Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

  “And I wanted him to meet everyone, I wanted this one to work.” Cassandra was starting to sound like a spoilt child.

  “He will meet your family, and it will work, Cassandra!” I told her, not actually caring if what I said was true or not. “And it can be just the two of us tonight, like it has been for the past, what, seven years?”

  “I don’t want it to be the two of us, Queenie, I wanted him here,” Cassandra snapped.

  “Okay, well suit yourself,” I snapped back.

  “Sorry, no offense.” She softened. “Look, I know you’re having a weird time of it with the Tom stuff, and it must be bringing up all sorts of mum abandonment stuff,” Cassandra dropped in the most blasé way possible, “and I do care, and yes I am worried about you, but it’s time to put me first.” Her words were so cutting; why did she never think before casually deploying such on-the-nose psychoanalysis?

  * * *

  After singing “Ma’oz Tzur,” a Hanukkah song I could never quite get the rhythm of, playing with the dreidel, and doing some prayer, I put my coat on to leave. Jacob came to the front door. “Breaks, breakups, they’re nasty business, but you’ll be okay,” he promised. “You’ve lost some weight, haven’t you? Try to eat what you can, keep your strength up. This won’t work”—he put a finger to my temple—“if this isn’t taken care of”—he poked my stomach with the same finger.

  “Thanks, Jacob. Really,” I said, enduring a hug good-bye because I felt so fucking lonely. “This evening means a lot to me. Every year.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same without you, Queenie,” Jacob said, handing over a Tupperware box bursting with food.

  “Bye, Cassandra!” I called up into the house, my voice bouncing around the stone floors and high ceilings. I waited for a second. No response. Jacob leaned closer to me. “I think she’s taken to bed. She’s a little upset. I think she’s really into this one,” he whispered. “You know, it’s ages since she really connected with someone.”

  I couldn’t even get my dad to text me back, let alone talk to him about my connections. Jealousy began to rise in me. Why didn’t I matter to any of the men who had run out of my life the first chance they could get? What made Cassandra so special that her dad, unlike mine, had an actual interest in her life? Walking down Seven Sisters Road to the Tube station, in a move that wouldn’t be worth Freud’s time to dissect, I called Guy. He didn’t answer, so I sent him a text.

  Queenie

  Come round?

  He replied five seconds after I put my phone back in my pocket.

  Guy

  You home now? Shave your legs before I get there

  When I got back, Guy was sitting on the wall outside my house.

  “All right?” he said, hopping down from the wall.

  I leaned in to kiss him and he stepped back.

  “Steady on, I’m not your boyfriend.”

  “I know you aren’t my boyfriend, and I don’t want you to be my boyfriend, but if you can have sex with me you can kiss me hello, surely,” I said sorely.

  “Let’s not overcomplicate things,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “Hey, what did Adam say to Eve the day before Christmas?” I stepped into my room and Guy followed, hands on my bottom.

  “What? Who are they?” he said, throwing himself into the clothes chair and pushing clean laundry onto the floor as he removed his coat.

  “You know, from the Bible,” I said.

  “What? I dunno,” he said, pulling his boots off.

  “It’s Christmas, Eve.” I smiled proudly.

  “Is that a joke?” he sneered, pulling his sweater over his head.

  “Well, yeah.” I sat on the bed and pulled my tights off, wondering at what point Guy and I had started this ritual of systematic undressing.

  “That doesn’t make sense. Surely he’d say, ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Eve’?” Guy mansplained, walking over to me. “I’m too practical-minded for jokes, Queenie.” He reached down and stroked my leg from calf to thigh.

  “Do you want to shave your legs now?” He nodded toward the bathroom.

  “Um. Is it vital?”

  “I just prefer it. I don’t mind your lady garden being bushy, but I don’t like the scratching on my face when I throw your legs over my shoulders.”

  I pulled the rest of my outfit off and wrapped my hair with Guy’s eyes on me the entire time.

