Free Love in Revolution by B.R. Collins Page A

elastic band round it with a snap. ‘Good evening, Dr Bidart, Mrs Bidart . . . I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything . . .’
    Papa moved the corners of his mouth into a smile and crossed to the door to show him out. I heard him say, ‘Thank you for coming, and do excuse my son – students, you know, he’s at a rebellious age . . .’ Then the front door opened and shut again.
    Martin shook his head and hissed through his teeth, glaring at Leon, ‘Great idea, Leon! Just insult the police, why don’t you? To their faces. Why don’t you draw a bullseye on your shirt and invite yourself to the station for target practice?’
    ‘Be quiet, Martin,’ Mama said, her voice cracking like a whip. ‘Esteya, I cannot credit your stupidity in losing your key! I’m disgusted and disappointed in you both. And as for you, Leon –’ She stopped, catching herself, and shrugged.
    Papa came back into the room. He looked round at us, dropped into the nearest chair and dabbed at his eyes as if they were hurting. After a while he said, ‘I looked after his brother’s little girl, when she was ill. Poor little thing. I tried my best, but she was too far gone . . . They had no money, they hadn’t wanted to call me in, until it was too late . . . They’ve never forgiven me.’
    ‘And now they have a reason to hate Leon too,’ Mama said. She sounded waspish, but her face was white and strained.
    ‘They don’t need reasons ,’ Leon said. ‘They’re the self-serving skivvies of a corrupt regime, and –’
    ‘Be quiet !’ Papa said. He took a deep breath and looked at Mama. She returned his gaze, without saying anything.
    The silence went on and on. In the end Martin said, ‘I’m hungry.’
    ‘Yes,’ Mama said, ‘I suppose you’d better wash before supper. Esteya, you’ve got ink all over your hands. I hope you haven’t left black fingerprints all over your school uniform . . . Leon, perhaps you could try to look a little more respectable . . . ? And Martin, you’ve been playing pello in your good shoes again, haven’t you? Honestly, I don’t know why I bother . . .’ Her voice sounded too thin, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. She made her way to the door, holding on to the furniture to support herself, like an old woman. ‘Go on, children. Do get a move on.’
    Leon went out without a word, his hands in his pockets, and Martin followed him, more slowly. I stood up too, but the floor felt soft and wobbly, as though I was standing on a plate of jell y ?. My stomach ached. I said, ‘Sorry, Mama.’
    ‘Oh, Esteya . . .’ She glanced at me, and then sat down, very suddenly, on the nearest chair. ‘If only you hadn’t been so silly . . . we probably shan’t get anything back, and that horrid policeman . . . and Leon being so –’
    She broke off, and ran her forefingers delicately under her eyes. I realised, with a surge of sickness, that she was crying. I said again, pushing the words out, ‘I’m sorry . . .’
    ‘Run away, Esteya,’ Papa said. ‘We’re all a little overtired, with the upset. Go and wash your hands for supper.’
    I swallowed, took a last look at Mama and went out into the hall. I shut the door behind me and then sat on the stairs, my head in my hands. I was too tired to wash my hands; too tired to move. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I never wanted to eat again. It was all my fault. My fault, for being so stupid, for trusting Skizi, when everyone knew the Zikindi were thieving bastards . . . I thought of all the spaces in the drawing room, where Mama’s little cherished things had been; and of the sergeant’s face when he called Leon a Communist, with that malicious, triumphant edge in his voice – the same tone he’d used when he’d said, Mr Edwards is having a word with my colleagues down at the station . . . Now the police had noticed Leon, and that was dangerous. Maybe Papa should never have called them. But if Skizi hadn’t robbed us, he wouldn’t have needed to.