by Rosie Rowell
While the women helped themselves to tea and cakes, the men huddled in the beer tent, away from the doilies and the Dominee. We sat on the grandstands watching the gymkhana and drank Coke floats. The highlight of the day was always the tug-of-war, where the boys from the agricultural college took on the local rugby side. ‘It’s like a warped beauty pageant,’ said Mum last year.
Today the grounds looked desolate. The grass grew in untidy clumps, the eucalyptus trees that lined the track seemed naked without their show-day bunting.
Xanthe followed the track around the back of the grandstand, and disappeared behind the stable block. I fell back and felt my stomach twist around itself. Why had I let her talk me into this? I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to smoke the drugs. I didn’t want Xanthe to smoke them either.
I turned to look up at Bosmansberg. Was there something wrong with me? This was what teenagers did. This was exactly the sort of adventure I had been longing for. ‘You want to be Madge – so move it!’ I told myself.
I followed the sound of laughter around the far corner of the stable block. Against the fence, on a stack of old upturned peach crates, sat three boys. Closest to me was Miggie, with his skinny brown legs ending in oversized white basketball shoes, a yellow peaked cap perched on top of his head. Xanthe was opposite him, leaning back against the wall, smoking a cigarette.
I stepped forward. Xanthe turned and held out a box of cigarettes. I took one, and clutched it in my hand. Miggie raised his chin in greeting. Then, in delayed recognition, he raised his eyebrow, leaned forward and looked at his friends.
I followed his gaze. My heart stopped. A trickle of sweat ran clear of my armpit, down my side until it met the waistband of my shorts.
‘One bankie or two?’ I heard Miggie ask. I wanted to tell Xanthe that two bank bags full of dagga was absurd. But there was no room for words in my head. The internal voice had been replaced by hysterical laughter. Ahead of me sat Simon. He was trying to adopt a gangster attitude with a luminous-green vest T-shirt and a cigarette behind his ear. He looked ridiculous. Was this what you did with a first-class education and a year away? I felt like sneering. But after his initial surprise, his face spread into a mocking grin and I knew, sweet Jesus, I knew I was in a world of trouble.
‘An entjie[*] for the road?’ I heard Miggie ask. The deal must be done.
‘No,’ I said loudly. Xanthe turned at my voice and followed my gaze. Simon jumped off the crates. I looked away.
As he passed, Simon leaned towards me. ‘Karraboosh,’ he said in his low voice. He tossed his soccer ball up in the air and dribbled it away.
Xanthe took my arm ‘You know that boy?’
I looked after him. ‘It’s Simon.’
‘Simon? “Simon-from-the-grave” Simon? He’s fucking hot.’
‘Don’t be weird.’
‘Where should we keep it?’ Xanthe asked as we made our way out of the grounds. Xanthe had settled for one bank bag of illegal dagga.
Simon’s face stuck in my head – his amused, mocking grin, his grown-up eyes. Would he tell my parents, or worse still, Marta? Or would this become his silent, smirking secret?
I shook my head to get rid of him. ‘Not we. This has nothing to do with me.’
‘I can’t keep it! Are you mental?’
‘It looks like it,’ I snapped. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble I am in?’
‘Why?’
‘What if Simon tells my parents?’
‘He won’t tell. How can he?’ She put her arm around me and rested her head on my shoulder, the way Beth did when she wanted something. Unlike Beth, she made me feel awkward and stiff. ‘Come on!’ she said as if cajoling a dog into performing a trick. ‘Stash it under a rock. Your garden is the size of a small farm.’ She leaned over and stuffed the full bankie into my back pocket.
‘I can’t,’ I said, handing the bank bag back to her. ‘My parents will find it. Anyway, I’m not going to smoke it.’
‘I’ll teach you,’ she replied. We had reached the top of Park Road. She placed the bankie in both of my hands, as though she were entrusting me with a precious gift. ‘I’ll stay over on the weekend,’ she said. ‘Margaret Bergman, it would make me proud.’
*. Sausages
*. Cigarette
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Drugs Day’ dawned, the early morning sun pouring colour into the pale sky and the cool and rested earth. It made me ache. It was the sort of beauty that immediately precedes the end of the world.
