5

5 The two women continue their conversation deep into the night back at Amma's pad Dominique is pleased that Amma's current squeezes haven't been invited back, to their obvious chagrin when they had to say goodbye, looking daggers at her for depriving them of their celebratory roll in the hay her friend is now into threesomes, as she admitted earlier you're a filthy slapper, Ams I hope so, I do try my best Yazz and her 'squad', also staying over, have long gone to bed what's the matter with the youth of today? Dominique called after them when they left the room, yawning sleepily like five-year-olds you're the ones who're supposed to be caning it, not us, come back here you sensible little cows and get trashed as they clod-hoppered up the wooden stairs, Yazz shouted down over the banister that some of us have to be responsible adults when there are naughty children in the house not mentioning any names, mind unlike the old days she and Amma have only polished off two bottles of red and the rest of the coke, which pleasantly counteracted the inebriating effect of the drink

best of both worlds, drink as much as you like and remain coherent enough for a good chinwag Amma is reclining somewhat grandiosely on a lumpy old sofa, propped up by cushions like a latter-day Sarah Bernhardt or Lillie Langtry Dominique sits on the faded geometric shapes of the Habitat rug on the floor in lotus position the house reminds Dominique of the lifestyle she's escaped, the identical terraced cottages opposite are too close for comfort the front garden is a three-foot-square yard taken up by black dustbins and the back garden hardly bigger the cottagey dimensions are claustrophobic, not helped by dark purple walls, painted against Dominique's explicit advice to Amma to paint them white to create the illusion of spaciousness smoke-yellowed theatre posters are at least now preserved under glass the mantelpiece displays a line-up of dusty African sculptures Amma has accumulated rather than inherited the skirting is scuffed, the floorboards in need of a good varnish, the original hearth is home to a dusty altar candle grossly distorted by fossilized melted wax Amma describes her house as shabby-chic, as if it's carefully designed to be so, but as one domestic slut trying to kid another, Dominique has suggested she drop the 'chic' bit she herself has a maid who comes in twice a week to make up for her failings she herself lives in an airy bungalow with walls of glass that extend the modest space outwards to include the pine trees on the hills below thereafter the city lights in the distance The Last Amazon of Dahomey is probably the pinnacle of my career, Dom, Amma says, no longer celebratory, as the night deepens she's going into the maudlin mode Dominique recognizes I can't imagine it getting any better than this, maybe they'll invite me back to do another play if this one picks up a major award, or maybe not, I still have so much to give, I might still be scrabbling around trying to get

jobs, and be in even more demand sitting on panels to discuss diversity in theatre I've become the High Priestess of Career Longevity in the Chapel of Social Change preaching from the Pulpit of Political Invisibility to the Congregation of the Marginalized and Already Converted that's why it's my duty to help you escape, Amma, look at those black British actors who can't get work here, jump ship and end up Hollywood stars, and look at the life I lead? look at my Women's Arts' Festival? think of the size of the audiences over there, the support networks, the conversations, the high-powered black people operating at every level of society America will make you expand into its expansiveness, Ams, you'll become louder, bolder, more intellectually and creatively stimulated, you'll reach new heights, for sure, I know it has more than its fair share of social and political ills, even so, compared to Britain, well, what can I say? I jumped ship a long time ago I have to stay here for now until Yazz is ready to live independently are we talking about the most cocksure young woman in the universe? Dominique replied, if anyone is capable of looking after herself, it's your daughter not that I want her to, live independently, that is, not ever, really separation issues? she's a monster but she's my little monster, and you know, I actually love it here, even if it frustrates the hell out of me, I'm not sure I want to become a foreigner anywhere else so try it out like a new outfit that may or may not suit, life is about taking risks, not about burying your head in the sand thanks not a problem you make me feel like a parochial Little Englander that's because you don't know what's best for you, if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to the States, so be it Amma gets up from the sofa, opens the window, lights up, blows the smoke out into the darkened, silent street Dominique can never quite believe that her friend still smokes, that anyone over twenty does

