Good Help is Hard to Find
It takes me three taxis to reach Saxonworld where Mrs Carien Devilliers stays—two to reach Gandhi Square and another one to reach Rosebank Mall. Then I walk from Rosebank Mall into the suburb, along pavements lined with oak trees, past gardeners walking dogs whose owners are on their way to work.
Here’s Gretta, the oldest of our group of ladies who make the journey into Saxonworld every morning. Gretta’s sixty-five, pushing retirement, but you’ll never say. Her skin is smooth like the china I keep wrapped in newspaper on the bottom shelf of my kitchen cupboard. Compliment Gretta on her skin and she’s likely to go off on a rant, talking about how keeping skin supple and strong takes years of consistent sunblock application during the day and a cleansing, toning, exfoliating, and moisturising regimen that I doubt even the people at L'Oréal have figured out.
Gretta, me, Maggie and Lerato always walk into Saxonworld together, dropping one another off at the ten-foot gates of our respective employers. Mrs Devilliers’ home is at the end of our street so I’m always the one left to walk that little extra bit of pavement alone with my thoughts.
‘Pamela! Pam!’ Mrs Devilliers calls. I’ve been washing the family’s delicates this morning, noticing the subtle skid marks left by Mr Devilliers who didn’t time one of his bathroom breaks at work very well.
Jarred Thompson's debut novel, The Institute of Creative Dying, is available for preorder on major platforms and is expected on February 1, 2023.
‘Coming.’ I dry my hands and walk up the staircase. Mrs Devilliers is in one of her moods. I can tell because it’s pushing midday, and she still hasn’t gotten out of bed. The burgundy curtains are half-drawn, casting light across the bed and dividing it in two. There’s a half-drunk wine glass on the side counter with an empty bottle of Chenin Blanc on the floor.
‘Yes, mam?’ I say, coming into the bedroom, pretending to be tidying up and not noticing that she’s tipsy before twelve.
‘Have you seen that lilac dress of mine? You know the sexy lacy one with the off-the-shoulder sleeve.’
‘Didn’t you go out with it last week? Remember you asked me to make sure it was clean.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right. The art exhibition. Silly.’ Her voice trails off. I can see she’s remembering something; something she is trying not to remember. When she realises I’m still standing there, she snaps out of it. ‘I just felt like having a little lay in, you know. I’ll be getting up soon.’
‘No rush. I’m still doing washing downstairs.’
She turns to grab the glass of wine and finishes it in one quick gulp, shifting over in the bed and burying her face in the pillows.
I know when Mrs Devilliers has a sleep in, there’s something bothering her. She’s not really the type to lie in bed all day. In fact, when I first started here, she’d wake up before six, go to her morning yoga class, have breakfast at her favourite café in Rosebank, drop the twins off at school, and then come back home to me washing, mopping, sweeping, ironing, polishing, clearing, and tidying every corner of her house. I’d sometimes get to see Mr Devilliers on his way out to work when I arrived at the house. He’d nod and smile in my direction, with his beady eyes lingering a little too long on me for my liking. That was only sometimes though.
Most days, it’s just me and Mrs Devilliers in the house, and on Wednesdays and Fridays, Manuel works in the gardens. When I first started here, she was good at keeping herself busy during the day. She read in the lounge, watched a movie in the TV room, went through cookbooks on the veranda and, some afternoons, worked for hours in the herb and vegetable garden she’d started alongside the house, right next to the tennis court (that no one used). I’d watch her sometimes from the kitchen window as I polished pots and cleaned the stove, wanting to know what was going on in her head while she worked on her plants. I’d watch her put so much effort into that herb garden like she was growing the cure for cancer.
‘Pam, Busi is coming over for a late lunch. Please set up a cute little table for us by the pool. It’s such a warm, sunny day. I need to get my vitamin D.’
‘Yes sure. I’ll do that now before I pick the kids up.’ I’m glad she’s finally managed to get out of the bed.
