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It had worked! With or without his father’s permission she would see them!
‘Well, all right, seeing she’s a teacher,’ his father said, ‘but don’t encourage it, son, they’re very personal records.’
‘My father says he’s delighted you’re interested, Miss Rousseau,’ he said the next day when he delivered the first volume.
And was Miss Rousseau interested? ‘Fascinated’s the word, Luke! I sat up in bed all night!’ (Ooh, Miss Rousseau sitting up in bed – while he sat up in his bed with a hard-on dredging up more obscure detail to woo her mind with meaningful conversation – ) ‘What priceless glimpses of living history you’ve given me!’ (He’d given her!) ‘These belong in the archives. You must keep them up yourself, Luke.’
‘I will, when I’ve done something to write about, Miss Rousseau.’ (Cut out the Miss Rousseau!)
‘Start now! You’ve seen the introduction of apartheid, which is the culmination of the Kaffir Wars and the Great Trek and the Boer War! Seen it through the eyes of a very intelligent young man of the times – your youthful evaluations will make fascinating historical material one day. I can’t wait to read the next volume.’
A very intelligent young man of the times! Young man … ? And she couldn’t wait? He couldn’t wait. He hurried home from school, on air, locked himself in his bedroom and jerked off over the heavenly Miss Rousseau. The next day he delivered the next volume, reeking of aftershave and toothpaste. ‘This one’s written in an old cash ledger that Ernest Mahoney’s grandfather gave him for accounts, Miss Rousseau. It starts when Ernest accompanies Retief to visit Dingaan.’
‘Does Sarie wait faithfully for Ernest?’ Miss Rousseau demanded.
‘Not only that, she … They have to … well, they get married, Miss Rousseau.’
‘Oh, what fun,’ Miss Rousseau sparkled. (Fun?! That’s pure sex talk!) She put her heavenly hand on his arm impulsively. ‘Luke, I’ve been thinking – these journals, I really think your family should make a copy, in case they get destroyed in a fire or something. And I would love a copy for myself. Now, I’ve got a very good typewriter. Would you ask your father if he minds if I type them up? It’s quiet in the hostel while the girls are doing their prep, and in the holidays I’ll have the whole place to myself.’
Luke said casually to his father, trying not to blush: ‘Miss Rousseau thinks those journals are so valuable we should have them typed up in case they’re ever lost, and she’s offered to do so but she hasn’t got a decent typewriter and that girls’ hostel is so noisy, she says, and I thought maybe she could come here and use Mother’s typewriter –’
‘Well, that’s kind of her. But I’m not sure, son – she may make a copy and I don’t like the idea of that, I want to publish them one day –’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t make a copy, Father!’
It was his mother who swung it. ‘Well, I think it’s a very good idea, darling. It’s an opportunity to get her evaluation of them. Tell her to come around whenever she has time, Luke. I won’t disturb her.’
That afternoon Luke and Justin fetched the horses and as they casually cantered past the hostel Luke just happened to spy Miss Rousseau sitting on the verandah, marking books. He dismounted.
‘Miss Rousseau, my father is very grateful for your offer to type up the journals, and of course you may make a copy for yourself, but could you possibly come to our house to do it because he doesn’t want copies lying around because they’re so personal?’
‘But of course,’ Miss Rousseau said earnestly.
Oh joy! ‘And,’ he blurted on, ‘my mother suggests you come on the afternoons she plays golf so she doesn’t disturb you. That’s Mondays and Wednesdays, Miss Rousseau.’ (The days his sister had hockey practice). ‘And,’ he blurted on, ‘if you’d like to have a swim, bring your costume …’
‘Well, I’ll be there!’
He galloped all the way home. He’d done it! He’d contrived to get Miss Rousseau alone! He just had to lock himself in his bedroom again and get rid of his hard-on.
Oooh, the agony of waiting for Monday … That Saturday he played a suicidal rugby match, to roars of applause from the grandstand, where Miss Rousseau sat. ‘Brilliant game, Luke.’ Brilliant … ? In his sound senses he tried to hammer it into himself that nothing would happen on Monday, but with all these erections it was possible to imagine anything. The sheer eroticism of having Miss Rousseau alone in the house! Would she have a swim? Would they have tea together? Damn right they would! Would she sometimes ask him to help her decipher his great great grandfather’s handwriting? Would she … walk around the garden with him? Would she bring her swimming costume? Would it be a bikini? Please let it be a bikini …!
