Who I Am
Nicosia, Cyprus, July1968
Vicky
She’s heading towards me at speed, her black plastic slippers slapping the tiled floor as she comes. I think she’s an adult but I’m not sure. Her face is wrinkly but she’s only a finger taller than I am and I’m seven. She must be Nene Khatoun, my great-grandma who is very, very old. As ancient as the hills, Mummy says, and everyone knows ancient things shrink. Here she comes, making a beeline for my corner. Luckily there are lots of people between us and she can’t get round them easily. She has to keep stopping to get her balance. Eyes quick, I search for someone to help me but everyone’s busy.
The room is full of people. My family I’m meeting for the first time. They live here in Cyprus and Mum, Rob and I came on an aeroplane across the sea from England to see them. Now we are drowning in them. In the middle of the room is an old man in a dressing gown and a blue crocheted hat and he’s crying. He’s got Robert stuffed under one arm and Billy under the other.
“Tvins! Tvins!” he’s screaming, even though they’re not. Robert is my brother and Billy is my cousin even though they do look alike.
Jumping up and down next to the old man is a lady with red hair and a film star dress. She’s kissing both boys and messing up Rob’s parting and singing a song, “Achoognered bidi oudem, kitignered bidi oudem.”
I know what she’s saying, even though it’s Armenian. I understand that much. She wants to eat Robert’s eyes and nose! Before I can warn him, before I can move, I am finally attacked. The midget great-granny has me locked in her arms. She smells of mothballs and onions and her lips turn in over her pink gums which hold no teeth. There’s a cave in her mouth that wants to suck me in. I don’t know if I want to cry, or faint, or have a comforting wee in my pants but as I look into her eyes, only inches above mine, she says my name and the whole world stops.
“Vicky.”
She winks at me, undoes the top button of her spotty dress and I climb in, crack open her ribcage and nestle into her heart. In here I feel the safest I have ever felt in my life. It’s my blue eiderdown and lentil soup and Fleur in ‘The Forsyte Saga’ after a hot bath in winter. It’s new, like a pomegranate split open, ready to eat. It’s the taste of milk and honey. The smell of lily-of-the-valley in our front garden in Bromley, especially after the rain. She is the rain. The rain that runs down the windowpane that I follow with my finger on long car journeys. She is with me now and for always, the angels sing. All ways.
“Always dreaming!” Mummy says, yanking at my arm. I’m in shock – being dragged back to earth so rudely. That’s parents for you – they teach you manners and then they don’t use them. Mummy wants to introduce me to all the people in the room. I look over at Nene Khatoun and she nods. Suddenly I can hearhervoice even though it’s Mummy’s lips that are moving. Nene Khatoun can speak to me without opening her mouth just like they do on the telly, on magic shows. Telepathy, it’s called. Or ventrilolilolism, that thing with a creepy doll. I listen to Nene Khatoun’s voice inside my head, watching Mummy’s Coral Frost lipstick move,woowah woowah. Nene Khatoun is telling me important stuff.
“It won’t make any sense now but will in the future,” she says. “It’s about who you are.”
I listen hard. I know I may have to depend on these words one day. Mum pushes me in front of the red-haired lady in the lovely dress, wipes my eyebrows and tugs at my hem. The lady has stopped singing that song and is smiling at me. Colgate, three ways clean.
“This is Auntie Verginia, Mummy’s sister,” Nene Khatoun’s voice says. “She’ll show you herdzidzigswhen she gets undressed. Look at them. Her body is not as l
