by Suzanne Leal
She tried not to cry
Oh why was her grandmother
Looking so sly?
Rebecca nods. ‘Well done,’ she says. ‘Much better.’
The girl smiles but later, after the rehearsal has finished, she comes to Rebecca in tears. ‘I don’t think I should be a narrator,’ she whispers.
Rebecca has to bend down to hear her properly. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not very loud and I’m not very good and sometimes I think I won’t be able to remember all my lines.’
Rebecca slips an arm around her waist. ‘Listen, we can get you a microphone, so having a soft voice isn’t a problem. And not thinking you’re very good isn’t a problem either because we’re still rehearsing. Everyone feels like that when they rehearse. And if you forget your lines, I’ll whisper them out to you. Okay?’
The girl nods but her eyes stay solemn.
Rebecca pulls her closer. ‘It’ll be fine, I promise.’
When she leaves the school to walk home, there is a lightness inside her she scarcely recognises.
It’s because of the children, she thinks. Because they’re doing so well. Because—barring the odd hiccup—with each rehearsal they are improving. And today, especially today, when Sebastian stood up on stage—so tall and so confident—she thought she would burst at the sight of him. Her son, her beautiful son—Narrator No. 1—who is doing so well. Her son, who has new friends. Her son, who, so quickly, has become part of this small school. How it comforts her to see this.
She smiles, now, to think of it, and doesn’t stop when she bumps into Mrs Davies from down the street. Only recently have they begun to speak. Before that, the old lady had simply ignored her. Out of shyness, Rebecca had assumed, though she had seen her greet others.
Over time, Rebecca had become so irked by the slight, she made it her mission to wear the woman down. So she began to call out loud, cheery greetings each time they crossed paths.
After a week she received a grunt in reply; after a fortnight a mumbled good morning. That night, she had laughed to Emmanuel about it.
He had found it less amusing. ‘Why push it? What does it matter if a woman on the street fails to greet you? Why does that matter?’
‘It matters,’ she replied, her lips tightening. ‘It matters that people in this country lift up their heads to greet me when I greet them. It matters.’
Buoyed by the small victory, she began to ask questions of the woman. Just simple ones, like ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ or ‘Strange weather, hasn’t it been?’ until, finally, the woman gave in. One day she gave Rebecca her name; the next, details of the cold she hadn’t managed to shake.
Today, it is Rebecca who has something for her: an invitation to the Year 6 show.
If she is surprised by the invitation, Mrs Davies doesn’t show it. ‘See how I go,’ she mumbles.
‘You should come,’ Rebecca tells her. ‘I’m the director.’
The woman’s expression changes. ‘You’re the director?’
Rebecca nods.
‘Can you really do that sort of thing, the directing sort of thing?’
She holds her head high. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I can.’
The woman is interested now. ‘Is that what you did back there?’ she asks. ‘Were you a director?’
An accurate answer would be too complicated, so Rebecca just inclines her head.
The woman takes a good look at her. ‘A director,’ she says. ‘Fancy that.’ There is grudging admiration in her tone and Rebecca finds herself gratified by it.
She gives the woman a proud smile. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘fancy that.’
She is still smiling when she stops to check the letterbox. Usually it is filled with junk mail but today, caught between a flyer for a pizza outlet and one for cleaning services, is a letter. It has an official look about it and she sees it has been sent by the Department of Immigration. Her stomach lurches, both with fear and anticipation, and quickly she takes it inside with her.
Only then does she dare to open it. Her hands shake as she pulls at the envelope.
I’m sorry to inform you. These are the first words she sees. I’m sorry to inform you.
And as soon as she has seen this, she knows she doesn’t have to read any further.
Instead, she sits on the sofa, her mind blank; her mind so blank it might well have been erased.
Some hours later, she picks up the letter again and forces herself to read it in its entirety.
If she wants to, the apologetic officer tells her, she can go to a tribunal and ask for the decision to be reviewed. There, her case will be considered again. Otherwise, she will need to leave the country; she and her husband and her son. They will all have to go.
