The Weight of Water

Drip Tap

  There is a leaky tap in the kitchen,

  in our room, where we sleep.

  All night it plays a rapping rhythm

  against the metal sink,

  And Mama, next to me,

  murmurs along to its beat.

  I want to get out of bed to tighten the tap,

  stop the dripping – the rapping-tapping.

  It’s times like these Tata would be useful.

  He’d have a box of tools

  And no fear about waking Mama

  to get the tap fixed,

  though she might grumble.

  Meal Times

  He uses sharp spices

  Which we taste in our dinner

  Through the walls.

  Mama invites Kanoro

  To eat with us,

  To share our evenings.

  Sometimes he brings his bright rice

  with him.

  And he always brings his smile and

  Twinkling eyes.

  Wanted

  Mama is wasting money

  We don’t have.

  She prints posters

  With Tata’s picture on it

  And the word MISSING.

  She makes one hundred copies

  On purple paper,

  So people will notice them

  Stapled to the trees

  Around Coventry.

  They are like wanted posters,

  But Tata is not a criminal.

  They are like posters people

  Put up when they’ve lost a cat,

  But Tata is not an animal.

  I’m embarrassed for him

  In case he is living in Coventry

  And doesn’t want to be found –

  Like some criminal or animal.

  When we’ve put up

  half the posters

  I tell Mama

  it’s enough.

  Her mouth becomes a hard line.

  She snatches the pile of papers from me.

  ‘Kasienka, do you know

  That you are useless?’ she snaps.

  The answer to this question is

  YES:

  I know.

  I am useless.

  Examinations

  They have come up with a

  Civil way for saying we are slow,

  But it all means the same thing:

  I get extra time because

  I have special needs.

  No one wants to be special at school.

  I simply want to be the same as everyone else.

  No one wants to have special needs.

  In the maths exam I don’t need the extra time –

  Finishing the paper is as easy as

  Finishing a plateful of raspberries.

  I have an hour left over

  Which annoys the invigilator

  Marking his own exams.

  ‘Read over your workings,’ he grumps.

  But I don’t.

  I don’t need to read over

  Anything.

  Because I don’t have special needs.

  And I’m not eleven.

  Novice

  I teach Kanoro chess.

  He doesn’t even know

  Where the pieces sit.

  So we take our time

  Setting up the board,

  Making our moves,

  Watching for mistakes

  And ignoring the clock.

  We are competitive,

  And we are generous.

  Kanoro wins game three –

  Checkmate.

  He laughs, his mouth a wide

  Sunlit cavern.

  And Mama laughs too,

  Lips barely parted,

  Her nostrils giving it away,

  And her eyes, which,

  For a moment,

  Lower their longing,

  And seem to see

  Me clearly.

  Mama offers to restore

  The family pride –

  Takes my seat

  And lines up her troops.

  ‘I’m a lucky man,’ Kanoro says,

  Looking closely at the squares

  On the chess board,

  And I don’t know if he’s

  Talking about his win

  Or something else entirely.

  Christmas

  Babcia arrives carrying two heavy suitcases,

  Though she’s only staying one week.

  She doesn’t like Coventry

  at all:

  It’s too warm to be winter and

  No one speaks Polish.

  ‘Why don’t they try?’ Babcia bleats.

  Mama points a finger at Babcia –

  ‘You don’t speak English, Mama.

  Only a little Russian.

  Why don’t you try?’

  Babcia sniffs –

  ‘I’m an old woman,’ she says

  and Mama smiles.

  Babcia tells Mama to come home.

  ‘For the New Year concerts.

  For the skiing.’

  Mama turns her back on Babcia

  And continues with the cooking.

  Babcia sings as she sews,

  Old parsnip fingers guiding the thread.

  She quilts patchwork bedcovers

  From old shirts and skirts –

  Clothes no one wants

  Babcia turns into magic.

  Kanoro comes to dinner

  On Christmas Eve

  And Babcia shrieks –

  ‘So so black!’

  in Polish of course.

  Mama frowns and we sit to eat.

