Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

  “Oh, aren’t you going to open your present?” Maggie asked, pointing at the gift bag. I picked it up and pulled out a little wrapped present.

  “It’s nothing big, just a little lavender oil that I bought from Holland and Barrett. I thought you could drop some around your room, help you to relax,” she said, smiling.

  “Thanks,” I said, putting the wrapped object back in the bag.

  “Should we maybe go for a walk, or sit in the garden or something?” I asked Darcy, tying the balloon’s ribbon to my wrist.

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you,” my mum interjected quietly. “Or to meet your friend properly.” She looked at Darcy and smiled, then looked back at the floor.

  “I’m Darcy! Queenie and I have worked together for three and a bit years now, I think? She does the listings, I’m picture editor.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely. And what does a picture editor do?”

  “Basically, when we’re running an article in the magazine or online, I have to find the right picture, make sure we’re allowed to use it, that sort of thing.”

  “That sounds very hard! I couldn’t do that!” my mum cooed.

  “Sure you could, Mum,” I said, trying out my newfound forgiveness. “You could do anything.”

  “That’s not true, Queenie,” she said, looking down at her hands and smiling. “I’m not like you.”

  “I’ve got a question for you, Sylvie.” Darcy jumped in. “Why did you name Queenie, Queenie?”

  “That’s an easy question, Darcy.” My mum looked up at us and settled back into the armchair. She was so small that it almost swallowed her whole. “When I was growing up, I always used to wish I could be a princess. It sounds silly, but because Maggie was in the room next to my mum and dad so they could keep an eye on her, my bedroom was almost at the very top of the house, underneath the attic; it was a huge, beautiful Victorian house that my dad bought when he first came ove—”

  “The haunted attic room,” I told Darcy.

  “The only thing it was haunted by was my dad, moaning at me about the water rates.” My mum laughed. “We were the first black people on our street, you know? My dad literally worked night and day to afford it. Anyway, I’m drifting away from what I was saying, sorry!” She looked back down at her hands. “I used to stare out of the window and pretend that someone was going to come and rescue me.” She paused and looked up again, her eyes bright. “I grew out of that, the looking out of the window thing, when I was a teenager”—she giggled—“but I was still obsessed with princesses. In all of the stories I used to read, they were so beautiful and perfect, and so delicate, and, well, when I met Queenie’s dad, he was my prince.”

  “Mum—” I interjected. “He was married.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that at the time. And, well, to me, he’d come to rescue me. He was so handsome, this man with beautiful dark skin. I thought he was so cool! He was in the music scene, he had a house full of records, he used to take me to all these concerts! And he had this gold tooth that flashed whenever he smiled. He was so charming.”

  “FYI, Darcy, he really isn’t charming.”

  They both ignored my remark, lost in the story. “. . . and when I was pregnant, I thought, This is it, this is it, she’s here. The princess I’d been dreaming about was here. That was going to be her name, I’d decided. I didn’t mind that it might have been tacky.”

  “I would have minded,” I said.

  “At least you weren’t called Diana!” my cousin shouted from the hallway as she walked past the front-front room.

  “Ah, yes. Queenie’s grandmother gave Diana her name. She was obsessed with the royal family.” My mum laughed gently. “Still is. Anyway, when my little girl was born, I put my finger in her tiny hand, and she opened her eyes and squeezed it so tightly. And I looked at her, and I realized that she was more powerful than any delicate princess I’d read about. I’d just given birth to a queen. A girl who would grow up to be strong and brave. So I called her Queenie.”

  How could I have been so selfish, how couldn’t I have seen? This tiny, meek woman being swallowed by an armchair was the same woman who’d started to raise me, the woman who’d been so obsessed with me that we wore matching outfits until I was eight, who always told me that I was strong enough to be a queen. She’d been so mentally and physically battered by men that she couldn’t find her voice anymore. But she was still my mum.

  I looked over at Darcy, whose eyes were wet with tears. “Oh, come on, no more crying,” I said, pulling her up, knowing that if she started crying, I’d be next.

  I led her through the kitchen, where Maggie was quizzing “Diana” about the lighter, and out into the garden.

  We sat on the grass for about three seconds before my grandmother practically sprinted out with a blanket, shrieking about Darcy’s white skirt getting dirty.

  “How are you doing, though?” Darcy asked, letting her bare legs stray from the blanket so that she could scrunch blades of grass between her toes.

  “It’s up and down. That’s the only way I can put it.” I shrugged. “No day is ever all good, or all bad. I don’t feel quite myself yet. I know I’m not doing a very good job of explaining myself. Sorry.”

  “You don’t need to explain anything to me. We can talk about something else, if you like,” Darcy said brightly. “Have you read anything good lately?”

  “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 he
lps,” 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—”

  “How could I not be trapped in it?” I interrupted. I was on one today, apparently.

  “Well, Queenie, I think that you’re taking on a burden that isn’t yours. You can’t carry the pain of a whole race.”

  “It’s not a burden I’m taking on, it’s one that’s just here.” I could feel anger building in my chest. “I can’t pick it up and drop it!”

  “Is that how you see it?” Janet asked as calmly as she could in an attempt to counter my distress.

  “That’s how it is.” I started to get louder. “I can’t wake up and not be a black woman, Janet. I can’t walk into a room and not be a black woman, Janet. On the bus, on the Tube, at work, in the cafeteria. Loud, brash, sassy, angry, mouthy, confrontational, bitchy.” I listed off all of my usual descriptors on my fingers. “There are ones people think are nice, though: well-spoken, surprisingly intelligent, exotic. My favorite is sexy, I think? I guess I should be grateful for any attention at all.” My voice was getting hoarse. “You know, when we go out, my friends get chatted up by guys who say, ‘I’d love to take you for dinner,’ and in the same breath they come over to me, put their hands on my bum, and tell me they want to take me back to theirs and fuck me over the arm of the sofa. This past year has shown me that I can’t have a boyfriend who loves me, who can stop and think about what I might be going through.” I dug my nails into the arms of the chair. “I can’t have any love in my life that isn’t completely fucked by my fear that I’ll be rejected just for being born me. Do you know how that feels, Janet?”

