Mama laughed.
‘Well, I’d need to meet her, this woman. I mean, I know I said “another body”. I was trying to be agreeable at the time. I’d run her through a few things. It isn’t a joke, you know, Hortensia. It’s your health. Your well-being.’
He was so earnest that for a moment he seemed younger than he looked. A little Boy Scout. A delicious one.
‘Grandma?’
It was the little one knocking. She’d phoned from reception. Caught off-guard, Marion had barely had time to straighten her blouse and refresh her lipstick.
‘Come in, Innes.’
Neither of Marelena’s girls had Baumann in them, not the way their mother did. They looked – one simply an almost exact but miniature copy of the other – like their father: dark hair, fine eyebrows. Lara was prettier in that beauty-magazine kind of way. And Marion noticed how Lara was the one who wanted Barbie dolls, make-up kits, and Innes, with thick glasses, her hair cut short, her nails clean but unpolished, asked for books. As if life itself was a cliché.
‘Where’s Lara?’ Marion guessed the older girl was exercising her disgust by staying away.
‘She dropped me. She’ll phone on her way back from Grandpa.’
Marion frowned for a second, then relaxed. She kept forgetting that the kids still had a rather dull-looking paternal grandfather. He lived in a neighbouring suburb – she forgot which.
‘Ah, I see.’
Marion indicated for Innes to sit on the hastily made-up bed while she took the chair. One leg was wonky. Guest house indeed. As she balanced her weight, Marion watched Innes take in the room. Their eyes met and Marion smiled. She could only imagine the chutzpah Innes would have needed in order to be allowed to visit. The stories she’d have had to endure from her mother, specific recollections well suited to showcase Marion’s ineptitude as a parent and possibly as a human being.
‘Can I use the loo?’
‘Over there.’
Doubtless big sister Lara would have butted in with some first-year lawyer-speak. Human-rights-type stuff. She disapproved of Marion’s treatment of Agnes. Always had done.
‘What’s this?’ Lara had asked one day while visiting, many years back.
‘Utensils. Cups. Plates,’ Marion responded, eyeing the large Tupperware that Lara held aloft.
‘Why are they packed away like this, Grandma?’
‘They are for Agnes,’ Marion had said, her mouth set. ‘For Agnes.’
And Lara’s eyes widened. She went crying to her mom. It might not have been so bad if a few days before (this was when Marelena still visited) Lara hadn’t run to the pantry to replace a roll of toilet paper and returned with the one-ply.
‘That’s for Agnes,’ her grandmother shouted, before muttering, ‘Why on earth is she keeping her stuff in my pantry?’
The child looked confused. Why was her grandmother buying two different kinds of toilet paper? ‘Because,’ Marion said.
Because two-ply was more expensive and, considering her station in life, it seemed perfectly reasonable to expect Agnes to manage with one-ply. The child was asking questions about things Marion had never had to reason through, but there you were – there was your reason.
But the damage was already done. Lara was upset, Marelena was upset. She comforted her daughter and pursed her lips at her mother. ‘I thought, after all this time, that you would have stopped with such things.’ Marion was judged. Bitter about being misunderstood, she took it up with Agnes.
‘Why are you keeping your toilet rolls in my pantry, Agnes? When the shopping comes in, when you unload the bags, take your things and keep them at the granny-flat.’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘What?’ Agnes seldom had cause to use the word ‘no’ when speaking with Marion. In fact Marion couldn’t remember a time she’d ever heard her use it.
‘This is not my toilet roll, Ma’am. I buy my own.’
‘Why do you buy your own?’ Marion asked. Whatever could have changed? She’d been working there for decades and understood the rules.
Agnes, wiping down the speckled marble kitchen counter, shrugged. ‘I needed something better, Ma’am.’
One day, soon after this conversation, when Agnes was distracted with laundry, Marion stole into the granny-flat to inspect the bathroom. There was the offending toilet paper. Three-ply. It turned her cheeks crimson and (never to be outdone), on her next trip to Woolworths, Marion selected a large supply of white three-ply toilet roll for herself.
After all that, Lara took Marion on as a project – her untransformed grandmother. Marelena was doubtful, and Marion even overheard her one day explaining to Lara not to expect too much from Marion. Why not? Lara had asked. She was around twelve at the time. Because she is old and stuck to old, bad ways. Marion would always remember that sober summation her daughter had given of her. Old and stuck.
‘Tea, dear? Rooibos?’
Marion rose towards the kettle.
‘Thanks, Grandma.’