A broken circle 10 pgs

A BROKEN CIRCLE

Wendy Clark

Š Wendy Clark 2015 Published in 2015 by BK Press ISBN 978-1-928245-22-3 Prepared for publication by Ginny Porter All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, translated or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

O

n a mountainside above a deep green valley, I built a cairn of stones.

It stood alone, far off the whisper of meandering footpath traversing the hills, trodden by unknown feet; hidden from sight of all but the eagles which drifted on high, noiseless currents.

Around it, intermingled with bracken, were the brittle, fragile fronds of nameless mountain herbs, the sharp-smelling leaves which sometimes yield surprising bursts of paper-delicate stars. And it was cocooned in the echoing silence of a place where people seldom go, and where there was only the pristine stillness of rock and scrub, wind and water.

I made it on the day when so many things happened, the day when John left me alone for half an hour as he made his way up to enter the black crevice between the boulders near the summit. As I sat there in the fathomless absence of sound, looking out across the gorge to the smoky peaks on the other side, I felt a sudden urge to make my own memorial to all I had lost, to all my poignant mighthave-beens, and to all my gossamer hopes for an uncertain future. So I collected a pile of stones, I smoothed a small piece of level turf, and I piled them up, balancing them against each other to make a mound.

When that was done, I adorned it with the starry white flowers.

Finally I hunted for chips of pale crystal. There are lots of silvery shards in that part of the Drakensberg, scattered in among the clumps of grass and the mountain shrubs: pieces broken off the larger chunks of translucent, white quartz which the local boys sell on the winding dirt road between the village and the hotel. It took me quite a while to find them, but at last I had a handful, and returning to the cairn, I carefully placed them in a ring around it, making a circle of life.

Only there weren’t quite enough. And I was about to set off in search of two or three more fragments to complete the broken circle when I realised that this, too, was appropriate. The circle was incomplete, imperfect: had it not been, there would have been no need for the cairn in the first place. So I left it inchoate and stood there in the vacant stillness, listening to the wind and saying goodbye to the hopes and dreams I once cherished. And by the time John came back from the peak, the tears had dried on my face, and I had moved away from the pile of rough granite flints in their broken, white circle.

ONE

I

’m off on a field trip to the Drakensberg,’ John tells me as we stand in the queue to pay for our coffee. ‘To The Amphitheatre this time. Do you think you’d be able to join me, Nancy?’

We’re in the student refectory, waiting while the young girl ahead of us counts out ten cent pieces for the cashier, hoping she’ll have enough for the packet of potato crisps in her hand. I know the feeling, and wish I could give her a rand, but there’s no money in my purse either, and John’s paying for our coffee again.

‘When?’ I ask, though it doesn’t really matter.

‘This week,’ he says. ‘Leaving Thursday, getting back next Tuesday, or possibly Wednesday. Mark won’t mind, will he?’

‘No,’ I say, because I suppose he won’t if I’ll only be with John.

‘Great,’ he grins. The girl has at last found enough money and is moving away, tearing open the thin foil packet, and I catch a whiff of cheese-and-onion. My stomach threatens to growl. John puts our tray down in front of the cashier, and reaches for his wallet.

At this time of the day it’s quiet in the ref. Most of the students have gone home, though in about twenty minutes there will be a late rush when the current lecture period ends. We move over to a sticky table and sit down, and I thank him for the coffee and the donut which he added without asking.

1

‘Do you think you’re actually going find anything up there?’ I ask, biting into luscious softness through a crisp, oily crust; savouring gritty sugar and sour, smooth jam.

‘Well, I hope so.’ He’s busy with his PhD thesis on long-fingered bats, and as his research assistant, I have to help him where I can, including taking notes. Recently he’s been looking into the possibility of a hitherto-unknown sub-species which might roost in the caves high in the northern Drakensberg. The badly-decayed remains of a single specimen which someone sent him raised his hopes, although he isn’t sure it’s not simply an atypical example of the common Schreiber’s long-fingered bat. I glance up at him, seeing that wistful look I expected to see on his even-featured, almost-handsome face.

Though he jokes about how he’ll enjoy discovering Miniopterus goodersoni - Gooderson’s long-fingered bat - I know he’s hoping it’ll really happen, and imagining it indeed coming to pass makes something glow inside me, too.

‘So where will we be staying?’ Although I don’t mind field trips, I don’t enjoy camping, which we often have to do.

‘No tents this time, I promise,’ he says, stirring his coffee. ‘We’ll be staying at a place called Baka Lodge. It sounds okay, rondavels with private bathrooms on a dinner, bed and breakfast basis. I don’t know anyone who’s been there before, though.’

‘So long as we have modern plumbing.’ It’s the lack of ablution facilities that always gets me down most when we rough it. I need to wash and wash and wash.

He grins. ‘Rest assured, we’ll have all the usual mod cons,’ he says. ‘I’m also not that partial to long-drops. Never got used to the smell. Give me a cave full of guano any time.’

2

I don’t ask who is paying for the trip. The University usually does, but occasionally researchers have to fork out of their own pockets. It depends on how much of their annual grants are left. I’m not sure about John’s, but we’ve already been on three field trips this year.

And I know that when the other research assistants go out with a researcher whose budget is finished, they sometimes pay their own way.

