could easily imagine the evening itself.
He would light a lamp, and walk in front of her, guiding her past his hoard. His hand would be linked with hers as they threaded their way past the discarded video machines, the game consoles and buckets of broken toys and dismembered machinery which lined the passageway to his bedroom. He knew exactly how he would place the lamp on the floor beside his mattress so that his hands would be free to remove Nina’s clothes. Fuck! A woman’s breasts were to him the most beautiful sight on earth, more beautiful than Disa uniflora! After undressing Nina and helping her to lie down, after being nice to her in as many ways as he could think of, then he would, in the natural course of events, donate his sperm.
There would be a surprise chocolate under her pillow afterwards. Surely Neville sold chocolates at the caravan park? He could check on that later.
His reverie was interrupted by the ka-ka-kaaa of the male quail in its cage. William descended. He had an enamel bowl with leftover pasta and lettuce leaves for the bird, but there was no delicacy that would silence the male quail’s loneliness. It wanted a lady quail; it would keep up its raucous chunking until it had a hen. Better to be a worm, a hermaphrodite. Then, as the weather bureau sometimes said of the likelihood of rain in August, there was a “one hundred per cent chance” of your finding a mate.
His worms were next. He scattered fruit and vegetable peelings into the plastic crates that he had set on breeze blocks. Such diligent and forgiving natures, these haplotaxids. They left no apricot stone unturned, made short work of each day’s banana skins, eggshells and teabags.
William’s scientific brain was particularly interested in how they made the metal staple in the teabag tag disappear – he could not see any staples in the rich compost they left behind.
He replaced the damp carpet squares and rotting planks that kept the worms cool, and then washed his hands with water from his rain tank. He sat on the sofa he’d dragged to an outside wall so that he could catch the afternoon sun. Repeated drenchings and dryings-out had shrunk the upholstery so that it was tight and brittle. Dib, William’s smoky-coloured cat, sat beside him on the armrest. He pressed his forehead against hers; she twirled and then came in for another round of head-butting.
There was work he should be doing, but it was pleasant, sitting here on the warm and threadbare couch. He would work again tomorrow. Right now he wanted to think.
After a while he got up and fetched a sheet of paper and a pen. Using a hard-backed atlas to press on, he headed the page with the words Why I would make a good sperm donor.
He looked at the words, and then underlined them.
At five in the afternoon Nina walked across the flat, grassy sea frontage of Slangkop towards Neville’s caravan park. The park’s wooden clubhouse served as bar and shop, and was also the venue for community forum meetings. Nina was the first to arrive.
A couple sat at a window table, eating, but otherwise the restaurant side of things was empty. Sharon was at work in the shop section. She directed Nina outside. On the deck, her husband Neville was moving three tables together in preparation for the meeting.
“I think the weather is balmy enough,” he said. “In any case, Sharon and Mrs Fawkes will want to smoke. Now, what else do we need? A drink!”
Nina said she’d fetch the water jug and glasses. In her present state of nerves she feared that she would gulp down any wine offered.
Neville came with her to the bar nook and poured himself a brandy and Coke while Nina counted tumblers onto a tray and filled the jug. They were about to head outside again when one of the customers at the window table signalled to Neville. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but my wife has just pointed out that there’s a cockroach on the wall behind me.”
“No problem,” said Neville. Fetching a can of Doom from beneath the bar counter, he made his way across the restaurant to the customers. Once in position, Neville protected the customer’s left ear, by gently cupping it with his one hand, while with his other he sprayed until the cockroach dropped dead.
“Sorted,” said Neville. He retrieved his drink, picked up a discarded newspaper and led the way outside.
Nina and Neville sat down at the joined-up tables.
“What a pleasure,” said Neville, taking his first sip. The sun was still hot despite the lateness of the afternoon, but now the tide was in and the air had been refreshed with a cold salty bath.
Neville ignored the headlines and went straight to an article titled World’s largest penis sets off alarm. He insisted on reading the story aloud to Nina. Her response evidently didn’t satisfy him. He had to hail his wife. “Sharon,” he called. “Listen to this.”
“I’m busy with a customer!” she shouted.
Neville looked across the grass of the caravan park, towards Chas’s place. Nina followed his gaze. The woman who’d summoned Chas inside earlier, the one in the sarong, was stepping off the stoep of Midden House, heading for the tidal pool.
“He’ll be screwing her later,” said Neville. “Some guys get all the luck.”
It’s as if I’m not here, Nina thought. She turned and peered into the café. Sharon was trying to get rid of the last customers of the day.
“Hurry up now and make up your mind,” she said to the children who were dithering about which sweets to buy. “We’re closing up now-now for a private meeting.” But when she spotted their father choosing a bag of firewood, she immediately changed her tone. “Let me know if you need any help,” she called out coquettishly, leaning across the counter and smiling at him.
But all he wanted was the usual – firelighters, wood, disposable gas canisters and fizzy drinks. Sharon finished ringing up the camper’s purchases and joined her husband and Nina on the deck.
“Did you see the way that guy looked at me?” Sharon asked Neville.
“How’m I supposed to see how he’s looking at you when I’m sitting out here? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”
“He had a good eyeball straight down my cleavage,” said Sharon, adjusting the straps of her summer vest and pulling in her tummy. She followed her husband’s gaze across to Midden House.
“Is the lord of the manor planning to grace us with his presence this evening, I wonder?” asked Neville.
“Looks like quite a party going on that side already,” replied Sharon. “Getting ready for an orgy later.”
“They should get in this guy,” said Neville, pointing to the newspaper article. “Hey, Shar, what d’you think? Security at the airport, they see this bulge in this guy’s pants, and they want to pat him down, y’know …”
But Sharon wasn’t listening. “I can’t work out if he’s straight or gay.”
“Hell, man, Sharon, the guy’s been married for years. To a very highly sexed lady. Though I suppose you might ask why she’s scarpered.”
“You might well ask. Sometimes when I’m watching him at the pool, the way he floats there on a Lilo with a cup and saucer on his tummy, my gay-dar is up. But then, other times, I can see him looking at me in that way, you know, like he’s been hit with a hormone handbag.”
“Then