And it surpassed his wildest dreams. Not only did they have tea together, not only did she want to see the garden, not only did she call him to decipher his great great grandfather’s handwriting sometimes … but she did bring her swimming costume! And it was a bikini! Oh, the bliss of having tea with Miss Rousseau, just the two of them, like two adults – he had dredged up a stockpile of tricky historical points to talk about. Oh, the bliss of bending over the journals beside her (the sweet scent of her) deciphering his great grandfather’s handwriting. And Oooooh Miss Rousseau in her bikini… those lovely long legs, those ooooh-so-rounded hips and oh those tits … But how was he going to hide this hard-on?! And after she packed up the typing at five o’clock and drove off back to the hostel in her old Chevrolet he stood in the toilet thinking, This is where she pulled her panties down. This is where she placed her beautiful bare bum … And he just wanted to smother the seat in kisses.
It surpassed his wildest dreams when, after her fourth visit, his mother announced: ‘That nice Miss Rousseau telephoned today and asked if she could possibly hire one of the horses during the school holidays – she’s a keen horsewoman. Of course I said she could ride them any time free, but she asked if you would go with her the first time, until she’s familiar with her mount.’
Would he go with her… ? ‘Okay, Mother.’
‘Please don’t use those dreadful Americanisms, son. And, she had the highest praise for you. “Quite a remarkable historian”, she said. And that you’ll go a long way in life.’
Quite a remarkable historian?! Well she ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Go a long way? He would go all the way to the ends of the earth on his hands and knees over broken glass for Miss Rousseau …
It seemed an eternity waiting for the mid-year school holidays. And then Miss Rousseau surpassed his wildest wild dreams again. When they dismounted at the reservoir outside town and sat down under the trees, she gave him her creamy smile and said: ‘I think that you can stop calling me Miss Rousseau, Luke. Lisa will do fine when we’re alone. After all, we are partners in crime.’
Lisa! When we’re alone! Partners in crime?
‘What crime, Miss Rousseau?’
‘Lisa.’
Oh … ‘Lisa.’ It was the most wonderful name in the world.
She smiled. ‘Fraud? Copyright contravention? Your father did not give me permission to make a copy of those journals, did he?’
Luke was mortified. Blushing. ‘How do you know?’
‘When I phoned your mother about riding she thanked me for the typing and apologised that your father wouldn’t allow a copy to be made because he wants to publish them one day.’ She smiled. ‘Why did you lie to me, Luke?’
He swallowed. ‘Because … you’re a historian, and … and you deserve it.’
She grinned. ‘Why do I deserve it, Luke?’
‘Because you’re –’ (he wanted to blurt ‘the most beautiful’) ‘– the best teacher I’ve ever had.’
‘An apple for the teacher?’
‘No, Miss Rousseau.’ He wished the earth would open.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘And Lisa, please.’
‘No, not an apple for the teacher. Lisa.’
She smiled. ‘The teacher? I’m only twenty-one, you know, Luke. Only four years older than you.’
‘Yes, I know …’ Luke croaked. ‘Lisa,’ he added.
‘And I’m not really a teacher, you know. I only got my B.A. last year, I haven’t done my teaching diploma yet.’ She paused. ‘And d’you know what?’
‘What?’ he croaked. ‘Lisa,’ he added.
‘I’ve decided I don’t want to teach kids, Luke. Next year I’m going back to university to do my M.A. And then a doctorate. I want to teach at university level – teaching minds like yours.’
Minds like his?! Not kids … !
‘You’ve no idea how bored I’ve been in this town, Luke.’
Goddesses get bored? ‘Really?’
‘Really. In fact …’ She paused, then grinned at him. ‘Can you keep a secret, Luke?’
A secret from Miss Rousseau?!
‘Promise,’ he said. ‘Lisa.’