  “No, Queenie, I don’t.”

  “Exactly. With respect, Janet, you aren’t best placed to tell me how to deal with this ‘burden.’ ”

  “Okay, try to calm down, Queenie. Remember your breathing.” Janet poured me a glass of water.

  “Why should I calm down? This is what you wanted, for me to stop holding things in! My best friend Cassandra? The one who moved away with a man who fucked me for months but actually cared about someone else? You remember? Good,” I said. “I used to do this thing with him: I knew it was pathetic, but I couldn’t stop it. Even though I hate any meaningful closeness, when he stayed over, I used to try and tuck myself into his back while he slept. I just wanted some comfort, I wanted someone to like me after they’d had sex with me. Isn’t that pathetic?” I asked Janet. “Do you know what he used to do? Push me off him, every time. But that’s me. I’m an option for a man to fuck, but not an option to love.” My hands were shaking. “And if you’re going to fuck me, then at least it’s going to be in my control!” I shouted. I couldn’t stop myself. “And do you know why? It’s because I’m so damaged, Janet. Years of being told I was nothing, years of being ignored! I’ll take any attention, even if it is being fucked!” The room started to warp. I couldn’t breathe. I stood up and started flapping my hands as if to cool myself down or push the air into my mouth—I wasn’t sure which. I looked at Janet and opened and closed my mouth.

  Even if I knew what I wanted to say, it wasn’t coming out. She was saying something. I couldn’t hear what. I tried to do my breathing, tried to focus on her face, to count to ten, to think of that safe space, it was all so overwhelming and—

  * * *

  I felt my surroundings before I opened my eyes and saw them. I was on a bed, I knew that much. I’d been in a lot of beds that weren’t mine in the past year, so I wasn’t as frightened as I might otherwise have been.

  I was lying on my side, and quite possibly in the recovery position, as my limbs weren’t in a position they might have organically and comfortably fallen into.

  My head was throbbing. I opened my eyes and squinted as the low light from a lamp next to the bed hit them.

  “Hello?” I whispered, looking around the room. The room was small, lilac, with only the single bed that I occupied in one corner and the bedside table and lamp next to it. No posters, no pictures, no clue that the room belonged to any person. I lowered my legs off of the bed slowly, and put my feet on the floor.

  I tried to stand up, but fell back down onto the bed.

  “Queenie?” My eyes followed the voice that had called my name, and I saw Janet rush over, mug in hand.

  “How are you feeling? Here, drink this. Let it cool for a couple of minutes.” She went to hand me the mug, then placed it on the bedside table instead. “Don’t want you to burn your hands on top of everything else.”

  Janet perched at the end of the bed. “What happened?” I asked. I was shaking.

  “Let me give you a blanket.” Janet opened a drawer and pulled out a knitted patchwork blanket. She covered me and sat back down.

  “I’m not cold, just shaking,” I said.

  “That will be the adrenaline leaving your system. Just let it pass. Nothing bad is happening to you,” she said, taking a sip of her own tea. “You fainted, Queenie.”

  “That happened before when I lived in Brixton,” I told Janet. “It was horrible, that floor was so dirty. But why it is happening now, shouldn’t I be better? What’s wrong with me? Is something seriously wrong? Am I getting worse?” I asked, sitting up straight for Janet’s question time.

  “No. It doesn’t mean that at all,” Janet reassured me. “The road to recovery is not linear. It’s not straight. It’s a bumpy path, wi
th lots of twists and turns. But you’re on the right track.”

  “Lots of therapy buzzwords there, Janet,” I said, reaching for the cup of tea and propping myself up on one elbow to take a sip. “Jesus, this is sweet!” I swallowed it down.

  “How much sugar have you had today?” Janet asked.

  “I don’t think any. I’ve only had toast. I didn’t have much of an appetite,” I said, lying back down.

  “Well, there you go. Finish it. Your grandmother is on her way.”

  “Excuse me? My grandmother is leaving South London? To come here?” I launched myself up and put the mug down. “She hasn’t left South London since she came here in the fifties, and she has family in North London. Oh God.”

  “She’s down as your next of kin,” Janet said. “There is nothing to worry about. You must try to be aware when you’re catastrophizing, Queenie.”

  “I’m going to be in so much trouble,” I groaned.

  “Let’s lay it out as it is,” Janet said, looking me dead in the eye. “Queenie, you are an adult woman. And you have made an adult choice to come to therapy. Your family have accepted that, it seems. There is no trouble to get in. Today you have had a funny turn, and your grandmother is coming to collect you. I spoke to a cabdriver and gave them the full address, so she won’t have to negotiate public transport. You will get the cab back, and then I suggest that you rest and think little more of it. Okay?” Janet stood up and went to leave the room.

  “Okay,” I said. “Damn it, Janet.”

  Janet turned and looked at me. “My daughter used to say that to me. Is that in reference to The Rocky Horror Picture Show?”

  “Yeah! I didn’t know you had a daughter. I’m sorry, was this her room? Did she . . . pass away?” I said, horrified.

  “Queenie. You must stop thinking the worst. She’s very much alive. She works in Hong Kong. She flew out a year ago, after her twenty-fifth birthday. Very accomplished, my daughter. Now. Have your tea and rest until your grandmother gets here.”