Hearing Helen

By Carolyn Morton

When you discover that life is no longer just about you, you have to make choices. Sometimes, you need to put yourself first.

At other times you need to put yourself on hold, because you know someone else’s needs are more important right now.

Helen is desperate to escape from her run-down high school and to get into the Music Academy, but her piano teacher, Madame Pandora, will not hear of it. That’s not Helen’s only problem; life at home seems to revolve around her talented elder brother, her parents are too exhausted to notice her and the gorgeous Kean has eyes only for June, who is sickeningly perfect.

When Helen finally gets the chance to make her dreams come true, she realises that not all opportunities are meant to be taken.

Which opportunities should she grab, which should she leave and what will her decisions cost those for whom she cares the most?

An uplifting tale of courage, determination and friendship. Also available in Afrikaans: Om Helena te hoor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Human & Rousseau
• Release date: Sep 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9780798164375

Carolyn Morton

Carolyn Morton het in Kaapstad grootgeword en na skool behaal sy ’n B.A.-graad in Engels en Latyn, en ’n B.Phil. In Joernalisme aan die Universiteit van Stellenbosch. Sedertdien het sy haar M.A.-graad in Toegepaste Linguistiek voltooi – wat fokus op skryfvaardighede vir dowe kinders – ’n onderwerp wat gemotiveer is deur haar eie gehoorgebrek. Sy en haar man woon nou in Port Elizabeth en sy gee onderrig in Engels, skryf en doen vryskut-redigering en vertaling. Afgesien van haar liefde vir onderrig en skryf, is sy ook ’n groot liefhebber van diere en stap in die natuur. Sy is ook ’n ywerige klavierspeler.

Book preview

For David, my parents and Hannah, with much love

— C. M.

*

One

MONDAYS ALWAYS FELT like going camping and waking up to find a lion in your tent. The only way to survive was to hide under the covers and stay there, not making any sudden moves until Tuesday came. Because if you tried to get up, Monday would be lurking round the corner, licking its lips in anticipation.

Like that particular Monday.

My cellphone alarm rang and I groaned, covering my face with my arms. I would have switched it off, but the phone had fallen somewhere under the bed, so it would have meant getting up and fumbling through all the clothes I’d been too lazy to put away.

I pulled the edges of my pillow around my ears to muffle the alarm and shut my eyes tightly until I felt unwelcome hands tugging at the bedding.

Wake up, Helen! I promised I’d make you go to school. My older brother, Hank, who was in matric at a different school from mine, ignored my muttered complaints and dragged my fading blanket from my grasp so I had to get out of bed.

I’m ill, I protested, managing a convincing cough as he stalked out. That sometimes used to be enough to persuade Mom to let me stay home, but since she had to start working, she and Dad left together before I was awake. I’m feverish, I called after Hank feebly, and then raised my voice in case he hadn’t heard. "Feverish!"

I was still describing my symptoms fifteen minutes later when I found myself being steered out the door. My brother was in such a rush, I only realised once I was at school that I’d left my lunch behind. Actually, I’d never even made my lunch. Mom used to, but she no longer had time.

Monday really lived up to its reputation. Besides being starv­ing, I nearly failed a maths test and my locker combination jammed at break, forcing the caretaker to snap the lock. I stuffed all my books from the locker into my bag and staggered back to my class.

I had just dumped my bag down on my desk when the seams of my ancient satchel split open. The desk creaked mockingly and lurched over, spitting out books all over the floor.

Ouch! I yelled, as my maths book, probably designed by a weightlifter needing something heavy to keep him in shape, thudded straight onto my shoe. I grabbed my foot, hopping to the window ledge to support myself with one hand so I didn’t lose my balance.

Through the classroom windows I could see out onto the fields, where all the empty chip packets in the entire windy city seemed to have gathered amid the vicious thorns that made any sport session an episode of Fear Factor for those kids who couldn’t afford proper sports shoes.

Sperare High, my school, was stuck onto the original junior school and had started off as prefabs on the vacant land next door. At some point, an enterprising principal must have scratched together funding for more solid structures and later headmasters added on bits randomly. They look like mismatched Lego pieces, I had once told our teacher in class, and everyone had actually laughed. Usually, people didn’t take much notice of me.

The high school still shared fields with the junior school, and I could see the younger children running around, laughing, pushing and tripping each other as they played. There was a bench, slightly isolated and rotting but comfortable still, where I usually sat at break, near the kids’ swings.

Turning away, I hobbled over to my desk and crouched down on my knees, reaching through the frame of my desk to where my piano book had fallen. My piano teacher would kill me if it was damaged.

