The Weight of Water (4 page)

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Authors: Sarah Crossan

BOOK: The Weight of Water
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Mama prods me.

Pushes me forward –

Me and my English.

 

‘We are looking for a man,’

Is all I can say

Because I am mesmerised by the puffy nipples

Poking through the holes in the man’s vest.

 

‘Do I look like some kind of poofter to you?

Get lost. Go on!’

He slams the door

In my face.

         
 Just once.

         
 HARD.

 

‘What’s a poofter, Mama?’ I ask.

 

‘A type of landlord, Kasienka,’ Mama says,

Very sure of her English.

 

II

 

The old lady wants to help.

She looks sorry

For not knowing more,

Tells us she will ask her friends

At Tuesday bingo

If they’ve seen Tata.

 

Her head rolls to one side,

Heavy with regret,

And this makes me feel

 

Very small.

 

III

 

There is no answer

At the next house,

Just drawn curtains

And a closed wooden door

With the paint peeling.

 

IV

 

When it gets dark,

I want to go home.

‘One more street, Kasienka,

Then home. I’ll make bigos,’ she says.

But Mama misunderstands.

When I say home, I don’t mean

The Studio.

 

V

 

She is too tired to make the bigos,

And throws together cheese sandwiches

For dinner instead.

Then she unfolds her map

And marks the streets we have searched.

‘It could take us for ever,’ I complain,

Though not too loudly,

For fear of pinching Mama’s mood.

‘You in a hurry to be somewhere else?’

Mama asks

And goes back to the map,

Leaving me to my pessimism and

French homework.

Kanoro

 

Kanoro lives in our building.

In the next room.

He shares a bathroom with Mama and me.

But he is not a nasty person:

         
 He is beautiful.

 

He is blacker than anyone I have ever met.

         
 Skin like

         
 Wet ink.

And he scares me,

Until he smiles:

         
 Pink,

         
 All gums,

A smile that makes his eyes twinkle.

 

In Kenya he was a doctor.

‘For children,’ he explains.

Again the smile,

         
 The gums.

         
 The twinkle.

In Coventry he is a cleaner

At a hospital,

Like Mama.

‘I like to work in hospitals,’ Kanoro says.

 

Mama laughs:

         
 ‘They think you are nothing,

These receptionist women and porter men.

But you are better than them;

You are a doctor,

And they don’t know it.

Ignorant English.’

 

Kanoro shakes his head

And like stars at dawn

The twinkle disappears.

‘It is Kanoro who is ignorant,

If he thinks he is better.

There is honour in all things,’ he says.

 

Mama winces, then smiles.

And in her smile there is an

         
 Inky glint.

When I Go Swimming Again

 

The staring boy is there,

Sitting on the tiles

With his feet in the water.

         
 Kicking.

 

I hurry to the other end of the pool,

         
 Head down,

         
 Hands hiding my chest,

         
 Planning to dive in,

         
 To save myself.

 

But somehow I stumble

         
         And fall,

Making a mighty

 

         
 SPLASH

 

That attracts too much attention.

Mistaken

 

When Mama said,

‘We’re going to England,’

 

I didn’t see myself

 

Alone.

 

I knew I’d be different,

Foreign.

I knew I wouldn’t understand

Everything.

 

But I thought, maybe, I’d be exotic,

 

Like a red squirrel among the grey,

 

Like an English girl would be in Gdańsk.

 

But I am not an English girl in Gdańsk.

I’m a Pole in Coventry.

 

And that is not the same thing

At all.

Group Work

 

Five foreigners in my class

And, very strange,

Quite coincidentally,

Teachers never put us

To work in the same groups.

 

Each group must be given

Its fair share of duds.

No need to overburden

One particular person.

 

This isn’t prejudice:

None of the smart ones

Ever end up together,

None of the dim kids either,

Or the noisy, naughty ones.

 

Teachers aren’t stupid.

But maybe they think we are,

When they pretend to make

Random selections.

 

The teachers who
do
let us choose

Make the mistake of thinking

Everyone will find a place;

 

But there are always

One or two of us,

Left sitting,

         
 Desperately scanning,

Hoping to be considered

By a group of unpopulars

With too few people

Before the teacher turns,

Detects the exclusion

And with a wagging finger says,

         
 ‘
You!
Work with
them
.’

 

There is eye rolling and chair scraping

As we shuffle forward,

Unwanted and misused,

Like old boots dragged

From a river.

William

 

The boy from the swimming pool,

The boy from Year Nine,

         
 The watcher,

Is called William.

 

He tells me I’m a mean swimmer

And should be on the school team.

 

I didn’t know there was a team,

But I should be on it,

         
 William says.

I’m mean,

         
 William says,

 

Pushing his hair

         
 Out of his eyes

         
 And hitching up his jeans

Which are slipping around his hips.

 

He doesn’t say much more –

         
 He just stares,

And this staring brings my dinner

Back into my throat:

Green beans and bacon.

I swallow it quickly.

And with twisted tongue tell him

I’m twelve,

Almost thirteen,

In case he thinks otherwise.

 

When I talk he looks at me

Like I am amazing

And then he says,


Why
are you in Year Seven?’

And I don’t want him to think

I’m stupid, so I have to say,

‘It’s because I’m Polish.

I’m in Year Seven because

I’m Polish.’

 

This is the truth

And yet, it is only

A small piece

Of it.

Small Secrets

 

I tell Mama about the swim team

But not about William.

 

‘No time for this, Kasienka,’

Mama says. ‘We have to find Tata.’

She points to the map

Pinned to the wall like ugly art.

 

I nod,
yes
, though I do not want to look for Tata –

Tata does not want to be found;

He is in hiding – he is hiding from us both,

A truth that makes me grind my teeth sometimes.

But I don’t tell Mama this,

Even when we’re searching.

Night after night,

 
Street after street,

         
One door at a time,

                 
And it’s raining,

                         
And I’m hungry,

                                 
And teary,

                                 
And tired,

Because hope is all Mama has.

And I cannot take it from her.

Drip Tap

 

There is a leaky tap in the kitchen,

         
 in our room, where we sleep.

 

All night it plays a rapping rhythm

         
 against the metal sink,

And Mama, next to me,

         
 murmurs along to its beat.

 

I want to get out of bed to tighten the tap,

         
 stop the dripping – the rapping-tapping.

It’s times like these Tata would be useful.

         
 He’d have a box of tools

And no fear about waking Mama

         
 to get the tap fixed,

         
 though she might grumble.

Meal Times

 

He uses sharp spices

Which we taste in our dinner

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