‘And I intend to report you to the head-nurse.’
They threatened. And all for what? What had she said? He, the nurse, had made the mistake of trying to make small talk, to unburden himself of his whiteness by suggesting how non-racial he was and how many black friends he had and how wonderful Nelson Mandela was. He seemed, on entering the house, to have been struck by a kind of PC-diarrhoea and, almost immediately, he’d begun to produce a litany of anecdotes to absolve himself of any sense of responsibility for the wrongdoing that white people have been known to inflict almost everywhere they have been.
‘I see nothing to report, but do as you think best.’
She’d caught him unawares; he’d been telling her about his ‘buddy’, the guard at his bank, who had taught him the ‘African handshake’. Which is it that makes him your ‘buddy’, she’d asked, punishing him with his own choice of word. The fact that he’s black or the fact that he’s poor – or is it both?
Hortensia wasn’t being mean for its own sake, she was genuinely curious to know. She’d witnessed the scene the nurse described many times already. A fraught eagerness that played itself out in close, uncomfortable spaces. The security guard and the blasted cumbersome handshake white people had decided was the password to being down. A shortcut is what it was.
‘You must know he’s not your buddy?’ Hortensia asked. She’d done her own study of the nation, post-’94. Cheap tricks like handshakes and cute localised expressions to hide what was really needed. Slogans in place of the real dirty slog required if unity was truly the goal. ‘You can’t be stupid, surely?’ she asked the nurse. ‘Which leaves the conclusion that you must be a liar.’
He was now packing up his little nurse-bag, which could only mean he was leaving. Hopefully this was the last nurse they would send her.
‘How dare you speak to me like that? I have never been spoken to in this way.’ Spit flew as he enunciated the words.
Hortensia nodded. She was lying on her back, her legs elevated on a stack of pillows. She was, obediently, rotating her ankles. The nurse looked bruised, as if she’d thrown stones at him. But Hortensia seldom needed stones, her words were enough.
‘I’m leaving these here.’ He grouped the medicines onto the side-table, then he collected his bag and stepped out of the room.
He would be the fifth nurse in three days to walk out. Hortensia groaned.
Her mood lifted when Bassey entered. Luckily Bassey never required her to admit it, but Hortensia felt grateful. He had never managed, in the almost twenty years he’d worked for them, to anger her, to incite her to want to diminish him to dust. He was a quiet man who parried all of Peter’s attempts at friendly employerness. He did, however, assent to play chess. He embarrassed Peter, the first time they played, by beating him, Hortensia recalled, quite brutally. And then curiously never won again.
Bassey’s eyes were deepset, two sharp slits, his skin shiny.
He held an envelope with its flap unsealed. Inside was a folded piece of paper with the name of the guest house along its top edge. It said:
Okay.
Hortensia figured that meant Marion was coming. She was instinctively peeved that Marion hadn’t taken the trouble to specify a day, or a time, but then she accepted this was the only bit of control Marion had left in the whole arrangement. She would show up when she pleased, confident that Hortensia wasn’t really going anywhere. All Hortensia could do was wait.
Sure enough, the high-pitched voice at the front door, the merciless piercing of heels into the Macassar-ebony floor – it could only be one person. Bassey poked his head through the gap in the door to announce the guest, but Marion pushed past into the room before he could utter a sound.
‘Hortensia.’ She was stiff, perfunctory, which made Hortensia realise anew the intense difficulty of the task ahead.
‘Marion, please do sit down.’
Bassey ducked out, but Hortensia called him back, asked Marion if she wanted anything. She asked for lemonade and Bassey left to fetch it. Hortensia thought it sensible to wait for him to come back with the drink before commencing. Once she started, she had to just go with no interruptions. Marion sat quietly, uninterested in the seeming trifles of the sickbed – where does it hurt? How long will it take to heal? And so on. Bassey entered into their tight silence and, after arranging Marion’s glass on a side-table, retreated once more.
‘I was quite busy. I couldn’t come immediately.’
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Hortensia could not remember the last time she was this intent on being agreeable. It felt like play-acting.
‘Yes, well, what did you want? I’d rather not discuss paperwork with you, but I’m glad there’ve been no shenanigans from the insurers.’
Hortensia wasn’t entirely sure what this meant. Best to ignore it.