The Woman Next Door (10 page)

She fingered the spine of her beloved textbook. Hefting it out toppled the pile. The book sat like a boulder in her lap. She scanned the pages. The sweet rapture of a perfectly replicated pattern, the simple beauty of a design that was complete, that had everything already, too much and too little of nothing.

It had been days since Hortensia had been up to the Koppie. It felt good to stand high and look down. However, coming back, along Katterijn Avenue, her mood soured. There was Marion, puffing towards her with that damned dog at her heels.

‘I need to speak with you.’

‘What?’ Hortensia folded her arms.

Spring was still almost a month away but the days were longer, the time between rains seemed to be lenghthening. Marion was showing off the results of a recent trip to her hairdresser. ‘What’s that truck doing there?’

Hortensia looked over to where Marion was pointing. A builder’s truck was parked just by No.10.

‘It’s parked.’

‘I know that. Don’t play with me, Hortensia.’

‘Marion, I am not in the mood. My husband is newly dead, I’m in mourning.’

Marion said nothing.

‘The truck is there because I contracted it to be. I have a meeting, in fact, and would rather not be late.’

‘You’re doing some work on … the house?’

‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’

‘Well, you ought to have let us know at least. The committee. Good faith.’

‘Marion, there is no such rule. And you may not realise it, but Katterijn is not a block of flats and you are not the chairperson of the body corporate. That house is mine and, yes, I’m making some … improvements.’

Happy to have landed a lasting blow, Hortensia sidestepped the woman and her mutt.

‘What sort of improvements?’ Marion called after her.

‘Obvious ones,’ Hortensia responded.

The truck was there because it was a welcome distraction, a sensible alternative to thinking about Peter and this child.

Initially, especially when Hortensia had not yet realised that No. 10 was designed by Marion, she viewed the house favourably, or at least she thought it acceptable. It cost an obscene amount of money, but they had that much and many times more. Copious interior and exterior pictures had been sent to Ibadan by the estate agents. There were of course permits to apply for and papers to sign – whenever are there not? They signed them, they came. And soon enough Hortensia heard through the Katterijn ramble of gossip that No. 10 had been Marion’s first-ever design. Apparently Marion had been vying to own it herself. This explained the kind of reception Hortensia had received from Marion when they first arrived.

It was a hot day and the walk up the Koppie had left her thirsty. Hortensia chatted briefly to the builder, explaining her ideas. After she left, Hortensia sat in her study and asked Bassey to bring her a glass of ice cubes. She liked to dip her fingertips in and run them along her temple.

The heat was welcome, though, as was the lack of rain. The weather was encouraging for the works that were about to commence. The fewer rain-days, the better. No delays, no gaps leaving room for all the thoughts she was trying to keep at bay. The building works were to be Hortensia’s opium. To this end, ever since the idea had occurred to her, she’d been busy with it. Knocking down walls would mean new plaster. The chore of trying to match a new can of paint to the existing was hopeless. So new paint it was. A few sheets of wallpaper for special places. She took the samples to bed. During the day Hortensia made labelled and dimensioned sketches for the contractors. Today she was preparing a work schedule; it gave no consideration to rain-days.

She sat back in her chair, looking over the drawings she had made, her plan showing exactly what needed doing.

There were certain problems with the design of No. 10. Not an infinite number. In fact just one problem repeated several times, at least according to Hortensia, and she regarded her own grasp of design with unwavering certainty. No. 10 had many windows onto things that Hortensia didn’t think needed seeing, and none onto the things she thought were important to notice.

She would direct the builders to start with the bricking-up of certain windows, two specifically. One, in the lounge, looked out onto Katterijn Avenue, but what was the use of that? And the second in the upstairs guest bedroom looked appropriately towards the vineyards but, by just a few centimetres, avoided the view of the old Katterijn well.

After the bricking-up, there were three windows Hortensia wanted added to her home. The first was a view, from her kitchen, into the garden. The second a window one could look through as you climbed the staircase, to notice the old church and its cemetery. And lastly she wanted a view of the Koppie from her study desk.

And while she was at it, why not put in a pool? Hortensia, despite being born on an island, did not much care for water. No, the addition of a pool was to tip the insult to Marion and her design from red to flaming.

