and he squeezes my arm, pinching. ‘You can do better than that. Goering. Mengele, Hess…’ he prompts.
The names are dry husks in my mouth. I don’t know who they are. I don’t want to know.
‘Good girl.’ He pats my bottom. ‘I’ll test you next time.’
I avoid going outside at break. The library or the girls’ toilets are my sanctuaries. A swastika has appeared on the lid of my desk, drawn carefully in blue biro. However hard I rub, and spit onto the cuff of my sleeve and rub at it again, the ink refuses to budge. I pile my books over it, or lean over my desk so that I can position my elbow or hand across it.
Only a week till Christmas. Paper chains hang from the ceiling of the canteen. There’s a secret Santa posting box in our classroom. Every morning when it’s opened and envelopes distributed, I pretend I’m busy checking my pencil case. To my surprise I get a card from Amber. I take it home and put it on the chest of drawers in my bedroom, where Mum finds it and nods approvingly. ‘That’s nice. You should invite your friend over again. Hope your father didn’t scare her off.’ I give a vague smile. Amber might be charitable when it suits her, but she’s not going to commit social suicide for me.
My mother has been baking for weeks. She started months ago with a Christmas cake wrapped in layers of waxy paper and tied with string. Trays of mince pies with stars cut into the pastry wait in a tin to be taken to the church service; vanilla biscuits are made for her prayer groups. At the weekend I’m going to help make gingerbread men.
‘We’re out of plain flour, cariad,’ Mum tells me on Saturday morning. ‘Pop into the Guptas’ and pick some up will you?’
The Guptas’ tiny shop at the end of our street is packed with towering shelves. Each row is crammed with everything you could wish for: packets of cornflakes, sugar, washing powder, biscuits, tins of tomatoes and dog food stacked right up to the ceiling. And there are exotic things like dried chillies, packets of saffron and cardamom pods. The smell of spice makes my nose itch.
Mrs Gupta is sitting behind the piles of newspapers at the counter; she gets up when I come in, the bell clanging behind me. When I go to the till to pay for the flour, she presses a lemon bon-bon into my palm. ‘Tell your mother I said hello,’ she says.
Saliva floods my mouth at the thought of the citrus tang. I nod and unwrap the sweet, placing it on my tongue, testing the hard surface against my teeth.
Mrs Gupta tips her head from side to side, and the red dot between her eyebrows dances.
Aseema Choppra is coming into the shop as I’m leaving. I smile, my mouth too full to speak. But she clenches her jaw, lips tight. ‘You should pick your friends more carefully.’
I gawp at her, not understanding. And then I realise she means Shane. I flush hot and cold, and I want to protest, tell her that he’s not my friend, but the bon-bon stops my tongue. She turns away and I crunch down hard, shards of lemon in my teeth, sticking in my throat.
Gingerbread men lie in rows on the cooling tray: neat ranks of soldiers, arms and legs touching. Our kitchen is full of the smell of ginger and risen dough, the windows misty with steam. My father is reading the paper in the sitting room with opera on the turntable. He’s turned the volume up. Foreign words vibrate through the house, bellowing voices filling every corner.
Mum is putting the baking things away, running water into the sink; she pushes the big bowl over to me with the wooden spoon.
I lean against the table and lick sweet, grainy dough from the spoon, and then stick my finger into the bowl and draw pale, greasy lines across the cool, ceramic inside. Mum smiles. ‘You’ve been doing that since you were a tiny thing.’
She glances out of the window. ‘Look bach,’ she beckons to me, her voice hushed. ‘The robins are back.’
We stand together, her hand finding mine, watching two birds
The names are dry husks in my mouth. I don’t know who they are. I don’t want to know.
‘Good girl.’ He pats my bottom. ‘I’ll test you next time.’
I avoid going outside at break. The library or the girls’ toilets are my sanctuaries. A swastika has appeared on the lid of my desk, drawn carefully in blue biro. However hard I rub, and spit onto the cuff of my sleeve and rub at it again, the ink refuses to budge. I pile my books over it, or lean over my desk so that I can position my elbow or hand across it.
Only a week till Christmas. Paper chains hang from the ceiling of the canteen. There’s a secret Santa posting box in our classroom. Every morning when it’s opened and envelopes distributed, I pretend I’m busy checking my pencil case. To my surprise I get a card from Amber. I take it home and put it on the chest of drawers in my bedroom, where Mum finds it and nods approvingly. ‘That’s nice. You should invite your friend over again. Hope your father didn’t scare her off.’ I give a vague smile. Amber might be charitable when it suits her, but she’s not going to commit social suicide for me.
My mother has been baking for weeks. She started months ago with a Christmas cake wrapped in layers of waxy paper and tied with string. Trays of mince pies with stars cut into the pastry wait in a tin to be taken to the church service; vanilla biscuits are made for her prayer groups. At the weekend I’m going to help make gingerbread men.
‘We’re out of plain flour, cariad,’ Mum tells me on Saturday morning. ‘Pop into the Guptas’ and pick some up will you?’
The Guptas’ tiny shop at the end of our street is packed with towering shelves. Each row is crammed with everything you could wish for: packets of cornflakes, sugar, washing powder, biscuits, tins of tomatoes and dog food stacked right up to the ceiling. And there are exotic things like dried chillies, packets of saffron and cardamom pods. The smell of spice makes my nose itch.
Mrs Gupta is sitting behind the piles of newspapers at the counter; she gets up when I come in, the bell clanging behind me. When I go to the till to pay for the flour, she presses a lemon bon-bon into my palm. ‘Tell your mother I said hello,’ she says.
Saliva floods my mouth at the thought of the citrus tang. I nod and unwrap the sweet, placing it on my tongue, testing the hard surface against my teeth.
Mrs Gupta tips her head from side to side, and the red dot between her eyebrows dances.
Aseema Choppra is coming into the shop as I’m leaving. I smile, my mouth too full to speak. But she clenches her jaw, lips tight. ‘You should pick your friends more carefully.’
I gawp at her, not understanding. And then I realise she means Shane. I flush hot and cold, and I want to protest, tell her that he’s not my friend, but the bon-bon stops my tongue. She turns away and I crunch down hard, shards of lemon in my teeth, sticking in my throat.
Gingerbread men lie in rows on the cooling tray: neat ranks of soldiers, arms and legs touching. Our kitchen is full of the smell of ginger and risen dough, the windows misty with steam. My father is reading the paper in the sitting room with opera on the turntable. He’s turned the volume up. Foreign words vibrate through the house, bellowing voices filling every corner.
Mum is putting the baking things away, running water into the sink; she pushes the big bowl over to me with the wooden spoon.
I lean against the table and lick sweet, grainy dough from the spoon, and then stick my finger into the bowl and draw pale, greasy lines across the cool, ceramic inside. Mum smiles. ‘You’ve been doing that since you were a tiny thing.’
She glances out of the window. ‘Look bach,’ she beckons to me, her voice hushed. ‘The robins are back.’
We stand together, her hand finding mine, watching two birds
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