The Crack

by Christopher Radmann

  – Sifiso Boateng, from ‘Human River’, translated from Xhosa by Hugh Marais

  One day our section was summoned by radio to a remote mine shaft to help search a building. When we arrived there, we found two vehicles of the local Dog Unit also at the scene. It turned out that they actually wanted to show us how they train their dogs to attack, using live targets.

  Two terrified illegal immigrants, who had been arrested somewhere, were made to get out of one of the vehicles and ordered to run. When they had covered about twenty metres, two dogs were unleashed. The dogs were cheered on loudly, and urged to bring the fleeing men down.

  The dogs reached the men within seconds, jumped on them and started to bite indiscriminately. The handlers battled for several minutes to get the dogs off the men, who had deep bite wounds all over their arms and legs. This was not the end, though – the two were made to run again and again, until the poor buggers stayed down, crying and begging for mercy.

  After the exercise I noticed that the handlers were crouching beside their dogs. I went closer to see what they were doing and to my astonishment, I saw that the men were masturbating the dogs. To strengthen the bond between dog and handler, I was told.

  – Johan Marais, Time Bomb: A Policeman’s True Story

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  For a second, she knew she was free. In the mouth of Charlie, bonnie Jean found warm delight even as the sides of the pool split and the tarpaulin was rent asunder. His warm tongue filled her mouth and silenced her gasp and he held her and steadied her as the crack tore their garden in two and stretched right to the steps of the house. Janet felt her legs shift and part. If she did not have Charlie to hold on to, she would have fallen to the stage floor, towards stage left, and maybe even have slid into the deep well of the orchestra pit.

  There was a sound from the audience, a formidable sound. Was Hektor-Jan on his feet, was that him catapulting out of his hard chair and leaping to his wife’s defence. No. It was the sudden sound of hands smacking hands. It was the deep breath of the big audience. It was applause. They were applauding her and Charlie at the end of the song. They loved it. Janet released Charlie’s succulent mouth, pulled herself free, and gasped. A forest of wild hands. Such applause! She brought her legs back together and tried not to cry. Her breath came in little disbelieving squeals, and the cast stood there stunned. Derek-Francis was doing his nut, windmilling apoplectically in the wings. Get on with it, he mouthed, Get on with it, he silently screamed.

  She tried to see whether Hektor-Jan was enjoying the show. Were her children smiling. Did they like seeing Mommy on stage, in tartan, in the arms of another man. But there were too many faces and the small orchestra had fallen silent and the play had moved on.

  The feeling was back. It had never gone. Where was she. Janet clenched her fists and tried to tear her eyes from the doors at the side of the hall through which, any moment, she was sure the crack would be coming. She knew. She had the same terrible sense. The limp arms, the breathless despair. It wasn’t fair. Not here. Not now in Brigadoon. And she tried to breathe. The edge of the stage was terribly close and the scene had shifted. The actors moved on, but she was still and Derek-Francis was flapping wildly. Janet turned as he tried to take off in the wings. Move! he mouthed For God’s sake move, you silly cow.

  Janet was stuck. The sound of splitting concrete, the warmth in the hall, the black coldness outside, the taste of Charlie’s rough tongue, the red penknife and the smile of Alice-Lettie.

  Jesus, came the strangled gasp.

  But then, simultaneously, came the solicitous hands of Eileen-the-Understudy. Taking bonnie Jean by the hand and helping her along.

  A fine lass in your condition, Eileen-the-Understudy extemporised with a bold laugh. Ye silly noonoo, she said, and propelled bonnie Jean into the next scene.

  And Janet looked up at her and tried to smile, even though her make-up would surely crack.

  The rest of the show vanished. In a welter of tender words, anxious exchanges. Brigadoon was under threat. Who would save it.

  Would Fiona and Tommy acknowledge their true love. No, it was time for the interval.

  They were carried back to the classroom by the hands of wild applause. There was tea and biscuits, organised by Eileen-the-Understudy, and they all crowded into the one classroom, talking at once, and laughing, and passing around the surreptitious little bottles and a hip flask. The whisky was cold fire. The brandy burned. There was even gin for good measure. They deserved it. Janet sipped it. She felt calmer. Kind, darling, dear Eileen-the-Understudy!

