Grace looked at Harriet as if for the first time, she was so plump and healthy with smooth glowing cheeks
her hair was in a single plait down her back, her eyes were almost golden, perhaps a little green, they were sparkling, curious, smiling at her
as if to say, hello my Ma, do you like me now?
Flossie, grey hair, rounded, stooped, wore a floor-length old-fashioned skirt from another century, she was a mother and grand-mother of many, made encouraging noises as she listened to Harriet’s nonsensical chatter
which picked up again once the child became accustomed to Grace
she dipped the soldiers into the runny, yellow yolk and tried to eat without letting it spill down her chin
when she did, Flossie wiped it off with a cloth
they looked so comfortable together
so cosy, so close
too close
Grace
made herself a cup of tea, sat back down, this time closer to Harriet, carry on, she said when Harriet paused to stare at her again
I’d like to bake Harriet a birthday cake, Flossie, and you’re to call her Hattie now, not Harriet, I’ve decided that Hattie suits her better
Flossie forced a nod, not quite hostile
Grace beckoned Hattie over, come and sit on your ma’s lap, love, Hattie looked to Flossie for help, which hurt
go and sit with your mother, Flossie urged Hattie, mumbling, it’s about time, loud enough for Grace to hear
Grace later took Hattie out to sit on the bench in the yard in the sunshine, she nestled her on her lap, read her stories from The Fairy Tale Book
by the time she’d finished, Hattie was curled into her, asleep
Grace looked up and saw Flossie had fetched Joseph who was stood there across the yard by the gate that led to the front fields
sleeves rolled up, trousers tucked into mud-encrusted boots, leaning on a spade
watching
as if he was in the Egyptian desert again
looking at a mirage.
6
Everything changed, Ma, once me and my Hattie found each other, it was like I came out of the darkness and into the light and could love her as I should
I wish you’d seen me spoil her, Ma, let her get her own way with everything because I couldn’t say no to anything she wanted, until Joseph stepped in and said I was ruining her
I wish you’d seen how Joseph and Hattie adored each other, how he made no concessions for her being a girl, how she followed him around copying everything he did
I wish you’d seen Hattie grow strong, tough and tall, Ma, seen her learn to plough, sow, thresh, drive bales of hay on the tractor from the fields to the barns
I wish you were around to be her grandma, to tell her what it was like for you growing up, and stories about me from when I was too young to remember
I wish you’d not died so young, Ma, seen how well I was looked after in the home, how I learned to walk in shoes, had clean water and fresh food and learned many things
I wish you’d seen me running in the meadows outside the home, Ma, just as you’d imagined, and pressing flowers in my flower book and writing little poems about them
I wish you’d learnt to read and write, Ma, gone to school as you really wanted to, you’d have liked reading books, Ma, especially all the famous novels by Mr Charles Dickens
I wish you’d seen how I learnt how to act with poise and ladylike decorum, Ma, I wasn’t a pushover, just as you weren’t, I could stand up for myself when I had to
I wish you saw how much I hated being a servant, Ma, how I resented every minute of it, until I had my own home and then thoroughly enjoyed keeping a clean and pleasant house
I wish you saw how much Joseph loved me again when I came round, how we decided together there’d be no more bairns and he used the withdrawal method instead
I wish you’d met Joseph, Ma, my man, who stood at my side for the rest of my life, he was my shelter and my companion and the best father of our little girl
I wish you’d seen how Hattie had no one ruining her personality, Ma, how she ordered the workers about, how me and Joseph laughed when she tried to boss us around
I wish you’d seen how I learnt to help out on the farm outside
to fill the ice house with the ice we dug up from the frozen lake in winter
to harvest fruit from the orchard, make preserves and jams
to pick and pickle vegetables and store them in the ice house
to feed the cows, goats, pigs, horses, chickens, turkeys, ducks, peacocks
to put motherless lambs in boxes in front of the Long Room fire
to muck out a whole winter’s worth of dung from the horse shelter
to smoke meat and salt bacon with pork grease
to harvest fruit from the orchard, and make preserves and jams
to do the hedging, hurdle-making, basket-making, butter and cheese-making
weeding and weaning and beekeeping and brewing cider, beer and ginger ale
I wish you’d met Slim, Ma, the American man who married Hattie, how relieved we were she’d found someone we knew would look after her when we were gone
I wish you’d met Sonny and Ada Mae, Ma, your great-grandchildren, I only knew them for a little while
Joseph was so thankful that finally there was a boy who would one day carry on the family farm.
Chapter Five
The After-party
1
Roland
is the first to triple mwah Amma when she makes her grande entreé to the after-party of The Last Amazon of Dahomey in the lobby of the theatre
a crescendo of chattering voices and clinking prosecco glasses
stilled
followed by rapturous applause
and
bravo! Amma, bravo!
she looks simply spectacular in a figure-hugging wraparound dress that shows off her toned arms, tiny waist and the mama-do hips that have emerged in the past few years
although she’s gone and ruined the effect by wearing silver trainers
ever the rebellious teenager at heart – or rather au coeur
the play was simply wonderful, wun-der-ful, Roland effuses
which is all she ever wants to hear
which is all he ever wants to hear
which is all anyone ever wants to hear
a five-star review has already been uploaded online from one usually savage pit-bull of a critic who’s been uncharacteristically gushing: astonishing, moving, controversial, original
rightly so, the production is indeed deserving of the highest praise and a far cry from the agit-prop rants of Amma’s early theatre career
although the mother of his only child, writer and director, and dear, dear friend, could have made her name where it mattered a long time ago, if she’d taken his advice and directed a few multi-culti Shakespeares, Greek tragedies and other classics, instead of writing plays about black women which will never have popular appeal, simply because the majority of the majority sees the majority of Les Négresses as separate to themselves, an embodiment of Otherness
Roland decided long ago to align himself with L’Établissement, which is why he’s a winner and a household name
among the educated classes
where it counts
Amma, on the other hand, has waited three decades before being allowed in through the front door
although she hasn’t exactly been hammering on the castle walls for the duration
in truth, girlfriend spent much of her early career slinging rocks at it
he slides away, leaving Amma to the radico-lesbos who still follow her around like ageing fangirls, surging forwards to congratulate her
he is shocked to see one of them in a pair of denim dungarees
surely La Dungaree hasn’t made a comeback?