Sisters

by Prue Leith

  He shut the door and stood looking through the netting at her. Then he slid out of the toweling dressing gown, pulled the mosquito net aside and pushed her back on the bed. He fucked her hard and fast, missionary style. Her first thought was that it was unfair, he was skipping the loving rituals of mutual arousal. But then suddenly she found his grabbing urgency a turn-on, and she was up there with him. His roughness excited her. And when he put his big hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out and she bit his hand and struggled, it was fantastic.

  But in ten minutes he was gone, leaving her feeling bereft. And with the faint suspicion that she’d been used, not because he loved her, but because she’d asked for it.

  *

  The next evening Carrie sat on her verandah watching the soup-plate sun setting between the thorn trees and feeling an old melancholy, familiar since childhood, the sadness of evening. In the east the purple wash of dusk was taking over, the colors deepening, then merging. What was she doing here, lusting after her sister’s husband, making a fool of herself in front of Karl?

  But as she thought about it, her will hardened. She wanted Eduardo, and she hardly cared about Poppy. She wanted Eduardo to leave Poppy and marry her. She knew Poppy bored Eduardo. Look at him now, en famille. He was so middle-aged. In London he’d dropped twenty years when he was with her. He’d laughed more, lived more.

  And Poppy had her career. And it wasn’t as if Eduardo would desert her. Of course they would all stay friends. They’d be very civilized and grown-up about it. And Poppy would keep the children.

  Children. The word slid into Carrie’s heart like a thief. Carrie bent over double, hugging her stomach and rocking to and fro on the wicker chair. She wanted children too. Eduardo’s children. Eduardo had to leave Poppy and she and Eduardo had to start a family.

  And it had to be soon. She was 33, and she could not bear being alone any longer.

  Carrie straightened up, her eyes dark and desperate. She would confront Poppy. Tell her. Eduardo wasn’t going to force the issue, so she’d do it. She couldn’t go on like this, pretending to be just the best friend and loving sister.

  She stood up abruptly and walked swiftly toward the old house. The bar was on the old stoep, where as children she and Poppy had slept on hot nights. As she climbed the old red steps she had a sudden longing to be a child again, interested only in animals and climbing things.

  She’d have a couple of drinks. Tomorrow she’d tell Eduardo what they had to do.

  *

  But in the morning, as always, her courage failed her. She didn’t dare force Eduardo to choose. What if he chose Poppy?

  The next five days were not good. Carrie felt she was losing it. She got four e-mails from American Gourmet; desperate for copy she had not delivered. Never mind not delivered: she hadn’t written a word, if they but knew. And she cocked up big time with the photo-shoot for Tatler. The picture editor, photographer and his assistant arrived at 10 a.m. to find Carrie still asleep, and nothing done in the way of preparation. She’d had to scramble round, her head thick from last night, getting the lapa fire going and borrowing some wide-eyed children from the staff compound. She’d had to bribe them to forgo their trainers and Nike tee shirts and revert to ragged shorts or a belt of beads.

  Thank God for the stuff she’d bought at the craft market. The pots and wooden bowls, salad servers with beaded handles, baskets and napkins did wonders. And her ability to work fast, producing mielie bread in cast-iron pots, bread dough twisted round sticks, and perfectly charred kebabs of eland, sweet potato and aubergine impressed the Tatler crew. But her triumph was a whole fish in a salt-crust, baked in hot sand. The fact that the fish was a mummified one, borrowed from its glass case above the bar, delighted the photographer, who lit it and photographed it with dedication.

  “What is it anyway?” asked Amy, the assistant. “A trout?”

  “God knows,” replied Carrie. “Does anyone else?” No one did. She laughed, eyes alight. “Hope someone does. And that it’s edible. I’ve got to write the recipe to go with the pic.”

  That night Carrie got seriously drunk. It was, she knew, the relief at having busked through the day, got the pictures done and won over the picture editor.

  She deliberately ordered another bottle of wine because Eduardo said they did not need one. Fuck it, she thought, why should I care? His disapproval was upsetting, and the way Karl said nothing, but watched her, made her want to scream.

