From Pasta to Pigfoot (12 page)

Gazing wistfully at the market scene depicted by the artist, she marvelled at the graceful figures of the market women walking along, their bodies swaying in synchronised rhythm, babies tied onto their backs with colourful cloths and large baskets balanced on their heads. The colours of the fruits and vegetables piled high in the woven cane hampers were so vivid that she could almost taste the sweetness of the mangoes and feel the fiery tang of the puffy red and green chilli peppers. The whole scene was bathed in the golden light of a scorching sun set in a cloudless blue sky.

Faye closed her eyes and felt herself transported into the picture; she felt the sultry heat on her skin, smelt the pungent aroma of spices, heard the squeals of little
children as they scampered between stalls chasing after errant chickens and the loud cries of the stall keepers sheltering from the sun under broad-brimmed straw hats.

Her reverie was broken by a knock at her door. She shook herself back to the present.

‘Come in!' she called, her eyes back on the painting. The sound of her father chuckling made her turn around sharply.

Dr Bonsu was smiling broadly and rubbing his hands together in glee, looking just like William after he had won a tough court case.

‘What have you been up to, Dad?' She grinned in amusement at the jubilation on her father's face. ‘You look like you've just won the lottery.'

‘Better than that, my dear', her father said with satisfaction. Chuckling again at the look of bewilderment on his daughter's face, he went on.

‘I've just finished a phone call to my very good friend, Fred Asante – I'm sure I have mentioned him to you before. Well, he lives in Ghana, as you know, and he assures me that he and his family would be delighted to have you as his guest as soon as you are ready.'

Faye looked even more baffled and her father added triumphantly, ‘My dearest Faye, it's all sorted. You're going to Ghana!'

Part Two

PIGFOOT

It is the highest of earthly honors to be descended from the great and the good
.

Ben Jonson

6

Cultural Landings

The chaos at the airport was unlike anything she had seen before. Faye had travelled several times: holidays in France and Spain with Caroline and a trip to New York with William after he passed his bar exams. But standing in the check-in line for the flight to Ghana, she couldn't believe that this was same Heathrow Airport she had used in the past. The line of passengers waiting to check in was far longer than she had ever seen and harassed-looking officials moved anxiously around the check-in counters, dodging increasingly irritated passengers with barely concealed impatience.

Shuffling forward in the interminable line, Faye was overwhelmed as much by the intense activity in the airport terminal as by the pace of events since her father's announcement ten days earlier. She could still hardly believe that she was finally off to visit the country of her birth, a place that only three weeks before she had regarded more as a distant dream than a living reality.

After her father's bombshell, Faye had spent the rest of the weekend in a daze. William, who was still racked with guilt at having been the catalyst that brought her and Michael together, had urged her to take advantage of the opportunity on offer.

‘You've hardly taken any time off this year, so why not spend a couple of weeks in the sun at Dad's expense
and
get your cultural identity sorted out while you're at it,' had been his pragmatic contribution.

She hadn't taken her holidays, Faye realised with a pang, in the vain hope that Michael would suggest that they go somewhere together. With the exception of a long weekend spent with Faye at a music festival in Cornwall at Easter, Caroline's holidays were now invariably spent with Marcus. Lucinda and William usually took short breaks once or twice a year and a longer holiday in the summer. But despite Faye's heavy hints, Michael had continually dodged the topic of a romantic getaway, insisting he was far too busy to take the time.

William's enthusiasm and Lottie's excitement about Mr Asante's invitation to Ghana notwithstanding, Faye had still felt inexplicably reluctant to go. Even Caroline's envious ‘You lucky thing – I'd love a free holiday in the sun!' hadn't swayed her. In the end, it was a conversation with Miss Mildred Truelove Campbell that made up her mind.

Since her revelations about her life in Jamaica, the two women had grown closer. Their tea breaks were often spent together in the shabby staff sitting room with Miss Campbell reminiscing about her youth and Faye listening transfixed to her stories of growing up on the far away island.

It was during one of those breaks early in the week that Faye had hesitantly told the older woman about her father's offer to pay for her to visit Ghana. Instead of the instant excitement that the news had produced in the others, Miss Campbell had sat deep in thought for several moments before speaking. ‘How do you feel about going? I must confess that if I were you, I'd probably be terrified!'

Faye gazed at her, stunned for a moment into silence. ‘How on earth did you know?' she asked finally, amazed at her perspicacity.

