Birdseye Page 18
Mrs Ruth Goodweather, a local inhabitant, wrote indignantly in her diary about what happened to the whales. A photograph of her shows her wearing a long white dress and a pretty hat, with a bunch of flowers tucked into the waistband of her dress. Sadly, the backdrop of the photograph isn’t asappealing. A man stands close by, a long-handled knife in his hand. Behind them is the massive carcass of a whale.
‘I was most grateful for my nosegay,’ Mrs Goodweather wrote, ‘for I had not thought that the reek could be so unbearable. Nor would I have imagined the size of the creature pulled from the deep lying felled like a slain Brobdingnagian among the Lilliputians. Was such carnage necessary? I asked my dear husband when we had returned home that evening, whereupon he replied that were it not for the slaughter we would not have oil in our lamps and my corsets would not harness my figure half so well. Of course he was right, but I fear for these mighty creatures. How many of them have been slain and how many more will swim unsuspecting into these waters only to meet their demise?’
Mrs Goodweather was right to be worried. The whales in Harbiton Bay were decimated so efficiently that only a few escaped and the whaling industry in Harbiton ground to a grisly halt.
My work for the day done, I closed the small blue book, leaned back and stretched. Hopefully Ma Bess wouldn’t be able to cope with too much more of this.
33
The blue book entries continued. Ma Bess learned what we had for supper, what we ate for lunch, what else I had to do for homework, what I thought of Anthea’s new hairstyle (blobs of mousse had given way to dollops of gel), how I did in the Harbiton Project. (62%. Not my best mark: well written but apparently the blood and gore of whaling wasn’t appropriate for a travel brochure.) It was taking me for ever to write the blue book entries, and I had hardly any time to keep Oz and Ollie up to date with real news. After two months I’d had enough. I had to prime Ma Bess, find a convincing reason for stopping.
My thirteenth birthday provided a perfect opportunity.
The Final Part of the New and Amended Version of Bird’s life. Diary, Blue
I can’t believe how lucky I am. Orville and Annie have given me the most beautiful book to write in. I’ve spent ages just looking at it. Trying to think what to use it for. It has made turning thirteen totally worthwhile. And as if that wasn’t good enough, guess what Miss Payne said on my essay for English? Hang on, let me get it and copy it out for you:
Amelia! This is a good story. Whatever you do, keep that imagination of yours well fed. In places you digress, but the more you practise your storytelling, the less this should happen.
Talk about synchronicity! A brand new writing book, with a leather cover, plus encouragement from Miss Payne, of all people. She never pays compliments. In fact she’s quite a difficult person to like. It’s her voice mainly. It’s very high. And squeaky. And when she gets upset it gets even squeakier. Poor Rafi is the one who upsets her the most. Raff – ay – ella! Did your dog eat its breakfast off this book?
No, Miss. And all the time I can feel Rafi shaking she’s trying so hard not to burst out laughing.
Rafi’s tragically untidy and messy and we both fear that there’s nothing to be done to ameliorate the situation. However, as she is blessed with an irrepressible sense of humour and a true zest for life, we think she will be fine. Besides, she’s going to be a world-famous artist one of these days and then she will be able to afford to pay someone to pick up after her, which will be a very good thing because she’ll give someone a job and pay them stacks and stacks because she’ll be very rich.
I love Rafi. She’s my best friend and I’m so lucky to have found her. And today I even love Miss Payne (Orville says I seem to specialise in terribly unfortunate names for teachers).
So what I’m going to do, on this, the first night of my fourteenth year, is open my brand-new book, pick up my best pen and try to feed my imagination. I’m so sorry to do this to you, Ollie, Oz. You’ve been my faithful companions for seven years now. A long time. You’ve been someone to talk to when I felt very alone. And I have told you everything so that when you get back home all the news will be waiting for you. But the older I get, the more I see it’s silly to hang on to childish dreams. I will always talk to you in my head, though, now that I’m in the habit – I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to stop. So, now, I fear we must part ways. Adieu (that means goodbye for ever, I’m afraid it can’t be au revoir (which means until we see each other again).
Amelia Little (13) aka Bird
34
Finally I can get back to you, I said to the boys, once I had signed off from the last blue book. From now on Thelma could take my story-writing book upstairs to Ma Bess. And hopefully she would soon tire of my amateur attempts. But first, a quick update.
Alice is easy – nothing ever seems to change with her. We see her every now and then, but she’s always busy on campus, with her lab work and all the societies she belongs to, which means her T-shirts are still baggy but now they have writing on them, things like Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History, and Feminism is the Radical Notion that Women are People. Anthea says she’s turning into a red-hot feminist and if we get too close to her we’ll get burned, but I think we should be saying thank you to Alice. It’s because of people like her that women can even go to university, but when I try to say that to Anthea she just laughs and says what would you know, ratbag. I’d rather be a feminist than a total airhead who’s scared of using her brains, but I haven’t plucked up the courage to say that to Anthea yet.
