Sisters

by Prue Leith

  She shook her head slightly as if to clear it. Why am I obsessing like this? Carrie saved Lorato. I must remember that.

  But then the thought of Carrie again twisted in her gut. Please God, Eduardo is not seeing Carrie. I know he’s not. But is he faithful? Where is he this minute? Where is he every night I’m at the theater?

  For the thousandth time repeated images of Eduardo making love to Carrie slammed into her mind. It was always the same scenario: Eduardo’s muscled back with Carrie’s long slim legs wrapped round him, her thighs pressed to his sides, her head thrown back, her mouth open.

  Poppy stood up with a jerk and went to the basin for a glass of water. She filled the glass and drank it in one breath. She wiped her face on the towel, rubbing out the vision.

  The grown-up thing would be to put it all behind her. Move on. Look forward. Let things mend. But oh, how could she?

  Eduardo, who had made such a passionate speech of love and commitment two weeks ago, was now, she thought, indifferent. It was as if he’d said his penance and now expected to be forgiven, everything back to before. But she was ratty and quick-tempered, and kept weeping, which irritated him, though he tried to hide it. They had hardly ever quarreled before and now they did it all the time. And the oddest thing was the way she missed Carrie. How can I hate my sister and miss her too?

  Her mobile’s ring jerked her back to the present and she dived under the dressing table for her handbag.

  “Poppy, is that you? It’s Karl. I’m in London.”

  “Karl, how wonderful.” Poppy straightened up, looking at her half-made-up, desperate face in the mirror. “Where are you? Is everything OK?”

  “Ja, everything’s good. Very busy. Kaia Moya’s booked solid through to April. Though God knows why tourists want to be in Mpumalanga in summer.”

  Poppy listened to the soft South African voice. Usually she disliked the flat vowels and slack-jawed diction of her childhood, but somehow the accent suited Karl.

  She said, “Maybe they’re escaping the European winter?”

  “Ja, and into temperatures in the nineties, and a good chance of malaria. And they can’t see the game because the grass is long and the leaves are out. They’re nuts.” He chuckled and Poppy had a mental picture of his worn, tanned face, clean white teeth with a front one chipped. “And thank God for that, since it pays my wages.”

  Karl explained he was in the UK to attend a trade exhibition. Kaia Moya and several other game lodges were being sponsored by the South African Tourist Board to promote safari holidays.

  While he was talking, Poppy began to worry that he would mention Carrie. He’d expect to see them together. Sure enough, he said, “I thought I’d give Carrie a ring, and maybe we could visit you in the country on Sunday. If you’ll be there. Will you?”

  Poppy hesitated for a second. It would be so good to see him. But she knew Eduardo would not want Carrie at Manor Farm. And she didn’t either. And she could not face the inevitable exposure of their sorry story.

  She stalled “Have you seen her?”

  “No,” he said, “I only got in this morning, and I have to be at the exhibition all day. But I’ll ring her now. Maybe if the weekend is no good, we could come to your play.”

  “Carrie’s seen it,” Poppy said quickly. “I don’t think . . . But . . . but you must come. We could have supper afterward.”

  “Poppy, is something wrong? Maybe this is a bad time?”

  “No, no. Nothing’s wrong. Why?” Poppy watched herself smiling determinedly into the telephone. Lousy performance, she thought.

  “You sound so formal. Sort of tight.”

  She gave an unconvincing little laugh. “Must have caught it from the English.” Then she thought. Oh, the hell with it. We’ve got to see Carrie again sometime. “Sunday would be lovely. Come for lunch.”

  *

  Eduardo wasn’t pleased and breakfast on Sunday was a silent affair. Poppy was tired from yesterday’s two performances and the late-night drive home, and Eduardo’s polite unfriendliness hurt. It was a relief when Tom had a tantrum over which cup he’d drink from, and Eduardo picked up his coffee cup and the Observer and walked out.

  And then, two hours later when Poppy asked Guillia if she’d dress the salad, Guillia had declared she would not cook for a putana, lay the table for a putana, sit down with a putana. Her back ramrod stiff, she’d set off for the laundry room, spray-starch in hand.

