Birdseye Read online

‘I know. But how can we leave her, Orville?’

  ‘Annie! How can we not? Look at what she does to you, how she treats you.’

  ‘But I’m all she’s got.’

  I couldn’t see them, but I didn’t need to. Annie would be sitting close to Orville on the sofa, thigh to thigh, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. He’d be looking down on her and his arm would tighten, and he’d kiss the crown of her head and she’d reach up and stroke his cheek, where the five o’clock shadow had cast a dull golden glow. And even as he sighed, Orville would be looking at her with the sort of love that accepts everything, never puts up a fight.

  I clenched my fists, then spread my palms flat on the cool concrete.

  ‘She’s getting old, Orville. And frailer by the day. Her blood pressure—’

  ‘Annie, listen. She’s kept you here all these years. And she’d have Thelma. We could afford to pay her more.’ Orville sounded desperate. ‘We need to try this, Annie. We need to get away from here.’

  ‘But what about her health, how will she cope without me? You heard what Dr Woods said the other day – we have to keep an eye on her. And besides,’ Annie’s voice broke, ‘we owe her so much. We can’t leave her now.’

  ‘Oh yes we can,’ I wanted to leap through the windows and shout. And shake her. Shake her spine straight and strong and make her lift her head and firm her shoulders and march up the stairs and declare, ‘We’re leaving, Mother. Really leaving.’

  Instead she said how old Ma Bess was, and how she would be alone in the world without Annie. ‘If I leave, she’ll have no one.’

  ‘That’s because she’s alienated everyone around her. The only people she sees are the ones she pays. The doctor, her lawyer, the endless parade of people who pamper her. And the dentist, when we’ve got enough energy to gather forces and get her down the stairs and into the car. Do you realise, Annie, she’s lived here all this time and she doesn’t have a single friend? No one phones her. No one visits. She’s cut herself off, and she’d like nothing more than to cut you – all of us – off too.’

  Annie sniffed. By now the tears would be trickling down her cheeks and Orville would be pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping her face dry.

  ‘But can’t you see, that’s what I’m talking about? We’re the only real people she has.’

  ‘What about us, Annie?’ Orville asked. ‘Do we ever get a chance at a real life?’

  Annie’s voice broke further. ‘I can’t, Orville. I just can’t. Please don’t ask me to.’

  Did Orville’s arm around her slacken, I wondered, as he said, ‘Can’t, Annie? Or won’t?’

  And then, as Annie sobbed, his voice softened. ‘Don’t worry, darling, don’t cry. I’ll call Roussouw tomorrow. It was just an idea.’

  This time it was Orville I wanted to shake. It wasn’t ‘just an idea’. It was a dream. It was an adventure. It was a reward – for years and years of putting up with Ma Bess. But Orville and Annie’s roots were so closely entwined that he could never wrench himself free and deliver an ultimatum: ‘I’m doing this Annie. With or without you.’

  More tears, probably more handkerchief work, until Annie’s sobs subsided into sighs. And Orville’s voice, even more tired now, ‘It’s all right, darling. It’s not the end of the world.’

  I pushed myself up onto my knees and from there to my feet. No, it wasn’t the end of the world, and it never would be, not of this one anyway. Life would go on in Marchbanks, and on and on. And Ma Bess would continue to pull the strings and Annie would jump and tumble and nod her head and twist herself back and back and back. And she’d lie in a crumpled heap whenever she thought of the strings being cut.

  37

  Last night I had the most brilliant dream, I told Ollie and Oz. I was six again and you were right here, tugging my hand and telling me to come, and there was our tepee perfectly made, the patterns painted in bright colours. We went through the flap and sat inside on the ground, and there was just enough space for us to sit knee to knee. Your eyes were bright and happy and alive and you said, Bird, there’s so much to tell you.

  I was so happy to be with you and it didn’t feel strange that you hadn’t grown up. When we came out the sun was egg yellow and the sky was eggshell blue and the birds of the air were calling, Come on Bird, fly.

