35

SUNSET BLUES

‘AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN AND IN THE MORNING, we will remember them,’ Winifred quoted to Dulcie as they sat on the kitchen steps watching the sun set through the lemon trees.

‘Who said that? Pa?’

‘No, Laurence Binyon. About the young men who lost their lives in the First World War. He didn’t live long enough to know the dregs who went off to the Second.’ Her Royal Air Force pilot had seduced her with poetry under a flaming Highveld sky the evening before he had been due to fly Up North to rejoin his fighter squadron. He hadn’t come back despite his promises, having gone down in flames over Hamburg. In her long disappointment she had learnt to mistrust sunsets and dismiss all men as lying bastards.

‘I remember Pa. He was a lovely man.’ Dulcie bent down to fondle the tabby that had settled purring on her tackies.

‘He bloody wasn’t. He left us in the lurch. And you leave that creature alone.’ Winifred narrowed her eyes. ‘Is it a new one?’

‘No.’ But she said it too fast.

Her sister rose in a rage. ‘You’re cheating again! The cats must go.’

‘But they’re sacred to Isis,’ Dulcie whined – always the same daft whine.

‘That does it.’ Winifred pointed an accusing finger at the roof where several dozen cats lay sprawled on the still-warm corrugated iron while two patrolled the skyline. ‘It’s them or me, understand? I’m tired of their smell and their stinky pee. And I’m sick to death of the way they hang about expecting food.’

‘They don’t. They hunt rats.’

‘Only a few. Look around if you don’t believe me.’ She flung out both arms to include all the others preening themselves in the setting sun. ‘They’re skin and bone like us. Covered with mange. Scarred ears. Infected eyes. Swollen paws. I’ve had it, Dulce. We can’t feed ourselves, let alone this army of freeloaders. I’m calling in the SPCA tomorrow.’

‘But the SPCA will murder them! They’ll stick needles into their poor little kitty veins and squirt them with poison.’

‘About time.’ Winifred turned her back and started up the steps into the kitchen where the syrup for the next batch of lemon cordial was glooping in a giant saucepan.

Dulcie lunged to grab her leg. ‘Then poison me too. If the cats go, I go.’ The tabby lying on her feet fled in a scrabble of claws.

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Don’t be beastly. My furry babies,’ Dulcie wailed. ‘You can’t. You shit!’

‘No, they shit. Everywhere. I’ve had enough. Let go of me.’

Winifred tried to shake off her sister’s clinging hand, but she tightened her grip, moaning, ‘If you poison them, I’ll murder you. One night in bed.’

That makes two of us, Winifred thought. This end game is a bugger. I could do with an SPCA injection myself.

She managed to free herself and retreated to the top step where she gave her final ultimatum. ‘Listen to me. It’s a simple enough equation for even you to understand. There are too many cats. There is no money for food. The cats have to go or we’ll starve.’

Dulcie went all trembly, her usual gambit when she didn’t get her way. ‘Do you want to kill all of them, Win? Can’t I keep some?’

Winifred shouted, ‘I don’t want to kill anything. Except you!’

‘I’m running away, then. Come on, cats.’

‘Good riddance. Bye-bye.’

She was watching Dulcie dither off round the house making mewing noises when the rotting split-pole fence gave a sudden lurch and the young man last seen by moonlight pushed his head through, bleating, ‘I need help.’

‘Go away, we’re busy,’ Winifred barked.

‘Threatening to murder each other?’

She redirected her death rays from Dulcie to him. ‘It runs in the blood.’

‘But—’ He looked ashen.

‘Mind your own damn business. Leave us alone.’

‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’ The fence fell down with a whoomp as he came towards her. ‘It’s Cass. I think the baby’s coming and I can’t get the bakkie started to take her to hospital. What can I do?’

‘Don’t ask me. We’re vestal virgins who don’t have the foggiest about babies.’ Isis would have been proud of Winifred.

‘Nor have I.’ He started bawling.

‘Stop that racket,’ she commanded. ‘You’re a grown man. Go and find a doctor.’

‘I tried but he’s not there. Cassie’s having dreadful pains. You’ve got to help me.’

Her disapproval dwindled to alarm at the prospect of being dragooned into emergency childbirth. She said quickly, ‘I’ll run and fetch Sister Dineo.’

‘But what can I do?’ he moaned.

‘Belt up, for starters. Then you must go back and tell her there’s help coming. Keep talking. And – and boil plenty of water.’

