Rachel Weeping Read Online Free Page A

‘No, Mama. Maia’s not with me.’
    Her mother paused before speaking again.
    â€˜You sound ill, my child.’
    â€˜I’m fine, Mama. I’m just tired.’
    â€˜You must rest, Rachel. All that air pollution in that city is making you sick ...’
    Rachel put her hand over the receiver as tears began to run down her face, hot emotion that she could not allow her mother to participate in.
    â€˜I need to go now, Mama. There are people waiting for the phone.’
    She hung up before her mother could respond and leaned against the telephone, where she began to cry, ignoring the looks of passersby as she spilt the tears she had forbidden herself to share with her parents. She would tell them when she returned to Mozambique but, for now, she needed to be strong and figure out what the next step forward was going to be.
    This job was money. It was the roof over her head. It was what kept her parents alive and what allowed her to remain in South Africa legally. She knew how hard it was to find stable work, especially as a domestic worker when there were ten other women ready and willing to do your job for half the wages. She had seen the trucks at the border post taking illegals back to Mozambique and had heard the stories of the weeks spent in detention centres if you were caught in South Africa without a work visa.
    As she packed her things neatly back into the red biscuit tin fresh tears began to roll down her face, the quiet room offering no comfort to the pain she was feeling.
    She had no choice.
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chapter 2
    Rachel pulled Maia’s body closer to her belly, drawing comfort from the little girl as she preempted the shrill cry of the alarm clock that would signal the start of her day. They shared the single bed, an arrangement that worked well in the cold of winter but, with the summer being as hot as it had been this year, she found their proximity uncomfortable. She could feel Maia’s chest rise and fall with each breath, her faint heartbeat drumming in time with her breathing.
    The plastic clock radio on the bedside table clicked on and the room was filled with the energetic voices of an African gospel choir singing in Tswana about God and his goodness. While she wouldn’t consider herself fluent in the language, she had picked up enough words over the years to understand what was being communicated. She opened her eyes to see that it was 05:00. It was already light in their room but sunrise was still an hour away.
    She slowly rose from the thin mattress and slid off the bed, trying not to wake Maia. She tiptoed to the door, where she grabbed her dressing-gown from the hook and wrapped it around herself.
    The gospel song had come to an end and the host of the early morning show started talking, his cheery voice much too upbeat, she always decided, for this time of the morning. Rachel shuffled towards the light switch and turned it on, illuminating the dark room with a harsh fluorescent glare. Next she headed towards the two-plate stove and emptied two cups of maize meal into a pot. She added four cups of water from the faucet above the metal sink and then turned the heat on low.
    With the porridge cooking in the background, Rachel opened the door to the bathroom and began to run some hot water into the tub. She quickly climbed out of her night clothes and stepped in while it was still running. Picking up a bar of soap, she washed herself briskly before rinsing away the suds. She splashed water over her face and then climbed out onto the thin bathmat, dried her body with the old blue towel that hung from the railing in the corner of the small room, and applied lotion to her skin.
    Age and motherhood had taken their toll and, while she weighed only 5kg more than she’d weighed in her teens, her firm body was slowly beginning to lose its grip on the youthfulness that she had once taken for granted. Blemishes had started to appear on her dark skin. She looked down at her