THE FUNERAL

Martin parked his bakkie outside the church alongside several others. Both sides of the street were filled with vehicles; some had even parked on the broad pavement. He placed his dark glasses in the cubbyhole and ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. Letting out a deep sigh, Martin got out stiffly and checked the ropes holding down the rainwater storage tank he had purchased. He wiped his hands on his khaki shorts and allowed his gaze to pass over the various dust-covered vehicles parked nearby: he recognised most of them.

Oliver’s canopy was filled with bags and boxes he had obviously purchased from the farmer’s co-op on the edge of town. Vernon’s bakkie had bundles of firewood on the back – he probably intended delivering them to clients after the funeral. Bundles of wood for braais over the weekend. It was time to look to the future and to allow some happiness to creep back into their lives. Simon had an enormous square tank filled with water in a cage on the back of his bakkie – Martin knew they had been experiencing problems with their homestead borehole.

“Good to see you, Martin!” Robert waved from across the street. “It looks as though we have all doubled up to make purchases today. I’ve just bought two rolls of fencing wire.”

“It saves on fuel and time,” Owen added as he fell into step with the two men on their way to the lychgate. “I used to laugh at my father growling about ‘time is money’. He was right!”

The men could hear the organ playing inside the church as they joined a small knot of people moving indoors. Looking at his wristwatch, Martin realised they were among the last arrivals. The church seemed to be filled to capacity. The extended Davidson family filled the front pews. There hardly seemed space to fit in a mouse! Yet, as the congregants noticed the late arrivals, they shifted along the pews until everyone was seated.

“Such a tragedy,” the elderly woman seated next to Martin said quietly. “I was at school with the grandfather and have taught the father and both his sons. Ian was such a wonderful young man.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. She whispered that the family had had a private service earlier, which explained the absence of a coffin.

Martin rose uncomfortably at the announcement of the first hymn and then couldn’t help smiling inwardly. All things bright and beautiful was picked up with gusto by the congregation; the men’s deeper voices dominated, allowing the intermittent sobs to be stifled for a while.

The service followed the expected ritual of hymns, prayers and the priest’s homily. That caused fresh tears to flow and even brought a lump to Martin’s throat: the priest knew his flock well. When the first in a series of eulogies began, Martin settled against the unforgiving back of the wooden pew and listened to them with interest: Ian had been popular in the farming community.

It had been a week since Ian had been found pinned under his tractor that had overturned in a ditch next to the dirt road that bisected the Davidson’s farm. The accident had been reported by a young woman who had been searching for wild flowers to photograph. She had had the presence of mind to photograph the accident scene, including the two sets of tyre marks which later proved that Ian’s tractor had been run off the road by a large truck. He was only twenty-eight.

“She cradled our son, who could not be freed by human hands alone.” Ian’s father was the last to speak. “She spoke to him, stroked him, and prayed for him with no regard to her own safety or to the blood …” His voice choked in the heavy silence. He went on to talk about his son, ending with the words, “We will be forever grateful that Ian did not die alone. That young woman is an angel sent to guide him home.”

The final hymn gave the congregation an opportunity to stretch their legs and to wipe away their tears. Martin took stock of some of some of the people around him. Most of the women had made an effort to dress up, while the majority of the younger men were dressed in their work clothes, as he was.

He watched the Davidson family file out ahead of the rest of the congregation. Martin had grown up with Ian’s older brother, Malcolm, and knew that they were a tightly-knit family who were used to doing things for themselves. Older members of the congregation moved out next: the younger generation instinctively gave them the time and space to do so.

At last, everyone else gathered their things, gave watery smiles and slowly made their way down the central aisle. Martin swallowed hard as he shook hands with some of his fellow farmers as the passed by him. Why were they so bunched together near the door, he wondered. What could the hold up be? He decided to wait until the end.

The bottleneck was caused by a young woman seated at a tiny table Martin hadn’t noticed before. She spoke quietly to some of the people as they bent towards her. He could hear her thanking people. Once or twice, he heard her say, “That’s an excellent idea!” or “They are bound to appreciate that.”

When at last his turn came, Martin realised that she was collecting names, telephone numbers and e-mail addresses. A column alongside this information was reserved for offers of assistance. Her cheeks were flushed slightly and her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Martin smiled at her as he noted his intention to complete ploughing the lands Ian had been on his way to do. Apart from offers of cooked food and cakes, he noted that other offers included fixing irrigation pipes, buying groceries, doing the laundry, providing transport, gardening, as well as planting the summer crops, and fixing the tractor Ian had been driving. At least two people had written ‘visiting’.

“Visiting seems an odd service to render.” He looked directly at the unknown woman.

“To spend time with the family. Just to be there in case there is something that needs doing – or simply to listen,” she replied softly.

“Invitations is another odd one.”  He looked behind him. He was the last in the queue. “I’m so sorry. I’m holding you up.”

The woman smiled as she folded the sheet and placed it in a folder she had provided to press on. “No matter,” she said lightly. “It’s actually a relief. I’d rather be busy than to try and mingle with people I don’t know.”

“You’re a friend of the family at least?”