As if he’s reading my thoughts, he asks if the donut is all right.

‘Delicious,’ I say, and mean it. It’s the first food I’ve had all day, apart from the bread and jam I had for breakfast. ‘Want a bite?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he says. ‘I know how hungry you must be. I had lunch.’

I feel my face colouring, though I know I’m being stupid, that there’s no need for embarrassment. And after all, it’s my own stupid fault that my money’s finished, I had to replace Mark’s blue shirt when I burnt it with the iron. Fortunately the shop had another in his size, so he never found out, though he commented on how the washing powder seemed to be living up to its advertised promise of making things look new. But for that, I’d still have some of the money left which he gives me every month. We’re married in community of property and so my salary goes into his account, though he gives me five hundred rand a month for my needs, like toiletries and lunches. The meals in the staff canteen are very reasonably priced - fifteen rand for meat, potatoes and a spoonful of mixed veg - and normally I have a hot dinner every day and still have a few rand left at the end of each month, which I then put towards new clothes.

3

But this month there was the accident with iron, and now the only thing I can do until payday is not eat lunch. It’s hard, but being hungry is better that than having to tell Mark how careless I was.

Unfortunately John’s noticed I stopped having lunch last week, and he’s paid for my food twice since then, which I don’t want him to do.

So now I sneak out of my office every day at about five to one, and hide myself in the Ladies’ cloakroom, and I only come out about fifteen minutes later when I know he’ll have given up looking for me and will be sitting in the canteen, tucking into his own plate of stew or curry or the special of the day.

He drains the last of his coffee and looks at his watch. ‘I’d better get moving,’ he says. ‘Got to take the next class over in room six, I’m standing in for Doctor Mlotshwa. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

I nod and watch him going, a sturdy, compact little figure in faded jeans and a blue t-shirt, his floppy fair hair tumbling into his eyes as he turns to wave at me. * At five I leave the cramped cubicle I call my office, and I make my way down to the car park. I get a lift every day with Jenny Rudman, Professor Ford’s secretary. She also lives out on The Bluff, though in one of those nice houses in Marine Drive, and she picks me up and drops me off on her way. She’s sweet, though I find her attempts to try to get me to wear make-up and have my hair styled irritating.

There’s no way I can tell her Mark won’t let me waste money on that stuff, so I have to pretend I’m not interested.

She’s finished early today, because Prof Ford is away this week attending an international conference in Miami, and she’s waiting for

4

me when I get downstairs, sitting behind the wheel of her little Fiat Figo. The radio’s on, and she’s tuned in to ECR, which we all listen to every day anyway.

‘Nancy, hi,’ she says, though we’ve seen each other several times since lunch, and I scramble into the passenger seat beside her. John’s car, a silver Volkswagen Polo, is parked next to us, and I conscientiously refrain from touching it with my door, wondering what time he’ll be finishing tonight. When lectures are over for the day he often stays late, working on his thesis. Occasionally I have to help him, though I don’t enjoy having to explain to Mark that I’ll be home late.

‘I’m going to pop in at the supermarket, if that’s okay with you,’ says Jenny, steering around a group of illegally-parked student vehicles.

‘Okay,’ I say, but my heart sinks. Even a few minutes later than usual can sometimes be a problem. I surreptitiously glance at the clock on the dashboard and see it’s already five past five.

‘I’m going away at the end of the week,’ I tell her, as much to distract myself as to make conversation. ‘To the Drakensberg.’

‘Oh, lovely!’ she says. ‘What part are you going to? We love Giant’s Castle, we’ve stayed in the self-catering cottages several times. Suggest it to Mark, the rates are very reasonable. Those hotel resorts are all terribly pricey.’

‘I’m not going with Mark,’ I say. ‘I’m going with John Gooderson, it’s a field trip. He told me the name of the place we’ll be staying, though can’t remember it now.’

5

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh, right, I’d forgotten he said he was going up.

Well, enjoy it anyway. The Berg’s always delightful, even if you’re working.’

We drive on in silence till the next intersection, where we stop for a traffic light.

‘So what’s John like on these trips away?’ she asks, glancing at me. ‘Is he still so reserved, or does he let his hair down a bit?’

John has remarked - and so has she - that she thinks him too quiet and withdrawn. I’ve honestly never noticed it.

‘He’s the same as always,’ I say.

She makes an impatient little noise with her tongue. ‘What he needs is a nice girlfriend,’ she says.

‘Hmm, maybe.’

Something in my tone rouses her curiosity. ‘Go on, then,’ she probes. ‘You two are good friends. Is there a lady in his life that he’s keeping quiet about?’

‘No,’ I say with perfect truth. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think he’s involved with anyone.’ I don’t tell her that even if he was romantically involved with someone, it wouldn’t be with a lady.

‘I’ve been wondering if he’d get on with my niece,’ she says.

‘Amanda’s almost twenty six, and she’s still single, and we all wish she could find a suitable chap. Perhaps I should invite them both to dinner, so that they can at least meet each other.’

I make no comment. It won’t be the first time she’s tried a spot of matchmaking for him. She has no inkling of the truth, in her book all gay men flounce around in flamboyant clothing, have whiny voices,

6