Chapter 13
Kaye
Lutho looks taller this morning somehow, less insubstantial. I can’t put my finger on it. He can’t have grown noticeably overnight.
I feel such a strong bond with him when he tells me how his father died. His sobs remind me of times I grieved for Peter. The pain never goes away.
I made a bit of an effort with my make-up this morning. I can’t think why. I am only going to the vet and the hairdresser. Maybe it’s for the hairdresser. It can be quite intimidating sitting in the chair with a huge mirror close enough to show every wrinkle and spot. Perhaps I subconsciously prepared for that ordeal.
Outside the sky is overcast and the morning light is subdued. I wonder if we are going to have our first spring rain.
We arrive at the vet just as it opens. It smells clean and newly scrubbed. The chrome work glistens. The glass panes sparkle. The young receptionist smiles, lifting her head and tossing her shiny blonde hair.
“Mrs Thomas, I see you have been missing your cat. Can’t wait to get her back. I’ll just go and see whether she’s ready to go.” She bustles down the passage, her high heels making sharp staccato noises on the white tiled floor. Lutho passes her the cat carrier as she walks by.
“Won’t be five minutes. Mpho is just giving her a good brush.” She returns to her place behind the counter and moves an A4 hard-covered book closer. “Would you like to settle up so long?”
Lutho wanders off to look at the posters decorating the walls. There are a number of coloured photos of different breeds of cats, possibly from an old calendar. There are also similar sets of dog and horse pictures but Lutho is focussing on the cats.
A young girl who can’t be more than eighteen, brings the cat-carrier with a complaining Marshmallow. Lutho takes the container from her and sits down with the container on his lap. He sticks his fingers through one of the holes and rubs the cat’s face. “Its OK. We are taking you home now. It won’t be long. Be a brave little kitty, wont’ you?” Whether it’s the touch or the soft voice I’m not sure, but Marshmallow responds and stops meowing.
Once we are in the car Lutho opens the container and strokes the cat. “Maybe we should take her home before you take me to Alex,” he says. “I promised her it wouldn’t be long.”
I can’t help smiling. I certainly didn’t intend to drive a temperamental cat any further than absolutely necessary. “Certainly, we’ll take her home first.”
A white Combi Taxi suddenly veers into the lane right in front of me. I apply the brakes sharply. The cat carrier slides onto the floor. Marshmallow sets up a wailing that pierces my eardrums like a ragged saw. “Typical taxi!” I mutter in annoyance. Taxis in Johannesburg are as unpredictable as the weather. They are a law unto themselves and the bane of motorists’ lives. I wonder suddenly how Lutho perceives them. For a boy like him, a taxi is necessary and affordable transport. What I see as a nuisance, clogging up the roads and threatening my peace of mind is, for many people, a lifeline to work, to shopping, to socialising and entertainment.
Lutho has taken the cat onto his lap and the wailing ceases. “Lutho, what is your opinion of taxi drivers?” I ask.
“Some of them are nice and some of them just want to make money,” he says. “They drive like a buffalo that has just smelled a lion.”
“That’s a good way of describing it,” I say. “I’ll remember that picture.” I glance back in my mirror. “Is Marshmallow all right now?”
“She just got a fright when her bed moved. She’s fine now.
We get home without any further incident. I open the back door and Marshmallow bounds out and disappears around the corner. Obviously, she is feeling fine.
After a very quick tea and biscuits, we are back in the car again. Lutho sits silently, a slight wrinkle on his forehead. It is obvious he is thinking deeply or possibly making plans. I remember I offered to pay him for his time. I try to settle in my mind a suitable amount. I don’t want to be over-generous and make it a handout, but it occurs to me that with his gang members in jail, he has no source of support.
I settle on R50 because that is what he tells me he got paid for a job. Then I decide that actually it was two days that he was involved so I change my mind and draw R100 from the Autobank.
There is a jumble sale going on in the church hall. A big banner is stretched over the side fence. “Jumble Sale. Last Saturday of every month. 10am to 2pm.”
The church grounds are much busier than usual and the parking area is alive with groups of women, standing or even sitting in small groups.
I feel a bit awkward as the car stops. Lutho gets out and comes around to my window. “Thank you, Gogo Kaye,” he says. He brushes some fluff off his tracksuit pants.
I smile. “I’m giving you R50 a day,” I say, handing him a hundred rand note through the window. “That’s for two days.
“Eish! Thank you, thank you.” His eyes widen and there is a shine of hope in them that I haven’t noticed before.
“If you come and see me on Monday, I’ll let you know if I have managed to make an appointment with somebody to advise you,” I say. “If you change your mind, I will understand.” My voice sounds like there is something in my throat. I clear my throat. He nods and then lopes off, quietly and unobtrusively. It is almost as if he has disappeared.
The car seems empty. I have a whole hour and a half to fill before my hair appointment. Outside the sun is beginning to break through and the cloud cover is dispersing into discrete pockets of white fluff. On an impulse I decide to go to Melrose Arch and look for somewhere to have lunch. It is a new complex and I haven’t been there before.
