by Ekow Duker
A fleeting look of anguish passed across Mrs Summerscales’ face.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Summerscales,’ André said. ‘I’d presumed your violin was from a more contemporary violin maker. But a Guadagnini …’
‘Nigel will be terribly upset when I sell the violin,’ Mrs Summerscales said. ‘I promised I’d give it to him when he played his first major concert. He’s had his heart set on it for years.’
‘Has he never played the Guadagnini?’
‘No, he hasn’t. He’s insisted on saving it until he’s good enough. I think he’s good enough now, if you ask me.’
‘Then I must ask again. Why are you selling the violin?’
Mrs Summerscales dabbed at the corner of her eye with her finger and pulled a face so as not to ruin her makeup.
‘Some things just have to be done, Mr Potgieter. I’m not as heartless as people make me out to be. I’m terribly upset that I have to sell it. Terribly upset.’
She glanced across at André and he nodded to reassure her that he understood. He’d seen the same hunted look on the faces of farmers in the Free State when the rains didn’t come and their crops shrivelled and lay down to die. With their debts piling up remorselessly, some had been known to put a pistol to their heads and pull the trigger.
‘Let me see what I can do, Mrs Summerscales.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘If it’s not too much to ask, may I come and see the violin?’ He spoke as if the Guadagnini were a person he wanted to visit. ‘I hope I’m not being too presumptuous but I’d be honoured if I could play it.’
Mrs Summerscales’ eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Do you mean at a concert? I’m not letting the violin out of the house.’
‘Actually, I was thinking more of a private recital. Something small and intimate while we consider our options.’ He spoke as if he were now an integral part of the plans Mrs Summerscales had for the Guadagnini.
Mrs Summerscales’ voice grew brisk and businesslike.
‘It’s agreed then. You’ll help me find a buyer. In the meantime, I think it’s a wonderful idea to have a recital. I’ll ask Nigel to come over. He might even want to play the Guadagnini too. That would be a fitting farewell for it, don’t you think? I’ll have to tell him eventually. I can’t keep putting it off forever.’
CHAPTER 21
The first thing Karabo noticed about Nigel wasn’t the violin case he held in his hand. It was his trousers. It was odd enough that they dangled an inch or so above his ankles. It was the fact that the hem had been let out that made her head snap upwards to look at his face. He was bent over a pile of second-hand books laid out on a trestle table in the church hall on Hinde Street and Karabo couldn’t see his features. So she went back to studying his trousers and the hemline in particular. The stitching was so uneven it looked like he’d done it himself. It wandered across the cotton the way uTatomkhulu did when he’d had too much to drink. That was another misconception Karabo had about London. That men over here bought new pants whenever they needed them and never had to let the hems out.
One of Nigel’s socks had ridden up his ankle and the empty heel flopped tiredly over the back of his shoe. She felt a little sorry for him because it looked as if he had an unfortunate growth. So when later he took her to his mother’s grand home in South Kensington, she thought he was pulling her leg.
‘You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?’ Karabo had only been in London a couple of months and she was already trotting out English idioms like she’d coined them herself.
Nigel let the heavy brass knocker fall gently back into place. They didn’t have those in South Africa. In Johannesburg, a house this size would be set well back from the road, it wouldn’t be sitting right on the pavement. You’d need a pole at least one hundred metres long to knock on the door. And it would need to be a bendy pole because the driveways of rich people in Johannesburg and Cape Town meandered forever through trees and ornate gardens.
‘I’m not taking the piss,’ Nigel said. ‘This is where I live.’ He corrected himself. ‘Lived.’
‘You should have told me,’ Karabo said heatedly. She was feeling very out of place. Even the brass lion’s head seemed to glare at her in disapproval.
Nigel pulled her down to sit next to him on the steps. It was a warm autumn afternoon but it was still very cold for Karabo. She shivered and snuggled into the coat her mother had bought her. With its thick fur collar and hood, it made her look like a polar explorer. Or an African immigrant. A tell-tale tuft of white down poked out of a small tear above the pocket and Karabo covered it with her hand. She really should have worn something else.
