Leopold Blue Read Free

‘Well, it’s not good enough for me,’ and straightened up with a menacing look.
    Beth laughed. ‘Why do you have to go back to church, Marta? You spent all morning there.’
    â€˜Don’t whine,’ I said. ‘You sound like a baby.’
    â€˜Until the peoples of this country put down their guns and pick up their bibles, we should all be down on our knees.’
    â€˜That too,’ I said. Beth pulled a face at me and turned back to Marta.
    â€˜Will there be koeksisters [*] and cakes and samoosas [**] and doughnuts at the end?’ Beth had never forgotten the one post-service tea Marta had taken us to.
    â€™Of course!’ Marta sniffed. ‘Father Basil’s services feed the soul; it is up to the Mothers’ Union to feed the body.’
    By the time my parents returned Beth and I were at the bottom of the garden, spread out under the pecanut tree. The last of the winter sun was making a slow retreat across the lawn. Beth flipped through a pile of Archie comics. On my lap lay
The Grapes of Wrath
, but I was thinking about Sinead O’Connor. She sang into my Walkman; her voice filled my head. The tape was stretched and the batteries were running low, but when I played it at full volume, all her anger and longing were trapped inside me and I felt better.
    â€˜I fee-eel soooo different,’ I sang with my heart full and my eyes closed.
    Beth pinched my arm.
    I opened my eyes. ‘What?’
    â€˜You
are
different,’ she said, and sat up. Mum was approaching across the lawn. I picked up my book. She was alone; Dad had no doubt taken refuge in his study after a long day with Florence Nightingale. Watching her from behind the pages, I despaired. Her thick, rusty-brown hair was long – too long and heavy for her lean frame. It hung around her face like an old velvet curtain. When I was little I’d loved to weave my fingers between the thick strands, but long hair did nothing for middle-aged women. And it was unhygienic. Strands of it clogged up the bathroom plugholes and clung to the sofa and cushions, as though she was everywhere.
    She hesitated halfway across the garden, her tall figure uncomfortably straight, and looked around, as if from behind an invisible screen. The longer she lived here, the more English she became. Whereas local women softened and spread, she was becoming stiff and knobbly. Each year her voice sounded harsher. It rang out on the Main Street, distinguishable above all the other noise.
    She tucked her mane behind her ears and launched questions as she strode closer: ‘Take those things off your ears so that I can talk to you. What are you doing out here? Have you finished your homework? What did you have for lunch? It’s getting late – are your uniforms ready?’ Her words flew at us,
rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat
, splintering our peaceful afternoon. I flicked over the tape in my Walkman and lay down.
    â€˜Why was Marta here? Did you call her?’
    â€˜No,’ said Beth.
    â€˜Marta loves us,’ I said pointedly.
    â€˜What did the two of you get up to today?’ Mum asked in her most tolerant voice.
    â€˜Nothing,’ I sat up quickly, before Beth could reply, ‘Nothing of interest.’
    Mum’s eyes finally flashed as she looked at me. ‘If you want to be part of this conversation, take those silly headphones off.’
    â€˜What? I can’t hear you,’ I said loudly, pointing to my ears.
    â€˜It’s time to come inside,’ she said, shaking her head, then turned back to the house. I winked at Beth. But Beth was watching Mum. After a moment she ran to join her.
    I followed them in. The sun had slipped behind the house, a blanket of cold air settling over the garden. A dikkop [*] broke into song – its ghostly, mournful whistles confirmed the coming night. I paused on the stoep [*] and looked out across the lawn. From inside it would already look dark. But in the last light I