“Not even that. I specially requested that my name not be mentioned.” She placed the folder in a large canvas sling bag. “I’m the one who found Ian. Somehow, that has drawn me into all this. Anyhow, I must put all this information onto a spreadsheet and divvy out duties for those services that might be otherwise duplicated. You’ll doubtless receive a copy.” She smiled tightly.

Martin was incredulous. “You don’t know the family, yet you’re organising for people you don’t know to do things for them?”

“I know it sounds insane. I’m told they are unlikely to ask for help and so their eldest son suggested that something like this can be done. His wife was involved in a car accident, would you believe. This means he won’t be able to join the parents for another six to eight weeks. Anyway, Father Alan asked me to take it on. This way I can both help the family and make a clean exit as it were.”

“Malcolm’s been living in Australia for the past five years. I suppose someone has explained his absence today.” Martin had moved with her towards the steps leading to the garden filled with knots of people enjoying tea and a variety of eats. “I must greet the parents,” he said gruffly.

“I’ll bid them farewell too. They don’t know about this, by the way.” She pointed to her bag.

“Jenny!” How good of you to be here!” Mrs Davidson turned away from a knot of people and hugged the young woman. “You’ve been an angel on earth, you know.” The two women hugged tightly then drew back. “Now I know that I must allow you to fly free.”

Martin caught up with her along the path leading to the lychgate. “Jenny?” He smiled when she turned towards him. “You’re not going to stay for tea and cake?”

“I told you. I don’t know anyone and I don’t fancy being pointed out as ‘the girl who found Ian’. Don’t let me stop you.”

“On the contrary. I thought I’d let you know that there are plenty of wild flowers on my farm. In any case, I must get home before dark to feed my dogs. It’s too late now to unload my tank, so I wonder if you would care to join me at the pub for a rather early supper?”

She laughed easily. “A lift would be good. I walked here because I wasn’t sure of the parking situation.”

He held the passenger door open for her. “And supper?”

“Supper with a man I don’t know?” Her voice carried a hint of teasing. “It’ll have to be on you though. I didn’t think of bringing my purse to a funeral.”

A TALE OF TWO MEN

Lawrence halted in the shade at the intersection of Bird and John Streets and waited for the red car to pass before moving forward with a confident gait, a smile still playing around his lips. It had been a good idea to pay Hannah a surprise visit over lunch. He straightened his collar and put a finger on the bridge of his sunglasses to push them up his nose. His skin was already damp from the heat and humidity and his toes felt soggy inside his shiny black shoes.

He caught sight of his reflection in the picture window of a house in the extension of Bird Street, its dark blank pane providing a clear view of his tall slim legs covered by well-cut grey trousers topped with a crisp and cool-looking lemon shirt. Lawrence grinned – at least his hairstyle was indestructible – and quickened his pace after glancing briefly at his heavy metal wristwatch: he had cut it fine with only seven minutes left to get to work!

His silver car was parked out of sight behind a minibus further down the street. His grin broadened: Hannah had assumed that he had walked to her house. In this heat? Come again!

“Lawrence!” Hannah’s pale skin blushed a pretty hue of pink when she opened the door at his firm knock. The puzzled look on her face disappeared as she automatically wiped a wisp of blonde hair from her face. She sank into his embrace, burying her face in his chest.

They chatted brightly in her small kitchen while she cubed an avocado pear and grated cheese to go with the slices of fresh bread she had put on the table. He boiled the kettle and brewed a pot of black currant tea, reaching above her for two flower-patterned mugs hanging from hooks near the window.

The awkwardness of their parting at the pub the night before hovered above them even as they settled down to eat, comfortable in each other’s company. At last he dabbed his mouth with a paper serviette and tentatively reached for her hand across the table.

“Did you get home safely last night? You didn’t respond to my message.” Lawrence looked into her pale blue eyes and rubbed the top of her thumb lightly. How could he have let her down like that? “I was concerned about you.”

“Even though you were happy to cuddle and kiss Sally the student and spend far more time with her than was necessary?” Hannah withdrew her hand to pour their tea.

“I have no excuse,” he answered disarmingly. “Sally was being very persuasive and I’d already had a couple of drinks before you arrived.”

“I told you I would come as soon as my meeting ended.” Hannah looked him in the eye. “You clearly had plenty of time with Sally too!” Her voice lost its earlier playfulness. “Why have you come here today?”

“I needed to see for myself that you are okay – you just disappeared last night.” He drew in a deep breath. “I apologise for my behaviour. It won’t happen again –.”

“Spare your promises.” Hannah looked out of the window at the empty street. “You walked here?” He did not miss the note of incredulity in her voice as he nodded into his cup of steaming tea. She kissed him on his cheek, exuding that special scent that he would always associate with her. “You must be serious,” she murmured, picking up her own mug.

“Dinner tonight?” He was relieved the worst seemed to be over. “At the Laughing Pumpkin?” She kept looking at him. “What about at Lima Bean?” A smile played around her mouth for the first time. “Fernandez then?”

Hannah laughed, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Thank you for coming. I wondered how we would ever get talking again. Fernandez at seven then.”

Lawrence readjusted his rear-view mirror and pressed the accelerator gently. Fernandez was the most expensive restaurant in town, so she wasn’t letting him off lightly. He thought of the hard square box that had remained hidden in his cupboard all week. Would tonight be the right time, he wondered as he leapt up the stairs two at a time to slip into his office moments before the telephone rang.