‘I wish you’d told me,’ she said again.
‘Told you what?’
Nigel could be infuriating at times with his faux Socratic questioning. Karabo looked him squarely in the face, staring at him so intently she could have counted his freckles. There were seven of them, three in a tight cluster beneath his left eye and the rest sprinkled across the opposite cheek. These were the only blemishes in an otherwise smooth and almost feminine face. His hair, in contrast, was the colour of an old Brillo pad that had been left too long in the sink and had turned to rust.
He held her gaze easily and in the end it was Karabo who turned away. She looked out at the white terraced houses on either side of her. Across the road, the tightly packed greenery of the bushes around Hereford Square was suddenly dark and forbidding.
‘I didn’t think it mattered. It’s my mother’s place and, like I said, I don’t live here anymore.’ He jingled a set of keys in his pocket. ‘I still have my keys but Mum doesn’t like me bursting in on her unannounced.’
His explanation annoyed Karabo but she didn’t quite know why. Didn’t not saying something count as a lie? She liked visiting Nigel in his flat in Earls Court. She didn’t mind the violent smell of wet dog that assailed her the moment she opened the front door. Nigel’s landlord, Karim, was an unshaven Iraqi who never wore anything other than a black Manchester United tracksuit with double gold racing stripes. Karim had told her it was the carpet that was responsible for the smell. He’d said this with great pride, as if he were recounting an immutable truth. But to Karabo’s surprise he didn’t offer to do anything about the carpet. He simply left it at that.
Nigel lived in a poky little flat one got to by descending a narrow flight of stairs. The only natural light that seeped in did so with great reluctance from a sliver of window on the same level as the pavement outside. Karabo had assumed Nigel’s parents lived far away in another city, not a brisk walk away from his flat. She couldn’t help wondering how much she really knew about Nigel Summerscales.
That was the thing about Nigel. He told stories. But somehow he always weaved enough truth into his narrative that she ended up believing the whole thing. Karabo was wondering how to pierce the thick silence that had welled up between them when a little fat dog ambled by. It was a Jack Russell with knowing eyes and a drooping belly. It padded to a wheezy stop right next to her foot. Then she heard a child’s voice with a distinctly French accent drift towards them from across the square. It was joined by another voice, more agitated than the first. Together they shouted at the tops of their voices.
‘Simba! Viens ici!’
Simba, Karabo thought, how ironic. The animal looked well travelled and vaguely decrepit. And with his laboured breathing, it wouldn’t be long before Simba’s every step became an ordeal. If the children were this upset that he’d merely stepped out of their house, how utterly desolate would they be when he died.
There was a packet of biltong in Karabo’s pocket that she’d bought as a present for Nigel’s mother. She’d bought it thinking Mrs Summerscales must live in a house that was, at best, a slight upgrade in quality from Nigel’s bedsit. Karabo only had to look around her now to know how completely off the mark she’d been. But she wasn’t going to give the biltong to Simba either. He stared at her until it became apparent that there was no food forthcoming. Then he sniffed contemptuously and
trotted away, his tail bristling with abuse.
Simba hadn’t gone very far when two girls in identical school uniforms rounded the corner and scooped him up in their arms. They smothered the poor beast in a wet gush of endearments, several of which Karabo recognised from the French language videos she’d had to watch in school. They crooned in his ear and tickled his belly until Simba’s small legs kicked in a frenzy of protest they mistook for pleasure. She should have given him the biltong but it was too late.
‘You’re not upset, are you?’ Nigel asked. He seemed puzzled by Karabo’s disquiet but before she could answer, the door grated open behind them.
‘Nigel?’ Karabo felt his hand tighten on hers. And before she could gather her thoughts, Nigel’s mother was standing in front of her.
Mrs Summerscales looked like she was made of fine china with a ‘do not touch’ sign attached. She wore a white blouse and grey slacks with a blue cashmere sweater draped across her shoulders. A thin leather belt with a small gold buckle held in a gently sloping tummy.
‘It’s so good to see you, Nigel!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is this a friend of yours?’
