MORE LIKE A MOUSE READY TO SCAMPER

“I’m sorry I’m so late.” The young, dark-haired woman briefly hugged her hostess and proffered a bottle of wine before turning aside to hang up her cape on the already overflowing coat rack in the narrow entrance hall.

“Never mind, we’re about to eat. Come in and help me in the kitchen. You’ve a lot of wine to catch up on …” Edward listened to the cheerful voice of their hostess booming down the passage and reluctantly turned his attention to the buzz of indignant conversation around him: most of the guests had become drawn into a heated discussion about the general decline of the town’s nature reserve.

“The roads there are shocking!” An elderly woman waved her glass of wine dangerously in the air as she spoke. “One practically needs a 4×4 to deal with the ruts these days.”

“Even then, you’d be lucky to see any animals,” another responded. She raised her voice above the general hubbub. “Harold reckons they’re being poached.” She drained her wine glass in a gulp. “We only go there once a year now, only to see the beautiful aloes blooming.”

In his mind, Edward reviewed some of the photographs he had taken of aloes in the reserve over the past few weeks. He had already managed to sell nine of them to be used as illustrations for a forthcoming guide to aloes in the country.

“He may be right about that.” Oliver moved closer to the knot of people surrounding the now empty array of snack containers on the low coffee table in the centre of the small sitting room. “The last time I was there, a herd of zebra took off in a cloud of dust. I could hear their hooves clicking on the loose stones as they galloped off. The kudu too: let them catch sight or sound of a vehicle and they slip away, deeper into the bush.”

Rachel Adami’s journalistic nose began twitching with interest as she squeezed through the throng to confront Oliver. “Would you be prepared to co-operate on an interview about this? We could go out there together one day and maybe get Edward to photograph the zebras disappearing ‘in a cloud of dust’ as you put it, or even kudu horns just peeping through the bush – he’s very good. I know several publications that would happily print an article on the possibility of poaching in a proclaimed area.”

On hearing his name mentioned, Edward ducked out of the way to lean against the frame of the open French doors behind the crowd. Rachel had been dogging him for months on the pretext of requiring photographs of one thing or another. Only the previous week, she had cornered him in the supermarket to try and convince him to document the deterioration of graves in the town’s oldest cemetery. “I want to submit an article to the Genealogical Society,” she had insisted.

His response then had been a churlish “I have a day job, Rachel. I can’t go haring off on private missions as dictated by your whims.” She had been eyeing him all evening, while he had ensured that he was as distant from her as possible in that confined space. Watching the gathering from the back, he idly tried to link the motley collection of guests with their hosts. Earlier conversations had revealed that several were in the field of either nature conservation or environmental education, at least one was an historian and he knew two were artists. The long-haired man with puppy-dog eyes staring soulfully from his unshaven face was a musician who regularly played with a local band over weekends. His hobby turned out to be identifying succulents growing in the veld. He must have been very useful to Walter, Edward mused.

His eyes rested briefly on Callum Emslie, a local poet whom he had got to know well through their shared enjoyment of rock climbing. Alletta Snyman and Callum’s brother, Leon, had provided the sketches and paintings that livened up the pages of Walter’s book …

“Come on, you lot.” Katie Kemp, a dishcloth tossed over her shoulder, boomed at her assembled guests. “You must all be starving. Squeeze around the table next door and the food will arrive.” They needed no persuading.

Having made sure that Rachel had entered well ahead of him, Edward joined the hustle and bustle as fifteen guests pushed and shoved gently to fit around the table that was too small to accommodate them all comfortably. He was relieved to see Rachel seated next to Puppy-dog Man. The noise was a deafening roar of laughter, exclamations over the candles, mis-matched wine glasses, along with the sharp scraping of chairs and stools on the uncarpeted tiled floor.

The momentary stillness of hunger about to be assuaged, Edward thought as Katie and the dark-haired latecomer deftly passed around earthenware bowls of thick butternut soup. A wooden platter of warmed bread rolls followed. His keen eyes took in the light-coloured scarf loosely wound around the woman’s neck despite the heat of the enclosed space. He noticed the slight flush of her cheeks and the tendrils of hair escaping from the velvet-covered Alice band that swept her long hair from her face.