I love Britain, too, Ams, although less so every time I return, it's become a living memory for me, Britain feels in the past, even when I'm in its present sounds like you've been talking to your therapist about this I pay her to sit and listen to me splurge without interruption for an hour every week, I've been seeing the same woman since I left Nzinga, it's wonderful, you should try it except unlike you I don't have any disturbing psychological problems, Dom that's because you haven't dug deep enough to find them right for me therapy is a form of consciousness-raising, Dom consciousness-raising is such a throwback term, Ams haven't you heard that throwback is making a comeback? it's really fashionable to be a feminist these days: blog, demos, crowd-funder campaign, I can't stand it Amma closes the window, walks back, re-spreads herself languorously over the sofa, convince me why feminism getting a new lease of life isn't a good thing, Dominique? isn't it just what the doctor ordered? actually it's the commodification of it that bugs me, Amma, once upon a time feminists were so vilified by the media it turned generations of women away from their own liberation because nobody wanted to be denounced as one, now they're in a lovefest with it, have you seen all these glamorous photoshoots of stunning young feministas with their funky clothes and big attitude – until it's no longer on trend feminism needs tectonic plates to shift, not a trendy make-over Dominique wants her friend to agree with her, it's a no-brainer, but Amma, ever the contrarian, refuses to see the obvious, you're being way too cynical and doom-mongering, Dom I'm being clairvoyant, any serious political movement that relies on beauty to sell it is doomed oh come on, the media's obsession with beautiful women is nothing new, look at Gloria, Germaine and Angela in their youth, brilliant women but hardly ugly ducklings, if women are young, beautiful and fuckable, they get the coverage, whether they're musicians or paediatricians paediatricians, Ams?

it rhymes, Dom, it rhymes and another thing that bugs me are the trans troublemakers, you should have seen the stick I got when I announced my festival was for women- born-women as opposed to women-born-men, I was accused of being transphobic, which I'm not, I'm absolutely not, I have trans friends, but there is a difference, a man raised as a man might not feel like one but he's been treated as one by the world, so how can he be exactly the same as us? they started a campaign against my festival which was taken up by someone with a million followers on Twitter called Morgan Malenga who kept up the attack for months, severely damaging my reputation until I backed down Dom, you're so funny, er, troublemakers? protest? remind you of anyone? we'd have given people hell on Twitter if it was around when we were young, can you imagine? and the trans community is entitled to fight for their rights, you need to be more open-minded on that score or you'll risk becoming irrelevant, I've had to completely readjust my thinking having a 'woke' daughter who likes nothing more than to educate me, in any case, I'm sure plenty of these young feministas heroine worship you over there, I bet you're a babe magnet I'm not a babe to them, Ams, I'm an old-school has-been who's part of the problem, they don't respect me then you need to talk to them, Dom, and we should celebrate that many more women are reconfiguring feminism and that grassroots activism is spreading like wildfire and millions of women are waking up to the possibility of taking ownership of our world as fully-entitled human beings how can we argue with that?

Epilogue Penelope is hurtling towards her eightieth birthday in two days' time while hurtling north on an intercity train she's trying to read the culture pages of the Telegraph and has come across a five-star review of a play about African Amazons at the National, her favourite London theatre rave review or not, she'll be giving that one a miss she's travelling first class, wants to enjoy her G&T and salted snacks in spite of her high blood pressure which is probably going through the roof right now with the rabble around her, the class of people who upgrade their tickets on the train for a few quid and then proceed to turn what's supposed to be a more comfortable and sedate environment for people who can afford it into a nightmare journey of howling brats, drunken beer revellers and the worst offenders, people having very public conversations about private matters on their mobile phones she wants to tell them all to SHUT – THE – HELL – UP!!! but even though she's an OAP, she wouldn't put it past a lout to attack her, the headlines in tomorrow's papers Pensioner Hurled Off Moving Train By Drunken Thug Penelope finds she has a little less tolerance for people these days except for Jeremy, her partner, who rescued her from the spinsterhood she'd endured for far too long all those years being unhappily independent when all she ever wanted was to be co-dependent with a lovely man who loved her just as she was she met Jeremy at the Tai Chi classes she started in her late sixties which the lovely Dr Lavinia Shaw (sadly retired, a Nigerian ... man replaced her) had recommended to improve her sense of balance because she kept falling over the last time was in Waitrose when she hurt her shoulder so badly it took years to heal in spite of steroid injections

