The Fetch. Finuala Dowling

      

      THE FETCH

      Finuala Dowling

      Kwela Books

      fetch nthe apparition of a living person; a wraith

      fetch nthe distance that a wave travels without impediment before reaching the nearest coast

      fetch vto go after and bring back

Part One

      Nina’s life began on the day Chas first invited her to Midden House.

      That Friday she came home from work in the same taxi as Fundiswa, who’d been to the doctor in Fish Hoek and who was pleased to see Nina because she needed help with her shopping bags. The taxi driver pulled up close to the sandstone cliff, opposite the board saying SLANGKOP. After that they were on their own.

      Although the Slangkop sign was clear – bold black writing on a white background – there was no immediate evidence of human settlement. You had to look closely to see where the untarred access road began its plunge through the reeds and milkwoods to the sea.

      They waited in the overgrown roadside ditch, up against the cliff, until it was safe to cross the scenic drive. Someone, long ago, had etched a year – 1920 – at eye-level on the stone of the cutting. In that year, or soon after, Nina thought, construction must have started on Midden House, Slangkop’s only architectural jewel.

      She traced the numerals. Whose fingers reached out from history to touch hers? One of the convicts who built the road, perhaps, boldly marking time, as if to say: “I was here; what I did was important; think of me.”

      They had only just started down the track towards the sea when a vehicle hooted at them. It was a pert little bakery van with a fantasy iced-cake decal on its side panel. They were blocking its progress. To allow it to pass they had to step backward into the fynbos. Their action disturbed a sunbird in a sugarbush: he ceased his tseep-tseep and flew away. The women stood for a moment among the sea roses and fragrant buchu, watching the bakery van making its perilous way down to the plateau.

      There was only one place it could be going.

      “It must be his birthday,” said Nina.

      “Who does he think he is, having a cake delivered? I call that very pretentious,” said Fundiswa. “And here are the two of us, relegated to the bladdy ditch like his vassals! I’ll have to wear my earplugs again tonight. Honestly, and I moved to this place to get some peace and quiet!”

      Nina didn’t mind having to stand among the rushes, her sandals choked with hot dust, to give Chas’s gateau right of way.

      “Just imagine being Chas,” she said. “Or one of his friends.”

      Friendship with Chas! The thought thrilled her then. Chas was life. Take me there, thought Nina. Let it begin.

      Chas entertained every weekend. Mondays to Thursdays were quiet at Slangkop – only the gulls, the wind and the Atlantic stood between the small community and silence. The shutters of Midden House were closed. Emmanuel, the factotum of the house, clipped, watered and weeded.

      But on Fridays Chas arrived in his Karmann Ghia with its roaring VW engine. From her small upstairs balcony Nina could see him on a Lilo in the tidal pool, sometimes with a cup and saucer balanced on his tummy. If she took the sandy public pathway, which ran alongside the grounds of Midden House, she could spy on him more closely. Through the gaps in the hedge she’d hear him crying “Welcome to my bolthole!” to guests as they streamed down to join him in the pool.

      “They say he used to be married,” said Nina. “Or is still, but they’re separated. I see a lot of women there, but I don’t think he has a girlfriend.”

      Fundiswa had been concentrating on her feet, making her way gingerly down the stony track, but Nina’s barely disguised longings irritated her into speech.

      “If you’re searching for a father for your babies, you’re looking in the wrong direction. Wethu! That Chas, I’m telling you he is a man-whore. You’re wasting your time if you think you’re going to find a suitable husband in this backwater. How old are you, if I may ask?”

      By now they’d reached the highest of Slangkop’s properties, the hermit’s cottage. It was almost completely hidden in a milkwood grove, though its weather vane, a cherub blowing on a vuvuzela, was visible above the canopy. Nina thought of William as a hermit because he lived alone and had few visitors, though the same could be said of her, and of Fundiswa, for that matter. The difference was, she supposed, that she and Fundiswa were normal, whereas William was not.

      “I’m twenty-eight,” she replied. “I have sometimes wondered about doing it through a sperm donor.”

      It was the kind of silly thing she said in those days in order to get people to laugh. Her throwaway remark made it sound as though the traditional method of baby-making was at her disposal, but that she was opting for a male-free version. The truth was rather sadder. Twice in her life she had come close to having sex, but at the moment of penetration she’d run away because it felt sore and like an odd thing to be doing.

      “A baby in a syringe!” Fundiswa put her shopping bags down and laughed. Nina would be in trouble with her doctor, she said, for putting an already at-risk patient in danger of a heart attack.

      “Do you know that in Geneva they’ve got a shortage of donors because the men aren’t allowed to remain anonymous?”

      Fundiswa liked to bring up Geneva. It made her feel important to refer to the time she’d spent with the World Health Organization. And it made Nina feel important to know someone who’d been someone at the WHO. They rested for a moment in the shade offered by the hermit’s milkwoods and talked about Swiss sperm.

      At that elevation they had a clear view of the sea. It was a sweltering February afternoon and Nina looked longingly at the turquoise pools that shone out amid the dark kelp beds. Between the rocky gullies that formed most of this coastline, there were patches of the whitest beach sand, centuries worth of finely ground shells. It was a pity the water was so cold, thought Nina. She seldom went in beyond her ankles, but she’d seen Chas dive in and come up shaking his wet hair.

      Her romantic reverie was interrupted by the squawking of the hermit’s quail.

      “That damn bird,” said Fundiswa. “It never stops. Another thing to bring up at the meeting. What a weirdo. He never greets, he stinks of dagga and now he’s keeping exotic poultry.”

      They continued their descent, welcoming the cool air on their faces as they reached sea level.

      Midden House stood on the seafront. The flats where Fundiswa and Nina lived faced the service entrance of the Fawkes family residence. The bakery van was parked in Chas’s driveway behind several other cars. The baker was still at her steering wheel; she was holding her cellphone to her ear. They could see why she hadn’t delivered the cake yet. A large male baboon sat atop one of Chas’s gateposts, apparently monitoring her.

      “Oh dear, it’s the outcast again,” said Nina.

      When she saw the two women, the baker reversed a little and wound her window down.

      “How’m I supposed to deliver this gentleman’s cake? The moment I bring it out of the van, this one here’ll think it’s his bloody birthday.” She gestured in the direction of the baboon.

      The baboon looked away towards the sea, as though pretending not to overhear their discussion.

      “I keep phoning this Chaz guy, but he doesn’t answer. I even hooted, but no one comes out.”

      “They’re probably round the front,” said Fundiswa.

      “Actually his name is Chas, you pronounce it ‘Chase’,” said Nina.

      “Hello, hello, hello!” Chas stepped off his back stoep and approached them. He was wearing a pair of cargo shorts and an unbuttoned shirt. His fine brown hair, almost girlish in length, flowed around his shoulders. “Is this my cake? Why don’t you bring it inside?”

      The baker pointed up at the baboon.

      Immediately,