  Fly, Bird, you said, and Ollie held one hand and Oz took the other and said, All children can fly. You were there to hold me up and I spread my arms wide and stepped out into empty air and flew. I didn’t want to stop, because that would mean leaving you. So I dreamed, straight on till morning, like Peter Pan, and even though there were tears on my cheeks when I woke up, I didn’t feel sad, or sorry. You told me I had to come down to earth and wake up in my own bed, in Marchbanks, where I belonged, but you said I could visit you whenever I wanted to. Then you smiled and you said, we’ll always keep a place for you, Bird.

  38

  1994

  ‘Today is a day like no other before it. Voting in our first free and fair election has begun. Today marks the dawn of our freedom.’ That’s Mr Nelson Mandela. When he spoke those words the election was just beginning. It went on for three days and just about everyone in South Africa was there to vote. Even Thelma. There was no way Ma Bess was going to stop her this time, and I don’t think she could have, even if she’d tried. Not that election fever swept Ma Bess along with its joy and energy, but she couldn’t ignore it. Not in this house. Not since Anthea got politics. Which is the same as getting religion, only louder.

  Boyfriend trouble again, and Anthea was back at Marchbanks. But this time, the pattern was different. There’d been some sort of break-up. That hadn’t changed, but she wasn’t drooping or forlorn. It was as if someone had lit a flame inside her and all her past disappointments and broken relationships had been thrown onto a huge bonfire. That’s how brightly she burned.

  ‘I’ve sworn off men,’ she said to Annie and Orville the night she came home.

  ‘Really, darling?’ Annie said. ‘Pass the potatoes please, Bird.’ I passed them along and switched my attention back to Anthea. I couldn’t imagine my sister without a man at her side. Preferably a rich one with a nice car.

  ‘There are more important things to worry about in this country at the moment,’ Anthea said. ‘Are you aware of the battle being fought on behalf of the people, Mom? Dad?’ In the three months since we’d last seen her, Anthea had been infected by a new jumpy energy. She talked nonstop about the IFP and the ANC and mentioned ‘Nelson’ as if she and he were lifelong friends. She cornered Thelma in the kitchen and spoke to her about the dream of a South Africa where we would all be equal. Obviously, until that happened, things were going to stay the same because she was quite happy for Thelma to make her bed, clean her room, wash her clothes and prepare her meals for her.

  Thelma would listen patiently and then free herself after a while, saying she had to get back to the cleaning or cooking, but Anthea never offered to help so that they could continue the conversation together.

  ‘A flash in the pan, darling,’ Orville said to Annie one evening after Anthea had lectured us about our lack of commitment to the cause.

  ‘Well it’s a very loud flash,’ Annie said. ‘Bird, please go and tell Anthea to turn her music down.’

  Anthea had built up a good collection of music during her recent conversion. Counting Crows, Eric Clapton, Oasis and Madonna had been replaced by the raw power of Brenda Fassie and PJ Powers, Peter Gabriel and Johnny Clegg, Stimela, Hugh Masekela. ‘Whispers in the Deep’, ‘Black President’, ‘Biko’, ‘Thula Sizwe’.

  Inkululeko. Freedom was in the air. But Ma Bess wasn’t partial to the sound of freedom, so it was up to me to ask Anthea to turn it down.

  39

  I wished I’d been able to vote. I envied Thelma and Anthea and Annie and Orville the ink that stained their thumbnails. They’d remember the hours they stood in line for as long as it took their cuticles to grow out, and for ever after that. As for me, I w
ould never forget seeing Thelma’s face.

  Voting days had been made into public holidays so that everyone could make it to the polling stations. The first day was for all the elderly, and people with disabilities. On the second day, Annie asked me if I’d like to walk down with her and see what was going on. ‘Let’s take water,’ she said, ‘and plastic mugs. There must be some thirsty people down there.’

  As we walked down Harbiton Hill, we heard a low hum.

  ‘It’s all the people,’ Annie said. ‘The voters. Look, Bird, isn’t it amazing?’

  Harbiton High School was being used as a polling station and the queue stretched from the mouth of the school hall all the way along Hill Road, around Moonrise Circle and from there down on to Beach Road. Then it doubled back on itself and made its way onto Main Road. We couldn’t see the end of it.

  And then we saw Thelma heading back up towards Marchbanks. Her head was up and even though it looked as if her feet were really tired, she walked with a small bounce, as though she’d dance if only her feet would let her.

