Leopold Blue (16 page)

An arm hooked around my waist, a mouth clamped down on mine. The lips were hard and rough and chapped.

‘I beg your pardon!' I said, taking a step back, trying to focus on the person in front of me. He was tall, with crinkly eyes and messy, shoulder-length brown hair.

He started laughing. ‘Sorry, love. Wrong girl.' He had an English accent. ‘Happy New Year, anyway,' he said and kissed me again before disappearing into the blur of people.

Someone had built up a bonfire in the middle of the sand and crowds of people sat around it, their faces luminescent in the orange light. Bruce the guitar player sat to the side, playing ‘Sing us a song, you're the piano man'. He looked up as I passed, and winked at me. I walked on, hoping to bump into that strange boy again.

I found her, on the other side of the beach, where the boulders form a barricade at the edge of the sand. More precisely, I found her shoes. ‘Xanthe!' I shouted, but the words were caught in my throat. I started running over the resisting sand.

At the shoes I stopped and started turning in a circle, in a panic so thick I could hardly see. Where the hell was she?
Water-water-sand-sand-sand-rocks
– a movement in the rocks made me stop. I blinked but could see nothing. The boulders ahead leaned over each other to form a hideaway of sorts, a cave. I walked towards the cave, with dreading feet. There again was the flash of movement and a leg – pale, almost luminescent. Had she passed out? How was I going to get her all the way up those steps to the car park?

And then I stopped. A hand appeared on the pale leg – long, dark fingers against the skin.

‘Xanthe!' I screamed, running, my heart thumping in my ears, throwing myself over the endless sand, diving over the last distance, until I was in front of her. In front of them.

‘Happy New Year, Madge,' she said. She sat up and tried to yank her dress back down over her tummy as I stared. I could not think. I could not breathe.

‘What's the time?' asked Xanthe. In a quick movement she lifted her bum to pull her knickers back up.

I turned away and caught myself staring at Simon's crotch as he pulled up his trousers. A spasm caught me and I jerked my head back to Xanthe. She had seen that. She had been watching.

‘Come on, then.' She crawled back out a few paces, stood up and pulled her blue dress down. She picked up her shoes and without a word or even a backwards glance at Simon, started walking back down the beach.

A few steps later I looked back, to make sure it was actually him. He was sitting on the sand, arms slung around his knees. He was looking at me, not at Xanthe, as if he had been waiting for me to look back. I heard his words again,
She's like a dog on heat
. I turned away, humiliated.

When I looked back again, Simon was staring out to sea.

Sleep was no refuge. I dreamt that I had drowned. I couldn't breathe. Something heavy, sticky and salty was wound across my neck and mouth. After a moment of panic I realised that it was my hair. I threw it off but couldn't stop shaking. I shut my eyes, forcing my breath to deepen until I felt my heart drop back out of my ears. The window above my stretcher bed was open. The breeze was so cold that I knew it must be very early, long before dawn. I was shivering and sick. I staggered into the lit bathroom and shut the door. My pink fingers clutched the white basin. I looked into the mirror, into this new version of me. Shirley's heavy mascara formed black rings around my bloodshot eyes. I looked ghoulish. I closed my eyes, but that brought back the image of Simon's crotch. I shuddered and opened them again quickly.

Simon had a birthmark, the colour of wine dregs, behind his right ear. It created the illusion of his right ear being bigger than the left. He used to say that he would know when he found his father as he would have a matching birthmark. The impossibility of this did not bother him.

I touched it once, when I was ten and he was fourteen. We were behind the chicken coop. I wanted to know whether the dark patch felt any different to the rest of him. As I reached out and brushed it with the tips of my fingers, he turned and nudged me backwards, until my head knocked against the white-washed brick wall. Then he pressed his lips against mine and prised open my mouth with his tongue and stuck it inside. That moment marked the end of our friendship. A nail driven into dry wood, splitting it apart. I shoved him backwards and spat, until my mouth was dry. My spit lay between us – dark stains on the dry sand. By the time I looked up he was gone. After that day he'd stayed away from our house. From me.

I switched off the bathroom light. I knelt over the loo and stuck my fingers down my throat but nothing came out.

When I woke again Xanthe's bed was empty. I stood under the shower with my eyes closed and let the water chip away at my skull and shoulders. Back in her bedroom I sat down at her dressing table. I opened her drawer looking for something to get rid of the black smudges around my eyes. I rummaged through an untidy collection of ear buds, sticks of mascara, lipsticks and moisturising cream until I found some make-up remover. As I was about to close the drawer, I spotted a small cardboard box right at the back. I opened it, expecting a necklace, or a ring, but caught my breath. It was the fossil she had found that day in the mountains. How typical of Xanthe to steal it – after listening and nodding as Dad made his speech about not taking anything away. She took anything she wanted. I traced the spiral shape with my fingers, remembering that day, the heat and dust. I felt homesick and ashamed. Dad had trusted her. I put the box back exactly where I found it. I wrapped the fossil in a pair of knickers and buried it at the bottom of my bag. I would take it back to where it belonged.

