Read Online The Boy Next Door by Irene Sabatini - Free Book Online Page A

old-time’s sakes.
    Walking up the footbridge from the railway station, he said that his best memory of school was his class visit when he was
     in Standard One, when he was seven or so. The history teacher, Mr. Scolds, took them, and if there was ever a name to fit
     anyone, Scolds was it.
    “Boy, could that man let rip.”
    Anyway, on that day, he remembers being allowed to go on his own in the yard, looking at the carriages and engines, making
     drawings, notes, scrambling on the locomotives to check something out.
    “It felt good to be out there; I reckon Mr. Scolds took off to the bar because when he finally pitched up he was way too happy.
     Heck, he even brought the whole class ice-lollies.”
    We are standing outside Cecil John Rhodes’s private carriage looking through the large windows. The teak table gleams in the
     dining-room carriage. It is set with beautiful chinaware and silver, crystal decanters, and goblets, which make me think of
     Mummy and her collection. Everything in there looks as though it is waiting for Mr. Rhodes to come in. I keep looking towards
     the doorway; any moment the founder of Rhodesia might duck his head and enter his carriage. He will draw out a chair, sit
     down. He has a hat, which he puts on his knee, his leg outstretched. A black steward will soon arrive and start preparing
     the table for dinner, the dinner that is being cooked in Mr. Rhodes’s private kitchen. Maybe Mr. Rhodes will turn and look
     out of the window, watch the countryside gently roll by. His country. Rhodesia. That must feel good. And then dinner, a cigar,
     a bath (perhaps), bed.
    “My old man signed me up with the Cubs—what was it now?—Fourteenth South Grove Troop, met every Tuesday over by the hall near
     the fire brigade station; used to go camping at the Matopos. Come school holidays no schlepping round the place; the old man
     thought he could toughen me up a bit. Hated every shit minute of it. Bloody Scout leader, Mr. Caldwell, Mr. Fuck-Well to me,
     a New Zealand bloke, always had it in for me. Only joy I got out of it was when there was bugger all to do but take myself
     off somewhere and just sit and scribble things in the notebook. Drove my old man penga that book.”
    I think of Mr. Rhodes who used to stand so proudly on his pedestal in Main Street, his hands crossed behind his back, his
     head leaning a little bit to one side; looking, in his wise and fatherly way at all of Bulawayo going about its business around
     him. And now he stands all by himself behind the museum, forgotten, his only company weeds, insects, and the birds who don’t
     know his greatness, pooing on him. His Bulawayo, now.
    I think of Maphosa finding out about this train; how it brought Mr. Rhodes all the way from Cape Town in South Africa up to
     Matopos, in Bulawayo. A journey of over two thousand kilometers, the plaque says. That Mr. Rhodes was dead, lying in his train,
     waiting to be buried up there in World’s View.
    I think of Mrs. Palmers, my history teacher in primary school, whose eyes became all wet when she told us Mr. Rhodes’s words
     as he lay dying: “So little done, so much to do.”
    “May that be an inspiration to you all,” she said, snapping shut her book.
    The railway platform is full of soldiers disembarking. They are speaking in Shona.
    Ian quickens his step.
    “Come, let’s get a move on.”
    Whenever I’m in the car with him, I can’t relax.
    When we stop at robots or intersections, I keep thinking that some pedestrian will suddenly stop in the middle of the road
     and look straight at me.
    “Lindiwe!” they will shout out.
    Their eyes will move from me to the driver and then back to me.
    “What are you doing here, who is this…?”
    So I sit quietly, my eyes on my lap and listen to him.
    “It’s a pity about Matopos. I was thinking about making a trip there. Sit on the rocks and think fuck all like the good old
     days. Man, I hope the dissidents teach the Shonas a lesson.