by S. L. Grey
She looks up when she senses him standing on the pavement looking over the low wall and screams. It’s a gut-ripping scream and before Ryan can process the shock, Fransie is running down the stairs with a bat in his hand. Ryan races up the road, away from the car, afraid to pass in front of Ma Beccah’s house again, but soon Fransie has caught him. For the second time tonight he feels a wallop over his kidneys and he stumbles to the pavement, tearing the knees of the suit and skinning his palms. Fransie cracks him a blow over the skull and Ryan rolls into a foetal ball at the base of a wall.
Fransie hawks a throatful of phlegm and Ryan feels the weight of it spatter against the hood.
‘I see you around here again, I’ll kill you.’ Another fat wad of mucus hits him. ‘I promised my girl I’d never let anyone touch her again.’ A half-hearted kick in the back and Fransie’s gone.
Ryan waits a few minutes before hauling himself up and sneaking back to the car like a whipped dog.
The next day – he thinks it is, it doesn’t matter any more – Ryan’s tending the small vegetable patch in the new house’s back yard, back in his ragged jeans and sweatshirt, his new face uncovered. He checks the carrot and beetroot seedlings and carefully replaces the protective mesh. At this time of the year a frost is unlikely, but one could strike without warning.
‘Why are there no beanstalks?’ Jane asks. She’s standing in a square of sunlight, enjoying the warmth. It’s not doing her skin any good, Ryan thinks, but he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t want to lecture her.
‘It’s the wrong season for beans,’ he says. ‘But there will be carrots and beetroots in two or three months.’
She pulls a face. ‘If I wanted dirt produce, I could stay at home.’ She crosses her arms and cocks a hip like a sulky pre-teen. She is a sulky pre-teen, Ryan reminds himself. That used to mean something different to him. He tries to remember what it was about her that so compelled him back at the school, but he can’t feel it. He remembers it, but it’s like watching someone else in a movie. Jane’s just a little girl.
‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ he says. ‘We won’t be here long enough to reap anything. Nothing will be ready before we go back.’
‘But there was living produce in the other abode,’ she complains.
‘That house had an existing vegetable patch. We’re starting one from scratch here, despite the fact that...’ He stops. It doesn’t matter. When he was down there, he felt the uncomfortable pull from the hole in his head every time he thought to argue with the rules. Up here, there’s just numbness. The shunt hasn’t been renewed for weeks and the hole doesn’t work on him any more. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. This is what it is to let go. Let someone else tell him what to do, no matter how illogical. If you just stop fighting – stop trying to have an opinion – everything’s just simpler, isn’t it? It’s not like he has any option. It’s not like he has anywhere to go. Besides, he really likes planting vegetables. It makes him feel like a monk, like he did at the mansion, in peaceful, directed service in the eye of the storm.
He digs out another neat furrow with his trowel and sprinkles in new seeds. ‘Are turnips any better?’
Jane twists her lips and turns back to the house.
For the third time today, Ryan sharpens the edge of the trowel with a stone, then pushes the point into the skin of his left palm. He watches curiously as the blood pools then seeps over his wrist and down his forearm. Again he wonders if he’ll feel anything.
He twists the trowel’s sharp point in the gash.
Nothing.
Chapter 28
TARA
Mindful that it’s her last day before she goes on maternity leave, Tara takes extra care packing away the books, double-checking to ensure that the kids have correctly turned off the library’s computers. She wishes she’d listened to this morning’s weather forecast and worn something lighter. The back of her long-sleeved shirt is damp with sweat, and the summer heat isn’t helping her swollen ankles or the morning sickness that’s still taking her by surprise deep into her third trimester. Still, she thinks, gazing at the neatly ordered shelves – her neatly ordered shelves – what right has she got to complain? This is what she wanted. All her dreams coming true. A fairy-tale ending.
Sure, Kestrel Academy is still a private school – not quite the sort of needy institution to which she planned on applying when her permanent residency finally came through – and she’s only part-time for now, but who knows? After she’s finished breast-feeding, perhaps she will take up the offer to teach here full-time. And at least Kestrel Academy has a far more liberal approach to reading matter than Crossley College. Ms Traverso, the school’s head – a woman so New Age granola that Tara wouldn’t be surprised if she rocked up to assembly one morning dressed entirely in dreamcatchers – has given Tara free rein, only insisting that she not order any books that might contain ‘hate speech’ or ‘anti-green’ messages. Tara can’t help smiling at the horror with which she imagines Clara van der Spuy would eye her collection of Harry Potter and Suzanne Collins novels. Not that Clara’s in much of a position to do anything these days. According to Malika, who Tara occasionally runs into at the Eastgate Woolworths, Crossley’s old librarian succumbed to a stroke shortly after the school went bust, and is stuck in some crummy institution on the East Rand. Shame, Tara thinks. She keeps meaning to visit her, but has never quite got round to it.
