She makes no move to mount her bike. Instead, she leans it against one of the metal bollards along the verge.
“You go on home. Gordon’s picking me up in the car and we’ll put my bike in the boot. I get to have a car ride home on the last day – fab, huh? We’re going to the flicks to see Grease, to celebrate later. I wanted to ask you to come along too. We could pick you up. I’ll phone you to let you know what time?”
Right. Okay. This is the first I’ve heard of it and we’ve been together all day. So I’ve been working on this idea that we should go to town on the bus one day next week to see Grease, but I haven’t got round to suggesting it. Too late, I guess.
“Well, um… Nah, don’t worry. I don’t really want to play gooseberry. Thanks anyway. It’s okay. I’ll just go home.”
“So what’ll you do? Wash your hair and watch TV?”
Ha ha.
At our gate, when I dismount, I stand for moment and the world around me is silent. Like I’m the only person left. I can’t even hear any birdsong and nothing is moving, not even the brittle brown grass blades along the verge, left a little long through the winter. It’s one of those weird moments in which I can’t recall anything of my journey to get here. The past ten minutes have been and gone and I’ve got no recollection of them. I was with Jess outside school and now I’m here, at home.
That’s what comes of focussing inwards on yourself with such dedication. I’ve been tearing my whirling emotions apart and what I’m realising now, as I stand here with one hand on the cool metal of the gate latch and the other on the handlebars, is that I’m jealous. I’m jealous of my best friend.
Not just jealous. Furious. With her. For the first time ever. I have a knot in my middle and tears in my eyes and it’s stupid.
There was Clive. And then Clive was ditched and we got on with our familiar little lives. And now there’s Gordon and they’re calling her Ma Baker already. She clearly isn’t interested in me anymore. Well, I don’t care. Wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. You don’t want anyone to ask questions, do you? What would you admit to?
But it looks like there’s no-one home, so it doesn’t matter. I can hear a few birds now but it’s still just me in the world. And actually, I do care.
I let myself in, and the bike tyres and my shoes scraping the gravel and the metallic click and creak of the gate fill the space around me. I do care. I’m alone. I sent Mark-from-Saint-George’s packing the night of that disco. He was interested in me but I let him go and now I have nobody. Jess has abandoned me for Gordon and Gill has Tim. They’ll be going for evenings at the movies, for weekends out at the lake, to family braais. They’ll get chauffeured about and have a regular partner for the discos and the parties.
Jealous. Me, who never thinks beyond going back and forth from school, riding horses, reading books, walking for hours with Rosie and Skellum, listening to music and sunbathing in the garden. It’s like Clive’s back, but worse, because this time my gut tells me Jess is really hooked.
I do bloody care. I don’t want to lose either her or Gill. And I also bloody care that, at the age of fifteen – or nearly – I’m apparently on the shelf. I remember now that Mum’s taken Rosie to a tennis lesson. Elijah must be on errands somewhere and I can’t ride Induna because he had his vaccinations this morning, so I get to mope around the house all afternoon. Alone.
At two-thirty, there’s a call from Gill. She just wants to report that all went well with the vet and that Indie was perfectly behaved.
“He’s such a poppet,” I say, picturing my poor horse having a big needle stuck in his neck. “How was Bravo? Did he have to be sedated in the end?”
She makes a ‘huh’ sound. “Well, no. His master’s back, isn’t he? Good timing really. The horse was not happy about it, and the vet had to work quickly, but he was remarkably tolerant. That boy’s a wonder and Bravo trusts him explicitly.”
It’s a couple of seconds before I twig onto what she’s saying. She picks up on my hesitation and confirms, “Nath arrived home this morning? Ten days off.”
I think she did tell me, but I’d forgotten. I ask the obligatory but rather meaningless question, “How is he?”
“How is he? What, apart from the several days’ worth of beard, which looks mighty strange on him? I don’t know. He’s bloody tired of course. Shut himself in his room now for a sleep. He doesn’t ever tell what he’s seen out there. He seems a little more… what’s the word? Hardened? Cynical, maybe? On his first stint he didn’t see any action but this time… I don’t want to think about it. Sounds like he’s been in at least two contacts. I guess he’ll tell me soon enough what happened but I’d rather not know. He said they want him to go on an officer training course.”
There’s a resigned tone in her voice. We agree I’ll ride both tomorrow and Sunday and hang up.
At four-thirty, Mum and Rosie blaze into the house irritatingly full of excited chatter. My kid sister’s been selected to represent her club in the under-thirteen group at a national tournament, so I get twenty minutes of that. Then, with a load of unnecessary drama, she produces a camouflage forage cap, identical to the one Charles gave me.
“Look at what I got!”
She’s gloating, parading across the living room with the hat at a jaunty angle. She sighs and clasps her hands together.
