Cartwheeling in Thunderstorms

by Katherine Rundell

  But everything had changed. Will stopped and stared. The house shone with a coat of yellow paint, and there were lace curtains at the windows, and the bushes of gooseberries that clustered round the kitchen door had been hacked into a neat, subdued line. And worst of all, when Will reached the storeroom and pushed against the heavy metal door, she found it locked. Which meant she would have to ask for the key, she knew, and that would mean going into that newly curtained main room, which, before, uncurtained, had been her own sitting room, where she had taken refuge during the rains. She had played there with her father, the two of them throwing gooseberries and grapes at each other, catching them in their mouths—and once, marvelously, she had been upside down in a headstand, and her father had dropped a raisin down her nose. Will’s nose swelled now with love at the memory; and her empty stomach felt drier, and the house stranger.

  As Will approached the room—the room where, in the past, she had gone to make herself happy—she heard voices, high and sharp. She hesitated at the door, her long brown fingers hovering over the handle. It was carved silver, where before it had been a brass knob that fell off if you turned it too hard. She felt her skin quiver—it was all so new—and instead of going in she dropped to the floor and peered under the crack.

  “Oh, help. Oh, help me,” whispered Will Silver.

  Twenty feet in twenty heeled shoes were elegantly crossed at the ankle, and forty chair legs were ranged in a semicircle around the empty fire grate.

  She would have to go in. Will had eaten nothing all day, and her stomach was beating in time with her heart, flapping against her insides, and it was too dark now to climb the banana tree by the kennels. Will had a proper respect for darkness, and for night snakes.

  The door handle was stiff. Twenty eyes turned toward her. Will was suddenly all legs and joints and was aware, as she had never been in her life before, that her hair was matted in a knot at the back of her head, and her nails were mud encrusted.

  She glanced around from lowered eyes. The room had become strange. It was painfully clean. Will looked in the far corner for her cobweb collection. It was gone. The chairs had been re-covered in a dull greenish satin. It was horrible. She would get the key, and get out.

  “Miss Vincy?”

  “Will.” Miss Vincy looked neither happy nor angry—just bored. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “I—the storeroom’s locked. Ma’am.”

  There was a pause. Cynthia waited, pursed lips and raised eyebrows—

  “And . . . ?”

  “And so I’ve not eaten all day.”

  “And?”

  “And so I’m very hungry.”

  “And?” Was she waiting for Will to go down on her knees and beg? “I don’t—I don’t understand. . . .”

  “I’m waiting for you to apologize, young woman, for your disappearing act. Where do you think you’ve been?”

  Will blinked. Riding in the bush wasn’t an apologizing sort of thing, was it? It hadn’t been before.

  A bony woman rose from her chair and held out a plate of crust-cut-off sandwiches. “Here, dearie.”

  She had meant for Will to graciously take one, but Will took hold of the plate, and would have bolted, had not an enormous woman been standing in the doorway, calling shrilly for the staff. Lazarus had gone from Sekuru Lazarus, Uncle Lazarus, friend, to “staff” overnight.

  Will retreated, still clutching the plate, into the corner of the room, sliding behind the new curtains. They smelled of chemicals and some indefinable newness, which, Will reckoned, was the smell of money. She crouched, wolfing down the sandwiches, dropping bits of cucumber down her chin, ravenous.

  The women had apparently decided to ignore her, and the high voices moved on. Will caught only words, but even that was cruel enough, hearing her father’s life pecked into fragments by women like coarse-colored hens.

  “William Silver . . . you knew him?”

  “. . . no money, of course . . .”

  “And not much to look at . . .”

  “Oh, Jackie, don’t!”

  “I heard different . . . and lovely manners . . .”

  “Half-witted. No loss.” That was Cynthia’s voice.

  “Mmmm. . . . But your Browne, dearie . . . a real catch, he is. . . .”

  “Farm valued at more than a million.”

  “No!” That was several voices at once.

  “Yes! They lived like savages because they liked it, he said.”

  “Cynthia’ll put a stop to that.”

  “And the little girl?”

  “Impossible creature, I’ve heard.” (This in a whisper.)

