MY MOTHER DIED BEFORE I COULD MURDER HER

CHAPTER 13

Morris on leave.

We were back in the cricket season again, but I couldn’t bring myself to get involved in any sport after school. Morris encouraged me to play saying that it would help get over the deep loss I felt. But no one else seemed to miss Alice as much as I did, and in fact, no one really ever talked about her anymore, except to mention her in passing. I had the feeling that this was a subject of the past and that’s how it should be. At dinner, the topic of the day was usually the new maid, and there was a parade of maids that my mother was forever trying out.
     I found an old photograph of Alice taken with her grandson on the lawn, and slipped it under the glass on the pedestal next to my bed. Sometimes I’d lie on my bed, look at the photo and talk to her. I’d talk aloud and re-live all the fun times we had and the times when I’d cry because Myrna was nasty to me, or my parents ignored me or were mad at me, when Alice would hug me and hold me close to her and tell me to be brave, and not to worry, and she’d sing those magical African songs, and tell me that she loved me.
     I was generally feeling miserable and that bastard, Rothstein, was making my life hell in Science class. It was bad enough that my grounding had been poor, thanks to that vindictive Wiggins, but now I was having difficulty keeping pace with the rest of the kids in my class because Rothstein either ignored my questions or constantly ridiculed me in front of everyone else, saying I was an idiot. And after a while, I felt like an idiot and my marks dropped and once again I was struggling to score the minimum pass mark in Science.
     Thank God for English. I loved the class and really couldn’t get enough of Ms. Turner, a slight, awkward-looking young woman with dark hair in a bob, round wire-rimmed glasses, and a soft melodious voice. She was the antithesis of that shit, Rothstein, and her teaching style contrasted with his in every way. She’d support and advise and encourage us and it felt as if studying with her was as much fun and as much of a challenge as taking part in some sport you loved.
     In our English exam we had to write an essay about “a family picnic.” I had no experience of a family picnic. Our family had never been on a picnic together, so I concocted a story about six men in an experimental submarine that was on the bottom of the sea and had lost its ballast. There was no chance that the submarine could ever raise itself back to the surface and the oxygen supply would run out within a couple of hours. The men were doomed. Accepting their fate, they decided to have a picnic and eat and drink and play cards.
     A day or so later, Ms. Turner sent a message that I should stay after school. I assumed it was a detention for something I’d been involved in and couldn’t remember, or some work I hadn’t completed, or maybe she’d overheard me swearing about Rothstein. I was always moaning about the man and would sound off about him to whoever wanted to listen.
     The message said that I should meet her on the benches next to the tennis court. A strange place to meet but I was there waiting when she crossed over from the teachers’ staff room. “Hello, Josh. Thank you for coming.” I stood up; I didn’t know how to reply. I just shuffled my feet awkwardly waiting for what was next. She sat on the bench. “Here, sit next to me.”
     This was the first time I’d seen Ms. Turner without her black graduate gown. All the teachers wore black gowns, I suppose as a stamp of authority, or an acknowledgement of their academic standing, or maybe just to distinguish themselves from the other non-teaching staff. Without her gown, she looked a great deal younger and much smaller. She was wearing her tennis togs and her legs were so white it was as if she’d never been in the sun. “I have a crunch game with Mr. Pritchard in a while.” Mister Pritchard was our history teacher, a really nice guy. “Do you play tennis?”
     I shook my head.
     “It’s a great game, you know. You should try sometime.”
     “Yeah, maybe, one day.” I wanted her to get on with it. What was I doing here?
     “Do you like being at this school?”
“Yes, I do. Better than the last one.”
     Oh Christ! Here it came. She knew about the bloody condom-up-the-pole. I hated telling people I’m innocent. No one ever believed me and the whole thing made me look so pathetic. I liked Ms. Turner and didn’t want her to think I was a prize jerk.
     “Do you get on with everybody and have friends?
     “Sure.” She was fishing for something. I wished she’d just come out with what she wanted to know.
     “What about Mr. Rothstein? I hear he’s not your favorite teacher.”
     Oh, this was what it was all about. “He doesn’t like me,” I said. “He hasn’t since the time we were neighbors in our old house. He was always fighting with us.”
     “How do you find Science?”
     “Difficult. I don’t like being in his class, but I suppose I’ll be okay.” Complaining was a waste of time, especially to another teacher, so I hoped that this was the end of it.
     She shifted her position on the bench, so that her body turned toward me. “I heard that your nanny died.”