  The following morning Carrie was again hungover and stayed in her rondavel, working on the overdue recipes on her laptop. By midafternoon the power it took was too much for the solar panel on her roof and the computer died. Carrie crawled into bed. Maybe, she thought, Eduardo’ll come looking for me. But he didn’t. No one did.

  In the evening Karl sang western ballads to his guitar, and the mood was gentle and soft. Poppy sat between Eduardo’s knees at the campfire, with Angelina between her own. What do they think they are, she thought, Russian dolls?

  Some of the rangers joined them after supper and sang along. Karl’s repertoire was impressive. His tenor voice had a mellow, seductive timbre. He sang country and western, then sea shanties, then old English folk songs.

  And then he got up and walked toward the African compound, carrying his guitar. Carrie thought he must be going for a pee in the bush, but then she heard voices in Shangaan, and presently he returned with Maisie, two of the lodge staff, and two trackers. The black staff looked pleased, but shy. Karl insisted they sit on the heavy logs that served for benches round the fire, and passed them some beers. Then he struck a few chords, and said, “This is a Tsonga ballad. It’s about drought and rain.” He sang the first verses on his own, his voice deep and his accent, to Carrie, indistinguishable from native Tsonga. After a while the black Africans joined in, their voices haunting and mellow. Carrie shut her eyes, letting that rhythmical rich African sound thrum through her like warm honey.

  Then suddenly they were singing a lullaby. A Shangaan lullaby Maisie had sung to them as children. Carrie had not thought of it, or heard a note of it, for nearly thirty years, but suddenly she could smell the clean starch of Maisie’s cotton apron, breathe in the warm brown smell of safety and love. She burst into tears, a loud hiccupping sob breaking into the gentle melody.

  The singers faltered, trailing. But Karl lifted his voice and kept singing, and the others rejoined him. Carrie stood up hurriedly, one hand over her face. Poppy started to struggle up, but Carrie said, almost viciously, “No, don’t move.” She stumbled up the stone steps, and ran down the walkway to her rondavel.

  When she got there the light would not work—no more power until the solar panel got some sunlight—and for some reason this seemed the ultimate tragedy, an excuse to fling herself into the wicker chair by the door and weep in earnest.

  After ten minutes she stopped. She was exhausted, but the sensation was not unpleasant. The cold evening air on her face was soothing, and there was something satisfactory about her sore, dry throat. She wiped her face on her sleeve and tilted her head back against the wall, eyes closed.

  “There, there, Miss Carrie, don’t you fret now.” It was Maisie, holding a glass of hot milk, laced with honey.

  She said, “You ’member when you and Miss Poppy was sick, your mama she make me give you hot milk and honey. Good for sleeping with no worries.”

  Carrie stood up and hugged her, touched. “Thanks, Maisie,” she said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  “You not happy in your skin, Miss Carrie. Wanting Poppy’s husband not good. Makes you sick. I go now.”

  She handed Carrie the milk and was gone; her kerchiefed head held proudly, fat buttocks rolling. Carrie looked after her in astonishment.

  God almighty, thought Carrie, does the whole camp know? She carried the drink through to the bathroom, feeling her way along the walls with her free hand. When she got there she
tipped out a good inch of the milk, felt for her half jack of whisky and used it to refill her glass. Then she carried it carefully to bed, climbed in and drank it in the dark, waiting for the blessed blanket of anesthesia.

  *

  The next day Carrie set out to provoke Eduardo by flirting with Karl.

  Karl was a challenge. Even when she was a teenager, and they had been close, she’d never been able to dent his big-brother stance.

  Once, when she was 14 and home from school, she and Poppy and a bunch of boys had gone to the local cinema to see the new Bond movie. They were sitting toward the back when Poppy reached over the two boys between them and hissed, “Carrie. Carrie. That’s Karl in front, isn’t it? Look! With a girl! Who is it?”

  “Where? What?” whispered Carrie.

  Poppy half stood up and leaned toward Carrie, pointing across her to a couple sitting close together, four rows in front.

  “Over there. The two lovebirds. Look, he’s kissing her!”