  “Bonny, though.”

  “Bony, more like.”

  “And the captain. He must be getting on, surely? Eighty?”

  “Well, Cynthia’s just cut out to be a widow. . . .”

  “People die early in the bush, sweetie!” And laughter.

  There was a crash. The door burst open, hit the wall, and rebounded onto the fat woman, who jumped aside. A dark-haired woman in the doorway. Will peered from under the curtain. The woman was beautiful. She had to be some relation of Miss Vincy’s; the same strong legs were there, and the wide jaw.

  A hush fell. The newcomer ignored the bevy of women and spoke across the room, addressing only Miss Vincy. Her voice was soft. It commanded total silence.

  “Well, Cynthia . . . it’s settled. The letter came just now. Your little brat’s off to England. If she ever comes out of the bush, that is. It’s in London. Very helpful people at the agency in Harare; nobody could possibly complain. The fees are astronomical, my dear; money puts a stop to gossip.” She laughed, a purring little laugh. “And after that, my sweet sister, . . . everything will be perfectly delightful.”

  But instead of rapture or relief, the room was filling up with awkward silence. One of the women let out a single nervous laugh, cut short, like a twig snapping.

  Miss Vincy gave a sigh. “She’s behind the curtain.”

  The dark-haired woman crossed the room in three paces. Will saw the feet approaching and strained away as the woman snatched back the drapes. Will froze, crouched, still clutching the plate. Such utter desolation had flooded her body that it was forcing its way out in a single, shameful tear. Let it not be true, she thought. It mustn’t be true. What was going on? England! England was a mythic place, a huge space to make up stories about, but not to live in, not now. Not now that Dad wasn’t with her, Dad who had hated it, said it was cold and full of money and cars. And leave! Leave the farm and the trees and the grass and Africa!

  The woman’s lip lifted half an inch in a sneer. “Out.”

  Will rose, the skin on the back of her thigh sticking to her calves. The woman’s face was hard. Was this, then, what all women were like, after the intoxicating gruffness of men? Will tried to shut her nose against the sharp, synthetic perfume.

  “The plate.”

  Will had reached the door by the time the woman had spoken again. Will looked at the plate, surprised it was still there; at Cynthia Vincy; at the dark-haired woman. “I won’t!” she whispered. She was Will, afraid of nothing; Will of the bush and Will of the wind; Will who jumped down waterfalls and swam faster than Simon; Simon’s best friend; and Will, daughter of Lilibet and William. She straightened her back and knees. Unconsciously, she had been moving toward the door in a cramped crouch. Hot, stormy anger seized hold of her arms, and she hurled the plate to the floor, inches from the woman’s feet, and it smashed into twelve pieces that flew across the room like scattering birds.

  WITHIN A WEEK OF WILL’S return, Captain Browne and Cynthia Vincy were married. It happened with the unstoppable smoothness of the inevitable. Everyone expected it.

  Everyone, that is, except Will. It was too horrible to expect. But even worse, since that woman had spoken of that something—that what?—in England, Will had been unable to think clearly. She didn’t dare ask the captain, in case it turned out to be true. The idea of it scratched roun
d her head, searching for a way out. Will, who was never ill, began to get headaches at night; it was, she supposed, the idea, trying to escape.

  • • •

  Captain Browne did not break the news of the wedding as well as he had intended to. He was flustered and his shirt was dark with sweat patches.

  “Hello, little Wildcat,” he said, and then they both flinched, because that was her father’s name for her. Browne hastily amended his mistake.

  “Will, my girl. You like Miss Vincy, don’t you?”

  The time had passed for lying. Will felt sure Cynthia Vincy had used the death of her father to worm her way into the house. Why, after all, was she still here, weeks later? She’s false, Will thought fiercely, false as “dammit.” And she sucked in her lips and bit them together.

  There was something so profoundly young about the gesture that Captain Browne was forced to close his eyes in a long blink of pain.

  “Come, Will. Let’s walk.”

  The path led them past the rockery, past the huge aloes, past the bold colors of the strelitzias, to the bed of flame lilies. Will squatted to sniff at their growing smell, but the captain stood rigid, staring sightlessly at the red flowers, which were curling brown at the edges. He felt unaccountably nervous.