‘In fact –’ she smiled her mischievous creamy smile – ‘the only stimulating thing that’s happened to me this year has been you and those journals.’ Miss Rousseau looked at him with a twinkle in her eye: ‘You and your riding past the hostel every Friday. To impress me? And undressing me with your eyes in the classroom. And – ’ her smile widened – ‘your monstrous erections in the swimming pool.’
Luke didn’t know whether he wanted to lunge at her or the earth to swallow him up. Monstrous erections? His heart was pounding and he was blushing furiously and he couldn’t think of anything to say except: ‘I’m sorry.’
She grinned widely. ‘Oh don’t be sorry – it’s very pleasing.’
Pleasing?! That could only mean one thing! Oh God he didn’t know what he dare do!
Miss Rousseau smiled. ‘Are you a virgin, Luke?’
He couldn’t believe this was happening. All beyond imagination. He blushed. ‘Yes …
She smiled. ‘Well, Luke? I seem to have taught you all the history you need. What shall we do about what you don’t know?’
Luke’s heart was hammering, his ears were ringing, his face on fire, his stomach was faint, his legs trembled. ‘I – I don’t know, Miss Rousseau.’
‘Lisa.’ Miss Rousseau smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘let’s think … Now, if I were seventeen, and not your so-called teacher, what would you do now, Luke?’
Luke looked at her with utter, confused adoration. He swallowed and whispered hoarsely: ‘I’d kiss you.’
‘Very good, Luke. So, you may kiss me, you know how to do that, I’m sure.’
He stared, then he lunged at her. He seized her and plunged his gasping mouth onto hers so their teeth clashed, and she laughed in her throat and toppled over, and he scrambled frantically on top of her, and he ejaculated. In one frantic surging the world buzzed into a blurry flame that promptly crescendoed into the most marvellous feeling in the world, that exploded into a frenetic thrusting towards the source of all joy through jodhpurs and all. Luke Mahoney pounded on top of Lisa Rousseau, exploding, and she held him tignt, grinning up to the sky.
When he finally went limp, gasping, on top of her, his mind in a whirl, she smiled. ‘There … Now we can really talk about this like adults.’ She took a handful of his hair and lifted his suffused face. ‘Tonight, instead of going to the cinema, or wherever, why don’t you come to see me? The hostel’s empty.’
5 (#ulink_9d75b419-4966-5d2d-8766-24762df0ed76)
Those school holidays were wonderful. Wonderful, marvellous, divine, delicious, heavenly, breathtaking, walking-on-air – a head-over-heels, laughing-out-loud, do-backward-somersaults love affair, a secret so delicious he wanted to bellow it to the world.
Umtata was quiet, the school silent, the sunshine golden, the birds atwitter, the bees buzzing. And the big girl’s hostel was empty, except for the beautiful, long-legged, big-busted, sparkly-eyed, wonderful Lisa Rousseau. Every day they went galloping over the hills to the reservoir to make love on a blanket. Twice a week she came to the house to type up the journals (‘No, Luke – your mother may come home …’), every night he climbed out of his bedroom window and hurried across town to the hostel, let himself in the kitchen door and bounded up the stairs – and there was Lisa Rousseau, a grin all over her lovely face, and he seized her in his trembling arms. And, oh God, the wonderful feel of her against him, her strong-soft athletic body, her breasts crushed against his heaving schoolboy chest, her belly and loins crushed against him, his hands frantically sliding over her, feeling, feeling, feeling her. Then she swept her nightdress over her head, and the sight of her nakedness, each night, took his breath away. Then she tumbled onto her narrow bed, a grin of fun all over her lovely face. ‘The first one’s for you; the second one’s for me …’
So it went every night, those school holidays. The first one was over in minutes, two or three minutes of frantic thrusting, then a searing explosion of cascading joy. And Lisa Rousseau lay there, legs wide, smiling, receiving this explosive accolade, then, when that bit of heavenly nonsense was over, it was her turn. Miss Lisa Rousseau toppled him onto his back, and he lay there, exhausted, happy, wildly in love, and she began her magic. She slithered down to his loins and she grinned at him up his belly, her long hair awry and her big eyes twinkling, then she slowly, so slowly, lowered her head and, oh, the wonderful feel of her warm wet mouth, her teeth playfully nibbling, her full lips sucking, her warm pink tongue slithering, her eyes sparkling with the sheer fun of it all, and when she had done her magic she climbed joyfully on top of him, for her turn.
