From Pasta to Pigfoot (3 page)

Gesturing impatiently at Luther to turn the volume down, Philomena turned her attention to Michael.

‘Michael, since you told us you were coming over tonight, I called Wesley and Jiggy and they both say that they'll pass by – it's been quite a while since you all were together. Also, I thought it would be nice for Faye to meet them at last,' she added, smiling warmly at her. ‘So now, what y'all want to drink?' she asked.

Without appearing to need an answer to her question, she immediately walked out of the room, her wide curves swaying rhythmically under their vibrant covering.

The sudden piercing ring of the doorbell, loud enough to be heard over the music, had Michael leaping to his feet from the cushion he had been sprawled across. He waved Luther down as his host made a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet.

‘I'll get the door, man. I can't wait to see those guys!' His handsome face was split wide by a broad grin as he loped out of the room.

Alone with Luther, Faye searched for something to say.

Typical
, she thought ruefully.
The first time Michael introduces me to someone he's not being paid to meet, I go dumb
.

She stared back at the pale Jamaican who, judging from his calm expression, seemed under no pressure to make conversation. Instead, he continued steadily examining her features as though he needed to remember every detail to paint some future portrait.

Above the noise of the throbbing music reverberating around the room, she could hear the sound of loud voices in the corridor. She cleared her throat nervously but still Luther said nothing. He seemed content to nod his head in time to the reverberating bass notes of the wailing melody, his long locks swaying gently, and to let his eyes wander over her face and the length of her legs, now crossed defensively in front of her.

To her intense relief, Michael burst back into the room, an even wider grin across his face.

‘Man!' he exclaimed happily, ‘it's just like the old days!'

He was followed by two men who were also laughing as they walked into what Faye had now privately christened the rainbow room. The shorter man was wearing a short-sleeved African-style blue and white striped cotton smock over a black wool crew neck sweater with frayed cuffs. His dreadlocks were short and framed his dark chocolate-coloured face like a halo.

The other man was white. Not a pale African, but white. Caucasian. European. White. Tall with curly fair hair that thinned at his temples, he had pale blue eyes that gave nothing away. He nodded briefly at Faye before turning
back to Michael who was asking him a question.

The shorter man slapped Luther on the back, giving him a brief hug, before turning his attention to Faye. His eyes were a surprisingly light brown and contrasted strikingly against his dark skin. Like Luther, he took his time to look her up and down before speaking.

‘So, Michael', he said finally. ‘I take it that this is
the
lady?'

Michael broke off his conversation with the taller man and glanced over at Faye, who was still sitting cross-legged on the cushion.

‘Yes,' he said. Barely suppressing his impatience at having to interrupt his conversation, he quickly went through the formalities. ‘Faye, this is Jiggy. And he', he added, gesturing towards the man in front of him, ‘is Wesley. Jiggy is an artist from Trinidad. Wesley comes from Grenada – he's a sculptor and also a very talented musician.'

Faye smiled awkwardly at the two men, trying not to feel intimidated by their credentials. She murmured what was meant to be ‘pleased to meet you' but, having sat without speaking for so long, the words came out sounding more like those of a frog suffering from chronic laryngitis. As she racked her brains – unsuccessfully – to find something charming, or at least witty, to say, Michael turned the music up. At the same time Philomena came back into the room carrying a tray on which she had balanced two tall dark bottles and several glasses in colours as vivid as her cushions.

‘Okay,' she announced loudly, her lilting voice somehow penetrating through the din. 'Drinks are here, people!'

Clearing a pile of magazines from a low table, she deposited the tray on its surface and stood up straight, her
hands planted on her generous hips.

‘Faye, what are you drinking, girl? The men can help themselves.' She twinkled conspiratorially at her and gestured towards the tray. ‘We've got some mighty good rum here, straight from home.'

Faye smiled back at her hesitantly, shifting uncomfortably on the cushion, which was now proving to be lumpier than she had first realised.

‘I'd like a rum and coke then, please', she said politely, just as Michael stopped the music.