  “Sshh!” came from behind, and Poppy muttered “Sorry” and sat down. She faced forward again and was soon absorbed by the film.

  But Carrie had followed Poppy’s pointing hand and seen Karl pull the girl toward him and kiss her. Then she’d put her head on his shoulder, and snuggled into him.

  Carrie felt her face on fire. She couldn’t bear it. She wanted to shout at Karl, furious. And for the rest of the movie she’d watched them, feeling progressively less angry and more miserable.

  She’d never said anything, of course. And now she didn’t care about Karl at all. He was just a friend. But it would be satisfying to topple him from his cool high horse. And he was very attractive. A flirtation? Why not? A holiday affair would be good for everyone. It would restore her confidence, and make Eduardo realize he couldn’t have it all his own way. And besides, Karl must want a bit of sex. He lived on his own, with only, she thought, the odd randy tourist to satisfy.

  As he was climbing into the pick-up, she ran up to him.

  “Karl! Stop. I want to come. Where are you going?”

  “Hazy View. To collect some fencing. But I can get you anything. What do you need?”

  She put her arm up to act as a sunshield and squinted at him from under it. “No. I just want the ride. Small-town childhood memories. Is the ice-cream parlor still there? You can buy me an ice-cream.”

  At that moment, Nelson, one of the trackers, arrived.

  “Carrie, I’m sorry,” said Karl. “I’m giving Nelson a lift into town.”

  “Well, he can go in the back, can’t he?”

  Nelson immediately went round to the back of the bakkie to drop the tailgate and climb in. But Karl stopped him.

  “No, Nelson. The back is full of cement dust. And you’re in your best gear. You will sit in the front. If Carrie wants to come, she can get dusty.”

  Nelson looked uncomfortable. But Karl clapped him on the shoulder, and opened the passenger door. “Nelson. Get in. I insist. Carrie is probably not coming anyway.” Nelson climbed in and Karl shut the door. He walked round to the back of the truck and said, his voice low, “Carrie. This is the new South Africa. You do not order black people into the back of trucks like sheepdogs. Now, are you game for a ride in cement dust? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Carrie smarted at the tick-off. And she was ashamed at her assumption that she took precedence over Nelson. She said, “Sure I’m game.”

  Karl said, “Just a minute” and disappeared behind the lodge. When he returned he was carrying some sacking and an old cot-mattress under one arm and shepherding Angelina by the other. Angelina was clutching two old cushions. He said, “As it’s to be an ice-cream outing I’ve invited young Angelina to the party.”

  He spread the sacking on the floor of the truck, and laid the mattress on it. Then he dropped the tailgate and lifted the excited Angelina into the back. He waited for Carrie to climb in, and slammed the gate shut, fixing the bolts in place.

  He smiled at Carrie. “Don’t stand up. And hang on to the sides.” Carrie smiled back, acknowledging round one to him. He’d succeeded in putting both Nelson and Angelina between them. But he’d not get away that easily.

  It was fun but uncomfortable as they bucketed about in the back. But once they got off the potholed and corrugated dirt roads and onto the tarmac, it was easier, and Carrie relaxed. She liked the combination of wind and sun, and the coziness of her niece tucked between her knees, the cushions at her back. Carrie watched the dun-colored grass and the marula trees flash by in the foreground and, far away, the blue of the mountains intensifying as the mountains receded. She counted six matching ranges, in wavy steps to the horizon. Above that, limitless faded blue.

  Little kids, sometimes as young as two or three, walked in groups along the edge of the road. Older children carried smaller ones piggyback, and they all waved.

  I love this country, she thought. Maybe one day I’ll live here again. When I’ve calmed down. When I’m grown up and conservative, like Poppy.

  Once they got behind a bakkie belching black diesel smoke, and she banged on the cab window to signal to Karl that they were choking in the fumes. He gave a thumbs-up and accelerated fast past the pick-up. They dropped Nelson at the coach stop—he was catching a bus to visit his parents fifty miles away. Carrie and Angelina squeezed in beside Karl and they collected the roll of wire fencing, did a few errands in the high street, then swung in to the forecourt of the ice-cream parlor.

