And Alsana was once again caught between the two of them, trying desperately to find the middle ground. ‘If Magid was here, he’d sort you two out. A lawyer’s mind, he’d make things straight.’ But Magid wasn’t here, he was there, and there was still not enough money to change the situation.

Then the summer came and with it exams. Irie came in just behind Chalfen the Chubster, and Millat did far better than anyone, including he, had expected. It could only be the Chalfen influence, and Clara, for one, felt a little ashamed of herself. Alsana just said, ‘Iqbal brains. In the end, they triumph,’ and decided to mark the occasion with a joint Iqbal/Jones celebration barbecue to be held on Samad’s lawn.

Neena, Maxine, Ardashir, Shiva, Joshua, aunties, cousins, Irie’s friends, Millat’s friends, KEVIN friends and the headmaster, all came and made merry (except for KEVIN, who formed a circle in one corner) with paper cups filled with cheap Spanish bubbly.

It was going well enough until Samad spotted the ring of folded arms and green bow-ties.

‘What are they doing here? Who let in the infidels?’

‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you?’ sniped Alsana, looking at the three empty cans of Guinness Samad had already got through, the hotdog juice dribbling down his chin. ‘Who’s casting the first stone at a barbecue?’

Samad glared and lurched away with Archie to admire their shared handiwork on the reconstructed shed. Clara took the opportunity to pull Alsana aside and ask her a question.

Alsana stamped a foot in her own coriander. ‘No! No way at all. What should I thank her for? If he did well, it was because of his own brains. Iqbal brains. Not once, not once has that long-toothed Chaffinch even condescended to telephone me. Wild horses will have to drag my dead body, lady.’

‘But… I just think it would be a nice idea to go and thank her for all the time she’s spent with the children… I think maybe we misjudged her-’

‘By all means, go, Lady Jones, go if you like,’ said Alsana scornfully. ‘But as for me, wild horses, wild horses could not do it.’

‘And that’s Dr Solomon Chalfen, Marcus’s grandfather. He was one of the few men who would listen to Freud when everybody in Vienna thought they had a sexual deviant on their hands. An incredible face he has, don’t you think? There’s so much wisdom in it. The first time Marcus showed me that picture, I knew I wanted to marry him. I thought: if my Marcus looks like that at eighty I’ll be a very lucky girl!’

Clara smiled and admired the daguerreotype. She had so far admired eight along the mantelpiece with Irie trailing sullenly behind her, and there were at least as many left to go.

‘It’s a grand old family, and if you don’t find it too presumptuous, Clara – is “Clara” all right?’

‘Clara’s fine, Mrs Chalfen.’

Irie waited for Joyce to ask Clara to call her Joyce.

‘Well, as I was saying, it’s a grand old family and if you don’t find it too presumptuous I like to think of Irie as a kind of addition to it, in a way. She’s just such a remarkable girl. We’ve so enjoyed having her around.’

‘She’s enjoyed being around, I think. And she really owes you a lot. We all do.’

‘Oh no, no, no. I believe in the Responsibility of Intellectuals… besides which, it’s been a joy. Really. I hope we’ll still see her, even though the exams are over. There’s still A-levels, if nothing else!’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’d come anyway. She talks about you all the time. The Chalfens this, the Chalfens that…’

Joyce clasped Clara’s hands in her own. ‘Oh, Clara, I am pleased. And I’m pleased we’ve finally met as well. Oh now, I hadn’t finished. Where were we – oh yes, well here are Charles and Anna – great-uncles and aunts – long buried, sadly. He was a psychiatrist – yes, another one – and she was a plant biologist – woman after my own heart.’

Joyce stood back for a minute, like an art critic in a gallery, and put her hands on her hips. ‘I mean, after a while, you’ve got to suspect it’s in the genes, haven’t you? All these brains. I mean, nurture just won’t explain it. I mean, will it?’

‘Er, no,’ agreed Clara. ‘I guess not.’

‘Now, out of interest – I mean, I really am curious – which side do you think Irie gets it from, the Jamaican or the English?’

Clara looked up and down the line of dead white men in starched collars, some monocled, some uniformed, some sitting in the bosom of their family, each member manacled into position so the camera could do its slow business. They all reminded her a little of someone. Of her own grandfather, the dashing Captain Charlie Durham, in his one extant photograph: pinched and pale, looking defiantly at the camera, not so much having his picture taken as forcing his image upon the acetate. What they used to call a Muscular Christian. The Bowden family called him Whitey. Djam fool bwoy taut he owned everyting he touched.

‘My side,’ said Clara tentatively. ‘I guess the English in my side. My grandfather was an Englishman, quite la di da, I’ve been told. His child, my mother, was born during the Kingston earthquake, 1907. I used to think maybe the rumble knocked the Bowden brain cells into place ’cos we been doing pretty well since then!’

Joyce saw that Clara was expecting a laugh and quickly supplied one.

‘But seriously, it was probably Captain Charlie Durham. He taught my grandmother all she knew. A good English education. Lord knows, I can’t think who else it could be.’

‘Well, how fascinating! It’s what I say to Marcus – it is the genes, whatever he says. He says I’m a simplifier, but he’s just too theoretical. I’m proven right all the time!’

As the front door closed behind her, Clara bit her own lip once more, this time in frustration and anger. Why had she said Captain Charlie Durham? That was a downright lie. False as her own white teeth. Clara was smarter than Captain Charlie Durham. Hortense was smarter than Captain Charlie Durham. Probably even Grandma Ambrosia was smarter than Captain Charlie Durham. Captain Charlie Durham wasn’t smart. He had thought he was, but he wasn’t. He sacrificed a thousand people because he wanted to save one woman he never really knew. Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy.

13 The Root Canals of Hortense Bowden

A little English education can be a dangerous thing. Alsana’s favourite example of this was the old tale of Lord Ellenborough, who, upon taking the Sind province from India, sent a telegram of only one word to Delhi: peccavi, a conjugated Latin verb, meaning I have sinned. ‘The English are the only people,’ she would say with distaste, ‘who want to teach you and steal from you at the same time.’ Alsana’s mistrust for the Chalfens was no more or less than that.

Clara agreed but for reasons that were closer to home: a family memory; an unforgotten trace of bad blood in the Bowdens. Her own mother, when inside her mother (for if this story is to be told, we will have to put them all back inside each other like Russian dolls, Irie back in Clara, Clara back in Hortense, Hortense back in Ambrosia), was silent witness to what happens when all of a sudden an Englishman decides you need an education. For it had not been enough for Captain Charlie Durham – recently posted to Jamaica – to impregnate his landlady’s adolescent daughter one drunken evening in the Bowden larder, May 1906. He was not satisfied with simply taking her maidenhood. He had to teach her something as well.

‘Me? He wan’ teach me?’ Ambrosia Bowden had placed her hand over the tiny bump that was Hortense and tried to look as innocent as possible. ‘Why he wan’ teach me?’

‘Tree times a week,’ replied her mother. ‘An’ don’ arks me why. But Lord knows, you could do wid some improvin’. Be tankful for gen’russ-ity. Dere is not required whys and wherefores when a hansum, upright English gentleman like Mr Durham wan’ be gen’russ.’