The Woman Next Door by Yewande Omotoso

Author:Yewande Omotoso
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781473522589
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2016-05-05T07:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

THE ARRANGEMENT WAS simple. While Marion’s house was being repaired (builder promised six to eight weeks) she was to move into No. 10. A few weeks had passed since the accident. Carole the physiotherapist had predicted a maximum of twelve weeks for Hortensia’s bone to knit sufficiently, eight weeks till Hortensia could move without aid.

The house was apportioned out. Hortensia would remain downstairs in her study-cum-infirmary. Marion upstairs in one of the guest rooms. Bassey served meals on a tray. He took Hortensia’s to her room and Marion’s to hers. As far as Hortensia could discern, besides her daily site visits, Marion went nowhere. She barely left her bedroom.

Trudy’s last task was to organise for a contractor to raise the toilet seat, install handlebars (the ugliness of which Hortensia and Marion agreed on) and slip-proof the shower. She had written down a series of exercises; some Hortensia could do sitting at her desk, some she had to perform along the length of the hallway. Occasionally she needed Bassey to set up what Trudy called the obstacle course. A chair midway to sit on. A table in the middle of her path, forcing her to navigate around. The toilet could be tricky, but very little lorded it over Hortensia and certainly not her bladder. Dressing was a chore, so often it was tracksuit top, skirt (easier to pee in) or her favourite cerise nightgown with matching housecoat. The azure one, when the cerise was in the wash. With Marion about, Hortensia had wondered whether to dress up more, but hadn’t the strength to attempt it.

On waking, Hortensia kept her eyes closed. A wind blew the oak, she could hear the prattle of the leaves against the windowpane. A band of finches twittered and Hortensia felt glad to hear them. She admitted to herself that she missed the Koppie. That her walks up there weren’t just some masochistic ritual, but also a chance for total quiet, to spot bulbuls, for birds to chirrup, for branches to twist in the breeze.

Hortensia grunted, which made the effort of rising out of bed less painful. Ablutions took several minutes too long but, once ready, Hortensia, manoeuvring the walker and cursing it simultaneously, began her exercises along the hallway. Bassey stuck his head out of the kitchen and asked if he could make her breakfast. Concentrating on the task at hand, she nodded her consent. The house phone rang, way at the other end of the hallway. She muttered under her breath as Bassey went to answer.

‘For you, Hortensia.’

‘Message,’ she said through clenched teeth. Was it her or did the pain increase each day?

Bassey spoke into the receiver.

‘He says it’s urgent. It’s Mr Marx.’

‘Blast!’

Bassey brought the cordless. Hortensia moved to the wall and leaned her shoulder against it. She took the phone. Bassey hovered, pointed to the chair some steps away from where she stood. She shook her head.

‘Marx. I don’t appreciate all this badgering. I’ll do it when I’m good and ready, not a minute before.

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