“Rob gave it to me! Oh he’s divine, Tessie. Do you think he’ll marry me one day when I’m old enough?”
I’m in no mood to respond in any way kindly to such a suggestion by my twelve-year-old sister.
“I doubt it. I bet he has a really stunning girlfriend he wants to marry desperately. You’re being incredibly silly. He won’t even look at little girls like you.”
“But he likes me!” Her voice is choked and she stalks out of the room clutching her new hat to her breast.
Maybe my tone was a little too acid.
I ought to apologise, but instead I pick up the day’s edition of The Rhodesia Herald and flick through the pages in search of the television viewing schedule. I will watch TV actually. Maybe wash my hair too.
At five-thirty, Jess phones. She’s made plans and as she talks my matt black mood explodes into glorious technicolour. Once I’ve finally decided she’s not winding me up, that is.
“Tess, your life is due to change tonight. I’ve fixed you up with a date. Gordon’s friend, Danny Proctor, is coming. You know of him, don’t you? Gordon’s driving, but listen – tell your mother that mine is dropping us off and picking us up. We’ll park the car near your neighbour’s gate and wait for you. Say, seven o’clock?”
I’m cool and casual in response. After a suitable pause I say, “Okay, cheers. See you later,” and hang up.
Sure, I will go out with them after all. It sounds okay. So maybe I’ll start some preparation now.
I try on my favourite Indian cotton skirt, turning this way and that in front of the mirror to watch the soft fabric and bold colours swirl. It’ll do. With a plain white blouse. Then I go through several different pairs of earrings, help myself to a little of Mum’s make-up while she’s cooking and Dad’s in the en-suite bath making untidy-sounding splashing noises, and am fairly pleased with the overall result when I study my image critically in the full length passage mirror. I tie my hair back into a pony tail with a scarf that matches my skirt perfectly, but then after a few moments’ consideration I pull it out again to let the hair sweep my shoulders. A small sling bag, containing my purse and a comb, and the light linen jacket I got for Christmas last year will complete the effect. I take it all off again, lay it out on the bed, go for dinner.
I know of this Danny Proctor. Like Gordon, he’s in Lower Sixth and wrote his O Levels at the end of last year, passing with, I believe, exceptional results. That’s one of the reasons I know who he is. The other is because he’s captain of Second Team rugby and rugby is nothing less than a religion in our school. I’ve seen him. He’s one of the tallest in his year and has dark blonde hair, he’s a rugby captain and he’s clever, and taking all of this into account, I can’t believe Tessa Harmand is going on a date with him, even if Jess has set it up. Why doesn’t he already have a girlfriend? Maybe he does. Maybe he’s a philanderer. Gets about a bit.
My self satisfaction takes a little dip while I consider this possibility but it doesn’t last.
At six-forty I get dressed again and go out to wait impatiently – no, calmly – on the patio in the cool, burnished evening light.
Ten to seven and I can hear the sound of a car in the road, slowing, stopping. The engine is cut. I can’t see it through the hedge, but the headlights penetrate the thick foliage. It’s some distance from the gate.
I leap up, then sit down again. Wait. A female figure appears at the gate and waves at me through the gloom. Jess.
“Jess and her mum are here!” I call, to which my father shouts, “Have a nice time at the cinema. Don’t slip on the grease.”
“Ha ha.”
Although I may appear cool as I walk down the drive, my heart’s agitating against my ribs. Silly.
Gordon is behind the wheel of the Peugeot station wagon. Jess’s back in the passenger seat and he has a hand resting on her knee. Danny’s on the rear seat. We do the hello-hello-how-are-you-I’m-fine-how-are-you and he makes complimentary remarks about my skirt and my earrings. Warm smile, green eyes… mmmm, pretty nice. I’m ridiculously pleased. It’s a satisfactory start.
*
Karen Carpenter’s voice is drifting across the car park. Over the top of her, the driver on our left is having a loud debate with his companions about the merits of the burgers versus the hot dogs.
“Er, ja,” he shouts into the microphone perched on the pole next to his window, “Three, er, hot dogs. Ja, onions. Ja, mustard. All of them, ja.”
The hot dogs are good – I can vouch for that. Gordon and Jess had a similar debate before opting for the box of chips they’ve got their heads together over. Jess’s picking out all the small crispy ones in the silence that accompanies people tucking into food. There’s a burst of laughter from the car on the left and Karen’s gone quiet. Rod Stewart takes her place.
Danny’s finished his burger and is licking his fingers and I need to find something sophisticated to say. I’ll ask him about himself and what he does at weekends. Is that suitable? I’ll ask as soon as I’ve finished this mouthful.
“Now Tessa, I’m sure there’s more to you than a passion for hot dogs. And how very delicately you eat them as well. So tell me about yourself and what you like to do at weekends,” he says.
