Rachel Weeping Read Online Free

bedroom, and there was a simple, separate bathroom. As small as her quarters were, she was fully aware that they were not to be looked down on; they were a huge step up from the tin shacks and shanty houses some other domestic workers lived in.
    The table was the focal point of the little room. It included two chairs and it was used for eating at, reading and ironing. Not more than an arm’s length away was a very basic kitchenette with a two-plate cooker and a sink. The sleeping area contained a single bed, a bedside table squeezed in beside it and, opposite, a chest of drawers in which Rachel stored everything she owned in South Africa. Balanced precariously on top of the chest was a small black and white TV.
    Rachel took her passport out of the tin and placed it next to the money on the table. The gold coat of arms glowed against the blue background in the light from the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room.
    She dug inside the biscuit tin once more and pulled out a worn photograph which she brought closer to her face. The photograph was quite old now. She remembered the day it had been taken outside her parents’ house, with a disposable Kodak camera. She had asked Sergio, the neighbour’s son, to take the photo so that the whole family could be in it and had instructed him to take three just in case one came out blurry.
    With a weary smile Rachel examined each of the faces, a moment that had been captured in time before she had journeyed to South Africa. She had tried to explain to her parents how to pose for a photo but they didn’t quite get it. Eventually she just told them to look at Sergio and not look away until she said they could. Andrea, her younger brother, who was 22 at the time, stood next to her mother while Rachel stood with her hands on her stomach, the tiny bump just beginning to show. Her father, despite her instructions, was looking to the side.
    Rachel lowered the photograph to her lap. Off in the distance a shrieking siren signalled an emergency somewhere and she shuddered, trying to shut her ears to the sound. For a moment she felt dizzy and nauseous.
    Revolving red neon lights reflecting on wet tar, flashing and turning.
    The day her world had changed.
    In an attempt to distract herself she recalled the conversation that she had had earlier that day with her mother, before her meeting with the Jordaans. Sundays were when she called her parents, usually on her walk home from church, from the pay phone outside the corner store. The pay phone was cheaper than a cellphone, and when it came to international calls, clearer too. Over the last few months her mother had been the only one able to walk to the phone in Inhassoro, her father’s injury proving too painful for the journey.
    This morning was no different to the previous calls, the only adjustment being the fact that she had skipped the church service and walked straight to the pay phone to make the call. The phone had rung five times before Anisia, the phone operator and baracca manager, answered it in Portuguese. Rachel, who had grown up with Anisia, returned her greeting and waited for her to pass the phone to her mother.
    â€˜Your father is doing well. He still can’t walk very far but he can stand.’
    â€˜That’s good, Mama.’
    â€˜There’s been no water for five days now.’
    â€˜How much do you have?’
    â€˜We should have enough for three days if we don’t wash. We managed to fill the bathtub and all our buckets the last time it came on.’
    â€˜Did you get the money that I sent you?’
    â€˜Yes. Your cousin went down to Kosi Bay and bought us food from the South African stores because there is nothing here. We used up all you sent.’
    â€˜I’ll try to send more when I get paid next week.’
    â€˜Bless you, daughter. Is Maia with you?’
    Rachel took the phone away from her mouth.
    â€˜Rachel?’
    She took a deep breath.