28. CONFESSION

“Why wouldn’t you tell him? He’s your son.”

“And you’re his wife, Holly. There’s no difference.”

“I don’t believe that.”

They were in the kitchen. They’d eaten a quick breakfast together and said good-bye to Glenn. Henry’s side throbbed—he pictured a red-hot metal rod wedged between his lower back and tailbone—and he’d had some difficulty getting down the stairs, but when she’d offered to take him to the doctor, he told her she was being silly. Holly cradled her mug in her hands. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much.

“I think you know why I’m not going to tell Glenn,” Henry said.

“Because you want us to stay together. Because of Saul.”

“That too.”

“Because you had an affair once, and you wish someone hadn’t told Sarah about it, or wish Glenn hadn’t found out. Or you don’t think you have the moral authority. But you do, you know. It doesn’t matter. People in glass houses throw stones all the time.”

“I know,” Henry said, smiling at the image in his head, a street of shattered glass houses. “But in this case, I don’t think it would help anyone. I didn’t see anything yesterday. End of story. If Glenn finds out, he finds out. If you want to tell him, that’s fine.”

“Do you think I should?”

“I think—well, personally, I think you should do what it takes to stay together. If that’s what you want, of course. I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants.”

“This is difficult for you.”

“It’s not a conversation I’d ever imagined myself having.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Thank you. You too.”

“So, what do you want, Henry?”

“What do I want? I want my arse to stop hurting. I want a thirty-year-old girlfriend and a lot of money. Sorry, bad joke.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She stuck out her tongue and flashed a silly smile.

After a while she said, “Can I ask why you had an affair? I’ve always wondered.”

“Does anyone know why? Like you said, I suppose. Just happened. And I was in love with her. If that makes a difference, which it does, I think. Remarkable woman. She was brave and clever and very beautiful. I loved Sarah, too, of course.”

“What was her name?”

“Nellie Mkhatshwa.”

“Hang on. Nellie, as in Nellie and Zeke, the people you sent Saul to see, near Nelspruit. He said he met Lillian . . .”

“One of Nellie’s granddaughters.”

“But why now? Haven’t you seen her since then?”

“I have. But we’d lost touch. Or rather, I hadn’t heard from her. And that’s what Saul found out—that she died.” He pictured Nellie sitting on Colin Beswick’s blue fountain, lying on the guest cottage bed. Izandla ezinhle. He felt his throat constrict as he imagined a funeral, a circle of mourners under a hot sun.

“So why do you want Saul to meet her family? Aren’t you worried he’ll find out?”

“I’m fairly certain he’ll find out. He’s a grown-up now, he can make up his own mind about his philandering gramps. As for my motives—simple, really. I want to know where her children and grandchildren are because I want them to be in my will. They don’t have a lot of money, and a small amount could change their lives. And possibly I thought they might be nice people for Glenn to know.”

“Oh, Henry.”

“Don’t ‘oh Henry’ me.”

“Oh, Henry.”