Xanthe was downstairs, lying on the sofa in the TV room. She pulled in her legs to make space for me, but I chose an armchair close to the door. I felt woozy, like my balance was gone. Seeing her, stretched out like a lazy cat had brought on the sensation of someone kicking at my brain with steel-capped boots.

I sat back into the chair, out of her grasp. ‘How did Simon know you were at the beach? Did you plan it?'

She shrugged and picked up a
Homes & Garden
magazine.

‘And by the way, how could you leave me,
drunk
and all alone? Anything could have happened to me.'

Xanthe dumped the magazine on the table and left the room. I followed her. I knew I was making her angry, but I didn't care.

‘You owe me an explanation,' I said in the kitchen.

She opened the fridge door and then stopped. ‘Why?'

‘Because this is not how friends treat each other!'

‘Your problem, Madge, is that you're living in an Enid Blyton book. Ginger beer?' She attempted an ironic smile as she held out a cold SodaStream bottle of water to me. When I didn't respond she shrugged and inserted the bottle into the machine. As I started speaking again she pulled down the lever and pressed the button. The
touf-touf-touf
drowned out everything I tried to say.

Eventually I gave up and shook her arm.

She shook me off, her hand on the button again.

‘Xanthe!'

‘What?' She stamped her foot.

‘That's going to explode if you keep pressing it.'

She flung back the lever. As the bottle slid down the tube a whoosh of fizzy water spilled over her T-shirt and onto the floor.

‘Fuck!' She banged the empty bottle on the counter and turned on me. ‘You and your crazy little town, you don't get it. You're all so fucking weird – you, your family, and fucking Simon!' As she said his name she screwed up her eyes.

I wasn't surprised at her calling me or my family weird. That much was a given. What shocked me, tore at me, was the pain on her face as she said Simon's name.

Xanthe chucked her wet T-shirt in the direction of the back door. She turned to the sink to find a cloth. ‘He helped me study for the science exam.'

‘So? Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Because you're so fucking weird about him –'

‘I am not!'

She knelt down to mop up the water on the floor. ‘Ja, right. Anyway, once I got to know him, I realised he's  …  unlike anyone I've ever met.'

I watched the knobbly line of her spine and ripple of ribs along her pale curved back, as pronounced as an exoskeleton. No one had ever said that about me.

Shirley bustled into the kitchen. ‘Ha-lo-o! You won't believe the chaos out there. The whole world was trying to get to Woolies this morning. Traffic was a bladdy standstill. And it's so
hot
!' Shirley dumped her shopping bags on the breakfast island and wiped her brow. ‘Huh!' She looked around. ‘Tea is what I need.' She flicked the switch on the kettle and turned to Xanthe. ‘Why are you semi-dressed? It's almost noon! Really and truly!' She laughed.

I looked at Xanthe. She took a while to respond to Shirley. Without her tough outer layer, she seemed tiny. Simon had done it again. Not satisfied with merely beating me at school and at home, he'd taken Xanthe too.

That evening I stood in the kitchen, spooning Shirley's curried egg mixture into hard-boiled, halved egg whites. Judy and Stuart were coming for supper. ‘Nothing fancy,' I had heard Shirley say into the phone after lunch. ‘Whatever I find in the fridge.' She had been in the kitchen all afternoon.

‘Thank you, sweetie,' Shirley bustled past me, ‘I'm lost without Lizzie. But she always goes to church on New Year's Day – one of those eight-hour jobbies.'

It suited me. I'd stayed by the side of the pool all day, avoiding Xanthe and her parents. Everything was turning out horribly wrong. I was furious with Simon. I could not forget the twist of Xanthe's mouth as she said his name. I would never forgive him. I was furious with Xanthe, yet without her I wouldn't be in Cape Town. I would be at home, wishing away my life. More than anything, I was furious with myself.

An hour later Stuart and Judy arrived. Shirley was worried about the table we had set outside. Was it warm enough, was there enough light? She fussed and muttered and bustled about, until the moment she heard the front gate click. In an instant she whipped off her apron and turned around to greet her friends, as serene and composed as Mother Teresa. After a chorus of ‘Happy New Year!' and ‘Another one gone!' Judy presented an exquisite lemon meringue pie. The weightless tufts of whipped egg-white were cooked to the palest hint of beige. ‘Oh, it's nothing.' She waved it away. Judy's smile transformed her face. The crow's feet that fanned out from the far corners of her eyes concertinaed up like a squash-box; her eyes twinkled, her mouth spread surprisingly wide. It made you want to smile back. But it faded quickly. The natural set of her face was pinched and anxious. Mum claimed that by the age of fifty you had the face you deserved. But Judy had probably never seen that look on her face. It seemed unfair for her to unconsciously give away so much about herself.

Judy kissed Xanthe on the cheek. ‘Xanthe my darling! What a lovely surprise! I thought you'd be out jolling. I wish I could have made Karen come. She said she bumped into you at Greenmarket Square! She's at a party tonight, another party, at Grant McCullam's house. Tomorrow she's off to Plett
^[*]
. I swear she treats me like a hotel. Do you know Grant McCullam?'

