She doesn’t even say hi.
“Tess, listen. The results are in. We’ve been told to tell you guys who’ve already left that you can go to the school office today or tomorrow, or you can wait and they’ll be posted to you.”
My heart’s just flopped into the pit of my stomach with a thud.
“Hello? Hello Tess? Are you there?”
“Yes. Ja, I am.”
They’re here. After all the stupid rumours. At best, all public exam results got received back in December and got held back for some obscure reason by all the schools’ administrators (were they all too good to be true, or so bad there must be some mistake?) and at worst, the plane carrying them had gone down in the high seas. Or maybe in the Sahara desert somewhere. The same rumours that get regenerated every year.
She’ll know her results already of course.
“So, how was it then? Tell me.”
A gasp at the other end of the line, then, “Okay! Yes, okay. What a relief! I got eight As and a B for French.”
“Well I’m really disappointed in you. A B for French? Well, I don’t know, Jess Marsh. Not good enough.”
But my heart isn’t in the joke. There’s a pause.
“Phone me as soon as you know yours,” she says quietly. “Go on. Go down there now.”
This really isn’t like me, but I’m going to have to forget about Encore’s jumping exercises. Back in my room, I peel off my jodhpurs and put on a pair of shorts, kind of in a hurry to get going, but yet moving as though engulfed in treacle.
“The O Level results are here,” I tell Mum. “I’m going down to the school.”
She looks nearly as sick as I feel.
“Do you need a lift?” she asks, then titters nervously. “Sorry love, of course you can drive yourself. Borrow the car?”
“No thanks. I’ll cycle.”
I don’t want to have to concentrate on driving right now. Still pretty new to me.
School feels like an alien planet now. Lessons over for today, but there are a few pupils milling around, including an A Level geography group about to embark on an afternoon’s field study. Black girls and white girls are mingling, chatting. So different from my early school days. It’s good.
The black lady in reception is new as well. How long did it take her to coil her hair into those beautiful braids? It looks stunning but I wouldn’t have the patience. Two thick plaits is all I’m willing to deal with.
“I’ve come to see the Deputy Headmistress,” I tell her. “Exam results.”
“Oh yes,” she replies, pointing along the corridor. “She’s free now. Go ahead. Good luck!”
Mrs Fincham looks up at me from over her half glasses and under her floppy grey fringe. “Hello dear?”
“Tessa Harmand. O Level results. Told to come.”
Correct sentence construction, a subject of one of Mrs Fincham’s little assembly sermons on the necessities of life some time in the distant past, is quite beyond me today.
“Oh yes.”
She has a lever arch file on her right. She opens it and runs a forefinger down the dividers, chooses one – presumably ‘H’ – and flicks all those above it over the arch mechanism. She lifts the lever, extracts a narrow flimsy sheet and holds it out to me.
Why’s it so near the top? Oh – maybe ‘HA’.
I take it as though it’s about to explode in my hand. It’s a computer print-out, a page filled with words and letters that make no immediate sense. My name is at the top – ‘Harmand T.L.’ – with my candidate number, and the subjects I took are listed below, each with a grading letter adjacent. I allow my gaze to slide slowly downwards, each letter popping into focus and then fading away before the next. There are nine of them: four consecutive As, followed by five Bs.
I run my eyes up and down the column several times. I have read it right. Only now do I refer to the subject list, to discover what the A grades were for: maths, biology, English language and English literature.
“Maths?” I say aloud, filled with wonder. “An A for maths?”
Mrs Fincham smiles but says nothing.
*
Danny chuckles. “Those innocuous little paper slips are our tickets to freedom or to university, aren’t they? Like airline tickets, hey?”
I pull a face at Rosie, who’s doing her kissy-kissy noises through pursed lips and hugging herself. I thought it was funny once and she made me feel smug, but now it just hurts.
“Well the destination’s not that exotic but I’m happy. Relieved. All of us – we’ve got what we wanted, haven’t we? You, me, Jess, Gordon.”
“A celebration coming up? Shall we all get together?”
