Читать книгу The Choice Between Us - Edyth Bulbring - Страница 7

I stand outside the gate of 24 Pembroke Street. What’s left of the intercom is hanging from the wall so I can’t buzz the house to tell Aunt C-C I’m here.

The dog next door barks, throwing itself at the metal fence as a Neighbourhood Watch guy strolls towards me. He opens his notebook and whips out a pencil. A fifteen-year-old girl in school uniform loitering outside a house. Definitely suspicious. He watches as I take my phone out and make a call.

Aunt C-C eventually picks up. “But you’re early. I said three o’ clock.” She clucks. “Well, all right then. Just give me a moment, I have to come downstairs to open up.”

Minutes later, I hear a click and push open the gate. The gravel driveway takes me to the front door of a doublestorey house. Water drips from gutters rusted and choked with leaves. Paint peels in damp spots on mottled walls. Potential buyers wouldn’t need Holly to point out the flaws.

I skirt a puddle on the stoep and reach the front door. Aunt C-C stands there, a shadowy shape in the doorway. Holly hasn’t kept any recent photographs, and I can’t say I recognise her. She’s Holly’s mother’s cousin, so she’s sort of Holly’s aunt – and my great-aunt, I think. We call her Aunt C-C when we talk about her. Which isn’t often.

I wait at the door as her eyes travel down the length of my dress and stop at my thighs. Her eyes narrow. I don’t think she likes my hemstitch. I wasn’t expecting to be welcomed with hugs and kisses, still, we are kind of related.

“It’s lovely to meet you at last, Aunt C-C.” I force a smile. Shoot me for lying, but I want to keep the old girl sweet. I really need this job.

“Lovely.” She sucks her teeth and grimaces, as if she’s tasted something nasty. “Come in, Jenny.”

“No, it’s Jenna.”

“Good lord. What was your mother thinking? Well, come on then, girl.” She turns on her heel, then glances over her shoulder at me. “Where’s your hat? When I was at St Virgilius, it was a mortal sin to be out in the streets without a boater.”

I push my bucket hat further into my blazer pocket. She walks slowly, each step an effort as I follow her into the house. Her candyfloss hair floats around the scaly pink patch on the back of her head. Her skirt hangs loosely at the waist, fastened at the side by a safety pin, as though she’s wearing someone else’s clothes.

Aunt C-C isn’t big on small talk. There’s no: “So how is your mother? And you? What have you been up to all these years?”

“I want you to start in the lounge.”

She opens a door off the passage and switches on the light. “Use the rolls of bubble wrap and make sure each item is secured with tape. I don’t want any breakages.”

I look around. Ornaments, figurines and crystal glasses fill a mahogany cabinet, and vases and crockery are stacked on the floor. As if someone emptied out the cupboards and dumped everything here.

“Begin with the cabinet and then move on to the rest. Make sure that everything is packed snugly so it doesn’t shift around.” She points at the bookshelf. “Books don’t need to be wrapped, simply place them in boxes. When you’ve finished, seal the boxes and mark the contents on the outside with the black Koki pen.”

“When I’m finished? This is going to take me all year. Where did all this stuff come from?” I edge past a faded floral couch to open the curtains. The chandelier in the centre of the room is missing most of its bulbs, and the room smells musty.

“If you are going to take a year to do just this one room, I will have to consider hiring someone else who works a little smarter.”

“I can work smart. Watch me,” I say with a smile.

“I think not. I’ll be upstairs in my bedroom.”

I’m halfway through my second box when there’s a thump above my head. I glance up at the pressed-steel ceiling. Fine dust floats down from a crack. Another thump. And a crash.

I leave the room and race up the stairs. Two at a time, counting as I go. Twenty steps. At the top, my shoe snags the carpet. I face-plant and scramble to my feet.

“Aunt C-C, is everything okay?” The passage is dark, and a table stabs me in the thigh. I hit back, and a telephone topples onto the floor.

A door opens and a face peers out. “What are you doing up here?” A sheen of moisture glistens on her skin and she’s breathing in gasps.

“I heard a noise,” I say. I can’t see past her into the bedroom. She clutches the doorframe with both hands, trying to hold herself up. Blue veins bulge on the back of pale speckled hands.