  Poppy, shaken, went in search of Eduardo. He was on the terrace, now reading the Sunday Times. “Eduardo, Guillia says she won’t join us if Carrie is here. She says she’s a whore. You’ve got to talk to her.”

  Eduardo looked up from the paper. “Why? Joining us is not compulsory, is it?”

  Poppy made an effort to keep her voice neutral and light and said, “If I can be civil to my sister, surely she can?”

  Eduardo turned his handsome face squarely to her, and Poppy knew they were in for another quarrel. He said, “That’s probably because you blame me for what happened, while my mother blames Carrie.”

  Poppy, already close to tears from the argument with Guillia, felt a wave of misery. She wanted to say, As it happens, I blame myself. Instead she said, “Well, whatever her reasons, if she’s going to go on living with us, she’ll have to put up with who comes to lunch.”

  Eduardo laid the paper aside and stood up. “But she needn’t have lunch with them, need she? I’ve half a mind to bugger off myself.”

  It was so unlike him to swear, Poppy was taken aback. It was as if he’d cheated, taken an unfair advantage. She said, her voice cool, “Oh, and why is that?”

  “Because, to tell you the truth,” Eduardo replied, “I’m with Guillia on this. It is all very noble of you to forgive us, Poppy, but being forgiven is hard work. Like living in a penitentiary. It will be worse with Carrie around. Much better for us all if she stayed away.”

  As he spoke, Poppy’s emotions flared and faded in quick succession. Anger that he should side with his mother, indignation at his accusing her of piety, remorse that she’d made him feel criminal. But finally outrage at his easy sacrifice of Carrie.

  The color flooded her face as she replied, “God, Eduardo, your selfishness takes my breath away. Carrie is to be banned because it might make you uncomfortable!”

  Eduardo made for the terrace steps. “I’ll be in the pub. Back at 1:30.” But Poppy was too quick for him. She blocked his path and said, “Oh no, Eduardo. You can’t just bugger off, as you put it. Why should the children lose their aunt, and why should I lose my sister, just so you needn’t be reminded of rumpy pumpy in her bed?”

  He still refused to answer, just put his hands on her shoulders to move her out of the way, then walked down the steps in the direction of the drive.

  Am I going mad? thought Poppy. One day I’m determined never to see Carrie again, the next I’m pleading her cause with Eduardo.

  *

  Karl was driving. He was such an unreconstructed male chauvinist he’d just assumed he should, even though it was Carrie’s car. But she didn’t mind. Just as long as he didn’t suss the trouble between her and the Santolinis. She couldn’t bear that he’d seen it coming, warned her that Eduardo wouldn’t leave his comfortable nest. She’d die if he knew.

  Carrie was silent as they sped along the M40. The obvious friendliness of Karl’s hug that morning, the pleasure of being with someone who accepted her—even liked her—for what she was (or in spite of what she was?) was so good.

  Her thoughts drifted from present upheavals to past ones, long ago in Mpumalanga. Things were at their worst when she was about 14. Her father thought she was useless, only interested in pop music and fashion, and that had made her more determined to play her tapes at maximum volume, paint her toenails blood red and dye her hair. She remembered one tiny scene like yesterday:

  Her father had said, his voice carefully
patient, “Carrie, Surely you know who Joshua Nkomo is?”

  But she didn’t and she had to shake her head. He turned to Poppy, his eyebrows questioning. Poppy said, “He’s the leader of the Zim opposition party, Zapu, and he was defeated and out-maneuvered by Mugabe and his Zanu party.”

  Her father nodded, then smiled at Carrie and said, “You’ll be telling me next you don’t know who Mugabe is.”

  She’d felt her face on fire with humiliation and anger. It was true she was useless at history and politics and stuff. But she wasn’t a complete dumb-wit. He obviously thought she was too thick to join in a conversation. Also her sister’s neat recitation maddened her. Poppy was always using big words like outmaneuvered.

  Carrie fired back, “Maybe if you occasionally talked to me like you talk to Poppy I would know something about politics.” She’d marched out of the room and slammed the door.