     What the hell? “Can I ask you what this is about?” I’d had enough of all this questioning.
     “Well, Josh,” she paused as if she needed time to pick the right words. “Your essay about the men in the submarine troubles me a little. Actually, a great deal.”
     “Really? I thought it was different. I mean, I’ve never been on a picnic and it seemed an interesting idea.”
     “It was. Your essay was brilliant. The concept was really interesting and unique and you have an easy writing style. I felt as if I was in the submarine, playing poker with the boys. I felt the tension, I felt the camaraderie, I felt the hope, and then as time ran out, the helplessness.”
     “So you liked it?” I was relieved that she only wanted to tell me how much she enjoyed the essay; I hoped I had scored really high marks.
     “I’m not sure how to put this, but I have the sense that you’re going through a really difficult time.” Now what was she saying? “Have you spoken to anyone about how you’re feeling?”
     “You mean… what?” She was losing me. “About my Science marks?”
     “That, and your nanny.” I didn’t follow her train of thought. Where the hell was she going with all this? “Sometimes when we have a loss everything seems to close in. It’s as if the planets have conspired against us, and whatever we do, wherever we turn, there’s pressure, and we feel really sad and down.” I didn’t answer; she was telling it just how it was. “A couple of years ago, a cousin who was the closest person to me, was in a serious car crash.” Why was she telling me this story? “Firemen cut her out of the wreck with the Jaws of Life and tried to resuscitate her, but she was already in a coma and didn’t come to for almost six days. Then she died. It took months for me to get over the loss. I couldn’t pick myself up. Really, I didn’t want to try. I was feeling down and found that I was trapped in how I felt. No one could help. No one understood. I was at teachers’ training college at the time and was on the verge of giving up when Mrs. Wallace, the mother of one of the other girls, noticed how down in the dumps I seemed. She understood that one of the ways out of depression was through support and help, finding a way out of the miserable journey.”
     She looked at me and I felt that she was about to hug me. And I wanted someone to hug me. I wanted her to hug me. She stretched out her hand and rested it on mine. “I want to be your Mrs. Wallace,” she said, and I knew she meant it. “She was there for me. She helped me out of my depression just as I want to help you.” We sat for a long while, not speaking. I felt at ease. I felt safe.
     Prichard, in his tennis togs headed our way. He seemed really keen on the game and almost skipped along to where we sat. “I hope you’re ready for our championship match, Sophie,” he called out. So that was her name. I smiled at her. I was pleased she was a Sophie. The name seemed perfect for this wonderful, warm person.
     She stood up and swished her tennis racket back and forth. “You are in for a real drubbing, Andrew Prichard,” she said and laughed. “I’m in no mood to take prisoners.”
     Prichard held the court gate open as Sophie swept onto the court. “I hope you’re staying to witness the massacre, Pandrey.”
     “If you like, Josh,” Sophie called out, “we’ll have a chat later.”
     I only watched the first couple of games. Prichard was a little above average, and was better than she was, but I’m sure he threw a couple of points. I think he had more at stake, and was after winning more than the game.
     Over the next couple of months Sophie Turner rescued me from a deep, deep, funk. During the last week of term, we met a few times at the tennis court and during the holidays she’d turn up about once a week. We chatted and she introduced me to Salinger’s“A Perfect Day for Bananafish” where I met Seymour Glass. She persuaded me to read A Passage to India, one of her all-time favorites. They weren’t the most uplifting books; Seymour eventually commits suicide, and Forster writes about a rape in India. But they were two examples of fantastic writing which she knew would turn me onto the love of reading, for which I’m forever grateful.
     One afternoon she challenged me to a game of tennis and when we met the following Tuesday, she turned up with an extra Dunlop tennis racket borrowed from Prichard. The racket had a wooden frame and was so heavy for me that I had a problem serving and hitting backhands. In any event, she was a lot better than I was, smashing aces and driving the ball down court close to the lines. We played two sets; I won a few points and only three games in the whole match. We were almost at the end of the last set, when Ralphie turned up. They got on like a house on fire and she was keen to take on his challenge of a game of doubles. The next time we met, Prichard partnered Sophie. I was using Monty’s racket that was a lot lighter than Prichard’s, and we put up a pretty good show even though we lost both sets outright. After the game, Ralphie and I rode to the local café to buy a packet of smokes. “You’re really lucky to have a teacher and friend like Sophie,” he said. “She cares about you, you know. She asked me to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t get into any trouble.”