  ‘Thelma!’

  Her face broke into a smile. ‘Hello, Birdie.’

  Annie came up behind me. She passed Thelma a plastic mug and filled it with water from her bottle.

  ‘Thank you, Madam.’ Thelma glugged it back and held out her mug for more. Then she turned and looked down at the winding line. Her shoulders lifted and she breathed out in a loud sigh, the sort you make when something happens that you’d dared to hope for, but weren’t quite sure of. Deep contentment.

  ‘Bird and I are heading down there for a while,’ Annie said.

  ‘I will start the supper.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Annie said. ‘Your feet must be killing you.’

  ‘But The Madam—’

  ‘The Madam knows as well as we all do that today is a public holiday,’ Annie said. ‘Scrambled eggs and toast won’t kill her. And there’s ice cream in the freezer.’

  Thelma patted Annie’s hand. Then she turned and made her way along the road to Marchbanks.

  ‘Gosh, Mom,’ I said.

  ‘Gosh indeed.’ Annie grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hill.

  40

  Now I know why Anthea’s been so intense about Mr Mandela and freedom and democracy. You should have seen the guy who came to see her. Way younger than most of her boyfriends. And stunning.

  A few days after the elections I was cleaning my bike on the front lawn when a lean, broad-shouldered man walked up to the house. His hair was long and he wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans. He looked like he should be out on a surfboard, riding the high waves.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘Is this where Anthea lives?’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I’ll call her.’

  When I described him, Anthea’s face fell. ‘Oh no, Bird, tell him I’m not here.’

  ‘I can’t. I said I’d call you.’

  ‘Shit.’ Anthea glanced in the mirror and smoothed her hair. She went out onto the stoep.

  Meanwhile, I scooted out the back door and stood at the side of the house.

  Anthea was just inside the gate, her face serious. ‘I’m sorry, Lance, but—’

  ‘I know you said we needed some space, babe, but I reckon we can make this work.’

  ‘Oh, Lance.’ Anthea leaned over the gate and dropped a kiss on his cheek. ‘I can’t make any major decisions. Not now. My grandmother’s really ill, you know. My parents need me. You met my little sister? She’s not much help.’

  ‘Flipping hell!’ But under my breath so she wouldn’t hear me.

  ‘My parents rely on me,’ Saint Anthea continued. ‘I have to be here for them.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Anthea said. ‘You’re amazing. Giving up everything for the struggle. But can’t you see? I have to do my duty here, at home. This is where I’m needed most.’

  Anthea was good, really good, and Lance nodded as she spoke.

  She kissed him again and smoothed the ragged blond hair back from his forehead. Behind the hanging fringe Lance was drop-dead gorgeous. Things were becoming clearer by the minute.

  ‘Goodbye, babe.’ Anthea spoke as if her heart was being wrenched from her chest.

  He stood there long after the front door had closed behind her. Then he loped down the road, pausing to look back over his shoulder, probably hoping Anthea would come running, happy to embrace a life of poverty and sacrifice with him.

  ‘Hol-i-day-ee …’ I heard Anthea singing along with Madonna as I climbed the stairs. I stopped at her doorway. Her suitcase was open on the bed, a mound of freshly ironed clothes waiting to be packed.

  ‘You’re leaving again, Anth?’ My voice sounded lonely and small.

  She looked up at me and shrugged. ‘That’s the way it goes, Bird.’

  41

  I hadn’t written to Ollie and Oz for days and I was feeling guilty. Sometimes it feels like I haven’t spoken to you for ages. Or spoken about you. And then I wonder if it’s true what people say, that time does its work and eventually acceptance happens. By that they mean that we’ve all accepted that you’ve gone for ever. That you died somewhere and somewhere your bodies are waiting to be found. Or will never be found. And then, they all say, you can be put to rest. But they’re wrong, of course. It’s like Eric Clapton’s song. Time’s a heartbreaker, not a healer. My heart has been broken since you left and nothing is going to persuade me to say you’ve gone. How can you say someone’s dead until you know for sure? And even if you think they might be, how can you let them die in your heart? That’s where people live, that’s where time can’t ever, ever do its fade-away work. And that’s what I was saying to Evan Sparks, the creep who came knocking at our door.

