The Enumerations Page 9
He looks around. 4 males and 4 females. There’s Noah (1Male) with Vuyokazi next to him (1Female) and then Morné (2m). Sadie’s next to Morne (2f) and Wandile is next (3m), followed by Si (4m). Juliet (3f), sits between Si and Ms Turner (4f).
The circle could be better organised. Male, female, male, female, male, female, male, female would be good. That would be perfect. Or, for that matter, split it: 4 males on one side, 4 females on the other.
The ceiling fan turns in slow circles, barely cooling the heavy air. Noah’s brain is almost too dulled to think, but he has to. If he could just get a seating plan worked out. Not that he’d expect anyone to follow it, but it would be good to get an idea of how the circle could be arranged, even if it’s never likely to happen.
You should be working on more important matters.
Noah’s hand slips into his pocket, barely moving as he checks his pebbles, once and then a second time. So yes, boys/males/men on one side of the circle, girls/females/women on the other. 180 degrees precisely for both males and females. An organised circle in a large rectangular room.
If they came to group and sat in a logical fashion, then he could turn his attention to the chairs. Ms Turner told him he’d be welcome in the ‘circle’, but the chairs are a jumble: some are closer to others, some are completely out of alignment.
Noah sighs.
‘Noah?’ Ms Turner says.
All heads swivel to look at him and Noah realises it’s because he’s made a noise that could count as a contribution. Ms Turner’s obviously eager to make use of it.
He looks down and shakes his head.
‘Whenever you’re ready, Noah.’
Which will be never. Let the woman know.
39.
You aren’t supposed to be here, the old man tells Mum over and over, but if he has to put up with her and her little buggers, then they can earn their keep. He fires the woman who has worked for him for years. Gabriel hears her weeping, pleading for the sake of her children, but she’s out the door. I want your room cleared, the old man tells her. I want you out the door by this afternoon. Mum can do the cleaning, the old man says, and the cooking and the ironing and this little bugger, the dragonstick prods his back, this little bugger here can help you.
Gabriel has to clean the grate in the kitchen, sweep out the miserable heap of ashes that falls from the small pile of wood the old man allows them to burn in the evening. Outside the sky is grey, the sun a pale disc straining through the clouds. It’s raining and everything is damp, everything is cold. Mum drapes a clothes horse with washing and places it near the grudging fire, but nothing dries.
Gabriel has other chores. He has to sweep the kitchen floor, wash the dishes after supper. He has to weed the garden, dig his hands right into the cold ground, the soil compacting under his nails. The old man has shown him how to ease the weeds loose so there’s no chance of them shooting up ever again.
Nothing comes free here, you understand, the old man says as Gabriel kneels on the ground. The dragonstick points and points again. That’s a weed, he says, and jabs the offending plant, and that one. Make sure you get them all. No point in weeding if one of the little buggers is left behind to spread.
Gabriel also has to feed the hens. They wander the garden, roost in trees, watch him as he arrives with a pail of greens, carrot tops, vegetable peels. Their eyes are beads, their beaks are small and pointed. Gabriel stands in the rain, water running into his eyes, mixing with tears as the hens gather around him. Come rain or shine the hens must be fed, come rain or shine Gabriel has to feed them and collect their eggs. He throws the peels, scatters them as fast as he can, but he’s never fast enough to avoid the sharp pecking beaks. Sharp enough to cut through his thick, grey school socks and draw blood.
The hens don’t like Gabriel. They don’t like the way he creeps into their coops, slides his hands into the damp straw. They don’t like it when he steals their eggs and puts them into the plastic bucket the old man has given him.
The rain falls and falls on the tin roof of the old man’s house. Sometimes it falls so hard that it’s hard to hear Mum when she talks. Her voice is quieter by the day, her eyes darker. There’s a small shake to her hands and she walks softly, as if she’s afraid to make any more noise than necessary. She hushes Harriet when she cries, whispers to Gabriel when he comes home from school. Now she calls him her Little Man when she smooths his hair back from his forehead, when she leans over his bed and says, Sweet dreams, my Little Man.
