The Crack Page 6

  Whilst Hektor-Jan snored like a man-mountain in the bedroom, Janet lay in the children’s bath. She held up one hand then the other, as she tended to do. Watching closely should there be any tell-tale trembling like her mother’s hands. No. Not yet. At least, not yet.

  Thoughts of Brigadoon floated through her, like the bubbles that swelled and frothed about her belly and legs. She would need to look at her words. There were quite a few songs too, and dances. She wished her mother were there to help her with the dances as she had always been – up until recently. Janet would look at her words once Alice got back. No doubt that would be some time in the early afternoon. Yes, it would be lovely to have Alice back. Thoughts of Alice and Brigadoon were interrupted by the stealthy arrival of three pairs of grubby hands bearing two stag beetles, a swarm of rose-brown Christmas beetles and a very long songololo that looked like it had found the journey from the bottom of the garden to the ginseng-scented bathroom a little too arduous: it hung motionless from Pieter’s hand and was fatally bent in several places along its centipede length.

  Lovely, she murmured, well done. Now take them back into the garden – and don’t wake your father. Then she had to sit up as the stunned songololo squirmed to sudden life and dropped into the bath to join her. Whilst she and Pieter were scrabbling in the foamy water, a Christmas beetle roused itself on drowsy wings and flew into Janet’s hair.

  It’ll drown, bellowed Pieter as though it were her fault and Sylvia attacked her hair in an attempt to locate the beetle. Shelley offered quiet imprecations in the background and Pieter groped between his mother’s legs. Janet felt as though she might be scalped by her younger daughter.

  Right, Janet said, leaping to her feet out of the gentle froth and foam, a pregnant, East Rand Aphrodite. Right, just take them back outside. Please. Your father is trying to sleep, and I am trying to bath. She pulled the beetle from her hair. Several of its spiky legs remained lodged close to her scalp and the stump of a thing wriggled crazily.

  It’s got no legs now, Ma, now it’s got no legs! Sylvia seemed about to cry but then Pieter gave a yelp of triumph at having located the longer portion of his songololo. The other bit was nowhere to be found.

  Shelley, Janet said with a rising sense of desperation and her eldest child nodded wisely and ushered her noisy siblings from the bathroom.

  Janet stood there, pearly bubbles popping along her body as the children’s progress muttered through the house and out of the back door. Hektor-Jan snored on. She washed briskly, standing up. There was no way she was sitting on half a songololo and she would have to give her long brown hair an extra brush to tease out the legs of the beetle. Kids.

  And still Hektor-Jan slept and still Alice did not come.

  As the water drained down the throat of the plughole, Janet knew that she would have to venture into the garden to look at the crack. But, for the time being, she held back, waiting for the little stripe of the songololo to be exposed as the water drained. And there it was. The other half of the poor creature with its bizarre shell-body and tiny legs. It lay in the remnants of the bubbles and water, very dark against the white porcelain of the old bath. Janet fished it out with a few squares of toilet paper and flushed it away. Then she crept into their bedroom and brushed her hair with some vigour. The tiny lines of the Christmas beetle legs were already knotted and tangled, part of her hair.

  Kids, she muttered again.

  She tiptoed around the snuffling form of Hektor-Jan. He was a noisy sleeper. Mumbling, murmuring. He turned over with a sigh. He seemed to whimper. Janet took her underwear and frock to the baby’s bedroom. There, overlooking the back garden, she dressed. It was still early. There was a whole day and Alice would soon be back. Janet could not remember if Alice had mentioned a time. Often it was late afternoon before Alice arrived. There was shopping to do and the dishes could wait for Alice. And Solomon – well, they would see him on Monday.

  Sheathed in a comfortable dress, a shift which tended to show off her nice legs and made her feel quite young, Janet put on some old sandals to walk a line across the dewy grass to the bottom of the garden. Even before she got to the pool, she could see that the water level was down. Now, there was no mistaking it. No wondering about it. An ugly black seam ran like a lightning bolt down the length of the pool. It was almost one centipede – centimetre – wide and the water level had dipped.

