The Other Side of Truth Page 9

  “I will still come to see you there,” Mama Appiah reassured. “So don’t worry!”

  The adults were all smiling. How could Mama Appiah say ‘don’t worry’? They were surrounded by strangers in a strange land in which Uncle Dele—the only person who really knew them—had disappeared.

  “The Kings are from Jamaica and Mr. King is very interested in Nigeria. You’ll get on well, I know,” Iyawo-Jenny encouraged. “And now that your permission to stay has been sorted out for a while, Mrs. King will organize for you to go to school.”

  Sade said nothing. With everything sorted out, what was there to say? They were simply being parceled up again and sent on to another address.

  Mr. and Mrs. King lived in a quiet road of redbrick houses with arched doorways and small front gardens behind hedges, not very far from Mrs. Graham’s flat. As they stood next to Iyawo-Jenny, waiting for the door to open, Sade knew from Femi’s drooping figure that he was as miserable as she was. But Mama would have expected more of her.

  You must help your brother, Sade. Sorrow is like a precious treasure, shown only to friends.

  Sade imagined a string pulling up her head like a puppet.

  The lady who invited them in had an open, pleasant face. She seemed quite tall but that might have been because her thick gray hair, drawn back from her light brown forehead, was piled up high and tied with a twist. Her neat-fitting blue dress with small yellow flowers gave her a bright air.

  “We’ve been expecting you, mi dear!” Mrs. King greeted Iyawo-Jenny, then turned to the children. “We’re very pleased to welcome you!”

  Her voice moved with a light lilt.

  “Indeed we are!”

  Another voice as deep as a bass drum came from the back room. A powerfully built man entered the hallway with his arm stretched out to shake their hands. His hair was mottled with gray. He looked older than Uncle Tunde, but he still moved with a youthful swing. His face was as rich an ebony as Papa’s with a strong, direct gaze and an easy smile.

  Mr. King led them into a small sitting room. There were books and newspapers everywhere, unlike at Mrs. Graham’s. Mrs. King followed with a tray of glasses and a jug of orange juice.

  “Well,” she said, “we hope you children will feel at home with us. Please call me Aunt Gracie and this is Uncle Roy.”

  “Who can say? We might even be related!” The rhythm in Uncle Roy’s words matched his wife’s. It was his dream, he said, to go one day to West Africa.

  “It’s the home of our ancestors, you know,” he told them. Since he had retired from the post office he had been reading a lot about the African continent.

  “I’m sure you children will teach me a thing or two, nuh?” he said.

  “Give them time to settle now, before you start badgering them with questions!” Aunt Gracie chided him.

  They were to have a bedroom each, one next to the other and both overlooking the back garden. Mrs. King explained that they had been their children’s rooms. They were grown-up now and both living away from London. Sade’s eyes were drawn to a small desk placed underneath the window and a bookshelf on the wall above the bed. The walls were painted a light ochre, like ripe corn, and the curtains and bedcover were patterned with the yellows and greens of pineapples. Femi’s room was an emerald sea-green. Perhaps the Kings were trying to recall some of the light and colors from tropical Jamaica.

  Sade found a Girls’ Annual on the bookshelf in her room and, even though it was ten years out of date, she spent most of the afternoon on the bed reading. Toward evening, familiar smells from the kitchen forced her to interrupt the adventures in an English boarding school. She stared at the creases in the printed pineapples all around her and ached for Mama’s voice to call her to eat.

  Aunt Gracie had made them a special meal. Chicken stew with fried yams, fried plantains and a spinach soup that she had learned from a Nigerian friend. Femi tucked in without comment but Sade felt awkward, not wanting to talk but not wanting to be rude. The Kings seemed to have understood that the children were still reluctant to speak and for most of the meal carried on their own conversation. But just as they were finishing the meal with tinned guavas and cream, Aunt Gracie spoke about registering the children in school the following day. Femi would probably be accepted in Greenslades Primary and Sade at Avon, a large secondary school. They would then have a couple of days to get ready before starting school after the weekend.