The older woman's smile was gentle. ‘Well, it's not too hard to imagine. You've been putting yourself under a great deal of pressure about your imagined alienation from your homeland, Faye.' The lilt in her accent seemed more pronounced to Faye these days. ‘Now you have the chance to go over and meet your people,' she added musingly, ‘you might well be worried about whether you will fit in and be accepted by them. Of course, it's also natural to worry about whether they might consider you to be a stranger and reject you – which would leave you feeling like neither fish nor fowl, so to speak.'

She paused and a look of sadness crossed her face. ‘I wonder sometimes whether I would still fit in if I were to go back to Jamaica. Although we speak to each other regularly, our lives have been so different since I left that even my beloved Millicent might now consider me a stranger, you know.'

It was the first time that Faye had acknowledged the real reason for her reluctance to snatch up the chance to go home. She was brooding over Miss Campbell's words
when the older woman gently patted her cheek.

‘But, you know, my dear,' she said with a teasing smile. ‘If you don't face your fear and take this chance, you will always wonder what you would have found. You're not an old lady like me, Faye. Go on, visit your country and find out where you come from so that no one can ever make you doubt who you are again.'

It was after that discussion that Faye found herself asking Junior for three weeks off. Riddled with anxiety at the thought of his working life without Faye, her boss reluctantly agreed, finally persuaded by Miss Campbell's offer to supervise a temp to cover for her.

Taking advantage of her newly discovered courage, she had also finally phoned Michael. She had ignored his calls since the night at the restaurant and dreaded the thought of speaking to him. Just as she thought the call was going to his voicemail, he answered, his voice icy as he said ‘Hello'.

‘Michael – we need to talk,' she said bluntly, avoiding the usual niceties.

Taken aback by her directness, Michael didn't answer straight away. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice sounding cautious. ‘Talk about what?'

Faye sighed in irritation and resisted the urge to cut off the call. ‘Michael, you can't possibly believe that things are okay between us – not after what happened last Friday?'

The exasperation in her voice quickly drew a response.

‘Well,' he replied coolly, a note of annoyance now creeping into his tone. ‘If I remember right, you didn't behave yourself too well when I took you out. You really shamed me
in front of my friends with the way you behaved.'

Her outrage at this statement literally took her breath away and for a moment she couldn't speak.

‘You
were shamed…!' she finally squeaked in indignation. ‘How the hell do you take me out to dinner, bring along your ex-girlfriend –
who
I might add, you've slagged off all the time I've known you – and then spend all evening flirting with the... the… silly cow right under my nose!'

‘Jasmine is
not
a silly cow, don't be so stupid!' Michael's voice was cold.

‘No, you're right, she's not a silly cow,' Faye shot back, stung at being called stupid. ‘She's – what was it you always called her when I first met you? – “an ungrateful bitch!”'

The silence on the line told her she had hit home and when he spoke, he used a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, Faye, I can't deny that she and I have had our issues in the past, but she's a very intelligent woman and if you were to take the time to get to know her, she could teach you a lot about Afro-Caribbean culture.'

‘Well, I could teach her a lot about manners!' Faye countered, a surge of pure rage rushing through her as Michael continued to defend Jasmine. ‘And that includes not draping yourself all over your ex-boyfriend when
his
girlfriend is around.'

She paused as a new thought suddenly struck her. ‘That is, of course, assuming she
knew
I was your girlfriend? You didn't tell her, did you? Why, Michael – were you hoping to get back with her again?'

Her suspicion was confirmed by the long pause at his end. The sheer audacity of his behaviour had her
literally hopping with rage with her phone clenched tightly in her palm. Then suddenly, in an instant, her anger evaporated. In its place, she felt nothing except, strangely, an overwhelming sense of relief.

Her voice was calm and slow. ‘Michael, we are
so
finished.'

For the first time in the conversation, she detected a note of alarm in his voice.

‘Faye, don't you think you are overreacting?'

This time she was the one who remained silent. Clearing his throat, he continued, now openly pleading. ‘Okay, fine, maybe I should have mentioned who Jasmine was – and, you're right, I should have told her I was with you. The truth is I saw her a couple of weeks ago for the first time since we broke up and, well… I didn't get a chance to mention it to you. Look, there's nothing going on between me and her. So maybe I wanted her to see what she was missing by letting me go, and maybe I got a bit carried away – but it's nothing to get upset about. You know how special you are to me! The important thing here is that I really think she could be helpful in introducing you to more of our culture. I mean, seriously Faye,' he went on unguardedly, ‘look at how you went ordering pasta – in a Jamaican restaurant, for God's sake! What on earth do you think they thought of you?'