Helen Booysens, a drawling voice addressed my back. I hastily tugged down the skirt of my uniform, which I always rolled up to make it shorter, and felt my face go red. What are you doing? Your desk’s in my way. It would be Kean who found me.

He casually righted my desk so that he could get past me and even more casually threw the closest book onto my desk, leaving it with permanent dog ears.

I quickly gathered up most of my stuff and ducked out from under the desk, hoping he wouldn’t notice that my blushing cheeks matched the ginger of my ponytail.

Have you been dusting for spare cash? he asked, laughing over his shoulder while some of the other grade nines drifted in as the bell rang. His blazer was the only one with both the sports and academic honours braids, and he tugged it proudly as he watched me struggle to stand up.

I glanced down at my knees and brushed them furiously. I dropped my books, I muttered. Now my legs were clean, but they’d transferred all their dirt to my hands. I looked like a chimney sweep from Mary Poppins.

I watched Kean stand a bit taller as June came in, raising his voice to make sure she could hear him. She looked like a catwalk model on Top Billing, with a swan neck and hair down to her waist. Her desk was near to a large poster project on the swimmer Natalie du Toit celebrating her various victories and gold medals. June’s whole life was like a permanent gold-medal celebration, and people like Kean were her worshipping fans.

Look, guys. We’ve got a new cleaner! Kean shouted and a Mexican wave of laughter spread across the class as they followed his lead. I felt I was drowning in it. June wasn’t smiling, but she looked beautiful even when she was serious.

She sometimes allowed Kean to carry her bag; I dusted off mine, a khaki-coloured battered old thing that my dad had used in the army, and shoved it behind my desk in embarrassment.

Hey, Helen, will you come clean our house? shouted Joe. He lived with his grandmother upwind from the industrial area and next to the abattoir, and Kean said that when he’d visited him once, he could hardly breathe, even with the windows closed.

Without thinking, I grabbed my chance to swing the tide away from me. Not till your neighbours become vegetarian, I answered.

Still June didn’t laugh.

Joe ducked his head and his eyes slid away from mine. I hadn’t realised he could look so sad. Last year, my baby cousin had got sick and died a week or so later, and at his funeral his brother had hunched over in the front pew, refusing to look at anyone. I saw something of him in Joe. I half wished I could take back what I’d said.

Kean smiled mockingly. You think you’re clever, cleaner girl, don’t you? he said, siding with Joe.

My throat closed, like I was choking, or going to cry but couldn’t. Kean flashed his knee-buckling smile at June. Still serious, she moved to where he stood, and then passed by him, blushing a bit as she did. He hated it when she didn’t laugh at his jokes, but it just impelled him to try even harder. She picked up the last two books that I had dropped, dusted them off carefully, and passed them to me.

Right, guys, have a seat. Mrs Smith had come in and was already fumbling at the giant-size reading glasses that hung around her neck. She took out her chalk and began writing, her nose almost touching the board.

I wonder what Goggles has in store for us today? Kean said under his breath.

Usually Mrs Smith was really strict; if we complained about stuff, like too much work, she just said firmly, Such is life, and we had to do it anyway. But when Kean made a remark like that about her glasses or how close she stood to the board, she flushed and said nothing.

Although I always felt uncomfortable when he said stuff like that, I faked a grin, trying to get back on his good side, but his eyes slid past mine, bored. I knew where he was looking.

Mrs Smith tapped the board with her chalk, where she had written in large letters:

Pregnancy and Parenthood

You could hear the ripple of nervous laughter as the boys sniggered to each other. Mrs Smith had brought her laptop to school and she clicked on a video of a grey, grainy image that looked like a tiny, pulsing worm.

Who can tell me what this is?

Joe and Kean were whispering together behind their hands, probably making X-rated suggestions. Mrs Smith silenced them with a look.

This, she said, tapping the image with the chalk, is you. Four weeks after conception.

It doesn’t look like a baby, Kean muttered, unimpressed. More like a stick. What’s that weird grey thing that keeps moving? He mimicked the movement with his hand, opening and closing his fist like he was reciting Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

That is the heart.

The rhythmic contractions were mesmerising. I stared more closely, fascinated in spite of myself. I wondered if I had been like that at four weeks.

Completely unconcerned about anything happening beyond myself, unfazed by comments or criticism that I didn’t look like anything much, my dot-like heart steadily beating away, regardless.

By the time I shook off my thoughts, Mrs Smith had moved on to pregnancy vitamins and pre-pregnancy care. What vaccinations should a woman have before conceiving? she was asking.

Flu, said Joe with great confidence, remembering the nurse who’d visited our school during the World Cup to inject us against swine flu.

Think of an illness that could harm the baby, Mrs Smith told him.

Yellow fever, grinned Kean, whose father had taken him on holiday to Kenya last year.

June stared in front