Hearing Helen

by Carolyn Morton

  Our teacher then slammed down the book onto Kean’s desk, shocking us into silence. “Get out,” she said to him, pointing to the open door.

  Kean had not expected her response and he smiled waveringly, like she was joking.

  “You know you can’t do that,” he said uncertainly. “I’ll tell my father.” It was true; he could report her for it. A teacher at the junior school had faced a disciplinary hearing for making a learner leave the class.

  Mrs Smith responded by picking up his workbook and flinging it out the door.

  Kean stumbled out while we watched in horrified silence. He glanced back once over his shoulder, and I knew from the shame on his face that he wouldn’t tell his father what had happened.

  Mrs Smith turned her back to us, leaning bent over her desk, with one hand splayed over its surface. The class was quite still, except for the uneasy creak of people shifting in their desks. Even the dolls seemed cowed into silence. After an eternity, our teacher turned around, wiping her eyes.

  I saw June glance down at her desk, and it looked like she was trying not to cry. I didn’t understand her reaction; she was probably the person who had the least to feel guilty about.

  In silence Mrs Smith walked over to the poster project of Natalie du Toit behind June’s desk. “I admire Natalie du Toit,” she said, staring at the poster, her back to us. “She is one of the most talented swimmers South Africa has ever had. Olympic Games. Paralympics 2004, 2008 and 2012. Commonwealth Games.”

  We had to strain to hear her.

  “Part of her leg was amputated after she’d been hit by a car. After the accident, all that people focused on was her disability. But after winning gold in the Commonwealth Games, Natalie said people were finally looking her in the eye.”

  Mrs Smith turned round to us. Her eyelids were swollen from crying.

  “You should try that sometime,” she said. “Class dismissed.”

  *

  Six

  ON MY WAY HOME, I got a call from Hank. June, still carrying Felicity, was walking beside me, quieter than usual, her hair shrouding her eyes – probably still agonising over Mrs Smith. I hauled out my ancient phone, which Hank had passed down to me.

  “Helen, listen.” He was talking faster than usual, a sure sign he was either nervous or lying, and I pricked up my ears. “After work at Maths Magicians, I’m going to be studying till late at the library, so I’ll be home after dark. Tell Mom and Dad, please.”

  “Why don’t you just study at home?”

  There was a pause, as though he was trying to come up with a good excuse. He did. “I need to use the internet. And get some books. I said to Mom I would buy vegetables, so I’ve got them, but I’ll only be able to give them to her later tonight.”

  “There’s nothing left in the fridge, Hank,” I protested. “We need the veggies before supper.”

  But it was too late. His phone had already gone dead.

  “We can go past his work now and pick up the veggies for your mom,” June suggested, shifting Felicity from her arms to her hip. The baby immediately decided to start dribbling and hiccupping, a new sound in her repertoire. I whacked Felicity absent-mindedly on the back to burp her, not answering.

  On an impulse, I took out the piece of paper with the phone number Hank had been using as a bookmark, the one with the little hearts on it. I punched in the numbers, my heart speeding up as it rang.

  “Hello, Caryn here.”

  I quickly switched off the phone and turned to June.

  “I think I’ll walk home first, thanks,” I said slowly to her, “and go later, when Hank’s almost finished work. That way,” I continued cleverly, “he’ll probably be less busy, so I won’t disturb him too much.”

  Later, after June had said goodbye at my gate, and after I’d chilled for a few hours, I ran down to Maths Magicians, a few blocks from Checkers. The school was adjacent to a BP garage and mechanic’s workshop, protected against intruders by a heavy Trellidor. Peering through the window into the classroom, I saw scattered protractors, scissors, and pairs of compasses­, which reminded me of surgical instruments in an operating theatre.

  Hank was designing a 3D model of a pyramid for an awed girl, his fingers working as deftly and confidently as any surgeon’s. Although Mrs Meintjies, a minute woman with a severely­ disciplined greying bob, was in charge, I noticed that she never watched Hank, only nodded at him occasionally as he pointed out the apex and faces.