you shouldn't be falling over all the time, Dr Shaw warned her, you'll end up in a wheelchair, Penelope point taken Penelope first tried a local Camberwell Tai Chi class where she was surrounded by impossibly thin young women and beautiful young men with strange Samurai-style topknots – who were after the women she found a much more suitable class in Dulwich proper (as opposed to East Dulwich) where there was an impressive supply of older gentlemen of a certain ilk including the one she began to station herself beside, Jeremy, with silver hair and an aristocratic mountaineer face (very Ranulph Fiennes) a few years older than her and divorced (quickly ascertained, best to), she positioned herself next to him in class as the teacher instructed them to Part the Wild Horse's Mane, Grasp the Bird's Tail and Carry the Tiger over the Mountain Penelope saw off all competitors, reviving the somewhat rusty skills she'd first employed as a teenager to ensnare Giles she brought Jeremy pears from her garden, and cuttings for the horticultural gaps in his (also quickly ascertained) – hollyhocks, camellia, wisteria he seemed to like her so she escalated her ambitions and brought him an extremely rare 78rpm recording of Maria Callas, whom he idolized spent an age searching for it in West End record shops, and told him she'd come across it buried in her own (hastily assembled should he make it back to hers) classical music collection she sat through numerous ghastly operas with him at the Royal Opera House, English National Opera, Glyndebourne, Aldeburgh, Garsington as if quite enchanted by the caterwauling on stage she joined him at Lords and Oval cricket matches and sat through innumerable and interminable said matches acting very interested, helped along by the regulatory Pimm's in an ice bucket (it was her duty to uphold such traditions) Penelope turned herself into a Fun Person, nothing was ever too much trouble where Jeremy was concerned, in truth most things had been too much trouble before she met him

with Jeremy, she became an attentive listener, offered soothing assurances, especially when he described his ex-marriage to Anne who'd gone from a well-behaved mother and wife in the fifties and sixties to a manhating feminist in the eighties who picked fights with him and disappeared to Greenham Common with women who tried very hard not to look like they were women she brought into their town house in Kennington as friends, until one day he caught her at it in their bedroom doing something only a man should do to a woman he's had relationships since, will never marry again well, feminism has a lot to answer for, Penelope said in commiseration, quite prepared to betray the cause if it meant finding personal happiness Jeremy Sanders (MBE) had enjoyed a distinguished career as a civil servant in the Palace of Westminster in charge of in-house publications, regardless of which political party was ruining, oops, ruling the country, as he often joked (GSOH, Jeremy!) they were politically aligned (right of centre) and enjoyed debating the main issues of the day: law and order, the economy, the small state versus the nanny state, nationalism, immigration, discouraging social welfare, human rights, encouraging the growth of small businesses and tax breaks to big businesses and big earners, and the protection of personal wealth – her Camberwell villa, bought for a shining halfpenny in the sixties, was now worth seven figures Penelope only allowed things to get intimate with Jeremy when they'd known each other eighteen months, she really wasn't going to jump into bed with him anyway, it had been a long time since she'd been seen in a state of undress by anyone other than the matronly bra-fitter at Marks & Spencer her thighs, chunky and pock-marked, were no longer the streamlined contours of old, her breasts weren't the pumped-up balloons of her youth, and she'd spend sleepless nights wondering if she should dye her lady garden for him when they did consummate their union, it happened quite unexpectedly when they ended up at it like teenagers on the sofa in the drawing room of his town house one night