…

How could he fix the hurt? He couldn’t even remember much of the cause of it anyway. Only Sally’s quivering lips and the tell-tale red patches of inebriation on her cheeks remained etched on his mind.

David shook his unruly mop of curly hair as he strode up the steep hill towards the cottage Sally shared with two other students. He should have dressed up, he thought, but he was already hot enough in his baggy black shorts and loose green golf shirt.

He stepped aside as a small red car roared passed him on the way down John Street. Then he saw the man walking towards his silver car further on – that dude from last night with the close-shaven head, dark glasses and the unmistakeable swagger of someone who is totally confident in his ability to achieve anything. That slime ball had tried his luck with Sally in the pub last night!

The girls had already been drinking for a while before he arrived after his gym session. He clenched his fist. The thought of someone else touching – and kissing – his Sally had been too much. The bouncers had not been kind: he felt his bruised cheekbone and quickened his step. If he’d been closer to slime ball, he would have shown him a thing or two!

The silver car seemed to mock David as it sped round the corner from Bird Street and roared down the hill. David threw a punch in the air at the departing car and resumed his trudge up the hill, swinging a packet of assorted biscuits between the finger and thumb of his left hand. Why had Sally behaved like that?

She opened the door a crack on his first knock. He was struck by her red-rimmed eyes, and long dark hair hanging dankly in strings about her face. She looked at David as if in disbelief.

“What are you doing here?” She mumbled while opening the door wider. David leaned against the frame and looked her in the eye.

“Good afternoon, Sally. Just woken up?” She nodded carefully as if her head still hurt. David noticed she was barefoot and wore her crumpled pyjamas even though it was already after two in the afternoon. “Tell you what,” his voice sounded more cheerful than he felt. “Why don’t you shower while I make us a pot of tea to have with these biscuits?”

The digs kitchen was a mess as usual. Sally had often complained about her fellow students leaving everything for the maid to clean when she came on Wednesdays. He scrubbed two mugs he had gingerly retrieved from the overburdened sink. Sally had obviously missed her lectures. He shook his head, conscious of the work he had planned to do on his thesis later that afternoon. The trouble was, he had to sort out Sally first.

“I thought you would never speak to me again.” The sound of Sally’s voice in the kitchen made David look up from the biscuits he was arranging on a clean plate he had found in the bottom of a cupboard.

He whistled in admiration. Even with her hair wet, Sally looked as beautiful as ever. “Have some tea.” He pointed to the space he had cleared at the table. They sat looking at each other for some moments until Sally leaned forward and gently touched his bruised cheek.

“David, I am so sorry! It’s all my fault.” Tears welled in her eyes. “The girls and I had too much to drink – they dared me to flirt with that Lawrence chap. You know how super smart he always looks. He was on his own after his friends left and you were later than you said you’d be …” She dropped her face into her cupped hands. “I am so, so sorry. I’ll never do it again.”

“Was it worth it?” David did not mean to sound so bitter.

“No.” Sally looked straight at him. “I’m a wreck; I missed my lectures; I live in a mess; and worst of all, you got injured when you were only trying to defend me. I cannot even remember the horrible things I said to you – Mary says they were awful.”

He squeezed her hand. “This isn’t going to be easy, Sally. I have got at least six weeks of intense work to get through if I’m to finish the final draft of my thesis before the end of November.”

She bit her lower lip and nodded sadly. “What you saying is … we’re not going to see much of each other anyway.” Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks.

He cupped her face in his hands. “I have a plan though Sally. Your exams start next month and you surely can’t do much about them here.” He waved his hand to take in the untidy kitchen and outlined his plan for her to move into his flat and to stick to the same working hours as he put in. “Then we’ll be together at least,” he finished gently.

She needed a week to think about it. Sally would take the life-line he was offering her, David felt sure of that. Then, who knows? He trudged down the hill with a lighter heart – slime ball was forgotten.

COMING HOME

Caitlyn shivered in the pale winter sunshine. The mellifluous sound of red-winged starlings dominated the garden, with the irregular burbling of the laughing doves coming a close second. She kicked off her shoes to warm her toes in a sunny patch and watched a tiny lizard peeping at her over the rim of a flower pot close to her stool.

The flower pots on the small patio were either empty or still bore the scraggly, skeletal remains of the bounty of petunias that had nodded their cheerful heads throughout the summer. Caitlyn allowed her thoughts to stray towards the packets of flower seeds stored in a box on a shelf indoors. She should have planted them weeks ago, for then there might have been some colour to cheer her up. She could do with some cheer.

Not that the garden was devoid of colour: three small yellow calendulas and a row of six pansy seedlings made a brave show of colour in the otherwise bare strip of a flower bed running along the edge of the brick patio. The aloes in her neighbour’s garden were blooming and, if she craned her neck, Caitlyn could just make out the scarlet heads on the tall poinsettia bush that stretched above the hedge.

Aloes and poinsettias … both were blooms she had taken for granted during her childhood. In her mind’s eye, Caitlyn could still see the regimented row of tall Aloe ferox lining the short driveway leading to her mother’s house tucked into the shade of a grove of trees her father had planted soon after Caitlyn was born. “He was so pleased to have a daughter after three sons,” her mother had often told her over tea, “that he was determined to plant a tree in your honour.” Fortunately, Caitlyn had always felt with relief, he ended up planting a cluster of six trees which became known as the ‘Family Grove’ and now cast shade over what had always been the hottest side of the farm house.