  Her tall friend, her Samaritan, offered her another little bottle. Someone had brought rum!

  They were good. But wasn’t the audience great. What an audience. Well done everyone, well done! And they patted each other, and they patted bonnie Jean. What a performance. They laughed about the few missed cues, someone started someone else’s line, Beryl missed her entrance, but otherwise, it was going swimmingly, just swimmingly! The little bottles of fiery conviviality flew around the rum – the room!

  Then Derek-Francis called them back on to the stage. He had stayed behind to have a word with the small orchestra about some timing issues. He looked tense, but pleased. The orchestra gulped some cold tea and then the overture poured forth and the audience returned from the tables of refreshments at the back of the hall and settled once again. The lights dimmed to blackout. Derek-Francis’s voice whispered. They were off.

  There was less for Janet to do in the second half. It was more of a chorus role. She lent sisterly support to Fiona, but that was fine. The true lovers parted. Brigadoon was abandoned by the American men and the scene shifted – a couple of bar stools and they were in New York. Life was not good. Brigadoon was gone for another hundred years, or was it. Surely it had fallen into the great chasm of time, disappeared into the Highland mists, for another lifetime. Tommy would be doomed to wander the hills and dales, forever regretting his decision to leave.

  Maybe it was the hormones, maybe the strain of the last few days, or the stress of the certain crack, but Janet could not shake that sense of loss. Poor Tommy. Wandering alone. How it made her sad. How it caught at her throat. True love, torn apart. Lovers who had touched and trembled together, now wandering alone, on either side of a century. Tommy would grow old whilst Fiona slept for a hundred years. He would wait while she tossed and turned; he would go grey while sadly she slept. Such yearning. Such loss. Such love. On 15 June 1976, Janet could not shake that awful sense. Even when the power of love brought Brigadoon back. Even when their voices swelled in the final number, Janet was trying not to weep. What if Brigadoon had not come back. It had, but what if it had not. What if Tommy continued to roam amongst the heather, forever exiled from true happiness. The sense of that suffering was too much to bear.

  So she cried at the end.

  The applause exploded wildly. And everyone thought that she was crying with happiness, but she was not. Her hot, silly tears kept coming. They were not tears of joy. Eileen-the-Understudy was very merry, and even Derek-Francis had forsaken his battered script and wandered around thumping anyone and everyone on the back. Well done! Yes! Wow! We did it! You did it, guys and gals!

  And after all the hugs and kisses and handshakes on stage, they were released into the audience. There were friends and family waiting there for them. Waiting to welcome them back from Brigadoon, to slap them on the back and make sure that these fine players were real. What a show! What singing and acting! And Charlie and bonnie Jean, so remarkable. And Janet was flung into the arms of her family.

  Sylvia squealed and hugged her mother, the reason she was up so late. Her hot face nestled into the tartan skirt. Little Pieter reached up to touch her lips, run a finger through her make-up, so bold and brassy. Bonnie Jean really was his Mommy. Shelley stood there, unmoved, beside her grandfather – and grandmother. They had come! They were smiling. At least her father was. Her mother looked through her, past her to the stage that still glowed with light and the mis
ty hills of Brigadoon. The old woman sniffed. Why would her mother sniff. Janet bent forward to give her a kiss, and realised that her mother had been crying.

  Very good, very good, her father said and laid a hand on her mother’s shoulder. Your mother got quite carried away, didn’t you, dear.

  And Amelia Amis sniffed again and reached for Shelley who still stood there quietly.

  Too hilly for Cambridge, her mother announced. Much too hilly. Mist, yes, that was good. But far too hilly. Didn’t fool me once, I’m afraid. She held Shelley’s hand.

  Bonnie Jean looked at her father who smiled and shrugged. I did tell her, he said. I kept saying –

  Professor de Laney looked very young, her mother said to Shelley. I did not know that he danced. But did he not dance well. He danced well. Very – she paused. Very nimbly.

  With that she struggled under her husband’s hand. Janet peered around to find Hektor-Jan and the audience thronged, reclaiming family members, who had just been to Brigadoon.

  Amelia Amis – Mrs Ward – got to her feet.

