Neither of them are here. I still haven’t got used to seeing her around and I can’t bring myself to mention her.
“Nathan?” Gill shakes her head. “No, he’s going to meet us there. He’s had to arrange for some guy to fix the JCB out at Morton Jaffray Waterworks. Broke yesterday, apparently, and they need it first thing Monday.”
“Ja, I know it broke. I walked into him – literally – in the corridor yesterday because I wasn’t able to see where I was going over the pile of files I was trying to balance on my right arm. My left wrist still complains about too much pressure so I was having to bear the weight all on the one arm. I was so locked into watching them for the slightest hint of a slip that I didn’t see him until I collided with him.”
“You shouldn’t have been carrying a load of stuff Tessa. Naughty. I hope he helped you?”
He did, I assure her. He said, “Whoa!”, relieved me of the top three files just before they toppled off, carried them to my office for me and told me about the JCB packing up halfway through digging the trench for the seven-fifty diameter pipeline. Called it ‘That Infernal Machine’.
“I thought he was looking a bit more harassed than is necessary for a pile of unstable stationery. His jeans were, like, blotted all over with oil stains and there was a streak of oil on his right cheek, like war paint. He said him and Andy Unwin had a fight with the JCB for two hours and it won. Then he rubbed the oil streak on his face and wiped his fingers on his jeans. I’ll bet Amai was pleased with him.”
“She’ll make him wash the things himself,” she predicts. “Tell him in no uncertain terms that he should wear overalls. Which he should’ve done of course. You must’ve been working late. He only got back from site at half six, he said.”
“Monthly valuation certificates,” I explain, and she nods. “I don’t mind. It’s interesting, and Megan’s been off quite a lot this month, what with her husband’s illness. It’s just me and Charles sorting them out and your dad pays excellent overtime rates.”
She takes a few steps backwards to the inner kitchen door, claps her hands, head over her shoulder, and yells for Piet. “We’d better go! Where are you? Chop, chop.”
She tells us the day’s itinerary as we climb into the cab of Piet’s pick-up, Gill in the middle and me next to the passenger window. The races will start at twelve and the trainers want to know at least an hour before that what jockeys they’ve got. Piet will arrange the rides for Nathan if he’s not there early enough.
“I just hope he makes the races themselves,” she adds. “Or you’ll have to take his place Piet. Now that would be entertaining.”
Piet grunts and starts the engine. “You know my views on horses darling. Love them from the ground, but don’t ask me to get on one.”
No mention of Sherrie, I note.
*
Off the main road and it’s going to be dust all the way. Ten kilometres of it, Piet estimates. This grey dust streams from the rear end of the pick-up like the tail of a comet. We run into a similar tail that’s following a bus.
“Not staying behind you, my shamwari,” he mutters and he accelerates to overtake the vehicle on a slight incline. Mixed with the dust cloud are stinking black exhaust fumes; the driver will have his foot pressed hard to the floor to get as much oomph as he can before being forced to change gear.
The bus windows are opaque with a film of grime except for the one directly in front of the driver, which has a marginally clearer patch marked out by the path of a single wiper blade. The roof rack is heaped with cases, baskets, cooking pots, unidentifiable sheet-wrapped bundles, one bed minus mattress and a table upside down with its legs pointing to the sky. Right at the front, tied to a rail and dumbly resigned to its windswept fate, is a brown and white goat.
“There. Now you can eat my dust.”
Poor goat.
The District Club at Eagle’s Down Farm is on a flat, dusty plain beside a flat, dusty car park, the two separated by a flat, dusty pavilion-type building The gymkhana events are still running and the bar counter under the pavilion eaves is doing a brisk trade.
“My God, you made it before us!” Gill cries, and there’s Nathan, hurrying towards us, carrying a training saddle, skull cap and whip.
“Greetings. Yup, all sorted thankfully.”
We claim one of the few remaining vacant circular metal tables outside the bar, facing the open field and one of the long sides of the track. Nathan stands the saddle on its pommel end against a chair, dumps the skull and whip on the table (Gill objects: “Oi, leave us some space for drinks!”) and sets off with Piet in search of their farmer-trainer.
I stretch my bare legs out in the sunshine and push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose with one finger. So Sherrie’s let him down? Well, he’ll survive. All is right with the world and I’m here to relax and enjoy the action, which currently is a sack race.