“Go back downstairs to your work and don’t stick your nose where it’s not wanted.” Her voice is harsh, her mouth tight.

So much for: Thank you Jenna, I appreciate your concern, but I was simply practising my pole-dancing moves.

It’s an hour later, and I’ve filled five boxes. I stretch my arms above my head. If I have to touch another piece of bubble wrap I’ll eat my left hand.

I cross the threadbare Persian carpet to the bookshelf. My fingers trace the gold-embossed print on the red spines of the leather-bound books. The kind of books no one’s ever read, they’re just for show. Among them are some photograph albums, maybe with a photograph or two of Holly from the time she lived here and knew my father.

Holly posts her photos on Facebook: Holly and Mike, Holly and Sizwe, Holly the fun-loving gal having the best time ever! Holly’s one of my seven hundred and twenty-two friends on Facebook, one of the few I’ve actually met. But Facebook’s for old people, and I don’t often post. I’m a lurker.

I reach for the albums and find a spot on the floor. I open one, and dust and silverfish flutter from the pages. They’re filled with dead people. From way back. The photos are arranged on black paper, each held in place with white corner pieces. Captions are written in white ink, in longhand. Pretty cool.

The first album begins with a wedding. David and I on our wedding day. Emmanuel Cathedral, Durban, 6 November 1943. The bride couldn’t have been older than eighteen, about the same age as Holly when I was born. Her plump face is framed by a gauzy veil, and a tiara sits on her head. Totally over the top! She rests her white-gloved hand on the groom’s arm. His moustache is carefully trimmed and his army uniform ironed to within a crease of its life. Older than her by maybe five years, he has the hint of a widow’s peak. They stand outside a fancy church, squinting into the sun.

The next ten pages are filled with wedding photos. The dimpled bride poses alone in the cathedral garden. Mrs David Channing-Court at last! Some group pics. The maid of honour: Darling Beatrice! And the best man: Look, Frank in a suit! My great-grandfather Frank, the bachelor farmer, long before he got married. Flower girls: Dearest Gilly and Babs all the way from London. The mothers, each with a handbag dangling from an arm, glaring at each other like they’d both won the booby prize. The bishop in white robes shakes hands with the groom: Well done, David! Ellie is a fine young woman!

I turn the pages. Honeymoon. Victoria Falls, the bride ecstatic, her mouth wide open as spray rains down onto her upturned face. Then she’s petting a baby elephant: Ellie and Baby Ellie! Too adorable! The groom with a gun, next to a dead lion: Take that, Simba!

The newlyweds in their first home. The wife sits on the lawn under a tree, one hand resting on her stomach, an uneasy smile on her face: Under the jacaranda tree at our new home. 24 Pembroke Street, Johannesburg, June 1944. (The blooms will be glorious in October!)

Baby photographs. The new mother holds a bundle in her arms, the long christening robe draped over her forearm. The father hovers, a little awkward, but proud: Lucy two months old. Baptism. The Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church, Johannesburg, February 1945.

Lucy turns one, then two. I flip the pages filled with photographs charting her life. And then: Happy eighteenth birthday, Lucy, with pearls from Grandmother Heloise! Sitting stiffly in virginal white, her skirt a frothy mass that forbids even a peep of an ankle, Lucy looks daggers at me from the page, the pearls like a noose around her neck.

Why are you so angry, Lucy Channing-Court? Did your mother lie to you too?

I page through to the end and open the second album. Another baby! So cute. Margaret’s baptism. The Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church, Johannesburg, April 1954. The baby is wearing the same christening robe as her sister.

Baby Margaret turns one. The candles on the cake flicker below her howling face. She doesn’t seem to like the clown grinning over her shoulder. A maid’s apron is captured in a corner of the frame.

A toddler pats mudcakes: Oh, Margaret, what a mess! Same kid on a bicycle, with the tip of a shoe behind a wheel: Daddy teaches Margaret to ride. A smiling face: Margaret receives second prize at Sports Day for the egg-and-spoon race. Then the photos fizzle out.

As I suspected: not a single pic of Holly. I slide the albums back onto the bookshelf. I need to look somewhere else.

