Fly Away Home (22 page)

F
rancina leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her tea and watching Zukisa complete an essay for her English homework. Zukisa was a good student, not exceptional like Sipho, but among the best in her class. Unlike Sipho and Yolanda, she did not aspire to go to university, and Francina was secretly disappointed. She was touched that Zukisa wanted no more in life than to join her behind the counter at Jabulani Dressmakers, but Francina wanted her to attain what she had never been able to, a degree certificate with a fat gold medallion. In her attempts to persuade Zukisa, Francina had shown her exactly where the certificate would hang, on the wall in the shop next to the one she herself had obtained just three years ago, for completing high school.

Francina had not told Zukisa of her plan to bring the girl's family to Lady Helen, not for fear that it wouldn't be possible, but because Francina was not quite ready to see the joy on her daughter's face that such an announcement would bring. Even after all these years as Zukisa's adopted mother, and against her will, Francina still felt jealousy when she saw her daughter with her blood relatives.

Lucy had taken over her mother's job cleaning the cafeteria after the breakfast shift, and she had also been hired as the cook for the dinner shift, which was usually quiet because most of the dockworkers returned to their homes at the end of the day. While Lucy was away, Xoli was supposed to be in charge, but he often didn't come home until after his mother, and then would not reveal where he had been. This past weekend, Lucy had shared with Francina her suspicions about Xoli's involvement in a gang, which was why Francina had decided that now was the time to bring her plan to fruition. If she didn't, Xoli would be lost, just as his mother had once been.

The success of her plan depended on the cooking skills of Mama Dlamini. Her Zulu friend's apprenticeship at the golf resort was almost up, and if Mama Dlamini was offered a job as head chef, Lucy could take over from her at the café. Mama Dlamini knew nothing of this, but Francina would use all her skills as a negotiator to persuade her.

Hercules would be able to tell Mama Dlamini that it was difficult to escape Francina's persuasive skills, or what he called nagging. She had been on at him for a year to submit his name as a candidate for the mayoral election that was set to take place in a month. Only a week remained for him to register as a candidate.

“What are you plotting, Mother?” asked Zukisa. “I know that look on your face.”

“Never mind. Have you completed your homework?”

She nodded. “Let's go downstairs and work on Gift's dress.”

Gift had been invited to exhibit her work at a gallery in London, and she wanted something new to wear to the opening of the show.

Francina followed her daughter down the stairs to the shop, where the Closed sign hung on the door. Late summer sunlight streamed through the windows, giving the polished wooden floor a golden hue. Dinner was ready upstairs, but Francina and Zukisa were waiting for Hercules, who had gone to church to discuss the upcoming visit from a choir based in Mpumalanga Province.

“How am I going to get your father to run for mayor?” Francina asked as they sewed shimmering silver beads onto Gift's black chiffon dress.

“Oh, Mother, I think that is one plot you should give up. He'll never willingly submit his name.”

Zukisa's words gave Francina an idea. Hercules was a man of honor; if
she
were to put in his name, he would never withdraw it. That was it! Just before the deadline, she would submit her husband's name as a candidate for mayor of Lady Helen. The town deserved him, and his integrity deserved recognition. Francina decided that this, too, would have to be a secret to keep from her daughter.

 

A week later, as Francina and Zukisa returned home from watching Mandla for the afternoon, Francina asked her daughter to go upstairs to their flat and peel the potatoes for dinner while she popped into the general store to buy some milk.

“There was plenty of milk this morning,” said Zukisa.

“We need more because I want to make baked custard for dessert this evening.”

Francina waited until Zukisa had gone inside before crossing the street and hurrying into the mayor's office. It was five-thirty. Only half an hour remained before the deadline expired for entries into the mayoral race.

“Hello,” said Mayor Richard. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to register for the election,” said Francina.

She tried not to look at Mayor Richard's naked calves as he got up from behind his desk to open a large ledger on the windowsill. At that moment, the telephone on his desk rang, and he hurried to answer it.

While he was talking to the caller, Francina filled in the entry form on behalf of Hercules. She didn't need him here to help her with any of the answers; as his wife, she knew all there was to know about him. Mayor Richard was still on the telephone when she reached the line where Hercules was supposed to provide his signature. Pushy she might be, but she was not a fraud, and so, using her most legible script, she wrote her own name on the line and put the letters
pp
next to it, as the secretary at Green Block School did when the principal, Mr. D., did not have time to sign his name.

