You Can't Get Lost in Cape Town. Zoe Wicomb

      The tall boy is now pacing the platform in unmistakable imitation of the policeman. His face is the stern mask of someone who does not take his duties lightly. His friends are squatting on their haunches, talking earnestly. One of them illustrates a point with the aid of a stick with which he writes or draws in the sand. The girls have retreated and lean against the eucalyptus tree, bright as stars against the grey of the trunk. Twelve feet apart the two radios stand face to face, quarrelling quietly. Only the female voices rise now and again in bitter laughter above the machines.

      Father says that he must find the station master to enquire why the train has not come. ‘Come with me,’ he commands. I find the courage to pretend that it is a question but I flush with the effort.

      ‘No, I’m tired, I’ll wait here.’ And he goes. It is true that I am tired. I do not on the whole have much energy and I am always out of breath. I have often consoled myself with an early death, certainly before I become an old maid. Alone with my suitcases I face the futility of that notion. I am free to abandon it since I am an old maid now, today, days after my fifteenth birthday. I do not in any case think that my spirit, weightless and energetic like smoke from green wood, will soar to heaven.

      I think of Pa’s defeated shoulders as he turned to go and I wonder whether I ought to run after him. But the thought of running exhausts me. I recoil again at the energy with which he had burst into the garden only weeks ago, holding aloft Die Burger with both hands, shouting, ‘Frieda, Frieda, we’ll do it. It’s all ours, the whole world’s ours.’

      It was a short report on how a Coloured deacon had won his case against the Anglican Church so that the prestigious St Mary’s School was now open to non-whites. The article ended sourly, calling it an empty and subversive gesture, and warning the deacon’s daughters that it would be no bed of roses.

      ‘You’ll have the best, the very best education.’ His voice is hoarse with excitement.

      ‘It will cost hundreds of rand per year.’

      ‘Nonsense, you finish this year at Malmesbury and then there’ll be only the two years of Matric left to pay for. Really, it’s a blessing that you have only two years left.’

      ‘Where will you find the money?’ I say soberly.

      ‘The nest egg of course, stupid child. You can’t go to a white school if you’re so stupid. Shenton has enough money to give his only daughter the best education in the world.’

      I hesitate before asking, ‘But what about the farm?’ He has not come to like the Wesblok. The present he wraps in a protective gauze of dreams; his eyes have grown misty with focusing far ahead on the unrealised farm.

      A muscle twitches in his face before he beams, ‘A man could live anywhere, burrow a hole like a rabbit in order to make use of an opportunity like this.’ He seizes the opportunity for a lecture. ‘Ignorance, laziness and tobacco have been the downfall of our people. It is our duty to God to better ourselves, to use our brains, our talents, not to place our lamps under bushels. No, we’ll do it. We must be prepared to make sacrifices to meet such a generous offer.’

      His eyes race along the perimeter of the garden wall then he rushes indoors, muttering about idling like flies in the sun, and sets about writing to St Mary’s in Cape Town.

      I read novels and kept in the shade all summer. The crunch of biscuits between my teeth was the rumble of distant thunder. Pimples raged on my chin, which led me to Madame Rose’s Preparation by mail order. That at least has fulfilled its promise.

      I was surprised when Sarie wept with joy or envy, so that the tears spurted from my own eyes on to the pages of Ritchie’s First Steps in Latin. (Father said that they pray in Latin and that I ought to know what I am praying for.) At night a hole crept into my stomach, gnawing like a hungry mouse, and I fed it with Latin declensions and Eetsumor biscuits. Sarie said that I might meet white boys and for the moment, fortified by conjugations of Amo, I saw the eyes of Anglican boys, remote princes leaning from their carriages, penetrate the pumpkin-yellow of my flesh.

      Today I see a solid stone wall where I stand in watery autumn light waiting for a bell to ring. The Cape southeaster tosses high the blond pigtails and silvery laughter of girls walking by. They do not see me. Will I spend the dinner breaks hiding in lavatories?

      I wish I could make this day more joyful for Pa but I do not know how. It is no good running after him now. It is too late.

      The tall boy has imperceptibly extended his marching ground. Does he want to get closer to the policeman or is he taking advantage of Father’s absence? I watch his feet, up, down, and the crunch of his soles on the sand explodes in my ears. Closer, and a thrilling thought shoots through the length of my body. He may be looking at me longingly, probing; but I cannot bring my eyes to travel up, along his unpressed trousers. The black boots of the policeman catch my eye. He will not be imitated. His heavy legs are tree trunks rooted in the asphalt. His hand rests on the bulge of his holster. I can no longer resist the crunch of the boy’s soles as they return. I look up. He clicks his heels and halts. His eyes are narrowed with unmistakable contempt. He greets me in precise mocking English. A soundless shriek for Pa escapes my lips and I note the policeman resuming his march before I reply. The boy’s voice is angry and I wonder what aspect of my dress offends him.

      ‘You are waiting for the Cape Town train?’ he asks unnecessarily. I nod.

      ‘You start at the white school tomorrow?’ A hole yawns in my stomach and I long for a biscuit. I will not reply.

      ‘There are people who bury dynamite between the rails and watch whole carriages of white people shoot into the air. Like opening the door of a birdcage. Phsssh!’ His long thin arms describe the spray of birdflight. ‘Perhaps that is why your train has not come.’

      I know he is lying. I would like to hurl myself at him, stab at his eyes with my blunt nails, kick at his ankles until they snap. But I clasp my hands together piously and hold, hold the tears that threaten.