A brawny white youth with a tough bay pony successfully juggles his sack and his reins, avoids being bitten by the petulant pony, ignores the hoarse taunts and insults from the spectators and wins the race. Gill and I join the applause and she whispers that she’s sure they’re all being friendly really. The final gymkhana event is announced – tent pegging. This should be good. I turn to see who the competitors will be, and promptly lose interest. Trailing in the wake of Nathan and Piet is Miss Sherrie, clad in snow white breeches and real soft leather racing boots, and carrying a helmet and the tiniest racing saddle I’ve ever seen.
She greets us like we’re the two girls she most wants to see in the whole world, all “Hi!” and “Wow fab!” and “So glad you made it you’ll love it!” and “Did you see that last race wasn’t it hilarious?” She places a small green paper pamphlet on the table. “Programme for you-hoo!”
For absolutely no good reason I can’t look at her, much less greet her. She looks so perfect and she’s being friendly and nice, which makes my aversion to her all the more uncharitable and unjustified. I pick up the pamphlet and flip through the pages. It’s been amateurishly typed and then photocopied, the pages stapled together. I read a few advertisements for local businesses – a motor vehicle and tractor repair shop, a butchery and a store trading in fresh fruit, vegetables and preserves – and then get to the pages listing the gymkhana events and the nine races. It keeps my attention for maybe three minutes. In the corner of my left eye are Piet and Gill with their heads together as always, and I’m compelled against my will to take a glance to the right, to where Nathan and Sherrie are ridiculously close to each other. She’s touching him, talking in a tone too quiet for me to hear and he’s nodding back. Like a blackout curtain, the world closes in on me. I’m alone and excluded even though I’m with my closest friends. I came out to enjoy myself, be part of the group, but actually I’m the odd one out. Body number five when the others are two pairs.
I could’ve been part of a pair if Danny’d come along. But I never even asked him. No point. He’s never expressed any interest in either the racing or spending a day out with these friends. I look at all of them looking at each other and I want someone to speak to me. I choose Nathan and make sure he knows I’m addressing him alone.
“So, Nathan. Tell me. What’s the difference between the divisions then – this D, C, B and A?”
I know the answer. Piet told me ages ago.
And damn-me if it’s not Sherrie who replies.
“It’s straightforward. Listen up. ‘A’ Division is for ex-professional racehorses from Salisbury or Bulawayo and ‘B’ is for horses that are Thoroughbreds but have never raced professionally. ‘C’ is for part TBs or Arab horses and ‘D’ is for your old farm hacks. The Maiden races here differ from those at say, Borrowdale Park, because they’re for first-timers only, not those who have never won a race. An amateur horse only ever runs in one Maiden, then it has to go on to the appropriate division.”
Listen up? Really? She’s nodding as she speaks, ticking off the divisions on the fingers of one hand, like that will make it more understandable for me. Okay, so my plan backfired and now I have to decide whether I respond or not. Gill comes to my rescue. She twists away from Piet to look at them.
“What races are you two in then?”
Sherrie tweaks playfully at the sleeve of Nathan’s T-shirt.
“We’re both riding for Mick du Preez in the ‘A’ divisions. I ride for Mick often, as well as most of the others. They know me quite well here, you see.”
Oh they know you quite well, do they? I’m sure they do. I transfer my attention to the far side of the track. Nothing’s happening there, but it’s more interesting than Sherrie’s fame. I wish I’d never come.
Gill rescues me again. She’s fished her bag out from under her chair and is up on her feet. “Well I want one of those delectable looking cakes to take home. See you in a bit.”
I almost fall out of my chair, clutching my own bag, and she’s the one following me. She had no idea I was so keen on cake, she tells me, laughing.
Behind me, Sherrie is giving Nathan instructions. “You’d better not have any cake, my boy. The minimum weight for us is sixty-five kilograms but you’ll be over that anyway. I’ll have to carry lead of course.”
*
The first race is the Reedside Butchery Maiden Plate. Over Piet’s shoulder I get a view of the backend of each of the six jockeys as they queue to be weighed in on an archaic set of balancing scales set on a timber plinth. All they have in common is a coloured overshirt and a matching saddle cloth.
“Brilliant! They’re like the Seven Dwarfs, except there’s six of them and four of those are about six-foot three. Tall, short, fat, thin, shorts, jeans, camo trousers… Sandals? Bloody hell, he’s brave. The jockeys at Borrowdale all look identical, apart from their silks. Little skinny blokes in white breeches. You wouldn’t look out of place here, Piet.”