She slipped into a vacant chair diagonally opposite him, squeezing between Yarrow Dolman, the botanist, and Oliver Henry, the geologist. Edward covertly watched her spoon the soup carefully into her mouth, her hand trembling slightly with each dip and lift. She absent-mindedly crumbed her small roll between the fingers and thumb of her left hand while she listened, seemingly attentively, to one or other of her fellow diners and smiled at them, giving the impression of outward confidence.

By listening carefully, it didn’t take Edward long to work out that she was Karen. He sensed a tension in her neck and shoulders and noted how quickly she rose to help clear the bowls and bring in the next course. She and Katie placed large bowls of steaming food down the centre of the table so that guests could help themselves and pass the food on to others.

He recalled seeing her some weeks before at a choral recital in the campus chapel. There, his attention had been snared by the red-haired woman who had accompanied Karen. Both women had become immersed in the music and listened with rapt attention. Edward had enjoyed the way the older woman’s face had softened during the recital and had smiled inwardly at the younger woman mouthing the words of some of the more familiar songs. They had both looked happy and completely at ease – then.

This evening, by contrast, Karen had initially looked wide-eyed and even a little frightened. Now she was consciously projecting a happy image of herself as she returned the banter around her. For him, the give-away was her touching the scarf around her neck every now and then as if to check it was still there. He caught her eye and impulsively raised his wine glass in her direct. She smiled beautifully and lifted her glass of water. Hers was a face he would love to photograph!

At last Walter Kemp banged his knife against a nearby wine bottle and rose to make his long-anticipated speech. His recently published book on the environmental and historical aspects of their town and the surrounding countryside had already been successfully launched in some of the major centres of the country.

“I cannot thank you all enough,” he began. “This project would never have been completed without the willing assistance and co-operation of so many of you.” He filled his glass and allowed his gaze to fall on every person in the room. “You will be pleased to know, that for the first five years, half the royalties for this book will benefit our local wetlands conservation project.”

Once the enthusiastic applause had died down, Edward leaned back in his chair and listened to the personal thanks Walter gave each of his guests squeezed around the table by listing how they had assisted in some way with the success of the publication. Karen, he noticed, was clutching a cloth napkin so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She appeared to be listening to their host so intently that her eyes never moved from his face.

Edward had taken most of the photographs whilst others had assisted with historical information, the geology of the region, with layout … the thanks seemed to exceed the number of people present. Karen, it appeared, had edited and proofread the manuscript several times. “Her patience and endurance went way beyond the call of duty,” Walter exclaimed. This made her face light up with a broad smile. Were there tears glistening in her eyes? His attention was distracted by the final thanks reserved for Katie Kemp. This was followed by a thunderous applause. Small gifts were handed round, each beautifully wrapped and labelled in Katie’s clear hand.

Karen rose abruptly from the table while the table was being cleared and disappeared towards the front door. She returned moments later, her face flushing deeply as she thanked Oliver for filling her bowl with fruit salad and laughingly turned away the offer of cream.

The assembly scraped back their seats and began moving back towards the sitting room. Before she could carry a second pile of dishes to the kitchen, Edward moved in behind Karen and guided her through the French doors to the vine-covered veranda. “Are you okay?” He asked her softly, taking a trembling hand in both of his. “Something’s been bothering you all evening. Even now, you look a little wary of something.”

She withdrew her hand in a flash and sat on the low brick wall. Facing him in the dark, she looked up at his towering figure. “Does it show that much?” He caught the slight tremor in her almost whispered response.

“Perhaps not to the others,” he answered lightly. “I have at times this evening likened you to a cat ready to spring -.”

“More like a mouse ready to scamper while I can.” She hugged herself tightly. “I was meant to be here early to help Katie set up everything, but I -.”  Karen bit her lip and turned away. Edward sat next to her, placing an arm around her shaking shoulders in response to an instinctive need to protect her. He was shocked to hear her haltingly relate how she had been accosted by a stranger as she was leaving for the dinner.