  “If your schools in Nigeria are like those in Jamaica, you’ll find them quite different here, you know,” Aunt Gracie said, as if in preparation. “Discipline in Jamaica is very firm. Certainly in my day it was.”

  “Don’t be frightening them, Gracie! Before they even step foot in the place!”

  Sade looked from one to the other. It was a bit like when Papa and Mama disagreed, Papa’s voice suddenly sparking like a match. With adults, the meaning was often in what they didn’t say. What did Uncle Roy mean by ‘frightening them’? School had never been frightening to her. In fact, she had always loved going. But that was there, at home, not here. She was not looking forward to tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 20

  SEA OF FACES

  THE DEAD, FLAT LOOK IN FEMI’S EYES added to Sade’s own worries as she and Aunt Gracie left him in the headmistress’s office at Greenslades Primary School the following Monday morning. He was going to join a Year Five class and Mrs. King could collect him from the school gates at three-fifteen.

  “Don’t worry! I’m sure he’ll settle in soon,” the headmistress said with a brightness matching the sparkle in her earrings. “He’ll be wanting to walk home by himself then.”

  Sade wondered how she could be so sure. And what did she mean by “home” anyway?

  At breakfast, when Aunt Gracie had prepared a pack of sandwiches for each of them, Femi had not even responded when asked what filling he would like. He had spent the weekend mostly with his head in a comic or watching sports on television. He had refused to come when Aunt Gracie took Sade out on Saturday to buy her new school uniform, even though he needed sports clothes for school. Every day he seemed to be moving farther away from her. When Sade waved good-bye to him from the headmistress’s door, his arms hung so listlessly at his sides that the red plastic lunch box looked as if it might slide out from his fingers at any moment. She was used to seeing her brother angry and upset, but this deadness alarmed her. She hardly took any notice of the chattering children who swarmed up the stairs as Aunt Gracie spearheaded a path through them, down to the entrance. Crossing the tarmac playground to the gate in the high wire fence, she turned and looked back up at the three stories of the heavy old redbrick building. The ground floor with its lower windows protected by thick long bars made her think of a prison. It struck Sade that the only green in Greenslades Primary was in its name and the children’s paintings on the walls inside.

  Avon School was not far from Greenslades. Much newer, with ginger bricks, concrete and large plate-glass windows, it was set back from the road, also behind a high wire fence. Tall spiked gates opened on to a tarmac drive, lined on one side with a row of skeleton trees. Bushes bordering the dingy grass opposite looked as if they were chosen for their toughness. A few empty crisp packets on the drive and the grass provided the only patches of color.

  Three days earlier, when they had come to register, the headmaster had immediately passed them on to his deputy, who in turn passed Sade on to be interviewed by a young woman teacher, Miss Harcourt. The teacher’s name had struck her because it was the same as a city in Nigeria. She was wearing chocolate brown trousers and a pretty white blouse. No lady teacher at Presentation High ever wore trousers. Her long chestnut brown hair parted as smoothly as grain whenever she pushed it back through her fingers. She had invited Aunt Gracie and Femi to accompany Sade into the interview room and began a string of questions. What languages did Sade speak? What was her old school, what class was she in, what subjects had she studied? Sade had answered with as few words as possible. But when Miss Harc
ourt stepped across the invisible line by asking with whom they had come to England, Sade had clammed up. Miss Harcourt’s cheeks had flushed a deep crimson when Aunt Gracie mentioned refugees. Apologizing, the teacher had ended the interview by saying that she would place Sade with Year Eight. From the little that she had heard, added Miss Harcourt, Sade’s English was good. The last remark had suprised Sade. Why shouldn’t her English be good? Ever since she had learned to talk, she had been speaking English as well as Yoruba! There was even a family story that when she was very little, she would start a sentence in one language and end in the other. Papa used to joke that it meant she would always take the best of both worlds.