‘I’ll be upstairs showering if you need me.’ Mrs Devilliers walks over to the wine cabinet and selects another bottle of white, then turns round and walks upstairs like I am not there watching her get drunker by the hour.
She’d never usually drink like this. There was only one occasion where I remember her drinking this much. It was around the time Mr Devilliers asked her to leave her job at the university. Well, it was more like telling than asking. I was coming into the house after hanging up the washing when I heard frantic voices coming from their bedroom. I didn’t want the kids to hear any of that, so I made them sit by the pool and do their homework.
Mrs Devilliers was a big-shot lecturer at one of the universities in Joburg. She never told me which one or what she lectured in. ‘That’s the past, Pam,’ she’d tell me. But it wasn’t much of a mystery to figure out. While cleaning the library, I came across books on art, history, poetry, novels, and plays of all kinds. I guessed her expertise to lie somewhere inbetween all those books.
One day, curiosity got the better of me, and I picked out a book when she had left the house. It was a book of love poetry. I had tried to write poetry in high school, you know, about boys and crushes and periods and not being understood by anyone—the usual teenage things. But I always felt like I was rambling rather than writing poetry. It definitely wasn’t the poetry we were reading in English class. So, I stopped before I passed grade ten.
I sat down on the edge of the couch and opened the book to a random page. Love Letter by Sylvia Plath. It read,
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I’m alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
The sound of the front gate rolling open came through the window, and without thinking, I stuffed the book into my pocket and continued cleaning.
* * *
I pick Paul and Elise up from Rosebank Prep at two o’clock, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Paul has soccer and Elise has piano. They’re twins who look alike although Paul has short hair and Elise’s is long. Other than that, they’re pretty similar. Sometimes, when I’m walking home with them, I like to imagine how they’ll change into grown-ups. Paul will grow facial hair like his father; Elise will have breasts like her mother; Paul’s shoulders will widen; Elise’s hips will do the same.
I tried bringing Simoné to the house sometimes to play with the twins, hoping they’d get along because they’re the same age. But I don’t think Simoné likes coming to the house. She always gets into a fight with one of the twins, usually over something stupid like someone wasn’t playing a game properly. I keep telling Simoné she must choose her friends wisely. ‘You never know what the future might bring,’ I tell her. But that girl doesn’t listen to me.
When we reach the house, I hear Mrs Devilliers and her friend laughing.
‘Oh, Pam.’ Mrs Devilliers waves me over.
‘Coming.’ I send the twins into the house to start on their homework.
“Mrs Devilliers was a big-shot lecturer at one of the universities in Joburg. She never told me which one or what she lectured in. ‘That’s the past, Pam,’ she’d tell me. But it wasn’t much of a mystery to figure out. ”
Mrs Devilliers loves introducing me to her new friends.
‘Busi, this is the godsend I keep telling you about. No one gets stains out my white linen like this woman right here. And this spread! Pam, we were just saying what great attention to detail you have for things. I mean . . . all these lovely little snacks you’ve laid out here are just divine. And the flowers are a nice touch too.’
‘You really are so lucky, Carien,’ Busi says, looking me up and down through her big black sunglasses. ‘Nice to meet you, Pam. Heard only good things.’ She offers her hand for me to shake. Her skin feels like she bathes in coconut oil daily, and her fingernails are a luminous orange that hurts my eyes.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ I smile, wondering why I need to go through this every time Mrs Devilliers feels like having new people over for late lunch. She always does this: pay me compliments about my ‘attention to detail’, tell me how well I set the table, and things like that. It’s like she forgets she’s the one who’s told me exactly how she wants the table set—from snacks to décor to drinks, and what should be poured in which kind of glass. She confuses me sometimes, but I try not to think about it too much.