He’s grinning at me, opens his mouth and I cut in before he can say a word. “Tall. Well built. Not fat!”
Sherrie’s voice comes from behind.
“Well they’re only amateurs you know. The set weight for this race is sixty kilograms. Any jockey who’s overweight, like that tall black-haired guy, presents his mount at a disadvantage. Anyone underweight, like me, has to carry lead in a weight cloth to make up the sixty kilograms.”
Oh God, you again. Yes, I do understand the bloody system.
I duck around Piet to get him between me and her and decide not to say what’s just about to come out of my mouth.
“I’m going to have a five dollar bet on number five to win,” Piet says, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. “Looks pretty nippy to me.”
“That dark bay filly, number – what’s it? – four. Number four. She’ll win,” Sherrie predicts.
The filly must be seven-eighths to full Thoroughbred. She’s delicate and lovely and I had my eye on her, and now I’m desperate for her to come last, poor thing.
It’s a bit of a melee. I stick by Piet and Gill in the queue at the Tote stand and concentrate on studying the convivial multiracial punters around me, and the resident Country and Western trio (hailed as ‘Our very own Dixie Boyz’ in the programme) as they set up their guitars, loudspeakers and a synthesizer on the flat bed of a lorry. We head back to the track as they start their first set – me, Gill and Piet linking arms and singing All the Gold in California, the other two following.
“They’re pretty good aren’t they?” I suggest to my companions, and they nod agreement, waving their Tote tickets in time to the music. I’m in the middle so I don’t have a spare hand.
The dark filly races a bit green and hangs out from the rail, but in spite of this, and the fact that her jockey is three kilos overweight, she passes the post at least five lengths clear of Piet’s choice. So maybe I should’ve bet on her, but there was no way I was going to take advice from Her. It’s stupid. I’m acting like a child.
I put my full attention into being cheerful and enthusiastic about everything, applauding the winners and focussing on how sweet the pretty filly is as she accepts a carrot from her owner, while actually all I can hear and see is Sherrie crowing with delight and thumping Nathan on the upper arm. She starts up with tips about the workhorse-like hacks that are collecting in the railed parade ring for the ‘D’ division race because Nathan wants her to tell him which one’s worth a flutter. Gill and Piet are arm in arm, following her patter, eyeing the runners, making comparisons and jokes and I have never wished so hard for Danny to be right here, right now. The wish is a physical sensation in my chest and abdomen, and it almost overrides the tiny voice somewhere in my head taking me back to that moment earlier when I first realised I was Odd Girl Out here. When I had to admit to myself that Danny’s only reason for not being with me today is that he was never invited. By me. Because I didn’t want to hear him refuse.
But would he have refused? I’ve denied him a fun day out. He could’ve assessed the horses with all of us, decided which way to bet, laughed at the jokes, been arm in arm with me. I’m wrong to imagine him so far out of his comfort zone he would need a passport, having nothing in common with Piet, being cool with Nathan and distant with me.
I’m just not getting this relationship thing right, am I?
*
These ‘A’ division horses are a long way from the common old hacks. There are eight of them, all fit, streamlined and stepping out, keyed up for the running. Professional. They’ve done all this many times before, although perhaps they’re missing the well watered grass and the suits, stiletto heels and fancy hats in the midst of all this red dust, overalls and steel toed boots.
Except for the guy in sandals. Idiot. And what about the one wearing shorts? He’s trying to protect his calves from being rubbed raw by the stirrup leathers by wrapping them in a pair of elasticated support bandages, but I can’t believe that’ll do the trick.
Then, of course, we have Sherrie in her professional jockey get-up. Everyone else might have flung their numbered overshirts on last minute, loose to the wind, but hers… she wears it tucked into the waistband of her breeches like she’s carefully selected it from her wardrobe. Needless to say, she’s generating a fair bit of interest. I can feel it around me.
“Number Three,” people are saying. “She’s got Mick du Preez’s chestnut” and “That chestnut, er, what’s it called? Huck Finn. It’s got the best jockey, eh?” and “She won at Beatrice back in May” and “Mmm, sweet.”
I’ll watch Nathan instead. He’s in his black breeches and ordinary black knee-length riding boots but he does kind of look the part I must say. This Mick du Preez guy is greeting him, shaking his hand, gesturing towards the iron grey colt beside him. I wriggle through a few people to get closer so I can listen.