  On the day of the interview, the other students had been in class. But now as they walked up the drive and into the entrance hall, Sade and Aunt Gracie were caught among the throng of boys and girls. Sade clutched her rucksack, feeling small and frightened as they wove their way through to the office. The lady at the office window pointed to chairs on the other side of the entrance hall. Sade should wait there, she said, for Miss Harcourt, who would take her to her tutor group. The office lady assured Aunt Gracie that it was all right to leave. Sade would be well looked after.

  “Have a good day then!” Aunt Gracie squeezed Sade’s hand and left.

  Sade chose to stay where she was rather than cross the hallway again. No one took any notice of her as she pressed her back to the wall. In Presentation High the teachers were very strict about uniform but some of the girls here wore makeup around their eyes and most were wearing shoes quite unlike the plain black lace-ups that Aunt Gracie had bought for her on Saturday. The thick heels made them look taller. A couple of girls wore smartly shaped boots. There were a variety of anoraks and coats, many not even the navy stipulated in the school uniform list. All around her, conversations bubbled, sometimes with loud laughter. But there was too much of a clamor for Sade to understand what anyone was saying. It amazed her that the students were allowed to make so much noise. When the office lady told them to move away, the students shifted only slightly.

  All weekend Sade had been wondering what it would be like to be in a high school with boys as well as girls. But the girls here seemed just as noisy and casual as the boys and it was the girls who appeared to take the most liberties with uniform.

  The hubbub waned only after the screeching of a bell. Most of the students began to drift away down a corridor although a few still stayed chatting. Suddenly the deputy head’s door opened and a voice boomed across the entrance hall like a cannon in rapid fire.

  “What do you think that bell was for? A tongue-wagging marathon? Where are you all meant to be?”

  No one looked upset. Students simply turned and began to walk away, some even grinning. The deputy head glanced over to Sade.

  “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in class?” Sade stood petrified. “Oh, yes…you’re the new girl, aren’t you? Where is Miss Harcourt? She’ll show you to your tutor group.”

  Miss Harcourt arrived carrying a large pile of books. If it had been Miss Okoya, Sade would have offered to carry them right away.

  “Sorry to be late!” Miss Harcourt was out of breath. “There are always a hundred and one things to do. You’ll think it’s a bit of a madhouse at first! But I’m sure you’ll soon get used to it. Follow me.”

  It was hard work keeping up with Miss Harcourt’s brisk pace. Along the corridor, through a couple of large double doors and then up two flights of stairs and down another long corridor, passing classrooms on either side. Outside a closed door at the end, Miss Harcourt turned to Sade. The sound of loud chatter carried out into the corridor.

  “This is your tutor group—8M. Mr. Morris is your tutor and also your English teacher. Any help you need, just ask him.”

  Sade kept her gaze just below Miss Harcourt’s intense green eyes. Today her trouser suit was the same color as her ruby lipstick.

  “Of course you can also come to me. I take a special interest in children from other countries and help some of them with their English. I’ll ask one of them to show you around and help you settle in. I’m sure you’ll make lots of other friends soon.”

  Miss Harcourt was trying to make her feel at ease, but the more she said that she was sure, the less sure Sade felt about anything. Miss Harcourt signaled her to stay outside, while she opened 8M’s door.

  “Can I have a quick word with Mariam, please, Mr. Morris, before I introduce your new class member?”

  A girl with a navy blue headscarf, sweater and trousers came out of the room. Her face reminded Sade of the Sand-Dunes Lady who had been cradling her baby in the Immigration Office.

  “This is Mariam, one of my best students. Aren’t you, Mariam?”

  Mariam smiled shyly as Miss Harcourt explained that she would like her to look after Sade.

  “I can help her, miss.” Her forehead wrinkled as she added, “No problem!” Both the girl and Miss Harcourt laughed.

  “Mariam came from Somalia, less than a year ago. So, East and West Africa! I’m sure you’ll become good friends.”

  Opening the door to the classroom, Miss Harcourt ushered them in.

  “Mr. Morris, I’d like you and 8M to meet Sade Adewale—”

  Sade heard no more. If she had been thrown onto a stage in front of a thousand people, she could not have felt more embarrassed.

