The Woman Next Door (16 page)

‘How’s school?’

Marion had tried to persuade her daughter to send Innes to St Winifred’s, but Marelena believed in co-ed. Marion had taken it upon herself to look out for Innes, certain the awkward child would be putty in the grips of public-school children.

Innes pumped her head, her mouth full of biscuit. There was usually more activity when Innes visited, Alvar barking, Agnes fixing a sandwich. Grandmother and granddaughter smiled, shy. Innes had only taken three sips of her tea when her cellphone chimed.

‘Ah, your sister’s here.’ Marion could already see herself, alone again in the room.

Innes scowled at her phone. ‘Aw, man, only just got here.’

‘Thanks for the visit, dear,’ Marion said, moved by the sight of her granddaughter’s irritation.

The chime again.

‘Come, take the biscuits with you. Lara will be upset if you make her wait. Come, Innes, hurry. Hug!’

Her small bones crushed against Marion’s belly, her bosom.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Grandma. The woman at reception asked me to give you this.’

Innes handed Marion a white envelope, then ducked out the door. After Marion closed the door, she pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was Hortensia’s handwriting:

Hello, Marion. I wondered if you’d considered my offer. If you wanted to take me up on it, would you agree to come by tomorrow and meet with Dr Mama?

Who in Heaven’s name was Dr Mama? And why would she need to meet with him?

Marion stormed into the study where Hortensia was standing, her weight on the walker, receiving instructions from Trudy.

‘Marion, you’re early.’ The design was very careful – one wrong move and it wouldn’t work. Hortensia needed each to play their part.

‘I don’t appreciate being summoned again, Hortensia. I thought I’d made that quite clear.’

‘Yes, well. Trudy, do you mind?’

The girl left the room and closed the door behind her.

‘I get it: you’ve hurt your leg and you’ve caused some trouble for me and now you’re trying to be helpful, but … I do not like being summoned.’

‘I apologise.’

The apology tripped Marion. She took some seconds to find her feet again. Hortensia stood and waited.

‘So, who’s this Dr Mama? Why would I need to meet him?’

‘Well—’

The bell went. A few seconds passed before Bassey appeared, announcing the doctor.

‘Oh, how wonderful,’ Mama said, walking in. ‘This must be your friend that you told me about.’

Hortensia saw Marion’s face fall. How to recover this – how to avoid a mess?

‘Gordon, this is Marion. Marion, Gordon, Dr Mama. Marion lives next door.’

‘Oh. I see your house is in a bit of disarray then.’ Mama smiled. ‘How perfect that you move in here.’

Marion’s eyebrows jumped.

‘Well—’ Hortensia began.

‘No explanation needed, Hortensia. I’m sure she’ll have a cheering effect on you.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Please, take a seat, Marion.’ Dr Mama signalled to an open chair. He sat down as well. Hortensia stayed standing, gripping the walker, for once grateful that she had the stupid thing to hold on to.

‘I wanted to meet you, Marion, just to ensure that you are comfortable with the arrangement. And, sorry to be distasteful, but I had to confirm you were fit for the task. Able-bodied, if you catch my drift.’

Hortensia had given up. She waited for Marion to work it out, for Dr Mama to talk long enough that she’d understand.

‘Not on any medication yourself, are you?’

Marion shook her head.

‘How long have you two known each other?’

The women looked at one another. Hortensia spoke first.

‘About twenty years.’

Mama whistled. ‘Precious! I admire you both. Really. And, Marion, your willingness to sacrifice.’ He turned in his seat to face Hortensia. ‘I see no reason why your idea can’t work. Start as soon as you prefer. Trudy will stay on for the first few days Marion moves in, go over the odd procedure – nothing major – and then, once everything gets into a rhythm,’ he cracked a wide smile, fanned his hand in the air, ‘you’re free.’ He rose. ‘Now, I must run to my next appointment.’

Perfect, Hortensia thought. Bingo!

‘Call him back and tell him he’s mistaken about you.’

‘I will do no such thing. You call him back and you tell him he’s mistaken about
you
.’ Hortensia felt high, now that it was all out in the open.

Marion scoffed. The mist of Dr Mama lingered in the air. She was worried that if she stood up, her legs would buckle.

‘But this is ridiculous. I haven’t agreed to come here, and I certainly have not agreed to be your nursemaid.’

‘Well, you had your chance to say something and you remained silent. Too late now. Or you can call him and tell him you’re not really able to “sacrifice” after all.’ Hortensia grinned, pleased with herself. She’d used her secret weapon – Marion’s pride.

