Black British by Hebe de Souza Page B

have brought back all the horrors and incomprehension of my father’s first childhood separation. The square-peg-in-a-round-hole feelings I experienced in the classroom must have been miniscule compared to what he went through: my incarceration lasted four hours per day, his for nine months of the year.
    â€œWith Lucy’s distress, I was out of my depth,” my father continued. “I didn’t know what to do for any of you and Lucy made so much noise.” As my two sisters sniggered I had the grace to be embarrassed. My father continued, “I was thankful Uncle Hugh stepped in.”
    That explained why Uncle Hugh, accompanied by Reg, walked me to and from school for the duration of my mother’s absence.
    Though he wasn’t given to indulging his daughters – we too were expected to be tough – my father was exceptionally tolerant of my tantrums over my mother’s disappearance. Thank God those were the days of looking beyond the behaviour instead of reaching for quick-fix prescription drugs.
    In time I settled down and eventually made friends in school, though I was always conscious of being the odd man out because of my different mother tongue, my different religion, my big home and garden, and our totally different way of life. Even my name was different. I was the only girl in my class with an English first name and a Portuguese surname.
    The difference was never mentioned, never referred to. There is little point in stating the glaringly obvious. I gradually learnt a smattering of Hindi but the foundation remained unstable. Given that children are notorious for the ease with which they pick up language from their peers, it remains a mystery why Hindi, a phonetic language, was so difficult to master. From a flawed start with insensitive adults and a defective system, I was left, to my detriment, with the lifelong belief that I am minus the ability to learn another language. I wonder how many others are in the same boat?
    The nuns never forgave me. My reputation was set. Over the years they regularly reminded me: “ You! You were twice sent to school and twice returned with ‘no thanks’.”

CHAPTER 5
    THE BOOK OF SINS
    The school bell rings and I jump. The amorphous mass in front of me swirls and curls and morphs into a two-by-two line of navy shorts and white shirts.
    â€œThey are lining up to go into church for Confession,” my companion tells me.
    Oh yes. Confession! I think. That ubiquitous Catholic practice of Confession .

    â€œI don’t see why I have to go to confession. Again!” I screwed up my face to emphasise my disdain, knowing my protest would go unheeded. I had voiced similar objections umpteen times before, even though my six years of schooling had taught me that Saturday morning Confession was a time-honoured ritual during school terms.
    That particular morning I spoke under my breath, just loud enough to register an objection but soft enough so my mother could pretend she hadn’t heard, and ignore me. She wouldn’t buy into a fray when one could be avoided.
    Knowing I wasn’t allowed out of the home compound alone, I called to my ayah whose presence gave me an air of respectability on the roads as I walked to school. It was similar to the role played by “Mammie” in Gone with the Wind when her attendance lent propriety to Scarlett O’Hara’s visit to Rhett Butler in prison. In the same way, my ayah’s role was a deterrent against eve-teasing from young chokra s and hooligans.
    Entering the school compound, I looked up at buildings constructed in low maintenance, locally made, sun-baked bricks. These were mortared together and rendered with cement on both sides, making the structure expensive and resistant to wear. A deep verandah with classic Romanesque arches shaded all the buildings and at the front entrance stood a porch large enough to house two motorised vehicles.
    A long driveway curved past vast