So it’s an improvement, all right, but Tara’s come to the conclusion that these places are all the same. It doesn’t matter what ethos they hide behind, be it Crossley College’s pseudo-Christian morality or Kestrel Academy’s environmentally friendly New Age philosophy. As long as the kids get the grades promised on the websites, scandal is kept to a minimum and the parents keep shelling out the cash, the wheels keep turning. In fact, all the schools she’s ever worked at are just different versions of the same machine, she thinks, wincing as an image of Martin pops into her head. She shrugs it away. She tries to keep thoughts and memories of Martin – along with Jane, Duvenhage and everything that happened during that terrible time – safely hidden behind a wall. She and Stephen never talk about Martin these days, especially now that Olivia’s hysterical middle-of-the-night phone calls have stopped.
She concentrates on the faint screams and laughter of the children outside in the playground. Like she’s always rationalised, she’s here for the kids. She can make a difference to them. She’s shown that already.
Thoughts of Martin safely stowed away, the rest of the day stretches pleasurably ahead of her. She’ll spend the afternoon decorating the nursery – she can hardly recognise her sanctuary now that the walls have been painted in a soft eggshell blue and the cot and the changing table have been delivered.
She digs in her bag for her keys, feels the smooth curve of Baby Tommy’s head pressing reassuringly against her palm as she does so. She carries him with her everywhere, has never dared probe too deeply into why she feels the need to keep him close to her. But why should she? Now that she’s sold off her Reborn collection, has shut down her website, it seems only fair that she hold onto one small part of her old life.
The slam of a door in the hallway outside the library makes her jump. She pokes her head into the corridor, sees Busi Gwayise, the English department’s HOD, storming out of the boys’ bathroom, two pupils slinking after him. She recognises the kids immediately – Kavish Naidoo and Morgan Ebersohn – a pair of spoilt, ultra-privileged ten-year-olds who have caused disruption in her library classes more than once. Bullies, she thinks. Thugs in the making. She flinches as another forbidden image of Martin slides into her head.
Locking the library door behind her, Tara heads towards them. She’s never seen Busi looking so irate. He’s one of the more pragmatic members of staff, a mild-mannered, soft-spoken man who has no time for the rabidly vegan, fringe-skirted ethos that most of the other teachers embrace. Tara’s guiltily aware that if she weren’t pregnant and things weren’t going so well with Stephen, he�
��s the kind of guy she might have been tempted to flirt with.
‘But, sir,’ Tara hears Kavish whine. ‘He’s so—’
‘I don’t want to hear it. Both of you to Ms Traverso’s office. Now!’
‘But, sir, we didn’t—’
‘Just go!’ Busi snaps. ‘Your behaviour is entirely unacceptable. I’ll make sure your parents are informed.’
Muttering, the two boys slump their way down the corridor.
‘Everything okay, Busi?’ Tara asks.
He smiles at her distractedly. ‘Those two. Nothing but trouble.’
‘What are they up to? Not another stink bomb, is it?’
‘No. Taunting the new boy.’
‘New boy?’ That can’t be right. How can there be a new pupil? It’s nearly the end of the school year.
Busi smiles apologetically at her and disappears into the bathroom, emerges a few seconds later with his arm around the shoulder of a small, outlandishly dressed child Tara doesn’t recognise. School uniform is optional at Kestrel Academy (to encourage the kids to exhibit their ‘inner creative side’, according to the website) and most do this by wearing pretty much the same shit – Ben 10 or My Little Pony shorts and tees. This kid looks like an uncool throwback to the seventies. He’s dressed in fraying velvet flares and an ill-fitting long-sleeved dress shirt; his longish, tangled hair looks like it’s been cut with garden shears.
Busi ruffles his hair. ‘They won’t bother you again. You going to be okay, Dick?’
The boy looks up at him, glances at Tara, holds her gaze as a strange smile creeps over his face. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says. ‘But I’m just primo.’
Tara bites her lip to stop herself from screaming, feels her right hand reaching up to touch the faded scar just behind her ear. Fights to keep her expression neutral as she watches the kid disappearing down the corridor.
Busi shakes his head. ‘Poor kid. Magnet for bullies, that one. Shame, someone needs to talk to his mother about how she dresses him.’ He sighs. ‘You coming to the staff room, Tara?’
Tara manages to mumble something about having to get home to Stephen.
‘You okay? You’re looking a bit pale.’