Mel
She’s started an hour early this morning. It’s the only way she’ll be able to make it to the committee meeting on time; Nina wants them there by eleven. It’s a Saturday but the boys are at rugby with Adam, which means she won’t have to drag them along with her. All she needs to do is finish the house and get out. It’s not a difficult job: Andrew Hill lives by himself and there’s only a certain amount of mess one person can make in a week. Not that he doesn’t give it his best shot.
As usual, he’s left the cash on the kitchen bench but today there’s a note with it: Away for the weekend so please check everything’s locked when you leave.
As far as notes to cleaners go, it’s not such a bad one—some of them are like bloody decrees: do this, do that, with no please or thank you. It still gives her the shits, though. What the hell does he think: that she’d planned on leaving the place wide open? Quite frankly, he’d be better taking a leaf out of his own book instead of wasting time leaving notes like that. She can’t count the number of times she’s come in to find him gone and the back door still open.
As it happens, being a bit pissed off isn’t such a bad thing in her line of business: the energy it gives her always makes her work faster. So now, once she’s screwed up the note and pocketed the cash, she gets to it.
She starts on the kitchen, which looks out onto the yard. It’s a wild, unkempt sort of yard that would drive Adam mad but Mel thinks is beautiful, so beautiful she often finds herself just standing at the sink and gazing out at it. There’s something about it that makes her thoughtful, that makes her stop and think about things she wouldn’t usually dwell on. Like how life might have panned out if she hadn’t fallen pregnant with Ethan; if she’d just moseyed her way through school instead and done all her exams with the rest of them.
Who knows, she might have even got in to uni. It wouldn’t have been impossible, so long as she’d pulled her finger out and started to apply herself. And perhaps she would have. Then she could have been . . . what? Maybe a scientist or a geologist or a zoologist. A zoologist: that makes her smile. She doesn’t even know what a bloody zoologist does. Feed the elephants? Or why not aim a bit higher? How about a doctor or a lawyer? Lawyer to the stars: that’s what she could have been. Lawyer to the frigging stars. This makes her laugh.
She likes to work with the radio up high so she can sing the time away. Which is what she does today. Once she’s done, she does another quick whip around the house; partly to check she hasn’t missed anything and partly because she likes to admire her handiwork before she leaves. And, of course, to check she’s locked all the doors.
There’s no time to go home before the meeting but that’s okay, she’s brought everything she needs with her: a change of clothes, bit of make-up, a stick of deodorant and some perfume. Because she has to make some effort, doesn’t she, now that she’s hanging out with supermodel Rebecca Chuma. Even now, Mel has to stop herself from staring at her, open-mouthed—she’s that beautiful. Not a lookin’-good-today beautiful, more freak-of-nature beautiful. It’s the whole thing: the skin, the big brown eyes, the neck, the legs, everything. And how can she possibly compete with that? She said as much to Adam one day. Not in a boo-hoo-poor-me sort of way, just in passing.
/> And God love him, straightaway he was pulling her right up to him—the way those dirty dancers do—and running his hand over her bum before giving it a good squeeze.
‘Tell you what, darling,’ he said, ‘I don’t know about Miss Supermodel, but I can tell you this much: you’ve still got the best bum in Brindle.’
Bless him.
Before she heads out, she takes a look at herself in the bedroom mirror and tries to give herself an honest appraisal: the belly could do with some work but her legs are looking good, so that’s something. A bit of lippy, some mascara and a squirt of Nina Ricci and no one would guess she’d just come from scrubbing out Andrew Hill’s toilet.
She’s late getting to Nina’s place. When she arrives, the others are all there, gathered in the lounge room.
‘Where’s Emily?’ she asks Nina. It’s an innocent enough question, more small talk than anything. So she’s astonished when Nina’s face turns bright red. ‘She’s, um, she’s at her father’s this weekend.’ There’s a stutter in her voice as she speaks.
Oh. She had no idea Nina was a single mum. It’s the last thing she’d have imagined.
