Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  And so they went to church to pray for the soul of Mabel and her unborn child. Every Sunday, they gave thanks to the Lord for the best part of the day, sometimes on Saturdays as well. The Bible study group for unwed mothers on Friday afternoons was compulsory if Mabel wanted to be allowed into the Sunday-morning service. She was happy to attend until Fezile, the son of Pastor Jacob, fondled her swollen breasts and kissed her neck one evening after the others had left. She said nothing to her mother, just avoided the Friday meeting. She still attended the Sunday service, almost daring Pastor Jacob to expel her.

  Time passed in the leisurely way that was the rhythm of village life. And slowly she adjusted to life away from Jozi, the smell of dust, the laughter of the schoolchildren returning home from the school nearby, the cows herded along the streets. Part of her longed to return to the hum and buzz of Soweto: at least then the days would pass more quickly and all the waiting would be over.

  When the time finally came to go to the hospital, she did what the doctor and the nurses told her to do: pushed when they told her to push, relaxed when the contractions eased. At times the pain was intense, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. After all, she was a woman, and this was what women were expected to endure.

  Her entire body was sweating, her mother mopping at her brow with a cold damp cloth. One last push and there the baby was, the body lying on her chest. Mabel smiled in gratitude at the slimy little thing that was her daughter, as the nurse cut the cord that had linked them for the best part of nine months.

  She named her Zinhle, the beautiful one, and when they returned to the village the women gathered round to get a good look. Mabel was immediately troubled by the strange stares. What was wrong? Had she missed something? Was there something wrong with her baby. Did she have too few toes or too many heads, some other deformity?

  It took proud grandmother Thembeka to make sense of it all. ‘Hau,’ she said, picking up her perfect granddaughter and cradling her in her arms. ‘Have you never seen a white baby before?’

  Chapter 3

  SHE LEFT THE CLEAN AIR of the village, the flowing river where she’d washed clothes, the small cosy hut she’d shared with her mother, to return to the fog, filth and chaos of Jozi with her six-week-old daughter – to find her little corrugated iron house, the place she’d called home for the past three years, was no longer hers. All her belongings, everything she owned in this world, had been bundled up in three black plastic bags and left out in the open like the trash.

  ‘But you said you would save it for me,’ she said to Mrs Nkosi, her landlady. ‘I gave you two months in advance.’

  ‘But this couple, they gave me three months. So sorry, my dear, but they were here and you were not. And oh my – what a cute little baby!’

  There was nothing left for her but to sleep out in the cold, in the car park of a nearby garage, wrapping clothes around Zinhle to keep her from the July chill. It would have been grim if Primrose, one of the girls who worked behind the garage till, had not taken pity on the mother and baby and allowed them to sleep in the small, smoky back-room where the employees snuck off for the occasional nap. At least Mabel was able to grab a few hours of rest, enabling her to face the day a little refreshed. She ate the food Thembeka had packed for her, feeding baby Zinhle from her breast, hoping the stress and anxiety would not dry up her milk.

  Through it all little Zinhle seemed fine, crying only when wet and hungry. Primrose helped with some nappies smuggled out of the garage, and Mabel could not stop hugging her when she said the young mother could move into an empty room at the back of her house, a few streets away.

  It had been used as a storeroom and there were no windows. The room smelt musty, cloying, and it was so small there was barely enough room to stretch out. A blanket had to be spread across the floor because of the dampness, but Mabel managed to fashion some kind of sleeping space with a broken reed mat. Most days she was too cold to move, despite the extra blankets Primrose gave her, but it was better than braving the elements. And often Primrose brought her food, usually pap, sometimes with samp and beans, or tripe. On the days she did venture out with Zinhle, Mabel felt grateful for the beauty of the sky and the earth that sustained everything.

  At night she could hear Primrose and her husband arguing. It was all they seemed to do, apart from the vigorous sex that nobody within earshot could fail to hear. They would argue about anything and everything, the rhythm similar to their lovemaking – starting softly, slowly building in intensity and volume until it exploded in a crescendo of sound – as if one was counterpoint to the other. It was the arguing that concerned Mabel, not least because it was increasingly about her.

  ‘She is paying nothing, and we are sharing our food.’

  ‘She has a little baby. We need to help her get back on her feet.’

  ‘But for how long? That room, it could be bringing us money.’

  ‘You can’t really call it a room, it’s so small.’

  ‘If it’s good enough for her, it will be good enough for someone with money in their pocket.’

  ‘Please, Petrus. For a little longer at least.’

  ‘And that baby of hers is so fair.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You think I want to support some white man’s child? If a white man’s the father, let him reach into his pocket and pay.’

  And so it would go on. Mabel came to welcome their lovemaking, for it meant they were done arguing for the night. Letting out a mighty roar as he reached orgasm, Petrus would drift off to sleep in preparation for another twelve-hour shift as a security guard in Sandton.

  Soon enough, there came a knock on Mabel’s door, almost breaking the lock. It was a miracle that Zinhle didn’t wake up; Mabel was beginning to think her child could sleep through anything.

  When she opened up, he was standing there looking vaguely bemused. He could almost have been good-looking, if not for a pug nose that looked like it had been stuck on by accident, and an ugly scar that ran down one side of his face.