At the end of the second wonderful week Luke had a brilliant idea: his father owned a fishing camp down on the Wild Coast, sixty miles away: how marvellous to have the last week of the holidays there with Lisa all to himself, out in the wide open, sleeping together all night long, swimming naked in the crashing surf, romping together in the languid lagoon, walking along the wild deserted beach together like real lovers … It would be just like a real honeymoon. Lisa thought it a wonderful idea provided his parents didn’t know about her being there. ‘And provided we have some intellectual activity – I, my friend, am going to ensure you get an A for history …’
Luke said to his father: ‘Can I take one of the horses down to the camp? Do some fishing before I start work on my final exams?’
‘Can I come too?’ Jill cried.
‘No girls,’ Luke said firmly.
‘But what about that nice Miss Rousseau?’ Mrs Mahoney said. ‘She’ll be disappointed if you don’t go riding with her.’
‘Oh, she’s going off somewhere for a week to meet a friend.’
‘Well,’ George said, ‘provided you take Justin with you …’
Oh shit.
But the sheer audacity of living together … it was the romantic stuff of story books. And it was a great adventure setting out in the predawn into the land of the Xhosa, something like his great great grandfather Ernest had done into the land of the Zulus. As they rode through the rolling green hills with their Xhosa kraals, through their scattered herds of cattle, Luke could almost feel the shades of his forebear riding with him – and his heart and loins were as deliriously tumultuous as Ernest’s had been over his Sarie. But this adventure required him to take Justin into his confidence.
He said soberly in Xhosa: ‘Justin, I must trust you with a secret. You know the white woman, Rousseau, my history teacher?’
‘I know her,’ Justin said.
Luke cleared his throat. ‘Well, she is going to drive down to the sea tomorrow to be with us.’
‘I know,’ Justin said.
Luke frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘I know,’ Justin grinned, ‘because every night you climb out of your window and run to her house. Like this …’ He placed his elbow in his groin and thrust his forearm up rigidly.
‘So you are a spy!’
Justin smiled, ‘No, I only study till late, at my window.’
‘And how do you know I go to her house?’
‘Because we must ride past her house every Friday. And because when she comes to your house to work your tail wags like a dog. Like this … ’ He put his elbow in his groin again; and shook it about. He burst into laughter.
Luke grinned sheepishly. ‘She is only teaching me history!’
Justin dropped his head and laughed: ‘I know …’
‘And she is only coming to the sea to teach me more history!’
Justin threw back his head and guffawed, white teeth flashing: ‘1 know …’
‘Do you understand that?!’ Luke grinned. ‘And my parents must know nothing about this.’
Justin wiped his eyes. ‘I understand everything …’
They rode on in suppressed giggles for a moment, then Justin burst into laughter again. ‘But tell me, Nkosaan – is history nice?’
‘Ooooh …’
It was a wonderful week. Floating in the blue lagoon with Lisa, romping in the crashing surf, walking along the deserted beaches, sleeping all night together: not once did Luke go fishing – that was Justin’s job, to keep him out of the way. Who would want to fish when he could be with the divine Lisa Rousseau? He could not get enough of her. But the divine Lisa Rousseau did also get some brain-work out of him.
‘Luke, always think of history as a series of lampposts, which you can see leading up long networks of roads to the present. The greatest value of history is that our knowledge of the past, particularly past mistakes, helps us see into the future, and hopefully avoid mistakes …’
And she said: ‘As Ernest says, the Battle of Blood River wasn’t a battle, Luke, it was an execution – though don’t say so in your exam paper. But what’s the significance of that lamppost?’
Luke said: ‘It’s an emotional rallying point for the Afrikaner every year when they celebrate the Day of the Covenant. He is reminded every year that God was on his side, and therefore still is. And therefore apartheid is right, God’s will.’
