Another Woman's Daughter Read Online Free Page B

the Master and Madam took her rowing on Zoo Lake, in one of the brightly colored boats I’d seen bobbing on the water’s edge.
    At first I was happy that my child had something to do other than follow me around on my mundane chores, but after a while, panic started to build inside me. Where would this end? Would Miriam grow up expecting a life that could never be hers? Would the police send me back to my homeland for ignoring the law?
    But most of my misgivings would evaporate as soon as she rushed into my room panting like a puppy, her cheeks sticky with juice, her round eyes dancing. Then she would become the eager storyteller and I, her attentive audience.
    This particular evening, however, the Steiners’ request troubled me. Had something gone missing? Had a plate been chipped or a vase broken? Somehow I knew it would be more than this.
    I was tired. My eyes were burning and my limbs ached. The long day and my monthly bleed had sucked the energy out of me. I dried the cutlery and set the breakfast table, then swallowed my dinner in the dim light of my room. The cornmeal porridge was stiff and the gravy cold, but I was too distracted to warm it.
    My quarters came off the back of the house, my room opening onto a concrete yard and sagging washing line. Off to the right, down a steep flight of stairs, was the outside toilet I shared with Solomon, the gardener, and any other black, colored, or Indian tradesman who might visit.
    My room was small and fitted little more than my bed, which balanced on four empty paraffin cans to keep Miriam and me safe from the
tokoloshe
—that mischievous evil spirit. Under the bed was stashed whatever I couldn’t fit into the old wardrobe pushed hard up against the back wall.
    The stale air of close living had dulled the white walls, leaving them sallow and grubby looking, even after I’d scrubbed them down.
    Beside the door, on top of an empty tomato crate, was my Primus stove. When not in use, I covered it with a bright yellow tea towel the Madam had tossed out because of a rip in the hem. I had to be careful about taking things from the rubbish—once the Madam accused me of stealing a scarf she’d forgotten she had thrown out.
    Across one wall of my room, hidden by a permanently drawnfrill of faded orange curtain, ran a long narrow window—the slit of an eye looking over a shaded courtyard where the Steiners ate their lunch most weekends. The Madam had planted a vigorous bougainvillea creeper to block my window from view, and, successful in this task, it prevented all but the faintest thread of light from reaching my room. A thick woody vine had even nudged its way inside, preventing me from shutting my window completely. In winter the gap ushered in an icy draft, and in summer served as a highway for a steady stream of insects.
    I put a chattering Miriam to bed, then made my way back to the house, hovering outside the lounge until the Madam called to me.
    â€œCome. Come in, Celia. Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the couch.
    Confused by this new familiarity, I balanced on the edge of the seat. It felt wrong to be sitting in the lounge I cleaned and dusted every day. Only once before, when the Steiners had been away on holiday, had I dared eat at their long dining room table—madam of their home for one day.
    Master Michael stood behind his wife, his eyes avoiding me.
    â€œThe Master and I have been doing a lot of thinking lately,” the Madam began. She spoke in a slow, deliberate voice, as if it was important for me to understand every word. “This country has a lot of problems, no?”
    I nodded.
    â€œToo many problems,” she continued, sucking on one of her teeth. “It isn’t a safe place for us anymore.”
    I waited for what was to follow, the Madam’s words stirring up the thick layer of dread that lined the bottom of my days.
    â€œThe Master and I have decided we cannot stay here. We are moving to