A Blade of Grass (7 page)

I
N THE FARMHOUSE
there is no help now for Märit with the cooking and the cleaning; she must do these things herself. In the three weeks since Grace’s death, Tembi has not appeared in the kitchen, and Märit cannot bring herself to go and find her and ask her to work in the kitchen. Since the death of Grace, Märit prepares the meals, which is easy enough as there is only herself and Ben. She sweeps the house once a day and carries out the kitchen scraps to the compost heap and airs the bed linen. All the tasks that Grace used to do. There are many tasks, more than she had realized, and some of them she does not do, like the polishing of the silverware or the washing of the windows.

All her life others have done these tasks for Märit. When she was a girl, living in her parents’ house, there was a cook, and a housemaid that came in twice a week to do the cleaning. On Mondays a woman came in to wash the laundry. Her parents were not wealthy by the standards of the country, but even so, it is normal in this country to have servants, for there are so many people who seek work, who will do menial tasks so that they might have a job.

Today is Monday, laundry day. And Märit must do the washing. There are the clothes, the bedding, tablecloths and napkins, kitchen towels, bath towels. And Ben’s shirts. He likes to have a clean shirt every day, even if he is going to be doing messy work around the farm, and he likes to change into a clean shirt after he comes in from his work before he sits down to dinner with her.

In a small room just off the bathroom there is an electric washer, powered from the farm generator. The soiled clothes are kept in a big wicker
hamper next to the washing machine. Märit lifts the lid of the straw hamper and is about to reach for the clothes—actually has her hand extended, not paying much attention because her eyes are on the powder in the machine—when she looks down and sees something, and recoils immediately.

Her first thought is that something obscene has been deposited on the clothes, something dark and coiled, like excrement, as if someone has intentionally placed this filthy and horrible thing on her laundry. Then the dark coils move, and a small flat head shows itself, and a thin tongue flickers. A snake.

Märit springs away from the laundry basket and sucks in her breath. She still has the wicker lid to the laundry basket in her hand and she holds it in front of her, like a shield.

The head of the snake stands higher, rising from the thick coils, and the tongue appears again from the flat lips and flickers at her.

Her body goes rigid with fear. She wants to scream, but her throat is dry and locked. As the snake slowly uncoils it watches her with flat eyes.

She knows it will come out of the laundry basket, and uncoil onto the floor, and slither across the slate towards her, and strike at her, into her bare flesh. She feels naked, exposed, vulnerable. Her feet are in sandals, her legs bare, her dress thin.

But she cannot move, for her body is rigid, and her throat is locked, and her bladder is suddenly full, so full it could burst. The snake rustles and slithers on the clothes and its head dips over the side of the hamper, and still it watches her.

She knows the danger she is in, she knows this is a mamba: quick, aggressive—and poisonous.

The long black body unwinds and the head slides over the edge of the laundry basket and the snake slowly begins to lower itself to the floor. And still the eyes watch her, and still Märit cannot move, as the snake drops to the slate floor, making a soft meaty sound. The head rears up, flat and black above the swollen thick length of the extended body, and the tongue flickers at Märit.

Her fear is something terrible, holding her like iron as the snake slithers towards her. She watches it with deadly fascination, the obscenity of it,
yet she cannot stop her watching or her fascination. Then the mamba seems to coil into itself, the coils rippling, the muscles gathering with tension, and Märit knows that it is readying itself to strike.

Only then does the fear that holds her break into panic, and she springs backwards, slamming into the wall, then turning to the door, and out of the corner of her eye she sees the flash of the black body extended its full length and the mouth bared and the fangs snapping at the spot where she stood a split second ago.

Then she is running, down the long corridor, and across the vast expanse of the living room, and across the veranda, and down the steps, lifting her feet high, with small cries of distress coming from her throat.

In a moment she is outside the house, and there is nobody around, and she must go for help, but she is safe here, in the middle of the lawn, where nothing can approach without her seeing it. She must go for help and find somebody to kill the snake, find Ben, but there is nobody here, and she is afraid to run in the long grass in her bare legs, and her bladder is full to bursting.