Amidst the preparations, Marx called. Two of his gently prodding emails had landed in Hortensia’s inbox before she trained her Gmail to relegate them to Spam. Now he’d tracked her down. Perhaps Mrs James had not quite understood her duties as per the will, he’d begun in a tone that made Hortensia want to swat him. She’d understood perfectly. Had she contacted Esme? No.

He’d sighed. He sounded older on the phone.

‘Mrs James, I appreciate this is … all rather strange. I’ll tell you, it’s certainly one of the strangest wills I’ve ever handled.’

Strange was the right word. A man who had spent the last year of his life immobile and mute suddenly had a voice, clear instructions, power – all from the grave.

‘Are you there, Mrs James?’

‘Not for long, I hope.’

‘I appreciate—’

‘I know, you said that already.’

He sighed again. Hortensia was accustomed to being sighed at.

‘I must go, Mr Marx.’

‘Will you be contacting Esme? The thing is, there are implications.’

‘You made that perfectly clear.’

After her first meeting with Marx and on studying the paperwork, Hortensia had concluded that Peter had drawn up this last will and testament to play some sort of game. She couldn’t quite work it out, but hated him for it all the same. Not only was his will his means of breaking it to his wife that he was a father, but he’d clearly stipulated that Esme was not to be contacted by anyone but Hortensia. Peter had apparently never revealed himself to his daughter in life, and it was Hortensia who was to now communicate to this person who her father was, and so on. His estate would then be apportioned out in varying fractions to herself, Esme, a distant cousin in Sussex, the damned hunting club and a constellation of charities. But he hadn’t stopped there. If Hortensia did not contact Esme, her inaction would render his will invalid. He would be regarded as dying intestate (at this point Marx had elucidated her on the meaning) and the South African Law of Succession would proceed. After paying whatever debts he had, the law would divide his remaining estate amongst his beneficiaries, of which Esme, having never been legally recognised, was not one.

‘The implications are that the girl will get none of his money.’

‘Mrs James, I don’t assume to counsel you on what is good and proper, but—’

‘Thank you for that, Mr Marx. For not assuming. If that’s all.’

‘I will be in contact, Mrs James. We shouldn’t delay. The whole process can be quite lengthy. I’d prefer to really get going with this. You need to start, though, I cannot make any moves until Ms Esme is notified. I hope you understand this?’

Hortensia explained to Bassey: if Marx calls, take a message.

On the appointed day, Hortensia waited on the kerb for the works to start. An excitement caught her, a fever of energy. Marion too was about. Hortensia nodded a greeting that was met with a scowl. The builder, a woman with no eyebrows and the name Hannie, arrived and stood with Hortensia for a few minutes. They compared schedules, then Hannie went inside to prepare, her workers following. The brick delivery truck arrived and parked. Hannie came back outside and had a brief conversation with the driver. Hortensia, standing close by, had the sense not to attempt to understand what was being said – Afrikaans (apparently a simple language to learn) had always eluded her. Not that she’d tried much. While they talked Hortensia walked up to the truck to study the crane used for lifting the pallets of bricks. Hannie went back to her workers.

Funny how many bricks such a small job involves, Hortensia thought as the operator cranked the crane to start depositing the bricks by the roadside. Then, much later when she woke up in hospital, she had to retrace the events to make sense of the pain in her leg.

She didn’t like thinking of herself sprawled on the Katterijn Avenue pavement, Widow James Knocked Down by Delinquent Crane. But most of all she hated the piece of news she was given by the nurse. That not only had she been knocked unconscious, the fall further damaging her already-weak leg, but the damned crane that had caused all this had also swung a blow at No. 12. Part of the front of her neighbour’s precious home was in rubble. Hortensia had once heard Marion complain that the façade of her home was too near the street – might she now take some comfort in having been right?

Agnes had a piece of debris glance off her cheek and was stitched up. Marion, who had been in the back garden at the time, had fainted from the turmoil but had, otherwise, been uninjured.

The Constantinople Private Hospital staff didn’t take long to fear Hortensia. She’d arrived at the hospital on a stretcher but, on waking, had immediately managed to insult the paramedic. Within hours she was in theatre. The brakes of the truck had failed, or perhaps they had not been fully engaged. The truck had slid down the gentle slope and Hortensia, this yellow mass coming towards her, had scrambled and fallen. The machine had continued careening, made twigs of Marion’s fence and jammed into her home, the crane arm pivoting and slapping into the façade. Hortensia had broken a femur. She also had several gashes, the biggest of which was on the side of her head, above an eyebrow – it would leave a scar and a particular sensation of a headache approaching.

