Two weeks ago, the woman who cared for her with the love of a mother had hugged her tight, saying she was going into hospital, but she would be back. She’d promised that another one of the adults would take care of Little Eva’s very special hair and skin. The girl hadn’t liked the Mizz who’d come to do her hair, sour-faced and smelling of stale wee. The woman had been so rough, tugging and pulling Little Eva’s hair without readying it with any coconut oil until her scalp was sore, scalding tears plastered to her face.
Mizz Sour Stinky Wee would mutter, ‘I don’t have time to deal with this fuzzy-wuzzy forest.’
After that no one came to do her hair. Little Eva tried her best to comb it herself, but what does a seven-year-old know about hair? Now the hair that framed her face was a halo of knots that not even her fingers could comb through.
Mrs Warden leaned towards Little Eva. ‘As our only brown girl we need to ensure we meet your needs. That you fit in.’
Suddenly Little Eva couldn’t feel the heat in the room any more. The numbness in her toes was back, this time spreading to other parts of her body. A tremor travelled through her.
‘Fit in?’ she croaked. Fit in? What does that mean? ‘I don’t understand, Mizz Warden. Do you mean like fit into a hole?’ Which Little Eva thought was strange because she wasn’t living in a hole. Her bed at night wasn’t very comfortable but it wasn’t a hole.
Huffing with impatience the care manager stood up. ‘This matter has taken up enough of my time.’
The breeze from the door swinging open swam around her legs. Little Eva turned to see who had entered. Her face fell with dismay when she saw it was Mizz Sour Stinky Wee. The woman’s usual go-to expression of displeasure was replaced with a brittle smile. Not a word was spoken as she took Little Eva’s hand and drew her out of the office and past the plaque on the care manager’s door which read:
‘Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him.’
Little Eva’s feet barely touched the ground as she was marched down the corridor. The walls were long and tall as the sky, she thought. The deeper they went the more the sides of the walls inched in on the tiny girl. They descended two flights of stairs and headed for the medical room which the children called the sick room.
Little Eva baulked at the entrance. Little Eva sensed danger.
Run! Run! Run!
CHAPTER 13
I slam out of the memory before it can smother me face down in the dirty darkness of the past. A past in which Little Eva is held down and screaming. Salty tears burn my face. I’m gasping. Grief – that’s the sound coming out of me. Grief is such a gruesome sound. I want to cover my ears, but one of the reasons I can’t, of course, is that my fingers are in my hair. Always straight, never curly. My mind searches blindly for one of my formidable black women. To cling on to her strength to help me get away from the madness of my past.
It’s another woman who comes to my rescue.
‘You’re all right, baby sister. You’re all right.’
That’s Miriam’s reassuring voice, saying the same words she spoke the day we first met. My mind skids to a screeching halt. Miriam? What’s my sister doing here? And for that matter, where is here? Confused, still trying to replace grief with fresh air, my wet face jerks up to find her staring at me. Miriam looks so anguished. I’m sorry; it’s not her fault I feel such appalling pain.
She’s sitting opposite me, cross-legged on a shabby, olive-green sofa wearing black leggings and a Wonder Woman hooded dressing gown in a room I don’t know. Then it comes back to me. The dizzy blur of leaving Sugar’s and driving to Miriam’s flat, my fingers welded to the steering wheel.
Miriam told me where she lived when we were at Danny’s, and I’m embarrassed that the first time I visit her home I have a meltdown. The childhood past that Sugar dredged up left me bloated with a sickness I had to spew out to someone. Usually, I would have gone home into the arms of Joe. He’s the one who knows how to soothe me when the memories rear up unexpectedly. It’s strange then that I should come here. Or is it? Our new sisterhood, linked by blood; is that what binds us now? It’s as if she’s been whispering ‘little sister’ in my ear my whole life.
Still, I haven’t known her for long and I’ve opened up about part of my tormented early life. Heat stains my face. Thank God I never told her the rest of it. I don’t ever want to talk to anyone about the rest. Only Mummy Cherry and Sugar know all of what happened to me in the children’s home.