Читать книгу The Fetch - Finuala Dowling - Страница 7

At five in the afternoon Nina walked across the flat, grassy sea frontage of Slangkop towards Neville’s caravan park. The park’s wooden clubhouse served as bar and shop, and was also the venue for community forum meetings. Nina was the first to arrive.

A couple sat at a window table, eating, but otherwise the restaurant side of things was empty. Sharon was at work in the shop section. She directed Nina outside. On the deck, her husband Neville was moving three tables together in preparation for the meeting.

“I think the weather is balmy enough,” he said. “In any case, Sharon and Mrs Fawkes will want to smoke. Now, what else do we need? A drink!”

Nina said she’d fetch the water jug and glasses. In her present state of nerves she feared that she would gulp down any wine offered.

Neville came with her to the bar nook and poured himself a brandy and Coke while Nina counted tumblers onto a tray and filled the jug. They were about to head outside again when one of the customers at the window table signalled to Neville. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but my wife has just pointed out that there’s a cockroach on the wall behind me.”

“No problem,” said Neville. Fetching a can of Doom from beneath the bar counter, he made his way across the restaurant to the customers. Once in position, Neville protected the customer’s left ear, by gently cupping it with his one hand, while with his other he sprayed until the cockroach dropped dead.

“Sorted,” said Neville. He retrieved his drink, picked up a discarded newspaper and led the way outside.

Nina and Neville sat down at the joined-up tables.

“What a pleasure,” said Neville, taking his first sip. The sun was still hot despite the lateness of the afternoon, but now the tide was in and the air had been refreshed with a cold salty bath.

Neville ignored the headlines and went straight to an article titled World’s largest penis sets off alarm. He insisted on reading the story aloud to Nina. Her response evidently didn’t satisfy him. He had to hail his wife. “Sharon,” he called. “Listen to this.”

“I’m busy with a customer!” she shouted.

Neville looked across the grass of the caravan park, towards Chas’s place. Nina followed his gaze. The woman who’d summoned Chas inside earlier, the one in the sarong, was stepping off the stoep of Midden House, heading for the tidal pool.

“He’ll be screwing her later,” said Neville. “Some guys get all the luck.”

It’s as if I’m not here, Nina thought. She turned and peered into the café. Sharon was trying to get rid of the last customers of the day.

“Hurry up now and make up your mind,” she said to the children who were dithering about which sweets to buy. “We’re closing up now-now for a private meeting.” But when she spotted their father choosing a bag of firewood, she immediately changed her tone. “Let me know if you need any help,” she called out coquettishly, leaning across the counter and smiling at him.

But all he wanted was the usual – firelighters, wood, disposable gas canisters and fizzy drinks. Sharon finished ringing up the camper’s purchases and joined her husband and Nina on the deck.

“Did you see the way that guy looked at me?” Sharon asked Neville.

“How’m I supposed to see how he’s looking at you when I’m sitting out here? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

“He had a good eyeball straight down my cleavage,” said Sharon, adjusting the straps of her summer vest and pulling in her tummy. She followed her husband’s gaze across to Midden House.

“Is the lord of the manor planning to grace us with his presence this evening, I wonder?” asked Neville.

“Looks like quite a party going on that side already,” replied Sharon. “Getting ready for an orgy later.”

“They should get in this guy,” said Neville, pointing to the newspaper article. “Hey, Shar, what d’you think? Security at the airport, they see this bulge in this guy’s pants, and they want to pat him down, y’know …”

But Sharon wasn’t listening. “I can’t work out if he’s straight or gay.”

“Hell, man, Sharon, the guy’s been married for years. To a very highly sexed lady. Though I suppose you might ask why she’s scarpered.”

“You might well ask. Sometimes when I’m watching him at the pool, the way he floats there on a Lilo with a cup and saucer on his tummy, my gay-dar is up. But then, other times, I can see him looking at me in that way, you know, like he’s been hit with a hormone handbag.”

“Then you want to pat him down like the security staff in this article I’ve been reading …”

But Sharon had seen Fundiswa approaching. She called out a greeting: “Molo, sisi!”

“Good afternoon,” said Fundiswa, coming up the wooden steps to the deck a little out of breath. “Whew! I’m unfit! My exercise regime starts tomorrow.”