Mick, Gill told me, has known Piet’s father for yonks. He took Nathan on as a jockey the last time solely on Piet’s recommendation and has asked for him again. Early fifties, perhaps? Good looking man, in spite of the sun-worn skin, and I like the Stetson. I wonder if he got it here, or if he’s been to the States? Judging from the tooled leather boots, I’d say he has.
“Okay, Nathan, he’s all yours. Here, I’ll leg you up.” Soft Afrikaans accent. He flips Nathan into the saddle and puts a hand on the horse’s neck, just under the mane, and rubs with his fingers. The colt has worked himself into a bit of a lather but he looks like he’s trying to keep calm, flicking an ear at Mick and chewing his snaffle. His eyes are all over the place.
“Keep him out of trouble and hold him until about three hundred metres out, then do what you can.”
The groom lets go and the grey moves to the outside of the ring in a series of little jog steps.
According to the race card, if Mick’s other entry is Huck Finn, this one must be Waterloo.
“Hey, Tessa?” Gill materialises at my shoulder. “You placing a bet in this one? Sherrie’s got a good chance. Piet says Mick told him that’s not an easy ride but he’s got great form.”
Huck Finn’s groom is having some difficulty keeping his charge in one spot and is being dragged toward us with Mick and Sherrie following.
“They say he’s got this nasty habit of stopping dead, dropping one shoulder and ducking sideways and backwards. He’s dumped a few weak or unsuspecting jockeys. Fortunately, Sherrie is neither.”
No, I’m sure she isn’t. She’s just perfect.
“You ready to win, Missie?” the groom says. “You win good on this hachi.”
Sherrie laughs and fastens the chin strap on her skull cap, then checks the girth and surcingle before Mick legs her up onto the horse’s back. The groom leads him while she adjusts the stirrups from on board. She rides as short as a professional, her thighs horizontal along the top of her teeny weeny saddle.
“How good is that horse Nathan’s riding then?”
“I’m trying to remember what Mick said,” Piet answers. “Pretty good. Think it was that one that won his Maiden and then came third out of ten runners in his next and only other outing but is better suited to a longer run so he might be a bet in the sixteen-hundred metre race later. I’m going to have a flutter on Sherrie in this one though. Both she and the horse have more experience and that chestnut looks like a sprinter. What about you girls?”
The Tote is offering odds of two to one on a win by Huck Finn and five to one on Waterloo. From the queue I can only see one end of the parade ring and Huck Finn happens to be in it. His groom has vanished now and Sherrie looks relaxed but my own horse-sense is telling me she’s very focussed on the animal beneath her. He’s walking sideways in alternate directions, to the left for a few steps and then to the right. It looks innocent but his tail is flicking up and down wickedly. He’s impressive. Pure muscle and well proportioned.
Then he’s gone from my view and it’s Waterloo I’m looking at. This one is younger – leggy and lightly built. He has strong, angled quarters with carved lines of sinewy muscle, well sloped shoulders and a deep chest. Nathan rides with longer stirrups than Sherrie, but they’re still much shorter than I would have for jumping. He’s moulded to the saddle, easily following the colt’s every move, holding the reins in one hand and stroking the wet neck with the other. From what I’ve seen, none of the other six runners are worth consideration. I’m going to follow my gut.
Gill shrugs. “Waterloo to win? Suit yourself. We’d better get ourselves a good position by the finish for this one. Quick, quick. They’re already going up to the start line.”
With one hand on the rail in front of me and Dad’s binoculars in the other, I locate the runners. They’re all over the far side of the track, milling about in a sort of a circle around the starting official. He’s directing, pointing, then he moves away from them and the riders turn their horses together and begin to walk forward in a line. The line straggles as a couple of horses try to surge forward. Huck Finn is a little behind. He’s walking purposefully forwards so it’s a total surprise when he puts in one of his party pieces. He drops his right shoulder and in the blink of an eye is travelling backwards so swiftly that Sherrie is almost left suspended in mid air. She grabs a handful of mane but it’s her lithe and relaxed body that keeps her with him. In that flash, her feet are out of the stirrups and clamped around his sides. Holding them there she takes out her racing whip and stings the horse across his quarters, ready for the backlash – and there is one. Ears pinned flat, he snaps both hind legs out in a furious buck. No denying it, the way she sits that is impressive.
Nathan circles Waterloo around her and they’re having some sort of conversation. She gets her stirrups back (no way I’d sit on a horse like that with my knees up round my ears) and the line forms again. This time all the runners break into a canter together and the Starter drops his flag to let them go.
