Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

  “You joking, fam?” Kyazike laughed. “You think life is a film? Even if it was, fam, we’re black. ‘Whatever shade,’ ” she said, mimicking my voice, “we’d be first to die.”

  * * *

  I finished Kyazike’s hair and she went to start cooking, brave enough to endure the cold kitchen flooring. I wrapped the blanket around me and felt myself drifting off, but didn’t try very hard to fight it.

  I slept, but I could hear everything that was happening at Kyazike’s: I heard when she finished cooking, waking up just enough to say no when she offered me dinner; I heard when she ate and watched EastEnders; I heard the squeeze of dish soap and the clatter of dishes and splashing of water when she did the washing up. I heard her go on the balcony when the shoe guy called; I heard her tell him that she wasn’t leaving the flat because “your whole essence is too short-notice, and I can’t be going out with no fraud boy!”

  I heard Kyazike’s mum come home; I heard the argument they had about having the fan heater on; I heard her mum get in the bath to get ready for her second shift of the day.

  At midnight, Kyazike shook me gently and handed me a headscarf and nightie. I put them on and lay on the sofa. It was warmer now. “Here’s a quilt,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

  * * *

  When I woke up, Kyazike had already gone to work. When I got to the office, I had several e-mails from Gina asking me to see her in her office immediately. I knocked on the open door.

  “Come in,” she barked. “Oh, Queenie, are you seriously wearing the same thing you wore yesterday? Close the door behind you.”

  “Yes, sorry,” I said. “It’s only because I stayed at a friend’s house.” I shut the door and walked over to the chair that faced Gina.

  “Now. I’ve got some bad news for you,” she told me.

  “What?” I asked, my heart beginning to pound in my ears.

  “You’re being suspended.”

  “What?” I blinked. “What?”

  “This extreme crush that you’ve had on Ted Noman, well . . . it’s not appropriate. He’s filed an official complaint with HR, and everyone thinks it’s best that you’re not in the office while it’s investigated.” Gina lowered her voice, embarrassed for me.

  “An extreme crush?” I asked, bewildered. “On Ted?”

  “He’s spoken about it to HR confidentially, and says that you’ve been paying him a lot of attention, saying suggestive and inappropriate things, following him around, and that it’s making him entirely uncomfortable and stressed in his place of work,” Gina explained.

  What was going on? “Suspended for that? But he, no, he’s the one who—I have the e-mails, and the messages, he’s the one—” I stuttered, desperate for her to understand that I wasn’t the one at fault.

  “We have to take that sort of complaint seriously.” She paused briefly. “Plus, you already had an official warning on your file.”

  “But it’s not true, Gina! Can’t you tell them that it’s not true?” I begged her. “And that I just come in and do my job?”

  “Queenie, how can I prove to them that there’s a role here that you’re actually fulfilling? You don’t come in on time. When you do get here, you spend every second distracting Darcy, who has managed to do her job alongside the chatting, by the way. You aren’t focused, you aren’t committed, and when I asked you to contribute to the paper, which you wanted all along, you didn’t do it, and when I gave you that tiny responsibility, to look after an intern, you can’t even do that. Word gets around, Queenie, and Chuck’s father is the head of the U.S. paper, come on!”

  “I’m sorry, Gina, it’s just that there’s been a lot going on. I am sorry, I just let it get away from me and I’ve been distracted, but I will do better, I promise.” I pleaded with her as panic started to rear its ugly head.

  “Queenie, we all have things going on,” Gina started. “Between me and you, my ex-husband refuses to look after our children, my lover has been telling me he’s going to leave his wife for the last six years, my mother has been moved into a hospice, and my father doesn’t remember who I am, but still I have to keep going. What is it I told you all those months ago? You’ve got to keep one foot on the ground! You focus! But you haven’t, even though I’ve been giving you chance after chance.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t believe I’ve let this happen.”

  “So here’s what you’re going to do.” Gina crossed her arms. “You’re going to leave the office at the end of the week. I’ve managed to swing it that you’re going to be on paid leave for two weeks, as you haven’t taken any of your holiday, which brings you just past the end of the month. Then after that, no pay, and we wait to see what happens. I’ll keep you posted on the investigation.” Gina paused. She surely knew that this was my only source of income. “Chuck will be filling in for you, Queenie. He’s done some brilliant work. He did a redesign of the culture pages, and everyone is very impressed.”

  “But I told him to do that,” I said bitterly. “Is this because my dad isn’t the head of a paper? This isn’t fair!”

  “Queenie, not much is!” Gina said heavily. “Yes, people like Chuck have it easier than you, but instead of complaining about it, you’ve got to do better!”

  “I understand, Gina,” I cut in. “Twice as hard to get half as much, right? I grew up hearing this, but never thought I’d hear it from you.”

  “This isn’t because you’re black, or because your family is poor!” Gina pointed a finger at me. “He’s got it easier than most of us here, for God’s sake. Frankly, if you’d kept your eyes on the ball, then you wouldn’t be in this position. I am so sorry, kid.”

  I started to shake violently. Gina uncrossed her legs and jumped up from her seat. She put a hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay. I couldn’t respond. She left the office and came back seconds later with Darcy.

  “Queenie? Queenie, are you okay?” I could see and hear my friend, but I still couldn’t open my mouth to speak.

  “Darcy, who is her next of kin?” Gina panicked, picking up her phone. “Boyfriend? Shit, she doesn’t live with her boyfriend anymore, does she?”

  “No, it’ll be a family member.”