after she'd endured three and a half hours of La Traviata at the Royal Opera House and returned home to polish off a bottle of Vintage Bordeaux in order to recover from it while he enjoyed a few shots of his favourite Metaxa cognac one thing led to another and before she knew it, her cherry was popped by her seventy-something boyfriend Penelope discovered then that Jeremy's feelings for her blinded him to her physical imperfections, he loved her just as she was, no complaints, he said, even when she allowed him to look at her buck naked on the bed one morning with the full force of sunlight streaming on to her through the windows you're how I imagine Botticelli's Venus might look in middle age middle age? she was seventy at that point he was so compassionate she certainly loved him as he was, neither a Michelin Man nor an ageing Adonis, his legs were his best physical asset, a walker all his life, she became one too which was nothing short of miraculous because until she met him she could barely manage five minutes without catching her breath to and from her car and around the shops she eventually worked up enough stamina to do a ten-mile round trip when they stayed at his cottage by the sea in Sussex, or hers in Provence walking became one of life's pleasures once all matters of compatibility had been determined, it made sense for her to move into his, which she decided to leave untouched, quietly disliking his grey and green colour palette, his fondness for original Edwardian furniture, wall-to-wall beige carpets and the preponderance of framed Spectator covers from the 1800s in contrast with her own rather more eclectic sense of style that involved Balinese shadow puppets, glass sculptures, colourful Quaker quilts thrown over comfy white sofas, sheepskin rugs and light, sanded floorboards they settled comfortably into life together, frequently dined out (neither cared to cook), regular visits to National Trust houses, theatre productions and West End musicals (for her) and, of course, the opera they're both avid readers, her taste is in the realm of Joanna Trollope, Jilly Cooper, Anita Brookner and Jeffrey Archer, while he's a James

Patterson, Sebastian Faulks, Ken Follett and Robert Harris kinda guy, as he puts it Jeremy once said he'd never read a novel by a woman in his life because he'd never been able to get beyond the first chapter by one, he didn't understand why not, it must be biological, he said, looking crestfallen she said nothing, doesn't nag him, that was her rule to herself, it's the secret of their harmonious relationship they practise Tai Chi together every morning in his conservatory, in the garden in the summer, although he's less agile now he's deep into his eighties she's survived a cancer scare that made her feel incredibly mortal (and grateful to avoid a mastectomy) in contemplating her demise, however, she found herself suffering restless nights about her birth parents, something she thought she'd laid to rest as a very young woman, once she'd overcome the shock of knowing that Edwin and Margaret weren't related to her by blood who were the people who brought her into this world only to give her away? Sarah was quite surprised to hear her talk about this during their weekly England–Australia Skype conversations what's brought this on, Mum? Sarah's middle-aged now, her visits to England infrequent, her children, Matty and Molly, are all grown up and very Australian Adam has been living in Dallas so long, he's become shockingly Second Amendment, to the point she's rowed with him about the availability of guns for sale in his local Walmart, along with processed cheese and children's toys Penelope thinks her children ran away from her, they'd never admit it, she wasn't a bad mother and she's saddened that she was never able to really bond with her grandchildren she wanted to be a grandmother who babysat them every week who is the second most important woman in their lives she's still very close to Sarah who told her about the availability of Ancestry DNA testing, which is very popular in her part of the world,

because so many people have roots in Britain and elsewhere, about which they know little or nothing you must try it, seeing as it's on your mind, Mum, she said, I think it will at least tell you which parts of the UK your birth family came from Penelope was keen on the idea, she'd been raised in York, imagined her ancestors were from that region, going all the way back to the Stone Ages, probably people didn't move around very much in the past except from the village to the town for work, and that only took off during the Industrial Revolution up until then it was all very insular and cut off, especially in hilly territory so yes, her roots were likely to be in Yorkshire, Lancashire, Cheshire, Lincolnshire, possibly Durham, possibly with Viking ancestors, perhaps she's descended from a Viking warrior queen that made sense the kit arrived, Penelope deposited her saliva into the tube as per the instructions, sent it off in the post, and planned to surprise Jeremy with the results except it didn't quite turn out as expected now Penelope's suffering from post traumatic stress disorder because yesterday she went online to check her emails after her traditional Friday lunch of 'Penne & Pinot' with a gal pal divorcee, and there it was Great news! Your Ancestry DNA results are in. The moment you've been waiting for is here ... in her case – all her life Penelope clicked on the hyperlink without delay, relieved that Jeremy was out all day golfing in Surrey with Hugo, his brother she found it hard to take it in at first, so many different nationalities this was the science that was the deepest, most secret part of herself, and there was a collision between who she thought she might be and who she apparently was

