The Woman Next Door (29 page)

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Does that mean “no”, Marx? What, for God’s sake, are you sorry about?’

Marx didn’t respond.

‘I didn’t mean to snap. You met with my husband, several times, yes? I just wanted to know what was going on.’

‘Mrs James—’

‘Please understand, Marx, that I am humbling myself. I am asking you something. I’ve been through a lot. I just want to know what he said.’

‘You mean?’

‘You said he spoke of me. When we met, you said that. What did he say?’

There was a long pause.

‘Mr Marx?’

‘Yes. He, uhm, he didn’t talk a lot, but—’

‘I thought you said he spoke of me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, what did he say?’

‘On one occasion he mentioned that you were a talented designer.’

‘Oh?’

‘Another time he mentioned that you gardened and were particularly fond of—’

‘So just small talk then? Junk?’

‘There was once he spoke. He was very sad, Mrs James. It was our last meeting. He insisted on buying me a drink afterwards. It was all quite awkward, but I got the impression he was lonely. Towards the end of his second Scotch, he told me this, and I couldn’t forget it, although I feel bad to repeat it. He told me: My wife, I love her very much, but that’s the easy part.’

‘What’s the hard part?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs James. He didn’t say. The rest?’

The estate was wrapped up. The president of the hunting club called to thank Hortensia for the generous donation.

Perhaps Marx was right. All the rest had been the hard part. Staying, choosing the marriage over his child. You fool, Hortensia said softly (not unkindly) to Peter, even though he was dead and, unlike Marion, she did not believe in hauntings. You foolish man, she whispered. And she wished she could slap him on the wrist, embrace him.

There was talk that the Samsodien land claim had been finalised. A portion of the Koppie had been cordoned off but, to Hortensia’s relief, a sizeable chunk still remained as public open ground.

Many of the trees had been cut down, though. With all the publicity, the National Parks Board had got involved and was implementing a plan to replace the alien vegetation with fynbos. Sap from the trunks bled out. And when Hortensia walked up to the Koppie she counted the stumps, occasionally squatting down to sit on one. Except there was a day she struggled to get up and, for several minutes, wondered if she would ever rise. She stretched her leg out, her broken leg (it had mended, yet she couldn’t help but think of it as that) and massaged it for several seconds. And then she stretched the other leg out and massaged that one. Rubbing. The flow returned, Hortensia stood up.

When Marion visited, they came here. Everything is so dead, Marion said.

But the seasons continued regardless. Lime-green shoots appeared, then swathes of tiny sparaxis, bright pops of colour among the black and grey. The following spring, shocking-pink pelargoniums with their strong peppery scent carpeted the land. Gradually proteas and fragrant buchus appeared.

For Hortensia walking here became an exercise in Zen-like observation as more and more species came up; more flower species on that spread of earth than in most whole towns. Dragonflies, butterflies, sunbirds, frogs and lizards. Flowers bloomed in profusion, from microscopic bulbs to blossoming pea trees.

‘Where did they all come from?’ Marion asked, fussing a brush of fynbos with a stick.

‘Careful! You’ll damage it.’

‘I didn’t know you cared.’

Hortensia shrugged, not liking the amusement in Marion’s eyes.

‘I don’t,’ she said, eyeing a discarded Fanta Grape can; too old, too tired to pick it up. But she kicked it. Maybe she’d bring a rubbish bag next time, like the Save-the-Earth types.

‘Gosh, the time!’

‘What about it?’ Hortensia asked.

‘I’m making us a dinner.’

‘Where?’

‘Don’t look like that,’ Marion put out her hand. ‘Give me your house keys, I’ll walk ahead and start up. You can
count
.’ She chuckled. On a previous walk Hortensia had been unable to hold the numbers back from her lips and Marion had caught on.

‘Now you’re making fun of me.’

‘Just a small joke, Hortensia. Your keys. Come on.’

Hortensia relinquished her keys but didn’t smile. She watched Marion walk off, grudgingly jealous for the smooth movement where hers, with all attempts at grace, was still a hobble.

‘What are you making?’

Marion, without turning, waved her hand in the air in response.

Hortensia counted the stumps, the dead trees. She chided them the way a mother would a child who is in more trouble than it can be rescued from. The path narrowed and she paused, took a moment to stand and breathe in the sharp Rutaceae, stinging and succulent.

Only once Hortensia had descended the hill, passed the vlei and was walking up Katterijn Avenue towards No. 10 did she realise she’d done a ridiculous thing. The thought came and made her walk faster, made her not care about the occasional stab of protest from her healed but aching limb. Cook a dinner, my foot! Watch now. This stupid woman burns my house to the ground … or gives me indigestion.

Hortensia walked even faster.

THANK YOU TO
my family, always there, providing what is needed when, from food and shelter to love and encouragement. Jacqui L’Ange, Zukiswa Wanner, Paige Nick and Anya Mendel, thank you for reading this in its various stages of undress and for your partnership, insight and generosity. Elise Dillsworth, super-agent, you were with this story from very early on, helping, with expert searchlights, move it onwards. Thank you for your belief, patience and tenacity. Becky Hardie, thank you for your close reading and careful editing. I have learnt an immense amount as a result. I acknowledge Michele Rowe and her article ‘My Place: Silvermine’s true gold’ published in Times Live, 6 November 2013, portions of which have been used, with permission from the author,
here
. Several people provided me with information and anecdotes that were crucial to the writing – Lyle Cupido, Moegsien Hendricks, Lanice Holloway, Eve Mendel, Nomzamo Mji, Mrs Helen Richfield, Rosalie and Julian Richfield, Mrs Dvora Schweitzer, Marcel Tamlin, and Issy Wolman, thank you for giving your time and engaging with me. To the organisers and staff of the Ebedi International Writers Residency and Norman Mailer Fellowship, thank you for providing timely solace and invaluable opportunities for connecting with writers, readers and teachers.

Thank you to my friends, I feel lucky to love and be loved, writing wouldn’t be writing without that.

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Copyright © Yewande Omotoso 2016

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First published by Chatto & Windus in 2016

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781784740337