Black British by Hebe de Souza

us.
    It’s a sad fact of life that such an outrageous situation cannot last. On the way home Uncle Hugh explained that he’d “done his time” at school and wasn’t about to repeat the experience, even for me. I had to cope like hundreds before me. Screaming so wildly that I made myself sick and frightened everyone was not an option.
    Some things are worth saying twice: Uncle Hugh was an exceptional man and I loved him dearly. Born in the 1880s he had ideas way ahead of his time. Not for him to tie a woman to the kitchen sink or that other private room in a domestic dwelling. Instead it was, “You’ve got brains. Use them.” Because he always spoke to us as though we were adults we endeavoured to live up to his expectations and respond accordingly. That evening, he called Lorraine, Lily and me together. Armed with a calendar he asked me, “How far can you count?”
    â€œI can count to three hundred and sixty-five.” Lily sniggered to indicate that she could count much more.
    â€œRight!” he went on. “Now, tell me what happens on September eighth.”
    â€œMummy comes home.”
    â€œRight!” he repeated, and giving Lorraine a black crayon asked her to number the days on the calendar, starting on September eighth and counting backwards.
    Lorraine rushed through the task and before anyone could edge a word in sideways, turned to me, “Now you know! It’s a hundred and thirty-seven days before Mummy gets home. Get that through your thick skull and quit wailing like a banshee every five blinking minutes.” She replenished her breath to add scathingly, “Then we can all get some peace.”
    Sympathy for my motherless plight was drying up.
    But now I knew. A hundred and thirty-seven days was manageable and counting the days made it real, gave me irrefutable evidence that my mother would really, truly come home. Pity the child whose mother goes away forever, say to heaven, and is never, ever able to return. What abandonment must that child feel?
    That evening I transferred my gaze from Lorraine to Uncle Hugh as the penny made a slow decent. Then scrambling down from my chair I rushed to climb onto my father’s lap and insert myself in front of his Economic Times .
    â€œDaddy,” I said, “did you know it’s one hundred and thirty-seven days before Mummy comes home?” He smiled, ruffled my curls and returned to the world market.
    â€œDaddy,” I said as he kissed me good night. “Did you know it’s one hundred and thirty-seven days before Mummy comes home?” He smiled as he turned the light out.
    â€œDaddy,” I said at breakfast the next morning. “Did you know it’s one hundred and thirty-six days before Mummy comes home?” His smile had become a bit strained.
    â€œDaddy,” I said when he came home that evening. “Did you know…”
    Looking over the top of my head he spoke to no one in particular, “Maybe an anguished Lucy was a preferable option.”
    But somehow I knew it was said tongue-in-cheek and without a care I snuggled into the comfort of his lap.

    My companion stirs. Until now he has been placid and quiet so I take this movement to mean he has something to say.
    I wait.
    He speaks and I get the sense he is choosing his words with care. “The first few days of school are difficult for every child, especially if you are among strangers. Maybe starting school was difficult for your father so that’s why he understood your distress.”
    I think about this then shake my head, in disbelief at what had actually happened.
    â€œNo, the first few months of school were much worse for him. As a small child he was sent away from his mother and home for nine months of the year. At seven years old he was sent to boarding school.”

    We were lazing away one summer afternoon amiably bickering with one another when Lily pointedly accused me, “You’re a