  A few minutes before five, Mrs Meintjies tapped her watch at Hank, who passed the pyramid to his admiring fan and disappeared into the bathroom. He soon emerged, unlocked the Trellidor and stood on the threshold, his orange hair under control and his hands washed and clean.

  I was about to call him, when a girl that I recognised dashed past me and flung herself into his arms. She was about eigh­teen and lithe, her straight coppery hair flopping in her eyes. Their children really would look like orangutans, I thought to myself, stepping forward.

  “Hi, Hank,” I said innocently.

  My brother jumped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “You don’t look pleased to see me,” I said and smiled at the girl in his arms. “I’m Helen. I think I’ve seen you cycling to school. You’re Caryn, right?”

  “Hi, Helen.” She smiled, apparently not embarrassed to be caught hugging and kissing my brother.

  “I’ve come to get the veggies,” I said, sticking out my hand. “We need them for tonight.”

  Hank looked at me suspiciously, but he stepped back into the school and appeared with a Checkers bag.

  “Thanks,” I said brightly. “So, until what time will you be studying at the library?”

  Hank’s face went as red as his hair. I was enjoying this. “I don’t think I’ll be studying this afternoon,” he muttered. “See you later, about supper time.”

  “Cool,” I said, recognising my cue. I waved a hand. “Bye, Caryn.”

  That evening when my brother went to his room after supper, I heard the thud of his schoolbag as he took it from the chair in front of his desk and dumped it on the floor, and I listened for the click of his lamp that told me he was studying. Again.

  I knocked on Hank’s open door. He was wearing his glasses­, which he normally never let anyone see, and was tapping his pen against his teeth, frowning. A sure sign of nervousness. He glanced up quickly as he heard me and stopped tapping the pen.

  “How was your time with Caryn?” I asked, stepping into his room.

  He opened his mouth to protest at my coming in uninvited, and then shut it again. “You won’t tell Mom, will you?” he said nervously.

  I sat down on his bed and bounced up and down on it, which always drove him mad. “Tell what?” I asked, wide-eyed. I paused thoughtfully. “You know, Mom asked me to come home early tomorrow and defrost the fridge.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t like defrosting the fridge,” I said sweetly. “It would be such a help if someone else could do it – and pretend it was me.”

  “You’re not serious,” Hank growled.

  I got up. “In that case, I think I’ll go and have a little chat with Mom and Dad,” I said. “Tell them about my day – and yours.”

  Then Hank lost his temper. “They have enough to worry about without your telling tales as well!” he hissed, slamming his books shut.

  “You are so thoughtful,” I said. “But one word from me and all your after-school dates with Caryn will stop.”

  “Is it so wrong not to spend every moment of my day study­ing?”

  “What will it be, Hank? Cleaning the fridge or saying good­bye to your girlfriend?”

  “Fine, I’ll do it!” he shouted. “Just go away.”

  “What’s going on?” Mom called, coming into the room. Even from where I was standing, I could see the dark circles under her eyes. I hadn’t seen her this tired since my cousin got sick last year and she’d spent three days and nights with her
sister at the hospital as his illness relentlessly made a mockery of all their prayers.

  Mom took one look at Hank’s face. “Helen, stop bothering your brother,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, adding, not unkindly, “You know he’s got to study.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to go practise piano instead,” Hank muttered, snatching up his music.

  “You’re very dedicated,” Mom said. “Your chances of winning the competition must be pretty good.”

  Hank smiled wanly. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he said, so softly that only I heard him.

  I’d wanted to practise too, but the rule was that Hank played first because of the stupid competition so that I didn’t take up any of his precious time. He played for over an hour, probably deliberately, to make me wait.

  At last, he finished.

  Kicking off my shoes, I pulled out “Winter” and then warmed up with scales, my fingers flying confidently across the octaves.

  “I’m good,” I told myself out loud. “I’m going to the Music Academy. I have to.”

