Rachel Weeping Read online

  rachel weeping

  BRETT MICHAEL INNES

  First published by Tracey McDonald Publishers, 2015

  Office: 5 Quelea Street, Fourways, Johannesburg, South Africa, 2191

  www.traceymcdonaldpublishers.com

  Copyright © Brett Michael Innes, 2015

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN 978-0-620-63481-6

  e-ISBN (ePUB) 978-0-620-63482-3

  e-ISBN (PDF) 978-0-620-63483-0

  Text design and typesetting by Reneé Naude

  Cover photography and design by Brett Michael Innes

  Edited by Alison Lowry

  With contributions from Anel Alexander, Corine Du Toit and Sandra Vaughn

  Printed and bound by Interpak Books (Pty) Ltd

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  jeremiah 31:15

  ‘A voice is heard in Ramah,

  lamentation, weeping, great mourning,

  Rachel weeping for her children and

  refusing to be comforted,

  because they are no more.’

  prologue

  This could be the last time I’m here.

  The thought was sobering and Rachel forced herself to be still, to try and take in the colours, smells and textures of the beach that stretched beyond her in both directions. She looked out at the aquamarine waters and watched as the fishermen used their lantern sails to harness the wind to pull their dhows back to shore after what looked like an unsuccessful day’s fishing. The light of the midday sun was softer than usual, but it still bounced off the white beach sand and illuminated the whole area in a dazzling glare that made everything look brand new.

  Save for a few beach dogs and children, the place was more or less empty, with the residents of the village either escaping the tropical heat inside their grass huts or waiting for the fish to bite. A few seagulls hovered above the water and further along the beach she saw an elderly woman collecting coconuts that had fallen during the night.

  Rachel had walked this beach many times in her twenty-eight years on this earth. She knew its character and had witnessed its changes. What had once been a tiny fishing village guarded by the Bazaruto Archipelago had slowly grown into the holiday destination of Inhassoro, bringing with it tourists and money. This had all changed in 2000 when Cyclone Leon-Eline had slammed into the coast near Beira, bringing with it a season of floods, starvation and poverty, and making international headlines when a local woman, Sofia Pedro, was forced to give birth in a tree while the floodwaters rushed and churned below her. That had been ten years ago, when Rachel was eighteen, and the years that followed were difficult for the local community. While the holiday resorts eventually found ways of climbing back onto their feet, the villagers were still struggling.

  Closing her eyes, Rachel listened to the sounds of the beach so familiar to her, the deep pounding of the waves as they broke, then their gentle lapping against the shore as they moved to a rhythm that came from deep within the heart of the ocean. As the song of the waves faded into the background, she heard the sharp cries of the seagulls and the voices of the fishermen as they called out to each other, pieces of their conversations about life and the catch travelling across the water to her ears.

  Her father had been one of those fishermen until he had injured his leg; now he found work by repairing the same nets he’d once spent his early mornings casting out over the dark waters of the Indian Ocean. The cyclone had left the seas empty and what had once been the backbone of the village was now crippling its development. The fishermen would spend their days out at sea only to return with empty nets and the poison of hope that promised them tomorrow would be better.

  Rachel breathed in deeply. The crisp salty fragrance of the sea and the tang of the morning’s catch mingled with the aroma of baking pão that drifted in from the village. When she was twelve she had sat with her mother and the other women in the market who sold the delicious fresh bread rolls. Her mother would always let her eat the first pão of the day and she would take pleasure in tearing the warm, doughy bread apart and watching the steam rise through the air. These days it was only the wealthy who could afford the pão and there would be no free bread given to children who spent their mornings working in the market.

  The smell of the pão instinctively made her lick her lips but it was only the salty ocean air she could taste, humid and tangible on her skin. She placed the last segment of the mandarin she’d been eating into her mouth and felt the tart explosion of its sweet juice as she bit into it. What had once been a common meal was now a rare treat. Her mother had given her the fruit for her last breakfast in Inhassoro.

  Her eyes still closed, Rachel focused on the warmth of the Mozambican sun and the contrast that the cool of the ocean wind brought as it blew over the drops of perspiration on her forehead. She dug her toes into the sand, breaking through the crust that had been dried out by the morning sun and into the damp layer below, feeling for the water left behind by the tide.

  She put her hand on her belly, felt how the skin beneath her shirt was warm and the flesh firm. It would still be a few more weeks before she would start to show but she could already sense that things were different inside her body. She could feel that she wasn’t alone in her skin, that there was someone separate and independent growing inside her. The knowledge scared and inspired her at the same time. It filled her thoughts and occupied her dreams.

  She was leaving Inhassoro for this person, going somewhere else so that the soul that was renting her body would have a chance at life, or at least a better life than the one Rachel had been given. She was leaving her family, her home and her beach for this new life, and going to a place she’d never been before.

