Simeon closes the gate behind them, and they walk back down the grassy verge. Kiama feels that sensation again, similar to how he felt earlier today, when the truck was closing in on him, its heavy bulk getting closer and closer. But of course when he looks there’s nothing behind him, only the house. They walk on a bit and this time the closeness of something heavy almost winds him. He stops.

‘What’s wrong?’ Yvonne asks.

He can’t walk anymore, can’t move on. He leans forward and puts his hands on his knees, feeling like he’s about to throw up. Sometimes it’s the only thing that works.

Nothing comes.

He stands again, feeling the blood rush from his head. He turns back to the house and sees Mum standing by the gate, smiling as a little kid runs towards her and jumps in her arms. Then, he can see her everywhere. Running races with the kids across the grass, tearing a mandazi in two and giving the other half away, smoking behind the tree thinking no one can see her.

Yvonne puts a hand on his arm but he steps away from her.

‘It’s like she’s here,’ he says, shocked that he can’t contain the thought, can’t keep the hurt in his heart like he usually does.

But Yvonne doesn’t judge him for it, she doesn’t get that worried look like Nana used to whenever Kiama would bring up Mum, she just nods and says, ‘I know. I can feel her too.’ Then, she reaches up and puts her arms around him.

Chapter Sixteen

Sex On The Beach

July 2009

Yvonne

Yvonne paces the kitchen. ‘I hate the way they’ve laid this floor.’

‘What’s that?’ Lewis calls over the music. ‘Are you complaining again?’

‘No,’ she runs her fingers along a line of grout. She had hoped the colour would be lighter than this.

‘It looks good,’ Lewis says as he sprays down the already clean kitchen counter.

She studies the floor tiles again, it’ll have to do, there’s no way she’s having the builders back to redo it.

‘You’re such a perfectionist,’ Lewis calls as he switches on the mixer, adding to the noise of the flat. ‘No wonder this place is taking so long to come together. If you were less picky I could do a bit of DIY for you.’

She turns the music down a notch, leans against his back and checks on the progress of his batter mix. ‘DIY? You?’

‘Yeah. You already know I’m good with my hands.’

‘But you’re slow. I’ve already been waiting on this breakfast for an hour. I thought pancakes were quick.’

‘They are, but you keep distracting me. Plus, there’s something not right about this hob. You need to get it checked out.’

‘I’ll add it to the list,’ she says.

He turns the stereo back up.