Mayor Richard waved at her as she left, but did not interrupt his telephone conversation. Outside on the sidewalk, she gave a sigh of relief. It was done. Everything else would fall into place. There was not much time to campaign, but Hercules was so well-known in town there would be little need for it.

“You lucky people,” she said under her breath as she watched shop and gallery owners close the doors and pull the blinds for the night. The merchants did not know it, but the leadership of Lady Helen was about to change for the better.

 

While Francina and her family ate dinner that night, the telephone rang, and Zukisa rose to answer it.

“It's for you, Dad,” she told Hercules. “It's the mayor.”

Francina felt the blood drain from her face.

“Are you okay?” her mother-in-law asked, as he hurried off to take the call.

“I'm fine,” replied Francina, taking another bite of roast potato. She strained to catch Hercules's conversation, but could hear nothing. Then she noticed Zukisa observing her. “Eat up,” she told her. “Your food is getting cold.”

Her husband returned to the table. He did not look angry, so perhaps Mayor Richard had wanted to talk to him about some other business. Hercules sat down and spread his napkin on his lap.

“Congratulations, Francina,” he said.

“For what?”

“I understand you're running for mayor.”

Zukisa and Mrs. Shabalala broke into big smiles.

Francina dropped her fork onto her plate. “There must be some mistake,” she said.

Hercules shook his head. “Mayor Richard said you signed your name on the dotted line of the entry form.”

“Yes, but…” Francina trailed off in misery. How could she admit in front of her daughter and mother-in-law what she had done?

“I think you'll make a fantastic mayor,” continued Hercules.

“Why didn't you tell us?” said Mrs. Shabalala. “I'll make some signs to put up around town.”

Zukisa gave her mother a lingering, questioning look. “Tell me what to do and I'll do it.” Her words were supportive, but her tone was just curt enough for Francina to notice. Her daughter was upset that she had not confided in her.

“There's been a mistake,” said Francina, getting to her feet. “I'm not running for mayor.” She rushed to the bathroom and locked herself in.

What had she done? She didn't have time to run for mayor, let alone be the mayor. And now Hercules was upset with her and Zukisa was disappointed in her. What an impetuous fool she had been. Tomorrow she'd tell Mayor Richard that there had been a mistake, and ask him to withdraw her name from the race. And now she would do what she did whenever she was upset: run a hot bath and climb in for a long soak.

When she emerged from the bathroom in her robe, Mrs. Shabalala and Zukisa had gone for a walk to the park, and Hercules was sitting on the couch in the living room, waiting for her.

“I'm sorry, Hercules,” she said. “I shouldn't have put your name down without your permission.”

“No, you shouldn't have. That's fraud.”

“But I didn't forge your signature. I wrote mine very legibly.”

“And that's why you're the candidate now and not me.”

Francina sat down on the couch next to him. “Tomorrow I'll ask Mayor Richard to withdraw my name.”

Hercules turned to look at her. “I think that would be your second mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I meant what I said at dinner. You'd be a good mayor.”

“Yes, but what about the shop and looking after Mandla and—”

“Yolanda's old enough to watch Mandla in the afternoon.”

He was right about this, but not about her being a good mayor.

“And you told me yourself that Zukisa wants to take on more responsibility for designing dresses in the shop.”

Francina began to sob.

“Why are you crying?” Hercules moved closer and put an arm around her shoulders.

“I'm scared.”

“There's nothing to be frightened of. You've run Monica's household, you run ours, you run a shop. You can run a small town with your eyes shut.”

Francina cried even more then because her husband was so sweet.

“Shh,” he told her, drying her cheeks with the palm of his hand.

“I might be worrying for nothing,” she said brightly. “Richard could get more votes than me.”

“Possible, but not likely.”

Hercules was not one for open displays of affection, but since his mother and Zukisa were out, Francina reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

“What's that for?” he asked.

“You know very well what it's for,” she said.

They heard footsteps on the stairs leading up from the shop, and Hercules pulled away. Francina was not offended. It was his way, to remain discreet even in front of family.

