Their mother cancelled lunch while Ruth was stopped at a red light, with Colin beside her holding a salad bowl between his knees.
‘Gloria’s taking me out,’ the voice note announced. ‘There’s a special on the seafood platter. I can’t turn that down.’
Behind her, Gloria said something about prawns.
‘But you two must eat,’ their mother added, as though this difficulty had only just occurred to her.
The light changed. Ruth drove across the intersection and pulled into a petrol station.
‘We’ve been stood up,’ Colin said.
Ruth took out her phone. Saturday lunch was their mother’s arrangement, made a month ago and confirmed twice. She had turned down a braai. Colin had swapped a shift. Their mother sounded thoroughly pleased with herself.
‘Shall I take you home?’
‘If you want.’
She did not want to go home. There was washing in the machine, and a spreadsheet she had promised herself she would leave until Monday. Home would make an argument for both.
‘What would you do?’ she asked.
‘In general?’
‘This afternoon.’
Colin looked through the windscreen. On the other side of the road, behind a low wall painted turquoise, a fibreglass giraffe leaned over a miniature golf course.
‘That.’
She checked the time. Half past twelve.
‘You’ve got somewhere else to be?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Then why are you checking?’
At the first hole Ruth putted much too hard. Her ball struck the kerb, crossed a strip of artificial grass and stopped beside Colin’s shoe.
‘Powerful,’ he said.
He tapped his own ball up the slope. It slipped through a gap in a plastic windmill and dropped into the cup.
‘Oh, come on.’
‘One.’
‘This is the practice hole.’
‘Where does it say that?’
He turned the little scorecard over, pretending to search. Ruth waited until he bent to retrieve his ball, then nudged hers closer with the side of her putter.
‘I can see you,’ he said.
There were two families ahead of them and nobody behind. At the third hole they had to wait while a small boy attempted to hit his ball between his own feet. His father demonstrated. The boy watched carefully and did exactly what he had done before.
Colin sat on the low wall.
‘He’s committed to his method.’
‘You used to do that,’ Ruth said.
‘Putt backwards?’
‘Refuse to listen.’
‘I was waiting for something useful.’
She laughed, then realised she could not remember when she had last spent an afternoon alone with him. Their conversations usually took place around their mother’s dining table. Colin arrived with bread or ice. Ruth brought whatever had been assigned to her, plus something their mother had forgotten to ask for. They discussed parking, food, who wanted more food.
Colin had a small scar beside his mouth. She knew he had got it falling off a bicycle, but could not remember whether she had been there.
At the seventh hole he sent his ball into a narrow gutter running round the outside of the course. It rolled steadily away from the cup.
‘Interesting line,’ Ruth said.
‘Early days.’
‘It’s leaving.’
He walked after it, stooping, putter extended. The boy from the third hole called out advice. Colin thanked him and tried it. This sent the ball further away.
Ruth laughed so hard that when Colin finally looked up, she was bent over her club.
‘You could assist,’ he said.
‘You seem to have a good team.’
He finished three strokes ahead of her. At the kiosk she bought two cheese toasties and cold drinks. They took the shaded table, which rocked whenever either of them moved an elbow.
‘What’s in the salad?’ Colin asked.
‘Beans. Feta.’
‘We should have brought it.’
‘You’re welcome to walk back to the car.’
‘No, I’m comfortable.’
He wedged a folded serviette under the short table leg. Ruth watched him test it with his palm.
‘How’s work?’ she asked.
‘Fine.’
She waited. He bit into his toastie, drew a long string of cheese away from his chin and wound it round the crust.
‘That’s all you’re getting,’ he said.
‘All right.’
‘How’s yours?’
‘Also fine.’
‘Excellent. Both thriving.’
A sprinkler started on the real grass beyond the last hole. Its first swing missed the flower bed and struck the empty table next to theirs. Ruth drew her handbag onto her lap.
‘I joined a choir,’ she said.
Colin looked at her.
‘What?’
‘A choir. On Wednesdays.’
‘Can you sing?’
‘Apparently they need people who can turn up.’
‘You’ll be indispensable.’
She made a face at him, but he was smiling into his cooldrink.
‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘Mostly. There’s a woman behind me who corrects my pronunciation. Even when we’re singing in English.’
‘Move.’
‘We’re arranged by voice.’
‘Correct hers.’
‘You want me to start a choir fight?’
‘Would they let me come and watch?’
They finished eating. Ruth left her phone in her bag when it vibrated. Colin stretched his legs out under the table and closed his eyes. She could hear the putters striking balls, a child insisting that four came after two, the sprinkler clicking as it turned.
After a while he opened one eye.
‘Another round?’
‘You won.’
‘I know. I enjoyed it.’
She reached across for the scorecard.
‘New scores. That was practice.’
Colin turned the card over and wrote their names again. He had given her a different surname, the name of a boy she had liked at school. She crossed it out.
This time she let him go first.
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