Being Lara (19 page)

“Why is she cross?”

“You're a big girl now, and I should have been straight with you. I should have told you the truth.”

“I better go and put the dress in the wash.” Dad's hand caught her arm.

“She isn't coming, Lara.”

“What do you mean she isn't coming?”

“She isn't coming … because she can't.”

“Why?”

“I don't know; she just can't today.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“No, Lara. Not tomorrow.”

“The next day?”

“Lara, listen, you must do as your mum says and go to bed or you'll be very tired tomorrow.”

“But why isn't she coming?” she persisted, unable to fathom what Dad was saying. He just sat there staring at her, unable to come up with an answer that made any semblance of sense.

“Lara…”

“Dad?”

“I'm sorry, but she isn't coming. Now, you must go to bed.”

Exhaustion plus sorrow made it harder to fight, so Lara walked slowly to her room, body limp with exhaustion and disappointment. And as she climbed into her bed that night and just before she closed her eyes, Lara's very own conclusions were the only ones to make any sense at that moment.

The Lady didn't want to come because of me.

She didn't want me.

She didn't care about me.

Lara sat up and pulled out a picture of a three-year-old with huge plaits sticking out from her head and sitting on a strange bed. Ever since Mum and Dad had given it to her, she'd kept it close, had even taken it to school sometimes when the bullying got a bit too much. Even though the Lady wasn't actually in the picture, Lara had always assumed she may have taken the picture or indeed was actually behind the person holding the camera. Either way, just having the picture near allowed her to feel close to the Lady, allowed her to feel that someone somewhere really far away was looking out for her and protecting her.

Now, the picture crumpled easily in the palm of her hand as anger fought with tiredness.

The damaged photo remained on the floor beside the bed, as Lara laid her head against the pillow, wiping away tears with the frilled sleeve of the polka-dot dress she wasn't quite ready to change out of, just in case the Lady decided to come, after all.

W
hen Lara was hurt, angry, or frustrated, she lurched from upset to acceptance in the space of a few short minutes, a bit of rebellion thrown in between and then a quick shrug of the shoulders as she toddled off to her room, soon forgetting what had upset her in the first place.

But post birthday party, this sequence would only be the beginning of a process. She'd then shut the bedroom door behind her, switch on the gray lamp, lie back on her bed, and just hate herself. Consumed with a feeling of “badness,” of “wrongness,” she used her forefinger to tap on the base of the lamp, even numbers only as those raw feelings continued to play out in her mind. Guilt. Fear. A cauldron of emotion mixed in her head and tipped into every crevice of her body. Guilt for being such a horrid little girl and fear of what may happen if she didn't count. She kept a running commentary in her head of how worthless she really was, as she tried so hard to think of anyone on this earth who really loved her and who truly gave a damn about her. In those moments of blurred reality, Mum and Dad would never pop into her head; there was just a void with no one and nothing in it. An intense feeling of loneliness. Of being utterly worthless. Unlovable. Pointless. Bad. Rotten.

Once the counting stopped, she'd lie on her bed until those thoughts also stopped whirling around her, by which time she'd feel a little better and Mum would call up the stairs yelling it was time for dinner. Of course, on the odd occasions that thoughts of Mum and Dad did manage to break through the barrier of negativity, Lara merely questioned their apparent love for her, not truly believing they actually felt anything for her at all, except perhaps pity. The same way Mum would sigh when yet another news report from Africa regarding hunger and war popped up on the screen—that's how they felt about her.

And one day, a moment of beautiful clarity finally reached her. A moment, which turned into a collection of words that Lara decided would define her for the rest of her life. Words she would live by, turn to, and believe in wholeheartedly. Words that would protect her in times of trouble and confusion.

It was only ever clever to trust yourself.

Never rely on anyone.

That way no one can ever, ever hurt you.

The first time Lara heard the N-word, it wasn't surprising. In fact, it seemed the most likely successor to “alien.”

She'd been walking the short distance to the sweetshop, across a small road, which led to the back of the railway station, past a baker's and tiny barber's shop adorned with pictures of men with sideburns. Lara's young mind was brimming with contemplation—whether to buy a bar of chocolate or perhaps some cola cubes with the last of her pocket money, wondering if she would make it back home in time for the start of her favorite television program. Then it all happened so quickly. The man, looking as if he hadn't washed in a week, was cloaked in rags and a strange, strong odor that followed him like a dusty cloud. He uttered or
slurred
one word with the power to stop Lara in her tracks and shift her thoughts to something a little bit more serious than sugar-coated cubes.

A word that began with “N.” Two syllables.
Nigger.

The humiliation felt strong as the “bad man” stumbled off into the distance, leaving in his wake a little girl wishing she'd at least sworn at him or said something horrid about his mum—done anything but stand in the mute shock that had accompanied his performance.

As she walked back home, forgetting the purpose of the original journey, Lara played back alternative endings in her mind. They all began and ended with her being victorious and not the silly little girl who went back to her room and blinked sixteen times in sets of four, until she felt a little better. Less humiliated. Less angry.

Lara really wanted to tell her parents about the smelly bad man. But Dad was at work and Mum was in the kitchen, poking the top of a slab of meat she'd just retrieved from the oven.

“I can never get the crackling right. Not like Mum,” she mumbled, slicing a knife in between the grooves of the belly of pork, surrounded by bubbling oil in the large oven dish.

