by Rosie Rowell
‘Vivienne,’ continued Dad, ‘I’m perfectly aware of what happens in a general election, all I’m saying is that it’s nonsense. No one is going to deliver on those election promises, not even Mr Mandela. They are turning a vision of the future into an election campaign.’
‘Everything starts as a dream, Timothy,’ replied Mum.
‘People wouldn’t vote for anything less,’ said Simon.
His voice was still soft, but it had lost its apologetic tone. Any trace of Leopold had disappeared somewhere between his white English-speaking school and the rest of the world. It was a nomad’s accent.
‘We are impatient, we have waited too long,’ he added.
We! I wanted to laugh. You can’t do that, Simon, you can’t spend five years benefitting from a white education and travel around Europe on a white-sponsored scholarship and call yourself a comrade. As I turned, he stopped talking and looked directly at me. I swallowed, my face burning. He’d known I was there all along.
With no choice, I marched outside.
Mum looked up. ‘Meg! Look who’s here!’
‘Do you want a little wine Meggie?’ asked Dad, getting up to fetch a glass.
‘Maybe not,’ said Mum, ‘it’s a school night.’
‘She’s not going to drink the whole bottle,’ laughed Dad and turned to me, ‘are you?’
‘I don’t want any wine,’ I snapped. My parents only offered us wine on special occasions. This was not a special occasion.
‘Have you said hello to Simon?’ said Mum
I closed my eyes and bit back the desire to scream. After a laboured breath, I opened them again and with a flicker of a glance at him, said, ‘You’re back.’
He smiled, leaned his head to one side. ‘You’ve got so big!’
Oh my dear God. Was that all he could think of to say?
‘You can’t tell a girl she’s “big”, Simon!’ said Mum in her most severe tone. ‘A comment like that will have her eating nothing but lettuce leaves!’
‘No it won’t,’ I said, pulling a face.
Mum laughed.
‘You’re gorgeous, Meg,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll always be my princess,’ he continued, laughing at his own joke, ‘no matter how big you get.’
I couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘I’ll see you at supper,’ I said and fled.
Back in my room, I closed the door and leaned heavily against it. My breath came in gasps. My heart was pushing up at my shoulder blades and my stomach had plummeted, punching down on my sitting bones. Left behind in that space was both a deep hollowness and an intense pressure. Perhaps it was the beginnings of a heart attack, or some kind of seizure. I threw myself onto my bed but caught the wall with the back of my head, which sent a pain as sharp as a knife-edge into my skull, ‘Aargh!’ I shouted.
Beth burst through the door. ‘Simon’s here!’
I looked away, rubbing my head and blinking away the tears.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I’m not! I hit my head against the wall.’
‘Only mental people hit their heads against the wall.’
I rolled my eyes and continued rubbing my head.
But Beth wanted a rise. ‘I’m going to tell Simon you’ve gone mental, and you’re sitting in your room banging your head against the wall and crying.’
‘OK, I’m mental. Go away, Beth, I beg you.’
Beth hesitated. ‘Only if I get to sit next to Simon at supper.’
‘Sure,’ I muttered, ‘No prob-le-mo.’
On the way to the dining room I found Marta in the kitchen.
‘Why are you still here?’ I asked. Marta was usually home by late afternoon.
‘Have you washed your hands?’ she asked in reply, a question she’d not asked me in ten years. I stared at her, wondering if perhaps everyone was going mental. Then I remembered – her boy, back from the moon, was sitting outside drinking a beer with my parents. I wasn’t the only one feeling uncomfortable that night.
‘Take this.’ Marta placed the breadboard with a loaf and the butter into my hands.
‘Marta’s still here,’ I said accusatorily at Mum as I sat down. Simon sat opposite me, next to Beth. Back in his old place.
Mum, half rising, called: ‘Marta?’
‘On my way, Miss Viv,’ Marta appeared in the doorway in her street clothes, clutching her ‘Duty Free’ shopping bag.
The next second got stuck on itself, and the perspective in the room blurred so that Marta, standing in the doorway seemed shrunken, much smaller than normal, whereas Simon, looking across the room at his mother from his seat at the table, appeared much too tall. He looked like a man; as though he didn’t belong to her. But the moment passed, and time speeded up again to make up for its glitch and Mum said, ‘Why don’t you join us for supper, Marta?’ and for a moment Marta hesitated, then turned to Mum.