  “You know the thing I like about black women?” he said, his eyes running from my hair to my feet. “Even when you’re big girls, it sits well. Sits nice on your hips and that. And your arse. You’re lucky.”

  I left him on my bed and got into the shower, dutifully running the razor up my legs. When I came out, Guy was asleep in his boxers on top of the covers, lying on his side to face me. I stared at his eyelashes, thinking about how much money I could make if I sold them as a set of fake ones.

  I looked at him for a while, remembering my first Christmas with Tom.

  • • •

  I’d never had a conventional nuclear family Christmas. When my dad lived in London, he spent Christmas with his actual family in his other house; I wasn’t welcome, but have always made peace with that given that his wife is an actual living witch. Since I could remember, my mum’s hostel only allowed visitors for an hour at a time, so that option was out. The week before my first Christmas with Tom, I was sitting at the table having Friday fish and chips with Tom’s family discussing how “the little African boy” that they sponsored was doing when his mum reached across the table and put a hand on my forearm.

  “You know, you’re more than welcome to spend Christmas with us here in Peterborough, Queenie.”

  “Um, is she?” Tom’s brother wasn’t up for it.

  “No, don’t worry, I spend it with my grandmother every year!” I smiled.

  “Are you sure?” Tom’s mum asked. “We’d love to have you, and we’ve got all your presents here under the tree.”

  “Well, she can open them after Christmas?” Adam again. His voice was higher this time. Tom locked eyes with me and nodded.

  I looked over at Adam and smiled. “I’d love to be here. Thanks, Viv.”

  “Don’t worry about Adam,” Viv said to me later. “He’s just jealous because you’ve taken his brother away.”

  “I don’t want to annoy anyone, especially not at Christmas! It’s just that . . . well, your family, it’s what a family should be. I’ve never had that.”

  “Well, you’re part of our family now, Queenie,” Viv said. “And you always will be.”

  •••

  Come Christmas Eve, Tom and I were sitting on the last train to Peterborough, Tom squashed into the window by bags of presents on the seat next to him. I sat opposite him with my feet on the suitcase full of his presents just for me. We’d been together for about six months at that point, so not only had I known his parents, grandmother, and brother well enough to choose all of their gifts, but I also felt that after never getting what I wanted, and sick of being asked, I could give Tom a full list of the things that I wanted rather than just hoping for the best and getting something that I’d have to pretend to like.

  “Are you excited, Tom?” I asked, leaning across and putting my hands on his cheeks. He didn’t answer.

  “Tom, please stop faffing with your phone, it’s Christmas Eve! I need attention, I am excited like a small child.” He put his phone in his pocket.

  “Yes, I’m excited too, sorry.”

  “Good, you should be excited, because this is not only our first Christmas together but my first Christmas where there will be alcohol!”

  “I always forget that your family doesn’t drink.”

  “Not a drop, Tom. Not since my granddad had a small sherry in 1961 and called the ambulance because he thought his heart was failing.”

  I swapped seats with the bags of presents next to Tom and tucked myself under his arm. “You make me very happy, you know. I know I’m not good at saying it, but you do,” I
said, looking out of the train window, watching as the gray buildings thinned out and made way for suburban tranquility.

  He lifted a hand to my hair and stroked it. “You make me happy too. I love you.”

  “Tom, don’t touch my hair.”

  • • •

  I put a T-shirt on and got onto the bed next to Guy, tucking myself into him. I hated myself for doing it, and him, but of all the anonymous partners, he was the most reliable. And, reliably, he faced away from me as soon as my body touched his. I climbed under the sheets and thought of nothing but Tom as I fell asleep, Guy’s snores providing a steady soundtrack to my sadness.

  I woke up to a digging in my ribs. “You’re talking in your sleep.”

  “Huh? What?” I sat up.

  Guy was squinting at me with one eye, the other buried in the pillow. “You’re talking in your sleep,” he huffed. “I don’t know who this Tom is, but his ears must be burning.”

