The woman offered an uncomfortable smile. As Marion unloaded her items onto the counter she seemed to think it necessary to explain to Precious why she had bought them.
‘That’s for Mr Agostino. Tummy trouble. Oh, this is for my granddaughter. Fussy baby, that one. She likes this type, won’t eat any other. This is for Agnes – you know Agnes, my girl at the house. Oh, and I saw that and thought: wouldn’t Niknaks like that? Niknaks, that’s Agnes’s child. We thought of adopting her, but … you know … How much does all that come to, Precious?’
Hortensia had stared aghast through it all, in the rare position of being tongue-tied. She had a chance to set her tongue free at a gathering. Marion said that Agnes, her housekeeper, was part of the family: that the sixty-five-year-old woman had been pivotal in raising her kids, one boy and three girls, and that Marion in turn had attempted to make her life easier, sent Agnes’s kid to a good school, built her a house.
‘You want credit for that? That’s blood-money. Mixed in with missionary work. You think you did well by her, don’t you? Perhaps you’d like a medal?’
Marion was speechless.
‘St Marion. Charity-giver. My foot! You can’t buy it, Marion. You want to give something, you know what you should have given? You should have given Agnes your own house. And taken hers. Swopped suburbs. That’s what you should have done, my friend … Or, better, here’s a thought: Hero Marion, you should have ended apartheid … if you later wanted something to be able to brag about. Oh, and she is not like part of your family, she is employed by you. If she were part of your family, she wouldn’t have to clean up every time she visits.’
Hortensia made a hook with her index and middle fingers, to go with the word ‘visits’. Marion left the party.
Everything seemed to be about race for Hortensia, but Marion thought life was more complex than that, more wily.
She parked her car. As she climbed her stoep, her cellphone began to ring.
‘Darling … why do you sound so upset? … I’m sorry I missed Innes’s birthday … No, I didn’t forg—… No, I didn’t just not come … Marelena, I’ve had some issues to deal with here … The accountant called me, about Dad and his … well … What do you mean, am I surprised? How was I to know? … Your brother isn’t even taking my calls, Gaia refuses to give me her number in Perth … I sent her an email the other day; don’t suppose I’ll hear back … As for Selena, you’d think Jo’burg was the North Pole, the amount I hear from her … I need some help, is what I’m saying … Help-help. Money! … Zero, is what the accountant said … Marelena, would you please listen? … Marelena? … Yes, gone – all of it, gone … All … I see … Okay, Okay … Yes, of course you need to speak to your husband first … Well, will you call me? … Okay. Bye.’
‘Agnes.’ Marion put the phone down and arranged a chair the way she liked it, concealed from view by her row of Silvers. ‘Agnes!’ She banged against the front door. ‘I’m calling you!’
‘Ma’am.’ The woman appeared.
‘Take.’ Marion handed over her keys and committee file. ‘Put on my desk.’
Of course there were other things to be concerned about, besides Hortensia.
‘Oh, Agnes! Tea. Bring tea.’
Max had finished their money. They, Marion and Max, had had lots and lots of money. And just before he’d died he’d gone and finished it. The fool.
‘Agnes!’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Tea. Use the china – the proper stuff. And bring the binoculars. And a biscuit for Alvar.’
Marion tapped her temple, listened to the padded steps retreating across the stoep, back into the house, up the hallway towards the kitchen.
‘Don’t break anything!’ The woman must have Parkinson’s or something. Whatever that disease was where your hands shake. Dropped the handmade ceramic antique soup bowl – blue and white. Dropped it. Broken. Irreparable.
All the same, if the accountant was right, she’d eventually have to let Agnes go. Stupid Max. Stupid stupid stupid.
‘Come here, Alvar! Come here, boy.’