‘Thank you, Miss Viv, but I am expected at the prayer meeting.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Mum.
Simon remembered himself, and jumped up, saying: ‘Let me walk you home, Ma,’ and reached out to take her bag.
‘Gracious child, don’t be silly!’ Marta smacked Simon’s hand away, although now she had to look up to scold her son. She turned, and raised her hand to the rest of us in greeting. As she disappeared back into the kitchen, she seemed to favour her right hip in a way she hadn’t done before.
I watched Mum watching Marta. A shadow of guilt passed across her face.
Dad dished out mutton curry and rice. The table seemed shrunken tonight, making elbows and hands too close together. Under the table I could sense Simon’s leg jigging up and down though his face and upper body remained perfectly still.
‘There’s no air in this room,’ I said, and got up to open the window. The evening outside was a riot of noise – the crickets and cicadas and birds were going wild in response to an electric static in the air. ‘Storm’s coming,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’ called Dad.
‘Nothing,’ I muttered and returned to my seat.
Mum demanded a blow-by-blow account of Simon’s travels. Simon looked at both her and Dad as he spoke, but he was wasting his time – Dad hated Europe. I faced my plate of curry. I was determined to eat everything, despite being so big, but the tender meat scraped and cut into the back of my throat. I was sickened by the way Simon talked as casually about Covent Garden and the Houses of Parliament as I might a visit to the Co Op. And the grimy backpackers he stayed at in Earls Court – could it be the same one that Mum’s old Australian boyfriend had stayed in twenty zillion years ago, the one with the green front door? Yes? Hilarious! Simon began to talk about the Eurostar, which was recently finished, and how odd it would be to know you were actually travelling under the sea.
Beth, who had maintained a dignified silence until that point, dropped her fork and squealed, ‘Under the sea?’
‘Imagine!’ said Mum.
Simon glanced at me, but I was ready with a look that said, ‘I’m fifteen years old, Simon. I don’t care about a shitty little tunnel under the sea.’ At least I hope it did.
‘But that’s insane!’ Beth said, and spurred on by the laughter, continued, ‘It’s mental!’ and flashed a look at me.
They moved on to Rome and the Vatican City and the plundered treasures of the ancient world, before landing in Paris. Mum had a thing about Paris. She claimed that after Leopold, Paris was her next choice for a home.
Simon took a sip of beer and smiled. ‘I had a moment, as I stared up at the Eiffel Tower. I had woken up that day with the thought, “Today I will see one of the most famous landmarks in the world!” and there it was, exactly the same as in the pictures and the movies,’ he laughed, ‘maybe a bit smaller.’
I looked up – that was the first interesting thing he had said.
‘And I thought, why am I spending six months of my life travelling around a few countries, visiting places that I have been taught about, only to say “I’ve seen it!’’ Wouldn’t i
t be better to spend six months exploring somewhere you knew nothing about? Wouldn’t you learn so much more?’
Dad grunted.
But Mum wouldn’t hear of it: ‘You have to see Paris! You have to feel the age of Europe. You don’t find that here.’
‘Vivienne!’ said Dad.
‘I know this is the cradle of mankind and all that,’ said Mum, ‘but Europe is a different kind of old. Pass me some more wine,’ she added, a sign she was losing confidence in her own argument.
As Dad passed the wine along the table, she said, ‘You stayed in the Latin Quarter. How did you find your way there?’
‘I had a good … guide,’ Simon answered with a little laugh.
A clap of laughter from Dad and Mum exclaimed, ‘Simon, you devil!’
‘What?’ demanded Beth.
‘Never mind,’ said Mum. But Dad leaned over and whispered into her ear.
‘Ooh la la!’ shouted Beth and and made kissing noises.
‘Simon, are you blushing?’ asked Mum, in her maddening voice.
‘Us coloureds don’t blush, you know that!’ he smiled.