Europe Scandinavia 22% Ireland 25% Great Britain 17% European Jewish 16% Iberian Peninsula 3% Finland/Northwest Russia 2% Europe West 2% Africa Ethiopia 4% South Sudan Kenya Eritrea Sudan Egypt Nigeria Ivory Coast/Ghana Cameroon/Congo Africa South Central Hunter Gatherer Penelope went straight to the drinks cabinet; a few hours later she made it to her bedroom to lie down being Jewish is one thing but never in a million years did she expect to see Africa in her DNA, that was the biggest shock of all, the test didn't provide answers, it confronted her with questions as she lay there, she imagined her ancestors attired in loincloths running around the African savannah spearing lions, at the same time wearing yarmulkes, eating open-topped rye sandwiches and paella, and refusing to hunt on the Sabbath perhaps she should get a dreadlock wig in keeping with her new identity, become one of those Rastafarians and sell drugs at least it explained one thing to her, why she tanned as soon as the sun hit her skin

only 17% of her was British which was a terrible disappointment, she was actually more Irish than British, which in all likelihood meant her ancestors were potato farmers the Scandi element was all right so long as she was Viking, but how to tell? they too might have been potato farmers, Europe West must surely explain her great affinity with beautiful Provence her African ancestors were probably nomads roaming over the continent killing each other before the British demarcated regions into proper countries and thereby imposed discipline and control if she was 13% African did it mean one of her parents was 26% African? or was it divided between both of them? as she didn't know who her birth parents were, she couldn't even begin to work out which strand belonged to which one Penelope Skyped Sarah with the news, it was the early hours in Australia but this was an exceptional moment, Sarah got terribly excited asked for the link to the site because you, Mum, aren't making a lot of sense, whether you have a thing for Scandi-Noirs has nothing to do with it have you been drinking again? (only a little) within minutes Sarah was back on Skype saying not only did the website show her ethnic breakdown, it connected her with relatives who'd also done the test, how on earth did you miss this, Mum? okay, deep breath, are you ready for this? you have over a hundred genetic relatives listed on your page starting with fifth to eighth cousins, you've got no one under siblings or a grandparent, nor do you have a twin, but something else is showing, Mum, a parent – do you see what this means? your birth mother or father must have had the test done and they've been biologically revealed to be your blood parent they've got their name down as Anonymous25, last logged on two weeks ago in Yorkshire and, wait for it, there's an email link for you to get in touch with them directly to find out more Mum, are you listening? you've gone really pale, oh God, I'm so sorry you're so upset, don't cry, Mummy, it's completely understandable, of course it is, I understand, I really do, I just wish I could hug you right now, look, I'll handle it, you go and sober up and we'll talk later

Sarah emailed someone called Morgan who replied almost immediately that he/she(?) was managing the DNA test for their great-grandmother, Hattie Jackson, in order to find out more about Hattie's own mother, Grace, who was half Ethiopian, they'd thought, only to discover her genes were spread wider in Africa, which was unexpected the last thing Morgan was expecting was an email from someone who claimed to be Hattie's daughter because Hattie only had one daughter called Ada Mae, who lived in Newcastle Morgan promised Sarah she'd call Hattie right away, and get back after Hattie had recovered from the shock, she told Morgan she'd given birth to a girl she named Barbara when she was fourteen, who was taken away from her by her father a few days after birth, she had no say in the matter and she never knew where the baby went, the only people who knew about her child were her parents and they'd died so long ago Hattie had kept it secret all her life, thought of Barbara every day, and couldn't believe she was alive Morgan emailed Penelope that her great-grandmother was in shock, she was very old, you must come soon Penelope replied she was taking the train up the next day Penelope takes a black cab from the station, she's usually a meter- watcher, this one can rack up a thousand pounds and it won't matter a bit the taxi driver says the journey will take over two hours, he's African, which isn't quite what she expected to find so far north she's practically in Scotland he makes her feel like she's back in south London, then she catches herself, it's not as cut and dried as it was before, he could be a relative, if there's one thing she's learned in the past forty-eight hours, anyone can be a relative by rights, she should fall asleep, she woke up at four a.m. to get the seven from King's Cross, but she can't, her brain is completely wired the car travels deep into the Northumbrian countryside it's easy to forget that England is made up of many Englands all these fields and forests, sheep, hills, comatose villages she feels like she's going to the ends of the earth, while simultaneously returning to her beginnings she's going back to where she began, inside her mother's womb

