by Sharon Maas
Rika resolved to give up her dreams. They were so silly anyway. Jag would never look at her again. She picked up her fountain-pen and scribbled all over the practice signatures she had made: Rika deSouza. Frederika deSouza. Mrs Frederika de Souza.
* * *
On her way home down Camp Street that afternoon she heard the throb of a motorbike engine as it slowed down behind her, felt its heat as it drew up beside her. She looked up. It was Jag. He was riding beside her, looking at her and grinning that irresistible lopsided grin of his, his head cocked at a flirtatious angle. Her limbs turned to jelly and the handlebars wobbled.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Oh, hi,’ she managed to mumble, though the simple words almost stuck in her throat.
‘How are you?’
‘I… I’m fine,’ she managed to stutter.
‘Well, I was thinking I’d take you to the D’Aguiar fete next Saturday. OK?’
This time the bicycle wobbled so violently she almost fell off.
‘Careful, don’t kill yourself! So it’s OK, right?’
‘Y – yes,’ was all Rika managed.
‘Good. Better go before a nun catches me with you. I’ll pick you up at eight. See you.’
He lowered his wrist, turning the handle so that the motor revved. He had removed the silencer so the exhaust gave out a deep resounding roar, like a giant clearing his throat. He did this three times; he looked behind to check for traffic, lifted a hand in a stiff farewell salute, kicked the gear lever, and zoomed away in a final reverberating crack of thunder.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RIKA: THE SIXTIES
Now, more than ever, Rika longed for a girlfriend. A friend she could exclaim and giggle with over Jag’s invitation; a friend who’d hug and congratulate her, jump up and down squealing with excitement, because Rajan certainly wasn’t excited. How could he ever understand? He was a boy; worse, he was a young man and whatever else he was good for – talking philosophy, farming, maths and that sort of thing – he didn’t know a thing about how a young girl feels when she falls in love for the very first time.
Not having a suitable confidante, Rika began to keep a diary. She no longer wrote her novels in the Cupola; in fact she hardly ever went up there any more – no time! So she kept her diary in her bedroom; it was like speaking to a friend, a friend who listened to all she had to say without judging, a friend in whom she could confide and confess everything. Her life was finally taking off! She had to keep track of it.
Her first date! And with Don, The Jag! And she had to keep it all to herself – what a waste! So it all went in to her diary. She was simply bursting with delight. And it wasn’t just delight she longed to share; it was all the peripheral feelings that went along with this most extraordinary situation. She, Rika Quint, the quintessential Plain Jane, had been Chosen! Plucked from obscurity by a Prince in Shining Armour on a Silver Steed! Well, on a Yamaha, really, but he certainly was the equivalent of a Prince in the Georgetown teenage scene. No girl could do better, aim higher.
She swelled with pride at the thought. She must have something extraordinary, some hidden quality to her, just as Rajan had said; inner beauty, he had called it, something that only Jag had seen and nobody else, least of all she herself. He had broken up with Jen. Possibly over her. Possibly he had Known, just as she had, what an immense thing this was. He had seen it in her eyes; beautiful eyes, he had said, just as she had seen it in his that moment when they had locked eyes, that first day at Bookers Snack Bar. That was the moment when the whole earth shifted; he must have felt it too; otherwise, why? Why her?
Why me? Sometimes the words broke into her euphoria and crackled it into doubt. This couldn’t be happening to her. It just couldn’t. Why her, of all people, when Jag could have any of the girls at any of the schools, the most beautiful and the most charming, girls with swinging shiny hair and that certain attitude; who walked and talked as if they owned the world, girls comfortable in themselves in a way that she, Rika, had never been and, she was sure, never would be. But perhaps there was a chance, now, with Jag at her side?
The D’Aguiar fete! She had heard if it, of course, the last great event before the Christmas Season broke in with all the hundreds of minor get-togethers leading up to the Grand Finale at the Rowing Club on Old Year’s Night. At sixteen, you could start going to all these grown-up fetes. You could leave behind the world of private fetes held by friends at their homes. There would be a live band and barbecue chicken and rum-and-coke; she knew because she was a listener and that was what the girls all talked about. The D’Aguiar fete in Bel Air Park wasn’t just a free friend’s party you got invited to because the friend had put you on her list; a boy had to invite you, and pay for you. And it had happened. To her.