Gabriel lies in bed and listens to the rain on the tin roof. The sky is grey when he goes to sleep, the moon can’t shine through. It’s grey when he wakes up in the morning. Gabriel lies in his bed and listens to the drip-plop-drop of the rain falling into the bucket in the corner of the room. Everything is wet, everything is damp and cold. There are three small, deep holes on the outside of his hand from where the hens have pecked it. He sucks them and draws a little blood.
40.
Day 3 / 18:07
Noah has already re-packed his small cupboard 3 times. He doesn’t have to wear school uniform here, but he’s brought his white shirts to make dressing easier. He doesn’t know if there’s a laundry or if he’ll have to do his own washing. So, 10 white shirts hanging. 3 pairs of jeans, each on their own hanger, and all the space taken up.
Shelves next.
5 t-shirts (navy blue, spares until the laundry question is addressed)
5 t-shirts (light blue, ref navy blue ones, above)
10 pairs of underpants (5 pale blue, 5 navy)
5 pairs of cotton pyjama pants (navy)
5 pairs of shorts (navy)
10 pairs of socks (5 pale blue, 5 navy)
2 pairs of trainers (navy)
1 pair of slipslops (navy blue soles with light blue thongs)
1 pair of slippers (navy blue, sheepskin-lined, stowed at the back of the cupboard, too warm for the rising heat).
All of the above would be fine – just enough shelf space – if it weren’t for the duvet. He’s folded it in ½, and in ½ again, but it still takes up a whole shelf and soon escapes over the edge, so closing the door properly is almost impossible. He takes it out (again) and spreads it over his bed. That looks neater. Hopefully he’ll be asleep when he kicks it off during the night and he won’t be obliged to get out of bed to fold it neatly and find somewhere to pack it away until the morning. He can’t be held responsible for what happens in his sleep.
You’re always responsible, Noah. Asleep, awake. You have your duties.
Sorting and resorting, shelving and re-shelving, sitting back to make sure that each pile (of, for example, t-shirts) is as close as possible in height to the pile next to it, that the navy blue on one shelf aligns perfectly with the navy blue above and/or below, that heels of his shoes line up with the bottom edge of the shelving …
When his room is as close as he can get to perfect, for now, he sits at his desk and carries out a check. His wallcharts are squashed together. He doesn’t like that, but there’s nowhere else to put them.
Nothing is working the way it should. You’ll have to start again.
He can’t though. He needs to work on his new timetable, see where he can shave off seconds, save minutes. He turns to his desk, to the sheet of paper he has broken down into small squares. At home he’d be able to use his laptop, get it all set out on an Excel spreadsheet. Here, he has to make do with a pencil, ruler, and handwritten notes. More time than he wants to spend, but he can’t skimp on this task. It’s too important.
At least everything has a place now, so that’s something, even if it’s not 100 per cent perfect. His bag’s fully unpacked …
Noah gets up, goes to his cupboard, reaches to the back, behind his 2 pairs of trainers and his slippers. There’s the bag his clothes came in. He unzips it, takes the duvet off the bed, folds it, folds again, squashes it in on itself. Then he reaches for the bag and jams the duvet inside. It puffs out a bit, and he can’t quite close the zip, but at least he c
an push it under his bed, next to his rolled up exercise mat, and out of the way.
Now he can close his cupboard door, and he’s gained an extra shelf, which may be a good thing. Who knows when he might need it, given the unpredictability of life at Greenhills?
41.
Gabriel walks past Mr George Fat’s house and hears him cursing in the garden, ferrchrissake, about something. Mrs Cleans-Her-Windows gives him a big wave and a smile, but Gabriel doesn’t stop to listen or to wave back. He’s been kept late after school, held in to hear that he and three other children in his class have been chosen to enter a Junior Primary Maths Olympiad, and, because Gabriel is usually the quickest to get to the answer, he’s been made the chief worker-outer, while another child, one louder and more confident than Gabriel, will deliver the team’s answers. So, I’ll need you four to stay on after school, learn to work together as a team, the teacher says. But Gabriel can’t tell him, No, I can’t do that, I have to get home quickly every day to check that Harry and Mum have been safe without me there to look after them.
