Читать книгу The Other Half of Augusta Hope - Joanna Glen - Страница 16

The stuffing was falling out of my mother.

When Douce came running out of the hut, shrieking, I knew.

I wasn’t brave enough to face what I knew.

Not again.

So I ran up to Víctor’s house, and we zoomed back down the hillside, with me on the back of his bike, my long legs sticking out either side. As I looked at Víctor’s strong back in front of me, his prominent shoulder blades, his thick white-skinned neck and his mop of grey hair, I felt that perhaps this time, this time, it was all going to be OK.

But by the time we got into the hut, the feeling started to dissolve. Because Gloria and Douce and Wilfred and Zion were all sitting in a semi-circle, and in front of them was my mother. It was, in some ways, my mother, but she looked like an empty sack.

Breathe, I thought, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

I remembered the feel of her skin on my cheek.

The softness of her.

Zion got up.

‘She’ll be with Pa,’ he said, clenching his fingers, then stretching them out. ‘Isn’t that a good thing, that she’ll be with Pa? That they’ll be together.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, and I wiped away my own tears as fast as they fell because I was the oldest and I had to be brave.

‘Yes, Little Bro,’ I said, trying to find a smile from somewhere, ‘she’ll be right there where there’s a huge river, and trees with fruit every month – do you remember? – and leaves for the healing of the nations.’

‘Leaves don’t heal nations,’ said Pierre, coming in through the open door. ‘Leaves don’t do anything.’

‘Except photosynthesis,’ said Zion.

Zion remembered everything I taught him. He listened to me like I’d listened to my father, and this steadied me. He loved me much more than the others did, and this gave me purpose. If he was beside me, it was worth going on.

‘Yes, Zion,’ said Víctor. ‘Your mother’s crossed over to the eternal city.’

‘Like my name!’ said Zion.

‘Like your name!’ said Víctor. ‘And she’ll be dancing down its golden streets with your father.’

‘What do you think it was?’ Pierre said to Víctor, crossly, sounding as if he couldn’t stand hearing another thing about the golden streets. ‘The thing that killed her?’

‘It could have been cholera,’ said Víctor.

‘Could the doctor have saved her?’ I asked Víctor.

Víctor put his arm around my shoulder.

Pierre said, ‘Well, could he?’ in that voice he had that made me feel as if everything that happened in our lives was my fault.

‘Oh, cholera’s a tricky one,’ said Víctor.

Then, he dug a hole, and each one of us in turn thanked God for our little bird mother, Aurore, whose name meant dawn. We gathered around the hole where she lay, and as Víctor filled it up with red earth, he led us in singing, Freedom is coming, freedom is coming, freedom is coming, oh yes I know!

Except Pierre walked off in the middle.

I understood.

Freedom didn’t seem to be coming at all.

The more the years passed, the less free we felt.