  “Do you know her mum’s number?” Gina asked, her hand hovering over the phone keypad.

  “Not her mum,” Darcy said. “Don’t call her mum. Her next of kin is probably her aunt Maggie. The number will be in her phone. Queenie, where’s your phone?”

  I stared ahead, still shaking. Darcy left and came back a few seconds later, my phone to her ear.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but she’s shaking a lot. . . . Okay, I’ll ask her. Queenie, your aunt says, have you eaten? . . . She’s not saying anything. But she didn’t eat anything at lunch yesterday. . . . I don’t think she’s just hungry, she looks like she’s in shock or something. . . . Okay. . . . Queenie, Maggie asks if it’s the panic attacks this time, or the women’s troubles? . . . She still won’t say anything. . . . Shall I get her stuff ready and bring her down to the foyer? . . . Yep, I’ll wait with her until you get here. . . . No, it’s no bother at all, I’ll see you soon.”

  chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  WITH EVERYTHING IN Eardley’s van, I walked down the steps of the damp, crumbling Brixton house and left the key on the kitchen table. I wouldn’t miss it. Not much could surprise me anymore, but I was shocked that I’d lasted as long as I had in that house.

  * * *

  I ate my words and did miss the house days later when the reality of living with my grandparents kicked in. I thought I’d be able to spend my days recovering through sleep, rest, quiet, and food.

  The first night, I was tossing and turning until dawn because I was worrying that my life was over. Who moves in with their grandparents when they’re almost twenty-six?

  • • •

  We sat in silence around the dinner table as the dim light flickered overhead. I looked down at my dinner, my stomach be
ginning to churn. I could never eat in Roy’s presence, but he insisted on these weekly meals. Ultimately, they gave him the opportunity to belittle either me or my mum for an extended period of time while he had both of us in one place. “You know what I’ve been thinking?” Roy said, breaking the silence. I wondered which one of us he was going to come for first. Yesterday it was me, so today it was surely going to be my mum. “Your daughter won’t amount to nuttin’.” Roy laughed, throwing his stocky frame back in his chair and chucking his fork onto the dinner table. “Eedyats, the pair of you.” My guess was wrong. I looked down at my plate as he laughed again. I felt like I was going to be sick.

  “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.

  I sat up suddenly, panic propelling me upright. Unease spread from the top of my head and down my body. I went to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t follow the command of my brain. My heart started to pound, and my vision blurred at the edges.

  “Help!” I tried to call out but couldn’t pull enough air into my lungs to get the word out. Instead, I sat hyperventilating until the water turned cold.

  “Queenie?” my grandmother screeched. “Stop pussyfooting around, those sheets need to go!”

  Although I could now move my legs, I couldn’t stand for the shaking. I didn’t know if it was the cold or the adrenaline.

  “What you still in here?” She burst into the bathroom, and I pulled the shower curtain around me.

  “Queenie you must be mad. You think I’m looking? You should have seen my form when I was your age, I put all ah yu to shame.”

  “I feel really weird, I think I should go back to bed. I’m shaking, look.” I held my hands out.

  “You think I haven’t shaken worse in my life? After I had your mother, I shook for a year. Come out the bath.”

  * * *

  Two weeks passed. A fortnight of chores, of feeling so ill, of refusing phone calls and ignoring messages, of panicking silently so as not to make my grandparents aware of my weakness.

  On Tuesday morning, somewhere between my first bath of the day and taking the recycling out, my phone buzzed with a number that I didn’t know. I answered it cautiously with the hand that wasn’t balancing milk cartons and empty porridge boxes.

  “Hello, am I speaking to Queenie Jenkins?” a droll woman’s voice said on the other end of the phone.

  “Yes. Who is this?” I asked, walking down the front path.

  “My name is Amanda, I’m calling from SLAM. We received your referral letter,” the woman said, her tone exactly the same as before.

  “SLAM?”

  “South London and Maudsley?” she said
. “We received your referral for talk therapy.”

  I dropped the recycling into its box and turned to look at the house to check that nobody was watching. The coast seemed to be clear, but my grandparents had supersonic hearing, so I let myself out of the gate and walked toward the main road.

  “Oh. That was quick,” I told her. “I thought it would take months, if you’d get back to me at all.”

  “It usually does, yes, but we had an opening. Would you be able to come in for an initial assessment?” Amanda from SLAM pushed on. “It’ll just be a chat, it shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

  “Er, sure. Maybe. Can I think about it?” This was all a bit of a shock. “Where are you based?”

  “Camberwell, just opposite King’s Hospital and behind Denmark Hill station,” she recited. “Once we’ve got your assessment booked in, we’ll send a letter out to you, and it’ll have all the information you need. You don’t need to worry about addresses now.”

  The next opening they had was in a week’s time, which seemed soon, but I agreed to it quickly before I could um and ah and talk myself out of it. I walked back to the house and saw my grandmother standing on the porch, arms folded.

  “Who were you on the phone to?” she asked, lips suitably tight again.

  “Nobody!” I said.

  “So why yuh look so worried?” she quizzed.

  “No reason. It was nobody. I’m going upstairs.” I kept my head down, concentrating on taking my shoes off.

  “Hm. You think I need to look into your eyes to know that you’re lying to me?” she said, before kissing her teeth and walking into the kitchen.

  THE CORGIS

  Darcy

  How’s it going, Queenie? Missing you! xxx

  Kyazike

  Yeah, fam, it’s not like you to be quiet

  Queenie

  Hi both

  Queenie