  ‘Petrus. Aren’t you working today?’

  ‘No work. I took the day off.’ A slight pause as he cleared his throat. ‘I want sex.’

  ‘Sorry?’ she said, hoping she’d misheard.

  ‘I want sex,’ he repeated.

  ‘Where is Primrose?’ Somehow it seemed the right question to ask.

  ‘She is on shift at the garage. And I am horny, I want sex, now. And I’m sure you haven’t had it for some time.’ He thrust his head forward to peer at her. ‘We could do it here or maybe in the house. Not in the bedroom – that is for me and my wife – but the couch is very comfortable.’

  The mischievous part of Mabel wanted to laugh, but angering him was the last thing she should do. ‘Primrose is my friend,’ she managed to blurt out, as if that was the only obstacle to them getting it on.

  ‘She doesn’t need to know. It will be something between the two of us. And besides, you owe me.’

  ‘How do I owe you?

  The question seemed to confuse him. ‘You and your white child are staying in my house, paying nothing in rent. I am horny, and you must be horny too, after all these months going without. It will be good for us both.’ He undid his trousers, pulling it out before Mabel had time to object. ‘How can you say no to this? You can see how hard it is already.’

  Having really only seen one erect penis before, comparison was difficult. A good size, she would have said, longer and thicker than Mr du Ploy’s. No wonder Primrose’s cries of ecstasy sounded so fulfilled. Petrus gripped it with one hand. ‘My cock, it will send you to paradise. Don’t tell me your pussy doesn’t want.’

  ‘My pussy doesn’t want, Petrus. Please, put it away.’

  He looked at her expectantly for a moment, as if at any moment she would reveal her true desires, but as his face fell so did his penis – which he tucked carefully back into the confines of his trousers.

  ‘You fucking women! Fuck!’ And with that he turned and stormed with long stri
des back towards the house.

  The following morning there was more banging on the door, and Mabel was convinced he’d come to take what she would not give willingly. As the intensity of the banging increased, Mabel knew that if she did not open he’d force his way in, and the result would be no different.

  She found him dressed in his security-guard uniform, looking officious and not in the least horny. ‘Get your things,’ he said. ‘You come now, you and your white baby.’

  He helped her with the three black bags and she followed him out to the road, where a battered flat-bed truck was waiting. A man wearing a threadbare overcoat sat behind the wheel, his beard giving him a benevolent, slightly scruffy appearance. He looked straight ahead, not acknowledging her and the baby.

  Petrus opened the back of the truck. It was loaded with sheets of corrugated iron, broken-up wooden boxes and other scrap. ‘You will ride up there,’ he said, throwing her black bags up into the truck one by one. To his credit, he helped her climb up with Zinhle.

  It wasn’t easy to find a firm place to sit among the metal and the wood, particularly when the truck lurched into motion. She had to move around to get moderately comfortable.

  If Mabel thought she knew Soweto well, she now had to revise that opinion. The truck moved down unfamiliar streets, through a township larger than she’d ever imagined. On and on they went, until concrete structures gave way to more makeshift homes, and then suddenly there was nothing but open ground, a barren piece of wasteland.

  The truck lurched to a sudden stop, disturbing Zinhle as she suckled from Mabel’s breast. Petrus was there to help her down, and now he looked smug. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

  ‘But there is nothing here,’ she said. Her feeding interrupted, Zinhle began to cry.

  Only when she saw Petrus’s silent bearded friend unloading the scrap metal and wood did Mabel begin to understand, and all she could do was stand there and watch, wondering what lay ahead for her. If only Zinhle would stop crying, maybe she could think more clearly.

  ‘It’s still early,’ Petrus said once it had all been unloaded. ‘You have hours of sunlight yet. Make sure you make something strong. The wind can be harsh.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked as he climbed back into the cab of the truck.

  There was a hint of cruelty in his smile. ‘You should have opened your legs for me when I asked. So much easier for you.’ Slamming the door shut, he looked down at the homeless mother with the crying baby. ‘Don’t worry, soon you will have a roof over your head. Or maybe you won’t, it’s up to you.’

  All she could do was watch as they drove away, leaving her surrounded by the pieces of what was to be her home.

  Mabel sat on a large stone, Zinhle cradled in her lap. It was clear what she had to do.

  Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates … she repeated the mantra in her head.

  But first she had to make a shelter. Before long she would get hungry, and that would mess with her thinking, making it all the more difficult. So she set to work, finding bits of wood that had once been parts of boxes, trying her best to put them together, make some kind of cohesive whole, but there was nothing to bind them. No sooner had she constructed something she thought reasonably solid, than it would totter and collapse.

  Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates ...

  It took the best part of the day and every ounce of energy she possessed, but with wooden poles sunk as far as she could manage into the hard earth, and the careful use of stones to anchor them, she began to make some progress. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, she had fashioned out of wood, iron and blankets a kind of shelter for the two of them. It even had a flap at the entrance to keep the elements out.