Märit watches the house, she watches the door, which she left open, she watches the darkness beyond the door, where the snake will appear, for it is in there, in the shadow behind the door. If she was brave, if she was a true farmer’s wife she would find a shovel, that one, leaning against the wall in the flower bed, and take it and kill the snake. But she is not brave.

When she opens her mouth to call for someone, to call for help, her voice croaks in her throat and all she can do is watch the house and wait for the snake.

And then there is someone, a person, just crossing to the side of the house. Tembi.

Märit tries to call out for help but her throat has seized up. She forces her tongue against her teeth. “Tembi!”

Tembi stops and looks over.

“Tembi! Quickly, come here.” What is the word for snake in their language, Märit wonders.
“Slang,”
she whispers in Afrikaans, and then remembers the word, one of the few she knows. “
Nyoka!
There…” She points.

Tembi’s eyes widen as she looks at the house.

“A mamba, in the laundry room. Mamba! Get someone, get the men.”

Tembi looks at the house, frowning, unsure.

Märit tries to still the quivering in her voice, takes a deep breath and speaks clearly. “Tembi, there is a snake in the house, in the laundry room. Fetch someone to kill it.”

“In the washing?”

“Yes, for God’s sake. Go and find the Baas or one of the men. Quickly!”

Instead, Tembi moves to the shovel standing in the flower bed, grasps it, and slowly climbs the veranda steps, then enters the house.

“Don’t,” Märit cries in a choked voice. And still she is frozen where she stands.

Nothing happens. Tembi has disappeared.

Now Märit hears the sound of a vehicle, and here, coming up the driveway is the pickup truck, with Ben at the wheel, Joshua the bossboy next to him, another one of the workers sitting in the back.

Ben sees her, waves, then stops the truck and gets out.

As he walks closer he sees her face, and his step quickens. “What is it? Märit, are you ill? What’s wrong?” His arms are around her, and she wants to collapse, to give in to her fear, to let him take over.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Märit.”

She takes a deep breath. “There is a mamba in the laundry room and Tembi has gone in there.”

Ben shouts to the men in the truck,
“Nyoka!”
points to the house, then runs up the steps. The two men dash after him, Joshua swinging a hammer in his hand.

For a moment Märit is alone again, still standing alone on the lawn, and the house has swallowed her husband too now. She hears voices shouting, then silence. And the dark door of the house holds only shadows.

It is Tembi who emerges. She walks down the steps slowly, the shovel in one hand, her face dazed, slack. In her other hand hangs the limp form of the snake, like a length of rope. Then the two men emerge, and some moments later Ben follows. He strides quickly across to Märit.

“It’s all right now, darling. She’s killed it. It’s dead.”

Joshua takes the snake from Tembi and holds it aloft. The head is a bloody pulp. He brings it to Märit. “Dead,” he says.

Märit turns her head away.

“Quite a specimen,” Ben says. “Must be at least five feet long. The skin could make you a nice purse.”

Märit shakes her head. “Take it away,” she says through clenched teeth. “Burn it!”

Ben jerks his head at Joshua, who retreats to the truck with the snake.

“All right now, darling?” Ben slips his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. “Nothing more to worry about. That Tembi is a brave girl. She had the thing dead already when I went in. A very brave girl.”

Märit nods. She feels nauseated. “Did you make sure there wasn’t another one around? They travel in pairs, don’t they?”

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” Ben says. “Yes, I did check, there’s nothing. Why don’t you go in and have a strong cup of tea—you look like you need one.”

“What about you? Don’t you want to come in?”

Ben looks at his watch. “Ah, the thing is, I have to drive into Klipspring. We’ve got to get some bags of potash; I want to do the fertilizing before dark. Do you want to come with me? You could have your tea at the hotel, do a bit of shopping.”

“No. No, I think I’ll stay here.”

“Well, I have to get going. Don’t worry, darling. It’s just one of the little travails of living in the country—snakes and bugs and that sort of thing.” He kisses her on the cheek, then gets into the truck where the two men are in the back, talking excitedly, holding the snake between them.

And she is left alone.