“It all happened so quickly,” she explained through her tears. “This man jumped from behind a bush and demanded I let him into the house. Fortunately, I have an alarm button on my remote, so the armed response team arrived soon after and later sorted out the police.” She shuddered involuntarily and blew her nose on Edward’s handkerchief.

“He pushed me to the ground and tried to wrestle the keys away from me. I managed to throw them into the fishpond.” A small, defiant smile briefly lit her face. “He grabbed my throat … I thought I was going to choke to death, then I heard the footsteps and saw the lights …”

“That explains the striking scarf.” He smiled at her in the dark. “Have you told Katie?”

”And spoil their special evening? I couldn’t do that!” Her voice sounded stronger as she straightened up and squared her shoulders. “The security company retrieved my keys and brought them round a while ago. No need to change the locks, they say.”

“I’ll drive home behind you tonight and see you safely indoors.” She squeezed his hand and headed towards the bathroom as he returned to the guests enjoying coffee or gathering their things to leave.

Karen’s home was reached via a long, narrow, stone-flagged path overgrown with what smelt like honeysuckle in the dark. A welcoming light glowed at the front door, highlighting the stone step and shining on the green leaves of mint, lavender and rosemary growing in pots clustered next to the step and surrounded by smooth white stones.

Edward insisted on coming in to check the doors and windows. Although her home looked cosy and inviting, he declined her offer of a warm drink. Instead, he gave her his cell phone number and made sure that she had locked her security gate behind him.

“I’d like to see you tomorrow,” he had said gruffly when taking his leave and smiled at her positive response. He was still smiling as he strode purposefully towards his waiting vehicle. “And, perhaps, many tomorrows after that.” He grinned foolishly at having voiced his thoughts aloud.

SPREAD THE NEWS

Jeanne already had grandchildren when she joined The Desperate Readers fifteen years ago, so we were used to her stories about some of their more amusing escapades while they were growing up. As they lived in Sweden, we seldom actually saw them unless our visits to the local supermarket happened to coincide with a period when Jeanne’s son and his family were escaping the Swedish winter.

Andrea brought a different dimension to sharing her grandchildren by bringing wads of glossy photographs to the book club meetings. She would delve into her large leather handbag and pass them around almost as soon as we had sat down, making them difficult to ignore. These monthly offerings continued for about a year and might have continued had Sylvia not arrived at one meeting with her iPad already switched on. Andrea graciously oohed and aahed over the bright pictures that could be flipped back and forth with the tips of one’s finger.

Mary, Tilly and Candice boasted about the arrival of their respective grandchildren in quick succession and quite overshadowed my news of my daughter’s wedding. My cell phone photographs of the event remained unseen. Everyone enthused over the photographs of the wedding of Pauline’s son – especially as she also handed round squares of wedding cake. Diane brought everyone a sachet of herbs from her daughter’s wedding and their enthusiasm over this unexpected treat “to share our joy” dimmed the news of the arrival of my first grandchild to the point of it immediately being forgotten.

Tessa was usually the most enthusiastic of the members whenever weddings or grandchildren were mentioned even though she had personally experienced neither. It was Tessa who squeezed my hand as we made our way to the tea table near the end of another meeting when, once again my ‘news’ had been overshadowed by something else. “I’m so pleased you have two grandchildren now.” She said quietly. “Won’t you bring us pictures of them?”

I never did – well, I did but I never brandished them about because to our collective joy Tessa quietly announced a few weeks later that “It has been a long wait, but I’m to be a grandmother at last!” Her cheeks glowed with a pink flush and her broad smile impossible to control.

“When?” Andrea demanded.

“Is it to be a boy or a girl?” Jeanne wanted to know as she crossed the room to give Tessa a hug.

“Will the baby be born here?” The questions flowed thick and fast. Tessa clearly valued every one of them, fully aware that her friends knew very little about her daughter, who travelled the world as part of her job in the travel business.