That’s my line gone.
I have a go at mumbling an apology, swallow at the same time and narrowly avoid choking. So much for sophistication and his observation that I eat delicately. I shake my head, point at my mouth and attempt to suppress the stupid giggle that wants to escape.
He’s well overtaken Mark from Saints by now. He’s charmingly attentive without being overpowering. He keeps his distance, but maybe I wouldn’t mind if he got a little closer. He wants to know my opinion about the film trailers we watched and the soundtrack of Grease and the American high school system. He’s keen to have conversations. My primary objective right now is to make sure I don’t put my foot in it and spoil things, like I thought I was going to when he asked me if I like John Travolta. I can’t believe I was paranoid enough to assume he was testing me. Now, over an hour later of course, all the right sort of words, the slick answers like “Well he can dance a bit but I much prefer the Danny I’m with tonight” are sliding easily round my head but at the time I just went, “He’s a great dancer” and Danny said “Do you like dancing then?”
But it was all just fine.
“I ride horses,” I tell him around the remains of my mouthful. “Quite dotty about them.”
He nods and I’m scrutinising his expression to see if I can identify genuine interest. I reckon I can. That’s what I want to see anyway.
He tells me his grandfather was in the mounted police in South Africa, reputedly a good rider who knew a lot about horses. “I’ve ridden a horse only once I’m afraid,” he concludes.
“Well that’s a start.”
I take another bite. A smaller one this time.
Jess has caught on to our conversation.
“Don’t get Tessa talking horses for God’s sake. She’ll lecture you to death about… trotting and stuff… and describe every one of Induna’s hairs to you.”
“Whose hairs?”
“Induna’s. My horse. Shut up, Jess, and get back to your snogging.”
I tell Danny that I keep my horse at the Owens’ place, expecting him to know of it. He gives me a blank look but smiles delightfully at the same time.
Gordon and Jess declare simultaneously that they both need to visit the toilets.
“Too much Coke earlier,” Jess says.
“Yeah, right. Off you two go together, never mind us,” says Danny.
They vanish in the direction of the main complex and we’re alone.
We talk for a while. This and that, school, his older brother Brian and my Rosie. It’s very easy – much easier than I expected. Then he says, “Hey, Tessa, just an idea… look… I wondered… um… My brother Brian’s met this girl in the army. Cassie. She’s a radio operator. Would you like to… well, he’s back on RNR next Tuesday… maybe go out together with them?”
There are a few desperate seconds during which I know I could get this so horribly wrong if I’ve misinterpreted his words.
My drawn in breath – I didn’t mean to suck in like that – sounds like a tidal wave in here with the music, voices and car engines as remote as a soundtrack faded out. Has he just asked me out again? Whatever he’s reading in my face has given him some cause for doubt.
“Um… They’ve been going to Y.F.C.C. on Fridays. I’m not sure it’s really my thing, but he’s been on at me to go along. It would be so much better if you could come too. I… um… I suggest this because it’s like a… a good, kind of safe thing your folks will be happy with us doing? Would they? I hope so. Brian and Cassie will be with us, you can tell them. I can come over and ask them myself if you like?”
The green eyes are only for me, interested and concerned at the same time, absorbing, lit up by the backdrop of electric light from The Gremlin restaurant on our left. How have I ended up being asked out by such a classic storybook Romeo when I’d thought the best I’d get would be someone like mop-haired, unsubtle, boy-racer, gotta-be-like-Dad Timothy Dalton? This guy wants to take me out but is concerned how my parents will react. Oh yes, I’m liking this.
Only thing is, I don’t have a clue where we’re supposed to be going. It’s my turn to look blank.
“Y.F… What? Sorry? Go where?”
“Y.F.C.C. Youth For Christ Church, at Wylie Road Chapel. If you want to?”
Now he’s looking at the floor.
The deep part of my core that’s been doing back flips with delight at this new invitation promptly sinks down into the heels of my sandals like the original lead balloon. Church?
I’m completely mute. The cogs and gears of my brain grind in desperation for the longest moment ever, but no words get churned out. There are some flashing reminders of reluctant attendance at a Sunday School eons ago, a whole lot of stories I never took as anything other than stories, and of me slinking strategically into the back row for R.E. classes so I could make a start on my maths homework from the previous period. We don’t do church. We never have.
But, seated in Gordon’s car at The Gremlin drive in restaurant, on my first real date, surrounded by the smell of burgers and chips and the sound of piped music, I hear myself tell Danny I’d love to go with him. To church.
Well I’m not going to say no, am I?
“Will you phone me and let me know times etc? I’ll give you my number.”
I write it on the inside of the torn lid of the box that once held his burger, with a biro we find in the glove compartment. The real number this time.