Marion scoffed. The mist of Dr Mama lingered in the air. She was worried that if she stood up, her legs would buckle.
‘But this is ridiculous. I haven’t agreed to come here, and I certainly have not agreed to be your nursemaid.’
‘Well, you had your chance to say something and you remained silent. Too late now. Or you can call him and tell him you’re not really able to “sacrifice” after all.’ Hortensia grinned, pleased with herself. She’d used her secret weapon – Marion’s pride.
‘I won’t do it,’ Marion said. ‘Because he is not mistaken about me, I’m always willing to sacrifice. Now, you, on the other—’
‘Well then, prepare to move in. Because I certainly am not requesting True-dee stay on, which seems to be his only alternative.’
‘So what? Why do I care?’
‘Well—’
‘Oh, damnit! You tricked me, Hortensia.’
‘Nonsense. The way I see it, we help each other. I don’t need to know the details of your financial or family situation, but I suspect that if you stayed here, less stress, less tears would occur.’ Hortensia arched her brows. ‘The house is big – we never have to see each other.’
Marion said nothing.
‘You do your things and I do my things, and we stay out of each other’s way.’
‘The only reason the doctor is agreeing is because he thinks I’ll look after you.’
‘Who’s going to tell him?’
Marion shook her head, weary. ‘Hortensia, you seem to think yourself invincible. You are injured, you need care. And you’re sending away the only person who has been giving it to you.’
‘I can manage perfectly fine on my own. If you ask me, she’s more of a nuisance than a care-er. Darn pest! I can’t wait to be rid of her. I don’t mind dying, you know.’
Marion sighed. ‘I don’t know about all this.’
But she said it in a voice that suggested defeat.
ELEVEN
THE ARRANGEMENT WAS simple. While Marion’s house was being repaired (builder promised six to eight weeks) she was to move into No. 10. A few weeks had passed since the accident. Carole the physiotherapist had predicted a maximum of twelve weeks for Hortensia’s bone to knit sufficiently, eight weeks till Hortensia could move without aid.
The house was apportioned out. Hortensia would remain downstairs in her study-cum-infirmary. Marion upstairs in one of the guest rooms. Bassey served meals on a tray. He took Hortensia’s to her room and Marion’s to hers. As far as Hortensia could discern, besides her daily site visits, Marion went nowhere. She barely left her bedroom.
Trudy’s last task was to organise for a contractor to raise the toilet seat, install handlebars (the ugliness of which Hortensia and Marion agreed on) and slip-proof the shower. She had written down a series of exercises; some Hortensia could do sitting at her desk, some she had to perform along the length of the hallway. Occasionally she needed Bassey to set up what Trudy called the obstacle course. A chair midway to sit on. A table in the middle of her path, forcing her to navigate around. The toilet could be tricky, but very little lorded it over Hortensia and certainly not her bladder. Dressing was a chore, so often it was tracksuit top, skirt (easier to pee in) or her favourite cerise nightgown with matching housecoat. The azure one, when the cerise was in the wash. With Marion about, Hortensia had wondered whether to dress up more, but hadn’t the strength to attempt it.
On waking, Hortensia kept her eyes closed. A wind blew the oak, she could hear the prattle of the leaves against the windowpane. A band of finches twittered and Hortensia felt glad to hear them. She admitted to herself that she missed the Koppie. That her walks up there weren’t just some masochistic ritual, but also a chance for total quiet, to spot bulbuls, for birds to chirrup, for branches to twist in the breeze.
Hortensia grunted, which made the effort of rising out of bed less painful. Ablutions took several minutes too long but, once ready, Hortensia, manoeuvring the walker and cursing it simultaneously, began her exercises along the hallway. Bassey stuck his head out of the kitchen and asked if he could make her breakfast. Concentrating on the task at hand, she nodded her consent. The house phone rang, way at the other end of the hallway. She muttered under her breath as Bassey went to answer.
‘For you, Hortensia.’
‘Message,’ she said through clenched teeth. Was it her or did the pain increase each day?
Bassey spoke into the receiver.
‘He says it’s urgent. It’s Mr Marx.’
‘Blast!’
Bassey brought the cordless. Hortensia moved to the wall and leaned her shoulder against it. She took the phone. Bassey hovered, pointed to the chair some steps away from where she stood. She shook her head.
‘Marx. I don’t appreciate all this badgering. I’ll do it when I’m good and ready, not a minute before.’
‘Time is running out, Mrs James. If you don’t act soon I’ll have to assume you’re rejecting the will, I’ll have to—’
‘I don’t care, do you understand? I don’t care!’
‘I’m not sure there’s reason to shout.’
‘I’m not shouting!’