  That night was one of the worst of her life. Racked by a headache and stomach pains brought on by hunger, she still had enough milk to feed Zinhle, who mercifully slept. Mabel barely closed her eyes, and as sunlight filtered through the cracks she knew exactly what she had to do.

  Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates ...

  The twenty-rand note was in her coat pocket, but where it had come from she had no idea. Her mother could have put it there and she had somehow missed it, or maybe it was Petrus, a gesture of apology after dumping her. Wherever it had come from it was a godsend, for it enabled her to do what she had to do, and she had to do it now.

  Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates, Neville and Coates ...

  She got to Randburg via taxi and found a public bathroom to use, looking at herself in the mirror for the first time in days. Her skin was dry but her eyes were still bright. She washed her face the best she could and applied lipstick. If she was honest, she thought she looked a little trashy, but that was better than sad and pathetic. Trashy with a hint of desperation – that would have to do.

  The offices of Neville and Coates Advertising were in Randburg, just off the main road. The blonde receptionist seemed about to dismiss her when Mabel spoke up, quickly and clearly: ‘I am here to see Richard du Ploy.’

  ‘Does he know you’re coming?’

  ‘No – but he will want to see me.’

  ‘What do you want to see him about?’

  ‘It’s personal. I will discuss it with him.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Fiddling with her headset, the receptionist pressed buttons. ‘Richard, there is a black woman here to see you.’ She listened before turning to Mabel. ‘He’ll be right down.’

  Take a seat. That is what she should have said. Mabel silently ignored her rudeness and sat down anyway, untying the cloth that bound Zinhle to her back and settling her on her lap. In the office it was quieter than outside, with the bustle of vendors and commuters catching taxis. Smelt a whole lot fresher too.

  As she waited, a host of thoughts invaded her senses. Would Richard even acknowledge her, and, if he did, what would he have to say? She thought that Zinhle looked like him in so many ways, but would he accept her as his daughter? And what about her own feelings? Was she in love with him, would her heart skip when she saw him, or was that whole episode buried away in the past?

  On cue, Zinhle started crying as soon as her father appeared. Mabel was momentarily shocked by his appearance. He looked thinner, his face a mask of tension and worry.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice soft but vaguely threatening.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Not here. Outside.’

  A nervous look at the receptionist, and he followed her out of the door.

  Anyone passing would have seen what they wanted to see: a white man talking to the black nanny looking after his baby. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’

  Looking at him now, Mabel tried to find the man who’d shown her such tenderness, such passion. If he was there at all, he was hiding. ‘I am here to give you your daughter,’ she said, her voice strong and resolute.

  ‘What? Are you crazy?’

  ‘I am homeless. I have nothing for her. You can give her everything.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but –’

  ‘Look at her!’ Mabel interrupted, raising her voice without meaning to. ‘She has your complexion, she could pass for white. You and Madam, you could make up a story, that maybe you adopted her from somewhere.’

  ‘Flo would never agree,’ he said, looking down at his pale daughter cradled in Mabel’s arms. ‘I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do.’

  ‘Nothing you can do?’ The sense of outrage was building within her. ‘You can do plenty. You want your daughter to have a home, but I can’t give her a home. Remember what we did! This is your responsibility also.’

  She raised her hand to cover her lips as she spoke, as if to dampen the sound. The noisy street had suddenly become a whole lot quieter, and she was conscious of every word that she uttered. A black woman speaking so harshly to a white man on a public street was surely enough to get her locked up, but she would swap that for the nothing
she had to go back to, the hunger pains, the rough nights.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he said after a significant pause. ‘It is impossible, can’t happen.’

  ‘Alright then.’ Her shoulders slumped. She had given it her best shot. She put Zinhle on her back, wrapping the cloth around her. At that moment Zinhle decided to cry again, as if her tears were a final plea to the man who was her father.

  One last look at Richard, and Mabel turned and walked away, hoping the movement would settle the baby. She should have asked him for taxi money, but it was too late now. As it was, she barely had enough to make it back to her little makeshift shack.

  ‘Wait!’ Richard’s voice rose above the general street noise, bringing her to a halt.

  Chapter 4

  THE KETTLE WHISTLED on the stove and Mabel lifted it off, pouring hot water over the teabag in the metal mug. As the whistle died Zinhle began to cry, as if to fill the void of silence. ‘Feed me!’ was her plea, and Mabel sighed as she picked her daughter up, lifting her blouse to feed her nipple into the waiting mouth. She hoped her tea would still be hot enough to drink as she prepared herself for the day.

  Their home was a modest but cosy house in Dobsonville: a living room, a small bedroom and little else besides, but more than enough for their needs. Mabel had her spaza shop at the back, not much more than a hole in the wall, but it worked for her purposes as well as her customers’. She’d started off selling sweets and snacks before graduating to cool drinks, soap and matches, and it gave them just about enough to live on.

  One thousand rand was paid into her bank account every month. Not from Richard’s account, she noticed. Maybe a friend’s? In her more fanciful moments, she imagined it being the receptionist at Neville and Coates. She was a pretty little thing, probably just his type. But really, she didn’t care. Every month the money was there, and that made everything possible. It ensured there were no more nights out in the cold for her and her daughter. She would never go back there, she vowed.