It’s hard to tell who’s got any advantage through the dust. I can see Nathan about halfway down the field and he looks like he’s on the inside; I can’t see Sherrie at all, except for a bit of blue between two other horses that must be her shirt. Two bends and now they’re bearing directly down on me and it’s even harder to distinguish any order. The blue shirt and a purple one are clearly visible now.
“Sherrie and that Number One!” shrieks Gill in my ear, her binos glued to her face. “They must be neck and neck!”
“Come on!” Piet’s yelling. The babble around us is of similar mind; voices calling “Number Three!” and “Number One!” repeatedly. The weight of the noisy crowd is pushing me from behind, the rumbling from the stampede of hooves building up and pressing from the front. I try to recall who Number One is and take my eyes off the race momentarily to the Tote ticket in my hand with its large red figure seven under the word “Win”.
Oh well. Looks like I’ve lost five dollars.
Someone close behind me bellows, “Number Seven! Number Seven! Chenjera! Watch out for Number Seven!”
I whip the glasses up to my face again; holding them steady against the jostling of my neighbours takes some doing. And here, in the yellow shirt, is Nathan charging Waterloo alongside Huck Finn. Whoever wears the purple – Number One presumably – has vanished from view.
Sherrie has her whip in her outside hand and is cracking it expertly along the length of her horse without actually touching him this time. Nathan has bridged his reins across Waterloo’s neck and is pushing with both hands. The colt responds by giving it all he has. They sweep past the finish line and his nose is well in front. The crowd roars. Clapping and the “Pwheet-pwheet-pwheet” whistle of Africa is all around me. Then they’re flowing in all directions around me like I’m an island in a river. Piet grabs my arm and I’m propelled towards the winner’s enclosure.
The jockeys have pulled up and are returning along the track, walking or trotting. Sherrie and Nathan are together, gesticulating, talking breathlessly to each other. Sherrie lifts the plastic goggles from her face and they leave a clean, skin-coloured patch in her otherwise grey face. Hah! The dust gets everyone in the end. Her breeches are no longer white either. My satisfaction doesn’t last. The exhilaration I see in her face turns it into something I identify as envy.
I’ll show everyone I’m every bit as good a rider as Sherrie Fletcher. Roll on the next race meeting. I turn to tell Piet that I want a ride from one of his trainer friends too but he’s gone, lost in the crowds. The third-placed horse arrives, his connections fussing and cheering, the large farmer-jockey red faced and puffing. By the time I’ve fought my way back to where Sherrie’s describing the finish to Gill and Piet, all the horses have been off-saddled and led away and the punters’ collective interest is waxing for the next race, another ‘D’ division. No sign of Nathan, but then I see him over by the scales handing in the two coloured overshirts to the presiding steward. The Country and Western trio have started up again, twanging chords above the general commotion.
Sherrie’s voice slices through the air, “Isn’t Nathan just a star!” and I see my opportunity. Mick du Preez has just joined Nathan and is probably imparting his congratulations, judging from his dazzling expression. He really does look good in that hat. Never mind Piet. I’ll introduce myself to this trainer.
“Hunches do pay off sometimes!” I exclaim, brandishing my winning ticket. “Well ridden! That was so exciting!”
Nathan’s face is lit by the delight that still takes me by surprise. He carries out introductions as if he’s been cued.
“This is Tessa, my cousin Gill’s best friend. She keeps her horses with us at Makuti Park. Tessa, this is Mick du Preez.”
I plunge in with, “I’ve never been to these amateur races before. It looks like great fun. I’d love to give it a go.”
I swing from Mick’s face to Nathan’s and back again. I have absolutely no idea what I’m letting myself in for. I don’t care.
“Well there you are, Mick,” Nathan says, and he’s amazed, but pleasantly so, I think. “Bring another horse to the meeting at Beatrice next May. It looks like you’ve got yourself another jockey. And a good one.”
He simply could not have said anything better to me right now and the world rights itself. Mick takes my hand and bows over it and I have this reeling, bloody stupid brief moment wondering if he’s married. What if…?
Be serious, Tessa. “Delighted to meet you,” I tell him.
“Well if you have no doubts about her abilities, I’ll do my best to provide her with a horse,” he says. “Enchanted to meet you too, my dear. Speak to some of the other trainers as well, Nathan. You and Piet and all will definitely be coming to Beatrice then?”