‘Get a grip!’ I muttered. This was supposed to be fun. Over the course of the week, my unease had grown into finger-chewing dread. What if Xanthe overdosed and had to be rushed to hospital? What if she died? I’d probably go to prison.
Since stashing the dagga under the rock next to the chicken coop, the subject wouldn’t leave me alone. Each time my parents glanced at me I expected them to produce the discovered bankie. Drugs popped up everywhere – there was a cocaine haul off a container ship in Cape Town. As I hugged Dad at breakfast, he said ‘Give me drugs, not hugs’. I looked at him, horrified, until I realised he was joking. Only Marta noticed something was wrong.
You’ve gone off your food,’ she accused me, ‘What’s your problem?’
‘No problem,’ I muttered. ‘Everything’s hunky-dory.’
‘Funny kind of hunky-dory,’ Marta shot back, but left it at that.
Xanthe had decided we would go to the river. The last time I’d been there was when Simon had killed the cobra. He’d seen it first, even though he was behind Beth and me. The snake was blocking our path, only four metres away. Its black, scaly belly reared, its hood wide and evil. The rest of it was curled into an s-shape. ‘Don’t move!’ Simon had shouted, ‘and don’t look it in the eye.’ Not daring to breathe, I’d fixed my eyes on Bosmansberg and waited for Simon to save us. The cobra waved its neck. It rose up higher, enraged by our lack of attention. Simon made a wide circle and bashed it over the head with the spade he was carrying. Moments before he killed it, I couldn’t help myself. I glanced into those black eyes. It was like looking into tiny pools of evil. Since then, I pictured the three acres that separated us from the river were crawling with snakes.
‘Right then,’ I said with a sigh now, thinking snake thoughts as we stepped over the low fence at the bottom of the garden.
The grass on either side of the path was thigh-high. I carried a bag with sunhats, water, towels and of course the dagga.
‘Speak loudly,’ I said to Xanthe, ‘and stamp your feet, like this.’ I showed her.
She watched me, a smile growing across her face. ‘Is this a little game you like to play?’
‘No, smartarse, its because of snakes. If you let them know you’re coming, most of the time they’ll get out of the way.’
Xanthe’s smile vanished and she looked around. ‘Where are they most likely to be?’
I laughed. ‘Everywhere.’ In a community where a fear of God was drummed into you, a fear of snakes was inborn. Everyone was afraid of snakes: small children, superstitious grandpas who could tell you ‘snake stories’ from 1893, farmers strong enough to wrestle a bull – not even the Dominee was safe. Because a snake could kill you at any time, it could be anywhere: in your garden, under your roof, always just out of sight.
We passed the mulberry bushes that had grown into an impenetrable tangle. The grass became thicker and longer, then the blackjacks started, leaning over and grabbing at you. We reached the rickety style over the old fence that separated one mass of weeds from the other. That was the halfway mark – thereafter you couldn’t see the house anymore.
Xanthe, ahead of me, had entered into the spirit of snake scaring. She belted out lyrics in a Queen falsetto. I crept closer and grabbed her shoulders. ‘Xanthe!’ I yelled.
‘What? Where, where?’ She spun around, eyes wild.
I laughed.
‘That’s not funny!’ she shouted.
‘Good reflexes,’ I said, ducking out of the wa
y as she lunged at me. ‘Come on, we’re nearly there.’
She delivered a venomous glare before turning back and marching on. We reached the river reeds. They were taller than us, in the absence of direct sunlight the ground was damp and mushy.
‘I want to break free!’ I sang. I leaned forward to see if she was smiling. But Xanthe did not like to be teased.
‘Look, it’s still here!’ I said as we reached the riverbed. Five years ago Simon, Beth and I had spent the spring holidays digging and shifting stones, trying to deepen the middle of the riverbed where it widened into a natural pool. We had even hauled big rocks across from the far bank in order to create a path of stepping-stones to our freshwater paradise.
‘What’s still here?’
‘The swimming pool!’ I laughed. ‘We made it with Simon.’
