Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  Siren

  Kuli Roberts

  First published by BlackBird Books, an imprint of Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd, in 2019

  10 Orange Street

  Sunnyside

  Auckland Park 2092

  South Africa

  +2711 628 3200

  www.jacana.co.za

  © Kuli Roberts, 2019

  All rights reserved.

  d-PDF 978-1-928337-94-2

  ePUB 978-1-928337-98-0

  mobi file 978-1-928337-99-7

  Cover design by publicide

  Editing by Henrietta Rose-Innes Proofreading by Joey Kok

  Layout & typesetting by Nsuku L. Sithole Set in Sabon 10.5/14pt

  Printed by ABC Press

  Job no. 003607

  See a complete list of BlackBird Books titles at

  www.blackbirdbooks.africa

  TO

  ISABELLA CORTE

  LIVE, DARLING, LIVE

  Prologue

  2018

  ITALIAN SPORTS CARS.

  Of all the things she loved the most, they were way up there. And she loved this one particularly because it was hers, and that made it special. But right now she didn’t love it quite so much, because right now it was on fire, and she was trapped inside. She’d tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. All so inconvenient – wasn’t there a launch to attend, people to suck up to, photos to be taken? Such a shame it had to end this way. Even her most ardent Instagram followers wouldn’t follow her into this particular hellhole.

  Sitting there, she could imagine the unfolding scenario, her wig catching alight, her flesh beginning to melt into the plush leather seats. Perhaps there would be an explosion – wasn’t that how it happened in the movies? She should know, having been in a few. There was even one in which she was actually blown up. Yes, she was sure – the fire would reach the petrol tank and then BOOM!

  Reaching down for the catch of the seat belt, she wondered why she couldn’t find it … but then maybe she hadn’t been wearing it. Yes, that was possible. More than possible, in fact …

  She fought against the growing wooziness, wanting to be present for everything that was to come, all the bad that was bound to happen no matter what she tried to do. It can’t end like this. Not after everything she’d been through, not after all the unsavoury dicks she’d sucked, the drugs she’d taken, the lies she’d told, the bad sex with bad people, the bad sex with great people, the great sex with both kinds, the hoops of fire she’d jumped through to get where she was, to where she needed to be.

  Fire. Why oh why did she have to think of fire at a time like this? Oh yes, because it was the perfect time. Her car was on fire, and she would also be burning up.

  Won’t be long now ...

  PART ONE – MABEL

  1979–1997

  Chapter 1

  ONE BUS AND TWO TAXIS, up at four to get to work by seven.

  That was how it was for Mabel the day it happened. Like all the other days.

  From her little room in Orlando West to Bryanston, Northern Johannesburg.

  Just another day.

  The taxi rank was its bustling noisy self, with hooting everywhere. Sitting close to the bus driver, she could hear him complain about his wife and the useless food she prepared for him – though the smell of his deep-fried magwinya made her hungry.

  Just another day. Except it wasn’t, not really.

  When she finally arrived at work, she had a good half-hour with Mrs du Ploy. Then came the best time of day, when Florence – as she never dared call Mrs du Ploy to her face – left in her VW Beetle for her secretarial job at a lawyer’s office. Of course there was work to do, but that would happen at Mabel’s own pace. She could watch programmes on TV she’d never think of watching at home while she listened to the hum of the washing machine as it went through its spin cycle.

  She was alone in the house, with Solomon the gardener outside. At about eleven, they would have a cup of cheap coffee together, relishing its rich aroma as they chatted. Madam would never let them drink the filter brand she kept hidden away. They would not talk for long, because Solomon was over fifty and struggling to keep up with the demands of the large garden, while she’d turned twenty last December. He was more like a kindly uncle than a friend, and on most days they had little to share.

  At least three days a week, around midday, Mr du Ploy would make an appearance. Emerging from the cottage at the far end of the garden he used as a study, he’d enter through the kitchen and demand something for lunch. Most days she’d make him a sandwich, usually cheese, because Mr du Ploy was a man of simple tastes. And he was easier to talk to than the Madam, who liked issuing instructions. He’d ask her how she was doing, whether she had a boyfriend, who she lived with, how she got to work.

  Mabel thought them an odd couple. How the short, frumpy Florence ever got her claws into the tall and hunky Richard was truly a mystery. And she rarely saw them together. When she arrived in the morning, he was already in the cottage, and by the time the Madam got home he was still in there, finishing off his day’s work.

  Mr du Ploy was a writer, although exactly what he wrote Mabel was never completely sure. A bit of everything, she thought. A bit of copywriting for the advertising studio where he went in to work a couple of days a week, and scripts for some television show, probably one of those soapies Mrs du Ploy watched when she came back from work in the afternoon while sipping her tea and munching her scones.

  If Mabel hadn’t asked, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. It was just that she was curious about who cleaned the cottage, because she knew it wasn’t her.

  ‘I do it myself,’ Mr du Ploy answered. ‘Once a week I give it a thorough going-over. Helps me order my thoughts.’

