The Innocence of Roast Chicken Page 15

  Michael turned down the volume and we listened as Ouma’s quick steps tapped through the library to the front door. Our eyes crept over the scattered table and held as we heard the deep crack of the next-door farmer’s voice greeting Ouma.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Michael muttered, scattering crumbs as he raced for the hidden recess behind the pantry door. I sat a moment, appalled, before I followed. I knew where he’d gone.

  ‘I’d forgotten about him, after the chickens and everything,’ I whispered to him. ‘What d’you think he wants?’

  ‘Us, of course. Don’t you remember he said he’d take the sjambok to us? He wants to whip us. Those kind of people love to whip people.’

  I felt my face pucker as I remembered his bulk and his fearful voice. We heard the lounge door close and the muted voices murmuring. We heard the lounge door open again and my stomach cramped as I heard our names spoken on the way to the front door. The house sounded quiet as the front door shut out his deep rumble. I listened to Ouma’s footsteps, waiting for the call that I was sure would come.

  ‘Elaine, Elaine, kom na die sitkamer, asseblief. Ek wil nou graag met jou praat.’

  We waited. Then my mother’s heels tip-tapped along the wooden passage and the lounge door closed again.

  ‘What d’you think’s going on now?’ I asked him, clutching his tensed forearm with the fingers of both hands.

  ‘Shuh’we go’n listen?’ he whispered back.

  ‘No, Michael, no,’ I said, watching his wide, dark eyes.

  ‘Don’t be a sissy,’ he said suddenly, shaking himself and my hands from his arm. He stood up. ‘The man’s gone anyway. He can’t sjambok us now. Anyway, I was just trying to make you skrik. Dad would never let him use his sjambok on us, idiot. Dad’s easily as strong as him.’

  The pantry felt very empty and very hot when he’d gone. Dora squashed her bulk into the narrow room, squeezing me behind the door. She clattered a bit on the shelves before squeezing herself out again. Quietly, I crept out, sidling down the silent passage towards the closed lounge. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

  I crouched in the shelter of the doorway, leaning my hot face against the wood of the door. There was silence behind it, silence throughout the house.

  ‘So it’s come to this!’ That was Ouma, her voice gruff and deep.

  ‘I’ll punish them, Ma.’ Mom’s voice sounded high in comparison, pleading almost. ‘Is that all this means to you?’ Ouma’s voice cut through Mom’s next soft murmur. ‘A misdemeanour? A prank? To be punished, just like that?’

  ‘Ma, don’t make …’

  ‘This can’t be punished for. Can’t you even see that? Can’t you recognise the symptom for what it is?’

  ‘Ma, it’s nothing. All children …’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing.’ Ouma’s voice grew harsh and raspy as it burst through the barrier of her habitual quiet speech, I’d never before heard her shout … well, not in the house anyway. Maybe just at the dogs, or something. Her voice remained loud as she continued.

  ‘Don’t act stupid. It’s not the roof-climbing I care about. Of course all children do that. It’s not about that. It goes much deeper than that. It goes to the heart of you and me.’

  ‘Oh Ma, I don’t want to fight with you. It’s Christmas. Can’t we just forget about this and send them to their rooms for the rest of the day?’ Her voice was very high and soft; she sounded almost like me. And her pleading was unmistakable now.

  ‘Listen now, Elaine … Magtig, watter soort naam is die? Why must I force myself to call you that? When I choke on it every time it passes my lips. When you have a perfectly good name of your own. Helena, that’s the name you were christened with, the name given to you in acceptance and love. Why must you maar reject it, and everything it stands for?’

  ‘Ma, please …’ I could hear her gasped breath through the door. ‘I didn’t reject it, I just didn’t like the name. That’s not a crime.’

  ‘Not a crime, it’s a symptom just like what your children did. And I can see exactly where they get it, where their attitudes spring from. It’s plain what message passes from you to them.’