  I remembered Madame Pandora’s waffling on about the heart, but as my fingers moved automatically in carefully marked time to the opening bars of my piece, my mind drifted­. Surely I had a chance to win the scholarship. Or maybe, if I played really well the next few weeks, Madame would change her mind and let me take part in the competition.

  In my mind I saw the packed hall and imagined a thunder of clapping as I crescendoed to my final chord. I bowed as the clapping continued. Suddenly, I looked around and realised that the clapping was Dad tapping on the door. His foot was also tapping, a tell tale sign that he was fuming.

  I sighed. Everyone seemed angry these days.

  My father was wearing the old shorts that he slept in and was barefoot. “Keep it down, Helen,” he whispered furiously. “You mother is trying to sleep.”

  “But Hank spent so long …” I didn’t notice anyone complaining while he was practising.

  Dad silenced me with a curt gesture that said, “Enough.”

  I shut my book with a snap, wishing I had the guts to answer him back. He turned away to go to bed, his broad shoulders slightly stooped as though his arms were still carrying an invisible load of bricks from the building site. Then he looked back and lifted his hand, smiling tiredly.

  “Good night, Helen.”

  I managed a half smile, but it wobbled angrily.

  “It’s not fair,” I complained to June the next afternoon, raising my voice above Felicity’s wailing.

  I was sitting in her bedroom, leaning back onto the massive continental pillow against her wall. Hank was home defrosting the fridge, so I had the early part of the afternoon free.

  June nodded, listening. Her room was not the way I would have thought; I’d imagined a frilled bed filled with massive teddies, presents from devoted past boyfriends, and jewellery cases overflowing with earrings and shiny bracelets. Instead, it was just a small, ordinary room, though nicer than mine.

  She had built-in cupboards across the whole wall instead of a rickety wardrobe with drawers that got stuck halfway. On the carefully polished stool beside her bed stood a framed picture of her sister’s wedding, with June inevitably beautiful in a sweeping bridesmaid’s gown. I wondered if Kean had ever seen her house and whether she had ever invited him in.

  “It must be tough on you,” she was saying, leaning over to pick up Felicity, who stopped crying, her eyelids closing blissfully as June held the fake milk bottle to her lips. Stupid doll.

  “I have to do so much stuff, and they never even seem to notice any of it. They just tell me to stop practising or to stop bugging Hank because His Highness is studying. They expect me to do more and more. It feels like I’m their servant.”

  “It’s really special that you do so much for them,” June said. “They’re lucky to have you for their daughter.”

  I hadn’t thought of it in that way, and I sat up, looking at June and feeling as if I’d seen myself for the first time.

  “You’re right,” I said, feeling guilty for being jealous of her. Instead, a warm, fuzzy feeling, like a hug of the teddy bear she didn’t have, was creeping into me. June was one of the few people who actually looked at you, right at you, as though she really­ saw and heard you when you talked. As though you mattered and you could tell her anything. I’d even told her my secret dream of being like Marilyn Monroe, and she hadn’t laughed.

  “I thought we should go to the library today instead of next week, before the other groups take all the good books,” June said.

  “I wish I could come,” I replied, “but I promised to make supper again.”

  “That’s okay,” she said rather too quickly, blushing. “Kean said he could meet me there.”

  I swallowed and a nauseous feeling poked me. June and I were supposed to go there together. I’d hoped Kean would come too, but not just the two of them. What might happen if they were left alone for hours in the library?

  “What about Felicity?” I asked desperately. “You can’t take her in there.”

  “I know,” said June, “and I can’t abandon her while my mom’s out.”

  I would have just left the doll in my room to scream, but of course June never would. We’d have to make another time to go to the library, I thought smugly, and this time I’d make sure I was there, firmly wedged between them.

  “Perhaps you could take Felicity home with you for a while?” June asked, interrupting my pleasant daydreams of Kean and me holding hands in the pregnancy section while she twiddled her thumbs, looking silly.

