LITMIR.BIZ

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corridor. “First give us a kiss, girlie.”

      “Voetsek!” I scream, and try to push past, but he grabs hold of my arm and pulls me towards him.

      “Los my uit, jou vark!” I scream and slam my fist into the slack fat of his stomach. He doubles over and lets me go. I can feel my heart hammering behind my eyes. I lunge past him and slam the toilet door behind me. In the open lavatory pan, the grey gravel between the train tracks streaks past as the train steams on. I’m afraid to sit down, afraid to open the door. When I finally wrench it open, the corridor’s empty. I run. The train leans into a bend. I grab at the railing under a window. When I look back, the long narrow space behind me is empty. I don’t tell Ma. She’ll just get cross and call the conductor. I don’t want anyone to know.

      We puff and sway past saltpans and thorn trees, red grass and khaki bush, cement dams and windmills standing sentry against the sky. The train thunders past pepper trees, corrugated-iron water tanks rusting behind redbrick railway houses with wood smoke idling from their chimneys. Chickens scatter, roosters crow. Dogs pant in the shade of tall bluegum trees. The train tracks flash like jackal eyes in the night. I lay my arms flat on the windowsill and see the Karoo miles twist and turn, endless across the dry flat land. Far away across the plains, the hills wear cliffs of gold and brown. I write a poem.

      The light filters slowly through the dust before it sinks away in the dark. The night is pricked with stars, and the land is turned to shadows. The train clicks and sways, rocks me to sleep like a lullaby. In the morning, I pull up the blind and open my window. Ma’s still asleep, her face turned to the wall. A thin morning breeze washes the sky with light. The train moves slow and steady and, in a brief absence of sound, the timid tin-tin-tinkie of grey-backed cisticolas rises from the thick, thorny scrub.

      6.

      Uniforms and hockey sticks

      I hold the white uniform against my chest.

      “I’m not wearing this, Ma – it’s hideous!”

      Ma says nothing. Her lips are pursed tighter than a cat’s bottom, and her shoulders, already tense with aggravation, rise almost to her earlobes.

      “Just let me see that!” I grab the clothing list out of her hand. “Isn’t the school uniform the one with the horrible slime-green colour? I don’t understand – what do I need this white one for? And there’s no way I’m putting that boater on my head.”

      My eyes fall on church/synagogue services.

      “Shul? Who said anything about having to go to shul, Ma?”

      Ma narrows her eyes. She takes a deep breath.

      “Forget it, Ma. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t care what you say – I’m not going to shul, and I won’t wear this uniform.”

      “You listen to me, my girl,” she hisses. “There’s nothing you or I can do about the school rules, the colour or style of these uniforms. You’re just going to have to knuckle down and bite your tongue, make the best of it!”

      I purse my mouth, look up and see my reflection in the change­-room mirror. Shit, I think, I look just like Ma!

      I’m not done with her yet. I pick out an enormous pair of green panties from the pile and dangle them in front of her. “Just look at the size of these broeks, Ma – they’re like bloomers! You could fit three people into them!”

      Ma’s nostrils flare. “Stop talking rubbish!” she snaps. “They’re exactly the same as the broekies you’ve always worn to school!”

      I turn away. She grabs my arm and spins me around. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles spark with rage. She whips the clothing list out of my hand, wrenches the curtains apart, and steps out of the change room. I can still feel the pressure of her hand on my arm. Through the half-open curtains, I see her toss her head.

      Like a genie, the saleslady appears at her side.

      I’m kitted out with tennis racket and bathing suit. Measured for a hockey stick. Ma buys me long socks – thick, right up to my knees – shoes with studs on their soles like rugby boots. I’ve never played hockey, only read about it in stories about girls in English boarding schools. Girls in the Free State play netball and tennis. A short, pleated skirt and a sports shirt for gymnastics join the growing pile of uniforms. In the Free State, we do jumping-jacks and touch our toes, stretch our arms down our sides. I don’t know how to do gymnastics.

      Ma’s not talking to me. Laden with parcels of uniforms, boxes of school shoes and boots, we take a bus back to the hotel in time for dinner in the dining room where the waiters smile their toothless smiles and recommend “the fishnchips, merrem – kingklip, verrynaais.”

      Elderly men sit alone at small tables, sucking down spoons of soup and slurping red jelly for dessert, their faces buried deep in the racing sections of newspapers. Ma stares at the old food stains on our tablecloth. The room smells of stale food and fried fish.

      Back in our room, she turns on all the lights, sits down on her bed and, unfailingly diligent, sews nametags with my name in red inside all my new school uniforms. As if anyone would want to steal them, I think. My heart feels heavy, hard as a quince.

      7.

      Boarding school – A House of Horrors

      Mrs P leans against the wall in the shade of the cement stoep and draws deep on the cigarette between her nicotine-stained fingers. Blue smoke drifts around her face. Her hands tremble as she twists and tugs at the chain attached to her spectacles. She blinks, closes her eyes, and feels about in the pocket of her navy overall for a handkerchief. Clumps of dry snot cling in the crease of the cotton square. Undeterred, she selects a corner, pushes it under her smudged spectacles with a forefinger, and wipes her eyes. Despite the warm day, she wears an old cardigan fastened across her chest, its brass buttons protruding like knobs on a chest of drawers. Strands of limp grey hair cling to her neck in the heat.

      Ma and Aunt Rosalind march up the steps towards her. Mrs P fumbles with her spectacles. She stubs her cigarette out in a tin ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes on the windowsill behind her and turns with a half-smile to squint at Ma.

      “Good morning,” she says. “Please, come inside.” She coughs, and shuffles to a door with a sign, House Mistress, painted on it in gold.

      Ma turns towards me. “Come along, Jen.” Her voice sounds brittle in the morning air.

      It’s dark inside Mrs P’s office. Stuffy. I stand behind Ma and Aunt Rosalind while Mrs P gropes for the light switch. The small room reeks of smoke and something musty, like the inside of a wormy green pea. The wormy stink follows her as she walks around her desk to a rickety typist’s seat. Ma and Aunt Rosalind glance at each other before sitting down on two hard-backed chairs. I stand behind Ma.

      Mrs P coughs again. Her chest rattles as she bends over the list of names on her desk. Her stained forefinger moves slowly down the list of names in front of her.

      “Ja, here she is – Jennifer.” Her voice is flat, nasal. She doesn’t look at me. “She’ll be with Denise Ramsey – Denise’s been a boarder here a long time already.” She nods. “She can show her the ropes.” Her eyes flick in my direction. I look away, down at the floor. “Just wait a minute.” She pushes herself away from her desk. “I’ll call one of the prefects to show you where to go.”

      “Thank you.” Ma stands up. “Come, Jen.”

      She holds my arm tight, as if to stop me from running away, turns on her heel, and marches me out of the dark office, back onto the sunlit stoep. On the windowsill near the open door, smoke rises from the crushed pile of cigarette stubs.

      In silence, we follow the prefect up flights of unpolished cement steps, down long empty corridors painted the colour of sour cream. Cobwebs nest in the dust in the dark high corners. Empty rooms echo with empty beds. A band of dirt runs along the walls on both sides of the passage.

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