  Hektor-Jan, Janet started to say. But her mother had taken hold of a young man to her left, startled him utterly and was propelling him backwards, away from his friends. Mrs Ward lifted her hands and twirled before him. Professor de Laney, she crooned. Oh, Professor de Laney. Professor. De. De. De. Laney.

  Granny, Shelley had the presence of mind to say, to shout. Granny! And she caught hold of one of Mrs Ward’s gyrating arms and tried to pull her away. People were looking. Janet and her father grabbed other twirling parts of Mrs Ward and set the young man free.

  Sorry, tannie, he said looking half-frightened, half-amazed. Jislaaik, sorry tannie, and he was gone. Just like Hektor-Jan was gone, simply vanished. And Mrs Ward set up a howl.

  Pieter and Sylvia stared open-mouthed at their granny’s open mouth. Sylvia put her hands slowly to her ears as her granny struggled and fought.

  Professor de Laney, her mother howled and tried to pull away. Pro – she suddenly lunged forward and her teeth flew past Pieter, who set up his own cry as the dentures bit the floorboards beside his feet.

  Mrs Ward’s face collapsed, but the rest of her was strangely strong. They did not want to pull too hard for fear of hurting her. Her thin arms, her fragile hips.

  Amelia, said Janet’s father. Amelia. He tried to be gentle as he clutched at her shoulders, tried to smother her.

  Mind that punt, Mrs Ward changed tack as Janet pressed her belly against her, and tried to hug her, to hold her still. Oh, the Cam is cold, trilled her toothless mother. Oh, Professor de Laney, watch that punt, please. The Cam –

  Hektor-Jan’s powerful arms saved the day – or the night. He appeared breathlessly, and lifted Mrs Ward off her feet.

  Oh, Professor! squealed Mrs Ward to the entire school hall. Oooh, Professor!

  Car, grunted Hektor-Jan.

  Please, said Janet’s father. Please, yes.

  And Hektor-Jan carried Mrs Ward down the aisle of wide eyes and open mouths. She crooned and called all the way, shouted to the professor to unhand her, sir, and then began to expound on the manliness of her escort.

  Such physique, sir, she trilled wetly, flecks of saliva flung to the world. Such strength. Such virility, her gums struggled to seize upon the word. Virility in a man is not something I object to, not at all. No, sir. As virile as you please, Professor. Heathcliff – Darcy – Rochester – Siegfried – Lucifer … the list went on and on until she was secure in her husband’s car.

  I’ll be fine, her father reassured Janet and thanked Hektor-Jan. He took Granny’s teeth from poor brave Pieter. He wiped them and popped them in his coat pocket.

  Stanley Kowalski … Granny called from depths of the car, her mouth full of sticky syllables. Rhett Butler – Othello … Then they were gone.

  Janet left the family at the car. She tried to run back to the classroom behind the hall to get her things. It was a last chance to hug the few remaining members of the cast and to leave Derek-Francis drinking and fussing with Frank in the corner of the little classroom, watched by a few of the women. Frank appeared to be holding a hand over his eye, and shaking his head.

  He just walked up to me – Frank seemed to be saying as Derek-Francis clucked like a mother hen.

  Bye! called Janet.

  And the two men looked up, and the women looked up.

  Night night! called Janet again and fell from their confounded stares, down the corridor and into the darkness. She was breathless. Two more shows to go. Two more nights of being bonnie Jean. And she began to sing softly.

  Then they were in the car, all snug together. And then they were home and the children had to be chased to bed.

  We won’t talk about Granny now, said Janet wondering where Hektor-Jan had gone. Was he putting the car away.

  No, I have no idea why Granny did that. Yes, it was a bit of a surprise.

  Yes, I suppose Granny could have been a very good actress if she had wanted to. Or maybe a dancer if she had not had me. Now, that’s enough. Night, night. Sleep tight.

  Yes, the water is fresh. Now, go to sleep. No, you have just been to the loo. Go to sleep.

  And Janet closed their little doors, and stood in the passage. Make-up or Milo. Should she remove her make-up or sip some Milo. The woollen tones of Lettie-Alice’s radio unravelled from the kitchen and Janet was suddenly very tired. Her feet found their way to the light. Her ankles felt swollen.

  Lettie-Alice smiled up at her and the kettle switched off with a click.