My fork clattered to the floor. I bent to collect it, cursing my clumsy self. Simon had seemed to pick a new girlfriend each time he came home for the holidays. They’d hang about town looking bored. It annoyed me as I felt stupid walking past them. ‘Why don’t you take your girlfriend swimming?’ I’d asked him one day.
‘She can’t.’
‘So teach her.’
‘Nah,’ he replied, bored by the thought, bored by me.
‘You must have done the Louvre?’ Mum and Simon were now speaking a language that excluded everyone else at the table.
Simon nodded and smiled. ‘All those pictures of white people in ancient clothes, like one big fancy dress. A big fancy dress party that not one single black person was invited to.’
‘Obviously, ‘ I said, without thinking. ‘It’s Europe. What did you expect?’
Simon wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked at me. ‘I suppose what I didn’t expect was how insignificant, how expendable Africa was to the rest of the world.’
‘Were there paintings of … Chinese people in the gallery?’ I asked.
‘Ja,’ replied Simon.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mum with a glance in my direction, ‘All that wonderful Chinese art.’
How was I supposed to know that?
Dad looked at Simon. ‘Africa wasn’t expendable. It was propping up a wealthy Europe with crops and exotic exports and –’
‘Slaves,’ said Simon.
There was a pause in the conversation as Simon ate his food. The sharp definition of the muscles on his upper arm made me think that a cross-section of his body would be a perfect example to study in biology.
‘It was an incredible nine months,’ he said at last. ‘The culture, hearing French being spoken by French people, seeing Italians riding scooters, ancient ruins in Rome, tasting proper coffee … ’
‘And ze French girls,’ said Beth in a throaty voice.
‘If you were having such a good time, why did you come home?’ I said. In the silence I was aware of my parents looking at me. Inwardly I groaned as my petulant words bounced off the walls. It had felt like a perfectly reasonable question in my head. I felt Simon’s eyes on me, willing me to look at him, but I would not give him that satisfaction.
‘It was time,’ said Simon, in a voice that seemed to be saying something else. He turned to Mum. ‘Thank you for supper.’
‘Thank you, but your mother makes the best mutton curry, she always has,’ replied Mum, which called to mind Marta, making her slow walk up the hill towards the strobe-lit community hall and the blue linoleum floor and the hard plastic chairs and the feathery prayer book pages.
Dad cleared his throat. ‘What are your plans now, my boy?’
‘I’m waiting on those bursary responses,’ said Simon.
‘Have you decided on a university?’ asked Mum.
‘Wits,’ he replied.
This was good news. Wits was as far away as he could go in South Africa.
‘So we’ll lose you again!’ exclaimed Mum, but there was approval in her voice.
I’d had enough of this. At any moment Mum would start on about how a little bit of hard work afforded you such wonderful choice. ‘I have homework to do,’ I said.
‘Actually, you’ve got the washing-up to do,’ said Mum, gathering plates.
‘I’ll do it,’ Simon said, standing up. He squeezed Beth’s shoulder. ‘You’ll help me, Bethie, won’t you?’
Beth and Simon disappeared into the kitchen, Beth jumping around him like a puppy. My parents followed them, leaving me alone.
I looked around the empty table. The favoured child had returned home, his initiation complete, bearing scars and stories from far-off lands. But Leopold was no place for a hero. Warriors on return get restless; with nothing to conquer, grow mischievous. Simon wouldn’t last in Leopold; he couldn’t stay. He had left behind his ability to return in some pavement café; he’d dropped it into a Roman ruin. With any luck he’d be gone again before Christmas.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I pulled at my T-shirt. Simon’s return had brought the heat. He’d snatched away the last weeks of spring that were rightfully ours.
Xanthe was waiting for me outside the old gaol. Her skinny body seemed elongated against the flat-roofed, whitewashed building. She looked glum. Her eyebrows were scrunched together, her hands thrust deep into her pockets. As I reached her, she turned and started down Park Road. I knew this mood. The quickest way to get her out of it was to ignore her.
Park Road was my favourite in Leopold. It was the only part of town where you could be somewhere else. Bougainvilleas and jacarandas grew in abundance. Helicopter trees lined the road. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Bosmansberg’s shadow was beginning to creep over the river, up the gardens towards the road. A trickle of gardeners and maids passed us walking in the opposite direction, making their way home. Apart from them, the road was deserted.