Perhaps the chest of drawers? I open the top drawer. A silver-framed wedding photo – like the one I’d seen in the album – lies face down in the drawer. Maybe someone couldn’t bear to see it any more. I put it back, face down.

The second drawer is empty except for an old fountain pen, a few paper clips and an unopened pack of extra-strength man tissues – the ones that don’t disintegrate after the first blow.

The bottom drawer is stuck. I tug at the handle. Come on, open! Drawers often stick when it rains, but this one seems to be locked. I glance at the open door. It’s a risk, but a locked drawer has never stopped me.

I look around, grab a paper clip, straighten it, and slip it into the lock. I kneel down, twist my head to be eye-level with the drawer and poke at the lock.

A door shuts. I prod about as I calculate: twenty stairs at an old person’s pace. Thirty seconds max. I reach inside my satchel for my nail file.

When Aunt C-C appears at the door, I’m standing, duct tape in hand, sealing the fifth cardboard box.

“Well, you’ve made a start, at least. You’re going to have to work a little faster next week.” Her eyes glint and she has a wobbly smile. As she walks me to the door, she stumbles and puts a hand against the wall.

“Oopsie-daisy!” There’s a grim giggle as I steady her. She allows me to hold her arm as we walk down the passage together.

The sun is dipping behind the koppie, the sky a swatch of pinks from a Dulux paint catalogue. In a few minutes it’ll be dark. Joburg draws the curtains closed when you least expect it, shutting out the light.

Aunt C-C stands at the gate, looking edgy. “I don’t like you out here on the pavement. Perhaps you should call your mother and tell her you’re ready to be picked up.” Aunt C-C holds a hand to her mouth. I swear she burped.

“It’s no problem, I’m walking. My mother’s busy at work.”

“Holly? Working? That’ll be the day. What’s she up to this time? Still temping at that hairdressing salon? Surely not!” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “She shouldn’t allow you to walk these streets after dark. Most of the streetlights aren’t working, you won’t be safe.”

There’s no chance I’m calling Holly. She doesn’t even know I’m here.

“Look, Holly’s not a taxi, okay? She can’t spend her time running around after me. She knows I can look after myself.” I sling my blazer over my shoulder and walk down the pavement, leaving Aunt-C-C at the gate.

I head for 37 Klip Street. Holly’s been trying to sell this place for ever. It’s a corner house close to the highway, which gives it two black marks on the property questionnaire. The advert says: Beautiful family home. Close to all the best schools.

What the advert doesn’t say is that the beautiful family’s home was robbed three times last year. Apart from brilliant thunderstorms, crime’s another thing Joburg’s good at. I’m not really boasting.

The first time, the thugs got in over the wall of the next-door house. So the beautiful family had bits of broken glass put onto the top of the wall, and an electric fence installed. The next time, the thugs lifted the automated gate off the tracks and waltzed up to the front door. Then the beautiful family put a lock and chain on the gate. But late one night, the thugs hid behind the bougainvillea outside the wall and waited. Her car idling in the driveway, the beautiful wife got out and unlocked the gate. Click. Holding a gun to her head, the thugs escorted her inside.

None of this is in the advert. I only know about it because Holly told me. She tells prospective buyers too, so the house isn’t in any hurry getting sold. No one wants a badluck house.

The beautiful family has abandoned their home near all the best schools and relocated to a rented flat where they’re playing Candy Crush, waiting for the house to be sold so they can emigrate to Ireland and live in a house without burglar bars, electric fences and visits from unwelcome guests.

The first rule every estate agent knows is that people seldom buy empty houses. The rooms echo and don’t smell like home. So the beautiful family left the house pretty much as it was, minus a few suitcases. They’ll pack up once the sale goes through.

Guards from Stallion Security Company stand outside around the clock to make sure the thugs don’t come back a fourth time and clean the house out.

It’s Obvious who is on duty today. I’m not kidding, that’s his name. He’s from Zimbabwe. The guy who does the night shift is Looksmart from Malawi. On their days off, Truelove from Mozambique stands in for Obvious and Looksmart. When Stallion Security gets their guys together for briefings it’s like a meeting of the African Union.