As though the move had been choreographed, the heads of the four men in the room swivelled in her direction. Jiggy was the first to speak, his strongly accented voice breaking into the sudden silence.

‘Huh! What's that, Faye? You want to mix our sacred nectar with a Coca-Cola drink?' He looked incredulous and his short dreadlocks bounced in outrage as he turned towards Michael. ‘Michael, what have you been teaching her all this time?' Although he tried to keep his tone light, it didn't take a genius to pick up the disapproval now flowing from him.

‘I'm not a very big drinker', Faye said defensively and threw a look of appeal at Michael, silently begging for support. Swiftly distancing himself from her cultural anarchy, he just shrugged and glared at her as though she were a tiresome child he had been forced to look after.

‘Go on, Faye, just try it and see. This is real Jamaican rum, you know, not that rubbish you get in Hampstead pubs,' he snapped.

Quailing in the face of this unexpected cultural
onslaught, Faye found herself nodding meekly.

‘Fine. Philomena, I'll just have the rum please,' she said. Taking a generously filled florescent-pink glass from her hostess, she touched the dark liquid inside to her lips and smiled brightly at the row of faces still staring at her, forcing herself not to grimace at the taste of the strong liquor. Thankfully, Wesley put on another CD and the men turned their attention back to the tray, filling their own glasses with generous measures of rum. Left to her own devices, Faye sipped the fiery drink slowly, letting her eyes wander over the stunning décor. The end of the next track was followed by silence as Luther ejected the disc and rummaged through a huge stack to find its case.

Once again, it was Jiggy who broke the silence.

‘So, Faye, where you come from, then?' he asked, thawing slightly as he saw her take another sip of her drink.

With her mind still on the clever contrast of colour combinations used for the floor cushions, Faye replied distractedly. ‘North London'.

The choreographed head spinning routine went through a second rendition.

This time, however, it was Michael who led the charge. ‘Faye,
nobody
of your colour comes from North London! I thought you'd learned by now not to buy into that ethnic re-colonialism crap.' Not bothering to disguise his irritation, he turned his back and sucked his teeth loudly while he flipped through the stack of CDs, his body language screaming rejection at her.

Oh God
, Faye thought wretchedly,
I'm embarrassing him in front of his friends. I cannot believe this is happening!

From the questioning look on his face, she realised that Jiggy was still waiting for an answer to his question and she replied quietly.

‘Well, my family is from Ghana.'

The music had started playing again, almost drowning out her soft voice.

‘What's that you say – Guyana?' Jiggy asked, cocking his head towards her as though it would improve his hearing. Tutting at Wesley who had been responsible for turning the music up this time, he marched over to the stereo and turned the volume down to its lowest level since she had arrived, before turning back to her expectantly.

‘No, Ghana,' she repeated, adding quickly, 'You know – in West Africa?'

She took another sip of the heavy rum and felt the liquid burn its way down her constricted throat. It had been several hours since she had eaten and she was beginning to feel distinctly light-headed from the homeland nectar.

Philomena had flopped down onto a cushion next to Faye and was comfortably settled into its generous depths. The outline of her caftan blended into the fabric, giving her a slightly disembodied appearance. She was slowly sipping her rum and gave a start of recognition as Faye spoke. Her midnight blue features were sharply defined against the scarlet background of her cushion as she turned towards her husband.

‘Luther!' she exclaimed.

‘What?' He looked up from the CD that he had been studying.

‘You remember that woman Tony used to live with?'
Philomena asked excitedly, her broad forehead creasing into rippling dark furrows as she frowned in an effort to remember. ‘What's her name, now – was it Abena? Wasn't she from Ghana too?'

Shaking her head impatiently at Luther's blank expression, she turned back to Faye.

‘You know Abena, Faye? She lives in Tulse Hill.'

‘No, I'm afraid I don't,' Faye said, looking apologetic. Anxious now to restore her rapidly depleting stock of cultural credibility, she quickly added, ‘Actually, Abena is the name given in Ghana to a girl born on a Tuesday.'