  ‘I never ever …’

  ‘You don’t have to. It’s there, it’s quite plain in everything you do and say. There is nothing in those children, nothing at all of their volk. And nothing in them of me. I am an Afrikaner. I’m proud of it, proud of my people and my heritage. There’s no pride in their nationhood. Nothing but scorn: for me and what I stand for. You and your children consider yourselves superior, above me with my simple farm ways. You think you’re better, and so do your children.’

  ‘Oh Ma, that’s not true.’ Her voice was shaking now, breaking off into a gasp. ‘It was just mischief. Why must you always make things more?’

  There was a pause but my desperate ear could hear even their breathing, even their heartbeats. I had to control this, stop it before it caused havoc, before it brought the farm crashing down around my listening ears. But I was helpless and I felt suddenly too small to hold back this tide of anger and hatred. To enter would make it worse. To run away would be to allow it to happen, to be too weak to hold up the crumbling walls. I squeezed my eyes together, pressing my cheek and ear painfully against the door.

  ‘Please gentle Jesus, please God,’ I whispered.

  ‘And what, may I ask, have you – you with your superior citified ways – given those children to replace the heritage that should have been theirs? Nothing, nothing but second-hand snooty English ways that make them think they’re better than everyone else. But give them nothing real – no place or values or culture.’

  ‘We decided to bring them up English before they were born. You didn’t say anything then.’ There were tears in my mother’s voice, but it was louder. I could hear it clearly through the wooden barrier.

  ‘What could I say? And what difference did it make? You were already English. You’d already taken yourself beyond me and my help, with your fancy English husband and your fancy English home.’

  ‘That is absolutely not true.’

  ‘Just look at you.’ Ouma sounded as though she were spitting the words from her lips, to have them gone from her flesh as rapidly as possible. ‘With your teased hair and painted nails. And, magtig, you insist on wearing those short skirts on the farm, in front of all the boys too. What do you think that looks like? What kind of values does that give your children? What kind of solidity for life?’

  ‘These are my clothes, Ma!’ She was shouting now, but her voice sounded thick. ‘Not that you bother to see how people actually dress elsewhere in the world, but I’d just like to tell you that, no matter how you try and make out that I look cheap, wearing a miniskirt doesn’t make you a slut. Everyone I know wears minis. It’s the fashion. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Do you think I care what those Engelse in the cities do? Those people with no values and no morality? What kind of answer is that? Those are the same people who make demonstrations and take drugs. Is that then all right for you and your children too? Because everyone does it?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ There was a pause, an angry breathing silence.

  ‘And what you seem to forget is, no matter how I dress and whatever my children say, I am still your daughter and they are still your only grandchildren. You’d better make do with us.’

  ‘I forget nothing. But I know something else. Being a daughter means more than taking … more than just taking the life that was given to you. And there’s more to …’

  ‘What! Is this it, then? Are you disowning me? Over something so absolutely stupid?’

  ‘Being family involves more than passing on those big brown eyes, you know.’ Ouma’d begun talking before Mom finished her sentence. She continued as if she’d never spoken. ‘They mean building in your descendants the things that are important to your ancestors. That
is what makes up a person and that’s what makes a family.’

  ‘Maybe it also means allowing a child to think for herself. Why are you always so sure you’re right? Why does everyone else have to be just like you, or you want nothing to do with them?’

  ‘Because I know what is important. I know that there is nothing … nothing left of me to continue through your children to their descendants. Your children. I can’t say my grandchildren because there’s nothing of me in them.’

  A hot, welling wetness rose in my throat and burst silently from my eyes. I felt pleasure in the pain of my forehead pressing into the wood of the door. It was so much easier to bear.

  I heard my mother’s gasp – and I heard her begin speaking. Quieter now she sounded but her anger was louder. ‘So you’re even throwing up that relationship, disowning it because you don’t approve of us. They’re your only grandchildren, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Moenie die Here se naam ydellik gebruik nie … What I am saying to you is there’s more to motherhood than a difficult birth. May God help me but I still care for you, and your children, but being a mother means passing things on. I’ve passed nothing to you, you with your red nails and short skirts that offend me every time I see your legs. And the city talk that you and your family use. I’m not removing myself from you. You did that long ago. You did that when you removed everything of me from your heart.’