“… and then they sprinkle it with powder, y’know, to check whether it’s a biological threat! A biological threat!” Neville wiped away tears as he reread this.

“You going to gym?” asked Sharon.

“Too expensive,” said Fundiswa. “Nina and I are going to start jogging tomorrow morning.”

Sharon looked the two other women over from head to toe. “I must say I’m lucky with this body of mine. I don’t put on weight. This body of mine has never let me down.”

She swept her hand from her chest to her denim-clad thighs, inviting their gaze.

“That’s lucky for you,” said Fundiswa. “I can honestly say that this body of mine has let me down at every possible opportunity. I look at a vetkoek and I get fat. Used to be I looked at a man and I got pregnant, but, thank the Lord, those days are over.”

“I know what you mean about the pregnancy thing. I fell pregnant with Dylan the very first time I ever had sex. Floyd, well, we used a condom but I had such kickass Kegel muscles down there that I actually took his condom off while we were at it.”

“Excessive pelvic toning leads to unwanted pregnancy,” chirped Neville, trying to enter Sharon’s conversation since she’d failed to enter his.

“Please educate your sons,” said Fundiswa. “Otherwise they will come home like mine did with all these motherless babies that I was supposed to feed and educate. I said, ‘Who do you think I am? I’m not a bladdy child grant!’ But they’re all the same. I ask my sons the same question that I used to ask my lovers: ‘Why do you refuse to wear a condom?’ Each and every one said: ‘Fundi, I’m a man who doesn’t like to wear a condom. I’m sorry, but it isn’t nice for me if I’m wearing a gumboot.’ Nx! Each one thinks he’s so unique when he says that. He says it like he is the only man in the world who doesn’t want to wear a bloody rubber jacket!”

“Ja,” said Neville. “No man likes to wear a sleeping bag, that’s the honest truth.”

Nina was feeling quite safe as the invisible member of the conversation. Then Sharon’s eyes landed upon her. “That’s a pretty dress you’ve got on,” she said. “The red patterning around the scoop of the neck creates a pretty frame.”

Nina sat very still, hoping something or someone else would catch Sharon’s attention, but she seemed fixated.

“It’s the kind of neckline that looks stunning on me. But what I would do, if I were you,” she said, darting forward, “is to undo this top button here – oh my, that’s quite a lot of boob you’ve got lurking there.”

“Sharon, sweetie,” said Neville, in the tone of one speaking in his area of expertise, “breasts do not lurk. They peep discreetly from their hiding place.”

“You can’t call this peeping discreetly!” said Sharon, pulling the fabric back from Nina’s cleavage.

“Very nice,” said Neville. “Very nice bazoombas. Though, I’m a small-breast man, myself. Dolly, for example,” he continued. “I always used to fancy hers. Almost nothing on top at all, just these slightly raised nipples. Very classy.”

“And how would you know what Chas’s wife’s breasts looked like?” asked Sharon.

“Come on! You used to see her yourself, prancing around the tidal pool without her bikini top.”

Nina imagined that hell might be like this: being mauled by a tall woman in tight stonewashed jeans while her husband pointed out one’s aesthetic shortcomings and spoke admiringly of an ectomorph.

“Leave her alone. Can’t you see that the poor girl is shy?” said Fundiswa.

“But that’s the whole problem,” said Sharon. “She shouldn’t be shy. She should be proud. Stick your chest out.” She demonstrated. “When I walk into a room, everyone turns their heads and thinks ‘Who is that woman?’ ”

“That’s true,” said Neville loyally. “When Sharon walks into a room, everyone turns to look at her. But, Nina, my lovey, no one notices you. You slip in like a little mouse.”

“A mouse!” Nina felt utter despair.

They heard slow, heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase that led from the lawn to the deck and then the manly voice of Dot Fawkes, Chas’s mother.

“A mouse? More pest problems, Neville? What this place of yours needs is a jolly good fumigation.”

Neville stood up. “Sit here, Mrs Fawkes. Let me get you a brandy and soda.”

“Thank you, Neville. And an ashtray, please. Chas is a little delayed, as usual, but I thought I’d better set out on my own because I have to walk slowly these days.” She sat down, looking displeased. “This chair doesn’t have very much back support.” She looked across at Fundiswa. “I usually sit in that chair, don’t I? I need the armrests.”

