White Wahala by Ekow Duker

Author:Ekow Duker [Ekow Duker]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan South Africa (Pty) Ltd
Published: 2014-07-29T16:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

CONSTANCE MATABANE PULLED ASIDE the linen curtains and gazed longingly at the gardener who was busy raking leaves across the gently undulating lawn. She’d washed and ironed the curtains only the day before. Constance was incredibly proud of the way the drapes hung in crisp white folds and brushed the wooden floor with a careless indifference that belied the meticulous attention she lavished on them. She gazed down at the gardener again. There was something about his muscled torso that made her want to run down the stairs and lie spreadeagled at his feet. All she knew about him was that he was painfully shy and always kept his eyes fixed on the dry leaves that covered the lawn in a tattered sheet of gold and beige. She watched him with longing as he strode across the lawn, past the towering row of royal palms and up to the huge flower-pots standing like sentinels outside the hand-carved patio door. The Nicholsons’ garden was the size of a municipal park, with trees and shrubs sprouting from the dark soil with an almost obscene fecundity. She didn’t know the gardener’s name but from his accent he might be from Zambia. One day he’d look up from his chores and catch her staring boldly down at him as if she were the madam of the house. Just a matter of time, thought Constance. I can wait. She turned away from the window, but not before patting the curtains gently back into place.

She tiptoed around the bed, taking great care not to disturb Alasdair. He was curled in the exact same position she’d left him last night after his friend, the fat one, had brought him home. Eeiii, that one! Madam thought she could shout at him like he was a tradesman, but he gave it to her, pam! pam! pam! And when he was finished Madam’s face was whiter than the curtains and just as long. He’d said all the things Constance longed to say to that witch. His breasts were almost as large as hers, but he talked to Madam like a man should. That’s what that witch needs, Constance thought to herself. A man who will talk nonsense to her every now and then. Constance bent to pick up Alasdair’s clothes and wondered when the gardener would talk nonsense to her. She was folding the clothes into a neat pile at the foot of the bed when a low moan escaped from somewhere within the rumpled sheets.

‘Are you all right, Mr Alisteh?’ she asked gently.

She shook the bedclothes gently where she thought his shoulder would be but she only succeeded in dislodging another moan, more pitiful than the first. She hesitated a moment, then drew back the corner of the quilted cover. It was like peeling back a plaster from a wound. She gasped when she saw him, for the tendons on his neck were so taut they looked as though they might snap. A foul smell crept out from under the duvet and Constance cried out in alarm.

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