She turned to Karabo, her grey eyes sparkling with welcome and her head nodding encouragingly. She was so thoroughly disarming that Karabo’s initial misgivings fell away with a soft clatter. She stepped forward and lied as smoothly as was expected of her.
‘I’m Karabo, Mrs Summerscales. I’ve heard so much about you.’
She wished immediately she hadn’t said that, because Mrs Summerscales’ lips tightened in reproach.
‘Oh, rubbish! I’m quite sure Nigel hasn’t said a thing about me.’ She tossed her pretty head in the direction of her son.
‘Hello, Mum,’ Nigel mumbled. He’d gone cagey all of a sudden, like he regretted coming. He gave his mother a kiss on the mouth and then it was Karabo’s turn. She bent down as Nigel had done because his mother only came up to her shoulders. But Mrs Summerscales inclined her head away at the last moment so their cheeks didn’t actually touch. Karabo was wondering what to make of this when Mrs Summerscales turned her head to repeat the air-kissing manoeuvre. Karabo darted in quickly to lessen her embarrassment and this time their cheeks brushed against each other. Mrs Summerscales’ skin was as cool and dry as a sheet of fine writing paper.
‘You must call me Susan,’ Mrs Summerscales said as she led them into the house. She was very attractive in a carefully structured way. Her hair was more grey than blonde and ended in a severe cut at the nape of her neck.
As she walked behind her, Karabo noticed Mrs Summerscales’ belt had slipped off the top of her slacks and was tight against the small of her back. If she’d known her better, she would have tapped her on the shoulder and offered to fix it.
They walked past an open kitchen with wooden floors and prominent light fittings made of brushed metal. The centre island was so large and imposing it would take up practically all the room in Nigel’s flat. A glimpse of the conservatory winked invitingly through the open door ahead of them and Karabo noticed a day bed in there. It was adorned with pastel cushions, the type of set-piece arrangement she’d seen in the magazines at Mrs Harrison’s house.
Mrs Summerscales was saying something but Karabo couldn’t quite hear her and she didn’t want her to think she was rude. She quickened her pace and had almost caught up when Mrs Summerscales stepped deftly to her right and entered a spacious sitting room.
‘Come, Karabo,’ Mrs Summerscales said. ‘You must sit next to me.’
She patted the space next to her on the couch and moved across to make space for Karabo. The sofas were made of dimpled leather and on the floor were hand-woven rugs. Stained-glass lamps perched imposingly on side tables. It was a tasteful mishmash of a gentleman’s club and a courtesan’s boudoir. A vintage gramophone in a polished wooden cabinet stood in the corner, with a black cursor and radio frequencies stencilled across the front. It looked oddly like the one Karabo had seen in Mrs Harrison’s house in Mthatha.
On the wall above the gramophone was a glass cabinet with a violin in an open case. The case was tilted at an angle to show off the violin and there was a distinctly reverential air about the small, caged instrument. It looked like it should be paraded in the streets like a religious relic. The varnished wood glowed with such rich intensity that Karabo felt ashamed of the violin Mrs Harrison had given her. She still hadn’t told Nigel about her violin; she didn’t want him laughing at her.
Nigel kept glancing at the violin as if it were his first time in the house. He reminded her of a goat when it was being led to the corner of the yard to be slaughtered. A glassy-eyed wonder that left it dumbstruck. The creature didn’t even bleat, not until Teacher gripped it between his knees and it saw the blade of his knife sweep down towards its throat.
Nigel had gone very pale and for a moment Karabo thought he’d taken ill. Then it slowly dawned on her that it was a visceral longing for the violin in the glass cabinet that had made Nigel’s lips fall open and the blood flee from his face. He didn’t look at her with such raw desire, not even when they made love.
The day they’d met at the jumble sale, Karabo wouldn’t have spoken to Nigel at all if it hadn’t been for the violin case he was holding in his hand. After all, she had a violin herself, although she didn’t play.
‘So you’re a violinist,’ she declared, pointing at Nigel’s case.