  But it wasn’t only for her unborn child that she was going. Her parents were old now and unable to support themselves any more. She had looked for work in Inhassoro but had found nothing of value. She had even taken the bus to Maputo a few times and spent weeks calling on every hospital or clinic she could find, only to be told that they were either fully staffed or that they paid the same wages she would earn working in the fish market back home.

  Mozambique had nothing for her and she needed a solution before her child was born. No one would hire a pregnant woman and so she knew she would have to secure employment before her condition became obvious.

  Rachel opened her eyes and looked down to see a cowry shell at her feet, the porcelain of its mottled brown exterior speckled with white beach sand. She had seen thousands of these shells in her life and had either thrown them back into the water or made jewellery out of them but, for some reason, this one caused her to look twice. Maybe it was the emotion that was coursing through her heart today or just a desire to hold onto something that was ‘home’, something that wouldn’t change, and she bent and picked it up.

  She dusted the grains of sand from its surface and examined it. It was smooth in her hand and warm in the sunlight, the size of a small plum. She turned the egg-shaped shell over. Its flat white underbelly revealed a slit-like opening punctuated by blunt teeth. She held it up to her mouth and blew into the opening, expelling the sand that had gathered there over years. What had once been a living thing beneath the waters in the ocean had found its way into her hand.

  Rachel
slipped the cowry shell into her pocket and looked out to sea one last time before she turned and walked up the beach to her parents’ grass hut. Her bag was packed. All that was left to do was say her goodbyes and go to the bus station.

  She was leaving Mozambique. She was going to Johannesburg.

  chapter 1

  ‘Rachel, I know this is a conversation we’ve all been avoiding, but it’s one that we need to have.’

  Rachel looked across the twelve-seater wooden table at Chris and Michelle Jordaan. The light from the designer ceiling lamp shone harshly on the polished surface that separated her from the couple. She watched as the steam from three mugs of tea wafted slowly through the air between them. The gas heater in the corner of the stylish room glowed red as it tried to warm up the space but it didn’t seem to be making much headway. Once the season started turning the cold always managed to find its way inside this house. It wrapped itself around Rachel’s exposed ankles.

  ‘It’s been four weeks now,’ Chris said. His face was covered in a layer of dark stubble – more the result of neglect than fashion. ‘We need to decide what the next step forward for all of us is going to be.’

  Rachel waited for him to continue, watching as he struggled to find the words. Michelle sat quietly at his side, staring at the table so that she did not have to look at Rachel. Her blonde hair, usually so perfectly groomed, was tied up in a rough ponytail, the darker roots clearly visible beneath the golden halo. Chris’s brown hair had grown lighter over the almost six years that Rachel had worked for them and at the corners of his eyes now she could see permanent creases left by the smile that he had once worn so regularly.

  ‘Look, Rachel,’ Chris said, finding his words again, ‘we’ve loved having you work here but we do understand if you want to move on.’

  Rachel remained silent. She was trying to hear what Chris was really saying to her. He was a good man, this much she knew, but right now he was attempting to solve a problem and his loyalty would be to Michelle, who had now started to pick at a crack in the table’s woodwork. Rachel had learned that she and Michelle were the same age when she had helped set up her 30th birthday party a few years back but this similarity had only served to remind her of how different they were to each other.

  ‘If that is the case,’ Chris continued, ‘we’ll compensate you well beyond what the law requ – ’

  ‘I’ll stay.’

  The statement cut Chris off in mid-sentence and pulled Michelle’s eyes up from the table.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Chris said. ‘Would you not like some time to think about it?’

  ‘I will stay.’

  Rachel reinforced her decision in a quiet tone that left the Jordaans with little room to question it. She, too, was surprised by how controlled she had been. She saw Chris glance quickly at Michelle. Clearly neither of them had been prepared for an immediate answer and definitely not for this one.

  Chris took his wife’s hand and Michelle returned her attention to the crack in the table.

  ‘Well, if that’s what you want to do,’ he said, ‘then we’re going to have to ask that you start working again on Monday – tomorrow. As you can see, the house needs some cleaning.’

  He was right, it did need cleaning. Rachel had noticed it the moment she walked in, aware that her absence had been felt by the Jordaans and the beautiful structure that they called home. The black and white tiles in the entrance hall were dirty, the kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes and utensils and, if she were to walk to the bathroom, she was certain that she would find a laundry basket stuffed full with the clothes that had piled up over the last few weeks.

  ‘It’s fine. Monday will be fine.’

  ‘Are you sure, Rachel?’ Chris asked, frowning slightly.

  Rachel looked across at Chris and nodded her head once more, trying to convince Chris that she was. If they believed her statement then maybe, over time, she would too. She maintained eye contact with him as he searched her gaze for something that would contradict the answer she had just given.