She had been to fetes before, with unpleasant results. You couldn’t really count those fetes, though, because they had been organised by her older cousins, Quints, part of the extended family. Two of them had been held in her own home, another had been in the home of Cousin Zoe. Possibly Zoe – who was a year older than her and went to Bishops’ – had been instructed to invite her, by Granny.
Just thinking of those events made Rika cringe. Like the one at Zoe’s. She had worn a dress that was wildly out of date – as she had discovered too late – and much too long. She had sat, silently, along with the other girls, who were all giggling and chatting among themselves and pointedly ignoring her. Why couldn’t she giggle and chat, just like them? Why couldn’t she be a normal girl, who knew what to say and what to wear? So she sat there by herself, not knowing what to do with her hands and wishing she hadn’t come. Boys stood around in huddles, glancing at the girls now and then and flexing their arms and slapping each other on the shoulders the way boys do. And then the jukebox had blared out … and the boys had surged forth towards the girls and each boy had chosen a girl and taken her hand and led her to the dance floor and when they had all gone, there she sat, all alone against the wall.
Eventually one of her male cousins – Nicolas Quint – had taken pity on her and asked her to dance, but after that she’d had enough and fled; she’d rang up Daddy and asked her to come and pick her up, and he had.
‘Had a good time?’ Daddy had asked, and ‘Yes,’ she had murmured in reply. And that was that.
But this was different. It was an invitation. By a Boy. To the D’Aguiar Barbecue. And there was no one to talk to about it. She had tried, with Rajan, but he had not been interested. ‘Oh?’ was all he had said, and, ‘and you said yes?’ As if there had been any doubt as to whether she’d say yes or not. As if Jag had actually asked her, which he hadn’t. He’d simply said he’d take her. Boys like Jag didn’t have to ask; they just stated their intention, and that was their defining quality. But Rajan could never understand that, and that was disappointing because hitherto Rika had been able to confide all her problems in him; nothing had been too small for him to want to listen attentively and, if she asked for advice, give it, and help her to deal with whatever was bothering her. But not this time. She couldn’t ask Rajan for advice on what to wear, and what make-up to buy, and – most of all – what to do with her hair.
Her hair was the worst of all. It was an abomination, and just thinking about that hair and those two knobbly plaits made Rika sick to her stomach, and doubt again that it had really happened – that Jag had asked her to the D’Aguiar Barbecue. Just thinking the words made her knees as wobbly as jelly.
However, it was true, because in no time everyone knew it. She hadn’t told a soul except Rajan, so it must be Jag who had told some people and they had told others and now the whole world knew. Girls who had never spoken to her in their lives – who had almost looked away when she passed by, humping their school satchels onto their shoulders in clear rebuff – now regarded her with new interest, looking her up and down as if to assess her for some overlooked quality (but it’s hidden! I can’t see it myself but it’s there!) and one or two girls actually spoke to her, asking her for con
firmation – Jag asked you? It’s true? Really? – as if they didn’t, couldn’t, believe the rumours.
And then one or two actually approached her for friendship. Stella and Joanne, in fact, two girls from the parallel form who were not quite popular themselves, but who stood at the outer periphery of popularity. Stella and Joanne smiled at her after class and at the bicycle stand Stella said to her, ‘We’re going for hamburgers at Esso Joe’s, want to come?’
Of course she had said yes.
While eating hamburgers at Esso Joe’s, Stella had fingered one of Rika’s plaits and said, ‘You know, you should really get it straightened.’
Rika blinked.
‘You think so?’
‘Of course! It would transform you. I can recommend a good hairdresser who will do it for you. You won’t believe the difference! I mean, look at my hair!’
Stella twirled one of her black locks and shook her head to show Rika how it swung back and forth.
‘You hair is straightened?’
‘Yes! Everyone does it these days. I’ll give you the phone number – just a sec.’