Fundiswa stood up obligingly so that they could switch chairs.

Thanks to Mrs Fawkes, Nina sank back into happy obscurity. In the old woman’s ruined face she could trace the origins of Chas’s noble profile. Mrs Fawkes’s hair, what little remained of it, was cropped short. Her hairdresser had set it in rollers to create the illusion of volume and height, exposing her scalp in the process. She had elegant hands, though, a diamond ring on each.

“I wonder,” said Mrs Fawkes, “if I might not feel the chill soon.”

The customer who had complained of the cockroach was now leaving, and seeing a brown face pass by, Mrs Fawkes called out: “Excuse me, could I have one of the blankets you keep under the counter?”

The man did a double-take, but went back inside to fetch Mrs Fawkes a blanket. Right behind him came Neville, with Mrs Fawkes’s brandy and soda.

“That man isn’t a member of staff, you know. He’s a customer,” said Fundiswa.

“I don’t care if he’s Marie of Romania,” said Mrs Fawkes, “as long as I don’t catch a chill. Thanks,” she added as Sharon lit her cigarette for her. “Aren’t you feeling the cold in that little vest of yours?”

“I’m so hot,” said Sharon. “And I’m not just talking about the weather.” She put her hand on her hip and jutted her chest out once again.

It was possibly the warmest evening of the summer; all the children from the tents and caravans were playing cricket on the grass in T-shirts and shorts, smoke rose from the first braai fires of the evening. The clubhouse balcony had a good view of the tidal pool and the garden of Midden House. There, too, the balmy weather was evident in the general state of undress. Nina watched as Chas emerged from the garden gate and cut across the caravan park towards them, his shirt now partly buttoned in deference to the occasion. She had been starting to feel calmer, but now her heart ran ahead of her again.

He called out his usual greeting – “Hello, hello, hello!” – as he bounded up the steps. It was more an announcement, really; a call for attention. “Enjoying the rough male kiss of blankets, I see, Mother.” He bent to her proffered kiss. Then, seeing Neville’s newspaper, he added: “I hope you’re all reading my deathless prose.”

“Sorry, I hadn’t got to your section yet,” said Neville. He pulled out the arts supplement and flipped open its pages. “Let’s see what Chas Fawkes has to say today. Our man from Slangkop. He’s reviewing some musical. Oh, this is good: you call it ‘a tsunami of camp …’ That’s very good. Very good turn of phrase.”

“It makes you want to see the show,” said Sharon. “What I like about your reviews is the way you give us these vinaigrettes. It’s the little vin -aigrettes that make it, don’t you think, Nina?”

“I think you mean …” But no one was listening to her.

“I wish you wouldn’t write like that,” said Mrs Fawkes. “So over the top. And that word, ‘camp’! People will assume that you’re an old queen.”

“There’s nothing old about me,” said Chas.

“And you’re not homosexual,” said his mother.

“Is there anyone else coming?” asked Fundiswa. “Perhaps we could get this meeting started. What about Emmanuel?”

“He’s otherwise engaged, serving drinks to Chas’s guests. In any case, he wouldn’t come to something like this.” Mrs Fawkes was from the old school.

“William might come,” said Neville.

“William! When was the last time he ever attended a community forum?” asked Mrs Fawkes.

“I don’t know,” said Neville. And then added, as if by way of explanation: “He was here earlier, buying chocolate.”

Chas looked over the railings of the deck. “Here he is! William!” he called out. “Welcome!”

William was tall, slope-shouldered, somewhat shambling. The sun caught his coppery hair and beard. He was wearing his standard uniform of baggy knee-length shorts and green rugby socks with trainers. The shirt – loud and island-style – was not something Nina had seen him wear before.

William smiled at everyone, but then seemed to fix his gaze on Nina. He sat beside her; she could feel his eyes willing her to look his way.

As if it weren’t bad enough, Nina thought, that she had missed the small window of opportunity one gets to lose one’s virginity, only wild-looking, oddly dressed men like this one, or worse, ever showed any interest in her. She looked across at Chas, whose soft brown hair swung down to his tanned, clean-shaven jaw, whose shirt was tastefully plain, hoping for some acknowledgement. But Chas was scrutinising William.