  Oh God, Janet’s hand flew to her mouth. Hektor-Jan would go mad. They had never budgeted for something like this. He did not like little surprises like this. Memories of car bumpers she had scratched, jagged rainbows which Shelley had drawn in Khoki pen on the bedroom walls and other domestic setbacks came flooding to her. Guttering that needed replacing, the old fence, splitting as they watched it. Life was a falling apart. It was happening all the time. As a woman, Janet seemed better able than Hektor-Jan to cope with such traumas. Maybe a woman was used to enfolding, enclosing such circumstances. Such insistent intrusions. Was a woman more used to accommodating such things, Janet wondered.

  But she found herself clutching her belly, gasping at the pool. This was different. If Janet was not mistaken, she could see that the crack did not simply lie beneath the limpid water. The black fracture did not lurk inertly – passively – at the bottom of the pool. If she was not mistaken, the crack came creeping up each side of the pool.

  Janet spun on her heel and almost ran to fetch the hosepipe. It was already attached to the tap at the back door, and a guzzling sound announced that it was, in fact, in use. It stretched across the paving to the maid’s quarters, then ran down the van Deventer side of the garden. How had she missed it.

  Janet walked quickly. Her flip-flops flapped her concern. Sticky wet grass caught beneath her feet, a terrible sensation. She rounded the pampas grass, the scene of her mother’s humiliation, and came upon another drama.

  Sylvia stood aghast as Pieter and Shelley fought. Shelley had the hosepipe stuck down a hole in the ground. Pieter was trying to get at the hosepipe, to remove it from the hole. Shelley would not let him. He had just gone flying onto his back. He was making shuddering, growling sounds, just like when his grandmother had tried to kiss him. But now he was on the attack.

  Pieter! Janet shouted as he threw himself at Shelley. Shelley was tall and strong. She easily brushed him aside and again he landed on his bottom with an amplified gurning noise from deep inside his throat.

  Pieter! Shelley! Janet shouted again and then Pieter saw her and lurched sobbing to her.

  She’s trying to kill them, he blubbered. She’s going to drown them. He threw himself like a dog at her.

  Shelley looked steadfastly at the hosepipe that pumped water into the hole in the ground.

  Moles! little Sylvia shouted aggressively. Moles in the holes.

  She’s going to drown them! Pieter screamed, his little boy’s voice high and effeminate.

  Janet held on to his clutching form. Shelley did not look up.

  Shelley, is that what you’re doing. Janet’s voice was sharp.

  Shelley looked down at the pulsing pipe. Water shuddered into the ground and started to bubble up from the hole. Whatever was down there was now swamped with water.

  Shelley, Janet’s voice was sharper.

  Pa hates moles, Shelley said. She glanced up at her mother. You know that. Pa nearly went mad last time we had a mole.

  That was true. How could Janet have forgotten. Hektor-Jan nearly drove them all mad when he thought the back garden was going to be overrun with moles. He had poured poison down their little holes, he had tried wet cement and gassing them and had even stood over the little mound with his gun at the ready, waiting to blast a mole to oblivion. But the mole mountains had kept coming. Nothing would stop them. Then before Hektor-Jan could dig up the garden or blow them all to smithereens, they had vanished. Gone to ground. Hektor-Jan grimly triumphant. But they were back.

  Please don’t take it out on your brother, said Janet grabbing the hosepipe. It jerked free and Janet used the
gushing water to clean its muddy length. Pieter still clung to her.

  Let go, Pieter, Janet said. She prised one arm loose from her leg. I said, let go.

  Pieter fell back.

  Sylvia watched him wipe his nose with his arm. She frowned at her older sister and looked expectantly at her mother. Was this going to be the fun part? Was this where Shelley was chastised and Pieter told to grow up? Was this when, by implication, she was a good girl because her older siblings got shouted at and maybe got a taste of Pappie’s belt? It did not happen often, but Pappie’s belt held a strange fascination for her. Was this when Shelley and Pieter got dragged off screaming to the house and to the sound of thrashing leather?

  Stop picking your nose, Janet was rough with her youngest. And take that silly look off your face. Then she turned on her eldest.

  Shelley, take this to the pool; make yourself useful.

