I feel safe, tucked between sea and mountain. In winter the mountain pulls its dark blanket over us early, and some nights, the sea turns to a frothy boiler. Once, the whole of the Brass Bell almost got swept away, and at times like that you realise how lucky you are to be just a little way up the hill.
The house has lots of secret places besides the balcony. Upstairs is a linen cupboard with a little round window in it, just like the one in my room. The smell of lavender sits lightly on everything in the cupboard, and Mom knows when I’ve been in there, because I have the smell. It’s a good place for reading. I can’t read properly yet, but I can look at pictures. I squeeze myself into the corner as far as I can, and page through my story books by the light of the little window. There’s Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and her twelve fairies, Cinderella, The Snow Queen, all books Gran bought Mom when she was little. Everybody is thin and beautiful, with high cheekbones and lots of blusher. They live in a world with snow, magic, everlasting love, pine forests, red squirrels, pink and green sparrows, and greenery everywhere.
The front garden goes down in steps. Gran calls it a terrace, and right in front of the house is a really big yucca tree. It’s super tall and ends in spiky, sticking-out leaves. The stem and branches look like they could explode with fatness. If that happened, I think the whole house would be covered in thick green slime, like what pops out when you squash a caterpillar. Beth and I did that the other day. She stomped, and we both watched the juice squirt out and land against a stone. I had a try stomping, too. It’s OK, because caterpillars are bad. They eat all your flowers, and if you’re not careful, they’ll ruin your whole garden.
Because our street is quiet, we’re allowed to play in it. Even from there you can see the sea, and the mountains on the other side of False Bay. Mom says those are the Stellenbosch mountains.
For us, the street’s more interesting than mountains across the water. But our favourite thing is the dip. This is where the street suddenly goes downhill, and where the tar changes to cobblestones. Beth and I both have plastic scooters that rattle over the dip. I should say rattled – after the neighbours complained to Mom about all the screeching and barking that went with the rattling (and the wailing afterwards, that last time), our scooters have been banned from the street. Now we have to use our God-given feet.
Our neighbours – not all of them complained about the rattling – are colourful. That’s Gran’s word. Anyway, what I like best about them is how they love music. The man on our left plays the cello, and sometimes, late at night, I hear the long notes in the dark. But he’s very shy, and I don’t even know his name. The house on the other side is all stone and arches in front. The woman who lives there is called Annabelle le Roux, and jazz is her thing. She plays records all the time. Gran isn’t sure about jazz, she says it’s like smoking and leads to a Beemian Lifestyle, What Next. But I think the jazz is great, and my favourites are “It Don’t Mean a Thing” and “It’s a Pity to Say Goodnight”.
One of Beth’s favourites is sung by a lady, and it’s called “Paper Moon”. We stand in front of Annabelle’s open window, which is too high up for her to see us. When “Paper Moon” comes on, we shake out our arms and legs to get ready. Beth has made up a dance that goes with the words, and we shake our hips at the part where she sings “treboo treboo treboo” and some other nonsense words. We also mime, but it always gets too exciting for Beth, and then we have to run to the back corner of the garden to perform to the nasturtiums, where Beth can sing at full volume.
“Say it’s only a paper moon,” we sing, our arms making the shape of a big round moon, “sailing over a cardboard sea,” and our hands shiver to show the waves. “But it wouldn’t be make-believe if you believed in me.” Here, Beth gets totally carried away and sings at the top of her voice: “Yes it’s only a candle sky, hanging over a Mus-lim tree, but it wouldn’t be make-believe if you believed in me.” My favourite part is the bit about the honky-tonk parade, though I don’t know what that is or what a candle sky or Muslim tree could possibly be.
Annabelle wears too many earrings and long, flowing robes and capes in purples and wine-red, something between Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood, except that she’s too old and fat to be in a fairy tale. There’s always lots of silver clanging jewellery brushing against the velvet. A woman like this can’t be trusted. Gran says she’s probably hiding a crystal ball and other heathen bits and bobs in the back. Even when her records aren’t playing, she’s making music just by walking around. So that’s why I like her, even if Gran has her doubts.
“She has chipped nails,” I once heard Mom say to Gran as she peered over her teacup. Mom’s own nails are always bright red, and she does them almost every day. Not just her fingers, but also her toes. We aren’t allowed to use her nail polish; she says that she’s a grown-up, and for her to go out with naked toes is far too naked, but for children it’s different. A lady must take care of herself, she says. She will sit with the painting for hours. Red is a difficult colour. I know, because I tried it once in secret. It’s impossible to hide when you make a mistake. If Mom paints over the lines, she says “Damn” and wipes the whole nail on a ball of cotton wool.
Me and Beth, we like to watch. We hold our breath and hover over Mom.
“Don’t hover!”
Mom usually doesn’t say much, but when she does it comes out really fast, “Don-tovr.” She’s too busy concentrating to look up, but she knows we’re there. We move just a little bit back, and then stare again. I always start breathing through my mouth, trying not to give us away, and that’s when I do.
“Get back, you’re cramping my style,” she says. Then we go back a tiny bit, and watch. Her hand slips and she paints her skin.
“Damn,” says Beth.
“Get out of here!” shouts Mom, so we do.
Laetitia goes to Annabelle’s house after work sometimes. We see her taking off her doek and uniform, and she laughs with Annabelle and dances to the jazz. I’ve never seen anything like it. She calls Annabelle by her name and drinks coffee out of proper mugs, not an enamel one that gets kept under the sink. We see this as we peep through the window, but it’s our secret. Not even Beth will tell Gran, because then our chances of seeing the crystal ball will be ruined forever.
* * *
I love my room, with its little round window. On the other side is a big window, from where I can see a tree, with birds hopping around in the branches. The little window is my secret friend. I feel like it lets me see things that other people can’t, because it looks like a peephole, and it’s high up, where no other window would be. I have to push a chair up against the wall to look out of it properly, but sometimes at night I lie in bed and look at the stars until I fall asleep.
On Gran’s farm, the stars are much brighter. The sky doesn’t look foggy at night, like it does at home. We visit Gran and Grampa at Easter time, and sometimes over school holidays.
Grampa is very old, but still likes to farm. He cuts his beard short, and it makes him look like he’s always smiling. He walks around with that smiley look, but the way he pushes his hips forward makes his skinny bottom look even flatter. His bony shoulders look bonier because he pulls them up, with his neck sunk into his body.
Sometimes soup lands in his beard, and then Gran says, “Hendrik!” and Grampa smiles and pretends he can’t find his serviette until Gran says, “For heaven’s sakes!” and sticks her head under the table. But, once, Gran told Gesiena to crawl under the table to find it, and that was the last time Grampa lost his serviette. Now he feeds scraps of food to Pietertjie the sausage dog and sometimes slips up when he says grace.
He’s always doing funny things like that. One time in church they were saying a thing called the Creed, and instead of saying that Jesus sits at the right hand of God, he said by mistake that Jesus was sitting at the right hand of Pontius Pilate. This made him laugh for the rest of the service, only he had to pretend that he wasn’t laughing, because of all the people, and because of Gran, who