I’m fortunate enough to have a tea break in my busy work schedule. Gretta, Maggie, and Lerato only get breakfast and lunch. I take my tea on the grass outside the gate, next to Joseph’s security hut. Joseph is a chubby man, armed with a walkie talkie and an expired can of pepper spray. I keep telling him he should replace the pepper spray for his safety, but he says pepper spray doesn’t expire, despite the can clearly having an expiration date emblazoned across it.
‘How’s your wife and son doing?’ I ask as he fiddles with his little radio.
‘They’re good, Pam. Wife is pregnant with another one. Boy just turned four.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely.’
‘Is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
He gives me this look like I should know what he means. But I don’t. I always thought it was much easier raising kids with someone else. We sit in silence after this—Joseph listening to his radio and waving at some of the cars driving by while I sip my tea and soak in the afternoon sun.
‘It’s a bit hot for tea, isn’t it?’ he asks.
‘It actually cools you down.’
He scoffs at me. He’s in a strange mood today. I decide to leave him alone and head back inside through the back gate so Mrs Devilliers won’t see me and feel like calling me over again.
The back gate is located between some hedges leading onto a pathway that sneaks past the pool and into the kitchen through the garage. That’s one of the things I like about this house; it’s easy to move around and not be seen if you know the routines of the people living here. I was walking back to check on the twins when Mrs Devilliers said something that caught my ear.
‘I can’t believe I did that. It was just so out of character for me.’ I stopped on the pathway behind the hedges.
‘Well, I don’t know what to tell you. We were all surprised. But you seemed pretty sure that night,’ Busi said.
‘You know I’ve always had a tiny thing for some women, right?’
‘Yes, but I thought you said that was in your university days. Why don’t we just put it down to the alcohol and never speak about it ever, OK?’
‘But . . . she wants to see me again.’
‘You know that’s a bad idea. She probably thinks she can get something out of you or something.’
‘I doubt that. She’s a successful artist, travelling the globe and all. You know she’s lived in all the major capitals.’
‘Well if she’s so successful, why would she want you?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I mean you’ve never been attracted to the free-spirited type. Men or women.’
‘People change.’
‘Not that much. Look at all this. Look at your life. Why risk something as trivial as a small crush?’
‘Mmmm. I suppose you’re right.’
I felt guilty for listening to their conversation, so I continued walking down the path toward the house.
* * *
On our way to the taxi rank, Lerato tells us her boyfriend is taking her out for their three-month anniversary.
‘Three months? Joh, is that necessary?’ asks Maggie. She’s always been the one to raise clouds on someone’s sunshine.
‘Well, he insisted. Says he’s never felt this way about anyone before.’ ‘Men always say that, don’t they? It’s like standard player 101.’
I can see Lerato is getting irritated with Maggie.
‘Well, I think it’s really sweet. We need sweeter men these days,’ I say, and the troop nod along with me.
‘So, you’re still able to watch Thato for me, right?’ Lerato turns to Gretta who’s lathering hand cream through her fingers.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be by your house around seven.’
‘You’re a life-saver.’ Lerato helps Gretta into the taxi that takes them halfway on their journey back to Diepkloof. Our troop part ways here with Maggie taking the first taxi with me to Gandhi square and walking the rest of the way to the bottom of Marshalltown where she stays.
‘You’d think with all this walking I’d lose some weight, huh?’ She
nudges me with her thighs. I don’t enjoy sitting next to her in taxis, especially if we’re crowded into one of the corners. But she’s a friend, so I grin and take it.
‘Well, you have to eat right too, you know.’
‘Ag, I know but I don’t wanna starve myself either. Plus, the Georges always give me steak and kidney pies for lunch every day. And they’re so damn good.’
That reminds me. I’m not sure what I’m gonna make for Simoné and me for dinner tonight.
* * *
We live in the back quarters of Myles September’s home. He’s the owner of the bottle store down the road—the one store that will never go out of business in Eldorado Park. Simoné is already home when I walk into the kitchen. She knows she must come straight home after school and start on her homework. I used to have someone look after her in the afternoons when she was younger, but thankfully, she grew up and saved me some money.
