Chapter 12
Being young and dependent, I held on to an inner hope that one day
soon, loving familiar faces would appear and whisk me away. But the
longer I lived up in the roof space with my new brother and two sisters, the
more we bonded together and needed each other. I started to realise that
the idea of simply leaving this place and returning to my old life was becoming
a fantasy. I was changing, and this new existence was seeping into me. As
with our pet wolf some years back, which initially had been wild, unpredictable
and free, but later came to eat out of my hand, so too I became biddable, and
eager to please.
As my knowledge of the new language developed, so I started
to have that definitive experience of dreaming in my new tongue. At first
I would wake with a start, and have to slap my face and repeat all my different
names off over and over to myself, trying desperately to recall each face.
But the faces that became familiar were the ones about me. Even
'back turning' Kinti, with her sad mournful eyes, began to mean a lot to me.
Every morning we were up early, not woken with the smile and gentle
stroke of my big sister, but with the shouts from the kitchens, and banging on
a large caldron. "Get up you lazy kids, get down
here." There was no morning washing ritual, or peaceful meditation.
No warm encouraging words, or unifying sense of a community about you
rejoicing in simply being alive. We knew what was expected of us.
The first job was to rush round the large dining room, over which our
sleeping balcony was slung. Down we came on a long wild pole, steps
evenly notched into its sides. The place was invariably a tip. Beer
mugs, half eaten carcasses of meat, and hideous piles of vomit. Sometimes
the mess's creator might be found, slumped on a bench, head right in the
stinking mess. We scurried down to the sea and drew up buckets of sea
water with which we used to slews down all the tables’ benches and floors.
I would go and find the more friendly of our two cooks called Roti, and
bring her in to deal with the drunken brutes, who as sleeping dogs, hadn't made
it home. She was masterful at getting them on to their feet, with cooing,
coaxing words that made them think that their darling mothers had come and
taken them to their breast. Once outside, she gave them a gentle nudge, and they
generally collapsed once again in a heap. With the dining hall slopped
out and smelling of the sea, we brought in wood to stoke up the embers of the
fire from the night before. Then we sat together, especially on a cold
morning, close to each other and the enlivened flames. Our friendly cook
would bring up our morning porridge. This moment in the day was the best for
me. No adults other that Roti, would be around. She joined us, always
sitting close to Kinti. I felt they must be from the same tribe as they
shared similar features. Kinti seemed at last relaxed, and even ventured
to look my way. But this was a brief moment of peace. Very soon our daily
duties kicked in, and along with it the kicking that occurred if anything was
felt to be a miss, or not a miss. If we had had a cat, I guess I
might have kicked it. This was the way we lived.
Our diner was often the first place sailors from all over the
known world would come. Straight into our bar, ordering tankards of beer,
with colourful language, and coins from every realm. We were fascinated
by the sight of all this strange money, though we were forbidden to touch it.
Seeing these exotic pictures on these small discs reminded me that
perhaps I might meet one of my compatriots, fresh from a far off place. I
knew some of the sailors who came our way were slaves, or perhaps freed slaves,
because each slave, and we were no exception, had a notch cut out of their ear.
This had happened to me as we left Jokou. It was a permanent reminder that
everything has changed in my life. But I did not see anyone I knew, and
my language, not even a lilt, came past my ears. All day we took orders,
scurried between benches, avoided being trodden on, and carried heavy loads.
Some of the sailors were kindly, and tried to pat our heads. Others
were distinctly dangerous, we looked out for each other, warning each other to
be careful and avoid groping hands. The work went on unrelentingly day
after day, always the same. Often too exhausted to talk, our main comfort
was to lean against each other and sometimes hold each other. We would
save choice morsels of food from the tables, and share them together.
Some kind sailors might press coins into our hands. It was
forbidden that we should have any money. If we were seen, the coins would
be handed over dutifully to the manager, who with a scolding frown, would
ungraciously snatch at the money. When no one was looking, and some
sailors knew what they were doing, that money would be hidden high in the roof
of the building. We had not a clue of how much we had been given, but we
knew this was important stuff, and might be useful to us some day. Then
one day, Kinti's enigmatically secretes began to be revealed.
That day, our nemesis, Baralard, the violent objectionable cook
that made Roti appear like an angel, did not appear. There were no
curses, or great banging of the caldron. Instead Roti's head poked up
from the ladder pole. She had a bright excited face. She explained
that she and Kinti were sisters. That Baralard was unwell today.
She looked at each one of us in the face and encouraged us not to give up.
She knew we were going to be alright. She and Kinti had a plan.
We were all to be saved. Then the manager arrived and Roti was
unceremoniously pulled down from the pole by a leg. She got a harsh
slapping, bruising her eye, and was banished to the kitchens. No porridge
that day, but we had had a different form of sustenance. The manager
could pick up on something, and things became more rough. But then life went
back to its usual tedious pattern, though not quite the same. My bond with
Kinti was sealed. I knew she trusted me, and I was now on the inside.
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