said Louise. “I’m not generous?”
“If you were, we’d be scorching rubber to TGIs.”
Dunno what Colleen thinks about our banter. She’s standing there with her arms folded. But hey-de-ho, that’s how Louise and me chit the chat.
“There’s no satisfying you, is there?” Louise went on.
“There would be if you took me to TGIs,” I giggled.
I made Louise her coffee. One sugar and not too much milk. She took a sip and glanced at my hair again. I didn’t think she wanted it to be my passport pic.
“So where’re you taking me then?” I wanted to know. She took a custard cream before giving me an answer.
“Monk’s Orchard.”
“Monk’s Orchard? What you taking me there for? It’s full of foreign nannies, cats with glammed-up collars, and little old ladies with little skinny dogs.”
“There’s a lovely café there,” Louise said. “Friar’s Tuck.”
I pulled a face. “Friar’s Tuck? I’m not having my lunch in a church canteen. Those church bruvs are the numero uno of prick fiddlers. The reason why they wear those long baggy black garms is to hide their erect—”
“Swearing, Naomi,” Colleen blocked my flow.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s not in the church, Naomi,” Louise said. “It’s just off High Street. They do nice desserts too.”
I thought about it. Louise snatched another look at my braids. “All right,” I agreed. “But if any of those little graybacks give me a dirty look then don’t blame me if I boot away their walking sticks and make a salami outta their skinny hounds.”
I swear I heard Colleen giggle, but when I looked at her she’d straightened up her face.
“I’m sure they won’t say anything,” said Louise.
* * *
An hour later, we pulled up on a quiet street in Monk’s Orchard and headed for Friar’s Tuck. A fat brown cat lazying on a windowsill scoped me. It was a small café with only eight tables. It was mostly filled by graybacks sinking teas, nibbling cakes, and filling in crosswords. We took our seats by the window and I picked up a menu. I looked at it for five minutes. “I’ll have the chicken and mushroom pie, mushy peas, chips, and an extra-large Coke.”
Louise took her jacket off, placed it on the chair beside her, and studied my hair again. “Whose idea was the new hairstyle?” she wanted to know. “Was it yours?”
“Yeah, Colleen finished it this morning.”
“So neither she nor Tony suggested it?”
“No, it was my idea. Different, innit? Kim’s gonna die with jealousy. She’s always wanted to have her hair done like black chicks. Nats is lucky, she’s black and she can do her own hair. Once, me and Kim skipped school and went to one of those hair salons in Ashburton. You know, the ones where the hairdressers rent a seat for the day. We wanted to get plaits then but Kim pussied out on going inside. I would’ve breezed in though.”
“It looks good on black girls but . . .”
“But what? Doesn’t it look sweet on me? Sharyna loved it to the max. And Pablo. Aren’t you gonna order?”
“Er, yes, but you shouldn’t lose your identity, Naomi.”
“Identity? Didn’t know I had one. What’s my identity then?”
Louise fidgeted in her seat. “Well, er,” she stuttered. “The point is, Naomi, is that if you adopt another race’s identity, you might start losing your own. The council has all sorts of rules about not allowing emergency foster parents to influence the cultural identity of the children they look after.”
“Not allowing the what?” I asked. “Don’t know what you’re on about with all that cultural thing-a-me-jig. I just wanna look presentable and on point. Aren’t you always telling me I must take pride in my appearance?”
“Yes I am, Naomi, but—”
“But what?”
Louise sucked in a long breath. “You might lose something of yourself, the real Naomi Brisset,” she said. “For example, would you expect a black boy who doesn’t know anything about Scotland to wear a kilt?”
“What’s a kilt? It’s not a tartan condom, is it? I think you’re losing your dumplings in your casserole, Louise. The real Naomi Brisset wants plaits like Solange Knowles and Alicia Keys. Don’t you think they look gorgylicious? Kim and Nats do.”
“Yes, they’re very attractive.”
“Then why are you munching your knickers about my braids? If we get a good summer this year I’m gonna try and get myself a decent tan. I’d love to look like Rita Ora.”
“Rita Ora hasn’t got a tan, Naomi.”
“You sure? Looks like she’s got one to me. Either that or she sleeps on a kick-ass sunbed in her bedroom.”
A waitress came over and took our order. Louise went for a boring salad. What’s the friggin’ point of wheeling all the way to Monk’s Orchard for a salad? I made sure I ordered the most expensive dessert—something called a tire-mousse. Her purse needed a shakedown.
“A new foster family I know are returning from their holiday on Saturday,” Louise said. “The Hamiltons. I thought you might be a good match with them. They’ve got a daughter who’s nineteen years of age. She’s at university. She could be a good influence on you.”
“I dunno about that one,” I said. “I wanna see how it rolls with Colleen. She’s on point. Did you know she was in care too?”
“Yes, I do know. But what about Tony? Are you getting along with him?”
“I’m not gonna lie on that one,” I replied. “He can be a bit of a prickhead. He loves to do his man-of-the-house thing. He reminds me a bit of Rafi. Rafi would try and lock down rules on my ass. But I’m not too bothered about Tony and I don’t think he’s a prick fiddler. He kept his ass downstairs when I had my shower. And I like Sharyna and Pablo. I can look after them. Maybe they’ll ask me to babysit if they go on holiday somewhere? Where do these Hamilton peeps live?”
“Spenge-on-Leaf,” Louise said. “Lovely house.”
“Spenge-on-Leaf,” I repeated. “Isn’t that where the first-class peeps live? Kim told me she went out with a bruv from there once. She reckoned he was twenty—”
“Don’t believe everything Kim tells you,” Louise said.
“Are you calling her a liar?”
“Er, not . . . Anyway, the Hamiltons live near the top of a hill. They’ve got a lovely view.”
“A