The tension in her body breaks; she sinks to her knees on the lawn. A trickle of hot liquid on her inner thigh, then a stream, and the urine pours down between her legs, splashing on the grass. She wants to lie down, right on the lawn, and curl up. But Tembi is there, urging her to her feet, grasping and tugging her arm.

“Come, Missus. Come inside.”

Märit rises, dabbing at her legs with the edge of her soaked dress. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“Come inside now, Missus. You can wash. I will make you tea.”

In the bathroom Märit pulls off all her clothes and bundles them into the
bathtub. She wipes herself down with a damp washcloth, then goes through to the bedroom and finds clean clothes.

Tembi is brewing tea in the kitchen, in the African way, very strong, each cup with an added dollop of tinned condensed milk she has found in one of the cupboards.

Märit comes in and says, “We can have it in the living room. Bring your cup.”

Tembi follows, into this unknown part of the house.

“Sit with me,” Märit says, as Tembi diffidently stands near the door with her cup in her hand. “Here.” She pats the couch. She finds her cigarettes and lights one, drawing gratefully at the smoke. “Look at my hand, it’s still shaking. God, I hate snakes.”

“You were frightened.”

“Terrified. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

“A mamba is a dangerous snake. We always kill them. These snakes are bad.” She reaches for her tea and sips.

“I peed myself out of fright. What must you think of me?”

“I was frightened also.”

“You? Hardly. You just marched straight in there and killed the snake.”

“I saw it on the floor and I hit it. But I was very frightened. I don’t like snakes.”

“You were my savior, Tembi. Honestly. And I’m sure the men were very impressed.”

Tembi looks down at her cup. “I was frightened.” She sighs as a tremor quivers through her.

Märit smokes in silence, calm now. After a moment she says, “Tembi.”

“Yes, Missus.” The shy smile again. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry about your mother. About what happened. The accident.”

Tembi nods her head gravely.

“Where is your father now?”

“He has gone back to the city. To his job in the mines.”

“Have you any brothers and sisters?”

“I am alone.”

“I lost my parents too, you know. I am also alone.”

Märit falls silent again, smoking her cigarette. Then she leans forward and stubs it out in the ashtray. “And do you like your work here on the farm? It’s in the dairy, isn’t it?”

Tembi shrugs. “Yes.”

“How old are you, Tembi?”

“Eighteen, Missus.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Märit remembers asking Grace. “When is your birthday?”

“May sixteenth, Missus.”

“Close to mine. May twenty-third.”

Märit studies the girl across from her—the young woman who sits with her hands clasped in the lap of her thin cotton dress, her sturdy legs tucked half under the chair as if to hide her dusty feet. There is a melancholy in the dark brown eyes that glance at Märit every now and then. There is not that great a difference in their ages, she realizes.

Märit takes a deep swallow of the sweet milky tea. “Thank you for the tea…and for helping me.”

“Yes, Missus.”

“Don’t call me ‘Missus’ all the time.”

“No. What must I call you, Madam?”

“Not ‘madam’ either,” Märit says with a smile. “Call me by my name—Märit.”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Märit, Missus.”

Märit laughs. “Just ‘Märit.’”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Märit.” Tembi looks down, shy. “It’s a nice name, ‘Märit.’”

“Tembi, would you like to come and work here in the house? You can do what Grace used to do, cooking and so on. Would you like that? I can show you what to do—it’s not hard work, much easier than in the dairy. And you will earn more as well.”

Märit is leaning forward now, towards Tembi, and there is a plea in her
voice. She wants more than just help in the house. An intimacy has opened between her and this girl, not so much younger than herself, perhaps not even so unlike her.

For Tembi, the offer is unexpected, and she asks herself why it is made. Is it because Märit is afraid to be alone in the house when her husband is at work on the farm? Is it something else? She wonders how it would be to work here. Her job in the dairy is not difficult, only the making of butter and cream. But she often feels out of place there, in the company of the other girls, for she is still a relative newcomer. And because she has more schooling than the other girls she feels herself apart, unable to join in their easy ways with one another or their childish talk. It is not possible to talk to the other girls of the thoughts in her head.