  I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I had so much homework to do I didn’t know where to start. Maths, maths and more maths. Sister Juliana seemed to think that maths would make us strong, that there was nothing that couldn’t be solved by a perfect equation. So there was algebra homework and English of course. It was all grammar, grammar, grammar, easy stuff, boring. There was never time to write stories.

  I swung my feet over the edge of my bed. I had better get it all done now, I thought, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to watch Law & Order, and see yet another example of justice being done. I had just tackled the first of the algebra problems – sure to be wrong, but at least I had tried – when I heard the knocker. Silence, and then the sound thudded up the stairs again.

  ‘Thelma?’ I called, but there was no answer. She was probably outside, bringing in the washing that had dried in the weak winter sunlight. I ran down the stairs. Anything rather than tackle another problem filled with a’s and b’s and x’s and y’s. I opened the door and saw a young man standing on the steps.

  ‘May I help you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry to arrive without an appointment,’ he said. ‘I did try to call, but no one answered.’

  I looked at him carefully. Did a shambling redhead carrying a notebook qualify as a stranger? Could I talk to him? He ran a hand through thick carroty curls and looked down at me. ‘Is there anyone else at home?’ he said.

  ‘Just me,’ I said, ‘and Thelma. She’s out the back.’

  ‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said, sticking out a freckled hand. It was soft and rather podgy, stained with ink. ‘My name is Evan Sparks,’ he said. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  I looked at him with renewed interest. ‘Really? Who do you write for?’

  ‘Well, that’s just the thing,’ he said. His voice was light, as if he hadn’t used it on many people. He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t work for anyone. Not yet, anyway. I freelance.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what I do is come up with stories and approach newspapers and magazines. If they like the idea, they commission me to write the story.’

  ‘Who is this, Birdie?’ Thelma appeared behind me, tying her apron strings.

  ‘This is E
van,’ I said. ‘Evan Sparks. He’s a journalist, Thelma, and he’s got an idea for a story.’

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Thelma said. ‘You’ll have to come back later.’

  Evan’s soft jaw sagged.

  ‘Would you like something to drink,’ I asked him, ‘before you continue looking for your story?’

  ‘Birdie,’ Thelma said.

  ‘Shame, Thelma, he looks so chilly. A cup of hot chocolate?’ I asked.

  Evan’s face lit up. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘All right, then,’ said Thelma. ‘But not inside, Birdie. You bring it to him out here on the stoep. And keep the front door open.’

  ‘You can sit there,’ I said to Evan Sparks. I pointed at one of the wicker chairs then flew into the kitchen where Thelma had already switched on the kettle.

  ‘A journalist, Thelma,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that great? I can ask him all about it.’

  And that’s what I did. Evan Sparks hardly had a chance to take a sip of his hot chocolate. As it cooled, I learned all about the journalism courses at Rhodes University, what it took to get in, what sort of assignments they were set.

  ‘It sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘Writing for a living, I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more.’

  ‘So you write then?’

  That was all he needed to ask.

  42

  I know I write for you, but Evan Sparks was a stranger. Someone I’d never see again, a friendly ear for all the information I’ve kept between you and me for years and years – because no one else in this house wants to mention your names. I was so stupid. What I should have asked, but of course I didn’t, was why he had come to our house. What he wanted from us. Instead I invited Evan Sparks onto our stoep and into our lives. I told him everything he wanted to know.

  ‘How could you, Bird?’ Annie asked two weeks later.

  Sies!, a tabloid that wouldn’t know the truth if it hit it in the face, was open on the table. ‘Chronicles of Loss’ the headline on page 7 blared. It was part one of a four-part story by Evan Sparks. His byline was in the paper, right next to a photograph of me. He must have taken it as I was coming home from school, my rucksack dragging off one shoulder, my boater askew. My hair was messy, my eyes downcast. I looked sad and scruffy, just the sort of girl who would whimper, ‘My brothers aren’t dead, everyone says they are, but they live in my heart.’ It sounded so empty, so pathetic. Evan Sparks had sat and listened as I spilled everything out. How Annie and Orville had ‘moved on’. How my sisters had told me I needed to ‘let my brothers go’.