Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea Read Free Page A

are you?’ I say in my most imperious voice, affronted by her boldness. How dare she approach me unbidden. This one definitely fits the shifty category and I take a firmer grip on my bag.
    â€˜I’m your mummy,’ she says. ‘Come in and have a cup of tea.’
    I am flabbergasted and stand there staring at her. My mother! I glare at this impertinent woman. My mum can’t possibly be shoe-polish black like this and my mum hasn’t laid eyes on me for twenty-five years so how could this black pretender make such a ludicrous claim. And I’m disappointed by the tame response. I’ve read how they all start wailing and prostrate themselves on the ground when a lost member of the tribe returns but she certainly isn’t showing any signs of doing that. I take in the scruffy-looking houses and dry grass. Suddenly that shithole Darwin looks a whole lot brighter than it did an hour ago. I decide to play along with things until I work out what to do next.
    We enter the house and I’m surprised to see that there’s absolutely nothing inside. The room is devoid of furnishings and fittings, with just a bare lino-covered floor. I am instructed to sit down while she disappears into a side room, presumably to make the tea. I sit on the floor but I’m not liking this, it is dirty and I’m careful to keep my hands in my lap so I don’t touch anything that might have germs. The tea is presented to me in what appearsto be a small metal bucket that doesn’t look like it’s ever been washed. I’m worried about who might have had their mouth and hands on it last and look for the cleanest spot from which to drink. There isn’t one. She is drinking out of a corned beef tin and I wonder if she’s a bit loopy and this is some strange practice of hers or she’s poor and doesn’t have another cup. I can feel her watching me so I take a deep breath and then a swig. The tea tastes like shit and wild thoughts of herpes and E.coli swirl around in my brain but I manage to get the mouthful down and the next. I think of the old bat in her twin-set sipping her Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe and feel a momentary pang of nostalgia.
    When she’s not looking at me, I inspect this woman who is supposed to be my real mother but I’m still not convinced. Apart from her being as black as the ace of spades her nose is much larger than mine and she bears absolutely no resemblance to me at all, and she’s short. She is wearing a skirt patterned with blue flowers and a mismatching pink top with a peace sign on it while a beige petticoat with lacy trim peeks out from underneath. Although she is better endowed than I am she isn’t wearing a bra which seems a bit incongruous considering she’s modestly wearing a petticoat. I wonder if she wears step-ins to keep her guts flat like the old bag back home. I decide I must try to find my real mother tomorrow.
    I think the woman masquerading as my mother has sensed my discomfort at our seating arrangements and she suggests we go outside under the tree. This is better, sand has been spread out under the shady branches of an African mahogany and despite the austere surrounds it’s really quite pleasant here. We sip our tea and make small talk about nothing in particular while we discreetly size each other up. Meanwhile I have devised a way of pouring the tea into my mouth instead of placing my mouth on the rim of the cup, in the hope that without direct contact I have eliminated a potential source of bacteria. And if there are any germs floating around in the tea my stomach acids will take care of them. I dig my toes into the sand and in doing so suddenly remember our mother’s warning about cats and their fondness for shitting in kids’ sandpits. This is why I was never allowed to have one.
    â€˜Do you have a cat?’ I ask tentatively.
    â€˜Oh no, just them,’ she replies, indicating a group of dogs nearby. I breathe