“Katy plans to settle here now. She says she’s done enough travelling to last a lifetime.”

Tilly vaguely remembered an engagement had been mentioned and racked her memory for news of a wedding. “When did Katy get married?” She addressed Mary, who was sitting near her. Tessa was on full alert though and answered brightly.

“I used to worry about Katy and Conrad. They’ve been together for five years already and have been trying so hard for a baby. Nothing seems to have worked until now.”

Once we had discussed and distributed the books we settled ourselves around a table groaning with sweet and savoury food – Candice outdid us all in the catering department. Quite unexpectedly, she opened a bottle of chilled sparkling wine and poured it into generous flutes half-filled with crushed ice. “We must celebrate this special news,” she announced as she raised her glass and turned towards Tessa. “Now, Tess, when can we all expect this baby?”

Tessa smiled demurely. “Katy’s only just pregnant,” she admitted, “so we have a long way to go still.”

Other news came and went: Pauline had joined a tour to see the spring flowers in Namaqualand; Andrea enthralled everyone with a dramatic account of a daring break-in at her neighbour’s house; Jeanne showed off her new car … As the year passed Tessa grew quieter. Even though she still enthused over the books she had read, she seldom contributed to the conversations as spontaneously as she used to.

I drew her aside one afternoon as the others were entering Mary’s house for the latest meeting. I hadn’t bothered to tell anyone that both my children had left the country for on both occasions the death of a dog or the arrival of a kitten had absorbed everyone’s attention. I couldn’t compete with that. “What has happened, Tessa?” I asked quietly as I touched her shoulder to hold her back for a moment.

“What is supposed to have happened?” She looked at me blankly.

“Tessa, I saw Kate enjoying what looked like an intimate dinner with the son of a colleague a while ago and –“

“You might as well know.” Tessa’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Kate lost her baby early on. It had all been such a strain and proved to be the last straw for her and Conrad. He moved out and she sold her engagement ring to start her nursery business.” She shuddered involuntarily. “She’s forty two now. There will be no grandchild for me.”

“Come on you two! Is something the matter?” Mary was still holding her front door open for us to enter.

“No problem,” Tessa called back. “Gillian has just saved me from falling over my own feet!” She linked arms with me as we negotiated the stone steps at the end of the cement path.

I was aware of Tessa throughout the afternoon and wondered if it was my imagination, or did she really look a little more at ease?

“Such news everyone.” Tilly held up her glass of wine to propose a toast then she looked into her lap for a moment. She raised her glass again with a brittle smile. “Well, it’s sad news in a way. In fact, part of me feels devastated. The rest of me is so excited. Guess what?” She looked at us all expectantly. We couldn’t imagine what she was on about. “We’re leaving town!”

“What?”

“Oh Tilly, we’ll miss you so much!”

“Where are you going?”

“Are you serious?”

As the questions flew back and forth before the answers could even be given or absorbed, I caught Tessa’s eye and smiled. I leaned towards her and whispered, “Somehow our news is never headline material. Thank you for sharing yours.”

“I feel so much lighter,” she replied and drained her glass.

ACCUMULATING THINGS

Is it a common human trait to accumulate things? Those of us who are of the post-war generation will be familiar with balls of string, carefully folded brown paper to be re-used, ends of soap to be made into new cakes … and that is in the home. We also grew up with garages filled with ‘things that might come in use one day’. It is common hearing people my age commenting on the more minimalist lifestyles adopted by their children: there is no need for them to hoard anything. They can buy whatever they need – even get it online. They don’t want clutter the way so many of us have allowed to accumulate in our homes. It was ingrained in us not to throw anything away that might prove to be useful; now it is difficult to rid ourselves of items that are infused with memories … and that no-one else really wants anymore!

I began with stamps – an interest that lasted until most of our local stamps became peel-and-stick and died a natural death with the demise of letter-writing that involved the ‘real’ mail as opposed to e-mails. I began by collecting stamps from as many different countries as possible – and learned a lot of geography that way. Later, I avidly collected first day covers, and moved on to create thematic stamp collections. It was satisfying putting the latter together. Alas, holding down two jobs whilst bringing up three children – not to mention the lack of a dedicated space – eventually put an end even to that.

