“No, no, no, don’t buy it for that,” Aunty Pauline instructs Mum. “You can get it for a lot less than that, my dear.”
Mum mumbles something I don’t hear and carries on fingering the intricately crocheted table cloth the wrinkly black woman is holding out to her. The younger woman flourishes her own set of crocheted place mats across the gap between the two of them, grinning and emphasising how pretty they are, how brightly red.
Aunty Pauline’s clearly up for a bit of bargaining. Straight out of the pages of one of Rosie’s fashion magazines she is, with her blow-dried, smooth golden curls, her crisp, beige shorts and cream shirt and her heeled sandals (which are spotlessly white despite the bare, dusty earth underfoot) and the set of gold bracelets tinkling on her arm in time with her gestures. Once again I’m wishing Mum had dressed up a little. I reckon she’s had those ghastly floral trousers since the sixties. She insists on wearing them with her various floral blouses, but the trouble is, none of the floral patterns actually go together. Aunty Pauline’s even wearing make-up. She has such style.
I blame Rosie for putting these thoughts in my head. It would probably have gone right by me if she hadn’t been in such a sarcastic mood when they were loading all the fishing tackle and equipment into that gleaming Land Rover of Uncle Dudley’s on Monday morning, and if she hadn’t hissed at me, “Aunty Pauline’s wearing heels and make-up at five-thirty in the morning! And those kids look like they’re going to a party instead of on a four-hour drive. And look at Mum. Jesus. And I hope that lot don’t see inside our car. Thank God Daddy got Elijah to clean and wax it yesterday. I can’t believe them. They’re just so – I don’t know – well ironed and colour co-ordinated.”
Rosie knows about things like being colour co-ordinated. But although Aunty Pauline looks like a model, I like her smile and her interest in whatever any of us have to say.
“Let’s sit on that stone wall,” Julie suggests, pointing. “Leave the mothers to buy the wares. It’s boring.”
Kariba Town, in the Zambezi Valley as it is, is stinking hot in the summer months from October through to about March. Otherwise, it’s just hot. The Heights is a good name for this place. There are several boats on the deep azure waters of the lake far below and the slightly cooler breeze up here is delicious. My Coke bottle is streaming with condensation. Aunty Pauline’s voice comes drifting across the dusty paved area from behind.
“Ten dollars? Oh no, I don’t think so. I’ll give you seven dollars, that’s all.”
“Yes Madam,” I hear the old woman agree, and then she cackles hoarsely. “Seven dollars, seven dollars. But then you can also buy this pink one for only seven dollars too, eh?”
Julie sighs. “I say if you like it, just pay for it. They’re hardly expensive are they?”
I take a long swig, savouring the view. It’s good how this holiday’s turning out so much better than I’d expected. Julie’s okay. She’s very much like her mother, being blonde – not like the dark-haired twins – enthusiastic, and yet practical. She’s only a year older than me but although I’ve seen her acting the goat with Rosie, like when they were bomb-jumping into the pool yesterday, she talks and acts far more like a grown-up than either of us know how.
“Our mother calls it being thrifty,” I say. “Never mind them. Isn’t the view from here so vast? It’s like being at the top of the world.”
I’ve never thought to question Mum’s financial theory and I’m not going there right now. So, I wonder how Induna’s getting on with the jumping lessons Gill promised to give him this week?
Catherine’s eyes are closed and Rosie’s engrossed in tossing small pebbles down the slope to see how accurately she can land them on that ledge about twenty metres below. From somewhere in the distance comes the hauntingly melodious call of a fish eagle. Squinting up into the sky’s a bit pointless. It’s just an empty glare of light.
“Isn’t that just the most beautiful and sort of lonely sound? It’s a weird thing to say, but it almost makes me want to cry.”
Julie twirls her empty Coke bottle and traces a finger down its wet surface.
“Me too. Cry, the beloved country eh? Like the book. Have you read it?”
I’m sure I’ve heard of it. It’s quite an old book.
“What’s it about?”
“Read it. Mum told us we should because we’re living an illusion if we think whites can hold onto this country. Africa will change. It has to.”
She shuts her eyes and tips her head back, stretching her legs in front of her. “It’s idyllic up here, I agree. Let’s enjoy our illusion. It won’t last. Dad was just saying last night it’s noticeable how many Security Forces vehicles there are around here, in every car park and on every stretch of road. And the place is crawling with troops, don’t you think?”
What do I think? I think other kids’ parents have superior observational powers compared to those of mine. Or is it just that mine do see these things but don’t communicate any of it to us, or in front of us? That utter contentment with the world I felt less than a minute ago? Well, it’s just been tipped over the edge of this very cliff. I want to ask Julie, “What won’t last?” but I don’t want to sound ignorant, or admit that although I’ve noticed the camouflage-clad troops I never thought to ask why they’re here or even to wonder why to myself, to be honest. And that book? I could ask Mum what it’s about but she’ll give me the brush off. I’d hazard a guess it’s about racial politics and she’d tell me it’s unsuitable for me to read at my age. But the Fosters have shared it with their kids because they think it’s important to do so.
There’s not a cloud in sight but it suddenly doesn’t feel so sunny.
Aunty Pauline and Mum have their new table cloths and want to head back to the hotel.
“We’d do better to save our visit to the dam wall and the crocodile ranch for Saturday, the last day,” Mum tells us. “It’s too hot. We need a swim.”
“We must pace our adventures, ladies,” agrees Aunty Pauline.
She’s pretty good at manoeuvring the Land Rover and she gets it out of its parking bay and turns it in the tight car park with dainty gear-shift movements that set her bangles jangling. “We’ll have much more fun than those boys out fishing.”
Mum says it’s a long time since Dad was a boy but she’s sure Andrew can show him how to do it. I doubt it. Andrew, black haired like his father and Catherine, is literally a miniature version of Dudley, all tidily turned out each day in his khaki shorts, a smoothly ironed, tucked in T-shirt, long school socks and clean veldskoens. He pays attention during the adults’ conversations about business and engineering and world affairs and contributes with facts I’ve never even heard reference to. As Rosie said yesterday, the only time we’ve seen him come close to having fun is when he’s swimming and even then he and Catherine compete, diving in together like one entity with barely a splash, keeping pace with each other for several lengths and then eventually racing and comparing notes when they rest. Not my kind of fun for sure. And neither him nor Uncle Dudley come back to the hotel each evening even half as sweaty and water-stained as Daddy.
“How many bream d’you reckon they’ll bring back today?” Julie wonders. “Maybe yesterday’s two will remain the record. Of course they return most of their catch to the depths, as they’ll be so keen to tell us even when questioned separately.”
“I don’t care,” Rosie sighs. “They taste muddy.”