I reply for both of us, “You bet!” (well if Sherrie can, so can I) “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m off to collect my winnings.”
I imagine them both watching me as I walk away. Nonchalantly. I’m in.
*
The afternoon shadows are lengthening. The horses have gone, the Tote booths and the scales have been loaded onto a lorry and taken away, and the music system dismantled. There’s a drift in the direction of the club house. Like litmus paper, the sky is soaking up the purple darkness from the east and in ten minutes or so it will be night. The creeping shadows are sliced by the starkness of electric lighting from the building and the red-gold glow from the fires that are being prepared in half-forty-four gallon drums for the evening braai. A few strips of purple cloud lie quietly along the northern horizon but it’s going to be a fine night.
Mick is striding towards the verandah. He catches my eye, waves and gives me his dazzling face. He leaps up onto the decking and leans on our table. Trouble is, its legs aren’t co-ordinating with each other. We know this – we’ve been treating it with consideration – but there’s no time to shout a warning to Mick. We grab our glasses, Piet his bottle of Castle, and Mick goes, “Damn! So sorry guys!” and lifts his hands away. “Tessa! Have I spilt your drink? I’ll get you another?”
Shame I was too quick. “Not a drop, Mick.”
He’s glancing around the table. “No Nathan, or the little professional missy?”
“Gone to the washrooms to shower,” Gill tells him. “Those of us who have nothing to do but wait for our food and the disco are reclining here. We’ve raided the bar as you can see, don’t worry.”
He produces two envelopes, looks like he’s going to hand them to Gill, and then gives them to me.
“A share of the prize money for the jocks. One for each. I’ve put their names on there. I put in an extra bit for Nathan, having won both of his races. I’m grateful, of course. Hope to see him again soon.”
I’m grateful too. I bet on him again and won again, but on shorter odds the second time. The Tote officials have got wind of Mr Owen.
Sherrie’s back first, fresh in a white blouse, jeans and sandals and smelling of talcum powder. Her damp blonde hair is in soft and perfect ringlets around her head. She tucks a duffle bag and her racing boots under her chair. I slide her envelope across the iron-topped table. “From Mick.”
“Oh,” she says, taking it. She has very long fingers. Didn’t someone tell me once that the best riders usually have quite stubby fingers? I’ve never come up with any good reason as to why that should be so. “Did he leave one for Nath as well?”
“It’s okay. I’ll give it to him.”
“No, that’s fine. Give it here. I’ll take it and find him now.” Holding out her hand.
Oh please, not one of those ridiculous I’ll-Do-It, No-I’ll-Do-It conversations. To avoid that I’ll have to capitulate and give it to her. I’m dithering, and someone moves into the frame from behind me. Nathan, here to save me from myself.
*
Piet is keen to get at the food, herding Gill, Nathan and Sherrie before him. I trail behind, wondering where Mick is and thinking maybe I’ll get him to buy me a drink after all. Why I’m pursuing this line I haven’t yet figured out. It will get me nowhere. There he is now, over by the fires, his arm about the waist of the woman who must be his wife. They look very pleased with each other. Told you. You’ve got a boyfriend anyway.
I want to do something rebellious, but I’m not the rebellious type. I slow down even more. Let the others get in amongst the food queue. Contemplate the night sky. It’s a three-dimensional tableau of star constellations that I never see within the reaches of Salisbury’s lights. I’ve done this before, allowing my finite mind to be boggled by the concept of infinity. How can it possibly go on for ever? And if it doesn’t, what lies beyond it?
Gill’s not going to let me get left behind. “Come, Tess! I’ve got you a plate. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just star gazing.”
I’m not hungry but I pick up some boerewors and a lamb chop. A pile of salad I probably won’t eat.
“Baked potato?”
“Oh God, no. No thanks.”
“You’re never trying to lose weight because you’ve got some race riding coming up?” Nathan says, pausing beside me, looking me up and down. “You don’t have to worry. It’s me who should be cutting down.”
I’m just not that hungry, but it’s nice to be complimented. He smells of after-shave, which I’ve never, ever detected on him before.
