Marcella Phillips

Nicky lifted the battered aluminum pan of water onto her flattened head and slowly made her way up the muddy path to her hut. The river had overflowed again and the water she drew was murky; she would have to boil it, then bleach it. Nicky took nothing for granted. Bleach was something she'd come to depend on, but she hated dependency. And she dreaded the power of bleach.

Still, as the years passed, Nicky tended to clean, over-clean and re-clean. Nothing ever stayed clean long enough for her. There was always the threat of a whiff of dust lurking at the back of her mind.

She hadn't always been that way. Neither had her mother.

Things began to change in Nicky's life after she was sent away to live with her grandmother, a burly, dark, ageing woman who suffered from elephantiasis, intolerance and pride. Nicky could always hear her grandmother, whom she called Aunt May, muttering under a low, raspy breath, 'I don't know what you or your mother could do without me. You will be grateful, eternally.' Nicky was a brilliant girl and knew that her grandmother's 'could' should be 'would' and her 'would' should be 'should'. But she had failed to realise then that her grandmother always chose her words wisely, because, as she told her, 'You will have to give account for every idle word.'

Nicky eventually became a little prude. She always sat on an old, wooden chair, polished to perfection, with her hands daintily clasped and her chin poised at a ridiculous level, turned slightly to the right. Her eyes always followed the direction of her button nose, looking nowhere in particular, observing nothing of interest, but deceiving many - except her mother.

One unfortunate day, after visiting her own mother in her hometown, Nicky's mother drew close to her and studied her face, then turned away in disgust. 'You're just like her now,' she said to Nicky. 'Don't come back here again.'

Nicky was incredulous, confused, hurt. She couldn't believe her mother could resent her simply because she reminded her of Aunt May.

Since then Nicky had strove to be unlike Aunt May. She tried harder to focus on things beyond the limited boundary of her grandmother. She began to notice a house, from her little chair, perched to the right of her grandmother's hut. But she found it difficult to be like anyone else; her grandmother became all she knew. There was no one else to esteem and admire - not until she met the boy next door.

Troy was the typical country boy - he disliked 'town' girls. He also enjoyed causing a riot with his cricket bat and ball, and could often be seen tossing the ball high in the air then swinging mercilessly at it and missing.

One day, while playing by himself on a hot Thursday afternoon near his neighbour's hut, Troy made an unusual calculation and actually hit the old ball, now pink and battered from a great fondness. The ball skyrocketed through the air and landed over the barbed wire fence of Miss Jones' hut. Troy was petrified. He had heard for a fact that Miss Jones was a tyrant: a stern, retired schoolteacher with a fondness for her whip. Troy's friend, Milo, even told him that she enjoyed beating boys - especially the ones who came near her hut.

Miss Jones seemed to have lived there before the birth of the community. All the parents and grandparents knew that, and Troy often wondered if her eccentric behaviour was the reason why his house had been built at a distance from her, and that no house was built to the left of her hut. There were only the overrun farmlands that people opted to leave that way. But there were many houses to the right of Troy's - houses that his father said were built a long time before theirs.

While Troy was pondering the mystery surrounding Miss Jones, a girl in a simple pink and yellow dress came walking up to him. Troy was dumbstruck. Milo had always said that Miss Jones had no family or friends, that she was a hermit, and that all hermits eventually became witches. He'd read that in a true-true book. In any case, anyone seen at the hut could only be her evil or ignorant assistant. Troy didn't always believe the older, more experienced Milo. He certainly couldn't now at the sight of the girl, since he associated evil with ugliness. But this girl he thought oddly attractive - at least, until they exchanged words.

Troy spoke first. He knew he was actually talking and not imagining that he was, but he had no clue what he was talking about, and neither, it seemed, did the girl. She stood looking at him as if she had seen a strange creature and could not decipher the babble coming from its mouth. It must have been something about his ball, though, because she turned and picked it up, carefully bending with her butt tucked low and close to the ground. She tossed the ball over the fence, pretending not to care if the boy would catch it. But he caught it, and she seemed pleased.

'Hey, you fling ball good, man! You wan' play cricket sometime?'

The girl looked at him with surprise that quickly changed to disdain. Troy was puzzled. He thought she'd looked interested at first, but at once she made him feel like a disgusting dog playing with a nasty ball and covered in its own saliva.