‘I won’t do it,’ Marion said. ‘Because he is not mistaken about me, I’m always willing to sacrifice. Now, you, on the other—’

‘Well then, prepare to move in. Because I certainly am not requesting True-dee stay on, which seems to be his only alternative.’

‘So what? Why do I care?’

‘Well—’

‘Oh, damnit! You tricked me, Hortensia.’

‘Nonsense. The way I see it, we help each other. I don’t need to know the details of your financial or family situation, but I suspect that if you stayed here, less stress, less
tears
would occur.’ Hortensia arched her brows. ‘The house is big – we never have to see each other.’

Marion said nothing.

‘You do your things and I do my things, and we stay out of each other’s way.’

‘The only reason the doctor is agreeing is because he thinks I’ll look after you.’

‘Who’s going to tell him?’

Marion shook her head, weary. ‘Hortensia, you seem to think yourself invincible. You are injured, you need care. And you’re sending away the only person who has been giving it to you.’

‘I can manage perfectly fine on my own. If you ask me, she’s more of a nuisance than a care-er. Darn pest! I can’t wait to be rid of her. I don’t mind dying, you know.’

Marion sighed. ‘I don’t know about all this.’

But she said it in a voice that suggested defeat.

THE ARRANGEMENT WAS
simple. While Marion’s house was being repaired (builder promised six to eight weeks) she was to move into No. 10. A few weeks had passed since the accident. Carole the physiotherapist had predicted a maximum of twelve weeks for Hortensia’s bone to knit sufficiently, eight weeks till Hortensia could move without aid.

The house was apportioned out. Hortensia would remain downstairs in her study-cum-infirmary. Marion upstairs in one of the guest rooms. Bassey served meals on a tray. He took Hortensia’s to her room and Marion’s to hers. As far as Hortensia could discern, besides her daily site visits, Marion went nowhere. She barely left her bedroom.

Trudy’s last task was to organise for a contractor to raise the toilet seat, install handlebars (the ugliness of which Hortensia and Marion agreed on) and slip-proof the shower. She had written down a series of exercises; some Hortensia could do sitting at her desk, some she had to perform along the length of the hallway. Occasionally she needed Bassey to set up what Trudy called the obstacle course. A chair midway to sit on. A table in the middle of her path, forcing her to navigate around. The toilet could be tricky, but very little lorded it over Hortensia and certainly not her bladder. Dressing was a chore, so often it was tracksuit top, skirt (easier to pee in) or her favourite cerise nightgown with matching housecoat. The azure one, when the cerise was in the wash. With Marion about, Hortensia had wondered whether to dress up more, but hadn’t the strength to attempt it.

On waking, Hortensia kept her eyes closed. A wind blew the oak, she could hear the prattle of the leaves against the windowpane. A band of finches twittered and Hortensia felt glad to hear them. She admitted to herself that she missed the Koppie. That her walks up there weren’t just some masochistic ritual, but also a chance for total quiet, to spot bulbuls, for birds to chirrup, for branches to twist in the breeze.

Hortensia grunted, which made the effort of rising out of bed less painful. Ablutions took several minutes too long but, once ready, Hortensia, manoeuvring the walker and cursing it simultaneously, began her exercises along the hallway. Bassey stuck his head out of the kitchen and asked if he could make her breakfast. Concentrating on the task at hand, she nodded her consent. The house phone rang, way at the other end of the hallway. She muttered under her breath as Bassey went to answer.

‘For you, Hortensia.’

‘Message,’ she said through clenched teeth. Was it her or did the pain increase each day?

Bassey spoke into the receiver.

‘He says it’s urgent. It’s Mr Marx.’

‘Blast!’

Bassey brought the cordless. Hortensia moved to the wall and leaned her shoulder against it. She took the phone. Bassey hovered, pointed to the chair some steps away from where she stood. She shook her head.

‘Marx. I don’t appreciate all this badgering. I’ll do it when I’m good and ready, not a minute before.’

‘Time is running out, Mrs James. If you don’t act soon I’ll have to assume you’re rejecting the will, I’ll have to—’

‘I don’t care, do you understand? I don’t care!’

‘I’m not sure there’s reason to shout.’

‘I’m not shouting!’

‘I’ll call back when you’re less agitated.’

She could not press the red button hard enough; she just managed to stop herself from flinging the phone. ‘Oh my God, you startled me. Don’t do that!’ She hadn’t noticed Marion come down the stairs.

‘Good morning,’ Marion said.

‘I suppose.’ Hortensia took the few steps towards the chair, where she set the phone down. She continued her walk, wishing Marion would leave instead of stare.

‘Was that the phone I heard?’

Prying.