*
Piet’s put another drink down in front of me and there’s talking, laughing, picking at the remains of food. The Dixie Boyz have turned their musical talents to the operation of the club’s disco equipment. I stare at the dancers without registering any of the moves because I’m still being a misery-guts. Well, trying to stop being a misery-guts. I’m done with chasing melancholy thoughts round in circles and now I’m lecturing. Come on, life is treating me well. It is. Think about it:
I’ve left school, I’m starting to make my way in the world. I have a good job, with prospects – isn’t that how the saying goes? I live in a beautiful country with a perfect climate and spend long hours outdoors riding my beloved horses. I have two horses and I’ve won more prizes than I deserve on them. My family is normal. Yes, really. Compared to some. I have a happy home. And a car. I have special friends and to cap it all I have a steady boyfriend. Danny. I love Danny. He loves me. I’ve had a day out in the sunshine and have been eating and drinking under a trillion stars in congenial company, along with good music, and the food and drinks have been paid for by Piet. He says he’s my host. I’m privileged and bloody lucky.
Things are on the up. We’ve all fought our way through times of conflicting emotions and uncertainty recently. Well, we’ve been doing that for a long while in fact. And the changeover of government, of power, hasn’t proved to be as traumatic as predicted. The see-saw’s levelled itself out, at least for the time being, in spite of the bucketfuls of doom and gloom we’ve been fed.
Maybe that’s what’s causing me to wallow in this melancholy? It would be justifiable.
Actually – unlikely. I’m willing to bet it’s not at all attributable to the politics of men but rather to the hormones of women. When is the next round of The Curse due? Next week I think.
I really shouldn’t drink another rum and Coke. Doesn’t alcohol make you depressed?
I start on it anyway. Focussing on the dancers at last, I see optimistic older couples determined to perform the foxtrot or the sokkie to the music of the seventies.
“Right, come on. Let’s do it.” Gill drags Piet onto the dancefloor. Sherrie and Nathan seem to have disappeared while I was in my decline, and I’m left alone at the table. A couple of records go round and then Gill comes trotting back, pulling Piet, then pushes him towards me. “Go on, ask Tess. Can’t have her sitting here like a wallflower!”
A wallflower. Yeah, that’s what I am.
It’s a waltz. Three Times a Lady. He embraces me in a hairy ballroom hold, rocking his arms to-and-fro in time with the steps, whirling me around the floor while humming to himself. It’s like dancing with a giant teddy bear. I never put him down as a dancer but he’s light on his feet and easy to follow.
“I knew I should have been a ballroom dancer. Rosie and I had lessons many centuries ago. I wanted to be like the champions on TV in those big net dresses in gorgeous colours.”
“You look gorgeous enough in your shorts. And you dance perfectly.”
I know he really means it, whatever I look like, however I dance, and I start to feel a bit pleased with myself as he executes a whisk and chasse and my memory and legs do exactly the right things to match him.
Then over his shoulder I see Nathan and Sherrie holding each other close, swaying in time to the music and I trip over one of Piet’s feet. Nathan Owen, performing a stilted but passable waltz? Where did he learn that, for heaven’s sake? How much more is there that I don’t know about him? Sherrie is finding out. She’s glowing.
The record ends. Piet holds my hands and bows. “Thank you, my lady. Three times.”
I curtsey in response, turning my back on them. Piet is such a darling. A real gem. At least Gill knows how lucky she is, no doubt about that.
They say music moves the human soul in many ways, and it does. It becomes a reminder of an era or of a specific time and place, and it creates moods or enhances those already present. I follow Piet over to our table and the lyrics I’ve just danced to re-play themselves over and over in my ears. I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want to even start to think I’m on the downslide towards the end of our pretty, familiar rainbow. Danny’s rainbow. My rainbow.
Danny. Oh God, don’t start. I am. I’m going to cry now.
I need a distraction. I plonk down next to Gill and prattle away about ballroom dancing and sequins and dance lessons at school and doing a jive with Timothy Dunn and – how the hell did I remember that? What’s Timothy up to these days? I’ve never even thought to find out.
The couples remaining on the floor begin to dance again, embracing. Desperado. I love this song, but it’s bloody romantic and above all sad, and romantic and sad are things I so don’t need right now. I know all the words too, which doesn’t help. Nathan and his partner are revolving slowly across the floor and those words are like a branding iron on my heart.
It’s time he came in from wherever he’s been most of his life and gets some girl to love. It’s normal and healthy. Gill has her wonderful Piet and now Nathan has Sherrie. She’s attractive and talented and she loves horses and riding. For the fiftieth time today, I yearn for my Danny and the longing is a physical pain somewhere in my middle. The tears I’ve just succeeded in swallowing resurface.