  “Will . . . chooky, I’ve got some . . . ah, some news, my girl. . . .”

  “Yes, Captain?” Will spoke very quietly. “Ja?” She held her tongue between her teeth. It was the best way to keep the wrong words from getting out.

  Browne didn’t seem to hear. “The thing is, Will—Will, my girl, are you listening, hey?—Cynthia Vincy will be joining us here. Miss Vincy has said she will be my . . . wife.”

  Will choked on her tongue.

  “Well? What do you think of that, chook?”

  “Oh,” said Will. “Oh.” She could barely hear herself. “Your wife.”

  To Will the word sounded with the clang of catastrophe. And it was ridiculous, she cried inside, because beneath the gloss of Cynthia Vincy’s nylon stockings (themselves ridiculous in the heat) the woman was shoddy, tawdry, empty. Will screwed up her eyes. She wondered how it was possible the captain had not seen it. He was slow, sometimes, and cantankerous and strict, but he was generous and honest. Wife! She wanted to roar, to spit at him. How could he not see?

  “Well, Will? What do you think?” said the captain. He smiled nervously.

  Will had opened her mouth for a bellow, for a furious, gaping but—but nothing came out.

  “You’re not making a joke, Captain Browne?”

  “No, Will.” And then, after a pause in which Will stood, pulling viciously at her long eyelashes, he added, “Nothing else to say, chooky?”

  “Ja.” Will unstuck her lips. “I hope you’ll be always happy, sir,” she said.

  Without thinking, only to have something to do with her hands, she pulled up a flame lily by the roots and held it out to him. He thought she looked pitifully young, standing there, dripping earth from her flower.

  Awkwardly, achingly, Will tried to smile. “Always happy, Captain Browne, ’kay?”

  • • •

  Exactly a week later, Cynthia Vincy became Cynthia Browne. Her first act, before she had changed out of the smart white satin suit, was to inform the staff that the farm was to be sold. The newlyweds were moving to the efficiency of Harare, the capital city, to the streetlights and air-conditioning and asphalt roads of the town. Everyone had expected it.

  Everyone, that is, except Captain Browne. Ashen-faced, he tried to explain to his smiling wife that it would be double murder—death to the land, which needed him and his fifty years of knowledge, and death to him.

  Cynthia only purred with laughter, indulgent and caressing. She’d engineered her moment with precision. Instead of the usual beer, she’d mixed the captain a gin and tonic—a rare treat for him—and, that done, she perched on the arm of his chair, one hand on his thigh.

  “And then the little girl, Charles . . .” She did not use her own name for Will, “that uncontrollable brat.”

  The captain’s old face smoothed itself, and he glowed a little, as if from an inner heat. “My Will? Ach, she’s a good girl, Cynthia. I knew the day I met you, ja, that you would love her like a mother. What about my Will?”

  “Well, Charlie. Since you ask . . .” Cynthia gave a good impression of a woman cajoled out of her opinion. It was all in the eyebrows. “There are some things that women know about, and I feel that your little Will—much as I would love to keep her here—can’t be happy with us. Not now her father has”—she laid a hand on her breast—“passed away. Just too many sad memories, don’t you think?”

  Captain Browne frowned. “Oh no, my dear.”

  “No?”

  “No, pet.” Captain Browne was making the mistake of thousands of men before him: he was failing to recognize the skill of his opponent. He tried to brush her off, heartily, like a caricature of himself. “Oh no, my dear. Will isn’t going anywhere! No, no. No! Out of the question. The girl’s got nobody else.”

  Cynthia squeezed his thigh. “Charlie, my love. I had no idea you felt this way.”

  “Well, I do, Cynthia. And you must trust that I know best, ja.”

  Cynthia winced. Only common people said “ja.” “No, Charles. It’s not that simple. Because I had hoped”—she pouted a little—“that what I’ve arranged would please you. . . . I wanted us to enjoy our love, alone. . . .”

  The captain looked at the blandly innocent face. A fear flickered on in his heart. “What have you done,” he said, and added, through a sticky voice box, “my dearest?”