“There are sixteen lampposts on Main Street,” said Mrs. Shabalala. “Zukisa and I counted them. We can put a poster on every other one and a few down in the park, so we should probably make at least twelve.”

“You'll have to tell us about your platform,” said Zukisa. Her tone was still reserved, but Francina could tell that she was being swept up by the excitement of tonight's developments.

“My platform?” asked Francina.

“The issue you think is most important,” she explained. “What are you going to promise the residents of Lady Helen?”

Francina smiled. “Not to wear shorts and show my legs in public?”

“No, you know what I mean,” said Zukisa.

In truth, there were no major issues dividing or threatening the town at this moment. Life in Lady Helen was so peaceful that Francina often wondered how Monica managed to find enough stories to fill the newspaper.

“You'd be the first female mayor in the history of the town,” said Zukisa.

Francina had not thought of that. “What are we waiting for? Let's get to work on the posters.”

While her mother-in-law went to collect markers and paper from downstairs in the shop, Francina confessed to Zukisa how she had tried to sign up Hercules as a candidate and, in doing so, become a candidate herself. “What I did was wrong, and I suppose I knew it, and that's why I never told you,” she said.

Mrs. Shabalala returned with the supplies and the family sat down at the dining room table to design the posters.

When the residents of Lady Helen awoke the next morning, they learned that their beloved dressmaker was running for mayor and that, as the first female to hold this office, she would make the town even more beautiful than it already was.

A
s part of her new health and wellness program, Monica had decided to walk to work if she didn't have to go far during the day to research a story. The distance from her home to the office was not more than a mile, but she had not accounted for the late summer heat, and so she was relieved each morning to reach the shaded sidewalks of Main Street.

“I think Francina will be good,” Nalini said to her one particularly warm morning. Nalini, who was originally from Durban and always wore a sari, was looking at a poster on a lamppost outside her gallery, which she had yet to unlock.

Monica read the handwritten words on the poster and was shocked to discover that Francina was running for mayor. She had not said a word to her about it yesterday afternoon when Monica had arrived home from work. Why the secrecy? Nalini was correct in her estimation though; after putting up with Monica's mother for so many years, Francina could handle anything. Monica could not wait to see her mother's face when she found out that the lady who had once scrubbed her floors and washed her dishes might become the next mayor of Lady Helen. The relationship between Francina and Monica's mother had changed since Francina established Jabulani Dressmakers. Mirinda Brunetti had never expressed an interest in Francina's creations when she was making them in the tiny servant's quarters of the Brunetti home in Johannesburg, but now that Francina had a list of clients as long as her tape measure, Mirinda couldn't get enough of her former employee's designs.

Monica walked on, seeing Francina's name on every other lamppost until she reached her office, and by then she knew that her first order of the day would be to set up an interview with the new mayoral candidate. In the three weeks before the election, there would, hopefully, be some newsworthy debates between the two candidates.

Dudu jumped up when Monica walked in. “Have you heard?” she asked. “Zak just called.”

“I saw the posters on the way to work.”

Dudu came around to the front of the reception desk. “I meant about Max Andrews. He's had a fall. The ambulance took him to the hospital. Zak said to tell you to come at once.”

Monica did not bother going inside her office. Now, of all days, she needed her car. Dudu didn't have one; her husband brought her to work.

Fifteen minutes later, Monica arrived at the hospital, puffing and sweating after running all the way. Adelaide, a nurse Monica had interviewed years ago for a story on the hospital's burn unit, directed her to the hospital's one-bed intensive care unit. Daphne was just coming out.

“Max's son said you could go in,” she told Monica.

Edward Andrews rose to his feet as she entered. Like his father, he had lost most of his hair except for a thin tufted row that ran around the back of his head from ear to ear, but Edward's hair was not yet gray. The town did not provide Edward, its only lawyer, with enough business to earn a living, so he spent three days a week in Cape Town, working as in-house counsel for an international oil company. Max had moved in with Edward the year Monica became editor of the newspaper, and Edward's wife, Ann, who had never been able to have children, had cared for her father-in-law as though he were a ten-year-old boy. In the beginning, Max had complained to Monica that he felt overwhelmed by her attention, but as his arthritis had grown worse and he was able to move about less, he had needed—and appreciated—Ann's care more than he ever would admit.

Now, Ann sat crying quietly in the corner of the ICU.