     Nothing much went on over the school holidays. The family didn’t go away that year for a holiday, so Ralphie and I went to the movies, swam at the school pool, rode to the airport once or twice, and generally hung about, killing time and smoking. I was getting through at least six or eight a day and was forever rubbing the yellow nicotine stain off my finger with a pumice stone.
     When I was at home, I spent a lot of time in the garden with Morris. He was a little less than happy with the constant change of maids and spent most of his time gardening so that he didn’t have to cover for them when they didn’t know how to do one thing or the other. Some afternoons he’d bring a few dumbbells into the garden and work out. Morris was looking great, especially when he wore a tight vest that showed off his physique. He always tried to encourage me to start working out, but I was still so skinny and small and read somewhere that lifting weights could stunt your growth. Heaven forbid! Morris tried to convince me otherwise, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance.
     I looked forward to meeting Sophie once a week, and if truth be told, was keen for school to start again, because then I knew I’d see her more often. I was also feeling a lot better. I had perked up and was reading and spending some of my pocket money buying records, mostly Elvis and my favorite Jerry Lee Lewis. Listening to music picked me up, especially Lewis’s hit, “Great Balls of Fire” which I must’ve played until the grooves wore off the record.
     The week before the school term started, Morris asked my mom for a few days off. For the past couple of weeks, the current maid, Patience, had been doing a great job. We all liked her, including Morris and Parker, and she seemed to enjoy working for us. She was friendly, always upbeat and smiling, and her cooking was way above average.
     Morris said that he needed a break and that he hadn’t been home to his village in Rhodesia for almost two years. His work permit had almost lapsed and by law foreign labor had to return home to renew the permit. He never talked of his village or his life away from us, and I can’t remember ever asking him. I wish I had. I wish I had taken the time to find out more about him. It must’ve really hurt him to know that no one cared.
     I know my mother didn’t want to let him go, but he insisted. “It’ll only be a few days, Madam. I don’t think that I can keep this up without taking just a short time off.” She knew he was referring to the fact that the maid problem had driven him crazy and now that it seemed solved, he needed time off to recharge his batteries. So they negotiated. He wanted ten days. She offered five. He asked for eight and they agreed on one week, but he couldn’t leave until after the weekend. We were having a few people over for lunch on Sunday and he had to tend the braai (barbecue).
     The week Morris was away, Patience organized a temporary guy whose Xhosa name was unpronounceable because of the clicks in the language and who insisted that we call him Smiley. He was a really happy-go-lucky guy, with a large toothy grin and white, white teeth. He was willing to do anything around the house, had experience in the garden, and was forever cleaning my dad’s car. For the first time in months, things were looking up domestically, and about bloody time too!
     There was talk that the Treason Trial was going to be heard in April and once again Chaver Resnick was a regular visitor at the house. I was still excluded from the study after dinner and my dad would spend hours late into the night closeted with the older man. Once, when I opened the front door to let Chaver Resnick into the house, I asked about Moses Kotane and how he was and whether we would see him again. The response was a blank stare as if I were talking about a situation that had never existed. My dad looked at me as if he were about to take a swipe at my stupid mouth, but as Chaver Resnick followed my dad into the study he turned to me and winked.
     Myrna had stopped seeing her last boyfriend and was fixed up on a date with a new guy. I think he was an accountant or lawyer. On the Saturday evening of her date we all seemed to find our way into the study so that we could be around when he arrived. My dad was in his chair reading one of the historical tomes he loved but never seemed able to finish and my mom was fussing around a vase of roses that Smiley had picked earlier that day in the flowerbed near the fence. I was busying myself with the volume of The Encyclopedia Britannica that covered ectomorphia. I was still obsessed with my problem and had been through this section many, many times. I didn’t know why Myrna couldn’t have found a doctor to date. Maybe then I’d have known someone who could have explained why the hell I was still so short.
     The doorbell rang. My mother held up her finger signaling that I wait a moment and not seem too keen. I casually wandered over, and taking my time, opened the front door.
     “Hello.” He seemed nervous. A nice-enough looking guy, with hair slicked back off his forehead, he held out his hand. “I’m Cyril Feldman. I’ve come to collect Myrna.”
     “Sure,” I replied, “come in.”
     He walked into the entrance hall and then saw my parents in the study. He wasn’t sure whether to go any further or just wait there, and his heart must’ve dropped when my mother stepped into the doorway. “Hello,” she said, her smile warm and friendly. “Why don’t you come in and take a seat? I’m sure Myrna will be ready in a moment.” She turned to me. “Darling, let Myrna know that the young man is here.”