  She gave him nothing.

  Then he looked away and directed his conversation towards Michelle, trying to make it seem as though she had been a part of this next decision when he was making it as he spoke.

  ‘Well, then we’ll be giving you an increase, since it was time to do that anyway. We can look at fixing up your room as well, so let us know if there is anything you would like put in, maybe a new two-plate cooker ...’

  He was making an obvious effort to quell his discomfort with things. Rachel could feel bile rising in her throat as she listened to him list the offerings they would present to her as atonement.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rachel said. She saw a sliver of a smile return to Chris’s eyes; he must be relieved that they had come to some kind of resolution. Rachel stared at him, not wanting to smile back but not wanting to be spiteful towards him either. Like her, he was also a victim, and when it came to Chris she could not bring herself to be malicious.

  ‘Is there anything that you’d like to know or to ask us?’

  ‘Would you be able to give me this month’s wages tomorrow?’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Rachel nodded in acknowledgement and the three of them continued to sit in silence, unsure of how to proceed now that all that had needed to be said was out of the way. Rachel looked down at the table she polished on Tuesdays and Fridays. After a couple of minutes she realised that the Jordaans were waiting for her to end the dialogue.

  ‘If that is all, then I’d like to go back to my room,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Well. That’s it,’ Chris said, adding in Afrikaans: ‘Dankie.’

  Rachel nodded again, this time in response to the expression of thanks. She couldn’t really understand much of Chris and Michelle’s home language, save for the few greetings and words she had picked up from them and their friends over the years. She stood up, the wooden chair scraping on the slate tiles and, more out of habit than intention, reached across to gather the mugs to carry them to the washing up area. Michelle jumped up quickly and motioned for her to stop.

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Rachel stopped and lowered her mug back to its place on the table. Straightening her shirt, she gave Chris a last look and left the room. There was silence behind her.

  Michelle watched Rachel leave the kitchen and disappear down the dark passage. She heard the tired slap-slap of her slippers fading away on the tiles as she walked to the front door. Her thoughts were spiralling out of control. She heard the door open and close, followed by the sharp clang of the metal security gate.

  She was supposed to go. She was supposed to take the money and go.

  Numbly she carried the mugs through the state of the art kitchen to the sink. What on earth had possessed Rachel to stay? She poured the lukewarm tea down the plughole, the brown liquid running like a muddy waterfall over the dirty dishes already in the sink. She turned around. Chris was still sitting motionless at the table. She reverted to Afrikaans now that Rachel had gone.

  ‘How are we meant to live like this?’

  ‘We can’t fire her,’ Chris replied.

  ‘Why not? You can’t tell me this is a solution?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t, Michelle. But there’s no way we can fire her.’

  Michelle glared at her husband, knowing he was right but frustrated by the outcome of the evening’s conversation. She watched as he calculated, as he tried to solve the problem they were faced with. Returning from the void, Chris looked up at her and exhaled.

  ‘We’ll just have to find a way to make this work,’ he told her. ‘For some reason she thinks that staying with us is better than leaving so we’ll all just have to get on with it.’

  Speechless, Michelle turned back to the sink. How Chris could simplify the situation so quickly into something that they would just figure
out as they went along completely baffled her. He was treating it as though it were an increase in their electricity bill or a new brand of washing powder they were going to have to get used to.

  She looked down at the mess in front of her – plates, bowls and cups that had collected over the weeks when she had not been able to bring herself to clean up. It wasn’t that domestic work was beneath her; she had worked as a waitress at a pizzeria in high school and had seen much worse in her time there. For some reason, though, every time she had tried to bring herself to do the washing up all of her energy evaporated, an effect that seemed to grow with every new item that was added to the pile.

  A heavy heart had given birth to heavy hands.

  As she turned her back on the clutter she saw that Chris was no longer at the table. She listened to the sounds of the house, the laughter of a studio audience telling her that he was in the TV room. She switched the kettle on and opened the cabinet in front of her, taking out the remaining two clean mugs. Kitsch things only Chris would buy and which she would only use if they were alone. The purple one read ‘Drama Queen’ and the yellow one ‘The Man, The Legend’. She placed a teabag in each.

  ‘More tea?’ she called out, her voice travelling past the four guest rooms, her study, the guest bathroom and into the TV room. The house had been built in the seventies when ceilings were high and rooms were spacious, very different to the new buildings that were cropping up in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg these days.

  This was the first property she and Chris had bought together, and to say that it had needed ‘a little TLC’, as had been advertised when it first came onto the market, had been an understatement. They had followed the age-old wisdom of buying the bad house on a good street, but with Chris being an architect by profession, this had been less of a challenge to him than an exciting project. On the day they were given the keys to 76 5th Avenue in Parkhurst, they began a year of renovations that Michelle would have preferred to forget.