There are other ways, surely. One of these, for some reason, she has sworn to have nothing of. Her boss has a car and does not look bad. In fact the man is alright. But she keeps telling herself that she does not fancy having some old and dried-out housewife walking into the office one afternoon to tear her hair out and make a row. . . . Mm, so for the meantime, it is going to continue to be the municipal bus with its grimy seats, its common passengers and impudent conductors. . . . Jesus! She doesn’t wish herself dead or anything as stupidly final as that. Oh no. She just wishes she could sleep deep and only wake up on the morning of her glory.

The new pair of black shoes are more realistic than their owner, though. As she walks down the corridor, they sing:

Count, Mercy, count your blessings

Count, Mercy, count your blessings

Count, count, count your blessings.

They sing along the corridor, into the avenue, across the road and into the bus. And they resume their song along the gravel path, as she opens the front gate and crosses the cemented courtyard to the door.

‘Sissie!’ she called.

‘Hei Mercy,’ and the door opened to show the face of Connie, big sister, six years or more older and now heavy with her second child. Mercy collapsed into the nearest chair.

‘Welcome home. How was the office today?’

‘Sister, don’t ask. Look at my hands. My fingers are dead with typing. Oh God, I don’t know what to do.’

‘Why, what is wrong?’

‘You tell me what is right. Why should I be a typist?’

‘What else would you be?’

‘What a strange question. Is typing the only thing one can do in this world? You are a teacher, are you not?’

‘But . . . but . . .’

‘But what? Or you want me to know that if I had done better in the exams, I could have trained to be a teacher too, eh, sister? Or even a proper secretary?’

‘Mercy, what is the matter? What have I done? What have I done? Why have you come home so angry?’

Mercy broke into tears.

‘Oh I am sorry. I am sorry, Sissie. It’s just that I am sick of everything. The office, living with you and your husband. I want a husband of my own, children. I want . . . I want . . .’

‘But you are so beautiful.’

‘Thank you. But so are you.’

‘You are young and beautiful. As for marriage, it’s you who are postponing it. Look at all these people who are running after you.’

‘Sissie, I don’t like what you are doing. So stop it.’

‘Okay, okay, okay.’

And there was a silence.

‘Which of them could I marry? Joe is – mm, fine – but, but I just don’t like him.’

‘You mean . . .’

‘Oh, Sissie!’

‘Little sister, you and I can be truthful with one another.’

‘Oh yes.’