Like the one when we finished the exams last year? I don’t think so. It started perfectly fine but I didn’t care for the ending and the ground has shifted since then.
I avoid a direct answer, we chat a bit more and then end the call with a promise to see each other on Sunday. Just Danny and me. Jess and Gordon are involved in some family do at Jess’s place.
I’m not entirely sure how much longer there’ll be a Jess-and-Gordon. She’s still acting like she’s all lovey-dovey with him but something’s not ringing true. Certainly since Monday, when she turned up unannounced simply to tell me she wasn’t pregnant, I’ve felt vibes that she’s not willing to divulge and I’m not willing to question. And I’m not the only one. Rosie, of course, without knowing any of the facts, is convinced they’ve split up. I never said a word to her, I swear.
“Jess is looking a bit crushed, I reckon,” were her words. “Seems like it’s all over, yeah?”
We’ve all passed the exams and are moving on. So what about Chipo? Impulse drives me to look up “Makoni” in the directory. There’s only one in our area and I hold onto the impulse and dial before I can chicken out. A cultured male voice answers in English. His tone contains surprise until I explain who I am.
“Ah, Tessa? Yes. Chipo has talked about you. Please wait. I will call her.”
She comes to the phone breathless, her tone pitched to incredulity.
“Tessa! What a surprise! How did you do? Did you pass?”
I give her my results in as neutral a voice as I can muster.
“Well…”
I get the feeling this pause is for dramatic effect, and I’m right. She squeals, “Eish!” and I move the receiver a little further from my ear, grinning like I’m about to burst.
“I passed too! Seven Bs, but I failed French. I knew I’d fail French! I don’t need French. Hey, you’re going to college aren’t you? Which one?”
“Speciss College. My new boss has already enrolled me to do book-keeping and business studies and I start the first week in Feb. Day release, Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Me too!” Chipo shrieks. “We can sit next to each other and compare notes.”
A new friend. I have a new friend. The day just keeps getting better.
When I skip into the lounge, clapping my hands, Dad smiles, but doesn’t look up from his paper.
“Was that that Jess-person again? It was a short conversation for her, wasn’t it?”
He’s always maintained that Jess was born with a special ear attachment for a telephone receiver.
“No. Chipo Makoni.” I flop down onto the sofa.
“Who?”
“Another girl in my class last year. She passed her Os too.”
“Makoni?” Dad laughs. “A jungle-bunny, eh?”
Oh yes, Dad. How amusing for you. You’ll be thinking she shouldn’t have come out of the jungle in the first place, huh? I can’t be doing with this. I really don’t see why I should explain that she’s my friend. I have other calls to make anyway. To Gill – and Charles of course. He needs to know his newest employee is at least in some way qualified now.
As I stalk out of the room I hear Dad sigh behind me. He’ll reflect briefly on female moodiness and then return to whatever he was reading in his newspaper.
Charles answers the call.
“Excellent, Tessa! That’s my girl! So you’ll definitely turn up on the fourth of Feb then?” Once again I move the receiver away a fraction.
“I most certainly will, Charles.”
“Do you need a lift? You’re most welcome to come with me, but I go in very early sometimes.”
“No, thanks. Dad’s offered to be my chauffeur. It’s only a five-minute detour off his own route. On college days I’ll catch a bus into town.”
“You need a car, girlie.”
School finished with, major exams passed, got a job, the war has ended, but my future’s not quite complete. He’s right. I need a car.
“Dad did say once I’ve earned a few months’ salary he’ll help me find one.”
“Well let me know too when you start looking and I’ll see what I can find out. You want Gill? Hold on, don’t go anywhere.”
“Gill!” he bellows away from the phone.
There’s some very pleasant daydreaming to be done on used car dealers’ forecourts but unfortunately Dad hasn’t yet specified exactly how this car will be paid for. The notion that my new salary was going to make me rich beyond belief has taken a nosedive after the calculations involving PAYE tax, pension contributions and medical aid society payments I did this afternoon. Maybe I’ve just got expensive taste in cars.