The dance is ending. It’s not too late for Nathan. He’s got his girl. I should be so pleased for him, but I’m… I hate her.
My view of the hall dissolves and I leap up.
“Back in two ticks,” I mumble at Gill. Nathan and Sherrie are approaching, their arms around each other, talking, their heads together, and I’m off, blindly, towards the ladies’ washroom. The hall outside is heaving, but strangely, thankfully, I’m the only one in here. I slam myself into a cubicle, sit on the closed toilet seat and sob, so hard my shoulders are shaking. Once again my comfortable world has shifted under my feet. Sherrie is now part of Nathan’s world and she’ll be part of mine too at Makuti Park. They’ll get married and go away, or they’ll move in there and Gill will go to live at Piet’s farm and they’ll all have kids and everything will change and I’ll have to deal with it or take my horses somewhere else.
So much anger. I’d never’ve believed I could be so angry with people who have done nothing wrong.
The main door opens and two women come in, chattering about Nigel and Claire and how their eldest son has dyslexia and how they’re coping with it. I sit still and silent and then reel off a strip of paper, bundle it around in my hands briefly, stand up and flush the toilet. While the water’s running I blow my snotty nose on the paper. The other women spend a lifetime washing and drying their hands and gassing on – Hannah will be leaving school at the end of this year and going to Teacher Training College and Robin is learning to fly – then at last they leave. After a couple of moments I creep out, patting my face with more paper and blowing again. Splashing with cold water and staring at my red eyes in the mirror. Running my fingers through my dusty hair and re-adjusting a clip. The door opens again and Gill’s reflection appears.
“Tessa!” She addresses my reflection and her voice echoes and re-echoes across the stark, white-tiled room. “I wondered where you’d got to. Are you all right?”
There’s little point in trying to pretend. I turn to face her.
“Too much sun, I think,” I lie. “Or maybe I’m going down with something. I feel a bit off colour.”
“Ah!” She puts an arm across my shoulders. “We’ll go home now. It’s been a long day and we’ve still got a fair drive back. Piet says we’ll take you to your house and you can collect your car tomorrow. Come.”
It’s a convoy: me and Gill with Piet in his pick-up, followed by Sherrie in her Camry, with Nathan in the Concrete Structures Ltd Land Cruiser bringing up the rear. At some point I doze off to the monotonous humming of wheels on macadam; even the sharp silvery beauty of the bush flashing by, lit by the encompassing glow of the risen moon, can’t keep my attention. I only know this because I hear Gill whisper, “We’re on our own, Piet. Look at her. Shall I sing to you to keep you awake?” at precisely the point my head drops down onto my chest and I wake up with a start and a grunt.
Piet guffaws. “Good God, no, my sweetheart! Please don’t. I’ll put the radio on low. Really, I’m fine.”
The next thing I know is I’m being woken by a gentle hand on my knee. It’s Gill, and we’re outside my gate.
“You okay? Piet, walk her to the door won’t you? See you tomorrow, Tess honey.”
We say goodbyes and thank-yous and hug each other. Standing here, waving them off, I’m sure I can hear the television mutedly mumbling in the background. It can’t be Mum and Dad, surely – must be Rosie. The lounge is in darkness, but I can see the soft flickers of light from the screen on the walls from where I stand in the hall.
“What are you still doing up? You go to bed late these days. What’re you watching?”
She’s curled up on the sofa with a blanket wrapped round her and she extracts a hand from its depths to wave at me.
“Late night movie. It’s okay. Did you win anything? Ooh – what have you got there? A cake?”
So I didn’t manage to hide the cake box behind my back quickly enough.
“Only from betting. I didn’t ride today. Fruit cake. And no, you can’t have any now. Wait until tomorrow. Guess what? I’ve probably got a ride in the next race meeting. Cool, huh?”
“Just confirms my views about your sanity. You seem to have no sense of self preservation.” She’s craning her neck, as though by doing so she can see around me to the battered box.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve been asleep.”
I have been asleep and I would’ve stayed asleep, given the choice. Stop me thinking about how lonely I am and how miserable I am and how much I hate Sherrie. Oh don’t start that again. Please.
“I’m going to hide this in my room. You can wait in torment. Nighty-night.”
She moans loudly and deliberately as I walk away, pulling the door to behind me.
At one point in my usual complicated tangle of dreams, someone touches my knee to awaken me to tell me something. It’s Danny, and he’s explaining how to place a bet at the races.