Short Writings from Bulawayo

The Queue

40 The Queue Bryony Rheam From her window, Mrs Atkinson looked out across the garden. The yellowing rag of a lawn stretched down to the washing line, and beyond that lay the vegetable garden. This itself was little more than a blur on her horizon, short sighted as she was. It was hot. The air was dry with the fierce heat of summer. A film of sweat lay cool across her skin. She ran her tongue absently along her top lip, tasting the saltiness with exhaustion. It was half past two on a Saturday afternoon, too hot still to go outside. A quietness has descended and stilled the house. Perhaps it was stupid to think it quieter than any other day? She lived alone – why should today be any different to any other day of the week? Yet there did seem to be a different feeling about Saturday afternoons; it was as though the whole world was quiet. She turned the tap on and let the water run into a plastic bucket. It would be foolish to waste water at this time of year; the rainy season was never guaranteed. The water in the bucket could be used later. When the water ran colder, she filled a glass and raised it to her lips. Until then she hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. She held the tap in one hand and continued to drink, all the time looking out of the window at the heat shimmering just above the lawn. She almost wanted to pour the water onto it, and put out the white flames before they ate their way through more of the garden, their fingers drawing every drop of moisture from the earth. There was a knock at the back door; it was Robinson, the gardener. He stood alongside his bicycle; it had once belonged to her son, Barry. Rose had given it to him the Christmas before last. He had been over the moon at the sight of it and had painted it shiny black and replaced the handlebars with those from a racing bike. He was smart in a light blue suit and white shirt. Rose felt hot just looking at him. His two-tone brogues were polished to a brilliant gleam and a ring on his right hand glinted brightly when it caught the sun. He had on a pair of sunglasses and a light blue hat that matched his suit. 41 Robinson shifted the bike slightly and grinned apologetically at her. She knew what he wanted. It was the look he gave her when he wanted to borrow money. “Yes, Robinson,” she said, waiting for the expected question, sipping the water patiently. “Madam,” began Robinson, his grin expanding rapidly, “please, I need to borrow some money for the weekend.” Rose breathed deeply in and out. The silence of the afternoon seemed to breathe with her. “What is it for this time?” she asked, although she didn’t know why she bothered; she lent him the money no matter how strange or convoluted the reason was. Jack had criticised her for being too soft, but there was always a smile playing somewhere on his lips and sometimes he would ruffle her hair in a fatherly manner and kiss the top of her head. Jack. It all seemed such a long time ago. “My brother has come from Kezi. He was promised a job down there” - here he pointed with his left hand towards the gate – “in Riverside, but then the man said to him no job, so now he must go back to Kezi.” Rose suddenly felt irritated. Was there a brother? “You really must try and save your money,” she said crossly. “I cannot afford to keep giving you loans all the time. I need money too.” Robinson grinned, embarrassed yet certain he had won his way. Rose walked over to the kitchen table and took her purse from her bag which was hanging over the back of a chair. She took out two hundred and fifty dollars and looked at it for a second. Putting the fifty back in her purse, she walked back to the door and handed him the two purply blue notes. He had taken off his glasses and his eyes flickered over the money. He stood holding them, peeling one back as if to check there weren’t more there. Immediately she knew it was not enough. “Ah, madam,” he said with an apologetic laugh, “it is now...