said the teacher. “She's going to be joining us. Miriam has come all the way from Africa.”

The class let out a whooping gasp, then the children started whispering and pointing. I felt like a hyena-lion—cowardly brave.

“Is that why you're so tanned?” a skinny boy with custard-colored hair and a speckled face blurted out.

Everyone laughed.

“That is quite enough, Kent Alsop! Now let's give Miriam our special new-pupil welcome.”

“W-e-l-c-o-m-e, M-i-r-i-a-m,” they sang, all their eyes stuck on me.

“You'll be sitting next to Emily,” said the teacher, pointing
toward a podgy girl with hair tied into two curly bunches beside her face, just like the ears of a spaniel dog. The girl quickly circled her arms around her pencil and eraser.

“Yes, Madam,” I said, sitting down in the empty chair.

The whole class burst out laughing.

“Enough!” the teacher shouted, banging the blackboard duster on her desk and sending puffs of yellow chalk dust into the air.

“You can call me Mrs. Dee, Miriam.”

It was getting very complicated trying to remember who to call what. In Africa it was much easier. A white person was either a master or a madam.

The morning passed quickly. I could do everything Mrs. Dee told us to do; Rita had taught it to me already. I kept waiting for the exciting things to happen, but they never did. School just wasn't as much fun as I'd thought it was going to be.

Once, when I'd traveled north with
Mme
to see my
makhulu
, I'd gone to my brothers' school for a day. It had been the best day ever.

“Three times two is six. Four times two is eight. Five times two is te-e-en,” the schoolchildren had recited as the teacher,
Mudedekadzi
Mafela, tapped her ruler on the desk in time to the beat.

Mudedekadzi
was very different from Mrs. Dee, her shiny black face hidden behind large spectacles held together with pieces of Elastoplast.

The day I visited, she was wearing a yellow blouse the color of frangipani, and a gray skirt clung to her thighs and bottom.
Mme
said
Mudedekadzi
had probably not used Sta-Soft in her wash.

She had a big bosom and an even bigger bottom, nothing like Mrs. Dee's. She wore high shoes too, but I think these were a necessity. She was the only teacher at the school
and
also the school principal, so the heels gave her the necessary height and importance. She didn't wear them easily, though, her feet leaking out of every weak point in the leather as she waddled from side to side.

“Veerry good, class! Now again. What is twooo times twooo?”

“Four!” we shouted in triumphant unison.

Mudedekadzi
's serious face broke into a wide grin, which showed off her white teeth. She tapped a broken cup on her desk with her pencil, announcing the end of morning lessons, and then the class was spilling out into the sunshine. I followed my brothers—Christian, Nelson, and Alfred—into the clearing. Nelson had a soccer ball tucked under his arm.

Despite their different ages, my brothers all took their lessons together in the same classroom. The school consisted of only one room. Master Davis had set it up for the children and grandchildren of the laborers on his farm, and because my
makhulu
worked for him, my brothers were allowed to attend.
Mme
said they were lucky they didn't have to walk all the way into town for their lessons, like some of the other black children. The journey was almost two hours on foot, and that was just one way.

Mudedekadzi
and the children built the classroom themselves. Master Davis put up the money, and the children the muscles. The building stood in a forest clearing surrounded by sweet-smelling pines. The walls of the school were plastered with red clay, and the roof was made from sheets of rippled iron.

At break we lined up in front of
Mudedekadzi
, who stood guard over a tall urn the farmer's truck had delivered that morning. As I was a visitor, I was treated like a very important person and invited to stand at the front of the queue to receive the first mug of milk. It was warm and creamy and tasted much sweeter than the milk
Mme
would buy from the shop in Johannesburg. I had to drink it down quickly, though, because the child next in line was waiting for the mug.

When we'd all drunk our share, it was time to play. Everyone, from seven-year-old
piccanins
to fifteen-year-old boys with hair on their faces and girls with ripening bosoms, spread out over the grass. Even I was allowed on the pitch. Four boys hauled a pair of logs into goalpost positions while the rest of the class was divided into two teams—Leopards versus Lions. I was a Lion.

Mudedekadzi
blew her whistle and the game began. Soon the ball was being headed and shuffled, dribbled and passed, and goals were shot to howls of delight.

At halftime the Lions were behind by one goal.

Then it was Christian taking control of the ball. He darted across the field, dodging his opponents, and just as the goalie rushed him, he kicked. What a kick! The ball shot past the keeper, through the posts, and into the surrounding trees. We screamed with delight—the score was even.

But just as he booted the ball, the seam of my brother's shorts split. Our cries of celebration turned to screeches of laughter as Christian stood in the middle of the clearing with a gaping hole in his gray school shorts. You could see right through to his red underpants. Even
Mudedekadzi
had to hold her sides to stop her bosom from bursting out of her blouse.

Then she was clanging her wedding ring against a tin mug to announce the end of break time. It was time to gather in the shade of the trees for a song.

I sat down on the pine-needle carpet with the others as
Mudedekadzi
taught us the latest song from the public health nurse.

“Just one teaspoon of sugar, a pinch of salt, four cups of water, and see what you got. You got a re-hy-dration solution, a re-hy-dration solution. Yes, you got a re-hy-dration solution to keep you safe from the trots!”

“Miriam?”

I looked up. It was Mrs. Dee, not
Mudedekadzi
Mafela . . . I was back in England.

After number skills, we had a lesson from the Bible, some handwriting practice, and then a story on the mat. Mrs. Dee was in the middle of reading us a story when the bell announcing “elevenses” rang. She stopped immediately, right in the middle of a sentence. I never got to find out what happened to the sailor on the sinking boat, because the door was flung open and everyone began pushing and shoving to get out. I followed. All the doors into the corridor were open, just like an Advent calendar on Christmas morning, and children were tumbling out. I was bumped down some stairs, along a passage, and across a courtyard. It was fun being part of this loud, bustling craziness.

Then we were outside and a cold wind was carving the long worm of children into smaller groups, until I was the only one left.

I looked around the playground. There were no trees, no grass, no goals—just a coal-colored fence, two benches, and an
old purple jungle gym missing a crossbar at the back. At one end of the yard a group of boys knelt on the concrete, rolling marbles along a track. Beside the water fountain, three girls took turns hopping over a piece of taut elastic. Some other children sat in a circle eating their snacks. Nobody looked my way.