The Woman Next Door

‘Or the steeple?’ She had rings on her fingers.

Well enough to call for a book, but not well enough to pronounce its title clearly. Well enough to request pudding, but not well enough to keep it down. Well enough to ask for Hortensia, but not well enough to go and find her when she refused to come. And when the nurse had begged and said ‘He’s asking for you again’, Hortensia had told her to leave her alone.

Was that when he’d called for paper? Having already arranged his will, was that when he sought to unburden himself? The date. That’s as far as he’d managed.

She ran her fingers over the page. He’d made attempts at words, at the shape of words. His hands would have been shaking.

At first it had felt to Hortensia that Peter was just being vindictive. The tombstone covered in Braille had shocked her. The delicateness of that. And now an empty letter. He would have scratched at it with his over-expensive fountain pen. Struggled to form the shapes. And yet, he’d gone all the way, folded the letter and enveloped it.

Hortensia called Marx.

‘Was there not some other letter?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The letter, the letter. Is there another one? A proper one.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs James, I don’t understand.’

‘Because this one is a dud. Empty. Did he not leave something else? Something clearer?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Does that mean “no”, Marx? What, for God’s sake, are you sorry about?’

Marx didn’t respond.

‘I didn’t mean to snap. You met with my husband, several times, yes? I just wanted to know what was going on.’

‘Mrs James—’

‘Please understand, Marx, that I am humbling myself. I am asking you something. I’ve been through a lot. I just want to know what he said.’

‘You mean?’

‘You said he spoke of me. When we met, you said that. What did he say?’

There was a long pause.

‘Mr Marx?’

‘Yes. He, uhm, he didn’t talk a lot, but—’

‘I thought you said he spoke of me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, what did he say?’

‘On one occasion he mentioned that you were a talented designer.’

‘Oh?’

‘Another time he mentioned that you gardened and were particularly fond of—’

‘So just small talk then? Junk?’

‘There was once he spoke. He was very sad, Mrs James. It was our last meeting. He insisted on buying me a drink afterwards. It was all quite awkward, but I got the impression he was lonely. Towards the end of his second Scotch, he told me this, and I couldn’t forget it, although I feel bad to repeat it. He told me: My wife, I love her very much, but that’s the easy part.’

‘What’s the hard part?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs James. He didn’t say. The rest?’

The estate was wrapped up. The president of the hunting club called to thank Hortensia for the generous donation.

Perhaps Marx was right. All the rest had been the hard part. Staying, choosing the marriage over his child. You fool, Hortensia said softly (not unkindly) to Peter, even though he was dead and, unlike Marion, she did not believe in hauntings. You foolish man, she whispered. And she wished she could slap him on the wrist, embrace him.

There was talk that the Samsodien land claim had been finalised. A portion of the Koppie had been cordoned off but, to Hortensia’s relief, a sizeable chunk still remained as public open ground.

Many of the trees had been cut down, though. With all the publicity, the National Parks Board had got involved and was implementing a plan to replace the alien vegetation with fynbos. Sap from the trunks bled out. And when Hortensia walked up to the Koppie she counted the stumps, occasionally squatting down to sit on one. Except there was a day she struggled to get up and, for several minutes, wondered if she would ever rise. She stretched her leg out, her broken leg (it had mended, yet she couldn’t help but think of it as that) and massaged it for several seconds. And then she stretched the other leg out and massaged that one. Rubbing. The flow returned, Hortensia stood up.

When Marion visited, they came here. Everything is so dead, Marion said.

But the seasons continued regardless. Lime-green shoots appeared, then swathes of tiny sparaxis, bright pops of colour among the black and grey. The following spring, shocking-pink pelargoniums with their strong peppery scent carpeted the land. Gradually proteas and fragrant buchus appeared.

For Hortensia walking here became an exercise in Zen-like observation as more and more species came up; more flower species on that spread of earth than in most whole towns. Dragonflies, butterflies, sunbirds, frogs and lizards. Flowers bloomed in profusion, from microscopic bulbs to blossoming pea trees.

‘Where did they all come from?’ Marion asked, fussing a brush of fynbos with a stick.

‘Careful! You’ll damage it.’

‘I didn’t know you cared.’

Hortensia shrugged, not liking the amusement in Marion’s eyes.

‘I don’t,’ she said, eyeing a discarded Fanta Grape can; too old, too tired to pick it up. But she kicked it. Maybe she’d bring a rubbish bag next time, like the Save-the-Earth types.

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