The Fetch. Finuala Dowling

tone of one speaking in his area of expertise, “breasts do not lurk. They peep discreetly from their hiding place.”

      “You can’t call this peeping discreetly!” said Sharon, pulling the fabric back from Nina’s cleavage.

      “Very nice,” said Neville. “Very nice bazoombas. Though, I’m a small-breast man, myself. Dolly, for example,” he continued. “I always used to fancy hers. Almost nothing on top at all, just these slightly raised nipples. Very classy.”

      “And how would you know what Chas’s wife’s breasts looked like?” asked Sharon.

      “Come on! You used to see her yourself, prancing around the tidal pool without her bikini top.”

      Nina imagined that hell might be like this: being mauled by a tall woman in tight stonewashed jeans while her husband pointed out one’s aesthetic shortcomings and spoke admiringly of an ectomorph.

      “Leave her alone. Can’t you see that the poor girl is shy?” said Fundiswa.

      “But that’s the whole problem,” said Sharon. “She shouldn’t be shy. She should be proud. Stick your chest out.” She demonstrated. “When I walk into a room, everyone turns their heads and thinks ‘Who is that woman?’ ”

      “That’s true,” said Neville loyally. “When Sharon walks into a room, everyone turns to look at her. But, Nina, my lovey, no one notices you. You slip in like a little mouse.”

      “A mouse!” Nina felt utter despair.

      They heard slow, heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase that led from the lawn to the deck and then the manly voice of Dot Fawkes, Chas’s mother.

      “A mouse? More pest problems, Neville? What this place of yours needs is a jolly good fumigation.”

      Neville stood up. “Sit here, Mrs Fawkes. Let me get you a brandy and soda.”

      “Thank you, Neville. And an ashtray, please. Chas is a little delayed, as usual, but I thought I’d better set out on my own because I have to walk slowly these days.” She sat down, looking displeased. “This chair doesn’t have very much back support.” She looked across at Fundiswa. “I usually sit in that chair, don’t I? I need the armrests.”

      Fundiswa stood up obligingly so that they could switch chairs.

      Thanks to Mrs Fawkes, Nina sank back into happy obscurity. In the old woman’s ruined face she could trace the origins of Chas’s noble profile. Mrs Fawkes’s hair, what little remained of it, was cropped short. Her hairdresser had set it in rollers to create the illusion of volume and height, exposing her scalp in the process. She had elegant hands, though, a diamond ring on each.

      “I wonder,” said Mrs Fawkes, “if I might not feel the chill soon.”

      The customer who had complained of the cockroach was now leaving, and seeing a brown face pass by, Mrs Fawkes called out: “Excuse me, could I have one of the blankets you keep under the counter?”

      The man did a double-take, but went back inside to fetch Mrs Fawkes a blanket. Right behind him came Neville, with Mrs Fawkes’s brandy and soda.

      “That man isn’t a member of staff, you know. He’s a customer,” said Fundiswa.

      “I don’t care if he’s Marie of Romania,” said Mrs Fawkes, “as long as I don’t catch a chill. Thanks,” she added as Sharon lit her cigarette for her. “Aren’t you feeling the cold in that little vest of yours?”

      “I’m so hot,” said Sharon. “And I’m not just talking about the weather.” She put her hand on her hip and jutted her chest out once again.

      It was possibly the warmest evening of the summer; all the children from the tents and caravans were playing cricket on the grass in T-shirts and shorts, smoke rose from the first braai fires of the evening. The clubhouse balcony had a good view of the tidal pool and the garden of Midden House. There, too, the balmy weather was evident in the general state of undress. Nina watched as Chas emerged from the garden gate and cut across the caravan park towards them, his shirt now partly buttoned in deference to the occasion. She had been starting to feel calmer, but now her heart ran ahead of her again.

      He called out his usual greeting – “Hello, hello, hello!” – as he bounded up the steps. It was more an announcement, really; a call for attention. “Enjoying the rough male kiss of blankets, I see, Mother.” He bent to her proffered kiss. Then, seeing Neville’s newspaper, he added: “I hope you’re all reading my deathless prose.”

      “Sorry, I hadn’t got to your section yet,” said Neville. He pulled out the arts supplement and flipped open its pages. “Let’s see what Chas Fawkes has to say today. Our man from Slangkop. He’s reviewing some musical. Oh, this is good: you call it ‘a tsunami of camp …’ That’s very good. Very good turn of phrase.”

      “It makes you want to see the show,” said Sharon. “What I like about your reviews is the way you give us these vinaigrettes. It’s the little vin -aigrettes that make it, don’t you think, Nina?”

      “I think you mean …” But no one was listening to her.

      “I wish you wouldn’t write like that,” said Mrs Fawkes. “So over the top. And that word, ‘camp’! People will assume that you’re an old queen.”

      “There’s nothing old about me,” said Chas.

      “And you’re not homosexual,” said his mother.

      “Is there anyone else coming?” asked Fundiswa. “Perhaps we could get this meeting started. What about Emmanuel?”

      “He’s otherwise engaged, serving drinks to Chas’s guests. In any case, he wouldn’t come to something like this.” Mrs Fawkes was from the old school.

      “William might come,” said Neville.

      “William! When was the last time he ever attended a community forum?” asked Mrs Fawkes.

      “I don’t know,” said Neville. And then added, as if by way of explanation: “He was here earlier, buying chocolate.”

      Chas looked over the railings of the deck. “Here he is! William!” he called out. “Welcome!”

      William was tall, slope-shouldered, somewhat shambling. The sun caught his coppery hair and beard. He was wearing his standard uniform of baggy knee-length shorts and green rugby socks with trainers. The shirt – loud and island-style – was not something Nina had seen him wear before.

      William smiled at everyone, but then seemed to fix his gaze on Nina. He sat beside her; she could feel his eyes willing her to look his way.

      As if it weren’t bad enough, Nina thought, that she had missed the small window of opportunity one gets to lose one’s virginity, only wild-looking, oddly dressed men like this one, or worse, ever showed any interest in her. She looked across at Chas, whose soft brown hair swung down to his tanned, clean-shaven jaw, whose shirt was tastefully plain, hoping for some acknowledgement. But Chas was scrutinising William.

      “Can we offer you a drink, William? Vodka, isn’t it?” asked Chas as if the clubhouse were his establishment.

      “Vodka. Yes, thanks,” said William. He was eager, his hands gripping his knees as if in anticipation of fun times.

      “And what do you like with that?” asked Sharon.

      “Anything you have,” said William. “I mix it with anything. Cold tea, even.”

      “Well, you’re in civilised company here,” said Sharon. “So I’ll give you a vodka and Coke.”

      William looked even more pleased.

      Neville handed out copies of the agenda, and when Sharon returned with William’s drink, proceedings began.

      “We’ve got apologies from Kobus and Gareth, who you can see over there on the rocks, praying for a white