Another Woman's Daughter (7 page)

1965

Miriam

Daffodils poked their yellow origami faces through the melting snow, birds built nests, and sunlight streamed through the library window, thinning the gloom and thawing the cold. It was spring in Norwich.

I was sitting in my usual corner, behind the books on religion—the quietest and safest spot in the school.

I had been living under England's gray roof for four years now—one thousand five hundred and seventy-nine days—and I'd become well versed in making myself invisible. I knew how to blend in, disappear; how to be no one.

Hiding in the library at lunchtime was one of my successes. The old stone building had become my refuge and my escape, the books carrying me beyond my lonely life to other worlds.

Spending so much time studying between the letters
R
and
S
also meant my grades were excellent, something Michael and
Rita found very reassuring, my report cards helping dispel some of the concerns they harbored about me.

“She's nothing more than four spare limbs and a pair of anxious eyes,” I overheard Michael once say.

“Africans often are,” Rita reassured him. “Look at the build of those Kenyan runners. It's a genetic thing. See how well she did in her English essay last week. Not the results of a troubled child, that's for certain. The thing about adoption is that you never really know what you're getting. I mean, there's no template to measure the kid against. Saying that, we do at least know what her—what Celia was like.”

Now I sat poring over a colossal book on earthquakes, reading about fault lines and foci, seismic waves and Richter readings.

All of a sudden there was a
crash,
thump
and then a scream. Instinctively, I threw myself under the table and curled up into a ball, the world I was reading about coming to life. Moments passed. No walls collapsed. No suffocating dust swirled. I felt no tremor or aftershock.

Hesitantly I opened one eye, then the other . . .

My gaze was met by that of an Indian girl. She was lying spread-eagled across the parquet floor. “Is that your bag?” she asked accusingly.

There had been no earthquake. The girl had tripped over my satchel.

I began to shake. “I'm . . . I'm sorry.”

As she stood up to dust down her pinafore, I saw she was tall and leggy, with blue-black hair hanging in two solid braids down to her waist.

“Stupid me!” she said with a wide smile. “I never watch
where I'm going.” Her voice rose and fell like a song. “I was caught in an earthquake in India,” she went on, eyeing the book lying open on my desk. “It was sooo scary. I thought the sky was going to fall in.” She waved her arms in the air theatrically. “You're meant to hide under the nearest table or something . . .”

Her voice trailed off as a look of understanding crept slowly across her face. Suddenly she collapsed in a fit of giggles. “You . . . You . . .” She clutched her belly. “Ah, my stomach hurts! You thought we were having an earthquake when I tripped over your bag!”

I stood there, humiliated, while the girl's melodrama continued.

Finally she stopped laughing. “Hey, I'm Zelda,” she said, wiping away her tears on her shirtsleeve.

“Miriam,” I mumbled.

“Cool name!” She perched on the edge of my table. “I hate mine. I'd love to be Colette or Ruth or
Miriam
. But no, my parents had to call me Zelda Sheetal Patel. What were they thinking?”

I found myself grinning, and for the first time in so long, the snake that lived inside of me loosened its grip.

“So who's your teacher?” she asked, lunging across the table in readiness for me to divulge top-secret information.

“Miss Sooty,” I obliged in a thick whisper.

“You mean Miss Snooty!” she exclaimed, recklessly announcing the news to the rest of the library. “Poor you!”

“Shhh,” hissed the library monitor.

Zelda rolled her eyes and gave me a knowing look.

The bell rang, announcing the start of afternoon classes.

I panicked. I didn't want this to end. I was entranced by the girl, who oozed happiness.

“Hey, wanna come over to my house later?” she asked.

It took a few moments for me to grasp what she'd so casually said. I was being invited over to play. “I . . . I . . . I have to let Michael know if I'm going to be late. I can't. I mean . . .” How could I not accept?

“Who's Michael?” she asked.

“Uh, he looks after me.”

Her eyebrows peaked. “A guy nanny? Weird. Well, maybe tomorrow, then.”

“Yes. Yes, please. I'd like that very much.”

“Okay. Meet you under the crab apple tree after school.”

And with that she was gone.

“Yes. Tomorrow,” I said, my voice trailing after her.