  She crossed the stoep and walked fast across the lawn to the clump of trees on the far side of the drive. Their childhood swing was still there, suspended from the gum tree, like an old friend waiting. Its blue nylon rope was pale with age, the rubber tire at the end of it full of fallen leaves. Holding the rope, she stepped through the hole in the middle and sat on the hard inner rim. She walked back a few paces, until she was on tiptoe. Then, with an angry jerk she threw herself back, lifting her feet from the ground, and the swing went into ponderous action. As it swung, Carrie kept her eyes wide open, staring at the leaves above. She was not going to cry. She gave the ground the occasional kick to keep up the momentum.

  But keeping the swing going required effort, and after a while Carrie let it slow down and sourly considered her plight. The fact was she was sick of her family.

  A shaft of loyalty interfered with this thought. Mum was all right, she supposed, even if she did always back Dad up, right or wrong. But her vagueness and forgetfulness drove her mad. Sometimes she looked at you as if you were a surprise, someone else’s daughter who’d just walked in. But there was no meanness in her. She just didn’t count.

  But her sister and her dad were truly horrible. Poppy was such a goody-goody: top marks at school, nose forever in a book, getting the part of Juliet in the school play when Carrie was obviously prettier. Whoever heard of a dumpy Juliet with glasses, for God’s sake?

  And her dad would not leave her alone. He never stopped. Nag, nag, nag, like some old woman. “Pick up you trainers,” “Get your hair out of your eyes” “Don’t you ever read a book?” “Turn that noise off.” On and on.

  He upset her a lot, her Dad. Not because he disliked her music, her clumpy shoes, or her watching TV soaps. Those things were normal, what grown-ups did. They were meant to disapprove of everything you liked. But her father seemed to disapprove of her. Dislike her. Like now. Why had he been telling Poppy the story of why they’d had to leave Zimbabwe when they were little, and abandon their farm? Why couldn’t he tell her, or both of them? She’d only interrupted to ask who Joshua Nkomo was to get into the conversation, and he’d just squashed her flat.

  Poppy couldn’t do a thing wrong, and she, Carrie, couldn’t do a thing right. He’d talk to Poppy about things she liked, like plays, which was a joke since they only ever got to the local pantomime, in Afrikaans. Dad thought plays were art, or literature. Carrie liked films, but they didn’t qualify. He’d say, “Photography isn’t an art. It’s just aiming a machine at something and going click.”

  She knew he was wrong. But she couldn’t win an argument. She’d get in a muddle and end up crying. And then she’d be mad at herself. And at Poppy. Last time she and Dad had this silly argument about movies they had it at least once a week—she’d shouted,

  “Poppy, you are on my side. I know you are. Why didn’t you help me?”

  Poppy had said, “Because there’s no point. Dad’s not going to change his mind. So let it go.” She tried to put her arm round Carrie, but Carrie spun away.

  “But that’s so dishonest. You like pop music, but when Dad says it’s nothing but thump thump thump and noise, you never say a word.”

  Poppy said, in that placid, reasonable voice that drove Carrie mad, “Because I don’t mind what Dad thinks. He’s old. Anyway, why should Dad agree with us? People can love each other without agreeing about everything.”

  “No they can’t,” Carrie had yelled.

  Carrie turned the swing round in circles, winding it up like a top. Then let it go and trailed her sneakers in the dirt as it unwound itself, spinning her round.

  She saw Karl when he was halfway across the lawn. She pretended she hadn’t though. He sat down on the grass beside her and pushed the swing with the toe of his veldskoen.

  “Don’t,” she said, looking away, her mouth grim.

  “What’s up, cookie?” he said, catching hold of her foot to steady the swinging tire.

  The kindness in his voice undid her and she bit the inside of her lip to stop her mouth wobbling. She said, “Oh everything.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her slightly, inviting her to go on. She blurted out, “I hate it here. We are in the middle of nowhere. And Dad goes on as if the sky’s fallen in because I had my ears pierced without his bloody permission. And Mum won’t stand up for me although I know she thinks pierced ears are fine. And of course Poppy is some sort of bloody saint. She wouldn’t dream . . .”