Once I’ve found a parking, I stroll around the Food Court looking for inspiration. I walk past the usual fast food outlets. They seem boring today. My eye catches a sign above a shop with tinted windows. “Paccinos.” It sounds Italian. I go in.
I am instantly seated by a waiter wearing a smart uniform of black chinos and a custom made white shirt with the logo on the top breast pocket. The menu he hands me is glossy with plenty of appetising pictures.
“May I recommend today’s special,” he says,” Rodrigo’s chicken salad comes with a free pudding today.” He stands with his hands behind his back and a genuine smile on his face.
“That sounds great,” I say. I can never resist the offer of a free pudding “What’s in the salad?”
“Grilled chicken breast with baby tomatoes, bits of bacon, baby spinach, cucumber, avocado pieces and pineapple, all tossed together in our special yoghurt dressing.”
I order the special and take out my notebook. I might as well make a start on my phoning. The first name on my list is Sarah Ferguson.
Sara is the daughter of Susan, from book club. When I was regularly attending book club, Susan used to give us monthly updates about Sarah’s progress at university. Sarah studied Social Work and I remember hearing how she had to do a paper about the law as it relates to children. She now works for FamSa. I dial the number I wrote down last night.
“Hi Sarah, this is Kaye Walters from your mother’s book club. Your Mom is always talking about you. She is very proud of you, you know.” I am not very good at communication but I’ve thought about my opening. “I wondered if you could help me or maybe advise me. I do a little voluntary counselling at a little church near Alexandra.”
“Sorry, who did you say you were?” her voice sounds young but confidant.
“Kaye Walters?” I hope it might ring a bell with her. “I’m a friend of your mothers.”
“O yes, Kaye. Didn’t you lose a baby some time ago?”
“More than 30 years ago. But that’s not why I called you. I have a 15-year-old client who ran away from home when he was ten. He has been involved with a gang of robbers and he might be wanted by the police for theft. I am looking for somebody to advise him about his legal position.” There was silence at the other end of the line.
When she does reply, her voice sounds friendly and interested. “I’d love to help but I only did one semester on family law. It sounds like you need a lawyer, somebody who knows family law as well as criminal law. I assume this is a confidential matter?”
“Of course,” I say. “Do you know anybody suitable?”
“Let me phone around and get back to you,” Sarah says.
“Thank you so much.” I see my waiter approaching with a laden plate. “Bye,” I end off.
The salad tastes much nicer than I would have expected, given the ingredients. I wonder if they give out the recipe for the dressing. The portion is very generous and by the time I have finished, I feel quite full.
The pudding turns out to be chocolate mousse. “Wow, I’m not sure I have space for pudding,” I tell the waiter.
“It’s a very light pudding,” he says, smiling his wide smile, “reduced sugar, reduced fat, mostly air and egg white.”
“I’ve never heard of a pudding like that before,” I say. I am charmed by his smile and his knowledge of the ingredients. I imagine waiters like him are very well trained.
“We are a healthy food restaurant,” he says. “Would you like me to bring you a takeaway container?”
“Yes please.” I try a teaspoon of the pudding. “O wait, that might not be necessary. And…” I hesitate. He waits. “…Would it be possible to get the recipe for the salad dressing?”
“I’ll ask the chef, Ma’am.”
I get to the hairdresser with five minutes to spare. I am shown to the waiting area which consists of 2 comfortable lime green chairs and a glass table with hairdressing magazines. I feel energised by the walk in Melrose Arch and the lunch. Perhaps I need a new style, something fresh and suitable to my age. I start paging through a magazine.
I am surprised when a young man of about thirty approaches me. “Good afternoon, I am Claude,” he says. I take in his narrow hips and small frame and warn myself not to jump to conclusions. “What can we do for you today?”
I show him a photo I have found. “Would this style work for me?”
He runs his fingers through my hair. “Maybe. You’ve got enough volume, but if I might suggest something a bit softer around the jaw area?” He takes the magazine and riffles through the pages until he finds what he is looking for. “This is quite similar to the one you were looking at but look how the length here slims the face.” He points to the picture to illustrate. “And a bit of colour, yes? I see your hair can’t decide whether it’s time to go grey or not.” He takes out a colour chart and I choose a light-brown which is close to my natural colour.
I feel like a change. I might as well go the full way. “Let’s try it,” I say. I feel like a young girl going to have her ears pierced. Claude leads me to a seat in front of a counter with a long mirror extending to the two seats on my right and the three on my left. I put my handbag down and then go to the washing area where a competent black lady washes my hair. Claude brings a tube which is presumably the colour we decided on and she applies that too, cleaning any streaks from my face with cotton wool. Then she takes me back to my seat.
I have to wait twenty minutes for the colour to develop and I am offered a cup of coffee. I spend my time thinking.
Let’s face it. I am never going to regain the figure I had before I got pregnant. What use is a cupboard-full of Thin Clothes? Yes, they were expensive and yes, they were fashionable – thirty years ago. I can’t hold on to the past like this. It’s time for a clear-out. The church has an outreach programme to Alex. I’m sure they would appreciate a donation. Dora can help me sort through my clothes and maybe she’d like anything that fits her.