“Can we offer you a drink, William? Vodka, isn’t it?” asked Chas as if the clubhouse were his establishment.

“Vodka. Yes, thanks,” said William. He was eager, his hands gripping his knees as if in anticipation of fun times.

“And what do you like with that?” asked Sharon.

“Anything you have,” said William. “I mix it with anything. Cold tea, even.”

“Well, you’re in civilised company here,” said Sharon. “So I’ll give you a vodka and Coke.”

William looked even more pleased.

Neville handed out copies of the agenda, and when Sharon returned with William’s drink, proceedings began.

“We’ve got apologies from Kobus and Gareth, who you can see over there on the rocks, praying for a white steenbras to come their way. Right. Number one on the agenda this evening is streetlights. Fundiswa, this is your item.”

“Thank you, Neville. Look, my point is that I think we must apply to the city council to erect streetlights in Slangkop. It’s like living in the dark ages here, literally!”

“Ja, Sharon and I also feel that we’d get fewer thefts out of the caravans if we could actually see what’s potting after nightfall,” said Neville.

“What about the stars?” asked William. “You want to catch maybe one petty thief – if you’re lucky – in exchange for eleven constellations and stars of first magnitude? And you’ll never get them back again. Orion, Sirius, Castor and Pollux, the Southern Cross, the Magellanic Clouds …”

Nina hadn’t heard him speak at such length before. In fact, she had always thought William was something of a simpleton.

“That’s all very beautiful,” said Fundiswa, “but what about me and Nina coming home on foot on dark, wintry evenings?”

“If you let me know when your taxi drops you off at the top there, I’ll come up with a lantern,” said William.

“I couldn’t care less about the stars,” said Mrs Fawkes. “What we want is to keep our rates down.”

“Lights are very middle class,” Chas added.

“I should point out that we are the middle-class,” retorted his mother.

“The enlightened middle class,” Nina ventured. Whenever it entered her head to speak aloud at a meeting, her heart would protest violently. Why risk death when no one listened anyway? But Chas was a good audience.

“Enlightened but not illumined,” he said. He smiled and then spoke directly to her. “If you’re on our side, Nina, then the vote is decided: no streetlights.”

“I’m on your side, yes,” she said.

Though Neville had been in favour of the streetlights, he seemed relieved to end the discussion. “Good, then,” he said. “We can get cracking with the next item, which is the Cockle Place matter. The developer has asked us to withdraw our objections so that he can finish building the complex. Seems like you might soon get some new neighbours, Nina and Fundiswa.”

“The answer to that is a flat ‘no’, ” said Chas. “In fact, I would be interested in hearing legal opinion on this. We might even be within our rights to demolish the flats he’s built already.”

Fundiswa was indignant: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! That’s where Nina and I live! Will that make you happy, if we are homeless?”

“You must have come from somewhere,” said Chas. “You could go back there.”

Nina was sure he was joking. Surely he was teasing them? Yes, she caught his wink.

“What do you think, William?” asked Chas.

William’s answer came as a pronouncement: “We can’t ask the developer to tear down the flats he’s built already. But we don’t want any more building on the site. Our objections must remain.”

“Wisely spoken,” said Neville. “Next: pests. Mrs Fawkes, you want to say something about the Egyptian geese?”

“They poo all over my lawn, which is very unpleasant. And they are exceptionally raucous.”

“I could shoot them,” suggested William. “They’re probably good eating.”

“If you’re so bloody trigger-happy, why don’t you start with that noisy bird of yours?” demanded Fundiswa.

“I’m thinking of wringing its neck,” said William. “They’re good eating, quails.”

“Nature red in tooth and claw,” observed Chas.

Was that Wordsworth, wondered Nina, or Tennyson? The rough male kiss earlier was Rupert Brooke. It was wonderful to listen to someone like Chas, whose utterances sent messengers flying fleet-footed down every single one of one’s neurological pathways.

“Shoot the Egyptian geese! You will do no such thing!” objected Sharon. “They mate for life, you know. And their babies are so cute!”

“It’s not that I like killing,” said William.

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Fundiswa.

“I just think that if you’re going to eat a living thing, then it should be something you’re prepared to kill yourself.”

