The Fetch. Finuala Dowling
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keep your bins locked against our furry friends.” Neville looked hard at William’s beard. “Our furrier friends, should I say. Right, well we seem to have covered everything on tonight’s agenda. Thanks for your participation. I’m not going to bother sending you all the minutes. I’ll give them to you orally, right now. By majority vote, no streetlights. Lantern assistance on dark nights to be provided by William. Shoot the geese: no. Continue to keep bins locked: yes. All recyclables to William. Another successful Slangkop community forum meeting. Vote of thanks to Neville for the refreshments. End of story.”
“I really think we should have proper minutes,” said Fundiswa. “This is not procedurally correct. You know, in Geneva …”
“The problem with minutes is that they end up taking hours,” said Chas. “Long live Chairman Neville.”
“Good. Now we can get back to our guests,” said Mrs Fawkes. “They’ll be wondering where the birthday boy is.”
Chas walked down the steps of the clubhouse behind his mother. Nina rose hesitantly to follow them. She hoped Chas would turn around to summon her, remembering his earlier invitation.
“Go on,” said Fundiswa. “Enjoy yourself.”
William and Fundiswa did not speak as they made their way home after the meeting. At first William kept twisting his head around to see if Nina was about to join them, but eventually he reconciled himself to the truth. She was following Chas and Mrs Fawkes to Midden House, walking away from him, a willing sperm donor.
You could give it any name you liked – pollination, fertilisation, sperm donation – but it was all the same thing. Nature converged on this one imperative. Every sticky, scented flower, every female baboon in oestrus, every teenage girl in shorts, was dressed for the main event. Some species went to town with colourful displays, others were infinitely subtle. Orphium frutescens came to mind, the sea-rose that opened its pores only when it felt the precise vibrational frequency of the carpenter bee.
As they crossed the dry stream bed that bordered the caravan park, William broached the subject that had been preoccupying him. “I want to ask you something in confidence,” he said. “I overheard what Nina said to you earlier, about needing a sperm donor. I’d just like to ask your advice about how I could offer my services. I think I would be the best man for the job.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts and brought out a piece of paper. “I’ve written down some of the reasons why I think Nina should choose me as her sperm donor. First of all: testimonials. My parents told me that I was a radiantly happy baby. The principal of my primary school told them that I had an exceptionally high IQ. My mom’s done the family tree and I can show it to Nina – I think she’ll find my genes satisfactory (the red-haired Celtic stuff got mixed up with solid Flemish stock somewhere along the line). One of my grandfathers was the first man in Liverpool to own a motorbike. Or maybe he was the second man in Liverpool to own a motorbike. What else?”
He consulted his list before continuing.
“Oh, yes. I think I’m quite a good lover. I’m gentle with women. A lot of women don’t get pleasure out of sex but I make a real effort and I always have some chocolate to hand in case of disappointment. I bought a bar of Dairy Milk from Neville earlier today. There’s no history of dread diseases in my family and I think I’m quite normal …”
Fundiswa had stopped walking and was staring at William. He stopped too and looked at her earnestly.
“Anyway, you can see all the other stuff I’ve written here.”
He tried to hand the page to her but she did not take it. Instead, she let out a gasp of indignation, turned on her heel and marched away from him. Then she paused and faced him before speaking.
“How dare you! Quite apart from your impertinence, in even imagining yourself in the same bed as that lovely young girl, is your stupidity! You think you’re such a scientific person with your constellations and your indigenous whatnot! Ha! Do you even know what a sperm donor is? Have you never heard of the expression ‘artificial insemination’? Artificial, William! Do you know what that means? Let me spell it out, Einstein: It doesn’t matter if your grandfather invented the bladdy motorbike, you’re still not going to get to stick your thing into her! For God’s sake, go home and look in the mirror.”
She left William standing there and only looked back when she was outside the gate of Cockle Place. There was something of the outcast baboon in his gait. His shoulders drooped; his big hands dangled.
But Fundiswa was without sympathy. The impudence, she thought. On the very day of her doctor’s warning about how her weight and her blood pressure were a threat to her heart, this madman came to push her over the edge. Calm down, she told herself. Just breathe. Camomile tea. Half a tin of tuna for supper, or maybe just some steamed veg.
Chas and his mother remained unaware of Nina as they picked their way across the now dew-damp grass and turned down the sandy path to Midden House. Nina trailed behind them.
“You could give me your arm,” she heard Mrs Fawkes complain.
Chas grudgingly opened the crook of his arm.
“It would be nice if you could occasionally show some maternal pride in my work,” he said, “instead of bringing up your everlasting homophobia.”
“You need to be more aware of what people think and how they’re judging you.”
“Like Great Uncle Ernie, I suppose.”
“Don’t bring that up. The walls have ears.”
Sensing Nina’s presence behind them, Chas turned around. “Nina – sorry, I’d forgotten all about you!” He put his free arm around her. “Nina saved my cake,” he told his mother.
“I don’t know why you had to have such an expensive confection,” she said. “The Spar makes perfectly good tray bakes for a very reasonable price.”
Nina thought Chas would make light of this familial gripe, but his mood switched instantly.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Do you never think of anything but cheeseparing?”
“It takes a miser to know one,” retorted Mrs Fawkes.
Chas unlatched the gate and called out his customary “Hello, hello, hello!” to the guests on the lawn.
Nina had only ever seen the house from the beach. This close, it was a fairy palace; the windows all lit up and the garden humming with human voices and music, the day’s gaudy beach towels hung over the stoep railings like the flags of foreign countries she had never visited. Everywhere there were knots of people who seemed to know each other very well, laughing, touching each other, letting out the occasional shriek of surprise at the turn of the conversation or the arrival of another guest.
A threesome sitting around a card table on the stoep called out in greeting: “Mrs Fawkes!”
Nina helped Chas’s mother walk up the grassy slope and made sure she was settled in the most comfortable chair around the green baize.
“Now, how far had we got?” asked Mrs Fawkes.
The novice bridge players recited the lessons they’d learnt so far: “Cover an honour with an honour,” “Second player plays low” and “There’s many a man wandering the Thames embankment for not having drawn trumps.”
Mrs Fawkes gave a dry laugh. Then, looking up and seeing Nina still hovering nearby, she said: “So sorry, my dear, to abandon you like this. I’m teaching these three to play bridge. Find Emmanuel and get him to pour you a glass of that Italian punch of his. And tell him to bring me a brandy and soda.”
Nina went inside to find Emmanuel. At least she had an errand. Emmanuel smiled at her as he took Mrs Fawkes’s order. Nina wanted to ask him if he was happy with the library books, but he was surrounded by bottles and glasses and a crush of people asking for things. He needed his hands free in order to talk, she knew. She took a glass of sangria from a man who showed no other