eyes turned to him, as if to query the connection. William looked away from Midden House, out at the beach where a cormorant was drying its wings on the yellow-lichened rocks and a gull was poking about on a pile of rotting seaweed.
Still watched by the mourners, William led mother and child away from the tidal pool and up the sandy track.
“Well, at least he’s done something useful,” said Fundiswa.
“Who calls their child Oro?” asked Sharon.
William walked ahead, wondering when Dolly would leave Slangkop – if she’d ever leave. Chas wouldn’t give her any money, not now, not after her performance, and she’d arrived without the wherewithal to even pay for a camping spot. Didn’t she have a home to go to? Yes, she did, and that home was currently parked very snugly in his driveway.
William was usually attracted by problems. He liked the way they made you pause and try to remember everything you’d forgotten, because you knew that somewhere in that disused heap of memories lay the solution. But the problem of Dolly did not appeal to him. She wasn’t like his grey-water project, or the game camera his client wanted to install near a black eagle’s nest. He loved to think about those problems. They could be solved with a section of PVC piping or a small plank and some brass screws.
Dolly was Chas’s problem, a problem he was temporarily solving for Chas by taking her and the child back up the hill to his cottage. Could he make Dolly and her child and her caravan go away? Or was he stuck with them? It made him feel tired to think about it. Oh, to be alone, to look at the camera and think about how it could become weatherproof if he did this or that with it. Going outside to have a smoke and think about how something as simple as a Tupperware lunchbox might do the trick. Then sitting on his tree trunk, smoking a joint or sipping vodka to celebrate the solution.
But that wasn’t how the evening was going to turn out. He’d have to entertain Dolly, feed the child. He wouldn’t be able to lie down, as he liked, across the threshold of his cottage, half in and half out, staring up at the night sky until the drink and the dagga did their work. He had to host Dolly, make sure she and the child had what they needed.
“He deserved it,” Dolly was saying. “It’s true I’m a bit tanked up; drink has loosened my tongue. But he got what was coming to him. My life! God, what a disaster! But fuck him! Let everybody know what he’s really like! He can’t just keep this madwoman in the attic! I’ll get legal aid and take him to the cleaners. Or he can just give me a lump sum. I’ve got to make his life unbearable. It’s the only way to get the moths to fly out of his purse.”
It was evening now, and William saw that indeed the moths were coming out, drawn by the strong perfume of the fringed shrub, Juffertjie-roer-by-die-nag. Little-lady-gad-about-at-night. Rather than listen to Dolly’s rant, he thought of the struthiola. Though not much to look at, its narrow scented flower lured moths with fine proboscises.
They passed the spot where, earlier, William had pointed out the golden orb-web spider.
“Ider! Ider!” shouted Oro, and tried to use his knees to steer his mother into the shrubs at the side of the track. But Dolly ignored him.
“Look at me! Barefoot, naked, carrying my lovechild! Not even two cents to rub together! But what does he care? He’s got to let me see his mother’s will! This old rust bucket,” she said, pointing to the caravan as they walked into William’s driveway, “is my only asset.” She spoke pitifully, making a play for his solicitude. “What I need is a hot shower and one of your nice vodka teas.”
“Sure,” said William, “You know where the bathroom is.”
Emmanuel came panting up behind them. “Master Chas, hy sê – die handdoek …” He pointed towards the towel that was Dolly’s only covering.
“Good grief, that man wouldn’t give me snow in winter!” said Dolly. She handed Oro to William and unfastened the towel, letting it drop onto the dirt. Then, naked except for her G-string, she walked inside saying: “You’ll find Orrie’s bottle is in the van. Mix some hot tea with milk and sugar. We’ll find him something to eat later.”
Emmanuel was still standing there. “And Master Chas hy skryf vir jou …”
William unfolded the proffered piece of paper.
Beware! said Chas’s message.
William knew Dolly’s type. She was not a subtle, nocturnally scented shrub. Dolly was one of those people who present themselves to the world as a permanent emergency. Nothing else is important, shrieks the permanent emergency, but my crisis, my pain, my need.
Looked at another way, Dolly was the Queen of Spades: your only chance was to pass her on to the next player. If Chas wouldn’t give her the cash to leave, he would.
William sat on his bed with Oro, listening to litres of solar-heated water sluice down his plughole in the bathroom next door. At least he’d insisted that Dolly have an empty bucket in the cubicle with her. She – or he, perhaps – could bath Oro in the water saved that way. And while Dolly showered, he had this moment’s peace from her relentless chatter.
He needed silence in order to think. Already his word count for the day was mounting dangerously high. It was easily in the hundreds by now.
The child was quiet, swigging at his bottle, never taking his eyes off William, who was rummaging in his bedside drawer for his miner’s light. He adjusted its elastic around his head and switched it on. Then, followed by Dib, he climbed the ladder up to the hole in the ceiling.
“Up! Up!” called Oro from the duvet, chucking his bottle aside. He flipped onto his tummy and slid expertly off the bed, making his way to the bottom of the ladder.
“Orrie up!” he shouted, trying to lift his foot onto the first step.
But William was already reaching into the attic above. He found the cloth bag and stepped down, careful to avoid the tiny hands clutching the bottom rungs.
He sat on the bed again and opened the bag of gold coins. Orrie stood beside the bed, his clasped hands resting on the duvet with the attitude of one expecting good things to happen soon.
William counted out the Krugerrands. How many would it take to get rid of Dolly? One would be too little. Five would amount to a third of his stash, but would probably mean a clean break. Strictly a loan, of course, until Dolly and Chas sorted out a divorce settlement. He had a feeling she’d take it without trying to bargain him upwards. Then, once she’d gone, he’d build a gate across his driveway and put a padlock on it.
After that, he promised himself, he’d live the rest of his life by the mantra that there is no such thing as a free fuck. Yes, he would go to the coin exchange in the morning. Borrow her car if necessary.
“What have we here?” It was Dolly, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, wearing his own bathrobe. “I hope you’re not feeding Orrie chocolates before suppertime.”
“Oh, it’s nothing – just entertaining him with some old junk,” said William, swiftly shovelling the gold back into the bag and bundling it up tightly. “Would a boiled egg be okay for his supper? And ours too, I’m afraid. It’s either that or quail. But I don’t really have enough quail.”
“Oh, no need to go to any trouble. We love our eggy, don’t we, Orrie? Don’t worry about me. I don’t have a big appetite.