Gabriel hurries down the muddy path that leads to the front door. The old man comes out of one of the outhouses, dragonstick in hand. Gabriel walks fast, but the old man moves faster. You’re late, he says, and Gabriel freezes on the path. Mr George Fat’s head pops up from behind the hedge. Fucksake Gladys, where’s my spanner, and he looks over at Gabriel and the old man. The old man pushes Gabriel, but not too hard. Inside, he says. Get inside. He raises a hand in greeting to Mr George Fat and closes the front door.
Gabriel takes a note to school. It says he cannot participate in the Maths Olympiad.
42.
Day 6 / 12:34
The rings under Noah’s eyes are purple, nearly black, his eyes bright in his pale face. It’s supposed to be Journal Time, but first Noah has to make sure everything is as it should be. He is standing in the centre of his room, four paces in from the door, two in from the wall. And then he turns:
1.Corner.
2.Corner.
3.Corner.
4.Corner …
5.… and back to the centre.
Once more to be sure, and once more again.
Noah does the last two rounds slowly. So far, so good.
For now.
Time to open his journal, pick up his pen (put it down, up-down-up) and write. He has to, otherwise the block that says Journal on his timetable will grow larger and glow whiter and fill him with guilt. A timetable is a sacred thing, even here in Greenhills. Noah has to be able to account for time wasted, minutes left floating and unused.
It’s all a challenge here, Noah. You’re not up to this. You’re safer at home.
That’s so true. But for now, Noah has to find something to write. No one will read what he says in his journal, so he can say how tired he is, how his newly balanced meds make him feel scratchy inside, like his skin doesn’t fit, how, when he reaches out, he wonders if his hand will land on something solid, or sink right through it.
43.
Home is a strange space without Noah. And now, a week before they visit him for the first time, Kate and Dominic have a meeting with Ms Turner. ‘Not too a long session,’ she says over the phone. ‘Just to get you up to speed about Noah and how he’s doing. It’s a good idea for us to have a chat.’
Chat. Such an inoffensive word, but for Kate it’s loaded.
Ms Turner has a pleasant face. She is not threatening. Yet Kate finds her so. All that learning, all those ideas bundled into that pretty head, living behind those pretty brown eyes, waiting to be spoken by that wide, generous mouth. All her degrees and qualifications framed and sitting behind glass. Any moment now, she’s going to open her mouth and further shatter Kate’s world.
The blame will all be on her. She’s the one who brought up the children while Dominic worked morning, noon and large parts of the night. To provide for the family, he said, but Kate knew better. What better place than work when you don’t want to be at home? What better excuse than the need to provide for your family when you don’t want to spend any decent length of time with them? Breakfast-and-sometimes-supper Dad. And over the weekend, when he isn’t running or holed up in his study, two-hours-on-a-Saturday and sometimes two-on-a-Sunday Dad.
So the children have always been Kate’s responsibility. That’s all she’s had to do, and without messing it up. The words were never spoken, but they might as well have been, because that’s what Kate knows she’s done. All she had to do was look after her house and her children and she couldn’t even get that right.
Now she’s sitting on the comfortable couch, staring at prints, probably from the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, and words are coming out of Ms Turner’s mouth. ‘OCD never quite goes away,’ she’s saying. ‘It’s a chronic condition that can definitely be managed with the right treatment, but there is always a chance that it might reappear, perhaps in a different form. That’s why it’s so important that we make the best possible use of this time and teach Noah how to recognise his warning signs and symptoms. It might be necessary for him to return to therapy from time to time.’
Dominic tenses. His neck stiffens, his spine straightens. He’s ready to go into battle, but Kate can’t allow that, not when she has worked so hard, pleaded with Dominic, begged him to come with her to Ms Turner’s rooms for this last session of her day, one that allows him to stay at work as long as possible, one that doesn’t interrupt his morning or the early afternoon.
