Sometimes she gives Nanna a hundred rupees. Then she goes away. The two of us, Nanna and I, are alone. Nanna keeps our little room so neat and tidy. I am free. I go where I like, I have friends. I visit the two girls who are doing gem cutting. They live in the house of the gem cutting mudalali. They cook their own food, delicious curries which they share with me. Then there’s the Scherezade toffee lady. I visit her too and somehow a sweet comes into my hands. They are very polite to me, open the door, say, ‘Come in, take a seat.’ The children give me the toys they are tired of. Then I play on the sea shore. I can defend myself against the rough boys. There was one who used to trip me. I hit back.

I miss Isolde, Karen, my grandmother, my grandfather. I miss them so much. My grandfather is dead. All the others have gone to Australia. I miss the big house on the coconut estate and Aunty Elizabeth and Debbie. I remember the night Elizabeth had that heart attack. Oh, she was beautiful to the end. She drank. She smoked. Her last words were, ‘Don’t drink, don’t smoke.’ Her daughter Debbie lives close by. Nanna goes to visit her. I go too. She drinks and smokes too.

Now I have my Ninja turtles. They will protect me from all danger. If only my father would return to me. Why has he gone away leaving us to fend for ourselves? I remember the days he used to come visiting us. How I would run to him and jump onto his lap. He would carry me on his shoulders to the swimming pool. I’ll tell everyone stories about him then they won’t pity me for not having a father. I’ll impress them with the image of my father as a racing car motorist and of my grandfather with his collection of antique cars—Mercedes, Rolls, Citroens. They were wealthy men. They were the biggest funeral undertakers in the country. And now I live with Nanna, my mother’s mother, in this little room. She’s all I have.