Leopold Blue (12 page)

On Saturday afternoon, midway through the two weeks of exams, Mum found me eating a snackwich on the sofa. I wound strands of melted cheese around my finger and sucked them into my mouth as I watched my favourite movie, ‘Listen to Me'. The movie made me ache. Jami Gertz was perfect. She was clever and brave and, most importantly, beautiful. What would it feel like to have Kirk Cameron resting his head on my shoulder while pretending to be asleep?

Mum stepped over my outstretched legs and switched off the TV.

‘I was watching that.'

She stood in front of me, hands on her hips.

‘What? I'm having a break.'

‘Read a book.'

‘Ridiculous woman,' I muttered.

‘I beg your pardon?' Mum sat down on the arm of the chair. She had the air of having something to say.

I bit the inside of my cheek, preparing for a lecture about failing to live up to my potential.

‘I ran into Mrs Franklin today.'

‘And  … ' I stared at the dead TV screen.

‘She said that you'd had a chat, that she was worried about Xanthe's influence.'

‘That's rubbish! Xanthe's not
influencing
me. She's a friend, the first friend I've had in  …  forever.'

‘I'm not the enemy, Meg! I was a teenager too. I know how it feels.'

‘No, you don't.' I got up, purposefully leaving the plate on the sofa.

Beth was outside on the stoep, staring at a plate of apple and banana that had been allocated as her mid-afternoon snack. Mum devoted herself to coaching Beth through the exams. She made charts, marking up Beth's study time and break time. She even monitored her daily vitamin intake. By the time exams were finished, Mum knew Beth's syllabus by heart.

I was left to get on with it.

‘Study break, huh,' I said.

Beth did not answer. She had been ignoring me since the afternoon I chucked the dagga out of the window. I missed her company, but then I realised it had been a long time since we'd really gotten on. It was a pity she let her jealousy of Xanthe get in the way. She was so used to being adored that she couldn't handle it that I had a friend. I tossed a Wilson's toffee into her lap and slouched back inside.

I'd hardly seen Xanthe in the past two weeks. Without her, ‘Madge' was beginning to slip. I had even considered studying hard and getting that ‘A', but I didn't want to show Xanthe up and I didn't want it to seem that I was in competition with Simon.

At night I had a recurring dream that I was kissing someone – every night the person changed: Kirk Cameron, Shannen Doherty, Father Christmas – even Bles Bridges. Perhaps Mum was right – perhaps the dagga had fried my brain.

When I did see Xanthe she was distant and distracted, constantly disappearing at break and after school. I took it as a good sign; it meant that she was working. But everything depended on science, our last exam.

The mood in the classroom was jumpy on Friday morning. Isabel fired questions at Sonia, barely listening to the answer. Esna paged frantically through the textbook, as if that could make a difference. Xanthe, seated across the class for the exams, looked calm. That's good, I thought, that's a good sign.

Elmarie stopped at her desk. ‘So, Santie, are you ready for the science exam?'

‘We're writing science today?' Xanthe asked, making her face stricken.

Elmarie hurried back to her seat.

I laughed. Xanthe looked back and winked. She knew I was watching her when the question papers were handed out. She paged through the six-sided questionnaire, backwards and forwards, turned it upside down, and then shook it a few times. She looked back at me and mouthed the words, ‘What the fuck!'

I giggled. But ‘Please Xanthe,' I begged her silently, ‘don't mess this up.'

Exam results trickled back over the next week. Esna and Elmarie checked the calculations on each script three times, as if an extra mark mattered. For the most part, I was stuck with an uninspiring ‘B', which considering how little work I'd done, I was lucky to get.

Xanthe was fidgety as our science papers were handed back. ‘Sixty-eight,' she said.

‘Yup,' I said, looking over my sheet. Mum wasn't going to be happy, but it was a safely invisible mark. ‘How about you?' I added too brightly.

‘Sixty-eight,' she repeated, laughing.

‘What?' I looked up.

Xanthe pointed to her exam sheet. ‘How about that?'

‘I don't believe it!' I said.

Xanthe looked at me sharply. ‘Why?'

‘I mean it's incredible. Well done!'

Xanthe leaned her head back and covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Thank. Fuck.'

