The Truth About Love

chapter twelve

For the first time since I began volunteering at Claremont Grove, Hilda has held back from firing her repertoire of racial abuses for a record time of ten whole minutes. I would even go as far as saying that she's being actively pleasant: she remembered my name correctly instead of calling me Christy, which is an achievement in itself and she even complimented my fish plait while I was pouring her chamomile tea (which I took great care into checking was not mixed up with the pot of ginger tea to avoid the drama from last time).

But as we know, all good things must come to an end.

"Their kind does tend to be rather boisterous, take the carer that comes in at night- quite frankly I would say that she's an unpleasant person," I hear her announce to the other residents sitting on her table.

As always, Fliss is quick to call her out on her ignorance. "Hilda, sweetie. What exactly do you mean by 'their kind'?"

Taken aback by the sudden confrontation, Hilda jumps on her seat and almost spills the tea in her mug. Though, she only seems phased for a brief second and moves back into her self-assured posture. I should take a leaf or two out of her book given my spine tends to replicate the shape of a banana the majority of the time.

"The dark-skinned people. They're always so loud and bossy." She says without hesitating, oblivious to the rampant stereotyping fuelling her words and not registering who she is speaking to.

I might not be able to see her but I can definitely hear Fliss blinking. Probably blinking back the rage that may or may not lead to her losing her, pardon my language, shit.

"You mean, like me?"

Baffled, Hilda is quick to respond. "Well no, you're not like them... are you?"

Fliss laughs and I almost join in but manage to conceal an escaped chuckle with a cough. "I'm truly sorry to bear this terrible news, but I am 'like them'," she pauses to take her phone out of her pocket and switch it on onto the lock screen, "this is my Nigerian dad Marcus and he's a very nice man. A man of few words so I'm sure you'd like him."

I remember that Fliss had briefly mentioned her dad when we first met and said that he suffered from a stroke two years ago. On her screen, it's a photo of her, her two younger siblings, and her dad. Marcus is in a wheelchair, which is a testament to the severity of his stroke.

Hilda, along with the rest of the people on her table, is completely silent. It appears that she is at a total loss for words, her ever so slightly pink-tinted cheeks indicating embarrassment and maybe even a hint of remorse.

Fliss and I finish handing out the meals on that table and push the trolley along to the next.

"That was awful, we really shouldn't have to put up with this," I say under my breath.

Fliss sighs heavily. "Yeah, we shouldn't," she stops to smile at Harold who is waving at the two of us enthusiastically, "but it's quite complicated. There's not that much we can do about it."

I nod in agreement, also greeting Harold who happens to be one of the few residents grateful to see us every week. "You're right. Even if we complain there's not much that can be done about it. Years of indoctrination can hardly be reversed overnight."

I think about my parents and their backward beliefs. It is very complicated indeed.

After I pass Susan her fish cakes, I say "Why don't we organise a cultural evening? We can get the other volunteers to take part too- food, a short presentation just so the residents can broaden their horizons."

"That's a great idea. My aunty is coming to visit us next week from Lagos so I can ask her to bring some local snacks."

"I'll get my mum to make some dumplings, or Momos as we call them."