Fly Away Home (23 page)

F
rancina was in her shop, sewing the final fifty beads onto Gift's dress, when the bell over the door jangled loudly.

“You won't believe what I'm going to tell you,” said Mrs. Shabalala. She put her hands on her knees and breathed deeply. “I ran all the way from the bakery.”

“What happened?”

“I was ordering the bread Zukisa likes, with the raisins, and Mayor Richard came into the store wearing a pair of red shorts. I'm not joking.”

Red shorts were unusual, but that wasn't likely to cause a woman to run all the way home from the bakery, especially if she was, to put it politely, not built like an athlete.

“I hope his shirt matched his shorts,” said Francina. The mayor's clothes didn't always coordinate.

“It was white with large yellow frangipani flowers, so no, it didn't match. But that's not my news. Mayor Richard said that last night, just after you entered the race for mayor, there was another entrant.”

Francina put down her sewing. “Who?”

“Oscar.”

“Oscar wants to be mayor?”

“Apparently so,” said Mrs. Shabalala, now recovered from her exertion.

Oscar had been Francina's first tutor, back in the day when she was studying for the grade nine School Leavers certificate. The first thing he'd told her about himself was that he'd been named after a famous English playwright. He'd never read any of the man's plays, however, because Oscar didn't like stories that were set in one room. Oscar was an adventurer. He had sailed around the world and returned to the place of his birth after the end of a love affair.

It had been Hercules who had pointed out to Francina—incredibly—that Oscar was in love with her. That had been on a night when the two men had almost come to blows. After that, Hercules had become her teacher, and she rarely saw Oscar again. He'd offered his condolences after her father died, and at that time he'd also urged her to complete high school. Now, she could feel grateful to him, since she had that smart green matric certificate hanging in her home, next to the grade nine School Leavers certificate.

She and Oscar might have to debate each other in the run-up to the election. That wouldn't be a comfortable situation for either of them, or for Hercules. Francina had often wondered why Oscar had never gone off again on his travels. He had no family to keep him in Lady Helen, and the odd jobs he did—such as the fences he'd built around the cemetery, the statue of Lady Helen and the San paintings he'd discovered in a cave on the koppies—were often unpaid and voluntary. She'd heard that he spent his weekends tramping around the countryside, looking for the grave of Lady Helen, the founder of the town, who'd freed her husband's slaves and escaped from Cape Town with them in a stolen wagon. Many of the graves in the cemetery were marked only by piles of stones, but Oscar was sure that Lady Helen's would be clearly identified.

“So we have a three-way race,” Francina said to her mother-in-law, whose incredulous expression suggested that she did not think Francina's reaction worthy of her sprint from the bakery.

Francina did not know that Hercules had told his mother about his altercation with Oscar all those years ago, but it was clear that she believed Oscar was not an ordinary competitor for Francina.

“Perhaps I should go from door to door to persuade people to vote for me,” she said. “Oscar is popular around here.”

“And I hear he fights dirty,” said Mrs. Shabalala.

That was untrue; when Hercules had arrived in Lady Helen and made it clear that he intended to win back Francina's affection, which he had lost because of his depression over his late wife's passing, Oscar had dropped out of her life and never tried to get close to her again. From her mother-in-law's behavior now, it might be forgivable to think that Oscar was still interested in her—an impossible notion. Or was it? Had her mother-in-law heard something on the grapevine?

“Oscar is a perfect gentleman,” said Francina. Romantic as it sounded, no man would love a woman from afar for years, especially if she was married.

“A perfect gentleman doesn't—” Mrs. Shabalala stopped herself.

“Doesn't what?”

“Nothing. I'm going to finish the marketing now. I just thought I'd tell you this news before you found it out from someone else.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Francina.

When Hercules came home from school with Zukisa at lunchtime, he, too, had heard of the new development. “You have more to offer as mayor than Oscar does,” he said.

Hercules was never unkind, and so this comment revealed his true feelings about the matter. He was upset.

“Perhaps he'd make a better bureaucrat,” said Francina. “He has more time on his hands.”

“You have to start thinking like a winner,” said Hercules. “You can beat him.”

This kind of talk was not at all in Hercules's nature. Had her husband and mother-in-law taken too much sun recently, or did he, too, know something Francina didn't? At least Zukisa was acting normally.

“I have detention tomorrow afternoon,” the girl announced.

“Detention? You've never had detention before. What happened?”

“One of the boys in my class said that a dressmaker has no business being mayor, so I stapled his tie to his backpack.”

“You did what?” Francina was wrong; her whole family was acting strangely.

“He insulted you.”

“But Zukisa, we've taught—”

“Dad has already given me the lecture. You have to win this election, to show everyone.”

Francina found it touching that her daughter would rush to her defense, but not by ruining a boy's property. Zukisa, of all people, should know the damage a staple could do to fine fabric.

“I think you should start getting out there and campaigning,” said Hercules. “A block a night and you'll have covered the town by the time of the election. I'll devise a route map.”

“I could bake cookies to give out,” said Mrs. Shabalala, who had come down to the shop to call them to lunch.

“And I'll sew your name on little flags to give out,” added Zukisa.

Francina put up her hand. “Do you really think this is all necessary? People know who I am.”

“Oscar will be out there shaking hands and kissing babies,” said Hercules, in a scornful tone that made it seem a disgusting practice.

