The Peculiars

by Jen Thorpe

  ‘It’s too soon to make jokes about my date. Plus, you haven’t disappointed anyone yet.’

  Nazma squeezed her mother’s hand and Abigail pretended to be uncomfortable, pushing her away. Nazma walked to the train beaming, and it was only when it stopped at Observatory that she really remembered she would be seeing Sam for the first time since their date, and that her T-shirt was still on backwards.

  She asked the station guard for the key to the putrid, urine-encrusted toilets, and changed her top around. Wetting her fingers in the semi-clean basin, she ran them through her hair, which she hadn’t brushed that morning. It didn’t help much. Her hair was having a party and she wasn’t invited. Giving up, and glad to leave the cubicle, she headed up the hill, holding back from buying more apple strudel at the coffee shop, thinking about all the muffins her mother had fed her.

  The Centre was spotless. It smelled like vanilla, and a huge spread of chopped fruit was laid out on the kitchen table. Nazma wondered what was going on, and whether she had the day wrong. It felt completely different inside, almost institutionally sterilised. Mel wasn’t at her desk when Nazma buzzed, and a frazzled-looking Fay opened the door for her, ushering her in. She was the first to arrive, despite thinking she was going to be late, so she walked upstairs and sat down at a chair near a window. Looking out, she watched the immutable mountain, trying to channel its strength for when Sam arrived. Deep in thought, she didn’t hear the steps behind her.

  ‘Hello, Nazma. You’re early today.’

  It was Ruby. She looked as though she had been crying or sleeping or both – her eyes were red and sparkly. She seemed less scary standing here in the room alone. Nazma had never really had the chance to talk to her one on one. She seemed too distant. It was partly because she was so stylish and walked like a dancer, with excellent posture. Nazma was always intimidated by people with good posture.

  ‘I know. Sorry. I just didn’t have anything to do this morning and wanted to get out of the house. Is that okay?’ She wasn’t sure why she was so apologetic.

  ‘Sure. Sure.’ Ruby looked out of the window and up at the mountain. ‘How are you finding the study? Useful?’ It was an afterthought type of question, one you asked someone to be polite. Nazma felt compelled to be honest.

  ‘Definitely. Last week I drove on my own—’ Realising this was illegal, she added: ‘Well, not completely alone, you know, but real progress. And so I’m really happy with it, obviously. I think it may just help me to crack my fear of driving. Maybe just.’

  Ruby hardly seemed to have heard her. She was rubbing at her head with her index finger, just above her hairline. Nazma looked through the window too, trying to think of things to say and to avoid watching Ruby. Nazma’s uncle used to say that people in Cape Town talked about the weather the way people in Jo’burg talked about the traffic. But the weather today was hardly noticeable. It looked like it might rain, but also like it might not. There was barely a breeze. The trees adjacent to the road were lush from a season of showers. There was almost no weather to talk about.

  ‘So, are you enjoying the sessions?’ she asked. Ruby turned to look down at her. ‘You must be so tired of all of us – a tough group. Though at least some of us are making a bit of progress. We’ll get there.’

  Ruby nodded but turned back to the window in silence. Nazma was never one to leave a silence alone. The more difficult Ruby made it to talk, the more anxious she became to fill the gaps with something that would entice her to respond.

  ‘I’m trying to convince my mother to fly to London. She’s afraid of flying. I mean, at least, she was. She hasn’t tried for ages. So I’m thinking I can show her some of the techniques we’ve learned and she can maybe have a go at it. My sister lives over there with her husband. They’re about to have a baby. That’s why I want to convince my mother that we should go. We should all go overseas and meet the baby, anyway. I’m not sure if she will be able to do it. But I hope so. I would love the chance to go over there. Huge change from sitting around all day hoping to one day become a famous chef while staring at old reheated food in a tiny train kiosk. It would be wonderful …’

  Ruby turned back to look at her again. ‘But on your form you didn’t give details about any parental phobias.’