‘Hey, Ma. How was your day?’
‘Pretty good. Yours?’ I ask.
‘Look. I got a seventy for my essay on Mandela.’
‘Seventy? That’s great! Your mother was more of a sixties girl when it came to essays.’
Nelson Mandela spent twenty-seven years in prison. I start to read her essay, but my mind trails off trying to remember what’s left in the cupboards for dinner. There’s still a can of pilchards in the cupboard. Pilchard casserole it is then.
* * *
We’re watching Isidingo when I hear a knock at the door.
‘Hey, Pam. Listen man, we had a big Sunday lunch this past weekend. So, I thought I should bring you some.’ Myles hands me a dish of mutton curry with some roti wrapped in foil on top of it.
‘That’s so nice of you. I really enjoyed Tessa’s last curry. She’s got such a gift for cooking.’ I take the dish and roti from him, but he’s lingering in the doorway like he wants to say something else.
‘Tessa’s off at her sister’s for the week. Her husband’s gone on one of his drinking binges again.’
‘That’s the second time this month, isn’t it?’
‘It is, ja. So, I guess it’ll just be me all alone in the big house.’
‘That’s why you two should really think about having kids.’
‘Nah, I don’t think kids are for me to be honest.’ He scratches the back of his head and bites the side of his bottom lip. ‘Well, you enjoy that food.’ He reluctantly turns around and heads back across to his back door.
I’ve always been good at handling men. Even when I fell pregnant with Simoné, I knew I wasn’t going to involve her father. There was no need; he gave me what I wanted.
I have trouble sleeping that night. I can’t help but think of Mrs Devilliers and her secret.
A woman. She was with another woman. An artist, she said. An artist that’s lived in all the major cities of the world. Which cities are those? I imagined what such a woman would look like, and how she’d get a person like Mrs Devilliers to step outside her marriage. I imagined she was taller than Mrs Devilliers, with piercings in her ears and tattoos on her forearms. Maybe she only wore black baggy clothes and rarely spoke unless spoken to. Or maybe she liked floral dresses and enjoyed being barefoot in the rain.
After an hour of tossing and turning, I picked up the book of love poetry on my bedside and read a couple of lines from Lily Pond by Vicki Feaver:
Thinking of new ways to kill you
and bring you back from the dead,
I try drowning you in the lily pond—
holding your head down
until every bubble of breath
is squeezed from your lungs.
It’s not long after that I finally fall off to sleep.
* * *
Jungle Oats is cooking on the stove as I sit sorting through my orders for my Honey Jewellery. I just started selling Honey Jewellery last month to save a little more each month. It hasn’t really picked up yet, but I’m hoping with the festive season around the corner things will change. My goal is to be able to put a deposit on one of those up-and-coming blocks of flats in Melville by the end of next year. The flats are closer to Simeone’s school, and it’ll save us a helluva transport money if we moved.
‘Ma, Tarryn is outside.’ Simoné comes into the kitchen in a rush, dishing the oats into a small Tupperware. We say goodbye, wishing each other a good day. I often think about all the little things she goes through during the week that I don’t get to see: like the way her face lights up when she spots her friends at school or how she holds her body while talking to the boy she has a crush on or even the rebellious things, like smoking, that she thinks I don’t know about.
* * *
“I’ve always been good at handling men. Even when I fell pregnant with Simoné, I knew I wasn’t going to involve her father. There was no need; he gave me what I wanted.”
When I get to the Devilliers house, I notice a woman standing outside, dressed in black sweatpants, a floral blouse, and black army boots.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’
‘Oh, thank God, finally someone. Yes, I just came to drop this dress off for Carien. Is she here?’
‘She must just be finishing up with yoga class by now.’
‘Wow, you really know her schedule, don’t you?’
‘She’s a schedule kind of person. Manuel should be here though. Manuel!’
Eventually, Manuel comes around from the back and presses the remote to let us both in.
