Black British
Authors: Hebe de Souza
Black British
For
Caetano Maria de Souza
2 July 1876 - 9 October 1925
And
Donovan Xavier de Souza Esq.
3 April 1911 - 17 October 1989
Lives not this girl with soul so deadâ¦
Black British by Hebe de Souza
Published in 2016 by Ventura Press [Wentworth Concepts Pty Ltd]
PO Box 780 Edgecliff NSW 2027 Australia
Copyright © Hebe de Souza, 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photo-copying, recording or by any other information storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Author: de Souza, Hebe
Title: Black British
Subtitle: A novel
ISBN 9781925384901 (Print edition)
ISBN 9781925384932 (Epub edition)
Cover and internal Design: Alissa Dinalo
Cover and internal images:
Shutterstock and provided by the author
Typeset by Alissa Dinallo in 12.5/17 pt Minion Regular
Editorial: Catherine McCredie Production: Jasmine Standfield
Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE - TWENTY-ONE YEARS LATER Goa December 1995
2.     In My Father's House
3.     Sophisticated Security Systems
PART II - THE OLD CONVENT SCHOOL
4. Â Â Â Â Â A Healthy Pair of Lungs
6. Â Â Â Â Â Compound Interest and Baggy Bloomers
9. Â Â Â Â Â The Persian Carpet
10. Â Â Â The Writing on the Wall
11. Â Â Â Finally, Christmas Day
12. Â Â Â Aunt Betty's Parties
13. Â Â Â Aunt Tilly's Parcels
14. Â Â Â Uncle Claude's Tensions
16. Â Â Â Cobwebs on the Drawing Room Ceiling
20. Â Â Â There is Nothing More To Say
EPILOGUE - TWENTY-ONE YEARS LATER Goa December 1995
CAST OF SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERS
LUCY
 Protagonist and youngest of three sisters. This is her story.
MUMMY AND DADDY
 Lucy's parents. That a girl should be so lucky.
LORRAINE AND LILY
 Lucy's sisters, older by four and two years respectively.
UNCLE HUGH
 Lucy's great-uncle, rescuer and giver of spoonfuls of ice cream.
THE HOME
 Lucy's eccentric friend and refuge.
FERGUS
 Lucy's third cousin who'd seen the light and long left Kanpur.
REG
 The beloved adoptee.
KANESIA, MELITA, ET AL
 Some of the nuns in the Catholic school and totally negligible.
PEGGY BISWAS AND ANNA KOTI
 School friends and co-conspirators against the nuns.
AUNT MOIRA
 Paternal aunt and giver of old fashioned twin-set.
AUNT BETTY
 Paternal great-aunt and giver of wonderful parties.
UNCLE CLAUDE
 Paternal uncle and keeper of a secret.
UNCLE BARTON
 Father's first cousin and giver of valuable jewels.
UNCLE MONTY
 Distant cousin and giver of scratchy kisses.
AUNT TILLY
 Maternal aunt and sender of exciting parcels.
AUNT KITTY
 Uncle Claude's wife â what else can Lucy say?
PROLOGUE
TWENTY - ONE YEARS LATER
GOA, DECEMBER 1995
“Four hundred years!”
I'm not sure if I've spoken aloud as I try and accept the time dimensions. Straightening my shoulders I speak again, this time intentionally louder and stronger, “Four hundred years!” as though repetition will make the fact more credible, easier to absorb. “My people have been baptised in that church since 1596.”
Shivering in spite of the December sun that burns my bare arms though it's still early morning, I think, This is where my forebears come from. This is where I belong. On limbs made buoyant with the thought I stand tall, looking around me at the few people lingering after Mass and absorbing the Christmas decorations in the forecourt and the splash of pink as bougainvillea spills over a boundary wall. My mind's eye catches sight of generations of my ancestors harmonising their way through paddy and chilli fields, loving their lives on the rich, red soil of their homeland, Goa.
I see people who look as I do and recognise family features. I feel their love, their goodwill, and know they welcome me home, their daughter returning to her native soil.