“How is he doing?” Monica asked Edward.

“Not good. Your husband told us to say our goodbyes.”

Zak never placated a patient's family with half-truths, because time was so precious when death drew near.

“Dad asked me last night to invite you over for lunch on Sunday. He wanted to give you his memoirs to read.”

“He finally finished?”

Edward nodded. “Yesterday. He fell during the night when he got up to use the bathroom. Ann was always telling him not to go by himself, to call her to help. She'd even given him a bell to ring. But Dad never wanted to wake us.”

Max stirred in the bed and Monica stepped back to let Edward go to his father's side. Max's eyes were shut. When Monica had first met him, his bright blue eyes and strong jaw had made her believe that he had been handsome in his youth. Now, after he'd had all his teeth replaced by ill-fitting dentures, his jawline had softened, giving his face a less rugged quality.

Monica leaned forward and touched his hand. His skin felt cool and dry. There was a bandage around his head, covering the injury he had sustained in the fall. An IV dripped slowly into a port on his wrist.

Max had not wanted to look at her portfolio of work on the day she'd come to interview for his job as editor of the
Lady Helen Herald.
He said he'd seen her on
In-Depth
and that her talent was indisputable. The reason he had wanted to meet her was to judge her character, and after she'd defended the profession of public relations against Max's unintended insult, he told her that she'd won his respect. He did not know then that the boys Monica had brought with her to the interview were the sons of a woman who had been a public relations officer, or he would never have said what he had.

During Monica's first year as editor, Max had infuriated her by hanging around the office, keeping an eye on her. But when she'd realized how hard it had been for him to give up the newspaper, she'd tried to keep him involved. He saw through her pleas for help with various projects, but gave it all the same. Now she wished she had visited him more often.

“Those are his memoirs,” said Edward, pointing at a brown folder on the nightstand. “We brought the manuscript from home this morning, knowing you'd be here.”

Monica opened the cover. On the first page, Max had written by hand,
To Monica, with respect, Max.

Edward saw the surprise on her face. “He printed two copies. This one is for you.”

She fanned through the pages. There were four hundred in all. These four hundred pages had kept Max busy for the last six years of his life. While Monica had been raising her boys, running the newspaper, falling in love and getting married, Max had been sitting in front of his computer, dusting off his memories.

“We'd still like you to come to lunch,” said Edward. “You and your family.”

Monica thanked him and promised that she and Zak and the children would be there.

“Once my father is gone, I will be the only one left of our family,” said Edward. “I hope you never have to experience what that feels like.”

Max's face was almost yellow against the bleached white pillow slip. Although Monica had not always been the best protégée, he had been an excellent and kind mentor. Over the past few months, Max had seen the newspaper he'd started degenerate into a community newsletter, full of frivolous stories, typographical errors and advertising, but he'd summoned Monica to his home only once, and then had quickly realized that reprimanding her would only exacerbate her depression. Instead, he'd offered his services to Dudu, but Dudu had been too polite to give work to an elderly man who was practically bedridden.

Monica wished that Max could read the latest issue, due out tomorrow. It would be the first decent one in months. But it did not appear likely that he would see it.

She bent over him and whispered, “I'm sorry, Max. It won't happen again.” Then she looked at him in silence for a few minutes. The world was about to lose an honorable man; she was about to lose a dear friend.

It would feel strange going back to her office—his old office—now. He had taken his orange couch away, but there were still reminders everywhere of his ten years at the helm of the
Lady Helen Herald:
the light patches on the wooden floor where his filing cabinets had once stood, the masthead design that hadn't changed since the newspaper's inception, the letters to the editor page that he said should always contain the rantings of irate readers, if she was doing her job properly.

“Goodbye, Max,” she said quietly. Tears coursed down her cheeks.

Edward handed her a tissue. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” asked Monica.

“For keeping him involved. You will never know how much that meant to him.”

Monica said goodbye to Ann, who was still crying in the corner. She waved at Zak on the way out.

She had not put things right with Max in time, but it was not too late to patch up her friendship with Kitty. Before she went back to the office, she would stop at Abalone House. Perhaps she and Kitty could sit on the porch with a cup of coffee as they used to. This time, Monica would ask to hold Kitty's baby, Jimmy, although now that he was walking, he might no longer be interested in occupying her lap.