  We sing carols,

  Eat boiled ham,

  Open small boxes

  Wrapped in bows,

  And it is good enough.

  Mama’s Mama

  In Poland, Mama and Babcia

  Didn’t argue. They were on the

  Same side.

  The opposite side

  To Tata.

  In England, Mama gets prickly

  Whenever Babcia

  Mentions Tata

  Or complains about him.

  Mama gets prickly about

  A lot of things.

  She won’t let Babcia

  Help in the kitchen

  With the cooking,

  Won’t let her mend the curtains

  Which are ripped and frayed,

  Or take me shopping

  For new goggles.

  ‘She’s my daughter.

  I can buy her what she needs,’

  Mama says, though this is a lie.

  Mama is always annoyed with Babcia,

  But Babcia hasn’t done anything wrong

  That I can see.

  The night before Babcia leaves

  I am in Kanoro’s room

  Watching television

  When the squabbling soaks through the wall.

  ‘You must think of the child, Ola.

  You come back to Poland

  When you find him.

  It isn’t fair on the child.

  Let me take her home.’

  ‘Her home is with me, Mama.

  I can take care of her. Don’t

  You see how happy she is?’

  ‘Are you blind, you mule?

  You live in a dump.

  Her only friend is that black man.’

  ‘He is a good man.’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘He is a doctor.’

  ‘You are pigheaded.’

  ‘Pigheaded, Mama,

  Is better than old

  And ignorant.’

  ‘Lord have Mercy!’

  I shoot Kanoro a look,

  Embarrassed,

  Wishing he hadn’t heard,

  Wishing the walls were stronger,

  When I remember he can’t

  Understand the Polish they are using.

  And I am grateful.

  I do not want to go back to the

  room.

&nb
sp; I do not want to choose

  Between Mama

  And Babcia.

  But when dinner is ready

  Mama knocks on the wall, as usual,

  And there is no more

  Quarrelling in the room.

  They make an excellent effort

  To pretend everything is well.

  Snow Meal

  When they say it might snow

  I sit by the window,

  My fingertips pressed against glass,

  Waiting.

  I know it’s childish,

  But I want to

  Build a tubby snowman,

  A man with button eyes

  And a long carrot nose.

  Kanoro watches with me;

  He’s never seen snow

  And never built a snowman,

  So we’ll make it

  Together –

  And it will remind me of home

  For the few hours it lives.

  When they say it might snow

  We sit by the window,

  Our fingertips against glass,

  Waiting.

  Suddenly a scattering

  Of children emerges

  And dance to silent music

  Together in the street.

  A few flakes are falling.

  They melt into the ground

  Like stones thrown into a lake.

  Kanoro pulls on my elbow.

  ‘Let’s go. It’s snow!’ he says.

  There isn’t enough settling to

  Make a snowman’s big toe,

  Even if we collected all the snow

  In the street.

  Kanoro rushes to his room

  And returns wearing

  A thick woollen coat,

  Though there’s no need for it;

  No chance of real snow landing.

  Outside Kanoro opens his mouth

  To taste the snowflakes.

  And I do the same.

  A cool dusting fills

  My mouth with memories

  Of winter.

  We look up at the night sky

  And eat our snow meals.

  Change

  The exams have been marked

  After the break

  And Mrs Warren admits her mistake:

  So I start in Year Eight

  Where I should have been

  All along.

  Again,

  No one talks to me

  At all.

  So I sit

  On my own

  At the front of the classroom

  Furiously trying to keep up

  With the bored teachers

  Who don’t seem

  To notice I’m new.

  In assembly I spot William.

  He nods, a secret salute,

  Then sits on the opposite side of the hall

  Next to a boy with big teeth

  And a thin moustache.

  And I spend assembly

  Pretending not to look at him.

  Happy Slapping

  In science, Clair shows me

  Her mobile phone and on it

  A video

  Of a cracking attack

  On a boy

  At a bus stop.

  Not for money.

  Not for revenge.

  Not really for fame either –

  It’s just for fun:

  To see someone

  Suffer.

  Slapped.

