by Yaba Badoe
*
We don’t count ’em in the café we eat in that night – a cheap place by the seashore where we feast on fried squid and shrimp soup, pork chops and rice. Eat our fill of meat and fish for the first time in weeks. Eat and jubilate. I even pat the plaster Mama Rose puts on my neck. Pat it as though it’s a badge of honour, and laugh.
We don’t count our money among strangers. No, sir! We wait till we get outside the city, back to our camping ground. Bring out chairs, a foldaway table and watch as Mama Rose hauls pouches from an enormous black handbag. Carries our loot in a handbag, she does, never a rucksack. Easy as anything to steal money from your back.
Mama Rose gives one of the pouches to Redwood and they pour everything out. Coins clatter on the table, notes scatter, as the two of ’em arrange silver in piles, notes in rows of ascending value.
We’ve done well, much better than usual. And with the prospect of a week or two of entertaining in store: a few weeks of juggling and acrobatics, tomfoolery and busking, evenings of improvised spectacles with Taj on the beach, the Old Ones whoop with joy. Cobra, Cat and me sitting at the table smile, confident in the knowledge that if the rest of our time here is as good as today, we’ll be warm over winter. Have enough to eat. Might even buy new clothes, if we’re lucky.
‘I think it’s time to have a drink,’ says Mama Rose. ‘Don’t you? We’ve certainly earned it tonight.’
Doesn’t take much to set the Old Ones drinking: good times, bad times, they reach for a tumbler and fill it to the brim with Redwood’s home brew. Whisky, wine, beer, he makes it and stores it in kegs in his truck.
Mama Rose, still in her circus clothes, fumbles in her bra and brings out a key. Totters into the back of our truck and returns with a tray. On the tray are five crystal glasses. Must be feeling good, ’cause those glasses only appear on her birthday, when she remembers her ‘provenance’: her way of talking about where she comes from and everything she gave up.
Mama Rose puts the glasses on the table.
‘What’s it to be tonight, Rosie?’ asks Redwood.
I sneak a peek at Priss on her perch. Opens an eyelid. Spreads out her mighty talons, fluffs her feathers.
‘On a glorious evening like this, my dearest dear,’ says Mama Rose, ‘some of your cherry wine would go down a treat.’
The Tallest Man in the World disappears. Returns with a jug of wine for Mama Rose, a flask of whisky for the others.
Cat, sitting next to me, says: ‘What about us?’
Midget Man brings out three beakers. Red plastic.
Don’t like the taste of liquor in my mouth, so I ask for a Cola. Cat fills her cup with wine, Cobra a tot of whisky. He claims wine’s a drink for girls, though I know for a fact he can’t stand the taste of whisky on his tongue any more than I can.
‘Here’s to us!’ Mama Rose says.
Glasses sparkle in lamplight. Crystal flashes and sings as Midget Man tapping, finds the pitch of his hooch and hums it.
‘Well done, all of you,’ says Mama Rose. ‘Apart from a wobble here and there we excelled tonight!’
The Old Ones laugh. Laugh louder than a pack of hounds baying at a hunt. Yet underneath the hullabaloo, the hooting and whooping and noisy chatter, so small I scarcely feel it at first, there’s a worm. And if my hunch is right, the worm’s beginning to turn.
Burrowing up from deep down takes time. Liquor has to loosen their tongues for the worm to show itself. The first drink makes ’em jolly. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, Mimi takes pins out of her hair and flings her curls about. Hair’s almost as long as she is: black-peppered, grey-frizzy, soft to touch. Midget Man rubs Mimi’s back. Bizzie Lizzie and Redwood exchange glances, then Redwood looks at me. He’s feeling it too: that worm of anxiety that’s growing plump with each passing minute.
Cat waves her beaker for more booze, and Redwood obliges, while Cobra on the other side of me shakes his head. Hasn’t finished what’s inside his cup yet. Cobra puts his hand on my lap and my fingers curl over his. I catch his eye, and my face brightens with a smile for him alone.
By the time the wound on my neck is starting to throb, the Old Ones are on their third drink and the fattened worm, the one no one wants to talk about, slithers into the open with a question from Midget Man. ‘Your playing’s getting better and better, Sante,’ he says. ‘You played like a dream tonight, like someone possessed.’
