Another Woman's Daughter Read Online Free

haunches, my head bowed, my heart beating out the long seconds that followed.
    Finally she spoke. “Bring me a jug of cold water.”
    I jumped up and hurried to the kitchen, my breathing fast and loud in my ears. With shaking hands I grabbed a jug from the cupboard and opened the tap, water spraying over my face and uniform.
    â€œHau!”
I cried, chiding myself for my clumsiness and more.
    I twisted the ice tray, and frozen cubes dropped like hailstones into the pitcher, screeching and squealing as they hit the tepid water. Quickly I sliced a lemon, crushed the thick circles of fruit against the glass, then covered the jug with a crocheted cloth, before placing it on a tray.
    â€œPut it down here,” the Madam said evenly, pointing to the bamboo trolley beside her.
    I moved into the room, my unease starting to settle. The Madam did not appear to be any different, despite her having discovered me eavesdropping.
    I froze. Lying on top of the trolley was a copy of
The Star.
    Time slowed.
    The Madam followed my stare.
    Her cheeks rippled.
    She looked back at me.
    I tried to look away, but I couldn’t; the Madam had wound her gaze too tightly around mine. Then in two quick movements she’d folded the newspaper and slipped it into the wastepaper basket, her eyes never once leaving my face. I felt sick, as if I’d unwittingly uncovered some terrible secret, as if I had somehow found
her
out. Her eyes searched mine, looking for a way in.
I did not see anything. I know nothing. This day is no different from any other
.
    After what seemed like forever, she leaned forward and picked up the jug. The sound of the ice cubes colliding with each other cracked open the silence.
    I sucked in a stuttering breath.
    That was when I noticed the Madam’s fingers, which were gripping the jug handle; the newsprint had stained them black.
    In the days following the Sharpeville Massacre, violence broke out in townships across the country. There was a boldness in the eyes of the black youths—an insolence I had not witnessed before—and it frightened me. These township kids had lookeddown the barrel of the future and seen little hope. They had nothing to lose.
    Police vans were fuller and appeared from nowhere, more often than usual. Whites bought handguns and tiny tear-gas canisters, which could be slipped easily into handbags and blazer pockets; vicious dogs paced the perimeters of huge homes; and snatched snippets of dinner-party conversations were always about “getting out.”
    During our lunch breaks, the other maids and I pooled the crumbs of information we’d gathered from whispered rumors and stolen nibs of news. Slowly we pieced together a patchwork picture of what lay beyond the nervous calm of Saxonwold.
    Riots were spreading. A man by the name of Nelson Mandela—a member of the African National Congress—had publicly burned his passbook and called for countrywide protest strikes. Black activists were being detained and tortured at Marshall Square, while some simply mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. Others were tossed from fast-moving vehicles, to lie like bloating sheep in the midday heat.
    Unease hung over the country like a thick fog, dulling the gold from the mines, fading the rich crops of corn, and cooling the endless sunshine. And each day the knot in my stomach drew tighter. I didn’t want trouble. This was the life I had been born into, the life I knew. Against a background of hardship, I had found a safe and comfortable corner. Change was frightening and promised nothing.
    Then a state of emergency was declared, and just as if power and telephone lines had been brought tumbling down in a storm,all free communication ceased. Newspapers were muzzled, radio stations gagged, and public gatherings of more than three black people banned. Even our lunchtime get-togethers had to be cautiously pared. The police and the army were everywhere. The Madam seemed