Читать книгу The Messiah's Dream Machine - Jennifer Friedman - Страница 10

Uniforms and hockey sticks

I hold the white uniform against my chest.

“I’m not wearing this, Ma – it’s hideous!”

Ma says nothing. Her lips are pursed tighter than a cat’s bottom, and her shoulders, already tense with aggravation, rise almost to her earlobes.

“Just let me see that!” I grab the clothing list out of her hand. “Isn’t the school uniform the one with the horrible slime-green colour? I don’t understand – what do I need this white one for? And there’s no way I’m putting that boater on my head.”

My eyes fall on church/synagogue services.

“Shul? Who said anything about having to go to shul, Ma?”

Ma narrows her eyes. She takes a deep breath.

“Forget it, Ma. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t care what you say – I’m not going to shul, and I won’t wear this uniform.”

“You listen to me, my girl,” she hisses. “There’s nothing you or I can do about the school rules, the colour or style of these uniforms. You’re just going to have to knuckle down and bite your tongue, make the best of it!”

I purse my mouth, look up and see my reflection in the change­-room mirror. Shit, I think, I look just like Ma!

I’m not done with her yet. I pick out an enormous pair of green panties from the pile and dangle them in front of her. “Just look at the size of these broeks, Ma – they’re like bloomers! You could fit three people into them!”

Ma’s nostrils flare. “Stop talking rubbish!” she snaps. “They’re exactly the same as the broekies you’ve always worn to school!”

I turn away. She grabs my arm and spins me around. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles spark with rage. She whips the clothing list out of my hand, wrenches the curtains apart, and steps out of the change room. I can still feel the pressure of her hand on my arm. Through the half-open curtains, I see her toss her head.

Like a genie, the saleslady appears at her side.

I’m kitted out with tennis racket and bathing suit. Measured for a hockey stick. Ma buys me long socks – thick, right up to my knees – shoes with studs on their soles like rugby boots. I’ve never played hockey, only read about it in stories about girls in English boarding schools. Girls in the Free State play netball and tennis. A short, pleated skirt and a sports shirt for gymnastics join the growing pile of uniforms. In the Free State, we do jumping-jacks and touch our toes, stretch our arms down our sides. I don’t know how to do gymnastics.

Ma’s not talking to me. Laden with parcels of uniforms, boxes of school shoes and boots, we take a bus back to the hotel in time for dinner in the dining room where the waiters smile their toothless smiles and recommend “the fishnchips, merrem – kingklip, verrynaais.”

Elderly men sit alone at small tables, sucking down spoons of soup and slurping red jelly for dessert, their faces buried deep in the racing sections of newspapers. Ma stares at the old food stains on our tablecloth. The room smells of stale food and fried fish.

Back in our room, she turns on all the lights, sits down on her bed and, unfailingly diligent, sews nametags with my name in red inside all my new school uniforms. As if anyone would want to steal them, I think. My heart feels heavy, hard as a quince.