  Then it was Pieter’s turn. Go and wash your face. Have you brushed your teeth. Have any of you brushed your teeth.

  There were no belts; just Janet’s quick voice that slapped them into shape.

  Silly children. Fighting over moles. Whatever next. Whatever was down there moved silently. A bubble popped on the tiny surface of the water. It rippled. Then it was still.

  Janet stared at it. Dragging at her mind, nagging at her, was the crack in the pool.

  They all turned away. Under threat of the wooden spoon, Janet’s version of the dreaded belt, the children went in to brush their teeth. Janet marched with the spouting hosepipe. Like a strange knight with a very floppy lance, she charged at the pool and plunged in the hosepipe. It smacked the water, writhed for a moment and then lay still. Janet looked at her watch. Maybe an hour. She would let the water run for an hour. That should do it. Then she would go shopping.

  One by one, the children joined her. Janet did not want to mention the crack because before she could stop them, one of them would have blurted it out to their father. Janet would rather he discovered the crack himself – or maybe it would somehow close up as mysteriously as it had opened. Maybe whatever shifted in the ground would move back again. It was a desperate hope, a naïve hope, but it was all she had at the time. Things would change. Of course they would.

  She played at being boring Mommy. Look at the clear blue sky, she said, and they looked. How many agapanthus are blossoming along that bed, she asked, and they went to count whilst she just stood there and the water level rose imperceptibly. Then she wandered back across the lawn and entered the bower made by the sighing branches of the willow tree. The lounger was beneath the tree, in the heart of the shade. The morning sun was already stinging the sky and Janet took her headache beneath the gentle branches.

  Fetch Mommy her pen and notepad she instructed Sylvia, who had followed her. Then go and do something with Shelley and Pieter.

  Sylvia was gone a long while. What could she be up to. You send them on a simple errand and –

  Janet half lay back on the lounger. The brisk whir of a weedeater started up at Noreen and Doug’s. Impressive. Getting on with the garden before Solomon came back. Doug would never let him use the weedeater. On New Year’s Eve, Doug had dramatically shown them his new weedeater. They had been obliged to ooh and aah as he waved the appliance before them. Then he had plugged it in and there, in the lounge, had pressed the grip that made the little nylon thread go whizzing around like a savage wasp. Noreen’s dear old spaniel had yelped in terror and shot from the room, much to the children’s delight. They were always amazed at how Noreen spoilt her only child, Nesbitt the spaniel, who was just a dog.

  Janet had wondered whether they should get a weedeater. Whether that would free up Solomon to do more things once he had tackled the edges so speedily with the new appliance. No, no, Doug had corrected her. Not if you want it broken. You know what kaffirs are like. Before you know it, it will be broken. Janet had protested Solomon’s expertise but Doug was having none of it. Look at your lawnmower, he had said. How long did that last when Solomon started using it. Hektor-Jan had smiled as Janet waded into deeper water. It was a very old lawnmower, Janet had said, my father had it for ages before Solomon used it. Exactly my point, was Doug’s easy riposte. You looked after it, it worked fine for years. Then give it to a black and before you know it, it’s buggered.

  Doug, Noreen had remonstrated. Doug, watch your language. No b word in front of the children. What’s wrong with blacks, Doug had joked with a wolfish smile.

  You know what I mean, said Noreen, holding a hand to her head that was no doubt beginning to ache.

  Kaffirs, Doug had shaken his head. Bloody kaffirs, said with a sigh.

  Sylvia arrived beneath the willow tree with the pad and pen. Thanks, darling, said Janet. Now go and play with Shelley and Pieter.

  She was left to her list.

  To allay some of her anxiety, she corralled the items in neat columns on the page. She worked hard on her catalogue of provisions, running her mind along the length of her kitchen and through all the rooms in the house. What was needed. What were they about to run out of. What was almost used up. Could it wait or should she get more toothpaste, more peanut butter, more bacon, more Brillo pads – she wondered when Shelley would need a training bra. Should she get some sanitary pads just in case. From the mundane to the motherly. Her mind skipped over the myriad fragments that made up a mother’s world, over the hairline fissures between those fragments, and her love pulled it all together, kept it all from breaking apart.