  “There’s a school, Charles,” said Cynthia. Her voice sank to a coo. “A boarding school. In England. A school that’s agreed to take your sweet Will at short notice. Very short notice. She’s English by birth; she’s nearing the difficult age; she’ll be so much happier there. And of course you won’t object, Charles, will you, not now I’ve settled it all?”

  Browne was growing red with the weight of his unspoken protestations.

  “Cynthia.” He could barely speak. “Cynthia, that child . . . How could you have . . .” He looked ashen and old. “If you knew . . . knew what she is to me . . .”

  Cynthia’s eyes were growing chilly. She was sick of  Will, sick of the subject. Children were exhausting and tedious. “There’s nothing so hugely special about the child, Charles. School will be good for her. I’ve been watching her, and you should know, my dear, she’s no genius. She’s never been to a proper school, never learned anything—nothing that takes practice. She’s lazy.”

  “Untamed.” And Captain Browne added to himself, Oh, God. I hope it will be well.

  “She has no knowledge of culture, of art, of music—”

  “She sings, Cynthia. I’ve heard her. Sings like a bloomin’ violin.”

  “She can barely count; she knows nothing about geography, history—”

  “Ja. But she’s read every book in my study.”

  “Exactly!” Seamlessly, Cynthia changed tack. “So she’ll need new books, won’t she, Charles? And she can’t use money, or hold a knife and fork properly, or”—she was running out of ammunition—“arrange flowers—”

  “Arrange flowers!” The captain was suddenly austere, booming and muscular, back in his regiment, “For God’s sake, woman! Why on earth, Cynthia, would she want to arrange flowers? No. Will is coming with us wherever we go. You’ll have to unbook the flights.”

  “Charles!”

  “Cynthia. I will not allow this to happen. Do you understand?”

  Cynthia shook back her hair. “Charles. Please don’t talk to me like a child. I didn’t want to tell you at the time; I didn’t want to sound petty. Men are notoriously unjust about these things, my dear. But that plate Will broke—it was extremely valuable.”

  “It was a plate.” The captain tried to look unconcerned.

  “No, my dear.” Cynthia put on a patient face. “It was an heirloom. It was symbolic.”

  �
��You’re asking me to banish the child for breaking a plate?”

  “No, Charles; it’s what the plate stands for. If you’d seen the way she threw it at me; it was the act of a savage. She’s becoming vindictive, my darling. Her father’s death has warped her; she’s barely human—she’s running wild—and wild animals turn vicious. It has to be her or me, Charles.”

  “Cynthia. Please don’t threaten me. You are my wife, are you not?” The captain blinked his old eyes, bewildered.

  “I am, Charles. And I need you to treat me as a wife should be treated.”

  “Cynthia! Will is the dearest thing in my life”—he saw Cynthia open her mouth—“after you. But she is also a child, which you are not. She needs our protection.”

  “No, Charles. She needs a new start.”

  “Cynthia! This is ridiculous! I will not have it. I will unbook the tickets myself. We will not discuss it any further, please.”

  “Very well.” Cynthia strode to the door and slammed it shut behind her. A painting fell off the wall. In the fields, a dog started howling. Captain Browne was just getting to his feet to follow her when she slammed in again, carrying a leather suitcase. She dropped it on his lap.

  “Charles. I’m serious about this.”

  “What is this, Cynthia?”

  “Go on. Take a look, darling.”

  The captain opened the case with quivering fingers. Inside was a pile of neatly folded silk shirts, a mound of lace underwear, and three smart cotton dresses. Under the dresses were two pairs of shoes: one red crocodile skin and one black with silver stiletto heels.

  “Cynthia . . . what is this? I don’t understand.”

  “This is my going-away bag, Charles. I do not make idle threats. It’s your choice. I will leave this farm tonight if you continue to be so ridiculously sentimental about that child.”

  “Cynthia! Please. Please don’t do this to me.”

  “So you agree with me? About Will?”

  The captain said nothing.

  “Just nod, Charles. Just nod, and I’ll put away the bag forever.”

  Very slowly—at the pace of ancient turtles and sunsets—Captain Browne nodded.