  When she asked him whether he’d mind helping her out in the main house, they laughed at her attempt at a joke, though she knew she was close to overstepping her bounds. And there had been other times … she’d noticed his eyes moving over her body, lingering a little too long.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how some men looked at her; she sometimes worried what they might do. But not Mr du Ploy, not Richard: she was never afraid of him. Yes, he was white, and the law stated that white and black were to remain separate as much as possible, but nothing about him was even vaguely threatening. Men had touched her before, but this was different. And it wasn’t because of his colour – she was glad to steer clear of most white people.

  And so that day, when she was at the kitchen sink washing a few dishes and cups and he came behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, she was shocked but not afraid.

  ‘You’re a bit of a tease.’

  She couldn’t help wondering if he was right. Had she been leading him on without knowing, asking him questions, liking it when he made her laugh, glad that he lingered when he should have been heading back to the cottage to work?

  His touch aroused her, awoke something she’d been trying to ignore. When his hands moved down to her waist, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Even when he brought them up to lightly squeeze her pert breasts. She knew it was wrong, but there was no way she could deny this man, no way she’d even want to. And there were those hands again, bolder this time, moving downwards, pulling up that dowdy housedress the Madam made her wear, moving up towards her panties, caressing her gently. And then he was undressing her. When he touched her bushy mound, it set her heart racing. It was a feeling she liked, that she wanted more of ...

  At least a couple of times a week she’d bring Richard his tea and sandwiches instead of him coming to the house. And once inside, curtains would be drawn, saliva exchanged with deep, sensuous kisses, clothes removed, and what had begun that day in the house would continue.

  To say that she did not enjoy it would not be true
. The way he came behind her and put his hand up her dress, pulling her panties down until she could step out of them, opening her blouse and lifting her bra, caressing her breasts gently at first and then more aggressively, teasing her large nipples … When he first introduced her to the wonders of oral sex, she balked, but as his tongue explored her honey pot any resistance she may have harboured vanished. And when she returned the favour, his penis in her mouth, his accompanying moans made her feel a kind of power over a man she had never before experienced.

  Certainly it was all a million miles from the trauma of her first time, in Orlando West, her drunken divorced neighbour Fiston forcing himself on her after a hectic drinking session. This was different, this was passion and lust, but also something else – tenderness coupled with what could only be termed affection.

  She was not foolish enough to call it love, for, after all, he was white and she was black, and this was South Africa, where love between the races could never be; at least, that was what the law said, and who was she to argue? Those wiser and more educated knew better, and she would not presume to question.

  The tidiness of the cottage amazed her. If her Madam ever thought to compare Mr du Ploy’s cleaning work with Mabel’s, she had no illusions about who would come off second-best. But if he was so diligent in his cleaning, how did he ever find time to write?

  She never did find out, because there was little time to talk. No sooner had they finished what she came to think of as their ‘business’ than she had to get back to work, complete all the housework before the Madam came home.

  It surprised Mabel, how easy it was to hide everything from Mrs du Ploy. Maybe it was because in some ways Mabel considered herself better for Richard, as she occasionally ventured to call him. In idle moments, on the way home in the bus, she’d imagine the life they could enjoy together, the beautiful babies they could have, the kind of home they could live in. But any fantasy would be dispelled the following day by Mrs du Ploy barking orders at her, telling her what clothes needed washing and how, what rooms were to be cleaned. She’d listen dutifully, all the time thinking of Richard, imagining his hands on her, caressing and holding her, his soft lips kissing her, sucking her tongue ...

  In so many ways it was the best revenge.

  Until it was not.

  Later, it would annoy her that Mrs du Ploy knew before she did. What kind of woman was she, to not even comprehend the ways of her own body? But what could Mabel know about morning sickness?

  As soon as she returned from the toilet that particular morning, Mrs du Ploy looked at her in a way she never had before, those big brown eyes of hers accusing.

  ‘You are pregnant.’

  It was a statement, not a question. And in reply, all Mabel could do was stand there open-mouthed, not quite believing.

  ‘Please do not lie to me,’ Mrs du Ploy was saying. ‘Don’t even try.’

  ‘But I am not pregnant, Madam,’ she said. Which only served to make Madam all the more angry.

  ‘Do not play me for a fool. And surely you know about protection? These days you have to protect yourself from everything, diseases also. Don’t you know that?’

  Mabel decided to wait until midday to tell Richard, but as it turned out she didn’t have to wait that long. Just before ten, he came storming into the house, flushed and flustered. ‘My wife has just called to tell me you are pregnant. Is it true?’

  How could she deny it? If Mrs du Ploy had told her it was true, then it had to be.

  ‘Richard, I am sorry, I am –’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ he cut in. ‘This is very serious. Are you sure it’s mine?’

  How could he ask her such a thing? Of course it was his. Who else had she been with?

  Gone was the tender lover, replaced by a man clearly scared, even desperate. It’s only a baby, she wanted to say, the most natural thing in the world. But then of course she knew that it wasn’t just a baby – not in South Africa. Such a child was a crime, and could always be taken away.

  When she reported for work the following morning, she found her Madam sitting at the kitchen table, her arms folded. ‘Sit down, Mabel,’ she said curtly. ‘We need to talk.’