“Do you have a gun?” asked Neville.

“No,” admitted William.

Nina saw that William liked to solve problems. He was touching his forehead as though there were an abacus in there and he was moving the wooden beads around to find an answer. “It’s the grass that’s the problem,” he said. “You want the grass for your campers and your croquet; the Egyptian geese want it for the seed. You could go indigenous. Plant reeds, for example, or let the vygies grow in.”

“I have no wish to play croquet amidst the reeds,” said Mrs Fawkes. “Or squelch about on a carpet of succulents.”

But William was keen to explore green solutions. “I could set up a webcam, and you could monitor it. Then, if you see a goose on your lawn, you could maybe activate an explosion by remote control. But that might be quite expensive to set up. What we really want is some predators – hawks, owls, maybe a mongoose – to eat the chicks or the eggs.”

Mrs Fawkes gave an exasperated sigh. “Please forget that I mentioned the Egyptian geese. I don’t want a surveillance camera or hawks circling overhead or gunmen hiding in the reeds. Emmanuel can just keep picking up the poo. Next, Neville.”

“Next,” said Neville, “is our friend the outcast baboon.”

“Good eating perhaps, William?” suggested Chas.

“Bushmeat is no good. That’s probably how humans got …”

“Let’s not get sidetracked again,” said Fundiswa. “I want to tell you my story. Last Saturday I am sitting in my kitchen, reading the news on my laptop. I’m feeling a bit hungry, so I reach out to the fruit bowl for an apple, and what do you think? A furry paw is there! This baboon is sitting beside me on the kitchen counter, eating my bananas!”

“He’s a cheeky bugger this one,” said Neville, coming in swiftly before things became even more anecdotal. “Look, we’ve all got a story like Fundiswa’s. The point is, we have to be vigilant about closing our windows and all that stuff. The tamper-proof bin system helps a lot. As long as you are all religious about keeping your food waste locked away, we should be okay.”

“You could give your food waste to me,” said William.

“Good eating?” Chas’s face was bright with merriment.

“For my worms,” said William. “And I don’t totally agree with the locked-bin strategy. I would like to be able to go through your bins …”

Sharon was indignant: “What d’you want to go through our garbage for? You mad or something?”

“Maybe he’s the paparazzi,” said Fundiswa. “I believe they get a lot of information out of celebrities’ bins.”

“People throw really good stuff away,” said William. “Like this shirt, for example.”

“I thought I recognised it,” said Mrs Fawkes. “Didn’t I give you that as a gift, darling?”

“It looks much better on William,” said Chas. “Polyester, isn’t it?”

“Drip-dry,” said Mrs Fawkes. “The ideal thing when you’re travelling.”

“It was in your wheelie bin,” William defended himself. “I asked Emmanuel and he indicated that he didn’t wear polyester.”

“La-di-da,” said Mrs Fawkes and stubbed out her cigarette.

“So, what exactly would you like us to do?” Neville was clearly keen to reach a compromise so that the meeting could come to an end. “Can I suggest that if people would like to, on a purely voluntary basis, they can drop their food waste off at William’s, for his worms, along with any old clothes.”

“And any old machines or gadgets that don’t work any more,” said William.

“But keep your bins locked against our furry friends.” Neville looked hard at William’s beard. “Our furrier friends, should I say. Right, well we seem to have covered everything on tonight’s agenda. Thanks for your participation. I’m not going to bother sending you all the minutes. I’ll give them to you orally, right now. By majority vote, no streetlights. Lantern assistance on dark nights to be provided by William. Shoot the geese: no. Continue to keep bins locked: yes. All recyclables to William. Another successful Slangkop community forum meeting. Vote of thanks to Neville for the refreshments. End of story.”

“I really think we should have proper minutes,” said Fundiswa. “This is not procedurally correct. You know, in Geneva …”

“The problem with minutes is that they end up taking hours,” said Chas. “Long live Chairman Neville.”

“Good. Now we can get back to our guests,” said Mrs Fawkes. “They’ll be wondering where the birthday boy is.”

Chas walked down the steps of the clubhouse behind his mother. Nina rose hesitantly to follow them. She hoped Chas would turn around to summon her, remembering his earlier invitation.

“Go on,” said Fundiswa. “Enjoy yourself.”