Open Writing

The milk shop seemed to have grown suddenly quiet. Olivia Frampton arched her eyebrows in anticipation of Ingrid's reply.

"The baby's doing well," she managed to say at last. "I gather the specialist obstetrician did an outstanding job because Mum gives a happy little sigh every time she tells the story of how he laid the little fellow in her arms just after they cut the cord."

"Ah!" Olivia smiled. "That's nice! Isn't that nice, Nunny?"

Olivia turned to the petite coloured woman behind the counter who, to Ingrid's annoyance, nodded obligingly. "What's his name, dear?"

"L … Luke," Ingrid stammered. "But I have to go …"

Before she could move, however, Olivia gripped her arm. "Luke, you say?"

"Yes, but …" Ingrid allowed herself to be detained a little longer. "I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Olivia. He’s six weeks old already."

Olivia cocked her head indulgently. "Yes, yes. It’s just nice to get it from the horse’s mouth, as they say. One doesn’t get the full story on the grapevine, you know?"

Without thinking, Ingrid blurted, "I suppose the grapevine's been pretty busy, has it?"

"Oh no!" Olivia’s cheeks turned pink. "No, dear, that’s not what I meant! Naturally, I’ve not listened to any gossip. And besides, who has any right to judge another? I was simply asking for the sake of knowing how Tracey is coping. We mothers all know how hard it is to adjust to a first baby, don’t we Nunny?"

To Ingrid's horror, the coloured woman behind the counter cackled knowingly. Olivia, too, let out a hoot of laughter and clutched Ingrid to her ample bosom. Ingrid was so embarrassed that she said curtly, "Actually, Olivia, Tracey’s doing fine. She’s got it easy. Mum organized her a fulltime childminder who bottle-feeds Luke and changes his nappies. She doesn’t have a clue about what motherhood’s really like. Not a clue."

"Oh." Olivia seemed taken aback. She glanced sideways at the shop assistant before twittering soothingly, "I understand, dear. You’re feeling unsupported while Tracey has all the support she needs. It’s natural, isn’t it, with your husband away? Still, it must be hard for you …"

Her voice trailed off but her eyebrows hovered near her dyed-auburn hairline. On the other side of the counter, the petite coloured woman appeared to be holding her breath as well.

It seemed to Ingrid as if the milk shop, apart from having grown quiet, suddenly darkened as well. In a flat voice, she said, "Things aren’t exactly peachy at the moment, you’re right there." She bent to gather her packets of milk, at which the shop assistant thrust out her hand.

"Ninety four rand, madam. Please?" Crossly, Ingrid put down the packets again. Her purse was at the bottom of her handbag. By the time she'd found it and retrieved a hundred-rand note, Olivia was ready with her next question.

"Tell me, dear, will Tracey go back and continue her studies next year? It was such a pity that she had to come home from college so soon. We all thought she'd make a really good graphic designer. Such a pity!"

All trace of brashness had vanished from Olivia’s tone and she was full of clucking concern.

Surprised by this sudden shift, Ingrid tempered her own response. "It is a pity and I hope Tracey wakes up to the fact soon. But if she goes back to college next year, I don’t know who'll look after Luke. I certainly can’t."

"No, of course not," Olivia agreed. “It is rather complicated, isn’t it? Do you think she’ll stay here in town then?"

"I expect so." The thought didn’t excite Ingrid, however. Having an unmarried mother living permanently in their home wouldn’t be healthy for Caroline and Debbie. Even if she were to move into Alice and Vernon’s house, she would still be too close for comfort.

The shop door creaked open. Two men staggered in, carrying a tall stack of milk crates. Olivia stepped back in alarm. "Oh dear," she squawked. "It looks as if we've been invaded!" The men dropped the stack of crates on the floor in front of one of the refrigerators. Instantly, the woman behind the counter began rattling off abuse in Zulu, and Ingrid headed towards the door, followed closely by Olivia.

"Aren’t you going to buy your milk?" asked Ingrid in surprise.

"Oh no!" Olivia laughed. "We get it delivered to the surgery first thing every morning. Little Nunny looks after us very well, don’t you sweetheart?" She waved to the woman, who waved back. "Bye bye, then! See you tomorrow!"

The screen door slammed shut behind them. Ingrid stood blinking in the bright sunshine. Olivia’s large Mercedes was parked precariously halfway up the grassy bank with tyre marks to indicate how fast she'd swung in.

"Must get this tank out of the way so you can go," trilled the other woman gaily. "Nice chatting, dear! Give my love to Alice, won’t you?"

"Will do." But she wouldn't. Something about the encounter had disturbed Ingrid deeply. She couldn’t get over the familiar manner in which Olivia had addressed the shop assistant. Sweetheart? Wasn’t that going a bit too far? It might be the new South Africa, the Rainbow Nation and the eve of the new millennium but, to her mind, this was overcompensating.