She saunters over to me, a smirk in her eye. Her steps slow but not too slow, her hands resting in her pockets, forced deeper by the downward trajectory of decades weighing on her shoulders. I try to read her expression through the crinkles in her face.
“Andrea, were you taking a smoke break out there?”
Years in London have muted Siv’s Norwegian accent, sifting out the sing-song of mead halls and sagas leaving a harshness that puts me immediately on the defensive.
“No, no Siv, I was just hanging out with Laura and Alfie; Alfie likes the stones on the pathway and it’s a bit hectic in here this morning. I’m no smoker.”
Siv is responsible for serving the hot drinks and cakes every Friday morning at Challenge Group, a fun, safe space for families with a baby or child with additional needs. As well as serve in the kitchen, Siv also readily serves instructions and opinions. To everyone. I was there as hired muscle, or rather, volunteered muscle – shift this, pick up that – and an extra body to keep Health & Safety’s knickers out of a panic-stricken knot. In between helping, my crew was Laura and Alfie—I’d be where they were, and today it was on the pathway.
“I used to smoke, you know?”
“You! Siv – really?”
“Yes.”
Unravel her skin and it will stretch over the ages, exposing blemishes and imperfections buried comfortably in wizened creases. Every mark a moment. Life’s great canvas, pulsating with colour…but then minutes pass – hours, days, years – until memory is sequestered in canyons of time. Every now and then a breeze unfurls the canvas, like pleated chiffon in a gust of wind.
“And do you still smoke?”
“No, no.”
“Why did you stop?”
My right hand intuitively touches my left arm to placate the goose bumps I’ve not noticed. As her mouth opens and words cut through my shivers, I see the folds in Siv’s face unravel…I blink. I blink twice. Yup, Siv is smoother. Her signature blue eyeshadow is brighter and her neat bob, with a single clip to the left, changes colour. Her breasts are firmer, higher. I know this because I have had a look at them, pondering the effects of gravity and wondering how my breasts will look at eighty and whether a bra is taking the façade too far. Clearly Siv thinks so. But now, her cleavage breathes – up and down – as she takes a drag, cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth. The smoke rising gently.
“My family. They told me I must stop—my children did.”
“Ha. Your children!”
“And do you know how I did it? Carrots. I told them that if I was going to stop it was going to be on my own terms—the way I wanted to. I took carrots everywhere with me and whenever I craved a cigarette, I’d eat a carrot. I’d be on the train eating carrot after carrot and my children would be embarrassed and I’d say, ‘Well, you want me to stop smoking, don’t you?’.”
“Siv, you are very determined.”
“And do you know why I started smoking? My sister. She told me that I could only go dancing with her if I learned to smoke. So that’s what I did. I was desperate to go dancing. She told me that I didn’t hold the cigarette properly and she’d only take me dancing when I could hold it properly. I had to hold the cigarette between my two fingers, like this…and I spluttered when I first tried but eventually I could do it. I loved to dance.”
She shifts her feet and my gaze slumps. Practical brown shoes, held together by elastic bands, keeping the sole attached. Siv could buy other shoes if she wanted to but she likes these ones.
“Did you have just one sister, Siv?”
“No, I had two older ones—there were four of us. All girls.”
“What did your parents do?”
“My dad worked in the mines and my mom was a chef but she stayed at home with us girls while my dad worked. We never had a lot of money but my mom always made good food, and she taught us to cook.”
“How long have you been in London for?”
“Forever. I met my husband on the ships; we didn’t know each other long before we got married, and the ship captain said that we made a good pair. And we did.”
“Ah right, so he was British?”
“Yes.”
“And you would never go back home, to live?”
“No.”
The smoke.
My eyes smart.
I feel something weighing down on me…until my neck buckles and my back stoops; I try to lift my head but I’m like a turtle, craning my neck forward as best I can, only I keep butting against my own shell. Stuck.
“No. no. My home is here.”
Senait asks for a tea. Siv makes a move—hands in pockets, back to the kitchen. Slowly but not too slowly.
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.