  “Sorry,” I said, lying back down. “Have you done all of your Christmas shopping?” He didn’t reply. Had he already gone back to sleep? “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Too early to be talking,” he said gruffly.

  “But it’s a week until Christmas!” I reminded him.

  He took my hand and shoved it into his boxers. “All right, I’ve got a present for you.”

  • • •

  “What?”

  “I said, I’ve got a present for you. Wake up, Queenie.” I sat up, my eyes still closed. When I blinked them open, Tom was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed holding a small gift in his hands.

  “Oh, Tom, what is it?” I asked.

  “Well, you’re meant to open it, aren’t you?” he said, handing it to me and moving up the bed so that he was next to me. I opened it slowly.

  “Ha! Where did you get this?” It was a silk headscarf.

  “Happy first Christmas! Do you like it?” Tom asked, beaming from ear to ear. “I went to one of those black hair shops in Brixton for it. I chose a green and black one because your other one is gold, and all together those are the Jamaica colors, right?”

  “You went all the way to Brixton for a headscarf?”

  “Well, I didn’t know how to find it on the Internet and I remembered seeing them when we went to buy your hair that time.”

  I put my arm around his shoulders and forced him into a gentle headlock. “You’re very good to me,” I said as he moved his head from my chest to my neck, kissing me behind the ear gently.

  “That’s because you’re my Queenie,” he whispered in my ear, taking the headscarf from my hands and slipping his fingers through mine.

  • • •

  “Don’t you like it?” Guy asked, disappointed that I wasn’t pleased by his erection.

  “Mmm, I think it’s too early for that sort of present, Guy.” I removed my hand from his boxers.

  “Oh, come on, you said it yourself, it’s Christmastime. How about a quick hand job?” he begged. “You took so long in the shower last night that I fell asleep before I could give you a festive fuck. A hand job is the least you can do.”

  “Guy. I think we should . . .” I said in a very small voice, “. . . maybe wrap things u—”

  “Ha!” Guy cut me off. “Come on, there’s nothing to wrap up, this is never going to be more than sex, you know that! You’re a good girl, but I’m busy, I don’t have time for dating and all that.”

  “Guy, you know I’m a person, don’t you?” I started. “With thoughts and feelings and—”

  “And a big gob, but most of all, a big arse.” He laughed. “Come oooon, don’t get all serious, we have fun, you and me.” He pulled his boxers down and presented his erection to me again. “Just climb on, Santa wants to give you a ride on his sleigh.”

  “I thought you were too practically minded for jokes, being a doctor?” I teased. There was no point being cross. Guy was very persuasive. He was always going to get his way.

  “Junior doctor,” he corrected me. “Anyway, we’re going off topic and I’m going to lose my lob-on. Come on, Queenie. Climb on board. Don’t worry, I’ll pull out before I give you a Christmas miracle of your own.”

  chapter

  TWELVE

  IT WAS CHRISTMAS Eve, and I’d been staring at the phone all week, having texted Tom to ask if we could see each other so I could give him his gift, dropped a present off at his office after hearing nothing back, and then sent a follow-up text asking if it would be okay for me to call his mum on Christmas Day. Still no word. I shushed the voices in my mind that were asking what I was fighting for. In the absence of family Christmas with Tom, I’m with my grandmother, who is happy that I’m back with her after three years away. I was, I think by way of punishment, being forced to go to midnight mass.

  We got to the church at 11:15 p.m., and Diana, Maggie, my granddad, my grandmother, and I filed onto a bench near the back of the already busy church. How was it so popular? I tried to sit next to Diana, but we’d been separated like naughty schoolchildren. Just before things got started, a small figure appeared next to me at the end of our bench. “Sylvie,” my grandmother whispered to my mum as she stood awkwardly next to me. “You’re late. Sit down.” I huffed and shuffled over to make some room for her.

  “Hello, Queenie,” she whispered to me. “I’m surprised to see you here!”

  “Hi,” I whispered back, facing forward.

  “How did Mum get you here?” my mum whispered again.