What has no end, however, is a life-long accumulation of books. Almost every room in our house has shelves brimming with books: non-fiction, fiction – and children’s books for all ages. It has given me immense pleasure to share with our grandchildren stories we enjoyed sharing with their parents. Since they have grown beyond them, it has been fun passing some of these treasures onto other young children. With physical space running out, I have learned to become more hard-hearted about parting with my novels: some to friends, but most find their way to the charity shop where I volunteer.

There is a problem with that though: almost every week I return from my stint of sorting, pricing, and shelving books having purchased at least two or three! As I create more time to read, I delight in having a sizeable collection of, as yet unread, books to choose from.

I’m a stationery fiend too: collecting pens, pencils and notebooks galore. I love pretty – and practical – notebooks, which I foolishly used to keep for ‘special’. Now I appreciate that actually using them is special and I write my way through several of them every year: lists, interesting snippets of information, ideas for stories, menus … In my book, one can never have enough notebooks!

Then there is tea. We used to keep only a packet each of Ceylon and rooibos in our home. Then my English aunt introduced me to Earl Grey and gifted me with packets of Russian Caravan and Irish Breakfast tea. I have been hooked on collecting tea ever since. My once modest collection filled a shelf in our kitchen … it now fills two shelves in our pantry!

Those are the tangibles. The ‘accumulation’ – if one can call it that – of true friendships and love is immeasurably precious. It is now that my own children live so far away, that I can fully appreciate the value of the close bonds between us and, above all, of shared love.

DESTRUCTION

Note: This was written in response to a prompt: although it is written in the first person, it is not me.

I should have taken better note of the warning signs. I mean, I should have really looked at them, thought about them, considered the consequences of them. They were visible years ago, impinging on my conscience like the wisps of morning mist that dissipate as the sun shines more brightly.

It wasn’t as though they were there all the time. Once, the calm days had outnumbered the stormy ones. Once, I had thought I was in full control and knew what to do.

When the warning signs appeared as darker, more solid clouds that blotted out the sun and remained for days at a time, I ignored the possibility of an impending storm. The sun still shone now and then after all. There was no great need for concern. In any case, I kept those at bay with liberal doses of herbal capsules that promised tranquillity. That they might have had a placebo effect I cannot tell. They saw me through various family crises and, for a time, the increasing demands of work. It was those demands that turned my attention away from the warning signs that threatened to engulf us all.

These warning signs became more evident; more difficult to ignore. The rumbling sounds could not be blotted out. Even I began to note the sleepless nights, the crabbiness I put down to ‘feeling tired’, and the increasing sense of doom I woke to on most mornings.

I became adept at fixing a ‘work’ mask that fooled colleagues into commending me for my calm efficiency, my ability to deal with crises, and for the good rapport I seemed to have for others. The rumblings of doom continued in the background for so long that it became white noise – no longer worth paying attention to.

Little did they know about the snapping, the tears and the shrinking social life I had away from work. In my most vulnerable moments I tried to adopt a ‘home’ mask too, but it didn’t fit very well.

I shied away from the impending destruction by accepting more work – it made me feel needed; I felt wanted – and by drinking. I’m no alcoholic, you know. I never will be either. At first it was one glass of wine at night. Sipped slowly, savoured, and enjoyed with a meal. As the rumbling of doom grew louder in my ears, I began drinking a glass of wine while cooking and then another with a meal – who would notice? I felt calmer, more sociable, more approachable and able to stare my future in the face.

Some nights – not very often, but frequently enough to note – I was horrified to find the wine bottle nearly empty!

The demands of work continued to press on relentlessly. I could feel the chill winds of fear. The sky became more threatening: the clouds having turned into a permanent canopy of purple clusters with ominous grey edges – like a bruise that never heals – that usually signals an impending hail storm.