As she listened to him dismissing her feelings, Faye could just picture him standing there with his impeccable cornrows, soulful eyes and fashionable clothes. Beneath all his cultural double-talk, what she now saw was complete heartlessness. A line from a poem she had learned in
school floated into her mind.
A brain of feathers and a heart of lead. Yes
, she thought,
that was certainly Michael
.

The pause lengthened and she realised that he was still waiting for her answer.

‘What do
I
think they thought of me? Frankly, Michael, I don't give a crap about what they – or you – think about me any more. You're right, I am stupid, or at least I was. Stupid enough to think that you were worth hanging onto when all you've ever done is talk down to me and treat me like some kind of pet project. Seriously, Michael, you should
hea
r yourself! Who the hell goes out with someone so they can
educate
them?'

She cut him off as he started to speak. ‘Michael, you know what? I don't want to hear anything you've got to say. You and Jasmine are welcome to each other because if anyone hasn't learned their lesson, it's you. So good luck when the ungrateful bitch dumps you again!'

It was after that call that she had finally asked her father to accept Mr Asante's invitation. During her lunch break she had booked her flights and at home that evening, had rummaged through her wardrobe in a frantic search for clothes suitable for the tropics.

Now, as she slowly inched forward in the never-ending queue to check in her large suitcase, she started once again to feel the pangs of apprehension she had suppressed since her conversation with Miss Campbell. She looked around for her father, who had offered to drive her to the airport and then promptly disappeared once she had taken her place in the queue. Just then, his well-groomed salt-and-peppered head came into view.

‘Dad, have you seen the amount of luggage some people are taking?' Faye whispered incredulously. Directly in front of them, a young couple had two trolleys, each laden with a wobbling tower of suitcases, canvas tote bags and cardboard boxes firmly secured with masking tape. The woman was carrying a handbag on top of an even larger shoulder bag, while trying to push a smaller wheeled suitcase that was clearly intended to be her hand luggage. Her partner held a large red and white striped bag that was so heavy that rather than carry it, he simply pushed it forward with his feet.

Dr Bonsu chuckled as he nudged Faye's trolley forward.

‘It never changes. When Ghanaians are returning home, they always take huge amounts of luggage. It's almost a ritual for people to try and get away with more than their baggage entitlement.'

Looking at his watch and at the queue of people in front of them, the doctor sighed and shook his head in apology. ‘Faye, my dear, I'm afraid I will have to leave now – I have a conference call scheduled for this afternoon that I have to get back for.'

Faye shrugged, trying to hide her sudden panic at being left alone. Forcing a smile, she hugged her father tightly and kissed his cheek.

‘It's okay, Dad,' she said lightly. ‘I'll manage. I'm a grown woman, don't forget.' She nodded towards the queue with a wry grin. ‘And, judging by the speed this queue is moving, I'm going to be a lot older before I leave London.'

He kissed her warmly on both cheeks and, after checking once again that she had Mr Asante's phone number in case
of any problems, he set off back to the car park.

As she continued her slow shuffle forward, Faye looked with interest at her fellow travellers and slowly felt her panic receding. She realised with wonder that it was the first time in years that she had been surrounded by so many people of her own skin colour. By the time she reached the check-in counter and dropped her suitcase on the conveyor belt, a glow of excitement had begun to burn in the pit of her stomach.

Once she had checked in her suitcase, Faye wandered into the newsagents for some magazines and mints before striding through to the departure lounge. She had worn her favourite black trousers for the flight with a white cotton vest and a lightweight linen jacket. Her black leather duffle bag was slung over one shoulder while her hair, now free from the attentions of
Sharice of Streatham
, had reverted to its usual straightened bob and was held back from her smooth high cheekbones by a pair of smoky sunglasses perched on her head.

Her flight was displayed on the departure screen as ready to board and she followed the signs to the departure gate, her sense of adventure growing with every step. At the gate, she showed her passport and boarding pass again to the flight staff and edged her way around toddlers, pushchairs and large sharp-edged boxes masquerading as hand luggage, until she found a seat in an empty corner of the rapidly filling lounge.

It was not quiet for long. The sharp nudge of an elbow in her side jolted her out of her reverie.

‘Oh! I'm so sorry, my sister!' The young man who had
slipped into the hard bucket seat next to hers exclaimed apologetically as he slid a large tote bag securely between his legs.

‘That's okay,' Faye muttered automatically, rubbing gently on the injured spot. She picked up one of her magazines and flipped to an article on how to check if your partner was still in love with you.