  Caught in her lie, Nazma opted for the truth. ‘I … I know. I just didn’t feel it was right spilling my guts about my mum’s issues.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I’m sorry if that makes a difference somehow. But I still feel like I’m making progress. So don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I wish you had been honest. It’s always best for us to send the most accurate information to our funders.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. Is there anything I can do?’ Nazma felt terrible. ‘You’re welcome to amend it on my form if that helps. Surely people fib every now and then?’

  ‘Oh definitely. Is there anything else you want to amend? Anything else I should know?’ Her tone wasn’t clear. Was she angry? Nazma had that crawling feeling beneath her skin, like when she wore a backpack into a shop and was convinced the security guards thought she had stolen something. She knew she hadn’t, but the guilt backpack hung heavy on her shoulders now.

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause an inconvenience. I only knew that my mum would be mortified if she knew I’d told anyone. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Fair enough. Don’t worry too much about it. It’s not serious.’ Ruby looked towards the door where footsteps could be heard approaching, accompanied by the clip of a cane. ‘Time to get back to being a busy bee … buzz.’

  ‘Buzz.’

  Ruby looked at Nazma like she was mad, and Nazma wondered whether she realised she had made the noise first. ‘Two more sessions,’ she said.

  ‘Two. More. Sessions. Did you have some of the fruit?’

  Nazma shook her head. The footsteps were Simon’s. He was dressed, unexpectedly, in a suit. His pants were cut to fit him, and his smart shoes were polished. He was holding a plate piled high with fruit kebabs.

  ‘All right, Simon?’ said Ruby.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I am quite fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘No reason. You’re just dressed very smart today.’

  ‘Bloody washing machine broke and all my other clothes are at the laundromat.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Trust me, I didn’t get dressed up for you lot.’

  Ruby rolled her eyes at Nazma and went back into her office. Nazma watched her collecting papers off her desk. Simon sat down on the other side of the room, probably to avoid catching any of Nazma’s Indian-ness. She wished Ruby would come back so that she wouldn’t have to make conversation with Simon. Before she could get up for a fake bathroom break, Simon stopped eating and eyeballed her.

  ‘You still carrying on with your partner?’

  She turned towards him, willing herself not to get angry. She observed the age in his face, and tried to remember the feeling of pity she’d felt the first night when she saw his walking stick. Then she remembered what an arsehole he was.

  ‘It’s definitely not any of your business.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? It’s my business as much as it is anyone else’s.’

  ‘No. It isn’t. It has nothing to do with you, or anyone else in this study, what I do with my time. I don’t ask you about yours, or care about it really.’

  ‘But you’re putting the whole group at risk. You’re upsetting the dynamics with your pastries and side glances. Selfish.’

  ‘No, Simon. I think you’ll find that your racism and temper are the real reasons the dynamics of the group are off. You’re so stuck in the past. You’re the old man moving backwards while the rest of us are moving forwards. Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.’

  ‘How outrageous!’ he bellowed. ‘Insolent girl. You know nothing about why I’m alone, or about my life. You know nothing!’ His face grew redder and beads of sweat formed above his lip. She refused to feel sorry for him this
time.

  ‘I’m not a girl. Get over yourself. And that’s the end of this conversation as far as I’m concerned.’

  He picked up his cane and waved it at her. ‘You dare speak to me like that, you … you …’

  ‘What, Simon? Say what you have to say. But if you do, you’ll have to admit to yourself what you are. A fearful old man. Afraid of change. Afraid of me. Afraid of Johnson and every other person who has a bit more melanin than you can handle. It’s you that’s the problem, Simon. Not any of us. So say it. I think it will be the first honest thing you’ve said to any of us.’

  But he didn’t say it. He clasped at his left arm tightly, mouth open in agony, and dropped his cane. What he did say was, ‘Help.’