Cracks appeared: like fabric fraying thread by thread I made excuses not to attend Book Club (I couldn’t bear all that forced gaiety and idle chatter as if nothing mattered); to leave staff functions early (I said I am not alcoholic and, strangely enough, I do not drink much on such occasions, so tend to find the drunken outpourings of personal information boring); why it wouldn’t be appropriate to invite people to dinner (there was always a valid excuse – children, work, weather, time of year).

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled while I hurt those who had supported me most: family and friends who had sympathised and made allowances.

The sky seemed to rattle, lightning streaked across it in menacing shards. The wind grew stronger, snapping giant trees like matchsticks and shaking everything I held dear to their foundations.

In the maelstrom of fear and destruction I worked harder. In this way I sought affirmation of some goodness left in me; some appreciation of the long hours I put in – of the sacrifices I made. Not always getting it, I sought the warmth of family and was met with a sense of puzzled alienation. The world was not right. I teetered and tottered, no longer able to walk upright with a smile or clear intent.

Whole forests of support were snapped and blown away. The fierce winds of destruction tore at my clothes and whipped my hair about my face. My home buckled shook, shuddered and fell apart. That maelstrom of fears, hopes and despair swirled about me as I trudged through the shreds of what remained, desperate to avoid the vortex that would suck me down to the murky centre of total destruction. I was alone. There was no road ahead.

Even the cushion – that last source of comfort – was filled with pebbles instead of the downy feathers I had expected. Nothing was the same. When I looked down at my suitcase, it was a bulging briefcase that dragged me down. There was no respite from the storm that had hit me. I recognised nothing. I felt totally bewildered and destroyed.

Was I? I felt drawn to the high-pitched voices of little children playing behind a tall hedge of enormous trees tangled with creepers. They stirred a long repressed memory of happier times when the sun shone brightly from clear skies. As I edged nearer to the sound, I found a narrow footpath amidst the debris of the stormy hell.

Birds called cheerfully from the treetops. I looked up at them and saw patches of blue sky peeping from behind the scudding clouds. The icy wind had calmed down to a gentle breeze that flapped the hem of my skirt. Purple blossoms covered trees I had not noticed before. Pink flowers carried a scent I scarcely remembered. I breathed in the smell of damp vegetation and watched a beetle scurrying along the edge of a leaf near my feet.

The path widened into a dirt road with muddy puddles filling the deep ruts. I dragged my heavy load to the grassy verge, sat down and wept loudly, uncontrollably; allowing the racking sobs to shudder through my body and the pain of despair to overwhelm me until there were no tears left.

I looked up sharply at the sound of my children speaking gently, as if from a distance. I could detect a note of concern. The sun felt warm on my back. My pillow had vanished without trace. I heard my grandchildren calling and felt the strong pull of love that I thought had withered away. I reached out for that dreaded briefcase and found instead a tray of tea, a sunhat and a novel I had been meaning to read for years.

The sun shone more brightly as the sky cleared. My feet were no longer sore. A warm feeling of certainty surged through me: I knew what needed to be done when I finally reached the T-junction ahead. There would be no dithering this time for the route was clear at last.

I would stop working. I would pay attention to myself – and to my family!

A HELPING HAND

I was perusing the milk containers in the supermarket early this morning, squinting to make out their best-before dates to help me make my choice. It was while I was bending forward to decide whether to choose the milk in the pink plastic bottle (part of the proceeds for breast cancer) or the more cumbersome 2l carton (perhaps kinder to the environment), that I became aware of an older man standing fairly close to me. I straightened and stepped back, thinking I might be in his way. His eyes met mine; he moved slightly towards me; hesitated a fraction; and then he addressed me softly.

“Ma’am, I’m not the touchy kind and I don’t mean to touch you if you’d rather I didn’t.” I must have looked puzzled. “It’s just that your jersey has got itself hooked up at the back and I would like to pull it down for you.”

I thanked him after he had done so and we smiled at each other. “That was kind of you,” I told him as he began to move away. He turned back briefly.

“One cannot be too careful these days,” he commented sadly. “A strange man touches a woman and there could be hell to pay!”

We both laughed and went our different ways. I appreciated his helping hand.