Xanthe shook her head, admirably disinterested.

‘She runs rings around you,' Stuart's gruff voice cut in. Stuart looked like Alan – large, thick-set gingerbread men cut from the same mould – only Stuart had turned out more sloppy: he sagged around the tummy and neck.

‘She does not!' laughed Judy uneasily.

‘You have no idea who she hangs out with these days,' said Stuart, talking over his wife.

‘I do too!' protested Judy. ‘Tonight she's at the McCullams' house. You went to school with Pete McCullam, Stu. You've known that family forever.'

‘Piet
Skiet
McCullam!' laughed Alan from the far side of the Weber braai where he was tending a thick slab of fillet steak. ‘Shot the maid, when he was a boy,' he said, I assumed for my benefit.

‘It was a mistake!' Judy cried.

‘He was cleaning his hunting rifle,' said Shirley, straightening a knife as she cast a last eye over the supper table, ‘and it was only her toe.'

‘Never could bowl a cricket ball either,' said Alan.

‘He's done very well for himself, thank you very much,' said Judy. ‘Big house in Constantia, pool, tennis court. All his kids in private school. Went to Italy on holiday last year –' she took a sip of wine – ‘even took the kids.'

‘After April there'll be no more overseas trips for anyone,' said Stuart.

Alan grunted.

Shirley dispatched Xanthe and me to the kitchen to fetch the salads, curried eggs and potato bake. As we returned I stopped in the light that splashed over the edge of the porch. The night was warm. The memory of a sea breeze hung through the air. Lights shone out from hiding places tucked away inside the beds that lined the perimeter of the property, illuminating the deep greens and purples of the dark garden. Alan was at the head of the table, his large frame stooped as he carved the meat. Stuart sat opposite him. Shirley and Judy were each settled to the right of their husbands. The flickering light from two fat church candles in the middle of the table shimmered in the tall wine glasses and bounced off their animated faces. As if on cue, the conversation erupted into a shout of raucous laughter. Mum and Dad had never had an evening like this; they had no shared friends who knew them inside out. I wondered how different they would be, how different our life would be, if they did.

By the time I sat down the conversation had taken a more serious turn.

‘It's too close now,' Judy said. ‘Six months ago they burst in on a church full of people and randomly opened fire, and now its a tavern of young folk. And not only whites – there were coloureds and blacks there too. Those were innocent people minding their own business, thank you very much. What right do they have? That's not “freedom fighting”, as they like to call it. I don't care what you say, they're bladdy terrorists.'

We waited as Judy wiped her eyes. Stuart leaned over and rubbed her back. After a moment she sat up with a resolute sniff and continued, ‘Karen doesn't even know where the Heidelberg is, thank God, it's not her kind of a place, but where will it be next time? How do you protect your family from these people? What kind of a life is it when you don't feel safe going to church anymore?'

‘It's a big bloody mess,' said Alan, standing up to pass the platter of thinly sliced steak to Shirley. ‘If Mandela thinks he has the skills to sort it out after splitting open rocks on Robben Island for twenty-seven years, I say good luck to him.'

‘Please, Alan, no politics tonight.'

But Shirley was drowned out by Stuart. ‘I don't agree. We don't stand an arsehole's chance with a black government.' His glass landed heavily on the table.

Shirley looked nervously at Alan.

‘I'm a businessman, Stu, I don't care who is in charge of the country – black, white – whatever. I care about my assets and I care about being allowed to get on with what it is that I want to do.'

‘And you care about your family,' said Shirley.

‘You're my biggest asset!' said Alan, winking at her.

‘Don't be so rude!' shrieked Shirley.

Stuart shook his head. ‘It's not that simple. Everything we have built up, everything our parents worked for – will be lost overnight. And it doesn't stop there. One day they're in charge of the country, the next thing your daughter will be marrying one of them.

‘Stuart!' said Shirley.

‘Why not? Isn't it every woman's fantasy?'

I spluttered on a mouthful of Coke, sending painful bubbles up the back of my nose.

‘Stuart, please!' Judy glanced in my direction, ‘That's not nice talk!'

‘What do you think, Xanthe?' Stuart bulldozed on.

I looked at Xanthe. Yes, I thought, what do you think? And what do you think your parents and their friends would say if they knew what you were up to last night?

‘I don't see why not. Half the Afrikaner nation is mixed blood as it is.'

Alan chuckled and winked at Xanthe.

But Stuart didn't appreciate Xanthe's answer. ‘I, for one, will not be allowing Karen to run off with the first Sipho
^[*]
she comes across.'

Xanthe's smile was unreadable.

‘Have some more wine, Stu.' Alan stretched across the table with a full bottle. Shirley turned her back on Stuart and made frantic ‘time-out' signals at Alan. I was unutterably grateful Mum was not here. It made me shudder to think what she'd make of Stuart. It was too easy in Leopold to label Afrikaans and racist together. But here were English-speaking people, as well educated and well travelled as Mum, saying things that surely belonged to ‘the enemy'.