Married life suits Angela. She invited us to her new house for dinner the other night and everything went incredibly well. Dad said her Chicken Surprise was a masterpiece and that Thelma could hang up her apron because we’d all be eating at Angela’s, and he looked hard at me when he said it, and at Annie, so we all agreed very quickly. Only in the car on the way home, when I was dozing in the back seat, he said to Annie in a very quiet voice, Well, it certainly was a surprise. And Annie said Poor Andy and they both laughed quietly.
Anthea? She’s a never-ending catastrophe. She and Gordon – that was his name – broke up again and she came home for a couple of weeks, but she was more out of the house than in, Orville said. She came home late most nights and I’d hear her stumbling around, fumbling for the light, swearing under her breath. Her breath stinks; she’s drinking all the time. Rafi said it’s a good sign – apparently serious alcoholics try to hide their drinking and Anthea certainly doesn’t try to hide anything from us. It gave me a shock, though, the word. Alcoholic. Is that what Anthea is?
Ma Bess is just the same, as witchy and bitchy as ever. I heard Annie telling Orville she was worried about how thin she is, and Orville said She’s in her seventies, Annie my love, we have to expect this sort of thing.
Anyway, about a week ago Ma Bess called for Anthea to go up, and Anthea got up from the sofa and stretched and said What does the old bitch want now. And she stomped upstairs. She was gone about 10 minutes and then we heard yelling, really loud, and Anthea was screaming and saying what did Ma Bess know about love anyway. She wouldn’t recognise it if it hit her in the face. You’re just a dried-out stick, she yelled. What man in his right mind would want anything to do with you? So don’t you dare tell me I’m selling myself cheap. You wouldn’t know love if it bit you in that scrawny bum of yours. And then she slammed the door and stormed downstairs and grabbed the telephone and we heard her talking to someone called Riaan and telling him to come quickly because she wasn’t staying another day in this house.
Annie sighed and Orville hugged her. Don’t worry darling, she’ll be back soon. Then Annie asked me if I had tidied my room. That’s one reason I wish you two had never left. Annie’s a neat freak. She tidies cupboards and rearranges books on the shelves and it kills her that my room is always a mess, but Orville has given strict instructions. She’s not to come in here and sort it out. Thelma can do a bit of dusting, he says, but for the rest it’s up to Bird to tidy up her mess.
35
1993
It’s been a strange year so far. Terrible, with patches of hope. There’s been so much violence, everyone’s been horrified by Chris Hani’s assassination. And then quite a few of the girls at school knew people who were killed or injured in the attack on St James – a church in Kenilworth. Schoolchildren in Umtata were killed by the Defence Force. And that’s just three things that happened this year. Every day on the news there’s more. Orville’s worried that the elections are going to be disrupted – it’s a fragile process, he says, anything could sabotage it.
That’s what’s happening – we’re going to have proper elections early next year. And people like Thelma will get to vote – for the first time ever.
So much was happening that it was hard to keep up with the news, but I was doing my best to do what Sister Feliciana said: become a responsible, well-informed citizen of the world. It was important to bring Oz and Ollie up to date on the political transformation of South Africa, so I told them all about that. But it wasn’t so easy to tell them about what had happened with Alice.
I wasn’t sure if I should ask Alice about Jodie, but then I thought, maybe I should, maybe she needs a sympathetic ear. And, to be honest, I was curious. (Insatiably curious, Rafi says.) I wanted to know what had happened between her and Jodie. They used to be such good friends and then suddenly – nothing.
Alice occasionally came home for the weekends. For the first year or so, Jodie would come with her. Her family had moved up to Johannesburg and she had no home base in Cape Town. By the time Alice went into second year, having made the Dean’s List, Jodie’s visits became less frequent and then they stopped altogether and the light dimmed in Alice’s eyes. I didn’t know what happened to drive the two of them apart, but one day, shortly before Alice came home for Orville’s birthday, someone at school told me that Jodie was married, to a boy from Bedfordview.
We were in the kitchen, washing dishes, me with my hands in soapy water, Alice drying and putting away.
‘So Jodie got married,’ I said casually. ‘Did she drop out of varsity?’
‘Yes, she did.’ Alice inspected the plate I had passed her, found a microscopic speck on it, and passed it back to me to wash again.
‘Don’t you miss her?’ I asked. ‘You were such good friends.’
There was silence. Alice reached for another plate and then she drew a deep breath, the sort you make when you’re gearing up for something big. ‘Jodie made her choices, I made mine. And we know what my choice was, don’t we, Bird? We all knew a long time ago.’ Her gaze was hard and I felt my cheeks warm under her accusing scrutiny. I scrabbled through my memories trying to think what I might have done wrong.
‘Your choice?’
‘Oh come on, Bird. I know you told Ma Bess about me and Jodie years ago. Right before we went to university.’
‘I never did!’ I was hotly indignant. It was hard enough broaching the topic of Alice’s private life, trying to see if I could make contact with her. To be accused like that, when I wasn’t to blame, was shattering.
Alice said nothing. She continued to examine me, her head tilted to one side, her gaze clinical. Then she dealt another blow. ‘She told me what you told her, Bird. Quoted you word for word. You told her all about me and Jodie, that day when you walked in on us. “Should I stay with Jodie, get her a glass of water or something, Alice?” she piped. ‘Why didn’t you just say, “Excuse me Jodie, I’m going to run up and tell my ever-so-interested grandmother all about you and Alice”?’
