Life may have been fair, but it was getting out of control. Slowly more and more of Marion’s energy was taken up in keeping her life in line. The more Max was away, the older the children became, the more porous those borders grew. The kids had questions. Marion was intelligent and perfectly capable, except that the questions the children asked were zigzag. Did a black beach have black sand? If that is a black bench, why did they paint it white? It messed with Marion’s mind. She still had the practice, but it became harder and harder (with Cumfred looking on) to be a normal person, with borders intact.
As a young adult she had explained her country to herself in a way her children were refusing to adopt. With all their prodding it became difficult to see only what was comfortable, to keep looking away from what she’d rather not see. It was in this battle that Marion lost all possibility for happiness. And, because it is much easier to fight your husband than the government, Marion waged a quiet war against Max and she used the love of their children as artillery. And she eyed No. 10 and she waited.
In the middle of 1994 No. 10 was sold again. When Marion pieced the story together she learned that the matriarch of the Dutch family had died and taken with her the intent to keep a foothold in Africa. Marion bristled that the Dutch never mentioned to her their intention to sell. She concluded it was out of spite – there had been enough dinner parties at which the news could have been casually thrown out, but instead the transfer happened quietly. Marion woke up one morning to a black woman, with short-cropped greying hair, hardly any breasts and a skinny waist, conducting an orchestra of movers with elaborate hand gestures. Commando, that was the word that came to her mind that cold morning as she watched this woman from behind the French doors that opened onto her north-facing stoep.
It was an insult, a black woman suddenly in a house Marion had dreamed for decades of possessing; no, a house that was rightfully hers, which other people kept taking. In addition she was some kind of minor celebrity. Marion had never heard of Hortensia but Sarah Clarke had referred to her as a design guru. This seemed an impossibility to Marion. She’d pressed Sarah for more details. Apparently a friend of the Dutch had said something about fabric design. She makes cloth? Marion had asked Sarah, too upset to veil her angry curiosity with coolness. A week later with the librarian Marion played it down. New neighbour coming, Marion. A design person like you, what are the chances. Marion had smiled with what she hoped was disinterest. Don’t be silly, Agatha, I’m an architect, she sounds more like a haberdasher.
What were the chances, though. Of designing someone else’s house as if it was your own, of living next door but never within, of becoming obsessed. And now to once more lose the elusive trophy to someone who drew squiggles and called that design. As for the woman’s husband, Marion assumed that was him (a white man, one of the longest white men she had ever seen) he was mostly out of sight that first day but appeared from time to time and trailed behind his wife offering a glass of refreshment, a cordless phone, a plate of fruit. The binoculars had been a gift from the grandchildren, but Marion had never intended to use them to birdwatch. Spying on her neighbours was much more entertaining. Except that morning was cause for upset, not amusement. Amusement would have been watching the Clarkes, who had proven themselves common because they had succumbed to trend and bought three pet pigs; amusement would have been the Von Struikers, whose arguments had reached a display of violence that could only mean they were yet again on the brink of divorce. Rich people and their dramas were amusing. Hortensia James was a thief.
THREE
A CAREFUL BALANCE had been messed with. On account of her walking faster than she usually did, Hortensia was out of breath. Imagine Marion thinking she could bother her with this Beulah nonsense. Except that it had annoyed her. She felt heat at her ears and along her limbs, as well as a strong burning sensation where her heart was. She stopped walking and stretched her arm out against the gnarled skin of a pine tree. The trees always made her feel old, made her feel her age. She dropped her head forward and her eyes took in thick spreading roots, fallen leaves, sodden dirt. She’d taken a step and annihilated a string of ants. They had been busy with the soggy shell of a snail. Beulah and her blasted grandmother and her stupid dead children. The anger bubbled up, the indignation, ever at the ready. Beulah and her ancestors with their cloying sentiments were as good a reason as any for that familiar feeling to stir. Hortensia let out a growl and shook her fists.