  29

  Ruby

  Nosocomephobia: Fear of hospitals

  Inside the hospital they played a constant loop of what sounded like the jingle you heard when you phoned directory inquiries. Ruby couldn’t believe the amount of time she had spent in and out of hospitals in the last few weeks. Simon sat between her and Nazma, head below his heart, panting for half an hour before a doctor could examine him. He was designated an ‘orange’ patient, not urgent enough to take immediate priority. Ruby hated to think what the more urgent patients might be going through. As Simon heaved deep gurgling breaths, she watched the jowls of his neck and held his cane for him. The engraving was almost worn down as though he rubbed it often. To Simon, my support. To calm him down, Ruby decided to ask him about it.

  ‘Who gave you this cane, Simon? It’s beautiful.’

  He wheezed. ‘None of your business.’

  He really was intolerable. A grumpy, lonely old man who wanted nothing to do with anyone. She wasn’t even sure why he’d decided to participate in the study if he didn’t want to talk to anyone or form any connections with the outside world. Suit yourself, she thought, and rolled her eyes at Nazma over the top of his head. Nazma looked stressed, bouncing her legs up and down in a rustling fidget.

  ‘Do you need to go anywhere? I don’t mind waiting with him on my own,’ Ruby said.

  ‘No, it’s okay. Just feel bad for missing the session, that’s all.’

  ‘Well nobody forced you to come,’ Simon grumbled from between his knees.

  ‘I know they didn’t, Simon, but that doesn’t mean you have to be such an old fart about it. Jesus.’

  This time Nazma rolled her eyes back at Ruby. Nazma had beautiful skin, and her nails were painted luminous orange. She bit them, though, and the thumbnail was jagged. A stress eater, Ruby thought, and was tempted to gnash her teeth together. She stopped herself just in time as a young doctor finally appeared in order to assess Simon.

  ‘’Ello, uh, my name is Josef. I come from the Congo. I am glad to be ’elping you today. What seem to be the problem?’

  His forehead was broad and he had wide-set eyes. Simon almost had another meltdown contemplating being examined by this gleaming ebony giant.

  ‘Do not worree, Mr Simon. I ’ave juste completed my community service in KwaZulu-Natal. There were many men there with the ’eart issues.’

  Ruby gave Simon a look that suggested he better keep quiet or risk not being examined at all, and he acquiesced.

  After a short physical exam, throughout which Simon visibly tried to hold his breath, Josef explained that Simon had suffered an extreme panic attack, but added that he was still concerned about Simon’s incredibly high blood pressure and lack of exercise. He encouraged Simon to take regular walks and to try meditation. He also gave him some pills to take daily, lest the walks and meditation become too tedious.

  Ruby and Nazma drove Simon back to his house, not far from the Centre, in silence. When he climbed out he mumbled a pathetic ‘Thanks’ and walked towards his house, leaning on his cane.

  ‘What a piece of work!’ Ruby shook her head, marvelling at him.

  ‘Sheesh.’ Nazma tried to look supportive.

  They parked and walked back up to the Centre. Mel was filing her nails at the reception desk but stopped as they walked in.

  ‘Everyone has just left. They ate all the fruit sticks. Not one left. Sorry, I should have thought to keep you both some.’

  ‘Shit, I can’t believe it was only this morning we bought those. Seems like a million years ago.’

  ‘Anything you need me to do, Ruby?’

  ‘No, Mel. I think you’ve done enough today. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m going to go,’ Nazma said. ‘Best be getting home. See you next week?’

  ‘Thanks for the company. If you want to catch up on any of the material from today, just give us a call. Fairouz won’t mind going through it with you.’

  Nazma walked out onto the street and disappeared from sight. Ruby gave Mel a reassuring nod and walked upstairs. The meeting room smelled like stale air and people, and she opened the window to allow a cool breeze to push through. Her office couch beckoned to her; sleep hovered on the edges of her vision. She went in and picked up her phone.

  ‘Mel?’

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘I’m going to be doing some planning up here. Will you let the others know to give me some space?’

  ‘Will do.’

  Ruby played some music from her computer, and lay down on the couch. Within a few minutes, her eyes were closed and her breathing regular. The day with Cambada, and pastries, and the hospital, played out in her dreams. Jericho warned again of financial doom and death.