He says that ‘P’ word and it stops their shouting and laughing. Stops ’em dead in their tracks. Don’t rightly know what ‘possessed’ means, if I’m honest. But if it’s anything to do with that Mamadou fellow taking hold of my wits and playing his flute through me, it’s got ’em as spooked as I am.
Mama Rose swills wine in her glass, holds it up to the lamp and asks: ‘What do you think happened tonight, Sante?’ She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t want to, I reckon. ‘I’m waiting, Sante.’
I shrug and search the Old Ones’ faces for clues as to what they’re thinking. They know how to block my prying, so I don’t even try. Stare instead. Redwood, tracing the slope of his nose with his forefinger, flinches as Bizzie Lizzie places a hand on his arm. Redwood smiles at me: a long, loping grin that lightens the amber of his eyes. ‘Yeah, what happened out there, kid?’
Midget Man and Mimi nod, encouraging me to talk, while Mama Rose holds her breath. Turns to me at last, her eyes so scared, I taste her fear. The longer I gaze at her, the more a trace of sour milk furs my tongue and trickles, bitter as bile, down my throat.
‘Two men in the audience got to me.’ I tell ’em. ‘Lost my concentration. One of the men’s as black as I am. Don’t know where the other’s from, but the African seems to know something about me. Claims to have helped make the mouthpiece of my flute.’
Cobra squeezes my hand beneath the table. His smile bolsters me and I look at the Old Ones again. Redwood’s still stroking his nose, Midget Man’s still nodding. Only thing different is Mama Rose’s eyes are glued to me now. Her fingers on the wine glass tremble. She pushes the glass aside, then looks up at the stars.
‘Those men want to talk to me,’ I say to her. ‘Seems they think I might have something they want.’
Redwood starts tapping the table. Gaunt cheeks pucker and he says: ‘Too right they want to talk to you, Sante. They came up to me after the show. Gave me this.’
He takes a folded note out of his shirt pocket. Shoves it over. I reach, but before I can touch it, Mama Rose covers it with a large, webbed hand. Gathers the note, tucking it deep in her bosom.
Priss reacts before I do. Hisses, flaps her wings, while I struggle to find words strong enough to take the taste of sour milk away. ‘Mama Rose,’ I say at last. ‘That note’s mine. The man gave it to Redwood to give to me.’
‘And what do you know about these men, Sante? Do you know what their intentions are?
‘I only want to speak to ’em,’ I say. ‘Ask a few questions.’
‘What if they want to harm you?’
‘You can come with me if you want. Redwood can come too.’
The woman I call Mama isn’t listening, for she says: ‘Buttercups and daisies! You haven’t a clue what they want. Might even give you up to the police for all we know, and what would happen to you then? You could end up in a camp for illegals.’
‘Rubbish,’ Cat jeers. ‘We’ve got our papers now and so’s Sante. We’ve worked hard and saved up to make everything right.’
‘It may sound harsh, child,’ Mama Rose says to me, ‘but for as long as you remain in my care, I’ll decide who you see, what you do.’
Trouble’s been brewing between us Young Ones and Mama Rose ever since the twins turned fourteen. Now that I’m fourteen as well and the twins are two years ahead of me, Cat snarls: ‘You have no right to talk to Sante like that, Mama Rose. Not when we all have a stake in this outfit. We three work our butts off for you.’
Cool as can be, Mama Rose replies: ‘And who took you in, Cat? Who gave you food and drink and went hungry for you? Who adopte
d you, raised you? Taught you right from wrong? Trained you for the circus?’
Cat screams. Holds her head in her hands and bangs it on the table.
Old Ones grab hold of their glasses. Hold ’em tight to ward off Cat’s fury, as red plastic leaps in the air.
I hush Cat, tell her to stay cool as she reels off a list of all the things we do. Cobra too. Shouldn’t boast but Cobra’s snakes, Cat’s knives and Taj and me are the star turns of Mama Rose’s show.
Cobra thinks so too, for he says with a slinky, snake-man smile: ‘Last time I reckoned everything up, seemed to me the three of us here have more than paid off our dues. Been working for you for as long as we can remember, Mama Rose, and we’re grown now.’
‘So, you’re willing to take full responsibility for Sante, are you?’ Mama Rose replies.
‘I look out for her, always have done,’ says Cobra.
‘I said take full responsibility, Cobra. I thought not. Tell me who’s the adult here?’