‘My dad’s on my case, Madge,’ said Xanthe.
We passed a small brown-roofed house. The chicken-wire gate was open, a ‘Beware of the dog sign’ dangled off a nail. Dead leaves covered the path, the grass on either side was knee-high. Two of the front windowpanes were smashed through. The Portuguese family used to live there. The parents had run the local café for a while, but had moved to the coast two years ago. Beth and I used to stop and chat when we rode our BMX bicycles up and down the road. It was a long, flat road – a good road for bikes.
‘I’m worried about the exams,’ Xanthe said, looking at me sideways.
‘Which one?’
‘All of them. But science is the biggest problem.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad has this bizarre notion that I’m a sciences person, like him.’
I laughed.
‘It’s not funny. I have to get sixty-eight per cent in the exams to pass science this year. Sixty-eight per cent! Not a fucking hope.’
‘You’ve got time,’ I said.
‘No, I haven’t. There’s too much to learn.’
For the first time Xanthe’s careful nonchalance wobbled. She turned away.
‘What would happen if you failed?’ I said, my mind running ahead. She’d probably leave Leopold. If that happened I wouldn’t be Madge anymore. I’d return to being Meg, the English girl with the empty desk beside her who spent all her time trying to be invisible. I shivered and looked up for the cloud blocking the sun, but the sky was a mocking blue.
‘Failing’s not an option,’ replied Xanthe in a flat voice.
I felt helpless. I couldn’t make her study, I couldn’t write the exams for her.
‘And to think the exam paper has already been set, and is sitting somewhere in the school, waiting.’ Xanthe kicked a stone out of the road.
‘In the printing room,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The door behind the big photocopier i
s a walk-in cupboard. All the exam papers are stored in there.’
‘How do you know?’
I shrugged. ‘Juffrou sent me there once. It’s locked, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Xanthe.
We walked on in silence. A curling poster tacked to the lamppost ahead advertised a Dinner Dance at the rugby club. It promised a swinging night with ‘Little Jack and the Boom-Boom Band’.
Xanthe sighed. ‘The last thing my dad said to me was, “I don’t care how you do it, but don’t come home without a decent set of results.”’ She swung around. ‘They’re not like your parents, Madge. They don’t care whether or not I learn anything. It’s all about appearances.’
If only Mum cared even a small amount about appearances our lives would be much happier. Xanthe was looking for sympathy but all I felt was envy.
We were in sight of the showgrounds. She quickened her pace. ‘Come on, Madgie, they’re waiting for us.’
I resorted to a triple to keep up. ‘Who is they?’
‘Miggie and them.’
I stopped. I had avoided thinking about this afternoon. When Xanthe told me of her plans, I’d simply blanked out the word ‘dope’. It was a little word and easy to ignore. But now a voice in my head shouted the word so loudly that I looked around in case someone might hear. Xanthe was taking me to buy dagga, illegal dagga, from one of Leopold’s dimmest characters. Miggie was Marta’s nephew. ‘Stunted body, stunted brains,’ was Marta’s well-voiced opinion of him, a ‘textbook good-for-nothing-rubbish’.
‘Miggie’s a gangster, you know.’
Xanthe threw back her head and laughed. ‘I can’t imagine gangsters in Leopold.’
Two stone gateposts, as high as my head, marked the entrance to the showground. The slatted iron gates between them bore the words ‘Leopold Skou’ across them. The gates were always chained and padlocked, but everyone stepped through the hole on the right where the chicken wire had long ago come away from the post.
The Leopold Show was held in April, when the worst of the heat had passed. Lorries carrying livestock, bakkies piled with people and produce, and horse traps converged on the showground at first light. All day the smell of boerewors[*] and fried onion snaked through the air while squashbox music made the loudspeakers dance. Inside the marquees were stalls of preserves and pickles. Beth and I always went straight to the needlework. Amongst the towers of doilies was our favourite thing: the crocheted Sindy doll loo-roll covers in pink, green or purple with matching loo seat covers. We’d bought one for Mum once, but she didn’t see the humour. Unlike her net curtains, a Sindy doll loo-roll cover was not ironic.