I frowned at the red numbers on my sheet. I couldn't believe it. I ought to be delighted for Xanthe, this was exactly what I had been hoping for. But Xanthe was supposed to be failing, I didn't see how she could end up with the same mark as me.

All that afternoon I returned to our conversation on Park Road. Why had I mentioned the exam papers behind the printing room door? Surely she wouldn't actually have stolen one? But how else could she have managed it?

The lawn in front of the school was bustling with girls and teachers and townsfolk and parents and farmers. It was the last day of term. The just-cut grass left the air sweet and damp, the beds of white roses were perfectly pruned. The morning sun bounced against the school's freshly washed sash windows. In Leopold everyone turned up for the end-of-year prize giving, even those without a daughter at the school. It was an event.

Dominee and Mevrou Dominee circulated with the attitude of dignitaries – smiling and nodding at members of their flock. The city parents had been arriving in their fancy cars since early morning, windows rolled up against the country roads, bringing the already busy main street to a standstill. They stood to one side, clustered together like iron filings. They fanned themselves and dabbed at their foreheads though by local standards the sun wasn't yet up.

I stole glances at the women in their white trouser suits and high heels. They patted their hair with red-tipped fingers, looking as though they had delicately stepped out of a magazine. One of them, whose long brown hair was arranged in big curls, was smoking. Every so often her friend leaned over and said something as she pretended to wipe the tip of her nose. They were laughing at us. I should be insulted, but instead I found myself standing taller, rearranging my hands at my sides to appear more elegant, clutching at a wild hope that perhaps I might stand out in this crowd of earthy farmers and dowdy wives.

‘My dad calls them the “walkie-talkies”,' said Xanthe, catching my gaze.

‘The what?'

‘The walkie-talkies. They're the sort of women who have walking groups. They meet up every morning. Gossip-gossip-gossip; walk-walk-walk. The better the gossip, the faster they walk.'

‘Do they?' Sometimes I felt panicked at everything I didn't know.

We stood in the middle, my family and Xanthe, between the farmers and the city folk. Like a Venn diagram, we carried elements of both groups, but were a part of neither. Mum stood very tall. From her determined smile, I knew she was aware of the wide arc Juffrou
du Plessis was making around us.

‘Oh look,' said Dad. ‘There's Hannes!'

‘Great!' said Mum, in a forced voice.

Dad moved away from us and over to his friend. After a moment, he looked back at us and beckoned Mum over.

‘Hi, Hannes! Lovely to see you!' called Mum without moving, her lips pulled back to the point that she resembled the police dog Kaptein.

Beth, forgetting her vow of silence, nudged me. ‘She's doing it.'

‘What?' Mum asked at our snorts. ‘I'm being friendly.'

‘No, you're being scary,' said Beth.

Dad returned. ‘One of Hannes' labourers is unwell. I said you'd be able to help.'

‘Surely the hospital –'

‘Vivienne!' Dad's tone, close to a growl, made me glance up. A look passed between my parents.

‘Of course,' said Mum after a moment. ‘I'll go and have a word.'

Mum reappeared. ‘Sounds like that labourer should really be in hospital. But I have a stock of meds in the clinic I'll send him.' She smiled shyly at Dad.

He beamed at her. ‘Hey.' His eyes lit up. ‘We should have a party!'

Mum managed a barely audible ‘Hmm.'

‘A party?' laughed Beth. ‘You!'

‘Why not? It's been too long. We're hip, we're groovy, we're – what's the word –
kiff!
' he finished in triumph.

I stopped short. ‘Don't ever use that word again.'

Dad was delighted. ‘But I like it. We're kiff, aren't we, Vivvy, we're groovy!' He started walking towards the hall, in what was supposed to be a groovy manner. He looked like a spastic gangster.

‘Timothy!' Mum laughed.

‘Stop that!' I hissed. Elmarie and her parents were staring at us.

Beth clapped her hands and joined Dad in his ridiculous walk.

Even Xanthe laughed. ‘Tim, you are seriously kiff.'

He shot me a triumphant look and turned with his hand in the air, ready to high-five Xanthe, but she stopped. Her hand fell to her side.