A group of poinsettias grew on the far side of the front lawn, where they thrived in full sunlight. Their splash of scarlet were a cheerful sight during the winter… Caitlyn sipped her Prince of Wales tea and thought back on her last visit to the farm after her graduation two years earlier.

Two years! Why had she allowed so much time to pass? “Independence doesn’t have to mean cutting yourself off from your family,” her mother had whispered whilst giving her a fierce farewell hug.

Independence: that had been her excuse at the time, although she had really been angry with know-it-all Alan. What had it brought her? Two lonely Christmases, two regretful New Year gatherings during which she had unsuccessfully convinced herself she was happy, and two birthdays she had told no-one about.

“Are you happy, my darling?”

“Of course I am, Mom, why shouldn’t I be?” Caitlyn knew she sounded defiant and had ended the birthday call abruptly on the pretext of someone knocking at the door. It was the only way she could hide the fact that the silent tears running down her cheeks were about to turn into full-throated sobs. Her mother was a very perceptive woman.

What is happiness? Caitlyn enjoyed her teaching post; she played tennis once a week; attended music evenings and, occasionally, joined the bird club on their outings to local farms. The only problem was that she had found no place or event where she could casually meet men of her own age in the small town she now called home.

“Who needs men?” Carol had scoffed at their recent book club meeting. “All the men around here are either married or have girlfriends they’ve known since their school days!”

“It’s a dilemma,” Gabby had sighed over her wine. “In my view it is either go for a married man or lose out completely.” She had enjoyed clandestine affairs with several married men during the two years Caitlyn had known her.

“The people I work with are mostly ancient,” Caitlyn murmured. “I wouldn’t dream of becoming involved with any of them.” Yet, she did want to become involved with someone. That ‘someone’ was lost to her though and she knew it was her own fault. If she had behaved differently Marlon would not have walked away from her. She could still feel the shock of him picking his sunhat up from the base of the water tank, donning his sunglasses and getting into his truck without touching her.

“Life is filled with compromises, Caitlyn,” he had said gruffly before starting the engine of his truck and disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Is that why she had stayed away for so long? Had she been afraid to go back and see him with someone else? Deep shadows were claiming the patio, so Caitlyn moved indoors to her tiny sitting room-cum-dining room-cum-kitchen-cum anything else one needed space for. At least her minute bedroom and bathroom were private.

Her bedroom at home had been both spacious and sunny. She and her mother had painted it blue and white and her mother had sewed curtains in a beautifully bold-patterned material in those colours. Her university books jostled for space among the field guides she had collected on birds, flowers, insects, trees, butterflies and wild animals. There was little use for them here, where she spent most of her time preparing lessons or marking endless piles of assignments.

Alan was running the farm now. He and Roslyn has moved into their modern house only a few months before Caitlyn had left home for the last time. “I never go there uninvited,” her mother had confessed about a year later. “They come for a drink now and then and I invite them to the odd meal. We really only get together when Malcolm comes to visit.”

Malcolm was an engineer based in Johannesburg. He and his wife, Elizabeth, visited their mother roughly every two months. “Elizabeth is lovely,” her mother often told her. “She is a great reader – so brings me books – and likes to take over the cooking when they come. She says it is to give me a break.”

I should be the one giving her a break instead of breaking her heart! Donald did that when he and his family moved to Australia. He hadn’t been home in five years, claiming the trip would be too expensive. His parents-in-law joined them a year later which meant there was no longer a strong incentive to make the trip. Caitlyn knew that her mother didn’t have the means to travel as she might have wished to.

She opened her teaching file and stared at the letter Henry Burton, the headmaster, had given her that morning. “I am so very sorry,” he had shaken his head. “Our new deputy will be joining us in September, as you know. His wife is an English teacher and, as there are no other schools around here …”

“I know. So you want to kick me out so that she can have my post.” Her flippancy was to deflect the shock running through her.

“You make me sound heartless, my dear. I have only two years left before having to retire. The school needs younger blood and –”

“And I am too young.” Caitlyn’s voice had already cracked by then. Henry nudged a box of tissues across his highly polished desk.

“Let us say you are too inexperienced still to be considered for the post of deputy, yet you are not too young to find another post.” He had attempted a smile. “Perhaps a larger school or a town with a greater variety of eligible young men milling about would be better for you in the long run.”

He had promised to write her an excellent reference and had already forced the hand of the governing body to pay her salary for three months after she had left. The letter, now held lightly between her trembling fingers, had been wept over; it had been shouted at; and had even been scrunched up and tossed into the bin.

Pride had prevented her from telling her mother. Not on the phone. If she had been at home, her mother would have brewed a pot of tea for them to share. She would have held Caitlyn tightly and stroked her hair. She would have told her to see this calamity as a blessing: an opportunity to try something new.

An opportunity. Alan had accused her of being snooty. “You think a university education somehow places you a cut above us,” he had sneered after imbibing too many beers one evening soon after her graduation.