When Claude has finished with me, he stands back as if revealing an art work. The image I see in the mirror is not me. It belongs to a younger woman. I recognise my big blue eyes though. They seem to dominate my face. I am not sure if I like it or not. I feel uncomfortable, as if I am in somebody else’s body. Nevertheless, I put a smile on my face. “Vey nice,” I say. I comb the fringe with my fingers.
“You don’t like it!” says Claude. His smile fades. “Give it a week. If you still don’t like it I can give you something more….mature.”
“O, I do like it,” I assure him. “It just doesn’t look like me.”
I make one more stop on my way home. I buy chicken breasts and the other ingredients for the salad recipe the chef was so kind as to give me. I am not hungry but I am sure I will be later.
Jasper greets me enthusiastically at the car. As I enter the house, Dora takes one look at me and exclaims, “Madam, you look fantastic. You look like the wife of a pastor of a big church.” Praise indeed from Dora.
“Do you really like it?” I touch my hair. “It feels so different. Like I’m another person.”
“Maybe you are,” says Dora, “bringing home strange people, cooking, buying clothes…” She wipes her hands on her apron and goes to fetch the packets from the car. Jasper follows me tail slapping from side to side. I hope to find the cats in the lounge. I find them both curled up together on the couch, looking for all the world like a white and brown fluffy cushion. I wondered if they had missed each other while Marshmallow was at the vet and have now decided the couch is big enough to share if they cuddle up together. I stroke them both. Marshmallow stretches and offers her tummy for stroking. I am so glad she seems well. The night at the vet was expensive but well worth it.
I feel inspired to try out my new recipe. When Dora slouches back with the groceries I say, “Dora, I want to try out a new recipe tonight. I’ve bought everything I need. You don’t need to thaw anything or peel anything.” I hesitate. Should I invite Dora to join me again? To be honest, last night was more to make me feel more comfortable than for any concern about Dora’s loneliness. I realize I can be quite a hypocrite.
“Dora, do you want to join me for supper again tonight? I am making a special chicken salad.” My smile feels stiff.
“Thank you, Madam, but I’m going to my friends this evening. You can put it in the fridge and I’ll get it when I come to do the dishes.”
I inwardly heave a sigh of relief and then feel guilty for feeling that way. “Dora, have you ever wished your life had turned out differently, that you were married with a family?” Dora is packing away the chicken breasts and the yoghurt.
“Men are evil,” she says. She slams the fridge door. “I don’t trust any of them. Not even the Pastor!”
“And children?” I ask.
“Two of my friends have teenage children. Busi’s daughter is pregnant and she hasn’t even finished school. Thabi has two boys and they are both into drugs. They stay with their grandmother in Limpopo. The older one hit her last weekend. I don’t need problems like that.” Dora slaps her hands together as if dusting flour off them.
Dora has answered my questions but not opened up. Perhaps she wants to keep our relationship employer-employee. It’s obvious she has her own friendship circle. It’s probably better that way. But it makes me feel lonely. I realise I don’t really have any friends. In the beginning it was my own fault. Friends were having babies and babies were getting bigger and having birthday parties. I turned down all invitations and they went on with their lives. At the hospital I was part of a team. I got on well with my colleagues but they were not my friends. I never invited any of them home or went to movies with them. It was work and we all did what we had to do.
Of course, there are the Book Club ladies. I’ve always been a better listener than talker so at book club meetings I usually say very little, only asking questions about their lives that I remember from the previous month. I was very quiet on Wednesday night because I had been away so long, I had no questions to ask. Perhaps I need to make more of an effort.
Jasper makes his presence known by sitting in front of me and giving little whines. When that doesn’t work, he goes to fetch his lead. “All right,” I tell him, “You’re my best friend and you want to go out walking with me.” I clip on his lead and follow him out the door.
The fresh air invigorates me and I determine to contact one or two of the book club ladies and make plans to have tea or something together.
When we get back I pull my mind from my reflections and make myself a cup of tea. It’s time to start phoning. I spend two hours working through my list without any progress. Some of the numbers I had written down are no longer in use. I leave messages for three people. The fading light reminds me it is supper time.
With eager anticipation I cook two chicken breasts and assemble the salad according to the recipe. It doesn’t take very long. Both cats hang around in the kitchen, not saying anything, just walking backwards and forwards with their tails held erect. I have to pause in the middle of my preparations to feed both them and Jasper. That at least gets them out from under my feet for a while.
I am very pleased with the salad although it is not quite as good as lunch was. I microwave two rolls and dish up for me and Dora, putting hers in the fridge as she requested.
After supper I settle down with my book. Jasper sleeps on the mat next to my bed. Fudge tries to get on top of the book and I push her off. As the story unfolds, I realise it is about a couple who are going to have a baby. It is science fiction so a bit futuristic but nevertheless it is about pregnancy. I wonder if I should continue reading or just abandon it. Perhaps I’ll just read to the end of the chapter. I glance at my cell phone. No calls. No messages.
I end up I reading another four chapters. I have gone too far to abandon the book now. It is too late for anybody to phone back so I Let Jasper out for a bit then close him in the kitchen and go to bed. I sleep well for the second night running.