She pokes her head around my bedroom door during a pause in her usual cyclonic rush before school, her dark curls still un-brushed and forming a rebellious riot around her face.
“You going to idle in bed all morning?”
I stretch and yawn. “Yup. The holiday has begun.”
“Don’t be so smug. How ever will you decide what to do with your day? The pressure must be enormous.”
I study her – cheerfully sarcastic, leaning on the door frame in her winter tunic, her long tanned legs crossed at white ankle socks, her shoes with the laces undone. That familiarity of being a schoolgirl suddenly seems to belong to the dim and distant past. Did I used to look like that in the mornings?
“Oh, I’ll probably go riding after I’ve had a bit of a lie in.”
An idea pops up and I lean forward onto one elbow. “Say, do you want to go into town this afternoon? We can do a bit of shopping and have afternoon tea and waffles or something.”
How terribly colonial. Why do we hang on to these customs?
She’s shaking her head. “I’m going to the tennis club after school. Rob’ll be there and I may as well get as much of his coaching while… I can.”
There’s a pause while we stare at each other, the unspoken words suspended between us: “Before we leave.” In the awkward pause she turns defensive, pushing herself away from the door frame and folding her arms.
“You will finish school in England now, Rosie. Uni over there. Better opportunities for your marine biology career, if you’re still into that.”
She takes a deep breath, then gives a short, dry laugh.
“Well it does seem a bit of a pointless career in a land-locked country.”
“So you don’t really mind going, then?”
“No. No, I suppose not. I’m sure I’ll be able to adapt, and you know me – always looking for something different, always wondering what’s out there in social circles I know nothing about.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “It’s not as easy for you though, is it? You’ve always been a bush-baby, a real child of Africa.”
I like that.
“Yes, I am. But aren’t you too, in a way?”
“I love the sunshine and the outdoor life but I confess that now I want to experience something of the rest of the world, big city life perhaps, being able to follow the latest fashions and music. Maybe I’ll find I don’t like it after all and that it’s not for me, but I want to give it a go.”
“And you’d have access to better tennis coaching and competitive opportunities.”
Why am I encouraging her? Why aren’t I trying to bring her down on my side?
She points a finger at me. “Ah, yes! Yes. Exactly. And what about your riding? There’ll be the same in England for you. You know how you always drool over those horsey magazines from overseas with pictures of the world-class riders and all those shows. Horse of the Year Show. Badminton. Hickstead. You’d be in your element. You could have lessons with the likes of those champion riders.”
She throws her hands up to her hair and pulls a face. “Look, gotta go. I’ve still got to have breakfast after I’ve tamed this mop.”
And she’s gone.
“Enjoy your day at school!” I call sweetly, but I guess she’s already out of earshot.
It’s an interesting idea. Lying back on my pillow, I tantalise myself. I visualise myself riding at Badminton Horse Trials on a magnificent and courageous horse. I feel every movement, sense the high flood of adrenaline, feel the power in flight and then I switch the viewpoint to that of an unknown eye, watching myself in slow motion. That’s the advantage of daydreams.
The agonised metallic shrieking of the gate hinge jerks me back into full wakefulness and my dream disintegrates. God, it’s a hideous noise. Dad still hasn’t got Elijah to oil the damned thing.
Tumbling out of bed, I part the curtains and watch Rosie reach through the lower bars of the wrought-iron gate to pat Skellum’s head, then mount her bicycle and set off down the hill at breakneck speed. A web of aching nostalgic memories ensnares me – memories of the countless times we cycled to school together, quite often bickering and wishing the other wasn’t there. An endless procession of crisp winter mornings with sharp blue skies followed by balmy blue or dark, thundery summer mornings (plastic raincoats gaping at the buttons, allowing a deluge to seep in and soak our uniforms) have all passed by and the nostalgia is so precious that it’s painful. Everyone’s schooldays get left far behind, to be yearned for in later life by all accounts, but it’s the dread of ripping up my life and leaving these roots as a part of some previous existence that brings hot tears of despair, and even fear, to my eyes.
Victoria Falls. I will see this, one of the natural wonders of the world, for the first time tomorrow. Will it be the place where I’ll do my final bit of growing up? I can’t begin to imagine how this is going to pan out. What I’m pretty sure of is that I can put my trust in Nathan and that we’ll work it out together.
I prise the flat white box out from the back of my top drawer, snap out one of the pills and poke the box back into place. Swallow the pill with some water from my bedside glass. It’s been worth taking these because, if nothing else, they’ve made me more regular and dulled the cramps to a tolerable level. I had to work at it to get the prescription in the first place, with that stupid doctor going, “Well there you go then, my dear. You feel better after doing your horse riding and some other exercise? You see, it’s all in your mind.”
Patronising idiot. He’s a man so how can he possibly know what it feels like?
Now, four and a half months later, I have periods like clockwork and less agony and – an outcome my mother would never have contemplated that day at the chemist’s counter – I am fully equipped to start experimenting with sex. I just hope I’ve been taking them long enough if we should… If I want to. If we want to.
I make up my bed mechanically, re-thinking the same thoughts I’ve had so many times, unable to be anything other than scared stiff because Jess was so bitter and disappointed with the whole thing. He’ll be fully aware that I have zero experience of my own, but what of him?
Karen Melton was fond of hinting at how well Joanna Coetzee knew Nathan Owen. Joanna, the School Bike. Okay, it had taken a while for me to work out what that meant, but I got there. Karen was lying though. She made a hobby of putting out juicy stories about everyone (I’ve no doubt I was on her hit list, but I never had the urge to find out what my stories were) and besides, she always wanted a bit of him herself, so maybe she fantasised at Joanna’s expense. Nathan, seducing girls at school? Nathan, who barely said a word to anyone, had no friends and who confounded and scared both boys and girls? If anyone had known he was pursuing and sleeping with the likes of Joanna, it would’ve been Gill. And she would’ve told me. I doubt he ever cared one jot about Joanna or even spent any time in her company. He never spent time in anyone’s company except Gill’s. Until Sherrie.
It must have happened with Sherrie. Well, I’ll find out, won’t I?