  “I think it’s about to start,” I said, finally turning to look at her. I don’t look like my mum. She’s light-skinned, some sort of genetic throwback, maybe. Though I’ve heard family whisperings that after she was born, my granddad accused my grandmother of having an affair. My mum’s complexion glows; her hair is long and curly. Not tight, coarse curls like mine, her curls are soft, they move, they bounce, they fall around her face. Her eyes are hazel, and when she’s not looking at the floor, they’re searching for the niceness in people. Unlike me, my mum is tiny. Slim, fragile, the shortest person in our family.

  I look like my dad. Darker than my mum, with nearly black eyes, eyes that are either narrowing with suspicion or rolling. I also, as my grandmother says, have “the same figure as your dad.”

  “Okay,” my mum said, smiling gently.

  A line of choir boys and girls walked past, singing and swinging incense. My phone buzzed.

  Diana

  This stuff is gonna make me have an asthma attack

  Queenie

  Can you pretend to have a coughing fit so that I can take you outside. Please

  Diana

  NO, because I’d have to squeeze past the whole row and I don’t want to wake Granddad up

  I looked down the row at my granddad, who was already fast asleep, his head as far back as it could go and his mouth wide open.

  “If Granddad is allowed to sleep, am I?” I whispered to my grandmother, who kissed her teeth loudly in response until she remembered that we were in a church.

  “Once, in royal David’s city,” the priest began to sing, his microphone-amplified voice ringing out much louder than the choir and congregation. He was ad-libbing in a way that he probably hadn’t been taught in priest school.

  Diana

  This guy must think he’s on X Factor

  Queenie

  Would you put him through?

  Diana

  Not gonna lie, his voice isn’t bad, you know. Put a little auto-tune on it, he might get into the top 10

  “Diana. Put the phone away,” I heard Maggie hiss as I mumbled along to the hymn, my eyes grazing the words on the song sheet. To my right, my grandmother belted the words out in an accent-tinged trill, most of the lyrics free-styled, while my mum sang along quietly and sweetly to my left, not missing a word or a note. I glanced at her. She wasn’t even looking at the lyrics. “Years of Sunday school,” she broke out of song to say to me. “I’ll never forget a word.”

  I ignored her and zoned out for the hour, conjuri
ng up a frame-by-frame imagining of what Christmas would have been like with Tom this year. I looked up to the ornate church ceiling.

  I closed my eyes and tried out a little prayer. “Dear Lord,” I started in my head, “I know that I don’t pray to you often, or really ever, but I just wanted to ask, please, if you do exist, could things be a bit more smooth sailing from now on? I know that maybe I don’t deserve your pity or your mercy, but I am having a really bad time and I don’t know what to do. Maybe I can just have some clarity?” I squeezed my eyes tightly. “What if you just get Tom to text me and tell me he wants to see me? That’s an easy request, it’s not like I’m asking for him back immediately. I understand that these things take time.” I paused to think if there was anything I should add. “And eventually, whether Tom does or doesn’t love me again, can I maybe just be a bit happy? I feel like I was born miserable and never given reason to change that. Oh, and I am so sorry for all of the casual sex, so please forgive me for that also,” I prayed. “I know that it’s awful, and against everything Catholics stand for, but—”

  “Ow!” I yelped as my grandmother pinched my arm with her bony fingers.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” she growled. “The priest looked right over at us.”

  “I wasn’t!” I whispered. “I was deep in prayer!”

  Diana

  LOL

  Queenie

  How is she so strong?

  Diana

  Porridge every marnin’ fi 100 years

  “Amen,” I said out loud in response to Diana’s text, joined by the congregation as the whole ordeal came to an end.

  * * *

  Christmas with my grandparents meant nothing fun. No alcohol, no Christmas TV, and definitely no pigs in blankets. Maggie was dominating the kitchen and barking orders at anyone who came near, so my granddad was hiding in his little shed, while the head of the house had left in search of custard powder.