The Choice Between Us. Edyth Bulbring

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СКАЧАТЬ I whisper, “So don’t tell Xoliswa, okay? It can be our secret.”

      Secrets. I knew how to find them and how to keep them.

      Holly’s still home when I arrive back from school. She’s curled up on the couch with MasterChef Australia. Those who can’t cook watch the food channel. It makes them feel better about being unable to boil an egg.

      “You just caught me, baby. I’m off in a couple of minutes.”

      I’m no longer in the mood to play nice with Holly. “Why haven’t you paid the camp fees? If you don’t pay, I can’t go.”

      Holly pulls her mouth down and makes her eyes wide like a puppy. “Ag, sweetie, I’m strapped for cash at the mo’. It’s been a tight couple of months.” She flips herself off the couch and slips on her heels. She still hasn’t got around to taking the price sticker off the sole.

      “Come on, Jenna, who wants to go on a school camp? Bo-ring!”

      Andile’s one of the teachers taking the Grade Tens to the Magaliesberg next week. I want to strangle Holly for messing this up for me. Not just camp – my life. Everything.

      The conversation doesn’t end well. Holly rushes off on her date with a blotchy face, slamming the front door. “I’m a useless, terrible mother and I don’t blame you for hating me. But really, baby, I try so hard …”

      A few weeks ago I’d have been more understanding. But I’m done with this woman. I clean up the kitchen (how many coffee cups can one person use in a day?), and load the washing machine.

      The telephone rings. Yes, we have a landline. Holly’s Plan B for when she breaks/loses/drops her phone in the bath. It will go straight to voicemail and Holly will deal with it when she gets home.

      Nope, this is not how it happens. Setting up voicemail to take her business calls is just another small detail Holly will get to when she has time. If it’s not someone trying to sell me an insurance policy from a call centre in Pondicherry, it’s one of Holly’s clients with questions about a house. It stops ringing, and a few minutes later, rings again. I answer.

      “Hello, may I speak to Holly Moore?” The woman’s voice is hoarse. It belongs to a life-long smoker or someone who’s got a chesty cough.

      “She’s not available right now. This is her daughter, Jenna, speaking. Can I take a message?”

      “Jenna? What sort of name is that?” She says this with a snort. “Would you tell her that her Aunt C-C called and she must ring me back? Let me give you my telephone number.”

      I’ve never met Aunt C-C or spoken to her on the phone before. Getting a call from her is about as rare as spotting a black rhino in a shopping mall, or a game park. She’s somehow related to my great-grandfather Frank. When Holly was fourteen, her parents were killed in a car accident. My mom was a little short on relatives, so she got dumped on Aunt C-C. After Holly got pregnant and dropped out of university, the two of them argued. They’ve only seen each other a handful of times in the past fifteen years.

      Tapping her number into my phone, I say, “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help with?”

      “I simply wanted to inform your mother that I intend to put the old house in Pembroke Street on the market. I still have a few of her belongings and I require some assistance with packing up.”

      Not so interesting. Packing up is grunt work. I’ve done it for Holly’s clients a couple of times and it’s something I try to avoid. But I just have to be on that bus to the Magaliesberg next week.

      “I’m your guy. But I don’t come cheap.”

      “Excuse me, who’s ‘your guy’? Do you have to speak like some cliché out of a movie?”

      Sheesh! Talk about a humour by-pass. It takes a few minutes to agree on a rate. Aunt C-C drives a hard bargain and doesn’t allow our blood ties to influence the arrangement. I make sure she agrees to pay me in advance. I start tomorrow.

      While we’re busy closing the deal, I check out the photos on the passage wall. In mismatched frames, they’re arranged Holly-style, a haphazard mess. Among them is an old black-and-white one taken at the house in Pembroke Street. People posing on the stoep. I recognise my great-grandfather Frank. Holly and I have his eyes. His arm is draped around someone who looks like his older brother. Not as hot, though he has the same cheekbones. Daniel – or David, Holly isn’t sure. His two daughters are sitting on a step in front of them.

      “Tell your mother to ring me,” says Aunt C-C. “She must collect the personal things she left behind. And don’t you be late tomorrow.” She slams the phone down without hearing me say I’m always on time – unless Holly’s been messing me around, of course.

      I make popcorn for supper and lie on my bed, checking out Andile’s Twitter feed. He’s watching the soccer, Manchester United. Soccer sucks, but I download some info and memorise the players’ names. We’ll chat about soccer after class tomorrow!

      In the morning, I don’t tell Holly about the phone call. Or that I’ll be working for Aunt C-C after school. Let’s just say that Holly’s personal stuff at the big house is something I’ve got a keen interest in.

      On my way out, I glance at the photo of the family at Pembroke Street. I guess from the style of the clothes that it was taken more than fifty years ago. The older of the two girls is wearing a black beret, and she’s scowling at the person behind the camera.

      I look closer at the girl’s face. Her expression is more than just sulky, it’s angry. But the younger of the two girls is smiling, mouth closed. She’s hiding something behind those sly lips. And the door to the big house is shut, the family gathered in front, like they’re guarding a secret.

      I’ll be there today after school to claim mine. Because if there’s anything in Holly’s belongings about my father, I’ll find it.

      MARGARET

      Lucy’s got long red fingernails and smokes Texan plain. Sometimes a scrap of tobacco sticks to her lips, which are the same colour as her fingernails. She picks it off, often spits it out. Pffft.

      My sister’s honey-blonde hair hangs like open curtains around her face, which is pale as the moon. She wears a black beret on the side of her head and acts like she’s as beautiful as Yvonne Ficker, our Miss South Africa with the perfect 36-24-36 figure. I think Lucy’s prettier because her teeth don’t stick out like Yvonne’s.

      “Where is she, Mima? I’m going to wring that brat’s neck.” Lucy’s in a rage. Her words are clipped to an inch, like our privet hedge.

      Lucy’s got a hot temper and wears short skirts. She can be wild. Too loud. Too fierce. She likes to argue, especially with my parents.

      When things get nasty my mother grabs her head and goes to lie down. My father chips in with: “Really, Lucy, do you have to provoke your mother? She’s not well, as you know.”

      This makes Lucy even angrier. She’s quiet as death, and her top lip curls.

      I’m sitting as silent as a mouse under the kitchen table, my legs drawn up. Clumps of faded bubblegum are stuck underneath. They look like the brains of dead rats.

      “What’s СКАЧАТЬ