Wondering why new babies should require boiled water, she hurried down the back steps and ran towards the ex-garage.

In the trading store, empty at last, Philomena said, ‘I’m going now to Ma Sicelo. She’s taking Tsietsi while I help Mr Benjamin with the hotel dinner.’

‘He always says to call him Ben.’ Khanya was bundling the notes from the till with elastic bands.

‘“Ben” doesn’t feel right. He’s a boss like Mr Eddie, you know?’

‘Dad’s not a boss any more,’ Jo said from the ladder where she was filling shelves. ‘He’s very sick. Sister Dineo has advised me to call an ambulance tomorrow. I’m signing him into a rehab clinic.’

‘And after that?’

She climbed down with a sinking heart. ‘You know I’ll have to find a buyer for this place. I thought I’d approach Mrs Ming.’

There was a shocked silence at the sudden fall of the axe. Philomena whispered, ‘Sell the store? But what about us?’

‘I’ll see you right, of course. There’ll be compensation and pensions. I’ll try and find other jobs—’ Her courage failed at the stricken look on both faces.

‘In Crocodile Flats?’ Khanya’s question was as bleak as his eyes. ‘There are no jobs. And where will I stay?’

‘Jo-Jo, listen to me.’ Philomena spoke in an unsteady voice that Jo had never heard. ‘More than twenty years I’ve worked for Mr Eddie and also for you. I must get more notice. I have two children and a mother to look after. My husband has not—’ she faltered, ‘has not made contact for a long time.’

‘Oh, Ma Philo, you didn’t tell me. How long?’

‘More than seven months, ever since the mine notified me that he had an accident. They said he was in hospital and would send money, but nothing comes. No letter, nothing. I’m afraid he’s found a town wife and doesn’t want us any more.’ Philomena’s hand went to her chest to ease the pain in her heart.

Jo flung her arms round the woman who had been her mother for as long as she could remember. ‘Of course you’ll both get proper notice. I’d never let you down.’

But I have, she thought. I’ve ignored Dad’s problems since I left for boarding school, while they took responsibility for everything. I’m a self-centred brat who has exploited two people who have given me kindness and friendship all my life. I don’t deserve to become a doctor at their expense.

Khanya said, ‘What if there’s no money left, Jo? The debts are very big. Mr Eddie owes each and everybody. Even me, more than one thousand in wages.’

‘Oh no,’ she sobbed. ‘Not you too?’

Tsietsi stood gazing at the two women weeping like funeral mourners. He would never understand how grown-ups could get so worked up when they had control over their lives; when they had money in their pockets (however little) and didn’t have to go to school and obey teachers. Except for Sister Hilary, she was nice …

That reminded him: he needed to finish his span of clay oxen so they could dry out by Monday. Moving with the stealth of one of Mad Zizwe’s hunting dogs stalking a meerkat, Tsietsi rested his broom against the counter and sidled out to the rain tank in the back yard where the red mud under the tap had just the right amount of clay.

Swart Barend and his armed cohort came to a restless halt at the fortified gates of Vanderlindea. Tannie Charmaine stood spread-eagled in front of them with her chins raised in defiance. ‘Stand aside, vrou,’ he growled. ‘We are marching forth.’

‘No, Barend.’

‘What do you mean, no? This is men’s work. Stand aside.’

‘Men’s rubbish, you mean.’ She went on in the calm way he had admired until then, ‘It’s enough now, mense. This hanna-hanna about a brown Madonna is a sign that we must go back into the community. Wise heads and experience are needed, not testosterone. The war games must stop.’

‘Games?’ he roared. ‘And what donderse community? That place is a bleddy slum. Those people want to take us over.’

‘But it’s our home too, Barend. We need to claim our share, not hide away and sulk.’

It was an impasse. No amount of shouting orders or cajoling would induce her to allow them through. Tannie Charmaine had an adamant glint in her eyes and nobody dared to wrestle with her. Not even Swart Barend, who had spent many an enjoyable night doing just that in the marital bed.

After a tense five minutes, the commando shouldered arms and turned for home, led by a furious patriarch who was only just beginning to comprehend the power of Gandhi’s passive resistance.

As soon as they had trudged out of sight, followed by the gate guards, Tannie Charmaine produced a bunch of keys from the basket by her feet. It would be a long process, unlocking the padlocks that secured the gate’s tangled chains. She was glad that she’d remembered to bring along a thermos of strong, sweet coffee. Men’s work was so tedious.