I stood fixed to the floor, holding on to the sweetness for as long as it lingered. The swing door swished back and forth, back and forth, my mind swinging with it. Then the library was quiet and I was late for class.

The next day, school refused to end, stretching interminably over long division and health, religious education and French. I struggled to focus, and Miss Sooty told me off several times for daydreaming.

Finally the bell announcing the end of the school day started to ring. I shot out of class and into the weak afternoon light, arriving at the crab apple tree before any of my classmates had even reached the top of the stairs.

Throwing my bag down, I hopped onto the wall to scan the
faces of the kids emerging from the redbrick building. I was looking for long black plaits and gleaming white teeth. I was listening for laughter. With time, the stream of navy uniforms thinned to a trickle, and after about twenty minutes, it dried up altogether.

By 4:40
P.M.
the last of the cars had pulled away from the school gates and the last of the kids on bikes were heading down the road. A small band of boys remained, kicking a soccer ball around on the hopscotch court, while a gangly girl with pink hair stood in an alcove practicing her violin.

I bent down to pick up my bag.

“Miriam!”

I swung around.

“Miriam, wait!”

Zelda was leaping down the stairs two steps at a time, her plaits swinging crazily from side to side, her pencil case threatening to topple out of her bag.

“Sorry, but that beastly Mr. Turnbull kept me in for talking during the French test. Silly old codger! I bet he looks like a constipated camel when he sits on the loo.”

I giggled at the thought of Mr. Turnbull on the toilet.

“C'mon, let's get home for tea. I'm starving!”

She slipped her arm through mine. It was soft and warm. Then we were off, half running and half skipping down the street. My chest was burning by the time we stopped.

“Tada,” Zelda said, blowing an imaginary trumpet. “My humble home.”

We were standing at the top of a very long driveway. At the bottom crouched a scarred block of apartments—six blue doors opening onto six concrete pads, each with its own twist of
washing line. The adjacent section stood vacant, the plot of frost-dead grass home to a couple of conked-out cars, an overflowing rubbish skip, and a dilapidated basketball hoop. I smiled. I felt so happy.

We ran down the drive and stopped outside the first apartment. The front door was open and I found myself peering into a bright white kitchen with blue windmill motifs ringing the room. Jangling music and a delicious aroma of seared meat and sweet spices wafted out.

“Hiya!” Zelda cried, pulling me in after her.

At the stove stood a tall Indian woman dressed in a flowing red dress. “At last,” she said, swinging around. “Why so late?”

Her face was heavily made up and she wore dangly gold earrings, which sounded like wind chimes whenever she shook her head. Her black hair had been bundled into a thick roll and fixed with the stab of a shiny tortoiseshell pin to the top of her head. A radio with a bent coat hanger for an antenna was balancing on the edge of the shelf above her. Its volume had been turned right up.

“Mr. Turnbull gave me a detention.”

Two teens—a slender, full-lipped girl and a boy with slicked-back hair and pimply skin—were seated at a table in the middle of the room. On hearing about Zelda's latest drama, the boy, who was slouching over a bowl of curry, sniggered. The girl opposite rolled her eyes—eyes as startlingly green as glowworms in the night. I'd never seen anyone so beautiful before.

“Detention!” Zelda's mother exclaimed, taking her apron off as though readying for a fight. “Why? What did you do this time, Zelda?”

Ignoring the question, Zelda stood aside, blowing my cover. “Mum, this is my friend Miriam.”

My friend.
The words were as sweet as jam.

Her mother's face softened. “Mir-iam. What a lovely name.” She flicked the boy across the back of the head. “Get off the chair, Naresh. Let Miriam sit down.”

He ducked before she could wreak any more damage to his Brylcreemed waves, and reluctantly gave up his seat.

“You look as if you could do with a bit of fattening up!” Mrs. Patel said, looking me up and down.

“Muuumm,” Zelda groaned.

“Shush, Zelda. Now what would you like, Miriam? A samosa? Some chicken curry? I have this lovely almond cake.”

“A piece of almond cake, please . . . Thank you,” I stuttered, though I'd never tasted anything almond before.

“Me too, Mum. And can we have a hot chocolate?” Zelda said, flinging her bag into the corner and pulling up a chair. “With marshmallows.”