Malcolm had encouraged her move, reminding her that Alan had willingly turned down the opportunity to study further. “Farming is in his blood. He’s a practical man with little time for books. Make no mistake, he’s an excellent farmer, but that is all that interests him.” Donald had already left the country.

“Why don’t you try the school in town?” Marlon had been bewildered by her choice to move to a small town in another province. The school in town was only half an hour’s drive from where her mother lived and forty minutes from where Marlon farmed with his father.

Marlon … dare she?

Caitlyn heated a tin of soup, chopped blocks of cheese to add to it and waited for the toast to pop up. Her mother’s home-made soups were legendary. What she would give to have some now!

Should she?

Caitlyn gave up trying to mark the Grade 8 essays. She wasn’t in the mood to be encouraging and kind. The echo of a voice from the past kept nagging at her. “Why don’t you try the school in town?”

Marlon had finished university at the end of her first year. He had been supportive throughout. Most of her university vacations had been spent in his company while walking around his farm or watching birds at the dam. He had taught her to drive a tractor; they had argued about his plans for modernising the farming methods; and had shared their enthusiasm for protecting the environment.

Dare she?

By now Caitlyn was snuggled under her duvet, the warmest place on this icy night. She scrolled down her list of contacts on her cell phone. Surely … her eyes misted over and her heart thumped loudly at the audacity of what she was about to do. While listening to the ringing tone, she imagined the sound crossing valleys, mountains and rivers to reach him wherever he was so far away. She began counting the rings. I’ll hang up if he hasn’t answered by fifteen. Thirteen … fourteen … fifteen …

“Marlon.” He sounded out of breath.

“Marlon, I -.” Caitlyn could barely get the words out. “Marlon, I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“It’s taken you a long time Caitlyn. Are you about to get married, or what?” There was a hint of the old teasing, but not enough to make her feel comfortable.

“It’s the ‘or what’. I’ve lost my job and I am wondering … I think I must spend some time with Mom.” Silence. A deep, unfathomable silence. “I just thought I’d let you know so you can avoid me if you want to,” she explained lamely.

“Why don’t you try the school in town, Caitlyn? It’s only forty minutes from here.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve missed you, Caitlyn.”

At the end of the term Caitlyn stowed her suitcase, laptop and a box of books into the boot of her car. She returned the keys of the ‘garden cottage’ to her landlord and hugged his wife. “You can keep the washing machine and microwave,” she assured them. “I’ll have no need of them where I am going.”

Once she was well out of town, Caitlyn pulled to the side of the road and called her mother. “I’m on my way at last, Mom.” She glanced at her watch. “I should get there at about seven.” She sang as the kilometres passed and laughed whenever a message from Marlon pinged on her phone: he was tracking her progress.

Her mother assured her she was making a chicken curry with rice for the home-coming meal. Caitlyn clearly imagined her mother’s broad smile and welcoming hug. The house would be filled with the aroma of curry.

The sun was lowering in the sky when Caitlyn calculated that there were only fifteen minutes of light left. This meant she would miss the welcoming view of the driveway as she would arrive in the dark. She had just turned onto the dirt road leading to the farm when her cell phone rang. Caitlyn slowed down and pressed the answer button on her steering wheel. “Is something wrong, Mom? I’m almost there.”

“Darling, I just wanted to warn you that we have a visitor.” Caitlyn felt a heavy sense of disappointment well up inside her.

“Oh.”

“Marlon brought round two bottles of wine about an hour ago and offered to fix my lawnmower. He smelled the curry and …”

“You’ve invited him to supper? Oh Mom. I am so glad I am coming home!”

GRUMPY GRETA

It was a nail clinic really. Greta preferred to think of it as a beauty parlour. Even though they only offered manicures and pedicures. Well, foot massages too – that was enough to qualify it as a beauty parlour in her book.

This morning Greta woke up with a sour taste in her mouth. Larry’s late night phone call still resonated in her mind: how dare he tack on an extra two days when he had already been away for a week? He didn’t even acknowledge the extra effort it took for her to hold the fort in addition to her normal workload!

“It’s been a tough week, Gret.” Larry had sounded unconvincing. Why had he phoned so late anyway?

The suspicion that he may have formed a liaison with someone tightened around her chest like a metal clamp. She deliberately took a series of deep breaths as she wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. Instant coffee. She couldn’t be bothered to brew coffee for herself. Greta glowered menacingly at her tiny distorted reflection in the chrome panel of the Jura coffee machine Larry had insisted on buying soon after their business had started showing a regular profit – even before she began drawing what she considered a ‘decent’ salary.

Hot coffee splashed onto her pyjama top. Greta dabbed angrily at it with a wet cloth before wiping the kitchen shelf where the milk had spilled. She tossed the dirty cloth into the sink still filled with dishes and stared unseeingly out of the kitchen window whilst sipping her scalding coffee.

How dare he? Greta glanced at the calendar next to the fridge: Larry was going to spend two days at a nearby game lodge. “A few of us are going there, Gret. Just to unwind a little. You know.”

She yanked open the fridge: the yoghurt was finished. Greta frowned at the notepad on the shelf next to the kettle: she had started making a grocery list last night; had in fact been planning a fancy meal to welcome Larry home tonight. Had been! He was probably already enjoying a game drive – at whose expense? She felt the bile rising as her indignation increased.