I want to say that I can look after myself just fine. Can draw a fire out of damp wood, build a shelter to live in, hunt rabbit and pheasant with Priss for food. I can look after myself for sure, but the truth is, the Old Ones and Cobra and Cat are the only family I have. And with the exception of Priss, Mama Rose is the closest creature to a mother I know.
Take that time Cat and I went thieving. Brought back skin-tight jeans and slinky tops. Soon as she saw ’em, Mama Rose took us back to the shop. Made us apologise and give everything back, ’cause she didn’t save our lives, she said, didn’t drag us out of the sea and forest, to raise a pair of lowlife criminals. Not her! True as the day is bright, she saved us so we could make something of our lives. Could be. But last I heard, being our saviour doesn’t mean she’s always right.
So I say, when Cat’s calmer and Cobra’s silent again, what I’m going to keep on saying until she hears me: ‘Mama Rose, that note’s mine. The man gave it to Redwood to give to me.’
I say the words like I mean ’em. And if she doesn’t hear me by this time tomorrow, I swear on Priss’s feathers, the storm I’m going to call up will blow her clean away.
Mama Rose refuses to hear me. Ears blocked, mind’s set. Redwood says: ‘Rosie, don’t you think it’s time you told her? She’s old enough to know now. Tell her.’
Mama Rose shakes her head.
‘Rosie, we owe it to her,’ Redwood insists.
‘Tell me what?’ I ask
The Old Ones stare at each other: wives glance at husbands and then all eyes fix on Mama Rose. And somehow, all of it – is about me. Something I don’t know yet, that Mama Rose doesn’t want to talk about.
‘Tell her,’ Redwood urges.
‘In my own sweet time and not a moment before,’ says Mama Rose.
I look from one to the other, Redwood to Mama Rose. The night thickens with secrets as each of ’em – Midget Man, Mimi and Bizzie Lizzie – murmur in agreement with Redwood. I tear the plaster off my neck, fling it to the ground. A summer breeze licks my wound and then takes up the Old Ones’ plea as shrubs and leaves, flowers and trees, every living thing about us, it seems, whispers: ‘Tell her. Tell her.’
Cobra and Cat don’t know what the Old Ones are talking about any more than I do. ‘Tell her what?’ says Cat.
Silence.
I’m tight as a wire about to snap, when Priss flies down from her perch and sits beside me. Polishes her beak on my jeans and I cry. ‘What?’
The air’s fat with secrets now, so fat Cat could slice it in pieces and not reach the bone. She’s as twitchy as I am, so it’s Cobra who says. ‘Someone, anyone, please tell us what’s going on.’
Mama Rose gathers her precious glasses and places ’em on the tray. Face glowing white in the Spanish night, she stands up and says: ‘I shall tell Sante everything when she’s good and ready. I know her better than if she were my own flesh and blood and she’s not ready yet.’
‘You’re not talking about me,’ I reply. ‘You’re talking about yourself! Seems to me the older I get, Mama Rose, the tighter you try to hold on to me. And the tighter you hold on, the more I want to break free.’
She sits down again, exhausted. Shakes her head as if she’s in a bad dream and can’t snap out of it. I recognise the feeling, but the urge to find out more, to gather every morsel that will help me understand who I am and where I come from, is powerful indeed. ‘Tell me what you’re keeping from me!’
‘When you’re older,’ she says and gets up, the note still tucked deep in her bosom.
6
That night I try not to sleep, ’cause chances are I’m going to dream that dream. And if it grabs me and shakes me about, it’ll turn my up-side down, drag my insides out, twist me around, till I’m more snarled up than I am already. Don’t want to dream, so when I’m laid out on my bunk, I go over every word of my conversation with Mama Rose and what Cobra, Cat and me plotted afterwards.
‘You’re not old enough. You haven’t a clue what they want of you, Sante. So who’s the adult here?’ Mama Rose’s words rankle. Most of all what she says when she’s backed in a corner: ‘Who took you in? Gave you food and drink and went hungry for you?’
We owe her. We wouldn’t be here without her. Believe me, not a day goes by without me thanking her for something, and yet her way of loving tangles me up. Can scarcely breathe at times when she goes on about the evil in the world, and how the only way to survive is to earn what we need, then hunker down in wild places. Could be right, but not all townies and country folk are bad. Not all of ’em are black-boots and people-traffickers. And even though I’ve seen with my own two eyes how Old Ones can prey on Young Ones and feed off ’em, I’ve witnessed kindness on the road as well.
