read a book so it fell over her face, tossed it back.

Only when Laetitia’s slippered feet creaked the landing,

did she snatch it all off, hurry to her desk,

grab her recorder, and play Greensleeves, innocently.

‘WHERE’RE’YOU from, La?’ Susie suddenly asked

one lunch break on the playing fields. ‘Woolwich.’

‘No, silly, where’re’you from, y’know, originally?’

‘If you really must know I was born in Eltham, actually.’

‘My dad says you must be from Jamaica,’ Susie insisted.

‘I’m not Jamaican. I’m English.’ / ‘Then why are you coloured?’

Lara’s heart shuddered, she felt humiliated, so angry.

‘Look, my father’s Nigerian, my mother’s English, all right?’

‘Oh, so you’re half-caste.’ Lara tore at the grass in silence.

‘Where’s Nigeria then, is it near Jamaica?’ / ‘It’s in Africa.’

‘Where’s Africa exactly?’ / ‘How should I know, I don’t

bloody well live there, do I?’ / ‘Is your Dad from the jungle?’

That was it. Lara sprang up, brushed grass off her skirt,

pulled up her socks, flung her satchel over her shoulder,

stormed off. Susie ran after her. ‘What’s the matter, Lara?’

‘You’re bloody rude, that’s the matter.’ Tears were edging

their way out, blurred she strode on. ‘Well he could be

from the jungle, couldn’t he?’ Susie looked perplexed,

Lara felt so stupid blubbing in public. ‘Look, I didn’t mean

to hurt you, honest. I’m really sorry. Anyway, as far

as I’m concerned you’re nearly white, all right? And I adore

your hair, it’s just like a Brillo pad. Truly!’ Lara stopped,

smiled, sighed, said, ‘Race you to the tuck shop.

Last one there buys a packet of salt and vinegar’.

‘YOU DIDN’T do it with him, did you?’

‘What d’ya think I did, play musical chairs?’

‘Oh my God. You did it. You lost it.’ Lara’s head yo-yoed

amazed, she handed a cigarette to Susie who blew

smoke rings, smiled smugly, flicked back her hair.

‘It’s nothing, I’m not a fucking kid anymore.’

Lara bubbled, ‘You’re joking, Soos, say you’re joking.’

‘He’s twenty-two, dishy and he drives a white Jag.’

‘Susie, you’re only twelve. He’s too old, whoever he is.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? He – drives – a – white – Jag.’

‘You’re too wild, that’s your trouble. Pass the fag, meanie.

What’s it like then?’ / ‘Nothing much.’ / ‘You’ll get preggers.’

‘He uses a Johnny-bag, has loads in case of emergencies.’

‘At least he’s not stupid. I’ve never seen a Johnny-bag.’

‘I’ll get you one, unused, of course, for your sex education.’

‘Where did you go, then?’ / ‘Down a dead end by Avery Hill.

He calls it his Slag Jag. He makes me laugh, my Dan.

He said, I love you very much, Susie. You’re ravishing.

C’mon, my turn, and you’re supposed to inhale it, like this.’