  In my mind I frantically raced through every excuse I could think of, but nothing sounded really convincing. I tried to hide the dislike in my eyes as I looked down at Felicity, sleeping smugly in June’s arms. The doll seemed to have sensed my antagonism because she opened her eyes and started bawling.

  “No problem,” I lied. It was going to be a fun afternoon.

  *

  Seven

  “YOUR BROTHER, I understand, is hoping to study medicine?” Madame Pandora said to me at the start of our lesson the next day.

  I yawned, nodding. Felicity had woken up every two hours last night, until I lost my temper and put her in the garage. If Mrs Smith thought lugging around a doll was going to make anyone besides June more responsible or a better future parent, she was delusional. Felicity was lying on my schoolbag now, mercifully sleeping, and looking rather dusty.

  “Hank’s wanted to be a doctor since he’s been little,” I said, unsure of how to reply.

  Madame Pandora sniffed, looking as if she disapproved of my answer. “Hm,” was all she said. “And you? What would you do with the money if you took part in the competition – and if, indeed, you won?”

  Hope flamed up that she’d relent and let me play. “I’d go to the Academy, like my brother,” I said. “Buy myself a cool phone. And impress my parents by fixing up the house.

  Oh, our Helen did all this, Dad would say to visitors, putting his hand on my head while he gestured at fresh paint and modern kitchen cupboards. She’s a real star, this girl.

  “And what else?” Madame Pandora asked, lifting her carefully pencilled brows so high that the tips disappeared behind her long tumbling black tresses.

  I shrugged.

  She sighed slightly and gestured to me to begin. I took out “Winter”, hoping she wouldn’t see how long I’d let my nails get when I started playing. I was trying to grow them like June’s. I thought maybe Kean liked long nails; perhaps that was the secret.

  “Stop!” Madame Pandora exclaimed after a few bars. She grabbed my fingers and inspected them, the inside of my hand towards her. For a crazy moment, I wondered if she was reading my palm.

  “What is this click, click, click?” she demanded. “Teen­agers! You are all the same.”

  “Sorry, Madame,” I muttered, hiding my nails.

  She tsk-tsked. “And listen, child, listen,” she declared dramatically, so loudly that probably t
he whole school was listening. “Your tempo is good, yes, I know it is good. But,” she started­ flinging off all her rings and waved me aside so she could play, “this is not alla marcia, like a procession of soldiers stomping in time to the bugle, like this … No, it is a sad piece, a cold piece, a winter of body and heart.”

  I saw my hopes of playing in the competition slipping away and nodded reluctantly. If that didn’t make my body and soul feel sad, I didn’t know what would. We managed to get through the rest of the piece without any further references to the heart and at the end Madame nodded slightly and said, “Yes, it is not winter, but perhaps it is almost autumn. Perhaps.”

  That was the most praise I was going to get from her today, I thought, as I packed my books and slung Felicity sourly over one shoulder.

  “Helen,” Madame Pandora said as I rose to go, “please tell your brother he has no lessons tomorrow afternoon. I have another urgent appointment.”

  After music I had to do some shopping for Mom: bulk buying, so I was staggering along, weighed down unevenly by half-frozen blocks of butter that were threatening to melt and congeal in little pools by the time I got home.

  I headed to Maths Magicians to pass Madame’s message on but on the way I saw Caryn. She wasn’t cycling today but driving her mom’s BMW. As she saw me, she stopped and pushed open the passenger door.

  “You look like you need a lift,” she called.

  I nodded gratefully. “I have to give Hank a message. No music lessons tomorrow,” I said.

  “Sure, I’ll tell him,” she replied cheerfully. Her copper-coloured fringe kept falling into her eyes and she shook her face like an Irish setter coming out of the water. It made her hair stand up spiky, but somehow it looked cool. Maybe having a nephew who looked like an orangutan wouldn’t be so bad … Or maybe their kids would turn out like coppery setters instead.