Free Leopold Blue by Rosie Rowell Page A

turning it around in her hand, whispered, ‘Vixen.’
    My parents had pulled themselves together by lunchtime; Mum had even changed into a dress and brushed her hair. Dad cast an eye over us all, seated at the table on the stoep. He picked up the roasting pan of meat.
    â€˜Don’t be shy, Xanthe. There’s one hang of a lot of meat here.’
    â€˜I’m vegetarian,’ she said.
    â€˜Hey?’ Dad looked at her, putting the roasting dish down. ‘That’s not healthy, my girl. Our bodies need meat. We’re hunters, after all. Ask the doctor,’ he said, motioning to Mum. ‘She’ll tell you.’
    Instead Mum passed Xanthe the salad. ‘Tell us about your family,’ she said.
    â€˜My father is a businessman and my mother is a busybody.’
    â€˜Busybody!’ Beth snorted.
    â€˜I’m sure she has a lot on,’ said Mum.
    â€˜Not really, if you discount bridge and tennis,’ replied Xanthe. ‘Do you work?’ Xanthe couldn’t have chosen a worse subject. The topic of Mum’s career was avoided in our house.
    â€˜No, I don’t,’ Mum said in her sarcastic, ‘
here’s-an-amusing-little-story-that’s-not’
tone. ‘After my fifth application to the hospital, the superintendent took pity on me and explained that not even a black man would consider it proper to be treated by a woman.’ Mum laughed. ‘So.’
    The only way the townsfolk understood Mum was to treat her as a ‘character’, like Witbooi. Mum was the token English person: predictably outspoken and unfathomably odd. She didn’t seem to mind it, but I did. I wanted her to be normal. I wanted to be proud of her.
    I glanced at Dad. What Mum never noticed was that every time she told that story Dad looked as though she were blaming him, not the town.
    â€˜It’s not all bad though,’ I said brightly. ‘It’s freed up your time to harass the workers about your killer disease and hand out condoms at the clinic.’
    Mum was ready with a reply but thought better of it.
    â€˜Such a lovely name, Xanthe,’ she said as she passed Xanthe the mealies. ‘Very unusual for this country. Of course, in Greek it means –’
    â€˜Golden,’ said Xanthe.
    â€˜Yes.’ Mum’s surprise made her voice high.
    â€˜My mother chose it because of my blonde hair.’ Xanthe replied nonchalantly. She leaned across the table and helped herself to the salt and pepper.
    â€˜When did it turn so dark?’ I asked.
    â€˜Every two weeks, when I colour it,’ replied Xanthe, now buttering the bread roll on her side plate.
    â€˜Why would you do that?’ exclaimed Beth. She ached to have Barbie-blonde hair.
    â€˜To piss my mother off,’ said Xanthe with a grin, looking directly at Mum.
    My hand froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. Beth and I exchanged glances. Mum didn’t tolerate swearing. It showed ‘a lack of imagination’. But Mum laughed and shook her head,
    â€˜Honestly, Xanthe, you’re a dreadful child. Margaret comes from Greek too,’ she continued, looking at me. Her face was softer than I’d seen for a long time. ‘It means pearl.’
    After lunch we moved to the lawn. Beth and I sat in our rust-rickety garden chairs; faces tilted up and awkwardly back, carefully positioned to allow our lemon-drenched hair as much sun as possible. Peach yoghurt formed a thin crust on our faces. You were supposed to use unflavoured, but nobody in our house ate plain yoghurt. Covering each eyelid was a damp teabag. We were following
Just Seventeen’s ‘
Beverly Hills Blitz’
;
we were metamorphosising into Babes. Xanthe took shelter under the pecanut tree. The sharp, chemical smell of her Vixen nail polish hovered over us, unable to soften into the honeysuckle sky. As she waited for each coat to dry, Xanthe read us articles from the magazine.
    A thwack of a page.