To Karabo’s amusement, he backtracked furiously and insisted with much stammering and tugging on his chin that he was only a student and was still learning. He kept his eyes averted the whole time. Karabo suspected he’d never had a black girl come up and speak to him before. She found this rather endearing and couldn’t help teasing him a little more. She asked him where he was studying and he mumbled that he was at Saint Anthony’s. Karabo didn’t know the first thing about music colleges and thought Saint Anthony’s was just another school named after a long-dead man of exalted virtue. It was only much later when she looked it up that she realised how impressed she should have been. Other than Mrs Harrison, Nigel was the first person she’d ever met who played a musical instrument. And Mrs Harrison didn’t actually play, did she? Nigel, on the other hand, was bloody good.
Whenever he took up his violin and cradled it in the crook of his neck, the most beautiful music flowed out of him. He shed his awkwardness and became this angelic creature, imbued with poise, intelligence and grace. It was quite wonderful to watch. Karabo had tried to play Mrs Harrison’s violin in Mthatha, but the notes came out wrong every time. It was as if the only way she could get her violin to behave was with muttered threats and clenched fists.
CHAPTER 22
‘How long have you been in London?’
‘Only a few months,’ Karabo replied. ‘I’m studying architecture.’
She expected Mrs Summerscales to go on and ask which school she was in but the older woman seemed strangely disinterested in her now the initial greetings had been dispensed with. Karabo decided to tell her anyway.
‘I’m at the Bartlett School. First year.’
‘Very good,’ Mrs Summerscales said. ‘My brother Philip was an architect.’ She said this as if Karabo should know him.
‘Isn’t he an architect anymore?’ Karabo asked with a mischievous smile. She was over her initial nervousness and was reverting to her usual irreverent self. ‘I didn’t know architects could be defrocked like priests. Or disbarred like lawyers.’
‘My brother died in a motor accident.’
There was a pause. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Karabo said, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Mrs Summerscales said. She turned her body until she was facing Karabo. ‘Where have you come from?’
It was a strange way to pose the question. It equated Karabo to a stray cat who might have wandered into the Summerscales’ house.
‘I’m South African, Mrs Summerscales. But my father’s Ghanaian.’
‘Do call me Susan. Susan is much easier to say, especially for so
meone not used to English.’
It was a particularly graceless thing to say, especially from someone as outwardly sophisticated as Mrs Summerscales. Karabo glanced at Nigel but he was looking at the violin again.
‘You must miss home an awful lot,’ Mrs Summerscales said. It wasn’t clear if she meant it sincerely or whether that was code for ‘Why don’t you go back then?’
Karabo shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Johannesburg?’
‘Karabo’s from the Eastern Cape,’ Nigel interrupted, interposing himself into their conversation like someone slipping through a lift door before it closes.
‘I grew up in Mthatha,’ Karabo said. ‘I’ve lived there all my life.’
Mrs Summerscales gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I’m afraid my geography extended only as far as learning the names of the continents.’
Nigel piped up again. ‘The Eastern Cape is farming country. That makes Karabo a farm girl.’
Karabo’s lips tightened but her voice remained calm and measured. ‘If you’re thinking of a girl with large breasts spilling out of a homespun blouse and smelling of sex and wet earth … I’m afraid that’s not me, Nigel.’
Nigel’s mouth opened and closed in surprise at Karabo’s rebuke but his mother remained unmoved.
‘You must forgive my son,’ she said smoothly. ‘He can be incredibly juvenile at times, isn’t that right, Nigel?’
She spoke to her son the way she would to a small, unintelligent puppy prone to random bouts of indiscretion.
Nigel flushed and stood up abruptly.
‘I think I’ll go outside for a bit,’ he said.
His mother did not try to prevent him and when he was gone, she turned to Karabo again.
‘What do your parents do, Karabo?’
‘My father’s a mathematics teacher but he’s moved back to Ghana.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She stayed in Mthatha.’
‘I see you’re quite the cosmopolitan family,’ Mrs Summerscales exclaimed with a sudden trill of energy. ‘You’re over here, your father in Ghana and your mother in …’