  The shop was on a corner, in what had once been a house, with a garden to the side. The owners had put out a few tables, children’s swings and a trampoline.

  They carried their double-headed ice-cream cones to the garden, intending to sit at a table. But the well-watered kikuya lawn drew Carrie like a magnet. She kicked her flip-flops off and pushed her toes into the springy turf, feeling the coarse runners scratching the soles of her feet. She sat down on the sloping bank, and the others joined her.

  When they’d finished their ice-creams, Angelina went to play on the trampoline, and Carrie lay back on the grass, eyes shut against the sun, luxuriating in the warmth of it. She liked the thought that her long brown legs stretching from the shortest of shorts and the exposed slice of belly under her crop-top might be a turn-on for Karl. If he’s looking, that is. She opened her eyes a crack, and saw that he was sitting up, arms between his knees, watching Angelina.

  Carrie shut her eyes again and said, “Karl, do you like pierced belly buttons? Or do you think I’m too old for one?” She spoke lazily, just making casual conversation, and without looking at him. That way she could not be accused of a come-on. If he did not reply, she could pretend she’d been talking to herself. But she knew the question would force him to look at her stomach, which she now stroked lightly with one hand.

  She could hear him moving next to her, and her mind raced to the idea that he would put his hand on hers, slip his fingers from her belly into her shorts, or up to her tits. She wriggled down the bank a little and stretched like a cat. Maybe the first signal she’d get was his head blocking out the sun as he leaned over to kiss her mouth. Sleepily, she said, “This sun is bliss, isn’t it?”

  But Karl did not touch her. She realized as soon as he spoke that, far from lying back, or rolling toward her, he’d stood up. Her eyes shot open as he said, “Carrie, you are completely beautiful, sexy, desirable, everything you want to be.” He spoke mildly, but his voice had an emotional timbre to it. She knew at once this was going to be awful. “But you are a raving nymphet. Have you no conscience?”

  Carrie sat up, her face indignant. “What do you mean? . . .”

  He interrupted her, his voice hardening. “Don’t you give Poppy, the sweetest woman in the world, a thought? She’s your sister, for God’s sake.”

  “How dare you . . .”

  He leaned down and grabbed her wrist. “Get up,” he said. “I dare because I’m an old family fr
iend. Do you think I don’t know what you’re game is? The only reason I’m getting the come-on is to make Eduardo jealous. And the only reason you want Eduardo, is because he belongs to your sister.”

  Karl hauled her to her feet and took her roughly by the shoulders. For a second, a split second, Carrie thought he was going to shake her, or slap her. His fingers dug into her shoulders as he glared at her.

  Carrie wanted to shout at him that it was none of his bloody business, but her mouth opened and closed without a word. Then his shoulders dropped and fingers relaxed. He held her gaze as he sighed and said, “You did the same when you were kids. Anything she had, you had to have one too, or have hers. Anything you had, stayed yours.”

  He let her go, and turned away. Carrie started to protest, then felt her composure go, and she stopped. Karl said, “It’s not going to work this time, Carrie. Eduardo won’t leave Poppy. So give it up now.” And he walked off to collect Angelina from the trampoline.

  Chapter 15

  Two days after their holiday, with the English summer temperatures hotter than Africa, Poppy was in the Acton Community Hall, rehearsing.

  She stuck her chin up, proud and taunting, and sang, “I am teaching some tricks to a monkey: he is learning to do what I say.” She jerked her head like a flamenco dancer at Domenico, flashing contempt.

  “Fine, Poppy. Just right.” The director turned from the group of actors on the stage and lifted his voice to encompass the rest of the company. “OK, everyone. That’s it for tonight and thank you. Tomorrow’s call is for 10 a.m. 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow. please.”

  Poppy walked down the few wooden steps to the gray plastic chairs clustered a few yards in front of the stage. Scrambling under the bags and scripts, she extracted her holdall and made for the door. As Filumena she could have gone on provoking Domenico all night, even in this heat. As Poppy she was suddenly tired to the bone.

  “How about a quick one, Poppy?” asked Ramon, her co-star.