The Lost Souls' Reunion by Suzanne Power Page A

Square and she would watch me as I played with green blades of grass that were my fascination. We picked flowers when no one looked and brought them home to our flowerless world.
    As I grew, the dream lost its hold and the woman with it and I stepped into my mother’s place one day on sturdy legs that took me out of the door and up the stone steps worn down by feet before ours, into Soho. I followed my mother’s wasted legs in torn tights and shining red shoes that disappeared into the grey-black of the thickening crowd.
    I cried and wandered until my cry was heard and a woman picked me up in her arms. She carried me into the café close by where her friends sat. Carmen also sat, alone.
    Carmen looked up from her copper-stewed tea and took me.
    â€˜She’s a grubby one, could do with a wash, and what is she doing on the streets?’
    The woman who had carried me put spit on her thumb and leaned down to wipe my mouth.
    â€˜I didn’t even know you had a baby, Irish.’ She smelled of the lavender sweets she sucked perpetually.
    â€˜How would you?’ another said. ‘We don’t even know Irish’s name.’
    â€˜You’ll have to take her home.’
    Carmen shook her head and whispered, ‘Work.’
    Carmen put a sugar into her cup and did not stir it. She held the cup to my lips.
    â€˜Don’t!’ the woman who had carried me screeched. ‘It’s too hot! Sergio, get the little girl some milk, there’s a good lad. I’ll go and get a towel and wipe some of the muck off the mite’s face. Keep a child clean they’ll grow clean – no one ever tell you that, Irish?’
    â€˜â€™Course not,’ another new face said. ‘Them Irish is savages – they have about ten kids apiece.’
    â€˜That’s rich coming from you, Lulu, your mother had twelve.’
    Lavender woman came back from the bathroom with a steaming towel. She scrubbed hard. The wail I sent up shook my own bones and lavender woman’s dusted cleavage was suddenly a prison as she pushed my face into it to get at the back of my neck with a practised hand.
    â€˜Why is it kids the world over hate being bathed?’
    â€˜I don’t go with that. Every one of us growing up was cleaner than this one.’
    Lulu took out a compact and bothered already perfect hair rolled in a chignon. I watched her apply blood-red lipstick and smear kohl on the upper corners of her eyes. She stood up smartly and grabbed a patent leather handbag and powder-blue coat – both as new as Carmen’s were worn.
    â€˜There she goes, Lulu – as French a fuck as anyone from Leeds called Nancy.’
    Lavender woman blew smoke at Lulu. Lulu was on her way out the door when she stopped and stuck her head back in again.
    â€˜That’s rich coming from a prostitute called Fanny.’
    Sergio, a large man with hands that had no business cooking, put a baby’s bottle of milk and an almond pastry in front of me.
    â€˜I’d best be off too,’ Fanny smiled at Carmen who did not smile, but rose herself and walked after Fanny.
    â€˜Look, Irish, you can’t just leave the child here. Sergio has a living to make too. I’ve got to get on. We all have our own worries.’
    Carmen did not move. Fanny gave her an impatient shove towards me.
    â€˜Go on, girl, look after your own. I have four waiting at home.’
    Sergio was shaking his head and the other customers were waiting on the outcome. I was eating my pastry and drinking milk.
    The door opened. In came a woman tall as life, and wearing a blue-grey dress. Her hair was silver white and her eyes a glittering black, her face unlined though there were years on her. Her step was a silent one and her presence spoke loudly. I went to her as one I had known all my life and she welcomed me with the practised kindness of one who had seen me each day. Sergio went to a table in the far corner nearest the counter and