‘Okay, right.’ But she needs to say something more than that; something to fill the silence. ‘Must be good to get a bit of child-free time,’ she ventures.
Nina pauses. ‘Actually, I really miss her when she’s away,’ she says.
She looks so sad and so lost that Mel just wants to wrap her arms around her. But she can’t do that, can she? She can’t go throwing herself on Ethan’s teacher. So all she can do is watch as Nina tries to compose herself.
‘Sorry,’ she says, her voice thick. ‘Sorry for being so silly. I’m just a bit new to it.’
There is another silence then, until Sid pipes up with a suggestion. ‘How about I make us all a cuppa before we get started?’
Nina starts to protest that she’s fine, that she can do it, but Sid is already headed for the kitchen. Seconds later, Jean gets up to follow him. ‘I’ll give him a hand,’ she volunteers.
Rebecca is sitting on the sofa. She’s looking sensational, as usual. Though it’s only early November, it’s already hot and today she’s in shorts and a T-shirt. Not those skimpy denim shorts, the ones that are so short the lining of the pockets peeps through—although with her legs, Mel wouldn’t be holding back. Rebecca’s are more like walk shorts. They still look fantastic, though.
‘Looking good,’ she tells her.
Normally that would make Rebecca laugh but today she doesn’t even smile.
‘You okay?’ Mel asks.
Rebecca nods, but almost immediately, her eyes fill with tears.
Fuck, she’s setting them all off today. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks as she sits down beside her.
Rebecca shakes her head but now there are tears dripping down her cheeks and spilling onto her T-shirt.
Mel starts to get worried. ‘Is Sebastian okay?’
Rebecca nods.
‘Emmanuel?’
Again, she nods.
‘So what is it?’
Nina is sitting in the chair opposite them. Mel gives her a puzzled look. ‘What’s wrong?’ she mouths. But Nina just shakes her head.
Mel reaches over to take Rebecca’s hand. ‘What is it, Rebecca? What’s happened?’
She takes a while to answer. When she does, her voice is very soft. ‘They said no,’ she says. ‘They said we can’t stay.’
Mel is confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We can’t stay.’ She is hunched in her seat now. ‘You know, we never intended staying. But there are problems now. There are problems for me. At home. So we thought to stay. Because we can’t return. But we can’t stay here either.’
Mel tries to take make sense of the other woman’s words. What problems? she wants to ask. But she can’t just come out with it like that, not here. Instead, she keeps hold of Rebecca’s hand as the three of them—Mel, Rebecca and Nina—sit in silence.
Only when Sid and Jean return with the tea does Rebecca hasten to wipe her eyes.
If they notice she’s been crying, neither Sid nor Jean let on. Jean just hands her a cup of tea while Sid goes back to the kitchen and returns with a plate of chocolate-chip biscuits.
Nina touches Jean’s arm with her hand. ‘Thanks for bringing the biscuits, Jean,’ she says.
When Jean just smiles, Sid gives her a bit of a prod. ‘Go on,’ he says.
Jean flushes red and shakes her head.
‘Go on,’ he insists.
Now what? Mel thinks. It seems like everyone’s got something happening this morning.
‘You say,’ Jean whispers to Sid. ‘You tell them.’
Sid clears his throat. ‘Her name’s not Jean,’ he announces. ‘It’s Joan.’
Rebecca
They wait, with others, in a foyer filled with tables and chairs. There is talking in the room, but it is low, almost murmuring.
She has been told to be there by 9.45 am. They have arrived much earlier.
Her name is called out just before ten and a woman hurries over to them. She is thin with darting eyes and slightly rounded shoulders, her hands clutching a single sheet of paper. ‘Mrs Rebecca Chuma?’ she asks.
When Rebecca nods, the woman looks over to Emmanuel, who is also standing now. ‘My husband,’ Rebecca tells her. ‘Dr Emmanuel Chuma.’
The woman looks interested. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘are you a doctor, then?’
Emmanuel inclines his head. ‘I am a doctor of engineering.’