I’m just primo, she almost says, bites it back just in time. Tries to swallow. ‘I’m fine. Morning sickness, you know.’
‘Shame. My wife was the same. Well, all the best. Hope to see you next term.’ Busi smiles at her, slides his hands into his pockets and ambles towards the staff room, leaving Tara alone.
Martin, she thinks, her hand unconsciously toying with the scar on her neck again. Martin.
Uh-uh. Don’t go there. She drifts down the corridor on numb legs, pauses outside Ms Traverso’s office, ignores the two boys who are slumped sulkily on the bench outside it, waiting to be reprimanded.
The school secretary, a jangly-earringed version of Sybil Fontein, looks up from her computer. ‘Can I help you, Mrs Marais?’
Tara breathes in. Plunges her hand into her bag and cups Baby Tommy’s head. What does she think she’s doing? She needs to go home. She’s got things to do. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Actually, I don’t think you can.’
Barely acknowledging the secretary’s good wishes for her maternity leave, she turns away, uses her staff card to swipe herself through the security gate and hurries towards the car park. She hesitates next to the bank of recycling bins, pulls Baby Tommy’s head out of her bag. Drops it into the bin marked ‘Plastic’, slams the lid.
She can only breathe easy again when she’s sitting in her car. Turning the radio to full blast to block out the dangerous thoughts, she guns the engine and drives away.
She doesn’t look back.
Chapter 29
PENTER
Penter shuts the door on the last brown. Thank the ether they have all gone! The Mothers always ask the same question in their nasal tones: ‘Your accent, it’s so unusual, where are you from?’ They talk like document mascots.
‘Down under,’ Penter has learnt to respond. According to Jane, that’s a real upside location.
Some of them comment on her outfits and hair, saying things like, ‘Oh, I just love this.’ But she knows by now that these Mothers are lying. When they say they love something, they mean the opposite. It can be tiring. And the last Mother today wanted to chatter about being a ‘single parent’. ‘It must be hard on you not having Jane’s father around,’ it said, prating on and on.
‘No,’ Penter had replied. ‘It’s a karking relief.’
That had made the Mother close its yapping mouth!
Penter assesses the waste in the kitchen. Why are brown half-pints so messy? Her counter tops, the forespecial ones she chose from the catalogue, are littered with cupcake crumbs and smears. Ryan will have to clean it after he’s finished in the garden. Still, this new scouting method she designed is very productive. Instead of the risk, expense and logistical complexity of harvesting at an institution, Jane scouts the viables at the school and invites them over for cupcakes and horror movies. Once they’re gathered in the television room, Penter quickly assesses the most optimal viables, and she doesn’t even need to leave the precinct to harvest them.
Yes. Things are progressing in a catalogue fashion. Cardineal Phelgm’s office itself has sent signals of support.
Their current precinct is more scenic than the last one, although she is disappointed that there are not any ready beans to be had in the vegetable patch. She still hasn’t been tempted to venture outside it. It’s not that she’s afraid of going out, it’s just not necessary. Jane’s quite the opposite, using any excuse to go out with Ryan, and bringing back tales of upside Malls and parks, which don’t appeal in the least to Penter. They sound dirty and uncomfortable. No, she’s content to stay behind the gates of the precinct. There is always much to be done: authorising contracts and dispatching node agents to manage the repercussions of the harvest.
Penter opens the fridge and collects a batch of ready beans that Ryan purchased yesterday from a marketplace. They don’t taste as fresh and delicious as the ones that grow on the stalks, but Penter still prefers them to the frozen convenience victuals.
She finds Jane in the television room, looking out of the window, watching Ryan pulling stray grass from around the new shoots.
Every evening now, they watch a document before victuals. Today Jane has chosen something called A Little Princess, which she says reminds her of the tame brown, Ryan. Penter hopes there isn’t any love in it. She’s lost her interest in love documents, and it still embarrasses her that she went through all that turmoil about Father. She does not regret him in the least. Like the browns say, she must have been fucking mad.
Without turning around, Jane says, ‘It’s depreciating, Mother.’
Penter sighs. ‘I know.’
It is inconvenient, but she’ll have to think about recycling Ryan soon. A pity, as he has been most loyal, altogether stopped his wandering.
‘When can we get a new one?’
‘Soon, Jane.’
‘Can I scout one? One like Ryan? I know how.’
‘Of course.’
Jane turns abruptly and throws her arms around Penter’s neck. ‘I love you, Penter.’
Penter gasps as her chest is flooded by a warm wash of pleasure. It is nothing like the ragged anxiety she felt for Father. This feeling is deeper, blissful. The research was right after all.
She looks over at her daughter, and when she says the words, she now knows what they mean.
‘I love you too.’
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