‘You became electively mute, Corrine. Was that immediately after the events that resulted in your brother’s death and the family unit being broken?’
The stain on the carpet reminded Corrine of a paisley design – the curvaceous mango shape – although this one was a mucky shade of khaki. She had a beautiful silk scarf in gorgeous peacock blue that Fergus had given her. It had paisley designs all over and she loved it. The image of the scarf and the memory of Fergus wrapping it round her neck and kissing her tenderly gave her strength.
‘It was my fault he died. He was protecting me. If he’d stayed put under the bed, it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘You don’t know what might have happened, Corrine. Any number of scenarios could have unfolded … you did your best. You were a child. Barely eight years old. None of this was your fault. The adult in your life did not protect you – she abused you. The love you shared with your brother was perhaps the only light in either of your lives, at that time.’
Corrine wasn’t ready to absolve herself of guilt. Logically she knew Dr Mahmood was right, but guilt was a strange thing. ‘It stopped me from speaking. I could speak. I spoke inside my head. I yelled and ranted and raged inside my head. I cried inside my head and dreamed of stabbing myself and lashing out at walls with my fists. I deserved to be punished … And in the end, I was.’
‘Tell me about how you were punished, Corrine.’
The silence lengthened, the tick tock of the big old clock on the wall was reassuring. It grounded Corrine. That and the stain on the carpet. Those two things kept her physically in the room while her memory opened up and allowed images to appear.
‘I was moved to live with Rory’s family. It was a small village – West Calder – lots of countryside, and everyone knew each other. I was the only person of colour in the entire area. The only black kid in the school. Rory’s dad was the local vicar and Rory’s mum was lovely, really lovely. Mr Robertson had older sons from a previous marriage – they were away at university. They weren’t very kind, but Rory was. He was my friend.’
Dr Mahmood pushed the copy of the image that Rory had drawn of Corrine with the other children. ‘Rory was talented, wasn’t he?’
Corrine lifted her eyes and reached over to take the image. A slight smile twitched her lip. ‘He was soooo good. He was only about twelve or so but look at this drawing. He breathed life into those people. He saw things others just couldn’t. His talent was beyond compare.’
‘How did you feel that day, Corrine? The day Rory drew this image.’
Corrine closed her eyes. How had she felt that day? ‘It was my first day at the new school.’ The memories flooded in, making Corrine’s voice wobble. ‘Rory’s mum took me. She was so kind. She smelt of lavender and she smiled a lot. I had a lovely little dress on. She brushed my hair with an afro comb, put it in two bunches – she said I looked beautiful – and I felt beautiful. I think that morning for those few minutes was the first time I ever felt beautiful.’
Corrine leant over and placed the drawing back on Dr Mahmood’s desk. ‘It lasted until I met the teacher, Miss Owen – an old woman with a hunch in tweed clothes – she looked like Miss Trunchbull from Matilda, but she was actually trying to be kind, I think. Once Rory’s mum left, she held my wrist and took me into a classroom. All these little kids were sitting in rows. They fell silent when we walked in and when they saw me, one of them started to cry. I couldn’t work out why. Everyone had been used to me in Glasgow – I’d grown up there – but here? None of them had seen anyone of colour before – not in real life.’
Swallowing hard, Corrine reached over and gripped the glass of water that waited for her on the desk. She took a long sip, welcoming the way it cooled her throat as it went down. ‘Miss Owen pulled me to the front of the class. She said, “Stop that stupid greeting. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I know you’ve never seen a darkie before, but she’s just a bairn like you all are. It’s no’ the wee lassie’s fault her skin’s that colour or her hair’s a mess”.’
Corrine looked up, smiling through her tears. ‘I suspect she was trying to be kind – well as kind as someone who didn’t know the hurt they could cause, could be – the seventies weren’t the most enlightened of times.’
‘She made them all line up and one by one they came forward and touched my cheeks and my hair…’ Corrine’s hand rose to the tight short curls that covered her scalp.
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Like a specimen. Some of them acted like my skin and hair were poison. Not all of them – but it was the ones who did that I remember. The ones who screwed up their faces and said yuck and wiped their hands down their clothes after they’d touched me. Those were the ones I remembered best.’
I was made to sit on my own because nobody wanted to sit beside me. After that they called me names – Gollywog, Nig Nog, Darkie.’
Corrine pointed to the drawing. ‘Rory picked me up after school to walk me home that day and afterwards he drew that.’
Dr Mahmood pointed to the girl to the side, who was looking at the young Corrine, a tentative smile on her lips,