  Mabel’s brain was working overtime as she took a seat opposite, trying to think what she’d done wrong now. Maybe the ironing hadn’t been up to par. Had the Madam asked her to clean the toilet yesterday? She must have, and Mabel had forgotten. Yes, that must be it. She’d work particularly hard today, make up for her shortcomings.

  ‘Mabel, my husband has told me everything.’

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘He’s told me what the two of you have been doing.’

  ‘Madam, I don’t –’

  ‘Please don’t even try to deny it,’ she interrupted. ‘He told me how you led him on.’

  ‘What? No, hold on, Madam. I don’t know what he –’

  A raised hand shushed her. ‘He is a man, and he is weak. I know this. But now we have all kinds of problems. A lot depends on what happens now.’

  As her Madam spoke, Mabel turned her head to look through the window to the garden and the cottage beyond. The curtains were open but Mabel could not see inside. Was he watching now, while his wife repeated his lies?

  ‘I suppose one could say you are attractive,’ Mrs du Ploy was saying, ‘but you need to stay with your own kind, not come into my home and corrupt my husband, when he is only a man with a man’s weaknesses. I will not stand for it!’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ It was all she could think of to say. ‘Sorry, Madam.’ Her head was lowered, suitably contrite, but her eyes stayed fixed on Mrs du Ploy, who had not finished speaking.

  ‘A sorry business,’ she said, with a deep sigh. ‘Such a baby can only be trouble. Surely you can see that.’

  Mabel saw no such thing, but for now all she could do was listen. Then she would get back to work, catch up on the tasks of the day.

  ‘If you want to get rid of it, I can help you,’ Mrs du Ploy was saying. ‘That may be the best outcome all round.’ Part of her seemed almost pleased with herself, but how could that be?

  ‘You want to kill my baby?’ Mabel asked, her voice faltering.

  Mrs du Ploy seemed offended by the notion. ‘It would not be that. Your baby is not fully formed, as yet. And you do realise, giving birth to such a child would be wrong, the result of an unholy union. I need you to be gone from this house.’

  ‘But Madam …’ Now Mabel’s voice was quietly desperate. ‘I need this job. I won’t be able to manage if –’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you seduced my husband!’ She leaned back in her chair, arms still folded, as if afraid to let anything compromise her decision. ‘You know, people warned me – they said that bringing such a pretty kaffir into your home could only be trouble. But I didn’t want to listen. I wanted to give you a chance, and this is how you repay me. Really, Mabel, I thought you were smarter than that.’

  From her handbag she produced a white envelope and pushed it across the table. ‘My husband and I discussed what would be a suitable severance, under the circumstances. We both agreed this would be fair. Please do not open it until you are gone.’ She stood abruptly, her chair screeching on the worn linoleum. ‘Now, please leave. We will not see each other again.’

  Only once she was in the bus, sitting near the back, did Mabel dare take a peek inside the envelope. There were bank notes inside, all hundreds.

  At least three months’ salary.

  Chapter 2

  THE TRIP FROM JOBURG to Sheshegu in the Eastern Cape had always been rich in expectation for Mabel, conjuring memories, but this time was different. What she was returning with now would change everything.

  It was over two years since she’d been home. In the last six months there’d been only the occasional phone call – including the difficult one she’d made the week before. ‘Come home, my child,’ her mother Thembeka had said on the end of the line. ‘Whatever it is, we will deal with it.’ So here she was,
coming home. It would be difficult, but there was little point in trying to avoid the inevitable.

  And there was her mother at the taxi rank, looking older than she remembered, more lines on that face – but also disappointment as she looked at her daughter’s swollen belly, confirmation of all she’d feared. During the long walk to the village and the small house that had been Mabel’s home for the first sixteen years of her life, not a word passed between them.

  When they finally sat at the small table, sipping from their cups of tea, Mabel could not help recalling her last confrontation with Mrs du Ploy. The setting was different, but certain things resonated.

  ‘You have brought shame on our family,’ Thembeka said, not looking her daughter in the eye. ‘Is this why you went to the city, to become a white man’s whore?’

  The words hit Mabel in the face like a slap. She had not said anything about the father and who he was. From outside, she could hear the laughter of children playing.

  ‘Do not even try to lie to me, child. A mother always knows. We have to guard against the ways of the white man. You should know that.’

  ‘Mama, it was not like that. He was a really good man. He was kind.’

  ‘Kind?’ Thembeka repeated the word as if unaware of its meaning. ‘What does the white man know of kindness? When he threw you out like some animal that had bitten him, where was his kindness then? They paid you off because they were scared of what might happen.’ She snaked a hand across the table to rest on Mabel’s. ‘I am just glad that your father is not here to see this. He wanted nothing from the whites, beyond the little money they gave him to live and look after his family. I tell you, this would kill him all over again.’

  Mabel’s father Solomon had been working underground in Witbank when he was killed in a rock fall. His daughter had just celebrated her eighth birthday.

  Outside the children seemed closer now, louder in Mabel’s ears.

  ‘We are all prey to weaknesses of the flesh, my child. But the Lord will provide. We need to pray, and you need to ask for forgiveness.’