‘I see.’
‘It’s difficult to say “like”. But Cape Town’s my home.’ He had a smile like lightning, all sparkle and flash.
Marion nodded. She didn’t feel she could say much. With a look of bemusement, Frikkie continued the inspection. He invited Marion to study the stringer for the grand wooden staircase that had collapsed. And, considering she’d gone on about it, asked that she give a nod to the winders too.
‘I like Frikkie.’
Hortensia frowned. They were sitting in the lounge on the extra-length couch. The TV was on but silent, a female chef was preparing one meal after another for a television audience. Neither woman was watching. Marion was trying to read the Mail & Guardian, Hortensia was knitting, explaining how knitting helped her relax. How she hadn’t done it in years and was unable to remember why she’d stopped.
‘Thought you said he was a cretin?’
‘I said that?’
‘That he didn’t know his business and was trying to steal from you.’
‘Frikkie?’
Hortensia pursed her lips. ‘Yes, you like Frikkie the way you like Mama!’ She giggled.
‘You’re laughing at me.’
Hortensia continued giggling, shook her head.
‘Well, if you must know, I do like Mama. Upstanding man – so few about.’
Dr Mama had visited recently. He’d mentioned that soon Hortensia would be sufficiently recovered, Marion free to return to No. 12. The house next door was almost ready, but even once complete, it would be back to the settling of accounts, putting the house up for sale. For a few seconds all the harassments came back. Although Marion hadn’t thought about it in a while, she now remembered the Pierneef, disappeared, not even a trace. Her time at No. 10 had been an excuse not to think about all this, but soon enough she would have to.
‘You should call him.’ A cheeky glance up from her knitting was the only show that Hortensia was being mischievous.
‘Who?’ Marion pulled herself from her troublesome thoughts, relieved that, at least for the next short while, she didn’t have to deal with them. ‘Call who?’
‘Mama.’
‘What? Really?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well … he’s a bit young for me … don’t you think?’
‘I thought you’d say he was a bit black for you.’ Hortensia snorted loudly, her joke exposed.
Marion looked hurt.
‘Oh, come on, Marion. I mean you’re almost a hundred years old – what the devil would you do with Dr Mama, if you called him?’
‘Hortensia, you obviously, in breaking your leg, broke your ability to count. I’m nowhere near a hundred years old.’
Hortensia grunted.
‘And just because I’m slightly old doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate some male company every now and again.’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Hortensia darted her eyes again. ‘You ever think of, you know, seeing somebody? After Max.’
‘Well, who, quite frankly?’
‘Slim pickings?’
‘Very much so. Mostly it’s just big bores out there. Old and mean.’
‘And what are we? Sweet as pie?’
‘Well, we’re not that bad, Hortensia. At least we’re better than some of those other wenches. Some of the old women you see today.’ Marion shook her head. ‘I was at the mall the other day and saw one that had clearly been under the knife a few times. It looked like she would find it painful to blink.’
‘Painful enough to just breathe at our age – why complicate things further? Bring the lines, I say. Bring the damned wrinkles. I mean, how much of a coward do you have to be, to be afraid of a few crow’s feet?’
‘Well, there are all the pressures. It seems unfair, you know. We women get the raw deal.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Although, now that I think of it,’ Marion leaned forward, ‘Sarah Clarke troubled me once with a story. Apparently there was a man, I don’t think he lived in Katterijn, can’t recall now. Anyway, Sarah claimed she found out through a friend whose son was a doctor who had a friend whose boyfriend was a plastic surgeon.’
Hortensia snorted.
‘So, the story goes that this man – he was in his seventies, I think – married someone considerably younger. Not terribly young, as in twenty, but in her fifties, perhaps. And he, the man, went to have his … strut sorted out.’
‘Marion, is there something wrong with the word “penis”?’
‘I prefer “strut”. It’s a cleaner word.’
‘A strut is a piece of building. This is biology, not architecture.’
Marion shrugged.
‘Tell me what Gordon Mama says when he realises his date can’t properly identify his anatomy.’
‘Oh, Hortensia. Who said anything about a date?’
Hortensia rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway.’ She went back to knitting. ‘I didn’t mention he’s taken a cruise.’
‘What?’
‘He’s taken a cruise … with a lady friend.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He, being a gentleman, called to let me know that I could switch to a cane soon. He mentioned Trudy would be attending while he was away. Me being … interested, I asked where he was going.’
‘Ah.’
‘You sound disappointed.’ Hortensia was smiling.
‘Well. His loss!’