Greta looked at herself in the mirror before setting off for work: beige slacks, olive-green long-sleeved blouse, sensible black shoes, and no make-up. She turned to see the rest of her more critically: her hair could do with styling again … there just never seemed to be time for such frivolities. On a whim, she kicked off her shoes and slipped on a pair of leather sandals.

She switched on her computer at work, sipped a mug of scalding coffee – why couldn’t someone else think of buying the milk for a change – and checked the figures for yesterday’s sales. That they were healthy ignited a small glow of satisfaction that didn’t quite reach far enough to soften her frown. Her introduction of items such as colourful garden implements and pretty gloves in women’s sizes, T-shirts in attractive colours and children’s shirts that were copies of the kind their fathers wore had resulted in more foot traffic and subsequently higher sales. The glow of satisfaction translated into a softer touch on the keyboard that had been stabbed at since the work day had begun.

Hardware would always be their core business. Greta knew that – and she suspected that she actually knew more about drills, generators and chainsaws than Larry did. After all, she was the one who usually met with the sales reps … the one who placed the orders … Larry liked chatting to the customers. Larry: the trip to the game lodge wouldn’t be cheap. Was he paying for himself – or did he have a companion? The metal clamp around her chest tightened uncomfortably.

“Cedric!” Greta glanced over her heavy-rimmed spectacles at the sales manager. “Why did you let Robert Oberman take the mini-generator on credit yesterday?”

“Larry’s always been so friendly with him, Greta. He said he was sure Larry wouldn’t mind. Cash is tight now you know.” Was that a sneer on his face?

“I also know that he owes us a vast sum of money. You didn’t think to check with me first?” She couldn’t prevent the steely undertone to her voice.

“Well, you know Greta. I’ve always worked with Larry and well, he’s not here and so I really thought he wouldn’t mind.”

Greta glared at him. How dare he casually lean on the counter like that? “Like you ‘wouldn’t mind’ not receiving your salary at the end of the month? Robert Oberman owes us more than three times your salary, Cedric. How am I supposed to pay you without money coming in?”

“Greta, you can’t do that to me.” Cedric, alarmed by her menacing tone, looked suitably crestfallen. “I have a wife and a young child to look after -.”

“And I live on fresh air!” Greta focused her attention on the computer screen. “No more credit to anyone Cedric. I mean anyone!”

Her neck muscles had contracted with tension and Greta was conscious of clenching her teeth as she scrolled through the orders that had gone through. What was Larry doing? Drinking beer in the sun with his mates? Think in the plural, Greta. The plural mates.

As Greta bent over the desk calendar to check when the vegetable seeds should arrive, her eye fell on the catchy advertisement for Sybil’s Nails. Why not? Greta typed the number into her cell phone and walked to the back of the storeroom to make her call.

A manicure was no good. Larry would notice it straight away and ask questions. No, it would have to be her feet. She chose the full option: nails, exfoliation, foot massage as well as an application of nail varnish. Why not!

At ten to ten Greta picked up her soft leather bag and iPad and then casually approached Wayne, who was assisting a customer with his choice of shifting spanners. “I’ll be out for about an hour, Wayne. Answer the phone if you will, write down the messages for me – and make no promises.”

Wayne watched her leave, noted the stiffness of her body, and turned to look at Cedric. Both men shrugged: they were used to Larry coming and going, but Greta didn’t even go home for lunch!

Greta felt uncomfortable as soon as she opened the heavy glass door emblazoned with the logo of Sybil’s Nails. The low murmur of voices washed over her as she leaned stiffly across the counter to confirm her appointment. “Let me pay you now,” she offered bluntly, handing over the business credit card. Why not!

To her relief she was directed to a chair in a quiet corner of the salon, away from the chatty young women occupying the seats in full view of the entrance. Don’t they need to work? A basin of warm soapy water was placed at her feet. When last had she enjoyed an opportunity to allow her feet to soak in warm water? She moved into a more comfortable position. This already felt good.

Greta pushed her spectacles to the top of her head, wincing as the rough sandpaper (as she thought of it) was briskly whisked across each foot in turn. She wondered briefly how the attendant felt about the ‘skin dust’ (she couldn’t call it saw dust, even though that is what it looked like) covering her arms and the towel in her lap.

“Would you enjoy a mug of coffee?” When last had anyone offered to make her coffee?

“Thank you,” she whispered, not trusting what the lump in her throat would do to her voice.

Her toenails were being cut and buffed. The sheer pleasure of having someone care to do that (even for the hefty fee she had already paid) made Greta feel guilty about the time she was spending away from the shop. She unzipped the cloth bag and withdrew her iPad. She could use the time to plan meals, make her grocery list, check their dental appointments, and look at the self-watering flower pots like the one her friend Rita had received a cyclamen in. She could order a few to test the market. Her frown returned.

“You’ve got a grumpy customer.” Deirdre whispered to Samantha when they met briefly at the sink. “She looks so grim. I haven’t seen her smile once.” Samantha shrugged her shoulders and collected the tubs of exfoliating gel and skin cream from the cabinet nearby.

She dried Greta’s feet and pushed the chair into the reclining position. “Perhaps you would like to put your iPad away now Greta,” she said gently. “Let’s place it and your spectacles on the side table here.”