Troy turned on his heels and left. He never understood girls. He always thought they were strange. One minute they would smile and play with you, the next they would poke you in the eye. He knew this all too well. He had a sister - she was nine months old.

The next afternoon, as early as he could, Troy made his way to Miss Jones' fence. He was not disappointed. There, sitting on an old, wooden chair, was the strange young girl who wore quaint dresses. She was in a two-toned blue dress that looked like his mother's apron. Her hands were clasped in her lap.

Troy thought it strange and a bit unnerving. Was she preparing for her Sabbath, he wondered. Many of the girls in his community were Adventists, but he worshipped on Sundays, along with most of the boys in the community. He had thought it unusual once, but was happy for the chance to play cricket with the boys after Sunday school; they always ditched 'big church' when the opportunity presented itself. He had convinced himself that girls were no fun, but now he hoped the girl next door would be.

Then he remembered the look.

Nicky spotted the boy by the fence and wondered why the bumpkin was looking at her. Surely he hadn't lost the ball again!

'Psst!' Troy beckoned.

Nicky looked at him quizzically (the supposedly 'important' look her grandmother had taught her), then rose disinterestedly from her seat. She was slim - her grandmother particularly despised fat females, and kept no mirror on her walls. Nicky once asked her grandmother about this, only to be blasted with, 'I'll be your mirror, child!' Then she slowly realised why she had to scrub the pots so shiny, 'so shiny you can see your face in it.' Only the face; and it always looked ghoulish.

Nicky's hands became coarse. Perfect for cricket, she thought. But Aunt May always took her small hands and kneaded them in coconut oil. Nicky hated the smell and feel of it.

'Yes?' She said to the boy.

'Hello.' And that was all he said for what seemed like ages.

Nicky looked exasperated. 'You know, if you want to say something you should say it. I have better things to do with my time.'

'Like what, look into space?' Troy countered.

'That is none of your business. Anyway, I don't need company to do that.'

'What is your name?'

'Nicolette.'

'Oh. My baby sister name Nicky, too.'

'But my name is Nicolette.

'Same difference.' Troy was offended. 'You think you better than me, don't it? You an' your granny - if it's you granny.'

'Goodbye.' Nicky tossed her head and stormed back to the hut.

'You no have no hair fi shake, board-head gal!'

Failing to provoke a response from her, he walked away.

Troy wondered how some poor people could behave as if they were better than everybody else - even than those better off than they. A few days later, he and his friends were coming from Sunday school when they saw Nicky seated in 'big church' with Miss Jones. She wore a hideous green and white dress with lace and frills all the way up to her chin. She seemed miserable, but was keeping up appearances.

The boys began making fun of her. When church was over Troy could see the old ladies tugging at Nicky's chin and pinching her cheek, all the time exclaiming at how adorable she was, and he felt a bit sorry for her. She had no friends and nothing to amuse herself with. If only she were not such a prude, he would be her friend. But Miss Jones had a strange and strong hold on her. Nicky could go nowhere without having the overbearing Miss Jones checking her every move.

The hut where they lived was old and rotting. One day a strong thunderstorm knocked the hut down to just drenched wood. No one offered to help them but Troy's family. They had seen what had happened. Miss Jones and Nicky stayed at Troy's house for a week and seemed so humbled.

That week Nicky talked with Troy. He was surprised, and started thinking that he needed more storms to make her cordial. Then he realised that it was mere civility - part of her training. Troy resented her - eating his seconds and getting the constant sympathy of his parents. Even the baby got less attention. She cried a lot and he had now to attend to her. He was ecstatic when, at the week's end, Miss Jones surprised everyone by announcing that she would be moving into a nearby hut by her daughter.

That was the last time Troy ever saw or heard of Nicky.

Twelve years later Nicky was on her own, in her own hut. She had her independence but still felt chained by her grandmother's upbringing. She slipped in the mud and muttered under her raspy breath that she would have to bleach her dress after bleaching the water and re-polishing the wooden floors. Her dress had to remain white and clean. It was her last dress from Aunt May. She would cherish it, if not its donor. She would wash it and admire it, hanging it on her makeshift line, which was the only way she could see it properly - for she, too, had no mirror. The river would have to suffice, she thought, though not just then. The water was muddy and she couldn't see herself.