Looking up from the colourful Burning Spear album he had been examining, Wesley spoke for the first time, his pale blue eyes staring at her dispassionately.

‘Is that so? That's interesting. It's Faye, is that right?' He paused for a moment, continuing after she nodded in confirmation. ‘What about yourself – you were born on which day?'

To Faye's surprise his accent was, if possible, even more pronounced than Jiggy's. She collected her thoughts as best as she could through the rum-induced fog that was fast enveloping her.

‘Thursday. My ‘home' name is Akua. It's spelt A-k-u-a but you pronounce it like “a queer”.' She started giggling as the powerful rum hit her. She didn't notice Michael's frown as she took another sip of the rum and carried on, now determined to reclaim her cultural credentials.

‘There are names for boys too. Like Kofi Annan? You know, he used to be the Secretary-General of the United Nations. Well, he's from Ghana and Kofi is the name for a
boy born on a Friday.'

Everyone in the room had now stopped to listen to her. The only sound to be heard in the room was the wail of Maxi Priest begging someone to ‘Make My Day'.

‘Well, fancy that now,' Philomena said, clearly impressed with her guest's knowledge of her cultural heritage. Heaving herself off her cushion with surprising agility, she swayed over to drinks tray and, without stopping to ask, generously topped up Faye's pink glass, now almost empty.

‘Go on, Faye, share some more of your culture with us,' she said as she settled herself back into the immense scarlet cushion. ‘If I come across Abena, I'll be able to tell her I know something about her homeland,' she added, chuckling comfortably.

Faye shifted her almost numb, but at least ethnically correct, backside against the cushion that was now a far cry from its initial apparent softness. She still held the floor and as even Michael was now looking at her with newly appreciative eyes, she hardly needed Philomena's encouragement to keep on going. She took another sip of the rum, her voice getting louder as her confidence grew.

‘There are also special names given to children, depending on the order they were born in. For instance, if you are an Ashanti, the third boy in a row in your family is quite likely to be named Mensah. In our family, my dad's younger brother is called Mensah Bonsu because he was born after my father who was the second son.'

Luther nodded. His eyes were bright with interest as he listened to the impromptu lecture. ‘It sounds like you know quite a bit about your culture,' he said soberly,
respect clearly visible in his pale eyes.

Wesley's intent stare wasn't quite so friendly, although his tone was neutral. ‘So what kind of music are you into, Faye?'

She stared back, her thoughts immediately flying to the Coldplay CD hidden away in her glove compartment. She glanced at Michael and bit her lip at the look of naked pleading on his face.

‘I'm pretty open – I like a lot of different kinds,' she said casually. ‘Michael introduced me to Bob Marley's music – actually I was playing one of his albums earlier this evening.'

Her boyfriend visibly relaxed and carried on chatting to Luther. But it was soon apparent that Wesley hadn't finished with his line of questioning.

‘So what kind of music is popular in Ghana, then?' His eyes stabbed at her, belying the casual tone of his voice.

Faye gulped at her rum in an effort to buy time and was saved by Philomena marching back into the room clutching two large bowls of snacks.

‘Sorry, people, I didn't get time to cook today – my women's group meeting went on longer than usual. Faye,' she turned to her guest with a smile. ‘I've got some plantain chips here for you.'

Faye took the bowl on offer and crammed a couple of the chips into her mouth. She savoured the sweet crispiness of the snack and ate a few more in quick succession, hoping to soak up the powerful rum.
Too little, too late
, she thought, as the room swayed gently before her eyes in a kaleidoscope of colour.

Desperate to fend off Wesley's questioning, she turned
to Philomena. ‘These chips are really tasty – where did you buy them?'

‘All the shops around here sell them.' Philomena sounded puzzled by the question, but her smile was friendly as she settled back into her cushion. ‘You don't have them where you live?'

Faye shrugged, not about to admit that plantain chips were not the usual snack of choice in Hampstead shops or that, thanks to Lottie, she rarely did the grocery shopping.

Wesley leaned back in his cushion. His eyes almost matched the light sea-blue tones of the fabric, and his voice sounded lazy and relaxed.