Samantha watched as Greta leaned back in the chair. Earlier she had sat pressing her fingers to her temples. Now her hands were balled into fists resting on the arm rests. Samantha looked down at the foot she was working on. She could feel the ripples of tension in the ankles and in the arch. She set about massaging the right foot, deftly working the thick lotion into the dry skin. “Is the massage pressure enough for you?”

Greta swallowed and looked at her directly for the first time. “I’d like it as hard as is comfortable for you, please.” Then she put her head back and closed her eyes. That way she could enjoy the full sensation of the massage – as though the knots were being unravelled.

Larry had taken to calling her Regret – did he regret marrying her? Of course he still called her Greta in the shop. He used to stroke her arm in passing: she loved being stroked.

“It’s been a tough week, Gret.” Tough? Mingling with people at the trade fair. Listening to presentations or watching demonstrations. Really tough (Greta could feel her lips pursing into a sneer of derision). Larry would return with pamphlets and business cards galore – and leave her to make sense of them all!

Her other foot was being massaged now. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had inadvertently been pushing him out of that side of the business. Larry was so good with people. Strangers warmed to him and were easily taken in by his boyish enthusiasm and willingness to help them find a solution. She was better at the back end.

“Just to unwind a little.” They seldom spent time ‘unwinding’ together anymore. What if she left early sometimes to prepare some snacks and set out wine or beer …

Samantha winked at Deirdre: Greta’s stern mouth had softened a little. Her hands now held the chair loosely. Her eyelids oozed tiny trickles of dampness. Samantha patted both feet in a soothing gesture before wrapping them in a warm towel. “Do you still want the taupe nail colour Greta?”

Greta smiled broadly. “Remind me of the range of reds you introduced me to earlier?” She looked at the swatches of colour at the end of long lengths of plastic. “The brighter the better,” she said after little deliberation.

A tissue was woven between her toes before the ritual of applying various coats began. Perhaps we should eat out now and then, Greta thought as her toes were being transformed from drab to happy in front of her eyes.

“I’ll sprinkle some quick-dry drops onto your toes, but it will be at least an hour before the varnish is properly dry.”

Greta carefully wiggled her toes into her sandals. “Thank you Samantha,” she said, having noted the name tag for the first time. She stood up. “May I hug you?” They embraced lightly (when last did I do that?). “You have done more for me in this hour than you will ever know.”

Greta picked up her iPad and leather bag, looked down at her brightly painted toes and pushed open the heavy glass door with a renewed sense of confidence and a lighter heart.

RED ROSES

Paula stopped outside the supermarket to admire the dramatically darkening sky. The strong wind tugged at her long skirt as she carried her two shopping bags across the car park through eddies of swirling leaves. Fat raindrops splattered onto her windscreen as she drove towards the exit, slowing down as pedestrians raced across the open areas to seek shelter from the wet and the wind. As she turned right into the street that would lead to her home, Paula began to hope the storm would die down before Philip arrived.

Philip Coetzee’s invitation to attend the private piano recital in the gracious home of Dr André Crow had thrilled her to the core. To her, Philip was the epitome of sophistication. For months she had watched him surrounded by pretty students as they lounged on the benches outside the Arts Faculty. He was good-looking, came across as confident and easy-going, seemed to be friendly to everyone, and had greeted her by name on the steps now and then – even when she wasn’t with the small group of students he had befriended. She sighed, as she often did, for he doubtless came from a moneyed background. Those students seemed to have such fun …

“Wear a long dress and something sparkly around your neck,” he had messaged after lunch. Now he looked at her appreciatively as she stepped out of his up-market car. “We’ll civilise you yet,” he teased, placing his hand on the small of her back. His thumb was already playing over the base of her spine. She shivered with a frisson of both anxiety and delight: what was this evening going to lead to? Paula fixed a smile on her face as she looked up at her dark-haired companion. She would really prefer an uncomplicated evening on her first outing with Philip. It wasn’t a date as such – well, he didn’t treat it like one; more of an expectation that she wouldn’t turn him down. ‘This is not a good way to start the evening,’ she thought with a gnawing sense of disappointment.

The tinkling sound of a piano echoed in the wide hallway as they entered the open front door. “Surely we’re not late,” Paula whispered. “Is that Richard de la Fargue playing already?”

Philip snorted in response. “Don’t be daft. That’s some hack banging away at the keys to entertain the guests while everyone arrives. He’s making enough noise for people to raise their voices. Raised voices make everyone feel they ought to be happy. Look, the clot even has two women with shakers to accompany him. How common can one be?”

Paula felt embarrassed by his loud comments and gratefully accepted a glass of chilled wine from a passing waiter. Philip selected a glass of red and led her past a row of potted ferns towards the spacious lounge, where chairs had been set about in approximate rows. “Typical working-class stuff.” Philip had paused in front of a gold-coloured bust of Beethoven. “It’s not even real.”

“Perhaps it’s been brought in as part of the décor,” Paula responded quietly. She was acutely aware of some much older couples staring at them.

“Dr Crow was probably poor once and can’t let go of the symbol of his dreams.” Philip lifted a fresh glass of wine from the silver tray set on a narrow table near the folding doors between the lounge and the dining room.

“Let’s find a seat,” Paula suggested, having caught sight of their host chatting to a knot of guests gathered around him. She recalled with pleasure his series of lectures on The Tempest which had unravelled the complexities of Shakespeare with ease.

