The Fetch. Finuala Dowling
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about fascinating things. But now that just such an event was so close and so real (she’d even paid for the cake), she felt apprehensive. How much pleasanter and easier to stay at Cockle Place, not to have to stand on tiptoe to open the latch of someone else’s gate; not to have to walk up the garden path in full view of other, more legitimate guests; not to have to introduce herself, account for her existence.
Yes, she wanted to attend a party at Midden House, but perhaps not this party, not today. Another time, when she was less tongue-tied, when experience had waved its wand, transforming her mousy words into dapper footmen in shiny livery.
There wouldn’t be another chance, though, she knew that. And while it was possible that somewhere down the line she would develop a little more confidence, that wasn’t going to happen by staying home alone. She tried to jolly herself into a positive frame of mind. Already she was guaranteed the cachet of arriving late, since she had to attend the community forum meeting first. She might even walk from the meeting to the party with Chas and his mother.
Thank heavens she had a suitable dress, clean and ironed. Perhaps it would speak for her and say: “The wearer of this dress is modest but open to suggestion. She reads a lot and has an interest in history.” This much could be said by a soft peasant neckline and a little red piping around the hems.
Nina stood on her balcony looking down, as if studying Chas’s Edwardian seaside home might teach her to enter it like a native. But there was no way to fix Midden House in one’s gaze. Everything seemed to spill out of it. The painted green shutters were flung open; guests milled on the stoeps that wrapped around both floors. Nina could hear voices trilling up from the front steps and the lawn where Chas’s mother sometimes played croquet; even a splash and a shriek from the tidal pool below. Clearly, the party had already begun.
She showered and put her clothes on in her usual modest way, not looking in the mirror until she was covered, only one section permitted to be naked at a time, like solving a Rubik’s cube. She could not see herself undressed without hearing the ex-boyfriend voices, the one who had said: “Now I know what they mean by Rubenesque!” Or the crueller one’s observation: “You’re built for comfort.” And then they wondered why she ran away. It was all part of the same conundrum – her weight and her fear of sex. She ate chocolate not only to insulate herself against male regard but also because she was frustrated by the lack of it.
It was still too early to set off. To pass the time, Nina sat on her tiny balcony looking through her Slangkop file. Perhaps here, among the newspaper clippings she’d collected, there was something that would help her make conversation tonight. Not the magazine article on Neville and Sharon’s caravan park, and not the City of Cape Town’s fifteen-page conservation report on this “relatively undeveloped coastal terrace” – no one wanted a guest who spouted gobbets of tourism. What might help her were Chas’s articles and reviews, the photos of him at society events.
“If you like my figure so much, why don’t you visit me?”
It was Fundiswa’s voice, floating straight up to Nina’s balcony. Fundiswa must be speaking to someone on the phone. Nina dared not even turn a page now, for fear Fundiswa would know she was eavesdropping.
“Before, your excuse used to be that everyone would see you if you visited me. Too public. So I move to this completely clandestine place and now you say it’s too far away. You could come and spend the night here. Tell them you’re going on retreat.”
Strange, Nina thought, that a woman of Fundiswa’s age should be speaking so flirtatiously. Didn’t you firmly shut the door on that aspect of life once you turned sixty? Apparently not.
“Might die on top of me! How can you say such a thing! I don’t like the way you assume we’ll be in the missionary position.”
Fundiswa was laughing at her own wit, in a way that suggested the other person was laughing too. The joke seemed to set matters right between them, because Fundiswa ceased to be confrontational.
“Alright, Bishop,” she said. “Tell me all about your week.”
Nina heard nothing more. Perhaps Bishop had a lot to say about his week, or perhaps Fundiswa had moved inside again. Nina could pull her chair in without worrying that the hard metal scrape would betray her presence.
She turned her attention back to the society pictures of Chas in her file. He was a person the camera loved. It caught his dimpled cheek and his large eyes that seemed all pupil. His expression was merry, inviting. Such a well-made man: not too tall, neither muscle-bound nor flabby, but finely knit and compact. And then there was always that hair, framing his face like a girl’s, except that the face itself was so evidently a man’s: high-browed, the lines of jaw and nose unequivocal.
It was enough just to be allowed to look at someone like Chas, she told herself. Except that, of course, it wasn’t. It flicked a switch; it turned on a fluorescent light in the empty room of one’s own emotional and sexual life. See, said the light, you have none of that beauty here. You have only this poorly furnished room.
William climbed his pole so that he could watch the two women continue their journey. He used to be able to skim up it, using a strong grip and his core muscles, but since turning forty he’d had to nail in footholds.
When he reached the top, he clenched his knees around the beam for support and stretched out his arms to welcome the light summer breeze. Brilliant! This little wind hadn’t travelled far; it was only the lightest wisp.
Despite its elevation, his cottage had no sea view. It was completely enclosed by milkwoods. From the top of his pole, William surveyed the little settlement of Slangkop and the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, stretching out towards Cape Point on his left and Hout Bay on his right.
He knew who the women were. The librarian’s name was Nina. She was blonde and fresh-faced, though short and roundish like her companion. If he had heard her correctly, she was looking for a sperm donor. For William, this was a problem that could be solved. The only difficult part would be bringing up the topic, because it was delicate, and because he seldom went out and about in company saying hello and goodbye. Or offering his DNA. But once the subject had been broached and the details had been sorted out, he could easily imagine the evening itself.
He would light a lamp, and walk in front of her, guiding her past his hoard. His hand would be linked with hers as they threaded their way past the discarded video machines, the game consoles and buckets of broken toys and dismembered machinery which lined the passageway to his bedroom. He knew exactly how he would place the lamp on the floor beside his mattress so that his hands would be free to remove Nina’s clothes. Fuck! A woman’s breasts were to him the most beautiful sight on earth, more beautiful than Disa uniflora! After undressing Nina and helping her to lie down, after being nice to her in as many ways as he could think of, then he would, in the natural course of events, donate his sperm.
There would be a surprise chocolate under her pillow afterwards. Surely Neville sold chocolates at the caravan park? He could check on that later.
His reverie was interrupted by the ka-ka-kaaa of the male quail in its cage. William descended. He had an enamel bowl with leftover pasta and lettuce leaves for the bird, but there was no delicacy that would silence the male quail’s loneliness. It wanted a lady quail; it would keep up its raucous chunking until it had a hen. Better to be a worm, a hermaphrodite. Then, as the weather bureau sometimes said of the likelihood of rain in August, there was a “one hundred per cent chance” of your finding a mate.
His worms were next. He scattered fruit and vegetable peelings into the plastic crates that he had set on breeze blocks. Such diligent and forgiving natures, these haplotaxids. They left no apricot stone unturned, made short work of each day’s banana skins, eggshells and teabags.
William’s scientific brain was particularly interested in how they made the metal staple in the teabag tag disappear – he could not see any staples in the rich compost they left behind.
He replaced the damp carpet squares and rotting planks that kept the worms cool, and then washed his hands with water from his rain tank. He sat on the sofa he’d dragged to an