Homing
Page 17
Deciding, she made herself stand, raising her hand to wave. But in that moment he opened the door and got in; the motor turned immediately and the car was rolling forward. She could see the back of the old woman’s head, briefly silver as the car turned out into the lane, before the reflection of the sunset blanked the rear windscreen. The Toyota headed out into the clear evening.
Lynn sat in the back of the rusted car and watched the sky turn navy and the stars come out. She loved the way the spaces between the stars had no texture, softer than water; they were pure depth. She sat in the hollow the old lady had worn into the seat, ankles crossed in the space where the handbrake used to be. She sipped Coke; it helped with the nausea.
She’d been here three days and her head felt clear. While there’d been a few bursts of warm rain, the chemical storm had not progressed further down the highway. It seemed the pollution had created its own weather system over the mountain, a knot of ugly cloud. She was washed up on the edge of it, resting her oil-clogged wings on a quiet shore.
Sooner or later, she was certain, rescue would come. The ambulances with flashing lights, the men in luminous vests with equipment and supplies. Or maybe just a stream of people driving back home. But if that took too long, then there was always the black bicycle that she’d found leaned up against the petrol pump. The woman’s grandson must have ridden here, with the petrol can, from some place not too far down the road. It was an old postman’s bike, heavy but hardy, and she felt sure that if he had cycled the distance, so could she. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. And when this was all over, she was definitely going to go on a proper detox. Give up all junk food, alcohol. Some time soon.
Lynn snapped open a packet of salt-’n’-vinegar chips. Behind her, the last of the sunset lingered, poison violet and puce, but she didn’t turn to look. She wanted to face clear skies, sweet-smelling veld. If she closed her eyes, she might hear a frog, just one, starting its evening song beyond the fence.
Stories in Homing originally appeared in the following publications:
“Work in Progress”: Work In Progress and Other Stories: the Caine Prize for African Writing 2009, Jacana / New Internationalist, Cape Town / London, 2009.
“The Unknown Soldier”: Viva Life, Viva Love, Eulitz Productions, Pretoria, 2007.
“The Leopard Trap”: Carrying the Universe, Eulitz Productions, Pretoria, 2007.
“Tremble”: Open: An Erotic Anthology by South African Women Writers, Oshun Books, Cape Town, 2008.
“The Boulder”: Jambula Tree and Other Stories: the Caine Prize for African Writing 8th Annual Collection, Jacana / New Internationalist, Cape Town / London, 2008.
“Porcelain”: 180 Degrees, Oshun Books, Cape Town, 2005.
“Falling”: Willesden Herald: New Short Stories 4, pretend genius, London, 2010.
“Forensic”: Dinaane: Short Stories by South African Women, Telegram Books, London, 2007.
“Burning Buildings”: S.A. Cosmopolitan, December 1996.
“Star”: Elf: Fußballgeschichten aus Südafrika, ed. Manfred Loimeier, Peter Hammer Verlag, Wuppertal, 2010.
“Bad Places”: New Contrast, December 2003.
“The Good Daughter”: South African Short Stories since 1994, Oxford University Press, Cape Town, 2006.
“Promenade”: Touch, Zebra Press, Cape Town, 2009.
“Poison”: African Pens: New Writing from Southern Africa, Spearhead Press / New Africa Books, Cape Town, 2007.
All the stories have been re-edited to a greater or lesser degree for this collection.
A great many people have helped me over the years in which these stories were written. There is not enough space to mention every publisher, editor, designer, reader and friend who made Homing better, but I am very grateful to you all.
I must thank particularly: my marvellous agent, Isobel Dixon; publisher Frederik de Jager, who has made me feel so welcome at Random House Struik; superb editor Martha Evans; Michiel Botha, for the beautiful cover; William Dicey, for his immaculate page design; publicist Kim Rudman; and the crack team at Umuzi: Fourie Botha and Fahiema Hallam.
I am also indebted to: Turid Wingartz, Eva Papastratis and all at Blake Friedmann Literary, TV and Film Agency; Ben Williams and my fellow bloggers at Book SA (http://book.co.za); Mervyn Sloman and everyone at the Book Lounge in Cape Town; Ivan Vladislavic´; JM Coetzee; Annari van der Merwe; Robert Plummer; Stephen Watson; Nick and Helen Elam and the Caine Prize for African Writing; South African PEN, especially Anthony and Dolores Fleischer and Deborah Horn-Botha; co-Corpsers Diane Awerbuck, Lauren Beukes and Mary Watson; Jean-Baptiste Joly and the staff and fellows of the Akademie Schloss Solitude; Indra Wussow and the kunst: raum Sylt Quelle Foundation; Dan Raymond-Barker of New Internationalist; Stephen Moran of the Willesden Herald; and Simon Goudie and Simon Lewin for their generous hospitality.
Special love and thanks to:
Peter Colenso
Olivia Rose-Innes
Andrew Rose-Innes, Rebecca Holmes, and Maxwell and Benjamin Rose-Innes
and of course my mother, Ann Rose-Innes