  ‘Don’t give me that! Don’t you dare … You never loved me after Katerina died. You wanted her. I was never good enough for you. Well, I wish she was alive, I really wish she could have lived to disappoint you as much as everyone else does. Because she would have, you know. In the end, no one could ever live up to your expectations.’

  ‘Magtig, Helena, don’t you dare bring poor Katerina into this. And don’t you dare throw her up into my face. I gave you everything, everything of the best.’

  ‘Oh sure! Is that why you sent me off to boarding school as soon as I was remotely old enough to get rid of? And my name, as you well know, is Elaine.’

  ‘Magtig, and now to have the things I’ve done for you thrown back in my face! You went to boarding school because your pa thought you should have the best. Because his precious only darling was too good for the District farm school. And you always thought you were too good for the local children.’

  ‘Oh what rot! How dare you accuse me of snobbery? You sent me to boarding school because I was under your feet. I reminded you too much of the one who wasn’t there. It wasn’t my fault, you know, but you always made me feel guilty for being born just when she caught diphtheria.’

  ‘I missed Katerina. How can a mother ever get over a loss like that? But it was you that always selfishly took that loss on to yourself. Skaam jou! You’re still pouting jealously over a dead child. Well, we’ll never know, will we? We’ll never know, but maybe she would have remained true to her family.’

  ‘It’s not pouting – how dare you belittle what I feel. I know what I felt from you and I know what’s fair. What isn’t fair is that you throw Katerina up as a paragon to me and that you still blame me for becoming English. You call me a snob because of it …’

  ‘If you aren’t a snob then why have I said to you year after year: “Go and visit your friends in the District. Go and see the children who were your first playmates.” And have you ever gone? Have you ever once inquired after them or cared what happened to them?’

  ‘That’s not snobbery. That’s because I have nothing in common with them. I’m different, I’ll admit. I am English. But whose fault is that? Whose fault is it that I was sent to a fancy English school? You can’t get more English than the school you sent me to. So what’d you expect me to become? Why d’you send me off to become English and then blame me for it?’

  Ouma’s voice dropped to a rasped murmur, but every word cut quietly through the door to me. ‘I didn’t send you there to become English. I sent you there because it was considered the best education. But in return I expected something from you. I expected you at least to be true to your family and your religion. Not to deny your roots and hold yourself above your family and old friends. You sit there now and tell me that I deserted you as a child. Well, let me tell you what I know! It was in the end you that deserted us, and your heritage. You betrayed me by removing yourself and my grandchildren from me.’

  ‘You’re calling me a traitor? Me?’

  ‘You used the word, but it fits. You betrayed me and everything I stood for.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you for that. Never. You’ve created such a terrible thing out of something that didn’t matter.’ She was weeping now, I could hear the sobs. Ouma’s breath still came fast and hard – she never cried.

  ‘Don’t try to pretend this was all my doing. This is your doing – yours because of the ideas and values you gave your children – and you must take the consequences. You turned yourself into a little English lady. You should have known that doing that meant you had to give up something. Well, you’ve given up your forebears. And those forebears include me.’

  The door burst open. My mother, sidestepping clumsily to avoid my crouched body, stumbled into the passage. One hand on the passage wall, she ignored me and blundered blindly towards her room with her other hand painfully clutching her eyes.

  I lifted my agonised head. Ouma was standing absolutely still, gazing through the fly-screened window at the huge embrace of the wild fig tree. The light glowed and shone from her face as her head moved and she fumbled for a tissue in her bra. Her cheeks were wet.

  As she passed me on her way to the kitchen she absently patted my head. How could she do that, after what had happened? Why didn’t the earth crack open and swallow us all? I was waiting, teeth clenched, for the cataclysm, the crashing end of the world. This wasn’t some peripheral edge-of-family fight. This was the mighty clash of the Titans of my life. The two great forces of the universe had battled it out and nothing could ever be the same.