  I look up and laugh

  Sheepishly,

  And Clair approves –

  ‘I’ll send it to you,’

  she promises,

  Then shepherds the phone to

  The row behind

  So they too can

  Feast on

  The fun.

  I do not mention

  I have no phone.

  Games

  They pick teams and I am not last

  To be picked because Clair chooses me.

  Clair chooses me third out of six girls

  And I am in her team for rounders.

  I can catch, and I can hit, and I can run

  And when I do she squeals, ‘Go, Cassie! Go!’

  And afterwards, when we are getting changed

  She says, ‘The other team were crap!’

  And I wasn’t on the other team.

  Radio News Flash

  A Croatian builder was attacked

  last night in Birmingham

  on his way home from work

  with his own hammer . . .

  Three fourteen-year-old youths

  are now in custody awaiting bail . . .

  Witnesses say the attackers shouted

  ‘Give us back our jobs, Polack!’

  before bludgeoning his skull

  with the forged steel head . . .

  The thirty-year-old father from Moseley,

  now in the Birmingham Specialist Unit,

  is said to be in a critical but stable condition . . .

  Mama puts a piece of

  Potato into her mouth

  But doesn’t chew.

  Kanoro looks at her

  Meaningfully.

  What do meaningful looks mean anyway?

  Prize Night Envy

  It takes two hours to honour those smarter than us

  And watch them parade across the polished stage

  To receive award

  after award.

  Mama sits with the other parents.

  She looks puzzled because I’m not called

  Forward for a medal or a trophy.

  I don’t even get a certificate she can

  Stick to the fridge.

  Clair is sitting next to me

  Defacing the programme.

  She sneers when other people win

  And groans instead of clapping.

  There are sports awards.

  William wins a swimming medal – gold –

  And when he sits

  Back down he passes the medal

  Along our row so I can touch it.

  Stabbing jealousy makes my head spin,

  And then there’s guilt in my gut

  Because William looks so proud,

  And he has been so nice;

  He deserves this medal.

  I pass it back along the row

  And Clair turns to me and says,

  ‘You’re friends with Will?’

  And I shrug;

  I don’t think we are friends

  Exactly.

  For the finale we stand in our rows

  Like dishevelled soldiers

  And sing ‘God Save the Queen’.

  I don’t know the words.

  I just open and close my

  Mouth and look straight ahead

  Hoping no one will notice

  The treason.

  Anyone Else

  I am the best runner in the class.

  It’s not arrogance, it’s a fact:

  When I’m in a team

  We win.

  But Clair doesn’t pick me any more.

  She looks past me,

  Through me

  To anyone else.

  Instead of me

  She chooses Bella

  who won’t bat because she has her period,

  And Rachel

  who can’t run because she forgot her trainers.

  She chooses girls who won’t catch

  or race

  or jump

  Because they just

  Can’t be bothered.

  Then I am the last standing

  So Clair has no choice;

  She has to take me.

  And I am in her team,

  But I know this makes her

  Mad

  Because she rolls her eyes

  And whispers something

  To Marie that I can’t hear.

  But she wants me to see her whispering

  Of course.

  When we play I am told

  To field,
r />   Way back

  By the bushes

  Where the ball

  Never falls.

  And when I bat

  No one cheers any more.

  No one cares that I get a rounder.

  Only when I’m caught

  OUT

  Are they satisfied.

  In the Dark

  The worst thing:

  I don’t even know

  What I did wrong.

  Another thing:

  I’m meant to know

  What I did wrong

  And fix it.

  Clair says, ‘Don’t worry about it,’

  But I do.

  How can I forget it

  When she won’t let me?

  Time to Grow

  Girls in England

  Have long hair.

  Hair that’s flat

  And sits neatly

  On their shoulders.

  My hair is short

  And black,

  And sticks up in

  The morning

  Like moody fur.

  The girls in my class

  Speak to me, finally.

  And Clair asks about my hair –

  Why it’s short.

  ‘Is it because you’re a lesbian?’

  She wants to know.

  It’s true that

  Some boys have