After two weeks, Ella moved her on to the till and she learned quickly. She became used to the curious gazes of customers and their questions. Where are you from? Is it just you or did you bring a family along? Oh Africa sounds fascinating but… is it safe? Did you fly here? Some of the questions were asked in a friendly manner and she was fine with that. Simple curiosity never killed anybody. But there were a handful of people who asked those questions in an accusatory tone. When she picked up on this, she answered mischievously. No, she hadn’t come alone, she’d brought eleven members of her family with her and they lived a cramp, gleeful existence in a one bedroom flat. Oh Africa definitely wasn’t safe! In fact, when you arrived at Lagos Airport there were taxi cab drivers in horn helmets that lured stupid foreigners into their cars. They butchered them and used their flesh to make money, bought land and dined on suya for days. And no, she hadn’t flown to England but she’d ensured all eleven members of her family had been illegally smuggled into the country. Ah Ah! She herself had arrived on a boat so weighed down by bananas; it had nearly sunk en route. When she made these comments, chuckling within at some of the ignorant questions thrown her way, a small red sea frothed in the corner of the shop floor, then flooded the faces of guilty parties. Glints of embarrassment turned into cataracts in their eyes. Their lips pursed tightly, curved upwards reluctantly as though the wanted to rip their smiles off and use them to strangle her. “Oh Ella! Delightful girl! Interesting humour…” One customer said. And Queenie smiled too, hiding the daggers beneath her teeth.
On the morning of her first experience of a Gift! Banquet for the homeless, all signs pointed to a good day. Sunlight streamed through the cream curtains of her bedroom, filling her rat-infested palace with a special kind of hope. She had a clean pair of odd socks to wear, something she considered good luck, one blue, one red. She’d also managed to save a bit of money for a shopping trip to Petticoat Lane market on the weekend. She’d try to decode some of the cockney lingo falling from the mouths of traders. If that failed, she’d simply ask what the hell they were talking about. Queenie was pleased she managed to send some money to her mother, having queued behind all the other foreigners at the bank watching them hand over their hard-earned cash many with relief showing on their faces. The same feeling swelled in her chest. That exchange indicated their sacrifices meant something, deep in the cold, loneliness and unfamiliarity of an alien country. Then they left with all the expectations of home on their shoulders, stalking through the streets like rooted up trees.
At around 9.30am Queenie arrived at the WAC Arts Centre to assist Ella along with all the other volunteers. The old basement hall where lunch and dinner would be served from 1pm was a large space with the capacity to hold two hundred people. The stage area had blood red, pleated velvet curtains, with the smell of old performances trapped inside them. There was a tall, standing lamp covered by a colourful chintzy lampshade. A black leather chair faced the audience and in case the chair wanted to talk into it a microphone stood directly in front. Big square windows with glass panes were slightly were open. The polished dark oak floor gave the room warmth. Golden, ornate candlestick holders were mounted on the walls.
Ella had rounded up all volunteers in the kitchen area, tucked away through an archway on the right. They gathered like troops; social workers, teachers, nurses and all sorts. Queenie was repeatedly surprised by how many people Ella seemed to know. How was a woman who managed a charity shop so well connected? She noticed a tall, broad shouldered, bald-headed black man amidst the group. When he laughed the whole room filled with it. For some reason they gravitated towards each other. Maybe it was because they were the only two black people amongst the volunteers. He walked right up to her, swallowed her hand in his. “I’m Mervyn, willing victim and volunteer. Who are you and how did Ella bribe you? Come nuh, don’t be shy.” The musical lilt of his Jamaican accent was attractive. A good tool to disarm people with Queenie thought but she smiled and held his gaze. “Queen, I work in the Gift! Shop.”
He chuckled then as if an anecdote he’d heard was coming to life. “Oh! So you’re the African lady. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She felt self-conscious then, a little annoyed at him for having a hand he’d been waiting to play all along.
“What have you heard?” she asked, unable to keep a slight bite from her tone. For some reason, she found herself standing a bit straighter, lifting her chin; a compass that pointed north. He bit back another smile. “Well for one, I’ve never met an African. You know? A Motherland princess.”
She nodded her understanding. “Ah, I know what you mean Methalyn.”
“Mervyn,” he corrected.
“Ok Melvyn, we Africans even walk and talk at the same time!”
They both burst into laughter, the ice had melted.
“Sorry,” Queenie mumbled, shoulders still shaking with mirth. “It’s just sometimes people say really stupid things to me!”
“I know me too!” Mervyn said and they both collapsed into a heap of laughter.
She discovered from him that Ella’s family was rich, her estranged father was an earl and the charity was her passion. Mervyn was studying to be a lawyer. He told her that one day he’d own his own practice. He had a fiancé who was a nurse. She couldn’t come since she worked nights and needed daytimes to sleep. Queenie saw her then, hovering above their heads deep in sleep; a curvy, Jamaican woman in a blue nurse’s outfit stretched taut against her dark brown skin, a thermometer tucked in the corner of her mouth.
They filled the hall with circular, wooden tables decorated in red and blue checked tablecloths. Rings of wine-red fake flowers and upwards facing playing cards lay on top. There were small, glass bowls bearing pick “n” mix sweets. One chair on each table had loose Christmas-style lights draped around it. Printed cream coloured menus with gold lettering rested on tables in square, wooden holders. On offer was a traditional hotpot with a twist and a prize for whoever guessed what the secret ingredient was. Prawn cocktail, Spaghetti Bolognese, chilli con carne, beef risotto and Chicken Kiev were options. Pork pies, sausage rolls, cheese and pineapple on small sticks were also on the menu. For dessert; butterscotch angel delight, arctic roll, black forest gateau and lemon meringue pie.
By 12:30pm people started filing in. As meals were served and Queenie interacted with the homeless men and women, she discovered there were people from all kinds of backgrounds. One teenage girl had run away from home due to her mother’s violent, alcoholic boyfriend. Another man had been a civil servant. When his wife left and took the children, things spiralled out of control. One woman had been sharing a house with squatters but the property was torn down and she found herself on the streets again. Queenie enjoyed talking to the people. They were underdogs down on their luck. She knew what that felt like, maybe not to the same extent but she understood.