The Flower Plantation by Nora Anne Brown Page A

and drank. That's why I was seeing Mr Patel. I didn't know why Mother had to pretend otherwise.
    â€œCome on, Arthur,” said Mother as she parked the pickup in the gravel that was neither road nor pavement.
    As I got out, clutching my book, I saw a man with no legs hauling himself through the dirt on his knuckles, which were wrapped in rags. I could see the brown blood seeping through the grey fabric. I tried to imagine how much it hurt to heave yourself on bleeding fists and what it felt like to have no legs. But I couldn't.
    The man looked at Mother, then at me, and grunted something I didn't understand, pleading with his eyes like the dogs did for dinner scraps. Mother looked straight ahead, her face blank: she must have seen him, but she ignored him. I didn't understand why she gave scraps to the dogs, but didn't give anything to the man with no legs.
    She took my hand and marched me up to Mr Patel's practice. The alley to the surgery was dark and narrow and littered with excrement. It opened into a yard through screeching sheet-metal gates. On two sides a brick wall with coils of barbed wire and broken glass surrounded a patch of dirt where blades of grass tried but failed to grow. On the other two sides was Dr Patel's L-shaped clinic with its barred windows. There were no butterflies or flowers in the yard. I used to wonder if there was asingle butterfly or flower in the whole of Goma. It seemed unlikely.
    â€œHurry up, Arthur, there's nothing to be afraid of,” said Mother, and she guided me up the cracked cement path towards the clinic door. The dogs lay down in the shade of the veranda – we went inside.
    A small TV, mounted on the wall, blared into the reception room, which was full of boxes packed with green envelopes. Pieces of cardboard stuck up, with capital letters on them from A to Z. Seeing things in alphabetical order usually made me feel calm, but not at Mr Patel's. Nothing could make me feel calm at Mr Patel's – not my photo album, my chrysalides, my book or rubbing my knuckles together.
    â€œ Bonjour, Madame Baptiste ,” said the receptionist, a big woman whose white uniform was too tight. I could see the shape of her underwear and bits of bare flesh where the buttons strained. She checked her appointment book and smiled at me from behind her wooden desk: her eye tooth shone a brilliant gold.
    â€œI'll be back for him in an hour,” Mother whispered to the receptionist – as if I might not hear over the television – as if I might not notice she was leaving.
    â€œArthur,” she said, “there's nothing to worry about. This lady is going to look after you for an hour while I do some shopping.” She placed her hand on my shoulder and said: “You'll be fine.”
    I sat on a green plastic chair, folded my arms and bit my lip, trying hard not to cry. I opened African Butterflies and leant forward to check for Romeo, who was keeping a lazy guard by the door. Tears plopped from my eyes and wrinkled the pages. I blotted them with my palm.
    The receptionist disappeared into the surgery. I looked at the clock and watched every noisy second tick by. She reappeared, smiling, as if that might make me feel better. She returned to her filing, humming as she did so.
    â€œArthur,” she said, after I'd listened to the clock tick over three minutes, “the doctor see you now.” She indicated to the door with the little brass plaque that read “Mr Patel”, with a whole lot of letters after his name. I stalled. “ Allez, Arthur. Le docteur est très occupé .”
    I pushed the door open and entered the hot room, which smelt of warm rubber and cloves. The receptionist closed the door behind me.
    â€œTake a seat,” said Mr Patel.
    I walked towards the huge chair with its overhead lamp, spittoon and rack of gleaming instruments. I clambered onto the hard chair, which reclined until I was lying facing the broken ceiling panels. Mr Patel