28

BUSYBODIES

THE VILLAGE WAS LIKE A DISTURBED BEEHIVE, with people buzzing everywhere as they tried to find out what had happened.

The trading store had more customers that afternoon than in the average week, all eager for news. Vigilance presided from his machine on the veranda, as he had in the old days, full of importance. Inside, a harried Khanya had called on Philomena and Jo to help. Tsietsi was kept busy scrambling up the sliding ladder for items on the upper shelves, thrilled to be behind the counter instead of eyeing the bubblegum jars from the other side.

Every so often, Jo went through to check on Eddie, who lay groaning against his pillows, refusing the water she offered by turning away, too shamed to face her. She tried, ‘Dad, you’ll get dehydrated’ and ‘Drink some for me, please’ several times before giving up.

He was obdurate, repeating in a feeble mutter, ‘Mind your own business, Jo.’ Each time, she went back into the store even more determined to sell it and have him committed somewhere.

In the queue outside the Muslim Poor Relief caravan, the Pybus sisters spread the news to the poor who straggled in from the shacks for a twiceweekly free meal. At first the charity workers ladling out nourishing soups, stew and pap or curry and rice from large cauldrons had refused to serve the white women. But they kept coming back with empty bowls, looking more and more pathetic and emaciated, until they too were given nourishing dollops to carry home.

After several months, the charity workers could not understand why they still looked emaciated – and Winifred was suffering attacks of remorse. ‘We’re cheating,’ she’d protested last time they set off with their bowls.

‘They’re sacred cats,’ Dulcie stressed. ‘It’s our duty.’

The mood that afternoon at the caravan was unusual. People in the queue heard and spoke of the vision with brightening faces while the Muslims tried not to look judgmental as they went on ladling. Christians could be really naive sometimes, the way they believed in holy ghosts and worshipped statues.

In his study, fitted from floor to ceiling with shelves of inspirational books, the Prophet Hallelujah sat planning an extravaganza that would wow everyone and take the wind out of the Catholics’ sails. The other denominations had never bothered him, least of all Pastor Nazaret and his zealous disciple, Hester van der Linde.

Tannie Charmaine had suspected for a while that Hester was a bit unhinged – and events would prove that it was more than a bit – though the extent of the pastor’s fanaticism would take everyone by surprise. And the Reverend Dauncey would never recover from the trauma of having to cope in one weekend with a Catholic vision and a Correct Baptised gathering attended by all six of his flock. Nobody wanted to miss the fun. Or the after-feast.

In the meantime, Greg sat at his failing computer in gastric turmoil while Cassie had collapsed on the bed moaning about a bad backache. In the Outspan Hotel, Benjamin rushed round with Obadiah and the cleaning women getting bedrooms and bathrooms ready for the VIPS coming from Johannesburg. At the motel where the gravel road dribbled onto the new highway, Salomie daydreamed of the leopard-print bra and panties Rooi Barend had promised to buy her.

At the police station, Captain Ngobese was organising a riot squad to stand by in case a crowd situation developed. And in the adjoining post office where the door had closed at four-thirty sharp, Simon Luxolo was looking up the regulations regarding trespassers on government property. He was going to succeed as postmaster, even if it meant taking on a disrespectful nun.

Raylene had asked to be dropped off in front of the café after school, determined not to be caught out again by Sister Immaculata. She’d buy biscuits and cheese spread, and emergency tins of beans and soup, plus a can opener, in case of future missed meals. The chattering school kids on the steps fell silent as she went past. Friendly bunch, she thought, then for the thousandth time, What am I doing in this place? I want to go home.

One of the boys called after her, ‘We know what you wouldn’t tell us, Miss.’ She swung back, beaded braids clicking. His face was lit up with glee. ‘Everybody’s heard about Sweetness. Even the man from the newspapers.’

Rod had come, then. ‘Where is he?’

One of the girls offered, ‘Joice took him to find Sweetness.’

‘For two hundred and fifty bucks each!’

The same as Raylene had been offered for the hot tip that had alerted him in the first place. The bastard. Struggling not to show her annoyance, she said, ‘The nuns won’t allow contact with Sweetness until she’s been questioned.’

The kids exchanged eloquent looks.

‘So why’s she gone up there with Joice and the man?’ The gleeful boy gestured in the direction of the koppies to the east of the settlement where three figures could be seen climbing up a rocky path.

Rod had wangled an interview. And she had got back at Sister Immaculata for her meanness in denying even a crust of bread to a starving teacher. So why didn’t she feel more victorious? Could it be the memory of Father Liam’s face looking as though he had seen the Holy Grail – or was it because she had behaved as meanly as her nemesis?

Raylene began to feel guilty.