Still Life. Zoeë Wicomb

female voices. Thus I am further paralysed, no, stricken by this conflicting demand to desist. I must somehow buck up. I reach for more sweets, tear off the wrappers. My fingers try to smooth out the silver foil, but I fumble. Alas, I am unwell, unable, and must in sooth justify delay, must lie down and claim morbus sonticus.

      Whilst the others keep their distance, there is no way of hiding from Mary, who eyes me and my bag of sweets with distaste. The old toff’s trick of big words, foreign words, ey? she sneers. As if I’ve not done my time in courts of law, the Court of the King’s Bench, no less. Her hands are on her hips. Look, this won’t do; this can’t be what all your learning boils down to, she carps. Is there not help to be found in a book? This is the time to act. See how Scotland is fast changing, with people now talking about the true horror of slavery, so what better time to introduce Mr P, reviled as he was then, as a new national hero? For God’s sake, pull yourself together, quit the brooding over where, when and how. Tell it as it is, she says, sounding like Belinda. Or consult a book, do something.

      I may as well be sent to catch a falling star.

      Mary’s impatience strikes a chord, brings home the obstacles. In Hinza’s words, we are all astride the wind. I am not up to it. Fear and cowardice, and distaste for pulling people up, for holding them to account. Who am I to judge? I cannot claim to be a woman true and fair.

      Perhaps there is help to be found in a book.