  Madam – said Lettie-Alice. She seemed anxious.

  Milo, said Janet. She could not think until she had some soothing Milo. She was back to being a child. Warm, milky Milo. Mother’s milk in a mug. So gentle and soft.

  Lettie-Alice knew just how to make it. Hadn’t she been making it for Janet since Janet was knee-high to a cricket. Wasn’t that the saying, and Janet thought about the beaming face of Jiminy Cricket. And she reached up and touched her nose, and then sat down at the kitchen table with Lettie-Alice’s portable tribe of African voices, always murmuring inside the little radio, never quiet, always something to say. What busy lives.

  The Milo was soothing. Sweet, brown silk.

  Lettie-Alice stood beside her. She seemed to be waiting.

  Sit down, said Janet softly. She needed Lettie-Alice to sit down. Where was her husband. He had not slept the entire day, and had worked the whole night. That could not be good. Was he not due to start work soon. Had he got permission to go in later, because of the show. Maybe he had already gone, was already at work. What was going on.

  Janet made a slurping sound and smiled as Lettie-Alice sat down on the other side of the radio. The chocolaty voices, like the Milo, breathed life into the kitchen. Lettie-Alice reached up to switch it off, but Janet called to her over the top of her mug, No, no, leave them on. For suddenly she was knee-high once again, wandering beside the skirt of the willow tree, when it was a young tree, and Lettie-Alice was much younger too, and it was Friday afternoon and their maid was playing hostess to all the maids around them. It was a murmuration of maids in their back garden, beneath the willow tree, in the shade. She could hear their voices, and the excited radio chatting away in the background. All their voices sounded the same. Happy and full of fun. They were together. A soft, warm tribe of women. Janet stood on the other side of the veil of leaves, listening for Lettie-Alice’s voice. The sun was hot and the willow tree was green and cool. She poked in a pudgy hand and parted the fronds. At that moment, something was said, possibly on the radio, and then Janet’s small white face peered through the fronds and all the maids laughed to see such fun, and the dish ran away with the spoon. That just popped into her head.

  Janet, Lettie-Alice’s hands went up to her and her warm smell called to Janet. Sucking her thumb, and clutching her bottle of Milo with her other hand, Janet did not run across to Lettie-Alice. She made herself walk calmly, even stroll, then she nestled against Lettie-Alice and the world made sense once again. S
he could replace her thumb with the teat of the bottle and forget about her mother who was hidden behind her spectacles and her mutters and her big pile of papers. The Milo that Lettie-Alice had made her was almost finished, but not quite. She was going to savour it, make it last. But she could not stay in her bedroom as instructed. Even though she had set up her own Teddy and Golly and the dollies, Shelley and Sylvia, and the Clown in a tight circle beside her with the pile of coloured blocks to represent the radio and although they chatted using clicks and soft African sounds in the back of their throats, it was not the same. That week, like every other week, she disobeyed her mother’s clear, repeated command, and did not remain in her room. While her mother hid behind the snakelike papers – they seemed to hiss, they were called something hissing, ess-haze – her mother would never know. Like every week, Janet left Teddy and Golly and Shelley and Sylvia and the Clown, and found herself on the fringes of the tree where, within its green heart, came the sounds of the radio and the laughter of Lettie-Alice, and Tryphena and Beauty and Francena and Grace.

  Now there was just Lettie-Alice, and less laughter.

  Janet needed to reach out and touch Lettie-Alice. The Milo was sweet in her throat and sugary on her teeth. The radio was comforting too. Lettie-Alice smiled as Janet reached out and held on to her arm. She sat there. It was late.

  Alice did not move. The Madam’s face was too much tired and she needed to touch her arm. It was as Alice’s own mother had told her. Look after that little Madam, Janet, Lettie had said. She is too much small, that Janet. Try to be making that little Madam happy.

  Bonnie Jean, sighed Janet. Brigadoon, she said. The radio burped cheery African sounds, thick Milo voices.

  The front door opened quietly.

  Janet’s hand tightened on Lettie-Alice’s arm.

  Hektor-Jan stood in the darkness of the passage, just outside the kitchen doorway. She could hear him. She could feel him breathing. Had he been running. Why was he out of breath. Then he stepped into the light.