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looked unperturbed.
    Now feeling very sick, Faye looked blindly at the blurred faces staring at her and tried to stand up before she passed out. The others seemed frozen and, as no one came to her assistance, she gritted her teeth and willed her bottom to cooperate, finally managing to struggle to her feet unaided. She did not remain standing long.
    After taking a couple of steps, the last thing she heardbefore her legs gave way and she collapsed gracelessly into an amethyst yellow cushion was Wesley’s strong lilt proclaiming disdainfully,
    â€˜Girl, let me tell you something: black is not a colour; it’s a state of mind!’

2
    Cultural Dilemmas
    â€˜Wake up, child!’ The loud voice reverberated through Faye’s head without mercy. The dark room suddenly flooded with light as the heavy raw silk curtains were pulled back.
    Faye groaned and tried to raise her head. But her head might as well have been made of iron and the pillow a magnet because after a couple of feeble attempts, she gave up and sank back under the duvet.
    â€˜What on earth were you up to last night, young lady?’ Lottie said in the rich Scottish accent that sounded as though she had left Glasgow for London the previous week, instead of more than twenty years earlier.
    Faye’s only response was a weak groan. Unmoved, Lottie pulled the heavy duvet back a few inches and tried not to laugh as Faye clawed frantically at the covers, trying to crawl back into her warm cocoon.
    She took one look at Faye cowering miserably under the duvet and she shook her head without sympathy.
    â€˜Look at the state of you,’ she said sternly. ‘Come on, upwith you – you’ll feel better after a nice shower!’
    Finally realising that Lottie had no intention of leaving until she had been obeyed, Faye crawled out of the comfort of her bed and staggered into the adjoining bathroom. Her head was throbbing and her hand shook as she brushed her teeth before returning to her room where Lottie was bent over picking up the clothes strewn across the floor.
    â€˜Oh God’, she wailed, sitting on the corner of her bed. ‘I’m dying!’
    Dressed in one of William’s old T-shirts that barely reached her knees and with her hair sticking out in all directions, she looked like a long-legged street urchin. Lottie’s expression remained unmoved and Faye knew better than to argue, even if she had had the strength to try.
    Tall and angular, with greying brown hair cut into a severe bob, Lottie had been part of the Bonsu family since Faye was six years old.
    Born Charlotte Cameron, Lottie was the fourth of seven children and had grown up in a small and very crowded terraced house in Glasgow. Unlike her brothers and sisters, who had left school at the first opportunity, Charlotte, who dreamed of becoming a teacher, had stayed on, eventually winning a scholarship to study at the leading teacher training college in the city. While her mother openly grumbled about where all this education would lead, Charlotte’s success was warmly welcomed by her proudly working class father who basked in the heightened status his daughter’s achievement brought him. Barely literate himself and having left school at fourteen, Jim Cameron was from a long line of dock workers, as were most ofhis friends. When she finally qualified, ‘our Charlotte, the teacher’ gave him something to boast about to anyone at his local pub who would listen. Excited at the whole new world now open to her, and having read about the shortage of good teachers in the English capital, Charlotte decided to move south to London where she soon found a teaching job. However, after three years of fruitlessly trying to force English and history down the bored and uncooperative throats of the inmates of an East London comprehensive school, Charlotte came to the sad conclusion that teaching was not after all the vocation for her and gave in her notice. Her father