Zoe Wicomb - October

If memoir is driven by nostalgia Mercia finds it embarrassing that she is driven by the Zeitgeist. It is, she consoles herself, because there is no Craig to tell, because that daily decanting of events into words must find another form.

The table is set for three. Mercia prepares herself for a vaudeville performance, for cooing appreciatively over the food before doubling over with a bolt of invented tummy ache. But there is no need. Sylvie explains that the brawn is not ready. The infusion of spices takes time, does its work whilst the dish is still warm, then it must cool down completely and stiffen into a jelly. Which is why she’s fried some sausage for tonight. But look, she says, how Jake’s delaying her with his demands. Now she has to leave everything and go out to get him some potato chips. He doesn’t want sausage. Also, he says, a bottle of brandy, for which the chips are of course an excuse.

Mercia leaps to her feet. She is curt, insistent in her instruction. Sylvie must go about her business and pay no attention to Jake.

But he’ll scream the house down, she says, there’s only twenty minutes left before closing time.

Mercia says no, he can no longer be indulged. She storms into his room and tells him that Sylvie is getting their dinner, that Nicky is hungry, and that if he wants any he should join them at the table. Like a child he pulls the covers over his head and turns to the wall.

That means, says Sylvie, that he still has some drink left. That he’s just wanting to stash up for tomorrow.

Jake has eaten almost nothing since Mercia’s arrived. Mercia wakes up in the night and hears him stumbling into the kitchen. A squeaking door, a band of light from the fridge, the rustle of paper and a clatter of containers of some kind make her sit up and throw off her covers. Vinkel en koljander — the smell has driven him out. The smell of Nettie’s spiced tripe and trotters and the brawn they loved as children. No refrigerators in the old days, but their mother had a cooling contraption of chicken wire packed with wet coke that evaporated in a draft so that the brawn remained set.

You’re hungry at last, Mercia, who has tiptoed out in bare feet, says triumphantly.

No, not really, er. . just checking, he says. Jake rubs his hands together, embarrassed, drags them through his uncombed hair. He is unsteady and has to lean on the cupboard.

Checking? she laughs. To see if your wife keeps the fridge well stocked? How would she manage that, Jake, on her wages?

Jake will not look at her; instead, he tries to make his way back to the bedroom. But she stands in the doorway. For God’s sake, Jake, why try to avoid me? You summoned me, remember? Now I’ve come all this way and you won’t talk to me. Why not tell me what’s wrong? And why not eat if you’re hungry? There’s bread, and butter, and by now yes, the brawn will be set.

No, I want nothing. I’m sorry; it’s all a mistake. I shouldn’t have written to you. I must’ve been drunk, he laughs. Then with surprising strength he pushes her out of the way. Why don’t you go back home and leave me alone, he says, I want nothing to do with any of you. He returns to his room and bangs the door shut.

What kind of character is Jake in her memoir? Mercia fears that he holds little interest, lying as he does in the fetid, darkened room with so little to say. He is not even good at playing the tortured drunk devil. No consular musings under the volcano, no clouds boiling, no mescal-induced thunder. What a dull pair they are — Jake thirsting after alcohol and she, Mercia, cravenly leaving him to his own devices whilst she bangs on about Craig.

The next day as Sylvie prepares to go out for brandy, Mercia intervenes. It is time to act. In her clipped, lecturer’s voice she forbids Sylvie to buy Jake drink, says that enough is enough, she will deal with him. Sylvie screws up her face. Does Mercia not know what he is capable of? That he is stronger than he looks? That it’s all right for Mercia, who is of another place, but that he will kill her and the child?

Nonsense, Mercia says. But you should go, keep out of the way. Take Nicky and stay with your AntieMa for the night, she orders. This is no sight for a child. She, Mercia, will see to Jake right away, get him to eat, take him to see a doctor and find the best route for rehabilitation. That is why she is here. It will be easier to manage on her own. She’ll call Sylvie when it’s all in hand.

Sylvie is uncertain. She does not think that this namby-pamby woman could handle Jake, who has on occasion leapt out of bed in search of the butcher’s knife that she has had to wrestle off him. She is his wife. It is her duty to stay. But Mercia has turned into a mad Murray; she is determined; she has not come all this way to be defeated. Sylvie tuts, hurriedly grabs her things. Actually, she has had enough, could do with a break from these people. Even AntieMa’s darkened rooms seem like a haven, and she will make warm roosterbrood for the old woman, who at least will appreciate her efforts.

Mercia pats Nicky on the head and does not know what to do when, like a cat, he rubs his head insistently into her side, as if to drill his way into her belly.

There, there, she says, patting mechanically, you go and see your granny, and when you get back, we’ll. . we’ll have a picnic. And play.

In the veld? he asks. In the veld, she replies.

When they are gone, Mercia charges into Jake’s room, yanks at the curtains and flings open the window. Jake is enraged. He calls for Sylvie, the doormat wife who will do his bidding.

Get Sylvie, and get out of my house, he roars, or rather, tries to roar, but his voice does not manage; it peters out into a sob.

I’ll get my own, he cries, as he struggles out of bed. Jake is unshaven, bedraggled in a torn T-shirt and crumpled boxer shorts. Mercia gasps at the sight of the swollen legs that struggle to carry him. Rising with Jake is the effluvia of sweat, alcohol and an unwashed body, so that Mercia turns away in disgust. He shakes violently, stumbles as far as the kitchen and falls into a chair. It is clear that he will not make it any farther. He breaks down, sobbing. And with the slyness of an alcoholic stammers that he can’t think, can’t speak, cannot tell her what’s wrong without a drink to calm him down.

You should keep out of this, he warns, you’ll be sorry. Just get me a drink, he cries pitifully, and then go home, leave us alone like you’ve always done.

Mercia ignores the jibe. No point in explaining herself, and besides, it is probably a device to get his way. So she says no, that she’ll drive him to the doctor’s, and that his rehabilitation will start today. They will try to find a suitable clinic. No need to be melodramatic, she says. Alcoholism’s an illness, and it can be treated. You’ve done it before. Why not have a shower now and the doctor will give you something for the craving.

M-Mer-cy, Mer-Mercy, Jake stutters comically, please, Mercy, you don’t know what they’ve done to me, that bitch and. . and. .; you mustn’t hear this; you don’t want this — this punishment, just get me a fucking drink. Or get me a gun. I can’t tell you what they’ve done, you mustn’t know. A fucking drink, and then a gun. I should have killed him. I want to die. They wouldn’t let me die.

Stop this childish nonsense, Jake, she says. If there’s a story to be told, it should be let out, like bad blood, Mercia soothes. It can only do good to let it out. And then we’ll see about getting you back on your feet.

Jake cackles weakly. If only she would get him a drink. He doesn’t care about blood, good or bad. He must have a drink. How can he talk, let bad blood out, without a drink? Mercia’s eyes swim as she stares at him. Her little brother. A pitiful figure on the floor, where he beats his head against the chair from which he has slid down, sobbing. She swallows hard. In this order, she says: a shower, a drink, your story, and then the doctor. Jake must promise, and she will hold him to it. She has a bottle of duty-free whisky in her bag.