I yearn to belong â oh, how I yearn. But my eyes sting as I realise I can't bluff myself any longer. I'll never belong. I've been away too long.
A few generations too long.
At thirty-seven years old I had a promising career, a fancy apartment, plenty of people who came under the banner of “friends” and a future to be envied. After the struggle of establishing myself in a new country I had finally “arrived”. That's what everyone told me. That's what I believed.
Until that morning.
That morning six months ago when I couldn't get out of bed. When the black spot that had perpetually inhabited my peripheral vision became a big cat that leapt onto my chest so that I couldn't breathe. When business decisions about buying new software were unimportant, trivial, and the next overseas trip in five-star luxury was simply more of the same.
That was the morning I realised my life was a sham â a parody of same ole, same ole.
And now I'm in Goa, I've moved out of the sun and am sitting in the ample shade of a banyan tree, looking up at the facade of this ancient church where my ancestors have worshipped since time immemorial. I'm alone. Isolated. No friends, no future, nothing.
A man with spiky grey hair dressed in loose cotton trousers and a burnt orange “bush shirt”, the uniform of his age and place, slips onto the seat beside me, silent and inconspicuous until a tiny movement catches my attention.
With his eyes on the church he says, “On January one we will celebrate the fourth centenary of our church. We Goans are very proud.”
Speak! I tell myself, it will be rude not to reply, so I force a smile into my words, “So you should be. I'd be proud too.”
You
are proud my mind screams, You
are
proud.
I can feel knots in my stomach as I ask, “Have you lived here all your life?”
“I was a doctor in the Gulf for thirty years. Now I am retired. I've come home.”
The wealth of love in that small four-letter word makes me grateful sunglasses hide a large part of my face. I'm afraid that inevitable question that I've come to expect and am now dreading will be asked.
It is.
“Where do you come from, lady?”
I take a deep breath â in, in, in and out â before I reply. “I don't know. I don't think I know just where I belong. If I tell you my story maybe you can decide.”
PART I
In the Beginning
CHAPTER 1
1958
The magical day when the birthing stork dropped me in a Scottish Hospital in Kanpur, India, was 29 November, the day before St Andrew's Day. Saint Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland and though it was eleven turbulent years after independence from the British Raj, he was still the patron saint of the Georgina MacRobert Memorial Hospital.
My sister Lily was born on St Andrew's Day two years earlier but since she had the good sense to choose a hospital that had no connection with Scotland her birth caused no more than the usual
tamasha
.
But my birthday upset my mother. As she often said: “I wanted you to be born on your sister's birthday. That way I'd have continued the trend set by my mother who had my sisters, Elsie and Tilly, on the same calendar day, two years apart. But you upset the apple cart and came a day early, causing endless confusion.”
Her theory was that I was afraid if I waited for St Andrew's Day my birth would go unnoticed in the frenzy of song and dance to celebrate the patron saint's day.
“You upset so many people. Important people.” Ticking it off on her fingers she continued, “The hospital wasn't ready, the doctor had the day off, your father was at his mill, there was no one to look after Lorraine and Lily⦔ She'd run out of steam.
And confusion there was.
The obstetrician was playing golf and feeling very pleased with himself because by the eighth hole his game was going better than that of his companions. He was poised for a birdie and having shuffled his feet, wriggled his bottom to ensure he was in the perfect position to effect a perfect shot, he gripped his putter with fierce concentration and that's when the
aagawalla
, the young servant employed to keep an eye on the ball, arrived with the summons.
“
Sahib
!
Aou jow juldhi
, quicklyquickly come. Baby coming. BABYCOMING.” The lad's voice rose to a squeak as he leaned forward and pranced around energetically to add urgency to his already urgent words.
It took a few seconds before the obstetrician tore his focus away from his game and absorbed the news. Thinking from the
aagawalla
's panic that my mother was at death's door he dropped his golf club and ran all the way to the clubhouse, it being the days before golfing buggies. Arriving on the front verandah gasping for air, his face cherry-red, he was met by a gaggle of post-colonial
memsahibs
, elderly matrons who were consumed by their status as married, white, upper-class women.