After the operation the surgeon explained that she’d performed an open-reduction internal fixation, words that meant nothing to Hortensia. Fancy word for a pin, she presumed, but she didn’t care enough to confirm. She liked the part of the explanation that promised quick mobility. She didn’t so much appreciate the ‘person of your age’ comment, which was used to explain the lack of a cast; it would be too heavy for her, impede mobility, and so on. They’d given her a minimum of twelve weeks for the bone to heal.

The crane-driver was a man who hadn’t quite grasped what it meant to apologise. He visited Hortensia in hospital and, in a clipped English accent, spoke about the distractions of the day, the glare in his eye, massive oak trees with branches that should have been trimmed; he mentioned the faulty machine and only then did it dawn on Hortensia, as she reminded herself that a workman never blames his tools, that she was being awarded an apology. Except it lacked the one thing all apologies require in order to be called such – an admission of guilt.

As Hortensia listened and silently critiqued the poor job the crane-driver was doing, a sick feeling reminded her that she also had an apology to make. If Hortensia James hated anything, it was needing to apologise. She could barely remember a time when she’d had to. For a few seconds this pain surmounted the agony of her broken limb.

Sleep in the hospital was fitful. Hortensia regarded hospitals with suspicion. Her left leg was a throbbing mess. She opened her eyes and grimaced.

‘Ah, you’re up,’ the nurse said, shutting the door behind her.

‘I wasn’t sleeping. My eyes were closed.’

Hortensia could smell the odour of superiority when in the company of nurses or doctors. After three days under the observation of such people she wanted to go home.

The nurse wavered at the door. ‘There’s the matter of a care-nurse, Ma’am.’

Hortensia stiffened and looked in the nurse’s direction. ‘No. Thank you.’

‘Doctor is coming to see you before you leave. She did ask that I arrange for a care-nurse, Ma’am.’

‘I. Said. No.’

The nurse waited outside Hortensia’s room while the doctor entered and attempted, with her best bedside manners, to convince Hortensia about the necessity for a day-nurse. At Hortensia’s age it was too dangerous not to have someone qualified observe the healing process, to guard against gangrene.

‘How long have you been doing this?’ Hortensia asked into the silence that took over the conversation.

‘I completed my internship two years ago.’

Hortensia rolled her eyes. ‘I meant this.’ She waved her hand. ‘Forcing nurses on people.’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘I’m old, not incapable. You’ve assumed I can’t care for myself. How long have you been ramming this assault onto unsuspecting patients? I do not want your miserable spying nurses in my home. I’ve met them already and I don’t want them. If I am to have a nurse, I will order one myself.’

The doctor opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck to her tongue.

‘Now, please let my driver know that I am ready,’ Hortensia directed, meaning, to anyone who could overhear, that the interaction was over.

On departure she opted for the motorised wheelchair, mentally arranging that she would now occupy the east-facing study on the ground floor, at least until after the eight weeks the doctor supposed it might take her to climb stairs again. On the drive home, ignoring the mountain as well as the beggars, Hortensia rearranged the furniture in her study; she placed the Imbuia four-poster bed where the sun could reach it. She moved the writing bureau where the curtains would shield her laptop from the glare. She would buy another bar fridge. She wondered if she’d left the window to her study open, if the room would be freshened by crisp air or cloistered when she wheeled herself in. Maybe she would move some of the books into the hallway, use the glass cabinet that had stood empty since she’d donated the porcelain lamps, acquired at a Turkish auction, to St Winifred’s Girls’ High School. Hortensia had always adored the antique lamps, until she walked past them weeks ago and, inexplicably, experienced deep offence at the crudeness of their design. That was old age, Hortensia thought, drawing her attention back to the scene around her as the driver made a jerky turn onto Katterijn Avenue. Then, pulling up the driveway, regret flooded in as Hortensia realised she’d spend the next few weeks staring at the egg-cracks in a fresco she hadn’t got around to restoring. For the second time that week the circumstances surrounding the injury were more upsetting than the injury itself.