Xanthe looked up at the mention of his name. I threw off my T-shirt and shorts, and stepped across the stones, skipping over a lizard as I went.
The water in the pool rose past my knee. I gasped as my foot sank into the sandy bed. Despite the warmth of the day, the brown mountain water had not lost its wintry cold.
‘Come on!’ I said. Impelled by a territorial urge, I stretched out in the pool. The freezing water grabbed at my skin. High above a black eagle languidly rode a thermal. It dived as sharply as a tear, the white tips of its wings flashing as it disappeared from view.
Xanthe balanced on a stone, and peered down at me, a visitor at the zoo staring at a submerged hippo. I laughed self-consciously and sat up.
‘Fuck!’ she screamed, her legs convulsing in the air, her arms above her head. ‘Snake!’
Out of the corner of my eye, my lizard darted away.
‘See, it’s a lizard.’ I pointed.
‘It was a fucking snake!’ she said. ‘I saw it!’
‘No, Xanthe. It was a lizard.’
‘Whatever. I’ll leave you to your mud bath.’ She stalked back across the stones, plonked herself down on the blanket, and pulled Dad’s cricket hat firmly over her eyes.
I sighed, and scanned the sky for the eagle, but it had disappeared behind Bosmansberg. One of the agricultural college’s Jersey cows watched me from the far bank. She stood trance-like under a willow tree with unblinking eyes. How lovely to be a cow, how lucky to be untroubled by mothers and teachers and friends with dagga.
Back on the bank, I busied myself arranging my towel, then lay back and covered my face with my T-shirt. The sun seeped into my skin like a sedative. From the agricultural college came the rumble of a tractor, and the half-hearted lowing from the herd of cows.
I breathed in, until the air pushed back up my throat, and held it there and let my heartbeat drum throughout my body.
Xanthe was restless. She rummaged around in the bag. Then came the sound of paper crackling.
My toes curled in on themselves.
A tchk-tchk-tchk of her lighter. Then the crackle of burning paper and tobacco and a sweet, rich aroma. The smell was familiar, it belonged to the clumps of men on the Main Street hoping for a day’s work on the farms. It belonged outside the off-licence.
Xanthe inhaled a couple more times.
‘Your turn.’ She prodded me.
I didn’t reply.
‘Hey!’
‘No,’ I said, underneath my T-shirt.
She lifted the shirt from my face. I squeezed my eyes against the aggressive light.
‘Come on, Madge, get up.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Don’t be boring, I said I’d teach you.’ She yanked at my arm.
I sat up. Her eyes were heavy and bloodshot. ‘Now, watch me, OK? OK?’
‘OK,’ I mumbled.
‘Are you watching?’ she repeated as she relit the joint.
‘Yes!’
‘Good, because you must be sure.’ She giggled. ‘Inhale, like this,’ her cheeks hollowed, ‘swallow, and exhale.’ A jet of smoke emerged from her pouty mouth. ‘Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy!’ She passed me the little white stick.
I took the joint and inhaled, watching the tiny embers light up at the end. As I dutifully swallowed, my chest exploded in pain, and I doubled over choking, coughing, and gasping for breath.
‘No, Madgie, no!’ Xanthe shook her head, so vigorously that it took a moment to stop.
I tried again – I had to get it right.
Retrieving the joint, she inhaled deeply, cupped my neck in her hand and pulled my head to hers. She opened her lips onto my mouth and blew in the smoke. It travelled down to my lungs. It swirled around my core. As I was about to pull away, the pressure of her lips changed and she pressed them into mine and it was not about the smoke anymore but about the lips and the pressure of her hand on my neck. Then the smoke inside forced its way out and I pulled away, spluttering out the foreign substance.
Xanthe lay down, arms stretched over her head. ‘You’ll get it soon enough.’ Her voice was lazy and thick.
I stayed seated, staring straight ahead. The swishing branches of the willow trees on the opposite bank looked like a dancer’s fingers gently trailing the surface of the water. ‘That wasn’t a kiss, why would she kiss you? Don’t be weird, Meg,’ they whispered as they brushed the water, dissolving the reflection of the sun.