“Mum…” began Lara.

“Just a sec, sweet pea,” she said, bending down to slide the dish back into the oven.

Mum wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Lara. “What is it, my love?”

Lara was unresponsive but felt Mum could suddenly tell something was wrong. They both sat down at the table.

“What is it?” asked Mum again, and Lara relayed the story, leaving out the part of the perpetrator being a man, slightly fearful Mum would never let her out on her own again. Instead she focused on the word and the fact that someone had used it against another person in the street.

“Oh, sweet pea…” said Mum, shifting her gaze, as if she didn't know what to say next—which in Lara's eyes was a ridiculous notion, as her mum and dad knew
everything
and should always have a correct answer for
everything.
“I am so, so sorry you had to hear that despicable word. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Mum's fussing continued. “Let me tell you a story,” she said as Lara prepared herself for the obvious words of comfort and understanding that were sure to continue.

“When I was a little girl… I had ginger hair.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That's right. And I'd get teased about it all the time. Even my own brothers would have a go—especially as I was the only red-head in the family.

“What I'm trying to say is, I was born with ginger hair and that is who I am. No one has the right to say bad things about it. I'm just the same as everyone else really—just with different-colored hair. Okay?”

“I think so…”

“Just like you or anyone of any color is beautiful. Do you understand? And if anyone ever tells you any different—you just let me know.” And with that last word, Mum grabbed Lara into a hug, almost suffocating her and staying in that position for longer than usual.

“Now you go and wash your hands for dinner—it'll be ready soon.”

Lara leaped off the chair, headed for the door, and then turned back around again. Something didn't feel right. She didn't feel any better—in fact, she may have felt a little worse.

“But Mum…”

“Yes, Lara.”

“You dye your hair.”

As Mum stared blankly at her, Lara suddenly realized her mother wasn't the all-knowing being Lara had once perceived her to be.

L
ittle Lara had been dreaming again.

Laughing with and stroking a succession of wild but friendly animals ranging from giraffes to hippos and tigers, she lived in a large mud hut with an Indesit washing machine in the middle of a jungle where everyone knew one another's names and the animals could sometimes speak.

“Lara, wake up or you'll be late for your first day at your new school!”

Rubbing her eyes open, she swung out of bed as soon as she heard Mum's footsteps approach the door.

“I've been calling you for ages,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry, Mum. I was having a dream.”

“Don't apologize for that. Dreams are good. What was it about?”

“Just stuff…” replied Lara, not wanting Mum to know she'd been dreaming of Africa again. It would only upset her. Or perhaps it wouldn't, but Lara couldn't take the risk. Besides, Africa wasn't where she wanted to be, so she wasn't actually sure why she kept thinking about the place. It was only a country, a place on a map, a place seen in some old movie like
Tarzan
. A place teachers sometimes spoke about at school but not very much … not enough, actually, because she was curious. Just a little bit curious about the country she was born in.

“Perhaps you're just nervous about your first day at secondary school today,” said Mum.

That part was true. At junior school, things weren't so bad for Lara. Connie Jones had soon tired of calling her names after Lara had smacked her on the side of her cheek, outside the toilet cubicles. And after discovering Connie's dad worked for immigration, the whole “alien” thing had taken on a whole new meaning anyway.

Lara really should have been excited about the prospect of secondary school, but apart from everything else, it would mean slowly and gently “introducing” her unusual setup to new classmates just as everyone in junior school had gotten used to seeing her walk in with a blond-haired mum with ginger roots. Now she would have to anticipate an unorderly queue of questions bound to be thrown her way.

“I remember my first day at secondary school. I was so nervous…” began Mum as she handed Lara a fresh towel. “But my mum, she soon put me straight… Said I was being silly…”

“You don't talk about your mum, my gran, much.”

Mum's smile straightened. “It's a long time ago now.”

Lara sat up. “What happened? Why don't you see her anymore?”

“Sweet pea, I told you, they live far away.”

“Mum—”

“Lara, drop it, okay? Just … leave it. We're all fine without them, aren't we?”

“Yes.”

“There you go then. Now get ready for school. You can't be late on your first day!”

Lara slipped into her boring gray school uniform, tapping the white fabric of her socks as she slid them up her legs. Running downstairs to grab breakfast, she was horrified to see Dad also getting ready.

“Hurry up, love, you don't want to be late on your first day,” he said.

Lara turned to Mum in quiet desperation, message received.

“Barry, she's eleven now … perhaps she'll want to go on her own?”

“Are you kidding? It's not safe out there—I mean, what if something happens?”

Mum dutifully moved over to Dad and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Barry, she'll be getting on a bus and going to school with Kieron, who will stay on the bus and watch her get off and then go to his school, farther up. We've already done the route—everything's okay.”

“A bus? That means it's quite far.”

“Just a few stops.”

“I'm not sure about this.” Dad's forehead wrinkled.

“I'll be okay, Dad.”

“How about I walk you to the bus stop, then?”

Again, Lara didn't want to upset Dad, but she also didn't feel ready for everyone to see them together just yet. Secondary school was a clean break and Dad was about to ruin everything. If she wasn't already eleven, she'd have cried herself into a tantrum and demanded to be left alone to go to school in peace. Instead she heard herself say, “I suppose it would be okay if we walked to the bus stop together.”