‘No, it was the bells of Notre-Dame.’ This was pain. You live so long you think you’ve felt it all. ‘Excuse me, Marion. If you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, sorry. I’m in your way.’

Understatement.

‘What are those?’ Marion asked as Hortensia walked past her.

‘What are whats?’

‘On your legs.’

‘Stockings, Marion, what else could they be? Compression stockings, they call them. Damned nuisance.’

Marion stifled a laugh. The phone rang again. Bassey answered, grimaced and looked at Hortensia. He covered the mouthpiece and dropped his voice, ‘Him again.’

‘Take a message. No, tell him I’m dead. In the few minutes since we last spoke I … damnit … I kicked the bucket.’

Bassey took the cordless into the kitchen, he spoke in hushed tones.

‘Whoever could that be?’ Marion asked, her eyes wide.

Hortensia turned around at the front door, took a breath, eyed the length of the passage back towards her study. Her thumbs hurt from pressing down so hard. She decided to ignore Marion for as long as humanly possible.

‘And,’ the woman continued in a voice appropriate for reading fairy tales, ‘whatever could they want?’

‘Nothing. They want nothing. Now leave me be – out of my way.’

She laboured past, upset that Marion remained standing, spritely in fact – what was there to be so happy about? Hortensia had been looking forward to a beaten Marion, vanquished, come to drink at her enemy’s waterhole. She leaned forward to rest and stared back at Marion, keen for some kind of win, however small. Marion looked away first.

‘I see,’ Marion said. But then continued with that grating tone of joviality, ‘Well, while we’re talking, Hortensia, you missed the last committee meeting. Perhaps I could update you.’

‘The what?’ They were talking – there was the problem right there. ‘Marion, I have broken my leg. Do I seem to you like someone who gives a toss about your miserable committee meetings?’

‘Oh, Hortensia. And here I was, thinking we could mend fences.’

‘No. We absolutely cannot mend fences. I said you could stay, I didn’t say we had to make conversation.’

‘All I wanted to tell you …’

She nattered on. Hortensia made a point of not listening. The usual barbs didn’t seem to make a dent in Marion, and Hortensia experienced a wave of regret. The plan had seemed so good at the time, Trudy so thoroughly unbearable.

‘So what do you think?’

‘Marion!’

‘Just say “yes” or “no”.’

‘No!’

‘Darn it!’

Marion jiggled her arms in annoyance, but it was a non-committal annoyance. Hortensia panicked at the thought that she’d lost her ability to upset Marion Agostino. Maybe the woman was on drugs.

‘So you stand by your refusal of Beulah Gierdien’s request?’

‘Of course I do. And we’re not discussing it. Marion, you’re interrupting my exercises.’

‘Well, she wrote again, requesting a meeting this time.’

Hortensia clicked at the back of her throat.

‘And, while we’re on the subject, Ludmilla was at the last meeting. They have the lawyers involved. The Commission has now appointed a mediator between the Von Struikers and the Samsodiens. We’re hoping the whole thing gets thrown out.’ It sounded hollow. ‘And that the courts don’t get involved.’

‘Well, no surprises there. You and the other backward people of Katterijn are worried you’d get cooties, if the darkies move in.’ Aha – there was the glimmer of madness Hortensia was used to provoking.

Marion straightened the front of her dress. ‘Well, I see you’re in no mood for company. I’ll leave you be.’

God! If only Bassey was not just a chef but an assassin too, they could do away with Marion the Vulture. Dig a grave in the back yard. Forget burying the ashes of someone’s miserable grandmother – bury Marion. No one would look for her.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Bassey appeared.

‘Everything okay?’

‘All good, thank you.’

Bassey had been twenty years younger when she’d interviewed him for the job as their housekeeper; his right leg had since found a limp and, a few years back, he’d started wearing spectacles. Hortensia had carefully curated her relationship with him. This compulsion had come with having money, with being called ‘Madam’ in Nigeria by the housekeepers; it had come with the weight of money. Her parents had had almost none, even when they made it to London from Barbados, where they’d had even less. They’d just worked and put everything towards their daughters’ education. Hortensia remembered her mother coming in one day, that first year after the move. She must have been twenty-one, home from Bailer’s for Christmas. And her mother came in late from work. It was hailing and Hortensia recalled the cold air that entered with her mother and how it stayed in the room. Funny how cold air could preserve itself in a room where it was not welcome. Her mother made tea, as she normally did when she came in from work. It was about 4.30 p.m. but dark outside. Her mother wouldn’t stop shaking, and Hortensia kept waiting for the cold air to die out. She and Zippy sat at the table and were served their tea: salt biscuits and an apple to share.