  The hour passed quickly. The children were quiet. They were good children really. The pool was restored to its former fullness. In fact, the water lapped just below the rim of the pool. There was plenty. No need to panic just yet.

  Janet lay back for a moment under the striped heaven of green and brown. Occasional slits of the yellow-blue sky glared through the branches, but it was cool and quiet beneath the willow tree. Not a breath of wind. Already the air outside was hot and sticky. It was going to be a stinker. Janet sighed. The willow tree was a living bell jar, a giant wig. She suddenly thought that she might like to try and write some poetry. It had been ages since she had written a poem. When last had she written a poem. When last had her mother stood over her, making her write a poem. Like she had sometimes stood over her tiny daughter waiting for her to wee in the toilet. Come on, Janet’s mother had said. For God’s sake, for the love of Christ, when oh when will you pee – poo – excrete a poem – or words to that effect. In situations that were horribly similar. The memories were too sharp, too harshly defined. If she turned to look at them directly they burned her eyes and became instantly blurred. She could see them clearly but it was not possible to look at them.

  Janet held the notepad and pen. The pen was poised above the page, but no poem came. For a long time, Janet just sat there, her eyes watering.

  Then she took a deep breath and the pencil twirled through her fingers like the drum majorette’s baton she had never been allowed to pick up. Another deep breath and she tried to silence the little voice that repeated ad nauseam the line, There once was a housewife named Janet. And to ignore the little voice that tripped along the thought of what on earth would rhyme with Janet. Net, it went. Fret. No, those were off-rhymes. Sit, bit, grit, hit, kit, lit, mitt, nit, pit, slit and then she was back at the pit, the slit, the crack in the pool. She sat up. Got up. She pushed the hanging branches aside and stepped out into the solid sunshine. It hit her squarely between the eyes. The morning heat was a hammer blow.

  The children were back at the bottom of the garden. They were crouched around the hole in the lawn, the one that had recently been filled with water.

  Come along, Janet said, her voice not unkind. Three squatting children in the harsh sun. She must put some cream on them. They were getting more and more tanned before her eyes. They looked a picture of rude health, but she did not want any more jokes from next door. Your kids are far more black than fair would be Doug’s likely joke. He found the strangest things amusing.

  They did
not hear her. They remained squatting, peering at the hole. For a second, Janet wondered whether she had indeed uttered a sound.

  Come along, Janet said again, louder this time. The sun glinted through the shards of grass.

  Shhhhh, whispered Pieter without looking up.

  There’s something down there, Shelley spoke in a hushed voice.

  Sylvia squirmed backwards. I’m scared. Her hand reached for Pieter but he brushed it aside, unable to pull his eyes from the hole.

  Shelley, Janet appealed to the eldest.

  It took an age for Shelley to look up. She seemed to see her mother for the first time.

  It could be a mole, said Pieter breathlessly. Or a rat. I bet it’s a rat. I could put my hand into –

  Pieter, Janet’s voice was cross now.

  Ma, he looked up. He shook his head impatiently. Then he saw the look on her face and he stood up with a sigh.

  Okay, he said, okay. Keep your broeks on.

  The short trip to the brand-new Northmead Mall gave Janet a chance to lecture her captive son. He squirmed in the back of the old Fiat whilst Janet lectured him via the rear-view mirror.

  Sorry Mommy, he said in his clear voice as they got out of the little car. Sorry, Mommy, he said even more clearly as they dragged after her and the shopping trolley. Then she let it rest. He did not have to apologise a third time. One did not say keep one’s broeks on. Broeks, female underwear, were not a topic for polite conversation, even if it was meant as a joke. They did not use the b word. He must learn. He was getting older now. He must grow up.

  Noreen was shopping too. The whole world seemed to have run out of things to eat over the festive period. They chatted briefly then continued down the broad aisles of the Mona Lisa mini-hypermarket, as it was called. Janet sent them off on errands, like little satellites breaking free from the mothership to fetch Brillo pads and toothpaste and baked beans. She found a pair of training bras for Shelley and some tiny sanitary towels too. Best to be prepared.