And Stella scrambled in her satchel, took out a pencil and a notebook, scribbled a few numbers, and handed the note to Rika. ‘There! Ring her up – ask for Joyce, and say I sent you!’
* * *
Later that afternoon Rika rang up the hairdresser and spoke to Joyce, but instead of booking an appointment, she asked the price of a hair-straightening session. She was beginning to worry about money. She usually spent her pocket money on things like snacks and books; now, with this great event looming, she’d have so many first time expenses – a dress, shoes, lipstick etc., and now hairdressing – she was beginning to fear the money wouldn’t stretch that far. There were other matters to worry about, but money, for the time being, came first.
When she heard the price of a ‘chemical relaxation’ – as Joyce insisted on calling the required treatment – her worries trebled. That would be three weeks’ pocket money! And she still had to buy a dress, and shoes!
Maybe Granny – who was in charge of doling out her pocket money, as well as most other matters concerning her wellbeing – would give her a month’s advance. It would mean no new books for a month, which, considering she had already read most of the readable library books and was already re-reading her favourites, would be a hard sacrifice. Was it worth it?
But then she brought to mind Don DeSouza on his roaring Yamaha beside her, and Jen’s sneer at the snack bar; she imagined the look on Jen’s face as she watched Rika and Jag on the dance floor, cheek-to-cheek to the romantic crooning of Engelbert Humperdinck, and Rika knew without a shadow of a doubt that yes, it was all worth the greatest sacrifice. No price was too great to pay for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She had to look her best; so, no new books, if need be. Maybe, anyway, she’d be far too busy with Jag to do any reading in the next few months. Who knew what the future held! A frisson of excitement, of anticipation shuddered through her: the near future held such delectable secrets, and she’d unfold them one by one! But first, this vexing money problem. How much, exactly, would she need? How much would the material for the dress cost, and the seamstress, and the shoes, and the lipstick and such? Perfume: she’d need that too. It would all add up, and asking for such a huge advance …
And then she knew the answer. Her grandparents! The bank book! Her inheritance! She had the money already; it was hers! She only had to ask for a bit of those savings to be paid out now. She’d ask Granny, who kept the bank books in her special drawer for documents.
But the greatest worry of all, the one that kept her awake at night, was the one of even getting permission to go. Mummy would refuse. Mummy would say something like, ‘yes, if you bring home an A in Maths at the end of next term;’ and not only was ‘the end of next term’ too late for anything but the A in Maths was beyond impossible, and that was all Mummy cared about. Mummy didn’t approve of parties anyway. Everything except politics and fighting for justice was frivolous nonsense. But surely Mummy had been young once; surely she’d had gone to parties and been courted and knew the terrible, wonderful frisson of falling in love? Had Mummy always been so serious, so dour, so funless? So uncaring?
She doesn’t care about me, Rika thought; she only cares about my accomplishments. My achievements, my success. That’s all she wants, and otherwise I’m a nobody to her as well.
But being a nobody to Mummy had its advantages. More and more over the last few years Mummy left the day-to-day decisions concerning Rika to Granny; and so it would be Granny she’d ask for permission.
* * *
‘The D’Aguiar barbecue? Aren’t you a bit young for that?’ was what Granny said. ‘I mean, a private fete, of course; it’s time you were out and about with other girls and boys your age. But I’m not too sure about this one. There’ll be a lot of rum, and older men …’
‘But I’ll be with Don!’ pleaded Rika. ‘Don De Souza!’
‘That’s the son of Justice DeSouza, isn’t it?’
Rika nodded vigorously. Adults were most easily influenced by family names, and placing people in this good family or the other.
‘They live in Bel Air Gardens,’ Rika offered.
‘Well, I suppose that’s respectable enough. Is he coming to pick you up?’
‘Yes, yes of course!’ She could hardly tell Granny that it would be on a motorbike; but perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps he’d come in a taxi. What an honour!
‘Very well, then. But be sure to be home by midnight, all right?’
‘Oh, Granny, thank you, thank you!’
Rika leapt at Granny and threw her arms around her, making her drop the ball of dough she was about to roll into a puri, but Granny just laughed and accepted it, in a way that Mummy never did and never would. When last had she been hugged by Mummy? Never, in the last ten years.