  Don’t show people when you are frightened. Don’t let them see it.

  Mama’s words came to her almost as if her mother were standing right behind her, whispering into her ear. She must look up, ahead of her, not down at the floor. Slowly she forced herself to raise her head, lifting her eyes above the line of desks, sweaters, shirts and ties. There, in among the sea of faces, waiting to catch her attention, was Kevin Graham. He was smirking.

  CHAPTER 21

  “WHAT KIND OF NAME IS THAT?”

  SADE SLID INTO THE SEAT NEXT TO MARIAM, two rows away from Kevin. The bell screeched again but, as their first lesson was English with Mr. Morris, 8M did not have to change classrooms.

  “Take out your draft books, 8M! You’re going to be writing!” Mr. Morris appeared to be using a lot of energy to make his voice heard. He was a slim man with a pale narrow face and a long bony nose below metal-rimmed glasses. He crossed the room to bring Sade a blue exercise book.

  “Write your name on the front. I’ll speak to you later,” he said with a hurried smile.

  Sade was in the middle of writing her name when a head of spiky blond hair poked between her and Mariam and withdrew.

  “Can’t spell her own name!” Sade heard the clear whisper. “Miss said ‘Sha-day’ and she ain’t put in no ‘h’!”

  “Don’t need to spell in the bush!”

  Sade gripped her pen as a small explosion of laughter rippled behind her.

  “Donna and Marcia, stop that chattering! You’re meant—if you had listened—to be getting your books out.” Mr. Morris sounded tired even though it was the first lesson of the day.

  “We only wanted to know, sir, what the new girl’s name means.”

  “Remember you told us about African customs, sir. You know, long names. How they all have different meanings and that!”

  “Well, it is not the time now for continuing that discussion. Get your books out. Hurry! That goes for you too, Kevin Graham!”

  Sade felt that eyes were on her, all around. The girls immediately behind her were still talking to each other under their breath. It was a relief when Mr. Morris finally began the lesson. They were to write about a place that had been very special to them when they were younger. He wanted them to use words that made other people feel they could see, hear, even smell their special place.

  “Oh, that’s disgusting, sir!” one of the girls behind Sade called out.

  “And why is that, Marcia?” Mr. Morris’ voice contained a note of irritation.

  “Because my best place was at my granny’s in Jamaica. It was great except for the smells, sir. My granny keeps cows and they make a
terrible pong, sir!” the girl whined. The class exploded into laughter and Mr. Morris had to shout for quiet. Even Mariam smiled a little and Sade turned her head just enough to see who Marcia was. A girl with honey-brown skin, bold eyes and a pouting mouth sat directly behind Mariam. Her sleek dark hair was pulled back except for two slender plaits, knotted with purple beads, which hung from each side of her forehead.

  Mr. Morris continued the lesson by reading a poem. It was about a man stopping with his little horse in the middle of a forest with snow falling, getting deeper and deeper. Snow was something Sade had only heard about and seen on television. She was surprised at the quiet picture that came into her head of the man all alone among the trees with his horse.

  Afterward, Mr. Morris asked questions about some of the words the poet had used. It was the first time that Sade had heard of Robert Frost and she liked the poem. His name even seemed to fit. When it was time for them to start their own writing, Mr. Morris said that he wanted them to work in silence.

  “Use your own inner eyes and ears,” he reminded them.

  “What about inner noses, sir?” The voice was Kevin’s and was followed by sniggering around the class.

  “Don’t start that nonsense again, thank you, Mr. Graham. Just get on with your work!”

  “Aaaah, sir! That’s not fair! It’s a proper question!” Kevin moaned in the same tone he used with his mother. This triggered another bout of whispering behind Sade.

  “Only answers his favorites!”

  “Yeah! Bet this new Africa girl will be one!”

  “Marcia and Donna, if I have to speak to you once more, I shall separate you.” Mr. Morris glared at them as he walked up to Sade’s desk.

  “Do you understand what you have to do?” he asked her. She nodded.