My head was close to bursting. I lay down and closed my eyes. I rubbed my palms over the tufts of grass. It was cool and sharp and green in my hands. I realised I understood the colour green, I let it dissolve into me. As I filled up with greenness, I closed my eyes and felt the earth buzz beneath me. I could hear the earthworms busy underground. My eyes flew open. The force of gravity was weakening around me. I grabbed at clumps of grass. The reeds on the far bank had become a battery of spears, and were moving slowly upwards, as if to pierce the sky. The stepping-stone rocks hovered above the water, too heavy to float away, but unwilling to be bedded any longer. I covered my eyes to stop it happening.
But what if this was to happen to me? What if my brain shot out the top of my head? Keeping my eyes shut, I clutched the top of my head with both hands. Then I grasped back at the tuft of grass, to keep myself grounded. As I sat, one hand on my head and one clutching at the grass, Xanthe opened her eyes and started laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said through clenched teeth, in case they become loose.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said through her giggles, ‘It the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.’ Xanthe chucked me my T-shirt and shorts. ‘Come on, I’m starving!’
I looked at her under the too-big floppy cricket hat and from deep inside my belly laughter bubbled up. It felt as though it had been trapped there all my life. It had us bent over each other, clutching at our aching sides. It lasted back up the path, all the way home.
Mum found us in the kitchen, shovelling down leftover cottage pie. She shook her head. ‘Teenagers have the strangest urges.’
That night, as Xanthe slept on the mattress next to my bed, I dreamt I was back at the beach we went to most summers. I chased Beth through the milkwood forest at the top of the cliff, ducking under the knotty branches, following the twisting sandy path. Then – pah! We stopped to take in the scene below. The beach was the shape that is made by your outstretched thumb and forefinger. Golden sand arched between long rocky outcrops on either side that reached out to sea. It was a small beach, and difficult to reach. It was the best beach in the world.
We were on the path, which was a narrow riverbed, running, sliding, sandy feet slipping over smooth rocks, all the way down to the sand.
The narrow beach made for terrific waves that crashed and pounded themselves up onto the shore. They picked you up and threw you about, dragging you down until your lungs were ready to burst and you didn’t know whether you were facing up or down, then spouted you out, hair plastered across your face, gasping for breath. The thing about this beach was that you had to know how to swim it. The rocks and the shape of the tiny bay made for vicious side currents. Every few years somebody drowned there, either pulled out to sea, or drag
ged down and smashed against the rock edges. Two years before a father had gone in after his son, who had lost his footing. He saved his boy, but drowned in the process.
The side current didn’t concern me. I ran down the beach. The water was delicious and cool, gently lapping at my feet, at my tummy. When I looked back I’d left Beth far behind and Mum was calling me back to the shore.
My throat was parched. Without thinking I gulped at the seawater, and drifted deeper into the ocean. But wasn’t salt water toxic? I stuck two fingers down my throat but only swallowed more. When I tried to swim back to the shore, the outgoing current swept me away. Mum was screaming at me. ‘Help me!’ I shouted. I was swelling up with water. Mr Loubser, the biology teacher, appeared above me in the clouds. ‘We are sixty per cent water!’ he said, wagging his finger at me. I must be sixty per cent ocean by now; soon pieces of me would start dissolving until nothing remained. I looked back up at Mr Loubser but he had changed into Xanthe.
Xanthe was leaning over me, illuminated by the courtyard light behind her. She gripped my arm. Her lips were moving close to me in the gloom. ‘You’re making weird gasping noises,’ she said.
I sat up and looked around my room, unable to shake my terror.
‘Here!’ She shook my arm and held out a glass of water. I shook my head and turned to face the wall, pretending to fall back to sleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Simon’s photograph had disappeared from the fridge. ‘I see him morning and night,’ said Marta. ‘A mother needs some peace.’
In the fortnight since he’d been back, Simon’s junior school headmaster had called to say how proud the community was of him. He asked Simon back to his old school to talk about Europe. Father Basil made him stand up in church on Sunday and everyone clapped, even Sister Bertha, who was a sour-faced old crow. Marta relayed these stories with a tight mouth, careful not to look proud; rather that it was her duty to show my parents their investment had paid off.