‘All right, that’s enough kisses,’ said Granny then, pushing her away. ‘And don’t worry about your mother – I’ll talk to her about it.’
‘And – and Granny, there’s another problem; a big one!’ said Rika. ‘I need money! To buy a dress, and to go to the hairdressers, and things like that! I was wondering if – I mean the money is mine, isn’t it, the money in the bank? To do what I want with?’
‘Well, I think it’s intended for more serious things than fetes, darling. But maybe just this once. You’ve never asked for any withdrawals yet – unlike the boys! – so why not? Just this once. It’s time you went out with people your own age’
They discussed the amount she would need, and Rika proved that she could do some calculations, when necessary, and Granny nodded and took her to the office, where she opened a small drawer in the desk and took out a tiny key, with which she opened the drawer where all the passports and bank books were kept. There was Rika’s among all the others. Granny took it out, and the passport, and handed them to her.
‘There you are, dear. It’s lovely to see you so excited about something!’
Every cell in her body was singing and dancing, and it must have been written all over her face; that soaring, heavenly, utterly exquisite elation. It was back, and it filled every atom of her body and every corner of her soul; she could spread her wings and fly! Rika twirled away from Granny, arms spread out, laughing out loud with glee.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RIKA: THE SIXTIES
It was time to make concrete plans – time was running short. She needed a dress. What style? What were the other girls wearing when they went to fetes? She hadn’t a clue. So the next afternoon, after school, there she was again at Bookers. She’d try Bookers and Fogarty’s; and as for style, she’d choose something nice from Teen magazine and have it copied by Granny’s seamstress.
‘Hello, there!’ The voice beside her made her look up, startled; she’d been standing there in a quandary, fingering a soft blue fabric and wondering what one could do with it and if it would suit her. Beside her now was a lanky brown girl in a Bishops’ uniform with a rou
nd soft Afro, grinning at her, as if …
‘You’re Rika, right? And you’re going to the D’Aguiar fete with Don DeSouza? Everyone’s talking about it … I’m Trixie by the way, Trixie MacDonald.’
‘Oh – hi!’ was all Rika could manage.
‘You’re buying cloth for a dress? This is no good – you can’t do anything with it. You know what people are wearing these days? The Granny look! It would look wonderful on you! You want me to help you choose? Hope you don’t mind me butting in – I saw you by yourself and I heard you don’t have any friends so …’
Rika smiled up at her. ‘Would you? Really? I was just thinking …’
And they walked over to the stack of cotton bolts, an array of very small floral prints, and Trixie described the style she thought would work.
‘Sometimes the necks are very high but you have such beautiful skin; I would have it scooped low at the neck, with a white lacy edging – this peach would look wonderful on you – and puffed sleeves and an Empire line, and not too long either. Look, let me draw a sketch for you, I have something similar.’
Trixie pulled out the two middle pages of her maths exercise book and drew a sketch of the kind of dress she had in mind. Rika nodded and smiled and agreed with everything, and bought several yards of the fabric; and Trixie recommended her own dressmaker, Hyacinth, who lived near Bourda Market, and promised to take her there herself.
On learning that Rika was going to get her hair straightened, Trixie grimaced. ‘Ouch! I did that once. Why not go natural, like me? The Afro look is all the rage in America now.’
Trixie scribbled Hyacinth’s telephone number beneath the sketch and handed the note to Rika.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard Jag had asked you out; all of us at Bishops’ cheered. We can’t stand that stuck up bitch Jenny and her friends and she needs a good lesson – but you got to be careful with Jag, OK? He really only likes one thing from girls but he usually doesn’t get it anyway. So just be careful. You must tell me everything afterwards, OK? And go and get your hair done. It’s time you lost those plaits. They make you look about twelve. And what about make-up? You can’t get it at Bookers or Fogarty’s; they only have make-up for white skin. It would look terrible on you. Some girls don’t seem to even care! I know a little shop where they sell dark-skin make-up – I’ll take you there. You want to go to Hyacinth now? We could stop at that make-up place on the way.’