“And can you imagine the getups we'll see Mayor Richard in?” added Mrs. Shabalala.

Francina had never imagined running in an election. In her village, authority was transferred through birth. If she had borne her first husband, Winston, a son, that boy would have eventually taken over as chief from his father. There were times, she was sure, when the villagers wished that the leadership was selected by democratic means, but no one would ever dare put this idea into words. Winston had the power to make his people's lives easy or difficult, and Francina had personal experience of both.

If the other candidates in this election were going to make an effort to win, then so should she, or it would all be a waste of her time.

“Okay, I'll do it,” she said.

Hercules's affirmation was so emphatic that her suspicions were again aroused. There was more than one reason he wanted her to beat Oscar. She might have only one eye, but she saw everything.

 

That night, the family went to Mama Dlamini's Eating Establishment because Mrs. Shabalala had been so busy baking cookies for Francina's campaign she had forgotten to make dinner.

For once, Mama Dlamini herself was in the kitchen.

“It's good to see you in your own restaurant for a change,” said Francina.

“I'll be here every day for a while,” she replied.

“Oh, does that mean you didn't get the job?” Francina realized that, as usual, she had said too much.

Mama Dlamini smiled broadly. “I'm taking a well-earned rest, because in a week I begin as the permanent head chef of the restaurant at the golf resort.”

Francina's family erupted in applause, causing the other diners to stare.

“You're the first people I've told,” said Mama Dlamini. “I should run away and let you tell the town.”

Francina nodded. “I understand why the townsfolk won't like it. But they'll get over it when you tell them that this type of opportunity doesn't come often to a woman from your background.”

“Kind of like you becoming mayor,” said Mama Dlamini.

“Exactly. We are the same, you and I. Women who have risen beyond expectation.”

“Like old dough,” she laughed.

“My mother is going to win,” said Zukisa. “We're her campaign helpers.”

“If there's anything I can do, don't wait to ask,” said Mama Dlamini.

“You should remain neutral if you want to protect your business,” said Francina.

“Sometimes loyalty is more important,” she replied, looking pointedly at Hercules.

His nod was almost imperceptible. What was going on? wondered Francina. The only people who seemed not to be in the know were Zukisa and herself.

Later, when Francina went to wash her hands, she entered the kitchen to speak in private with her friend.

“Are you going to hire someone else to help here?” she asked.

Mama Dlamini's happy expression became troubled. “I'll have to. Anna can't work full-time, neither can your mother-in-law.”

Francina told her that she had the perfect person for the job, but that Mama Dlamini would have to keep it secret until everything had been finalized, because Francina didn't want to get Zukisa's hopes up.

Mama Dlamini's eyebrows shot upward. “You want Zukisa to work here?”

“No, no. Her cousin, Lucy. She's working as a cook now in Cape Town.”

Mama Dlamini was shaking her head before Francina had completed her sentence. “Francina, I don't need trouble. I've heard all about her.”

“That's in the past. A person can change.”

“No, I'll find someone else.”

Francina was irritated. Mama Dlamini had never met Lucy, yet she had already judged her. Still, Francina was prepared to overcome her annoyance to plead Lucy's case.

“Give her a chance, please.”

“No, Francina. I won't stop worrying, and that means I won't be able to perform well at my job.”

Francina felt like telling Mama Dlamini that she had been given a chance to prove herself at the golf resort, so why not give Lucy the same opportunity? But she didn't. She went back to her table, vowing never to set foot in her friend's café again.

 

The following evening, Francina, Hercules and Zukisa set out on the campaign trail. Mrs. Shabalala, who had spent the morning putting the cookies she had baked in individual gift bags, declared herself unfit for the journey and elected to remain at home watching her favorite soap opera. As promised, Hercules had devised a route map and the first area he'd targeted was Sandpiper Drift.

The windows of all the low, whitewashed stone cottages were open to catch the breeze blowing across the lagoon from the ocean.

“Let's start with Miemps and Reginald,” said Francina.

Their cottage, the last in the row, was different from the others only in that it had window boxes filled with red, orange and yellow geraniums. For almost as long as Francina could remember, Reginald could be found at this time of the evening sitting outside his house, watching the neighborhood boys play soccer in the street, or talking to their fathers. Now Reginald needed assistance to walk, and Miemps could manage only to get him out of bed and to a chair in the living room.

Francina knocked on the door, and within seconds, her friend opened it, wearing an apron.

“I'm sorry, are we interrupting your cooking time?” Francina asked.

“No, no, I was washing the dishes. Please come in.”

Francina looked at Hercules. Entering people's houses was not part of the plan. Francina was supposed to tell whoever came to the door that she was running for mayor. She was to say why she thought she'd be good at the job, ask for a vote, and then hand out a bag of cookies and a flag, featuring the slogan
This Town Needs a Woman's Touch.

“Reginald would love to see you,” said Miemps. “Come in. I'll put the kettle on.” She motioned for them to enter the cottage.

Francina gave Hercules a look that said
we have no choice
and followed Miemps into her home. A lamp was on, but the television in the corner cast the most light in the room.

Miemps's floral furniture had been covered in plastic for as long as Francina could remember, but she noticed now that the plastic had been removed from the armchair where Reginald sat. Perhaps he had finally complained, as Mandla had done, that the plastic made his legs sweat.