tables of blouses: some folded, others slumping messily towards the floor. Women grabbed things from hangers, checked tags trailing from cuffs before tossing the things back. Younger girls – the daughters of these women? – found everything funny and so kept laughing and showing tiny teeth held together by metal wires. Nana swung round and pressed a green top with only one sleeve against Belinda’s chest, smoothing it down with firm strokes. Belinda held her breath as Nana screwed up her nose, dropped the top then tried out a blue version. Nana didn’t like that one either.
They went on like that for a while; with Nana thrusting spotty, frilly, velvety things at Belinda. After what felt like ten minutes, with dampness collecting at the back of Belinda’s knees, Belinda’s eyes found the Childrenswear section ahead. It was marked out by a poster that hung down from the ceiling. In the poster, a mixed-race girl wore the stupidest of smiles. Many of the adverts here had mixed-race girls in them, Belinda realised. After Nana ushered Belinda into a changing room, Belinda snorted because she knew exactly what Mary would want to do. Mary would want to tear the picture down, stamp on it and tell ‘someone in charge’ that they should replace it with something much, much better: a nice photo of her. Belinda snorted again. The white cubicle around her was neat and tight, her reflection in the mirror was still. The shoppers’ chatter had reduced to just a swishing in the background. There was nothing but that silly thought of Mary and coolness around her ankles. But then a hand poked through the curtain. It clutched three denim shirts.
Gossiping like the dried women Belinda had seen outside Costcutter on Norwood Road, Mary talked about how Aunty and Uncle planned to build their children, Antoinette and Stephen, little ‘holiday cabins’ near the house. Belinda could have joined in, telling Mary about the Otuos’ flats, houses they didn’t even need to live in, houses built for strangers. Pim-lic-o. Vaux-hall. The newest one in Clap-ham, but she didn’t.
The landing that surrounded her – painted in a polite shade she now knew to call ‘Duck Egg’ – was dull, so she played with the corsage Nana had bought her from Monsoon, an unexpected prize. Pretty, flopping and delicate. The sort of thing Belinda would have thought hard about before showing to Mother. Like if she had collected pebbles coming home from school, all miraculously equal in size, shape, and colour. Because, though difficult to imagine precisely how Mother might take the moment’s specialness, the ending of it was certain. It felt so very wrong to be frightened of your own mother.
Belinda stopped touching the flower. She noticed a change in Mary’s speed at the end of the line.
‘And of yourself?’
‘Myself what?’
‘Don’t be a parrot parrot, Belinda.’
‘Am, am well. I suppose I am making tiny small moves to make it better.’
‘What better?’
‘With Amma. That’s the main thing, anyway.’
‘Aane! I said to you, not so? You are a winner.’ Mary’s noise implied a deep wisdom. ‘Tell me then.’
‘There’s not so much new, if I’m totally true. The most is that she, she decided to shorten my name. Give me nickname. Be. Not the whole Belinda as usual. Only “Be”. Good, eh?’
‘Be? As in … Be?’
‘Yes. Exactly right.’
‘Baby name – as though she trying to small you to littler than you are. A less scary one. What did my Belinda do to scare the queen white girl?! Ah ah, it must be big to have her cutting your name so you lose your power!’
‘I think she did it because is nice. Friendly.’
‘Maybe. Maybe I misunderstand. That happens sometimes.’ Mary paused. ‘You have a way of naming her also? Your new thick as thieves, or however they call it?’
‘No. Not really. Same as last time, we don’t really talk to one another so there is no need for that. Only a few days she has used this Be so far. That’s the time she has said the most. So I’m hoping and hopeful.’
‘Her tongue still not opening? And you been there these two weeks? Kai! Not only me with a problems then.’
‘Problems? Like what?’
‘Only usual. Normal. Same.’
‘How you mean? Spit it out, Mary. Or “Mare”. Mare has good feel about it?’
Mary breathed a serious whoosh down the receiver.
‘For the whole life I have to have only small small conversations with you and then I scrape up the bird poos on the veranda, and then a hundred years will be done and I will have Uncle’s grey hair on my head. Is it? I’m to only spend my days pushing that annoying glass cloth on all the glasses for so many hours to be sure when Aunty comes to check everything is correct. And you remember how the cloth itches my hands. And how long it take to get them white watermarks out. It make me even hate water, knowing how much time I spend on all those glasses, even though I have to drink it or else you would die.’ Mary kissed her teeth. ‘Is like I’m only waiting for Aunty to smile on me and tell me I can stop that one now to then do another job on the list. How can I do that forever? Is like a robot without dreams.’
Belinda twisted the anglepoise lamp on the side table away, its glare unwanted. ‘Don’t forget, Mary: we are lucky to have found ourselves in that house.’
‘Lucky? I don’t feel that at all. Opposite.’
‘Yes, it can be a tough task sometimes –’
‘Sometimes? Is all times. Every day I’m sitting here in the kitchen with my crossed legs on the floor, trying –’
‘You have to imagine. That’s how I told myself.’
‘Imagine what?’
‘Imagine that you are the kind of girl that can cope with it, even if you are not. Even, imagine you are the type that enjoys it all. If you cannot do it as Mary, be someone else when you work, eh? Wa te?’ Mary hummed. ‘You tell me, eh, tell me now, let’s play – what is the girl who doesn’t mind fishing in the plugholes for the hairs? Let us give –’
‘She a mad girl; you can have that for free.’
‘Let us give her name and age and story. Come on, Mary. At least try. Close your eyes.’
‘OK. Only so you are happy.’
‘Hey, mini-madam! I can see they are still open.’
‘A witch! My sister is an oversea witch.’
‘Close them!’
‘I am.’
‘Good girl.’
‘Now, can she have any name I like to choose?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Errrrrrm. I like for her to be Cynthia. Obviously is far too white for me, but I always think that it sounds how an angel would breathe.’
‘That’s very grand and for a princess. OK. OK, Cynthia. And how old is Cynthia?’
‘Thirteen. The beginning of grown-ups.’
‘Excellent … you doing well.’
‘I thank you.’
‘And … tell me, what is Cynthia’s favourite task to do around the house? What is the one when she wake up, she’s most looking forward to?’
‘Is a hard one, but … maybe she really enjoys to grind the pepper for Kontomire. She mash it in the mortar very well to give it the most delicious taste.’
‘Good.’
‘And also, the onion