56

PAY DIRT

ROD HIT HIS VEIN OF GOLD AT A REHABILITATION FACILITY in one of Joburg’s western suburbs, where the brisk voice on the phone said, ‘Esau Moloi? Yes, Ward Ten. He’s coming along well. Who did you say you are?’

‘Rod Greyling, calling on behalf of his family. They’re under my wing.’ Rod was skilled at trotting out convincing explanations. ‘And they’re extremely worried about Mr Moloi because they haven’t heard from him for months. I’ve been tasked to find him.’

‘That’s impossible. I know for a fact that he sent them money as soon as he was able. And letters.’

Philomena was right, then. A town wife. Maybe even a second family. Rod could make music with a philandering father whose daughter was starring on the world stage with a Virgin Mary vision. He said, ‘Could there be any chance they went to the wrong address?’

‘Certainly not. We’re very careful about our patients’ financial affairs. The Chamber of Mines disability fund does not dispense a cent in compensation until all details have been thoroughly checked. The postal orders for rural areas are crossed and have to be signed.’ The voice crackled with starch.

‘There seems to be some mistake,’ Rod persisted. ‘His family hasn’t received anything.’

‘Nonsense. I address the letters myself: Mrs Philomena Moloi, care of Mr E Drinkwater, po Box 12, Crocodile Flats. A nurse aide writes and posts them.’

Pay dirt. A vision and a victim. AILING FATHER OF VIRGIN WITNESS ROBBED. The exposé he would write tingled in his fingertips. ‘How are Mr Moloi’s – er – injuries progressing?’

‘I can’t divulge that information to anyone outside his family.’

‘But the family has nominated me to ascertain—’

‘I’m surprised that Mrs Moloi hasn’t bothered to come and see him, or even phoned in all these months.’ The voice was growing indignant. ‘Patients with such severe head injuries need reassurance that they won’t be rejected.’

‘Head injuries?’

‘I mean, the poor man was blind when he came out of his coma and is still struggling to speak.’

Blind. Struggling to speak. What happens to the letters? Who the hell has their sticky hands on his cash – the nurse aide? Somebody in the post office? Mr E Drinkwater?

Rod said, ‘I will personally make sure Mrs Moloi gets to see him soonest. Tomorrow if possible. Meantime, please inform him that his wife is extremely worried but she and the family are okay.’

‘You do that, Mr Greyling. And I’ll pass on the message. Not that I think Mrs Moloi deserves any sympathy. She could have tried harder to find him.’

‘It hasn’t been easy for her. And you haven’t introduced yourself yet.’

‘Sister Spratt.’ The brisk voice added, ‘Don’t think you can get anything past me,’ before the phone crashed down.

Cassie and Greg were sitting on the bed marvelling over their new son, asleep now in a padded drawer. In their inertia before his birth, they had not got around to buying baby clothes or equipment.

‘What are we going to call him?’ He ran a finger down the tiny pink cheek.

‘He needs two names. Something strong and something grateful. Maybe he is a miracle, like Sister Dineo believes. How about David for a first name? That’s strong.’

‘Ja, that’d be good. I like David. Davy when he’s little.’

‘And for the grateful bit, I asked Palesa. She says that Mpho means “gift”. David Mpho. How does that sound?’

‘Great, it sounds great. David Mpho Ingram. But he’s got to have something better than a drawer to sleep in. I’ll make him a crib.’

‘You?’ she laughed. ‘But you’re all thumbs.’

‘I can change. I’ll teach myself woodwork. Fix the bakkie if Baptist Jolobe will show me how. His taxi looks as though it’s been to hell and back.’

‘Like us. But we’re home now.’

She settled back on the pillows, radiating achievement.

A subdued Sweetness sat down to a late lunch with her mother, Father Liam and the nuns. The grey meat tasted like blotting paper, and Philomena wished she was back at the trading store having tea and sandwiches. Sweetness looked trapped and miserable in the floral blouse and skirt the nuns had insisted she wear. All but two of the dancing butterflies had been banned by Sister Immaculata, who had said, ‘It’s quite unnecessary to have an entire flock perched there.’

The meal was almost finished when there was a knock at the service entry in the garage door. Sister Hilary went to answer it this time. Rejoice was standing outside with Rod Greyling.

‘Hi ladies, me again.’ He gave them a manly grin.

‘Go away,’ Sister Immaculata got up and flapped her hands at them. ‘We are sick and tired of being pestered. Sweetness is incommunicado.’

‘I haven’t come to see her this time. I need to speak with her mother, Mrs Moloi.’ Growing serious, as befitted his news.

‘Mrs Moloi won’t speak to anyone. Now scat!’

Rejoice leaned forward then and called out, ‘Sweetie, he’s found your dad.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Sister Immaculata elbowed Sister Hilary aside, primed to take on a battalion of journalists, but they had all gravitated to the gathering. There was only Rod. In the distance the chants of ‘Ma-Jesu, Madon-na!’ swelled as people left the tabernacle tent, heading for the feast.

Rejoice called louder, ‘He’s found your dad, Sweetie.’

‘Ntate?’ Sweetness jumped up, knocking her chair over.

‘Esau?’ Philomena rose beside her.

‘He’s been very sick in hospital.’ Rejoice nudged the journalist forward, past the nuns. ‘Go on, tell them.’

Rod took Philomena’s hand with tender care and drew her aside from the table and the nuns, saying, ‘Mrs Moloi, remember me from the lunch?’

‘Just a minute.’ Father Liam was on his feet too. ‘Is this another way of gettin’ to Sweetness? If so, please leave.’

‘No, sir. I’ve tracked down her father. He’s in a rehab facility in Joburg, transferred there three months ago to recover from a serious accident.’

‘He’s alive then. Thanks be to God.’ Philomena covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Sweetness burst out, ‘So why didn’t he tell us? Write to us?’

Feasting his photographer’s eyes on her sturdy honeyed beauty and the butterflies in her hair, Rod thought, Yesss! Main pic on all the front pages. Savouring the prospect, he said, ‘It’s not your father’s fault. He sent your mother letters and money, but they’ve been stolen.’

‘He sent letters?’ Philomena gasped.

‘Many. And postal orders too.’

‘But why did he not phone? What is wrong with him?’

Rod put on his gravest face. ‘He suffered severe head injuries which have left him blind and struggling to talk. Someone else wrote the letters enclosing money and said she would post them.’

‘Blind. Is it true, Father?’ Philomena looked stricken.

‘Can’t say for certain, Ma Philo. But I think this man must be tellin’ the truth or he wouldn’t look so entirely pleased with himself. Eh, Greyling?’

‘Got it in one. I’ve checked the facts via another source, notified the Chamber of Mines and the cops, and guaranteed to get Mrs Moloi to Mr Moloi’s bedside tomorrow. My exclusive, agreed? Interviews, photo essay, the works, plus a twelve-hour lead before the info is made public.’ The manly smile was back, triumphant.

‘Under the circumstances, okay,’ Father Liam conceded. ‘Thank you.’

‘But Esau, is he suffering?’ Philomena implored.

‘He’s on the mend, is all I know. And being cared for by a Sister Spratt, who sounds as though she’d go through hellfire for her patients. A dragon lady,’ Rod added.

‘I thought it was the Irish who exaggerated?’ said Father Liam.