Kate does what she always does. She lays a hand on Dominic’s forearm. He looks down blankly, as if some strange, tentacled sea creature has made its way to shore. She keeps it there until his arm relaxes and his shoulders drop. Ms Turner’s voice filters back through.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ she’s saying, with a smile.
Kate tries to smile back, but she can’t.
‘And this might seem even more difficult,’ Ms Turner’s saying, ‘especially with all that’s happened lately, but I have a small exercise for all of you to try.’
Dominic tenses up again.
‘Sometimes,’ Ms Turner says, ‘it’s helpful to remember the good times. The times when you laughed together, as a family, as a couple. Good times with Noah.’
44.
The front door of the house is open as Gabriel walks up the path, but there’s no light inside. The old man won’t let Mum switch on the lights until it’s so dark she’s tripping over things and falling in the gloom and then he laughs and tells her to stop being so bloody stupid, and turn the lights on, woman.
It’s still winter and Gabriel can hear the hens clucking. They’re all huddled together, keeping warm, and Gabriel wishes he could do that, crawl into Mum’s bed and get warm, because the blanket on his bed is thin and it’s getting colder every night.
Maybe the hens are huddled together and clucking softly under their breath because they’re also scared of the man, that he might come tap-dragging along the drive and into the yard and whack them all with his stick, whack and whop until feathers fly and they’ll never lay another egg in their lives.
There weren’t any eggs this morning. Don’t ask me, Mum says. She doesn’t have a clue. She’s still learning, she says, it’s different out here in the country. It’s not really the country – there are houses close to them, neighbours across the road and everything. But there are no street lights, and at night the darkness is black and deep. Back home there were street lights, outside the house where they all lived with Dad, when Mum’s tummy was getting bigger and bigger and Dad used to go up behind her and wrap his arms around her and say, well what d’you think, Gabe, boy or girl, and his hands were big and making circles on Mum’s tummy, and Gabriel’s toes would curl with happiness because he was going to have a little brother, or a sister. Not so much to play with, Mum says when she tells him, not at first. But I know you’ll be a good boy, Gabe, you’ll help Mum and Dad look after the baby, won’t you?
Back home, eggs arrived in cardboard boxes and when they were empty, Mum
let him use them as hills for his plastic soldiers to crawl behind and wait to ambush the enemy on the ridge.
Here, Gabriel has to put his hand into the straw and feel for the eggs – and sometimes they’re still warm. Freshly laid, Mum says.
The path up to the house is muddy and Gabriel tries to step on the dry patches because the mud gets thick and sticky on his shoes and it’s hard to make them shine the way the old man likes them to. Mum is in the kitchen and when Gabriel walks in she turns her head away. Hello my Little Man.
All he can see is the back of her head and how her hair doesn’t shine because there’s hardly any light in the kitchen. Gabriel can’t see her face, but he knows there’s probably a new bruise there.
45.
26 July 2011 / 19:34
His mother was crying, Noah could tell by the way her back shuddered against his, but she didn’t make a sound. GapTooth still crouched near her, too near. He reached out a dirty hand and stroked her cheek. She flinched and pressed hard into her son’s back. He stood then, quickly, and nudged her with his boot. Then he kicked the gap between them, his boot ramming into their backs.
Noah struggled to stay upright. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t leave the men bloody and bruised, begging for mercy, whimpering, but he could lean back in with all his might, keep his mother from falling over.
‘Enough!’ A voice whipped the dark and GapTooth paused, then turned away slowly. Noah watched him walk to a bag in the driveway, take out a set of number plates. Noah strained to see the numbers, but they were hidden in the dark.
‘Keys?’ said the quiet voice.
‘Right here, Boss.’
BossMan was small, trim, an almost invisible stripe in the dark. He beeped the remote and the Audi’s headlights turned on, blinding Noah and his mother.
46.
Maddie’s mom tells her about Ms Turner’s suggestion about the good times.