the taxi passes through another deserted village then the car climbs a hill so steep and long she's worried it won't make it up at the top there's a sign above a high metal arch Greenfields founded 1806 by Captain Linnaeus Rydendale and his beloved wife Eudoré they pull into a yard so thick with mud the taxi has to slow down and trudge its way through, mud splattering on to the windows it's like stepping back to pre-civilization an ancient sagging farmhouse is to her right with a patchwork roof of mismatched tiles and mismatched bricks and vines creeping up it and out of it, looking as if with one hefty push it will all come tumbling down the yard is otherwise surrounded by barns with doors flapping in the wind a few chickens and hens are squawking around, a cow's head is sticking up out of a pen, a goat is tethered to a post, a plough is rusting at the far end with vines growing out of it everything is falling apart and ruined and running riot she disembarks from the taxi and pays the fellow the three hundred pounds on the meter, plus a tip, considering he's practically a sixth cousin or something the farmhouse door opens and someone steps out into the yard, her hair is a wiry grey and shooting up all over the place she's wearing raggedy blue overalls with a cardigan over them, she's barefoot, in this place? in this mud? in this weather? she walks towards her, she's old, bony, looks robust, is tall without being hunched, quite fierce, is this where Penelope gets it from? her imperiousness, as she's been accused of in the past? the woman is unmistakably, ambiguously a light brown, the sort of colour that could place her in many countries

this metal-haired wild creature from the bush with the piercingly feral eyes is her mother this is she this is her who cares about her colour? why on earth did Penelope ever think it mattered? in this moment she's feeling something so pure and primal it's overwhelming they are mother and daughter and their whole sense of themselves is recalibrating her mother is now close enough to touch Penelope had worried she would feel nothing, or that her mother would show no love for her, no feelings, no affection how wrong she was, both of them are welling up and it's like the years are swiftly regressing until the lifetimes between them no longer exist this is not about feeling something or about speaking words this is about being together.

Acknowledgements It's nearly twenty years since I first started working with Simon Prosser, publishing director of Hamish Hamilton, and I'd like to thank him for being such a great editor of the six books I've published with him since. I am so grateful and feel so blessed. I'd also like to thank the team at Penguin who work hard to get my books out into the world, including Hermione Thompson, Sapphire Rees, Hannah Chukwu, Annie Lee, Donna Poppy, Lesley Levene, Amelia Fairney, and all those people who make things happen behind the scenes. A special thanks is due to my agent Karolina Sutton at Curtis Brown. Big thanks also to my readers at various stages of the manuscript: Sharmilla Beezmohun, Claudia Cruttwell, Maggie Gee, Lyn Innes and Roger Robinson. And for checking my patois and pidgin, thanks to Chris Abani, Jackee Holder, Michael Irene and Kechi Nomu. I'd also like to thank Hedgebrook Retreat for Women Writers on Whidbey Island, USA, for my residency there in 2018. Lastly but firstly, thanks to my husband David, who is always there to support me when I venture into creative waters unknown, and who is always a safe harbour when I come home.

THE BEGINNING Let the conversation begin ... Follow the Penguin twitter.com/penguinukbooks Keep up-to-date with all our stories youtube.com/penguinbooks Pin 'Penguin Books' to your pinterest.com/penguinukbooks Like 'Penguin Books' on facebook.com/penguinbooks Listen to Penguin at soundcloud.com/penguin-books Find out more about the author and discover more stories like this at penguin.co.uk

HAMISH HAMILTON UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa Hamish Hamilton is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com. First published 2019 Copyright © Bernardine Evaristo, 2019 The moral right of the author has been asserted The lines quoted on page 254 are by Grace Nichols, 'We the Women', from I is a Long Memoried Woman (Karnak House Publishers, 1983). Lines reprinted by kind permission of Grace Nichols. Cover design by Ali Campbell Cover photos ©2018 Neil Kenlock (via Tate Images) and © Getty Images ISBN: 978-0-241-98500-7 This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.