     When I entered Myrna’s room, she was sitting at the dressing table putting on her lipstick. She turned to me and I could see that questioning look. “So what’s he like?” Now I may have been biased, as I’m sure most brothers are, but my sister, biased or not, was beautiful. She was tall, and slim, with sparkling dark eyes and when she wore her hair short, she was a perfect ringer for Audrey Hepburn, even down to the bony collarbone.
     “He’s not bad-looking, and he’s dressed in a jacket and open shirt, but the collar of the shirt is turned up.” It was the only way I could break it to her that he wasn’t very tall. He was a lot shorter than her, especially if she wore high heels and turning the collar up didn’t really help make him look any taller.
     “So?” She didn’t get it.
     “I’m afraid he’s short, Sis.” I held my hand out to show his height.
     “Oh no!” She looked so disappointed but didn’t say anything, just kicked off her high heel shoes, walked over to the closet and picked out a pair of flats.
     “Where are you going?”
     “We’re meeting some of his friends for coffee.”
     “Well, I’m sure it’ll be okay.” She swept past me and headed for the study. “He looks harmless enough.”
     I didn’t have the heart to follow her to the study, but went to my room and watched through the curtains as they drove off. I felt really disappointed for my sister. She’d been out on a number of blind dates, and each seemed worse than the next. Her last date was with a real jerk, who trying to be hip, bopped up and down as he spoke. I was still awake and heard them coming home less than a couple of hours after they’d left the house. The date was obviously a disaster, and after Myrna opened the front door, the guy, not reading the signs, leant forward hoping for a good night peck. Without blinking an eye, she said “I’m sorry, I don’t kiss anyone on the last date,” then stepped inside and shut the door.
     A short while after Myrna had left with Cyril I wandered into the study just as my mother remarked to my dad, “Well, he seemed a nice enough boy and is an accountant, you know.”
     I was flipping through another volume of the encyclopedias, looking for the answer to my problem, when the phone rang. It was eight-thirty and no one ever phoned this late. My dad looked at his watch. “Do you think it’s Myrna?”
     My mom grabbed the handset. “Hello.” As she listened, she waved off my father’s worried look. “It’s the police calling from Beit Bridge.” Beit Bridge was the border between South Africa and Rhodesia and this could only have been a call about Morris. For the next few moments my mother listened, nodded, said “yes” a number of times, and then, “What’s going on, Morris?” More listening and yeses. Then, “Let me speak to the policeman.” More yeses, then “Now you listen to me, he’s a good boy. He’s been working for us for nearly fifteen years, has never been in any trouble and I want you to let him in.” More listening, I could see she was getting angry. “What the hell are you saying to me? Don’t be ridiculous! You mean some new rule is keeping him out? No!” she shouted into the telephone. “It’s a day’s drive to Beit Bridge… What if I don’t come and fetch him? Then you’re not going to let him in? Hold on!” She cupped the phone and turned to my dad. “Can you believe this? The bloody idiots are saying that unless I personally go and pick him up and sign a whole lot of papers they’re turning him back.”
     “What papers?”
     “I don’t know; the policeman’s accent is so strong. I couldn’t follow what he was saying, but it was about Morris having been here for so many years, or something like that. He said that even if we do go there, there’s no guarantee that they’ll let him in.”
     “And he’s at Beit Bridge?” my dad asked. “We can’t go there, it’s too far. It’ll take all day.” My dad waved his hand as he always did when dismissing something or other. “Try and do what you can over the phone, then that’s all we can do. If they don’t let him in, I don’t know… we have another boy.”
     What did he say? We have another boy! I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. “He needs our help, Dad. We can’t just leave him out there with nothing.”
     My father looked at me over the book he was reading. “Who knows what’s really going on? Maybe he’s specially screwed up his papers. Maybe he’s made a choice to stay with his family.”
     “What family? Does he have a family? Is he married? Does he have kids? He’s never talked about his family.” I turned to my mother. “Have you ever asked him?”
     She shook her head and shrugged. “I think he has a wife, but I’m not sure.”
     Jesus! We knew absolutely nothing about Morris, a man so much a part of our life.
     My mom argued with whoever the person was at the other end of the phone for another few minutes, and then she shook her head and hung up. “He’ll have to do the best he can. There’s nothing more we can do for him.”
     I didn’t hear anything after that. The words rang through my head. “We have another boy.” How could my parents, always talking about injustice and the horrible system, just dismiss Morris’s plight with, “We have another boy.”
     I rushed out of the study to my room and collapsed on the bed, sobbing.