45

HEAT AND BUSTLE

WINIFRED CRANED OVER WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE ROTTEN fence to see what was happening next door, though all she could make out were people shapes moving in the kitchen. A minibus taxi with taped plastic peeling off the window gaps rattled up to the house and died in a puff of diesel smoke. A hand came out of the driver’s window, unwound the wire holding the door closed, and a wizened little jockey with a cap on back-to-front jumped out and ran up the steps to the kitchen. Seconds later, he hurried down again with Greg, who helped him carry a shiny box-like machine with a glass top into the house, then two gas cylinders.

Oxygen? she wondered. Are they going to operate on that poor girl? Is the baby in trouble? To override the worry, she went into the kitchen to find the tin funnel they used for decanting lemon cordial. The latest batch had cooled overnight and she’d have to bottle it because the trading store had run out, Khanya was coming for more and Dulcie was still snoring under her patchwork blanket of cats.

As Winifred worked, she resolved to phone the SPCA from the tickey box on Monday. Without fail.

Cassie lay moaning as Greg stroked her drenched and tangled hair. On either side were Sister Dineo and Palesa; Sis’ Diliza and Dr Ulrich were bent over in consultation between her raised spread knees.

The doctor muttered, ‘Well into the birth canal now and fully dilated. How is the heartbeat?’

‘Weaker. Thready.’ Palesa’s task was to check the baby’s faint pulse every few minutes through the listening trumpet.

‘I need more light. We must release the perineum and go in.’

‘Okay.’ She put the trumpet down and reached for the powerful torch he carried for emergencies.

‘Hold it high. Forceps, Sis’ Diliza.’ He made a counter-sign with his gloved forefinger and pointed at the scalpel on the surgical tray.

‘Forceps, Doctor.’ She put the scalpel in his hand.

Cassie screamed and began to thrash her head about.

‘Keep your wife still or there will be more damage!’ he barked.

‘More damage?’ Greg whispered. ‘Is she— is the baby—?’

‘Divert her attention. Try to calm her. Talk sweet nothings.’

Dr Ulrich motioned Sister Dineo and Palesa to raise Cassie’s hips and slip a pillow under them, easing her bent legs wider. Then he leaned forward and steadied the scalpel for an episiotomy. As he made the cut and deftly snatched the instrument back, blood spurted and she gave another ear-piercing scream and clapped her legs together.

‘Nearly over now, lovey.’ Sis’ Diliza stroked her thighs with gentle hands until they relaxed again. ‘The baby is coming.’

‘Take the pillow away and lift her upper half,’ said Dr Ulrich and motioned for the forceps.

‘Here, Doctor.’ Sis’ Diliza passed them to him, then reached for a tissue to wipe the sweat off his face as he leaned forward again.

‘Ma-Jesu, help her,’ Sister Dineo prayed as she and Greg and Palesa raised Cassie’s head and shoulders. ‘Help the baby. Holy Mary, Mother of God—’

‘Wits Medical School and thirty years of experience help them, you mean,’ Dr Ulrich grunted as he began to ease in the forceps. ‘Virgins wouldn’t know what a cock-up means.’

Holy Joe Row was bustling. Sister Hilary and Sister Nokwe hurried off to the Beijing Bazaar with a list and Sweetness’s measurements. The remaining nuns tidied and swept the ex-garage so it was ready for Mother Esmé’s morning visit. At the Salvation Army hostel, members of the band gave their brass instruments a final polish and a few parps before marching to the bus and taxi terminus, then up and down the tarmac. Their usual Saturday morning route.

The Quakers were holding a cake sale on trestle tables outside the meeting house where Una Dauncey plumped for a granadilla Victoria sponge, her favourite. She would have it to herself because the Reverend Ambrose had decided to fast in protest against the hysteria over the brown Madonna.

‘Fasting won’t accomplish anything if nobody knows about it,’ had been her reaction at breakfast when he announced that he would only drink black tea. Without sugar.

He snapped, ‘I’m not doing it for show. It’s a spiritual renunciation you wouldn’t understand.’

‘Manifestly too stupid, moi,’ she said, and made a bacon omelette for herself to torment him. She knew it was childish, but he was so annoying.

Pastor Nazaret had asked Hester to make a pot of coffee so they could give their knees a break from prayer. Now they were sitting on the stoep of the branch pastorie, watching the commotion.

‘Unusual activity in the village this morning,’ he said after his second cup.

‘It’s the Devil at work, stirring people up.’ Hester had palpitations just thinking about it.

‘Our struggle is never-ending. So back to our labours. If you’ll just wash the cups and the coffee pot in the meantime and put them away. Tinkie likes a tidy kitchen.’ He didn’t see the momentary niggle of doubt on her face as he went off to his study.

Down at the football ground, Violet Jabula in a tailored jumpsuit was pacing up and down as she waited for the tabernacle tent, chairs, tables, portable toilets, temporary stage and sound equipment to arrive. From previous experience, she knew that erecting everything and getting the sound system synchronised with the lighting schedule took time.

‘They’re late,’ she groused to the prophet’s youngest wife, who had been allocated to help her that morning. ‘I told Mashonisa to deliver by eight sharp.’

