Queenie(73)

“This girl won’t amount to nuttin’ at all.”

I looked over at my mum, willing her to say something. She looked down at her hands. Why was she always letting him do this?

“Lord God, what did I do to end up with two fool women under my roof?” Roy growled, picking up his fork and shoveling rice into his mouth. “I take this stupid woman in, big mistake, and me tink say her pickney ah go be better? I mus’ ah been mad.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I said, pushing my chair away from the table.

“Where yuh tink yuh going?” Roy asked, taking a sip of his Dragon Stout. The dark liquid almost escaped his mouth as he belched loudly.

“I’m going to do my homework,” I said, desperate to run out of the dining room and out of the house.

“Finish. Yuh. Food,” he said, banging the bottle down. “Yuh not leaving my table until you eat everyting on your plate.”

“I don’t feel good,” I whispered.

“Wha yuh mean, ‘I don’t feel good’?” Roy copied my voice. “Eat yuh food and stop talking like a white girl.”

“But I don’t want it,” I said, pushing the plate away.

“Queenie, please, just eat the food.” My mum finally opened her mouth.

“I never should have let you bring this ungrateful pickney in my yard, Sylvie!” Roy roared, reaching across and grabbing my plate. “There. You eat it for her,” he barked at my mum, throwing it in front of her. “Someone ah go eat it today.”

“I’m not hungry, Roy. Besides, Queenie might have it later,” my mum said, in a feeble attempt to normalize the situation.

“So nobody hungry? We all ah sit down to dinner, and I’m the only ah eat?” Roy shouted. “Eat with me, nuh, Sylvie?” he yelled, grabbing my mum by the back of her head and pushing her face into the plate.

“Roy!” she cried out, her voice muffled by the food. She lifted her head and, with food in her eyes, reached out for a napkin with shaking hands.

“See what you’ve done?” Roy sneered at me. “Look at your poor muddah. You’ve ruined dinner, Queenie. Jus’ like yuh ruin everyting.”

? ? ?

I finally drifted off at around five in the morning, only comforted by the knowledge that my alarm wouldn’t be going off a couple hours later.

“Morning.” My grandmother burst into the room. “Up you get, this isn’t a huh-tel.” Who needs an alarm when you have Jamaican grandparents? “And when you’re up, don’t forget to make the bed. Come on, quick, there’s porridge on the stove. You need to dish it out for all t’ree of we.” I jumped out of bed not knowing where to turn first, despite the military instructions.

My grandmother bustled down the steps as I made the bed, my head pounding with exhaustion.

“The porridge is getting cold!” she shouted from downstairs.

“Okay, I’m coming, I’m coming.” I flew down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Your grandfather takes his with a small spoon of brown sugar and a large spoon of honey, I want mine with a large spoon of brown sugar, a handful of raisins, and no honey, and you can have it how you want it but not too much sugar because you’ll get diabetes.”

I started to spoon various servings of porridge and toppings into bowls, and sat eating it with my grandparents.

“I’m turning the hot water off in fifteen minutes, so you need to get in the bath before it runs out,” my grandmother said.

“I haven’t even finished my porridge.” I showed her my bowl.

“The water rates, Queenie,” Granddad sighed.

“Then when you’ve finished in the bath, you’re going to run the hoover, and I need you to take some sheets to the launderette for a service wash. They’re already in the trolley in the porch. On the way back, you can use the trolley to pick up some bits from Brixton market. I’ll give you the list.” My grandmother wasn’t taking my being ill very seriously.

“I’m not Cinderella! I’ve come here to have some rest, not to—”

“Queenie, you’ve got two arms and two legs that work. Nuttin’ wrong wid’ you. And if you ah go’ stay here, you ah go’ help.”

“But there is something wrong with me. I—” My grandmother looked at me from across the table, daring me to continue. “Well, if I’m going to do all of that housework, there’s no point in me having a bath first.” I decided to pick another battle.

“You tink we ever sent any ah’ you out without cleaning your skin? What if you walk on the road and get hit by a car, they tek you to ’ospital and cut you out yo’ clothes and yo’ skin dirty? You know what kind of shame dat would bring?” My grandmother kissed her teeth. “Time is ticking. The hot water is going off in ten minutes.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do what you want. But I draw the line at going to church with you on Sundays.” I stomped upstairs, a spoonful of porridge still in my mouth, and jumped back into bed while I ran a bath until my grandmother shouted, “And do nat get back into bed!” from the kitchen, where she was already seasoning chicken for tomorrow’s dinner.

I undressed and sat on the edge of the bath, watching the water tumble in, climbing in when it was almost full. I lay back carefully so that my headscarf didn’t get wet, and tried to relax into the water. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that none of this was happening, that I was only here for a night, and that tomorrow I’d be getting up, going back to work, and carrying on with my life.