“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 helps,” 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—
* * *