‘The big van’s here. It missed our turn-off and went too far. Now the driver’s trying to reverse through the traffic. And there’s a mad old woman riding round on a tractor. One of the Van der Lindes.’ The youngest wife, recently out of matric, was giggling.

‘It’s nothing to laugh about. I need the small marquee up before the food arrives or it’ll go off by tomorrow. Send someone down to tell the driver to hurry up while I go and phone the office. If the stuff’s not here by nine, it means ten per cent off the hire charge. That’ll get them jumping.’ Violet stalked away in the red leather boots she had bought on her last visit to Italy, exasperated as always by other people’s inefficiencies.

Ten minutes later, the pantechnicon backed into a delivery truck, smashing its radiator and causing a snarl-up compounded by the Salvation Army band, which chose that moment to wheel out of Holy Joe Row and march along the crowded gravel verge towards the post office, trumpeting “Onward Christian Soldiers”. It took Captain Ngobese and the riot squad an hour to sort out the confusion of buses, taxis, bakkies, cars and gawkers, by which time Violet was threatening to lop another ten per cent off Mashonisa’s fee.

For such a momentous day, the omens were not good. A hot breeze whisked along the settlement’s paths and over the football ground, raising swirls of dust. Meat delivered early was stacked in plastic crates under a tarpaulin that got warmer as the sun rose higher in the sky. People grew tetchy as they stood in lengthening taxi and bus and food queues where vendors were struggling to cope with the increased demand.

Policemen strutted all over the place, bossing everyone and sweating in their uniforms. The hard liquor was still to come from the wholesaler. At the café, the fresh batch of bread was already running out; Tex had to call his assistant over to fry chips so he could make more bread dough and set it to rise. Vehicles kept arriving, many of them packed with the prophet’s followers who had come early to secure good places at Sunday’s gathering, and parking space was dwindling. The Outspan bar fridges could be heard struggling to cool down the warm beer that had been delivered.

Sid Barker woke still feeling crook and went downstairs in a rage. ‘Where is Alboreto?’ he demanded of Benjamin, who was at the front door reluctantly turning away yet another bed-seeking journalist.

‘He’s with the nuns.’ Benjamin came back into the lobby with a cheerful smile, though it died when he saw Sid’s face.

‘Call him. We’re leaving.’

Benjamin thought, Big relief, I’ve already let your rooms, but said, ‘What about Mother Esmé? She hasn’t appeared yet. Making a statement to the police about the intruder last night took a while.’

‘What intruder?’

‘Didn’t you hear all the noise? Someone was trying to break into my safe and she trapped him with a chair and a paper knife.’ Benjamin still found it hard to believe that a frail old nun had taken on an armed man Captain Ngobese described as dangerous. ‘She was amazing. Really brave.’

‘Reverend Mother? No ways. She’s crippled.’

There was a chuckle from the doorway of the manager’s suite. ‘Not so badly that I can’t strike a blow for justice, Sid.’

He reddened. ‘I meant—’

‘I know what you meant. The word is disabled. An unpleasant consequence of advancing years and arthritis.’ Mother Esmé, bowed and moving with care, shuffled forward in her grey habit. ‘I confess I am not at my best this morning. Let us ’ave some petit déjeuner while my painkillers do their work.’

‘But I’m going now,’ Sid protested in vain as she swept him towards the dining room. Benjamin went to the phone to warn Father Alboreto that they’d have to leave by twelve so he could get their rooms ready for other occupants. He said he’d be honoured if Mother Esmé would stay on for a while; he’d sleep in the pantry if necessary.

As the momentum picked up, some of the villagers were coining it. Old Mrs Ming made pies all morning, which Girlie sold at double the normal price. In the trading store, Khanya, Jo and Tsietsi could hardly keep up with the demand for ice cream and glasses of lemon cordial. On the veranda, Vigilance did a roaring trade with the hardly worn second-hand shoes he bought cheap from the pawnshop in town. Ma Sicelo’s spaza shop sold out before noon to people fed up with standing in queues to get to distant supermarkets. When Lily counted up the money in the cashbox, they couldn’t believe the total.

Tannie Charmaine’s tractor had trundled right through the village, swerving round cars and people who parted like the Red Sea in front of its chuntering metal teeth, before she remembered how the brake functioned. She came to rest where the tarmac ended, just before the bridge over the dry river bed. A gaggle of yelling kids had run after her, and now they stopped in a dusty semicircle, looking at her open-mouthed as though she were a ghost.

It was time to re-engage with the village.

‘Nou ja, kinders,’ she said, ‘how about some ice creams? I need one myself. Driving tractors is hard work.’

As they followed the queen-size mauve lady back up the road towards the café, they met Mad Zizwe on his way to the riverbank to train his dogs, who peed on the tractor wheels before loping on. Swart Barend would never understand why all the farm bitches went into heat the following week.

At the football ground, the tabernacle tent and marquee had at last arrived and were going up under Violet’s direction, with chairs and tables and portable toilets being marshalled. The sound equipment squeaked and burped as it was tested on the stage erected against the lower slope of the koppie.

In the post office, Luxolo snapped at an enquirer, ‘The post went at nine sharp. As usual. I stick to the regulations, even if others don’t.’