Читать книгу Love Tastes Like Strawberries - Rosamund Haden - Страница 13

It is Sunday morning. Françoise has worked a week’s shifts at the Spar. She enjoys walking to work. It is a break from Dudu’s incessant talking. Sometimes she meets up with another cashier who takes the same route to work. The routine gives her structure, the structure contains her. School contains Dudu – sometimes.

At work Françoise chats and laughs with the other cashiers. They comment on some of the stranger customers who come in: the mad man who comes into the Spar in his dressing gown at the same time every morning and buys only black plastic bags.

“He’s got bodies in his house.” The girls laugh. “It’ll be in the papers one day. They’ll find them in the freezer.”

“But then he’d buy freezer bags, not garbage bags. And they don’t come big enough.”

“Depends how small he chops the pieces.”

“He doesn’t look strong enough to chop them up.”

“Sies. That’s disgusting.”

This Sunday Françoise has taken off work.

Dudu is wearing a demure old fashioned floral dress – something she would have worn as a child to church, and this is where she announces she is going. Françoise looks at her suspiciously. They have only been back a week and already Dudu has got herself new clothes and a new plan.

“Where did you get the dress?”

“Do you like it? From the charity shop.”

“You don’t wear clothes like that. You never go to church.”

“But now I want to repent.” Dudu smiles. “There is a room open in the Catholic house,” she says. “It is a house, Françoise. It has a kitchen where all the families can cook. A kitchen and a bathroom.”

“I thought we were at the bottom of the list.”

“Not for long,” says Dudu, pressing the fabric of the dress down to try to get rid of the wrinkles. “How do I look?”

“You never go to church any more.”

“I told you I want to repent,” says Dudu earnestly, “for what I did.” She sounds sweet and innocent, like a little girl, not like a seventeen-year-old.

“You can’t,” says Françoise quickly, “you can never tell anyone.” And then she realises that Dudu is joking. “Don’t laugh about it. Never laugh about it.”

“Don’t be so superstitious. What is going to happen if I laugh, Françoise? What bad can happen that hasn’t already happened to us?”

They never talk about it any more. It is buried in the past and that is how it must stay. A part of their other life, along with rolling hills, the forests, the rivers, the banana plantations and avocado trees; along with the bright splash of bougainvillea against the white-washed walls at the convent and the bell that started each day; along with their laughter and delight in the school yard, playing with the other girls; along with what they heard late that night as they crouched in the bamboo.

“I’m going to church so that we can get a room in the house. Sister Agnes is going to be there. I told her I want to join the choir.”

“The choir?”

“I can sing,” says Dudu. This was a fact. Everybody had been astonished when, aged five, Dudu opened her mouth and that voice had soared out. Even Dudu was startled. She went to school the next day and announced, “It is my talent.” She had other talents she was to discover. That was why they were still alive.

Françoise wipes her wet hands on her skirt. She has been doing the washing in a bucket at the end of the corridor. There is a line in the central quad of the building, strung between two posts in the rubble and weeds. She takes the washing out and starts to hang it up. When she has finished she will walk up to Timothy’s flat. Just there and back. She won’t even knock on the door. But perhaps she will bump into him, or hear him inside. And she will know he is back from wherever he has been. Just knowing that will be enough for now.

She has pegged the last of Dudu’s school socks up on the line when her sister bursts into the courtyard holding a white envelope. She waves it in front of Françoise’s face. Excited.

“Did Sister Agnes give you that?”

“No,” Dudu shakes her head, “but she says that we will know next week about the room. She says my voice is a perfect soprano. Perfect!” Dudu smiles.

“What is that then?” Françoise steps forward and tries to take the envelope. Dudu snatches it away and laughs.

“It has my name on it,” says Françoise. “Give it here.”

“You will never guess where I got it,” says Dudu.

Nobody ever sends them mail. They have no fixed address and no one to write to them. Or do they? For a moment Françoise thinks that perhaps they have been found by family.

“What is it, Dudu?” Her voice is urgent. The only post she gets is from Dudu’s school. “Is it from the principal? Have you been expelled?”

“Why would you think that?” Dudu pouts, putting on her upset look. But not for long. “I am top of my class. I told you I am going to pass matric with flying colours.” She laughs.

“Then who?”

“It was waiting at the Chinese shop. When the man saw me he called me. He gave it to me.”

“From whom? Ivuye he?”

Dudu slowly opens the envelope. She is enjoying this. The expression on her face is teasing as she pulls a card out – it is glossy and white and has a picture on it. Françoise squints into the sun.

“It’s you,” says Dudu triumphantly. “The same one as in the paper. Only this one’s better.”

Black Girl Reading. In the corner of the painting is his signature, so small she can hardly make it out: Ivor.

“Read what it says inside,” Dudu says.

She opens the card.

You are cordially invited to an exhibition of Ivor Woodall’s latest work at the Oval Gallery on 9 October at 6.30 pm.

“This painting belongs to us. It is our painting. And we must get it back. We will make them pay, Françoise. They had no right.”

Françoise looks at the painting again. How had he done this? He had never drawn her while she was modelling. And who brought this to the Chinese shop? Ivor did not know where she lived. She didn’t even let Timothy come here.

She turns to her sister. “Dudu, do you know how Mr Woodall died?”

Dudu stares at her, unblinking.