The Weight of Water (2 page)
Read The Weight of Water Online
Authors: Sarah Crossan
‘It’s just one room,’ I say,
When what I mean is
We can’t live here
.
‘It’s called a
studio
,’
Mama tells me,
As though a word
Can change the truth.
Mama stands by the dirty window
With her back to me
Looking out at the droning traffic,
The Coventry Ring Road.
Then she marches to the kitchen and
Plugs in the small electric kettle.
She boils the water
Twice,
And makes two mugs of tea.
One for her,
One for me.
‘Like home,’ she says,
Supping the tea,
Staring into its blackness.
Mama found the perfect home for
A cast-off laundry bag.
Yes.
But not a home for us.
Mrs Warren asks, ‘Do you speak English, dear?’
Crouching down,
Resting her hands on her knees
As though summoning a spaniel.
Her voice is loud
And clear,
Her tongue pink
and rolling.
I nod and Mrs Warren smiles,
Then sighs,
Relieved.
‘So what’s your name, dear?’ Mrs Warren asks,
And I’m glad, because I was afraid she had mistaken
Me for someone called Dear,
And that I would have to
Respond to that name
For ever.
‘My name is Kasienka,’ I say,
embarrassed to use my
crooked English.
Mrs Warren stands up straight
and stretches her back.
She sighs,
Again,
And ridges appear on her brow.
She looks at Mama
then back at me.
‘Well . . . Cassie, welcome!’
I want to point out her mistake,
Give her a chance to say my
Name properly.
But Mama touches my shoulder.
A clear caution.
‘We’ll start you in Year Seven
And see how that goes.’
I am twelve.
Almost thirteen.
I’ve budding breasts and
Monthly bleeds,
But I am in a class with
Eleven-year-olds.
Mama isn’t troubled.
Until I learn to read
Austen in the original
I should stay with the
Younger ones, she says.
But Mama is wrong.
Some of them have never even heard of Austen.
I understand numbers
Better than anyone in Year Seven.
The planets too.
In lessons I have to
Hide my face
With a book
So teachers
Don’t see my tonsils
When I yawn.
I don’t read well
In English.
That is all I can’t do.
So they put me in with eleven-year-olds.
There is a bell,
A pealing chime to signal
When everyone moves.
We are ruled by its
shrillness
.
Like sleepwalkers we stand
When it clangs
And return to silence
At its command.
Teachers try to lead the processions:
‘
I
will decide when the lesson ends,’ they insist.
But they cannot compete
With The Bell.
Polish words bounce about the classroom
And it should feel good to hear it but
I try not to listen;
Two boys in my class are saying things a girl
Should not hear
If she is any kind of
Lady.
They laugh, loudly, because the teacher
Is right there listening,
Not understanding,
Thinking they are being
Good
When really they are being
Horrible,
When really they are talking about
Her chest.
Konrad winks and wields his tongue
As though he would like to lick me.
But he is only eleven; he is doing his best
To shock,
And I know that if I flirted with him
Even a little,
He would probably be
Terrified.
The brown children
Play with the white children.
The black children
Play with the brown children.
They charge at one another
Hands up, like antlers,
Hitting and howling.
I’m not welcome to play.
The reason: I’m too white.
No one likes too-white,
Eastern white,
Polish winter white,
Vampire-fright white.
Brown is OK – usually.
But white is too bad.
At lunch time
I hide
In the corner
Of the yard
By a drinking fountain
Hoping only to be
Left alone.
It’s the best to hope for
Among all the raised antlers.
Mama took a job
In a hospital.
Until we find Tata
We will be poor.
We will need the money.
Mama’s job is to clean and carry.
She doesn’t have to speak to
Anyone.
Mama’s long vowels scare
The older patients.
They’d prefer to hear
A familiar, imperial voice
Than know a Pole is
Bringing them breakfast.
On her first day
A woman with crust in her face
Asks Mama where she’s from,
And when Mama tells her,
The crusty creature snarls and says,
‘I’d like someone English,’
Politely adding, ‘
Please
.’
Mama doesn’t have to speak to
Anyone
Usually.
In fact, they would rather she didn’t.
She just has to clean and carry.
‘Please.’
Mama goes to the library
To check the internet.
She thinks
Google might know where
Tata is.
But it doesn’t.
When she types in Tata’s name,
Google spits back
Thousands of hopeless links.
Poor Mama is too tired to cook
When she returns from her
Trip to the library,
So I make dinner:
Porridge with raisins and honey.
We eat in stodgy silence,
Ignoring each other
As best we can
In the small room,
Though I don’t know why.
At ten o’clock
Mama lets me have the bed
To myself,
Then trickles in
An hour later.
Her feet are cold,
And she is shivering.
Mama sniffs.
‘Are you sick, Mama?’
She doesn’t speak.
She pretends to be asleep.
But as a car trundles by outside,
I make out, in the gloom,
The flash of a tear
On the side of Mama’s face.
And though I want to console her,
I can’t think how,
Without making her mad.
There are nasty people in our building.
Mama tells me not to talk to
Anyone,
Or look at
Anyone,
Especially when she’s at work.
If they stop me on the stairs,
Or try to get into the room,
I’m to pretend I don’t speak English
‘Because there are nasty people here.’
They are not English people.
English people do not live in this building –
It could not be home for them
Because they wouldn’t fit here,
In a place infested with aliens.
Sometimes we hear children squalling
And small dogs barking,
Then yelping and whining
Long into the night.
A man shouts:
MUTT. MUTT
.
And I wonder if he is shouting
At a dog or a child.
One night a barbarian knocks
When Mama is singing.
Her eyes are shut
And she jumps
When the pounding fist
Thunders against the door.
‘No noises!’ he shouts.
‘Against rules here!’
Mama storms to the door,
Opens it brandishing her sheet music –
The Barber of Seville
–
To prove her singing
Isn’t noise.
‘Against house rules!’
The man shouts again,
His face a knot.
Mama gasps,
Presses a hand to her heart
And bangs the door
shut.