The piano in the hall fell silent and gradually the guests began moving towards the chairs. “Ladies and gentlemen, our guest of honour has been delayed by a police road block near Dreyersnek.” Dr Crow looked very apologetic. “With his consent, we are going to change the order of events this evening by enjoying a light supper before his arrival.”

Paula listened to the low buzz of speculative conversations as she and Philip joined the throng collecting finger food from the platters set out on tables placed on the side veranda. She revelled in the air freshened by the rain as she picked up two fish fingers and three tiny cheese puffs. Philip had piled his plate and taken yet another glass of wine on their way to the low wall that offered a place to sit.

“Isn’t the moon looking beautiful?” Paula pointed to the last of the rain clouds scudding past it.

“De la Fargue is a twit. Why doesn’t he just tell the police he is expected to give a performance? They let ambulances through road blocks!”

“Playing the piano is not the same as getting a patient to hospital,” Paula ventured, feeling alarmed at the scowl on his face.

“Let’s get out of here.” Philip stuffed the last of the food into his mouth and stood up impatiently.

“What about the performance?” Paula had been looking forward to it.

“I can’t sit around waiting for nothing. Waiter! Bring the wine over here!” He sounded both loud and imperious.

“Philip, don’t you think you’ve had enough? I mean, I know we don’t have far to drive, but I’d hate us to have an accident.”

“Typical mouse, making trivial predictions like that. I thought you would be above that sort of thing.” Philip downed his wine. “I’m going to find that pianist and bring him here!” He reached out to grab Paula’s hand. “Come!”

She shrank back. What was it she had admired about him? He scowled at her. “I said, come on Paula. We’re going now!”

“Paula’s not going anywhere.” Hector Farrington appeared from the shadows. “I’ll see her home.”

Philip glared at them both, turned on his heel and strutted across the lawn towards his car. Hector smiled down at Paula as they heard the revving engine and then the wheels kicking up gravel on the driveway. He squeezed her hand gently as the vehicle roared off into the night.

“You’re not the first to be ensnared by that brash bloke.” Hector spoke quietly, his voice tinged with amusement. “I believe there are berries and ice-cream for dessert.”

Hector, her fellow student with an eye for insects as well as being a film buff. Hector, who often lent her his notes on poetry and who had explained the background to the Easter uprising so that she would understand the context of the Yeats poems they were studying. “Thank you, Hector.” Paula smiled up at him. “I wouldn’t like to miss out on berries.”

The ‘hack’ pianist provided pleasant background music while the plates were cleared away. Hector led Paula towards two chairs at the back of the room. He nudged her elbow as the long-awaited pianist entered from a side door and shook hands with a relieved-looking Dr Crow. An air of anticipation buzzed around the room.

“I apologise for my delay and in advance for what is bound not to be my best performance. The police were doing routine roadworthy checks and were diverting large trucks from the road.” The pianist’s voice shook. “The rain stopped soon after and so I was able to make up some time.” He drank deeply from the glass of water Dr Crow had offered him. “Just outside of town, a strong crosswind was making driving difficult. I had to grip the steering wheel tightly with both hands for I could feel my vehicle being buffeted about.”

Paula watched the pianist clasp his hands together and make a slight formal bow. He coughed dryly. “Ladies and gentlemen. There was a vehicle racing towards me. I could see the headlights as it weaved in and out of the traffic. I think speed as well as the strong wind may have caused it to leave the road not far ahead of me. I dedicate this evening’s recital to the driver and his family, who must surely be worried about him.”

He sat down in the shocked silence and lightly fingered the keys. The lounge lights were dimmed as his tentative touch grew stronger. Paula felt numb. “Philip?”

Hector squeezed her hand. “Perhaps not.”

Before long, Paula found herself transported by the music on one level, yet weighed down by the fear of what might have happened to Philip. As the evening wore on, she felt comforted by the warmth of Hector’s arm resting on the back of her chair.

“You have made a deep impression on me, Paula. From the moment you arrived late for our first English tutorial looking completely flustered by what was being discussed.” Hector looked at her over the rim of his mug as they drank tea in her tiny kitchen the following afternoon.

“And you answered for me when our lecturer asked for my opinion on the Spiritus Mundi – I hadn’t done the reading and didn’t have a clue!”

“Philip’s alive and well I see.” Hector fingered a deep red rose on the edge of an enormous bouquet of them stuffed into a tall milk jug.

“Happily so.” Paula held out a small white card which Hector turned over: Sorry. Philip.

“That’s not his handwriting.”

“I know.” Paula shrugged her shoulders as she finished her tea.

“Red roses usually signify love.” Hector’s voice was gentle.

Paula stood up. “Not in this case, Hector. He knows that red roses in an enormous bunch like this are very, very expensive. I’m not impressed.” A moment of silence followed as they both stared at the roses. “I am thinking of giving them to Mrs Stalworthy who lives at the end of the corridor. She’s always so friendly to me.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to come out with me at the weekend to photograph the aloes blooming? There should be lots of bees, hoverflies, beetles – and birds of course.” Hector looked at her steadily.

“That would be fun.” Paula lifted the tea pot. “Let’s have another mug of tea while it is hot.”