Zelda's sister paused from brushing her long mane and eyed her sister menacingly from under her gleaming sheet of black hair. “Don't throw your bag down like that. How many times do I have to tell you? And did you borrow my gold bangles? I can't find them anywhere.”

“I put them back,” Zelda blurted out defensively.

“You did not.”

“Did.”

“Zelda! Mum . . . can you talk to Zelda?”

The phone rang, abruptly stalling the dispute. Zelda's mother picked up the receiver. “Patels, hello!”

A sound of whimpering came from the sofa and I turned to see a chubby baby lying tucked between two cushions.

“Come here, babs,” Zelda's sister said, sweeping the infant into her arms and signaling for Zelda to turn down the radio.

The inviting aroma that had greeted us on our arrival started to take on a burned note. I was wondering whether to say something when Mrs. Patel interrupted her phone conversation to remove the pot from the stove.

As I stood wallowing in this wonderful chaos, the back door burst open. There was a rush of cool air and the musky scent of cologne, then a short Indian man waddled in. He placed his briefcase on the table, loosened his tie, and headed over to Zelda's mother, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. I could tell right away who he was. He had Zelda's eyes.

Mr. Patel had a round baby face, with shiny brown skin. Across the bridge of his nose was a splatter of small black spots, which looked like fly droppings, and on his chin sat a large knobbly mole. He was balding, but had trained and plastered some long strands of hair over the bare bit.

Mrs. Patel placed her hand over the receiver, muttered something about burned curry and school detentions, then resumed her telephone conversation.

Mr. Patel still hadn't acknowledged anyone else in the room when he poured himself a cup of chai from the teapot on the stove, added one . . . two . . . three spoonfuls of sugar, before sinking down onto the sofa. Only then did he seem to notice the rest of us in the room.

Zelda piped up. “Dad, this is my new friend, Miriam.”

“Oh ho! Good afternoon,” he said, heaving himself off the sofa.

He stretched out his hand and shook mine vigorously. “Delighted to meet you, Miriam.” His voice was as deep and smooth as my hot chocolate.

“And how is my little Jewel of India?” he said, turning to Zelda and pulling her in to him.

Zelda's mother broke off her telephone conversation. “She got a detention from Mr. Turnbull, Sanjit.”

“Just because I asked Sophia if her tadpoles had turned into frogs yet,” Zelda said, pouting. “During a French test,” she added, quietly.

Sanjit raised his eyebrows, showing just enough disapproval to satisfy Zelda's mother.

“And my baby, Navin?” he asked, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

The baby on Zelda's sister's hip stopped whimpering and started to gurgle with excitement as his father reached for him.

Seeing Mrs. Patel was still on the phone, Zelda sorted out the rest of our afternoon tea. The almond cake was the best—buttery, crumbly, and drizzled with a sharp lemon icing, which made the insides of my cheeks tingle. I had two slices. It was now officially my favorite treat.

After tea we escaped outside. There was already a group of kids playing basketball in the adjacent lot.

Zelda headed toward them. I didn't follow.

She turned. “You coming?”

“No, you go, I'll just watch from here.”

“C'mon, don't be a stick in the mud!”

I couldn't move. I was trapped between a strangling fear of the other kids and the dread of losing my new and only friend.

“Hey, Zel,” someone cried. “Coming to play?” The others had spotted us. “We
so
need you. Zane is grinding us into the ground!”

Zelda grabbed my hand and hauled me after her. “Sure thing. There are two of us and we mean business!”

Next thing we were in among the others, so close I could feel their heat. There were dark faces and light, brown bodies and white—and no one I recognized from school.

“Hey, everyone, this is Miriam.”

“Hiya!” “Hi there.” “Hello.” Grins and smiles and friendly faces.

Blood started thumping in my ears. The ball was tossed to me. My hands opened like a robot's and I caught it. It was heavier than I'd imagined, and warm from someone else's touch. I ran my fingers along the dents of dark brown stitching and over the soft bulges of leather. Then I threw. Where, or to whom, I don't know, but that first throw was as exhilarating as rolling down a hillside curled up in the rim of an old car tire. I remembered doing that once, somewhere . . . or perhaps it was in a dream.