  When she woke up, evening had slunk its way over the mountain and her office was dark. She listened for any sounds from downstairs, but all was silent. The shapes of her succulents were outlined against the windows. Everyone has gone home. She felt lonely in the way she often felt when she woke up from deep afternoon sleeps. The neighbours’ lights were on, and by that light Ruby locked up all the doors, not noticing the flashing light on the answering machine. She headed out into the night, looking at the wall that smelled so unlike urine it didn’t feel normal any more.

  For supper she ate comfort foods – eggs, asparagus, wilted spinach. They helped her feel a bit better, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. Not even humming ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ was enough to convince her that everything was going to be all right.

  The next morning she could barely see from her flat to the harbour through the dense rain. It was so dark and gloomy she didn’t want to get up. She knew she could only grant herself a certain number of fake sick days in a year, but the thought of driving in the torrential rain made her stomach spasm with a nervous jolt. She got dressed with determination, wearing her wellington boots and a long yellow anorak, packing only what she needed into a small bag that would fit beneath it, and began the walk down to the train station. The roads were always a nightmare when it rained, and even irregular trains seemed a safer bet.

  The train station was chaotic, the shining white tiles slippery with rain dripping from the jackets of commuters. She purchased a ticket and went through the checkpoints to the tracks in a throng of people. Inside, the barriers were as full as outside, and garbled announcements about delays vibrated in the air. Ruby sat on a bench, took out her book and waited.

  Forty minutes later, when the train finally arrived, it was packed with steaming, breathing people who poured out in slow motion. The windows were misted and the passengers’ thick coats were sopping and smelled like breath and damp. Ruby climbed on with the other waiting passengers and found a seat, just before another woman was about to take it. For a few seconds they gestured as if the other could take it, but when Ruby finally did take it, the woman gave her a filthy look. The carriage became crowded as all those who had been delayed tried to fit into one train. It lurched forward from station to station, growing more humid with each stop. Ruby imagined all the germs she was inhaling, trying not to gag.

  Walking through the downpour from the station at Obs, she gave herself a pep talk, acknowledging the place where Jericho had been hit. The road was unmarked, as though nothing had happened there. It
seemed strange, she thought, how someone could walk over the place where someone had died and know nothing about it. She remembered that whenever she got goosebumps when she was younger, her friends used to say it was someone walking over your future grave. If that were true, Jericho would have had goosebumps all the time. Perhaps that was what made him mad.

  The office was empty again, and she realised that the others would also have been delayed. This time she noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. She walked towards it, expecting the worst, and sat down in Mel’s chair with a thud. Closing her eyes, she reached for the button and pressed it slowly.

  ‘Hi, Ruby. It’s Joyce Cambada. I’m calling you personally because I wanted to apologise for not coming today. Unfortunately we had a family emergency. I would like to talk to you urgently. It’s five-thirty in the afternoon now, but you can call me any time. I’d really appreciate it. My number is …’

  Ruby opened her eyes and realised her mouth was open too. She played the message a second and then a third time. Cambada had definitely used her first name, and had apologised. Something drastic must have happened, and Ruby felt a soaring in her spirits that shaped her mouth into a Cheshire-cat grin. When Mel arrived, drenched and shivering, Ruby was sitting in the chair swivelling one way and then the other, the grin still plastered on her face.

  ‘What’s going on, Ruby?’ Mel asked, the fear in her voice indicating she thought Ruby had finally lost her mind. Mel put down her umbrella and moved towards Ruby, one arm outstretched as if to catch her. Ruby reached out and took her hand, squeezing it in her own.

  ‘A miracle has happened, Mel. A bloody miracle. We’re going to be fine, after all.’

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘A miraculous miracle means that we’ll be fine after all. We’ll stay open and loads of loons and addicts and semi-sick people will come through our doors and we’ll be able to keep on doing what we’ve been doing. Joyce says so.’