  I crept into my hot corner of the pantry. Crouching, too devastated to cry, I was waiting. I was waiting for a sign – I didn’t know what – but a sign of what had happened. A sign that the family had crumbled and fallen. Would we leave now, today?

  The sound of the shaken bell jerked my taut muscles and I gave a small, tense cry.

  ‘Lunch, everyone.’ It was Ouma’s voice. But what was this? How could we eat?

  ‘Yay, food!’ I heard Michael’s voice, but how could he not know? How couldn’t everyone know that this was the end of everything? I crept from my small spot, where the flies buzzed insistently around my damp head. I had to see what would happen. I had to be there to see the world fall apart. When I entered the dining room, everyone was seated except my mother and me.

  ‘Kom, Kati, it’s now time for the grace. Michael, today I think it’s your turn.’

  I took my seat silently and clutched my hands together. But I couldn’t get my eyes to close. What could I thank Him for? I’d asked so hard and He hadn’t stopped it.

  ‘F’what we’re ’bout t’receive …’ Michael’s voice clattered on as my mother entered from the passage. Her eyes were red and small but she was utterly composed. I glanced at Ouma, who briefly opened her eyes and nodded slightly. Then she closed them again.

  ‘Amen.’

  Ouma stood to serve and pass plates. Her brisk discussion of all that had to be done before Christmas rushed the table from its silence and dragged the family along. I was still waiting. Was she still ours? How could she be after that? Where would we belong? How could everything seem like before – the smell of roasted chicken, the skree-bang of the screen door, the drone of a tractor? Dora entered with pumpkin fritters, shaken by vast deferential laughter, full of her usual toothless bustle.

  Ouma spoke and spoke. I couldn’t take in what she was saying. Something to do with the baby chicks that had to come before Christmas Day … I don’t know anymore.

  �
�No gravy please, Ouma,’ I whispered, surprised that I could still speak and that I could sound so normal. But Ouma talked, her words pouring from her mouth, drowning the small sounds around the table.

  My plate, when it appeared before me, was smothered in the farm’s thick, oil-rich gravy. I stared at it as I heard Ouma’s voice tumbling over the table. My tears felt as thick and as difficult to pass my throat as the film of oil on my plate. They welled and fell with a life of their own. Unable to stop them, I concentrated on my throat, on trying to swallow or take a breath.

  The pouring tears began to water the gravy, breaking it down into curdled puddles as I became aware of the silence. Everyone was looking at me, I knew, but I couldn’t look up. All I could do was try to breathe. I had to take a breath.

  ‘Magtig, kind, wat is dit now?’

  ‘She didn’t want gravy, Ouma.’ That was Michael.

  ‘But for goodness’ sake child, why didn’t you say something? Why sit there weeping?’

  She whisked the plate from before me and slid it in front of Michael. Briskly and in silence she dished up another plate. A loud click echoed off her palate as the new, gravy-free plate appeared before me.

  I don’t remember much more about that lunch. I think it must have been that lunch time that Oupa reached across to my mom, just before he lifted his knife and fork. I remember watching him ruffle her hair and tickle her neck in the babyish way he used for me. She gave a fragile smile and swayed delicately towards him as he squeezed her shoulders.

  I think Dad and Neil discussed cricket, on and on about the teams: who was good and who was bad. Who should be in the team for Tests and who shouldn’t. I do remember Neil rounding his cheeks to expostulate: ‘Now he’s rai-aly a sple-endid player,’ in a Charles Fortune imitation.

  After her gush of speech at the start of lunch Ouma was silent. She ate steadily, her eyes moving from speaker to speaker. Oh, I do remember that, while the cricket talk dribbled on and on across the table, her eyes shifted to Mom’s face. I couldn’t tell what was in them and I tensed, ready for the disaster to come. But the moment went by. Nothing happened. What were they all doing, those grown-ups? If something was going to happen, why didn’t they just make it happen and have done? They shouldn’t drag us on and on with everything just as it had been. Especially when I knew that it wasn’t, when nothing could possibly be the same again.