Black British Read Free Page B

soundboard.
    â€œI helped, Daddy,” I boasted to my father. “I used the watering can you gave me for my birthday to water the fishbones.”
    But my father wasn’t interested in ferns. “You mustn’t go outdoors during the day. Remember Mrs Farelli! You must stay with Mummy.” I wasn’t too young to learn the connection between death and the summer sun.
    While the weather in June was murderous we knew that one day, abruptly, the loo winds would vanish, leaving behind a greater horror – humidity, as well as heat. People got small pimply rashes called prickly-heat, in the folds of their elbows, in wrinkles of skin around their necks and in other unmentionable areas where sweat collected. The itch was unbearable.
    â€œOffer it up,” Lorraine and Lily mimicked the nuns at school. “Offer your itch to God to atone for your sins.”
    It was the only consolation the nuns gave their students but at home our mother dusted rose-scented powder to alleviate the chafing and for this small luxury we said Thank you, God, knowing it was more than most people received.
    At church, silent as church mice, we watched people. I heard Lorraine whisper to Lily, their heads together as they shared a prayer book, “Mr Jachu’s got bum rash. See the way he’s wriggling his bottom. He’s trying to scratch without actually scratching.”
    They giggled in naughty helplessness until my mother’s stern eye pulled them into line. She knew the congregation wasn’t interested in their opinion of Mr Jachu’s discomfort and perhaps Mr Jachu wouldn’t appreciate a broadcast on his posterior movements.
    We needed the monsoons to break this awful stalemate, heavy downpours that would saturate our parched land and resurrect life. So we waited patiently for the torrential rains that would bring instant, luscious, green magic; that would fill ravines and gullies; that would join our river to rush into floodplains and lay a thick layer of humus where we would plant crops the following year.
    We knew if the monsoons failed it would be a catastrophe for everyone; it meant crops withered, animals died, people starved and life was heart-breaking. Our dependence on the monsoons was innate. It lay deep in our souls, at the absolute core of our being, making us who we were.
    With hope in our hearts, as though the combined strength of our longing would bring rain, we focused on the darkening sky. But time and again promises were broken and, like people the world over who live in searing hot climates, we were left shattered and hotter than before.
    In July, when the monsoons arrived, all was forgiven. With the first downpour the local people rushed into the streets, fully dressed, to immerse themselves in celebration of this annual miracle. We were no different. Stripped down to thick cotton petticoats that allowed freedom of movement and at the same time satisfied society’s requirement to preserve our female modesty, (even though we were only eight, six and four years old), we dashed out.
    Our house had no guttering as in modern houses. Instead, strategically placed tin spouts channelled rain to the ground, making forceful, fast flowing waterfalls, ideal places for a rain bath.
    â€œI’m singing in the rain,” carolled Lorraine as she cavorted around trying to emulate Gene Kelly. It wasn’t long before all of us were splattered with mud. But that didn’t matter as ready-made showers of warm, therapeutic water were part of the magic.
    The monsoons also encouraged earthworms to make their annual journey to the surface – large, luxurious, soil-enhancing earthworms. For many years Lily and I collected them, Lorraine having outgrown this childish game. We competed over who found the largest.
    â€œMine’s bigger than yours,” and it was an earthworm I was talking about.
    â€œHow big is it?” my mother asked and so started my first lesson in feet and