‘Do you want to wait inside for her? I’m sure she will be home soon.’
‘Is Mr Devilliers here?’
‘I doubt it. He’s usually out quite early.’
‘Then sure. Why not?’
We walk together along the cobbled pathway, past the rosebushes and chrysanthemums. The woman strolls lazily behind me.
‘What’s your name by the way?’ I ask as I let myself in through the garage, feeling like the lady of the house.
‘It’s Nina. They must really trust you if you have your own key.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve been working here for a while,’ I tell her, not explaining that this set of keys only gives me access to a small portion of the bottom half of the house.
We walk inside, and I seat her by the kitchen counter and pour her a glass of orange juice.
‘It shouldn’t be long now,’ I tell her, hoping that Mrs Devilliers shows up soon. Sure, I could have just taken the dress from her and left it at that. But I wanted to invite her in.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re quite beautiful.’ Her words take me by surprise as I put the orange juice in front of her. ‘And you say you’ve been working here a while. What did you say your name was?’
‘It’s Pam. Pamela.’
‘Pa-me-la,’ she says, letting the syllables fall lightly over her lips. ‘Listen, I don’t have a good gauge for what’s inappropriate or not, but I’d really like to feature you in a photographic exhibition I’m doing. It’s called Cleaning. And, basically, I want to document the lives of people like you who work in the houses of people who live in the suburbs of Joburg.’
‘What?’ This all takes me by surprise, and I step back to compose myself.
‘Yes, but it’s not just about you as a cleaner. I want to capture you in your best dresses when you’re out with your friends or when you’re just at home with your family cooking a meal. I want to get at the texture of your life and let it come through in photography. Does that make sense?’
Her words wash over me as I watch her body contort in enthusiasm, her hands moving left and right. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around all of it when the book of poetry (that I carry with me everywhere) slips out of my uniform’s pocket. Nina reaches down to pick it up before I can get to it.
‘A collection of the most moving love poetry,’ she reads. ‘That’s cute.’ She hands it back to me just before Mrs Devilliers walks in.
‘Nina,’ she says, putting her handbag down.
‘Carien.’
I walk out the kitchen pretending not to sense the building tension in the air. But it wasn’t the tension I expected it would be. The women sat in the kitchen all morning, moving from cups of tea to glasses of gin and tonic, just talking.
Later, when I took my afternoon tea next to Joseph’s hut, I noticed that another young man was sitting there.
‘What happened to Joseph? Is he sick?’
‘You didn’t hear? He got mugged on his way home last night.’
‘Oh my God, is he okay?’
‘He will be. But he was beaten up pretty badly. I’m his replacement.’
‘Is he going to come back here?’
‘Eish. I don’t know. The bosses don’t like it when we put them in situations like this.’
‘But it wasn’t his fault.’
‘Still, you know.’ He raises his hands as if I should know what he means. I’m too disturbed to press on for more detail, so I go back inside.
I saw them. While drinking my tea in one of the guest bedrooms, I saw Mrs Devilliers and Nina through the window behind the tennis court fence. I could only see the top half of their bodies, but from the way Mrs Devilliers was reacting, I knew Nina’s hand was somewhere it shouldn’t be. I watched Mrs Devilliers turn her face up to the blue sky, wince, then bow her head on Nina’s shoulders as if crying. All the while Nina’s gaze was fixed on her, briefly taking moments to look around to make sure no one was watching.
* * *
When I push open the door leading into our kitchen, I expect it to give way. But it’s locked. ‘Simoné,’ I call, looking through the kitchen window. The house is deserted. She always comes straight home after school. She would have messaged me if something changed. What if she got picked up by someone? What if she’s missing? No, calm down. There must be an explanation.
‘Simoné,’ I call again, beating on the door. Still, no answer. My stomach gets that tight, knotted feeling. I don’t know what to do, so I go over to Myles and knock on his door, hoping he’s home.
‘Oh hey, Ma,’ Simoné answers with Myles standing further down the corridor.
