Queenie(86)

“I think I need to explain it to myself, if anything,” I said. “You know how someone might be, like, ‘how are you, on a scale of one to ten, one being the worst, and ten being absolutely elated?’ Well, at the moment I’m operating on a ‘how are you out of five?’ flex. I feel like I’m living a half-life at the moment.”

I fiddled with the knot of the balloon ribbon on my wrist. “I live here, sleeping in a room full of crucifixes and Bibles. I don’t see anyone but my family because seeing my friends reminds me that I’m not how I used to be. I haven’t had sex for ages—”

“Which is a good thing, I think, Queenie.”

“The counseling is tiresome. I always have to drag myself on my face to the bus stop afterward. Then sit for ages staring at nothing in particular out the window. I almost always miss my stop, just because my brain can’t engage with what’s going on until the next day.”

“Do you feel better every week, though? Like you’re crying all of the sadness out? It must be cathartic.”

“What’s the point in crying?” I asked.

“Do you know, that might be the most psychopathic thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

“Strong black women don’t cry,” I said to myself.

The ribbon slipped from my wrist and a gust of wind took the balloon up out of my reach.

Diana walked out into the garden with a piece of sponge cake on a paper plate in each hand. The best china was obviously not allowed outside. “That’s a waste of your friend’s money,” she said, watching the balloon drift away. She lifted one of the plates to shield her eyes as she stepped into the sun.

She passed us one plate each and stood with a hand on her hip, lifting the other to cover her eyes. “Granddad has told me to make myself useful and water the plants. You can never just come here and relax, can you,” she huffed, walking over to the outside tap.

She turned it on and went to look for the watering can.

“Don’t waste watah!” Granddad croaked from the conservatory. Diana looked at us and closed her eyes in frustration.

“I should go,” Darcy said, standing up. “I’ve got a big day at work tomorrow.” She smoothed her skirt down.

“Oh yeah? What’s happening?” I asked, holding my hands out so that she could lift me up. “Anything to do with my Ted investigation? Are you being called as a character witness? Tell them I’m a virgin.”

We both laughed. It felt unfamiliar to laugh. The way you might feel starting a car when you haven’t driven in years and had also forgotten that cars even existed.

“Nothing’s been said about that, if that helps,” Darcy said, putting on her shoes by the front door. “It was nice to see you. And to meet your mum, finally.” I opened it and hugged her good-bye. “You’re better than you think,” she said, then turned to walk down the path.

I went back into the kitchen and found my grandmother peering into the oven, Diana’s confiscated lighter in hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“It won’t light. I’m not paying to fix it,” she said, getting on her knees and moving her head farther in. “Your mother had to go when you were in the garden. She left a card for you.” My grandmother gestured to the table, head still hidden. I looked at the table and saw a pink envelope with my name written on it in writing practically the same as mine.

I poured myself a glass of water and took the card upstairs. I opened it. The card had the words “To my darling daughter on her birthday” on the front in pink writing. A bright yellow 99p sticker she’d forgotten to remove sat in the corner.

To my dear daughter Queenie Veronica Jenkins, Happy 26th Birthday! I am proud of you every day. Even on the days that you think are bad. I am always here for you. Continue to be stronger than I could have been for you.

Love, your mum Sylvie XX

P.S. I hear you are in therapy. That is a good thing.

I climbed into bed and reread my mum’s card. I could hear tinny music playing from Diana’s phone as she moved around the garden watering the plants.

Queenie

Thanks for my card, Mum. It was nice to see you today. X



I pressed SEND on my phone and looked out of the window. I watched the balloon from Darcy float farther away into the distance.





chapter


TWENTY-FIVE


“NOW, I THINK we need to talk about your phone call.” I blinked at Janet, pretending not to know what she was talking about. She looked at me and sighed. Isn’t that the exact reaction that therapists aren’t meant to have? “From the pool,” she reminded me.

“Yeah, what about it?” I asked in a tone that I knew I was too old to have taken.

“Your upbringing was not one you should have had, Queenie,” Janet said. “You witnessed some traumatic things, you should have had love and care, and I’m sorry that you didn’t.”

“It’s all right, it’s not your fault,” I snapped. “These things happen. It happens a lot in my culture. Us black girls, we’re always meant to know our place.”

“And do you think that you’ve trapped yourself in this message to the present day? Do you think this is how you see yourself? As having to stay mute, to know your place? It certainly sounds this way,” Janet said sympathetically. “Perhaps that’s why sexually, you go along with these acts, so as not to rock the boat, and—”