Realisation dawned suddenly and sickeningly.
‘I can explain, Alice.’
‘No, Bird. Let me explain what happened next.’ Alice had given up all effort at drying dishes and I placed the one I had been about to give her back in the hot rinsing water.
‘After you told that cow about Jodie and me, do you know what she did?’ Alice continued.
I shook my head.
‘She called me upstairs. And do you know what she said?’
I was caught in Alice’s flat gaze and could only shake my head again.
‘She called me a nasty little pervert, Bird. She told me I was sick, diseased. And she told me to keep away from young girls.’ Alice was breathing heavily, crimson flaring on her cheekbones. ‘I had always hated her, Bird, and on that day I wished she’d choke on her bile and die. But more than that, I wished you would die too. Because you know how she started off?’
I was pressed up against the sink now, my sister’s face almost nose to nose with mine.
‘“Your little sister told me something very interesting today, Missy. Very interesting indeed, and if I might add, somewhat disturbing.”’ She mimicked Ma Bess’s frosty tones to perfection.
‘I didn’t cry, Bird. I stood there breathing, waiting to return to my skin. How could you do that to me?’ Alice asked. ‘I know you were only little, but didn’t you have any idea of the damage you were doing?’
‘Wait, Alice,’ I said. ‘I want to show you something. Just give me a minute.’
‘No, you give me one more minute, Bird. Do you know what had happened that day? I had told Jodie how much I loved her.’
Alice stepped back from me. ‘I was so scared that she’d laugh at me, but she didn’t.’ Alice’s face softened with the memory. ‘She told me she loved me too. She kissed me. And then she got scared and said we should stop, and that’s when you came in. It was my first kiss, Bird. It will always be my first kiss. And you let Ma Bess turn it into something dirty—’
‘Alice!’ I screamed into her face. ‘You have to listen. You’ve got it all wrong. I mean you’re right, but you’ve got it wrong. She was the one. Oh dammit, Alice. Just wait here. Okay?’
‘Why should I, Bird?’ Alice was shaking with anger. ‘There’s nothing you can do or say. Nothing.’
‘Just shut up!’ I yelled at her. ‘Shut up and stay there and if you’re not here when I get back, that will be the meanest thing you have ever done – in your life! Shut up, Alice, and don’t move.’
I flew from the kitchen, up to my room. I hauled out my trunk. I flung piles and piles of little blue books onto my bed and began rifling through them. Sobbing with frustration, convinced that the hand of the monster had somehow reached down the stairs and hidden the evidence of her crimes.
‘Bird? What are you doing?’
I turned to face my sister and caught sight of my wild tearstained face in the mirror. ‘It must be here. Help me look, Alice,’ I said. ‘It’s the one labelled “Bird – 1988”.’
Setting the record straight wasn’t easy, but when I told Alice about Ma and how she had been spying on everyone for so long, she calmed down. Then she read what I’d written all those years ago. It was all my fault, I told her, and I don’t even know how much damage she did because of me.
Then Alice said the same as I’d said to Thelma years ago, Don’t worry, if it hadn’t been these – she pointed at the books – she’d have found some other way. But why did you write all this in the first place, Bird? It’s my diary, I said. Lots of writers keep diaries.
I couldn’t tell her that I started writing to keep you alive. I know it sounds stupid, and childish, but it’s true. That’s what I’m doing. If I give up, I’m giving up hope, and I promised you I would never do that.
36
I can’t understand Ma Bess. Why is she so mean to us, even to Annie, her own daughter? What makes her so cold? I’ve never seen her hug Annie, or touch her. She’s certainly never hugged me. Not like Granny Little, who isn’t little at all, she’s tall and bony with big hands and feet. But that doesn’t matter, because when she opens her arms for a hug, it feels like you’ve come home to the warmest, softest place on earth.
If Granny Little is sunshine and warmth, Ma Bess is frozen waste. No wonder Annie struggled to bloom, and her roots are so weak she’s scared to try to live somewhere else. Away from her mother. We’re lucky, I suppose. Because even though Ma Bess’s reach is cold and killing, it’s not the only thing in our lives; we’re able to break free and escape. It’s Annie who will never be able to escape. She’s too scared to even try.
One evening, as I was walking up the front path, I heard their voices through the sitting-room window. I’d never heard Orville so excited.
I tiptoed onto the stoep, and sank to the floor below the window, all ears.
‘It’s just a small space, a shop front and a basic darkroom at the back,’ he was saying. ‘But if we rent a house with an extra room, I can set up a larger darkroom at home. Roussouw, the manager of the mall, has told me the shop next door will be coming up within the next year, so we can think of expanding there. The old man who’s selling up has a good client base. I can take over where he left off. They’re keen to keep the studio going, it’s been a good business and there aren’t any others in the vicinity.
‘This could be it, Annie,’ excitement turned to jubilation in Orville’s voice, ‘the chance we’ve been waiting for.’
‘I can’t, Orville.’
There was no sound from Orville. Then: ‘If we don’t take this chance, we may never get another.’