Black Cake(36)

There was a point, fairly recently, when it occurred to her that Ma would have been orphaned too young to learn how to make black cake in her own mother’s kitchen. Benny reasoned that Ma must have learned how to make black cake from the nuns at the children’s home. Was there such a thing? Nuns who made black cake? Like those sisters who made cheese? Like those monks who made chocolate?

Her mother’s childhood stories had always been vague. Crisscrossed timelines, missing details. A lot of missing details. Benny had grown up with the feeling that there were things her mother had preferred not to say about her past. She’d grown up hearing that her parents’ upbringing had not been as easy as hers, so she hadn’t insisted on knowing more. Well, she finally has a chance, now, and the thought of it scares her. Benny feels like, the more she knows about her mother, the more of her she will lose.





Mrs. Bennett





Sometimes, the stories we don’t tell people about ourselves matter even more than the things we do say. I told you children that I’d grown up in an orphanage, but of course, I didn’t. There’s a reason for this. I had a friend in England who was raised by nuns in a different part of the island from where I grew up. When we met, I was still quite lonely, feeling separated from everyone I cared about, and not sure how, or if, I would ever see them again. Well, she just sort of took me over and filled up some of the empty spaces in my life. And I needed that. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for her.

I’m sorry. Wait a moment. Can we just stop, please?

Yes, stop the recording.

I’m sorry, this is so hard.





Elly’s father was not coming back, the nuns at the orphanage reminded her. Her father had gone to heaven to be with her mummy and now, there was a new family looking for a little girl. When the time came to get ready, the nuns kept calling for Elly, but Elly was not interested. Elly was busy digging cockle shells out of the backyard.

There was no sand in these parts, no seashore in sight, only yellow-brown earth. And yet there were seashells here, a million-billion beige and white and pinkish ones and, even at her age, Elly knew the shells were magic. She knew she was living in a land of miracles where anything could happen, where Pa might come back to get her. Maybe he could take her to heaven to be with him and Mummy, Elly had said, but the nuns told her it was way too soon for that, and she’d have to go live with another family first.

A cricket leapt out of the grass and clung to the top of Elly’s knee before skipping off again. If only Elly could stay here until teatime, there might be cake from the ladies who brought things to the orphanage. Elly looked up for a moment, contemplating the aroma of cake, then pushed the stick farther into the dirt. She took a pinch of the earth, put it into her mouth, and chewed on it. She pretended not to notice Sister Mary coming to take her to the dormitory. She hung her head as Sister Mary reached out to take her hand.

“Keep still now,” Sister Mary said, braiding Elly’s hair. Elly’s shoes had been shined and her tunic starched and ironed. Sister Mary smoothed Elly’s shirt collar.

“Look at you,” Sister Mary said. “Your father would have been proud.” But Elly’s father was right there, she wanted to tell Sister Mary. Elly could see him. She had watched him from behind the window more than once, his spirit soaring up among the trees in the shape of a butterfly, his wings glinting bright yellow and black. He would dip down to check on her, fluttering just beyond the glass.

“Oh, look, a swallowtail,” Sister Mary said, pointing to the window, her eyes gleaming. Sister Mary had a cold. She kept wiping her nose with a handkerchief. Her eyes were red and wet. “Largest butterfly in the entire region, did you know that?” Sister Mary said. She touched Elly’s cheek. Elly scrunched her mouth into a half smile and shook her head no.

“We don’t see those around here much anymore,” Sister Mary said, taking Elly’s hand in hers and leading her toward the door. They walked down the corridor together as slowly as they could. Elly wanted to stay with Sister Mary but they’d already had a long talk about that. She thought of her swallowtail father and knew that even though Mother Superior didn’t want her at the orphanage anymore, wherever she went, she would never be alone.

Needless to say, Mother Superior was furious, several months later, when Elly’s new family un-adopted her. Elly hadn’t known that such a thing could be done. Mother Superior told Elly that no one wanted a liar for a child. Elly had done a wicked thing, she said, telling those fibs about that man. But Elly knew she wasn’t supposed to tell untruths and usually, she did not. Still, she had been sent back to live with the nuns and the only one who seemed happy was Sister Mary, who hugged Elly tight and brushed out her hair and said, “Go on, now, say your prayers and into bed. Lessons tomorrow, bright and early.”

The next day, Sister Mary showed Elly a picture of a swallowtail that she had cut out of a newspaper and slipped it into Elly’s exercise book, and Elly understood that she had come back home. The next day she ran back into the garden to dig.

In time, Elly came to learn that the island hadn’t always been an island. There was a time when the Earth’s eruptions and shifts had pushed the land under the sea, where layers of life and debris formed a mantle of limestone that one day would rise from the water. And now, here Elly was, thirty million years later, sinking her fingers into the warm dirt outside the children’s home, listening to the hum of the world, and sensing, even then, that she could not live without the feel of it.