I wave at Obvious and he smiles back. He’s seen me at the house with Holly and thinks I’m legit. I know the security code and I’ve got a spare set of keys. Holly keeps them in her office (aka the kitchen) and never notices when I borrow them. Yes, my bad.

There are some people (shrinks, social workers, suckers) who blame bad teen behaviour on upbringing – it’s always the parents’ fault. Especially the single moms. They’d say that if Holly had given me a father, I wouldn’t break into other people’s homes to find out what it’s like to be part of a family that’s not made up of me and a person who doesn’t want to be called Mom. Poor little Jenna Moore.

I’m happy to go along with this psychobabble if it gets me off the hook. I’m probably just a weird snoop. Let’s keep the verdict open on this, okay?

I slip into the house, punch in the code, and pass the framed photographs of the beautiful family in the hallway: Robert and Dianne Fram, and Katy and James – I’ve come to know them all by now.

James is eight, and his favourite colour is blue. He’s crazy about crocodiles and thinks he’s Spiderman: posters of his superhero cover his bedroom wall, stuffed toy crocodiles lie on his blue duvet, with blue cushions on the window seat.

It’s James’s birthday tomorrow. A folded note in Mr Fram’s study drawer says: Dear Dad, for my birthday I want a cat or a bog, love James. I suspect James might be dyslexic. I don’t think his parents know about this yet, it can be our secret. Sorry, James, we’re not allowed to keep an animal in the flat. In any case, it’d be hard leaving it behind when we go to Ireland.

Mr Fram’s a great father. He’s the kind of dad who does stuff with his kids. Families that play together, stay together. He always wins at rummy, says the score pad – but he’s useless at Monopoly. He, Katy and James have been competing in a family Monopoly tournament for a year. Katy’s won nine games to James’s three. Mrs Fram doesn’t play Monopoly, but she’s happy to be the bank.

Katy has privacy issues, she’s at that age. The sign on her bedroom door says: PRIVATE. KEEP OUT. THAT MEANS U JAMES!!!! Katy’s thirteen, and she’s got a crush on a boy called Terence de Villiers. She’s written Terence and Katy inside a big red heart drawn on the first page of her school atlas. She’s also scrawled Katy de Villiers and Mrs T. de Villiers. Seriously adorbs! But she’ll get her heart broken. The photo stuck on the wall by her bed shows a good-looking boy with eyes set too close together. I know the look: Terence is no good. He’ll never look at Katy the way Andile looks at me. The way he looked at me yesterday after class.

I take a book out of my satchel and put it on the shelf among the others: The Enormous Crocodile by Roald Dahl. Inside I’ve written: Dear James, with lots of love on your birthday. Jenna. I punch in the alarm code, let myself out.

Back home, I unlock my cupboard drawer and take out a shoebox. The strand of hair is undisturbed. My guard against snoopers. (Note the irony.) It’s filled with all kinds of stuff. Katy’s hockey badge from when she made the first team. Mrs Fram’s perfume bottle. It’s empty, but it still has a smell. Cinnamon. I put a fingertip on some things from 3 Frazer Street and 9 Grant Avenue – my other homes.

A shrink could really milk this: Poor little Jenna Moore steals mementos from other people’s houses. She is a sad and seriously disturbed child because she doesn’t have a father and her mother is hopeless and a liar.

Guilty. I am a thief, your honour.

I dig around in my satchel for the pile of papers I snatched from the locked drawer in Pembroke Street. An autograph book. So retro, I love it. Maybe I’ll get Andile to sign it. I shove it back in my satchel and open a faded report card. The comment on the back says: Margaret has a vivid imagination which needs to be tempered. She must strive to follow the example of Our Lady and exercise restraint, humility and modesty.

I put the report in my shoebox, then lift an envelope sticking out from among the papers. To Aunt C-C, it says. Inside, there’s a lined page, probably from an exam pad. It’s torn and the writing is smudged.

I stare at the page. All I can make out is Danny. Three other words halfway down: father and my baby. But my eyes are drawn to one word that stands out clearly: murderer.

The eight letters are large and plump. It’s Holly’s handwriting.