‘So not a hospital doctor or anything like that?’
Emmanuel’s eyelids close for a second. ‘I’m afraid not.’
Rebecca feels her body stiffen. Why has the woman asked him this? Are they already being assessed, even here in the foyer? She looks for a clue but the woman’s eyes are lowered now, focused on her paper.
‘Please follow me,’ she says.
They follow her through a door that leads into a courtroom. This is a surprise: Rebecca has not expected such formality. On the back wall is a crest fashioned out of metal. The woman directs Rebecca to a table in front of a raised bench and Emmanuel to the row of seats lined up against the back of the room. Then she leaves them there, alone. In one corner Rebecca sees electrical equipment. That’s when it occurs to her that perhaps they are already being recorded, even before the hearing has started; perhaps this is what they do here when they wish to discover the truth—they secretly record people. Perhaps this is why the woman has left, to make them think they are alone, when really they are not.
So when Emmanuel calls over to her, she shakes her head as she turns around, pointing a hand to the equipment with its row of illuminated buttons. When he looks confused, again she jabs a finger at the equipment, then puts a finger to her lips. He raises an eyebrow but she is relieved when he stays silent.
Laying her hands in her lap, she tries to relax. But her hands won’t stay still. And even when she slides them under her legs to press the movement out of them, still they shake.
Some minutes pass before the woman returns. This time, she enters through a far door behind the bench and this time she is not alone. Instead, she is accompanied by a tall white woman, who sits herself at the bench behind a name plate that says Tribunal Member Maxine Kelly.
Tribunal Member Maxine Kelly has blue eyes, startlingly blue, and dark hair. Dyed hair, Rebecca sees: at the roots it is lighter, perhaps greying. Apart from this, there are few clues to her age. More than forty, Rebecca thinks, but not yet fifty.
Her voice, when finally it comes, is a surprise. She doesn’t speak in the rushed way of many people here, their words muffled and swallowed. Rather, she speaks slowly, with a lilt and intonation that mark her as a foreigner. Strange, Rebecca thinks, that a foreign-born woman should hold a position such as this.
She has read Rebecca’s statement, she tells her, and has some questions for her. But first, Emmanuel should leave the room. Rebecca feels her heart lurch. But what can she do? There is nothing sh
e can do.
Almost immediately, the questions begin. At first, they are easy ones: simple questions about her family, her childhood, her schooling, her career. She is not unused to this: these are questions journalists would often ask her, questions she has frequently answered.
Slowly, then, the questions change.
‘Why did you leave your country?’ the tribunal member asks her.
‘I couldn’t stay,’ Rebecca stammers. ‘I wasn’t safe.’
But more is needed than that.
Rebecca nods. She will try, she hears herself say, she will try to explain it.
‘The day of your arrest. Can you tell me about that?’
‘Yes,’ she answers. Yes, she will talk about it. Even though her skin prickles to think of it.
There were eight police officers. Inside the house, there were eight of them. Or perhaps it was only seven. They took her to a police station on the outskirts of the city. Not only her—Grace too, and Johnson, and three other men Rebecca had never seen before. It is a well-known police station, a somewhat notorious one, but if the tribunal member has heard of it, she doesn’t say. At first they were kept together. Later, they were separated. Later still, she was taken to a man in an office.
‘Who was he?’ the tribunal member asks her.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I don’t know who he was.’
But she does know.
The member is insistent. ‘Who was he?’ she repeats.
She is frightened to tell her. She is frightened to say. Even here, so far away, she is fearful.
‘I need his name. I need you to tell me his name.’
Rebecca has to force the words out. ‘Joseph Muponda,’ she says. ‘His name is Joseph Muponda.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Yes,’ she says, but this is not the absolute truth.
‘Tell me about him.’
No.
No.
But she does.
‘I believe he is one of the chief investigators,’ she says softly. ‘He asked me questions. About Johnson and about Grace. I told him the truth—that we were no more than neighbours. He asked me about the ACC and I told him that I had no involvement in it.’