In front of us was a woman, with her arms outstretched and a wide smile. Xanthe stepped forward and disappeared momentarily into the cloud of Red Door perfume. ‘Darling!' said the lady. She stood on tiptoes and steadied herself by holding onto Xanthe's shoulders as she planted a kiss on each cheek.

‘Mum. You're here,' said Xanthe, her tone matter of fact.

‘Look at you, too thin! Always too thin! Don't they feed you here? Is the food terrible? Is it too hot to eat? It's bladdy-well nine o'clock in the morning and I'm close to fainting.'

Xanthe removed her mother's hands from her shoulders and stepped back. The person smiling at us could not be more different to the mum I had made up for Xanthe. She was short and sporty. Her well-tanned arms were strong; the skin all the way up her forearms was slightly crinkled. She wore three chunky red wooden bangles on her right arm, a large red handbag to match, and a lot of gold on her fingers. Her blonde hair was cut in a perfect ‘Princess Di' style. But as she lifted her white-rimmed sunglasses, I sucked in my breath. She had the same ice-blue eyes as Xanthe. As they looked at each other, they were looking into their own eyes.

‘Mum, this is Madge, and her family.'

Xanthe's mum's gaze reluctantly left her daughter. A short-sighted frown flashed across her face before she replaced it with a delighted, ‘At last! So pleased to meet you, I'm Shirley. Just call me Shirley, sweetie  … ' She kissed my forehead and shook hands with my parents.

‘It's a pleasure, Shirley,' replied Mum. I looked at her and suppressed a groan. She was wearing a shapeless beige dress that ended below her knees, effectively amputating what were decent enough legs. Four strands of orange beads and large brown seedpods hung around heck. Her hair fell around her shoulders, partly obscuring her face that was free of any make-up. But what made me want to die of shame were her leather strappy sandals. She looked like a female Jesus of Nazareth.

Dad beamed and held out his hand.

Shirley was removing her hand from Dad's grip as Mrs Franklin appeared. She wore a green and white zigzag print dress, which had a neat green belt in the middle. Her green stiletto shoes matched the dress. Her hair was set so tightly it looked as though it might never move again.

‘Mr and Mrs Bergman,' Mrs Franklin held out her hand, ‘what a lovely morning. A great start to the holidays.'

‘Absolutely,' agreed Dad, shaking her hand.

‘You must be looking forward to a well-deserved break,' said Mum.

A tight smile from Mrs Franklin. She turned to Shirley. ‘Mrs Muller.'

‘Mrs Franklin. I was just admiring your roses. What's your secret?'

Mrs Franklin inclined her head in thanks. ‘Perhaps it is the nurturing environment.' The grown-ups laughed a short, plastic laugh before Mrs Franklin moved to the next cluster of parents.

‘She's very nice, isn't she,' commented Shirley. ‘My old headmistress was more like the Bride of Frankenstein. We're very pleased with how Xanthe has settled into this school. Aren't we, darling?' Shirley squeezed Xanthe's arm.

We sat through the Dominee's forty-five-minute address. These were dark times; testing times for our nation. But this was not the time to cower because we were a chosen people.
The
Dominee held up his bible.
‘I will give you every place where you set your foot, as I promised Moses.'
The Dominee's voice rose to fill the hall.
‘As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you.'

Murmurs of approval collected in the audience like a low humming sound.

‘Be strong and courageous, because you will lead these people to inherit the land I swore to their ancestors to give them.'

Though I didn't look at her, I imagined Mum, white-knuckled and muttering under her breath. News reports these days seemed to be dominated by pictures and footage of thousands of people at election rallies. The authority in those speakers' voices was no less than the Dominee's.

‘Be strong and courageous,'
repeated the Dominee.
‘Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.'

My bum ached from sitting cross-legged on the floor. There was a point midway through prize giving each year when I imagined what it would be like to jump up and walk smartly to the stage, skip up the side stairs without a stumble, and shake Miss Franklin's hand as I accepted my well-deserved prize. Mum had been polite about my handful of ‘B's, but instead of the expected ‘could do better' lecture, she'd barely glanced at the results, which irritated me even more. I pictured her now, sitting next to Dad in the block of chairs reserved for parents, clapping and smiling, applauding somebody else's daughter.