  Karl interrupted, sharply, “Carrie. Don’t swear. Just tell me.”

  She glanced at him, then pulled in a shaky breath and said, “Sorry,” Her eyes filled with tears and she burst out, “Poppy’s Dad’s favorite. Anyone can see that.”

  He didn’t protest as she’d expected. He seemed to consider the idea. He said, “Maybe. But things change. When I first came here, and you were little—how old? 9? 10?—you were his favorite.”

  Carrie stared at the ground, reluctant to consider this. But it was true it had been different then. On the old farm, in Zimbabwe, she’d gone everywhere with Dad. She’d ride next to him in the hot cab of the pick-up if they were going to town, and next to him in the open jeep if they were going through the bush. If she was barefoot and there were thorns, he’d carry her on his shoulders. She knew he liked her along.

  And even when they came to Kaia Moya, he’d spent more time with her than with Poppy. He’d taught her to ride and to shoot, and to love the bush. Poppy mostly stayed at home with Mum, so Carrie had got used to their father being more hers than her sister’s. But she still wasn’t ready for Karl’s next question.

  “Why shouldn’t fathers have favorites anyway?”

  The thought shocked her. “Because they are not meant to. They should love all their children the same.” She could feel her eyes prick at the soppiness of her words.

  “Who said anything about love? You can love someone who drives you mad just as much as someone you get on with. You love your Dad, don’t you?” He peered up at her face, ducking his head to look under the tangle of hair, and ended, “And he drives you ballistic.”

  Now, nearly ten years later, Carrie felt as childishly misunderstood as she had then.

  Karl changed down as he swung the car off the motorway. He said, “You are very quiet, Carrie. Heavy night last night!?”

  “No, as it happens,” replied Carrie, sounding frostier than she’d meant to. “Why does everyone assume all I’m good for is parties?”

  “Whoa, whoa, Carrie! What have I said?” laughed Karl.

  “Sorry. It’s just that I was rerunning childhood quarrels with Dad. And resenting all over again that Poppy was cleverer than me. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

  Karl glanced across at her and grinned.

  “Yup. Especially as you had a pretty perfect childhood, and you’re still the best of friends.”

  Best friends, thought Carrie. Oh, I wish.

  Chapter 20

  Karl and Carrie came round the side of the house to find the Santolinis on the garden terra
ce, Eduardo cursing as clouds of barbecue smoke enveloped him, Poppy whacking a cloth-wrapped bundle with a rolling pin on the terrace steps.

  “What on earth are you doing, Popps?” said Karl, hugging her.

  “Crushing ice for mint juleps,” she said. “Allows one to drink whisky in the middle of the day without a conscience.”

  Karl was in khaki shorts, a bush shirt and trainers with a small backpack, doing duty as overnight bag, slung over one shoulder. Carrie wore a loose linen dress of pale peach, slit-eyed dark glasses and white espadrilles.

  From now on, thought Poppy, looking at Carrie’s flawless skin and full unmade-up mouth, I’ll always notice Carrie’s beauty. But she said, “This is October in England, Karl, not summer in the bush. You’ll freeze.”

  Karl laughed. “I’m fine. I’ve been wearing trousers and jacket—even a tie, would you believe—all week and I couldn’t stand another day of it.” He looked across the paddocks down to the river, and to the smiling landscape beyond. “God, Eduardo. How can you bear to ever go back to London?”

  Carrie put a basket of yellow figs on the terrace table, and Karl produced three furry toys for the children. There was a lurid green frog, a mustard yellow lion and a striped zebra, all with magnets in their feet.

  They were a great ice-breaker. As the children contorted the floppy creatures into every position, glued them to a drainpipe and made them link arms or ride each other by dint of their magnetic feet, Carrie could Ooh and Ah about the garden, and Poppy could Ooh and Ah about the figs and toys.

  Eduardo and Karl walked, drinks in hand, down to the river with the children dancing around them. Carrie did not want to go. She didn’t want to retrace the route she’d run down to save Lorato and stumbled up again with the ambulance man. She knew that Eduardo would tell Karl about Lorato’s near drowning, and she didn’t want to feel his disapproval.