No Time Like the Present: A Novel Read Free

doesn’t want to press her.
    —What do you think of it?—
    The gathering, the house, the church as gay commune something to laugh about together; and something not to be avoided, the practical future there was no time to think about from Glengrove asylum, before.
    She’s a clear-headed person always capable of occupying her hands in some task while active elsewhere in her mind.—It’s a nice house, far as you can tell from the outside.—
    —Of course I’ll get the estate agent to take us, or give us the keys, that’d be better, next week. But the set-up, the place.—
    —How can I say. I don’t have any comparison, I mean I’ve never lived in such places, suburbs, whatever, have I.—Smiling, whether at the wriggling child she was patting dry, or for him.
    —I rather like the idea.—He doesn’t have to explain, taking over from the Boere , if even Pierre welcomed the displacement of his own clan, although everyone is supposed to live together, no ghettos, luxurious or new black-and-white middle class.
    Alone, if you can be said to be while those whose being you share are somewhere close by in kitchen or bedroom; not lonely, he wonders whether he really wants to prolong in some way the intimacy between comrades that was survival in detention or the bush, there’s a resistance to nostalgia. And at the same time self-reproach; what will there ever be like the bonds between cadres, the rest will always be strangers.
    Jake gave him the name of the estate agent and offered to accompany them to enter the house, but they wanted to be without anyone else’s observations and went, after work, with Sindiswa; after all, without offering any opinion, she would be subject to any decision made. He found the bedrooms poky, you could knock out the windows and put in something more generous with light. There was a red-brick fireplace thirties-style in the living room and space enough for a good-sized table and chairs along with sofa, television and so on. A rather shaky sliding door, obviously an improvement on the enclosing box that was the original room, opened onto another improvement, a small terrace. They were pleased to walk out and find shrubs beyond that half-hid the wall that was over-hung with shade from a neighbour’s tree—Acacia.—But she was not interested in the identification. As a kid given every advantage he was taken to plant nurseries with his father and learnt to match botanical names to certain trunks, leaves and bark. She had learnt on walks with her grandmother in the forests of Zululand what wild fruits were safe and good to eat.
    The kitchen was a surprise. She tried the four plates on the big electric stove—no result.—Just that the current’s cut off, of course.—He reassured, opening cupboards. They moved their feet approvingly on the tiled floor; Jabu peered into the shelves to confirm capacity. The bathroom had a shower stall as well as a large tub, not bad, ay? The paint throughout was in good condition although candy pink in what was supposed to the main bedroom made him groan.—We could put a lick of white over it, I suppose—I don’t know if you’re allowed to make any changes in a house you rent?—They toured the rooms again, hand in hand with Sindiswa.—She’d have her own room, toys and all her gear—Jabu touched her head against his shoulder a moment; at Glengrove Place they shared the single bedroom with the child, strange to make love with even a sentient in the room; who knew how much a young child is aware of, perhaps the cries of pleasure sound fearful to an emerging awareness. They checked the sliding door to the terrace and locked the front door behind them in unspoken accord.
    But next morning, the reality of Monday, driving the child to the day-care centre—Jabu took a bus to her school from there while he went on to the city—putting a hand down on the keys in his pocket—I’ll go to the agency and sign for us.—
    She drew her lips hidden between her teeth,