‘What are you doing here? I didn’t say you can come here.’ I pull open the security gate and take her by the arm.
‘Woah, relax Pam. I was just helping her with her maths homework.’
‘Ma, I was struggling to get this word problem right, and I thought Myles could help. He’s always bragging about how he got a distinction in Maths in Matric.’
I look from Simoné to Myles, trying to read what might not be there. ‘You have to tell me where you go, baby girl. You know I can’t always be around to watch you and make sure you’re safe. Please, man. You know all these things that have been happening on the news.’
‘Your mother’s right. You should have let her know.’ He hands me her schoolbag and shows me the maths problems he was helping her with. I thank him and walk across the yard to our cottage. As we walk away, I can feel his eyes digging into our backs.
I need to move out of here.
* * *
‘So Nina called. She wants you to be a part of a photography project?’ Mrs Devilliers asks as I’m on my knees scrubbing out some mud the twins left on the carpet.
‘Oh okay. When and where?’
‘Are you actually going to do it?’
‘Should I not?’
‘I just thought you weren’t interested in those things.’
‘Well, it sounds like fun.’
‘Oh. Okay. Well, I’ll give her your number then. Oh, and Pam, I noticed some broken glass behind the fridges in the wine cellar. Just move them out and clean under them, will you?’ She pulls her lips towards her ears, showing the wrinkles on the side of her eyes.
‘Okay,’ I say, dunking the carpet brush in the bucket of soap next to me.
* * *
After cleaning the cellar, I find Mrs Devilliers reading in the library.
‘Mam, I found this beside one of the fridges.’ I put the lacy black underwear on the coffee table beside her.
‘Oh, that must have fallen out of my gym bag when I went down there to get my shake.’ Mrs Devilliers doesn’t keep her shakes in the cellar fridges. She thinks I’m dumb.
‘Yes, that must be it.’ I turn to head out the room before she calls me back.
‘Oh, Pam. Are you still selling Honey Jewellery?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’d love to buy some for Christmas. Maybe get a cute bracelet for Kate. You know she’s going to be a teenager soon.’
‘That’s a great idea, mam. I’ll bring over a booklet tomorrow.’ I walk out the library, biting my bottom lip and trying hard not to smile.
* * *
I’m cleaning the windows of the study upstairs when I spot Nina by the gate. It’s not long before Mrs Devilliers walks down the pathway and meets her there. There are some wild hand gestures between them as the volume of their voices gets louder. Then Mrs Devilliers throws a pair of lacy black underwear in Nina’s face. Nina laughs, gets into her car, and drives away.
I watch Mrs Devilliers head back down the driveway and round the side of the house, her face expressionless like she’s just snorted mind-numbing drugs. I try to see where she’s going, but by the time I reach the front patio, she’s already thrown herself into the pool— clothes and all.
‘Carien!’ I run out into the sunlight and dive head-first into the pool after her. She resists my attempts to help her and then tries weighting her body down to the bottom of the pool. Fortunately, my job has given me all the muscles I need to haul her from the water and drag her onto the grass.
When I get her there, we both sit and stare at each other. Then Mrs Devilliers starts laughing—a shrilling cackle that unravels into tears. I don’t know what to do, so I hold her close to my chest. She continues laughing and crying, her body writhing like a manic doll in my arms.
First Published in Yellow Means Stay: An Anthology of Love Stories from Africa
Jarred Thompson’s debut novel, The Institute of Creative Dying, is now available.
About the Author
Jarred Thompson is the winner of the 2020 Afritondo Prize and has been the recipient of several prestigious scholarships, including The Global Excellence and Stature Scholarship, The Chris van Wyk Creative Writing Scholarship, two National Arts Council Grants and an NRF nGAP Scholarship.
He is a literary and cultural studies researcher and educator and works as a lecturer in the English Department at the University of Pretoria. His debut novel, The Institute for Creative Dying, can be pre-ordered here.