‘Let’s bust out of this outfit and try and make it on our own,’ says Cat when Mama Rose is in bed.
We’re lying on our backs on top of a hill, heads in a circle, looking up at the stars. Redwood’s with us, keeping an eye on us.
‘We could make it on our own. Betcha we could.’ With half a nod, Cat would be off in a shot.
‘Don’t forget Sante’s underage,’ Redwood reminds us. ‘Could be taken into care if you’re unlucky. Fostered out to strangers.’
Redwood urges caution, patience. Tells us when we call Mama Rose a worrisome fearmonger and bully, that honest to goodness, she really wants the best for us. Would give her life to keep us safe. Redwood says all the usual things Old Ones say, but the one that bothers me the most is the threat of what he calls ‘care’.
From the stories Redwood tells us, to be cared for by strangers is to be halfway down the road to ruin, ’cause ‘care’ brings a whole heap of trials and tribulation. Churns you up, grinds you down, and then spits you out on the street to nowhere. Strangers wouldn’t let me keep Priss, in any case. Wouldn’t let me take her into the wild and hunt with her. Just thinking about life without Priss brings tears to my eyes.
‘We won’t let anything happen to you,’ Cat reassures me.
‘Never, ever,’ says Cobra, folding his fingers over mine.
The truth is, Cobra and Cat could make it on their own. I’m not tall or big enough yet to pass as their equal. What’s more, when people see my face in out of the way places, I attract attention Big Time. While the twins, wheaten in complexion, blend in better.
Redwood reminds us of our weaknesses, mine in particular. We listen to him, nod when he wants us to nod, thank him for his advice. Even so, he won’t tell us Mama Rose’s secret: what she’s got on me that I don’t know, or what’s in that note. Won’t say a word, no matter how much we wheedle and plead. So, when the night air turns chilly and we’re tired of pretending to agree with him, we turn in.
The back of Mama Rose’s truck is where we bed down. Bunks, pull-out table, built-in kitchen with water – when there’s fresh water to be had. Home sweet home, the only nest we know. I’m on the top bunk, close to Priss’s perch. Cobra’s below me, Cat underneath.
I toss and turn, fighting sleep by recalling
everything that’s happened: the flute, the African, Grey Eyes’ ravenous stare. That look keeps me awake a long time, but in the end, sleep sidles up and gulps me down.
When the dream comes it’s not as frightening as usual. I’m on Priss, looking through a storm-tossed sky on a scene of carnage. The iron monster ploughs through the trawler with splutters of gunfire. Waves rise and roll as the sea flings bodies to and fro. In the trawler’s belly, the tall man holds me up and puts yellow dust and pretty stones in my sea-chest cradle.
This time, however, as I circle the sky with Priss, I look down with her eagle eyes and see a face I’ve never seen before. A strong, round face, stubbled hair twisted in locks, eyes dark with terror. Hands fumble through a rucksack. Trawler tips. Man slips and falls but holds fast to a prized possession. Lurches forwards, barges past a gaunt elderly man, then fights his way through screaming passengers till he’s standing over me: the baby in the chest. Soon as he speaks and I see what’s he’s holding, I reckon it’s him: ‘Take this, my child,’ he says. ‘Learn to play it to keep my spirit alive.’ Then he buries a flute in my cradle. Mamadou. He must be Mamadou.
Beside him is a man who could be his brother. Burly, bald-headed. The man in the dream, who usually gives me his dagger, resembles the man in the audience tonight. It’s got to be him, for when the trawler smashes into pieces and its cargo of people flail in the sea, he clutches a mast, and lashes himself to it.
I’m calm, curious, from my eagle’s eye view on Priss’s back, when the night sky crackles with thunder and lightning. A gale-force wind slaps my face, almost dislodging me. The sky splits and a gigantic wolfhound bounds through the storm and barks at me. Growls and creeps so close I feel his hot breath on my face. Grey Eyes.
The dream’s warning me. ‘Better the mother I know,’ I say to myself, ‘than the monster waiting outside.’
I shudder awake and reach for the friend who comforts me when I emerge trembling from my night travels. Priss, are you there? Priss, do you hear me?
