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The tall, skinny young woman, with unnaturally red, curly hair turned back from examining the family portrait on the wall above the fireplace. Annamari shifted uncomfortably on the couch. She wished Thys would come home. He was far more comfortable talking to the media than she was.
‘You are a good-looking family,’ the woman said. ‘How long ago was this taken?’
‘I don’t know. About ten – no, more than that – fourteen years ago. We had it taken for our twentieth wedding anniversary.’
‘So who’s who?’
Annamari got up and walked over to the fireplace.
‘That’s me and Thys, obviously. Then that’s Arno, our oldest son – he lives in Johannesburg; that’s De Wet; and the little one there, that’s Steyn. He’s writing matric this year.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘De Wet? De Wet van Zyl, the New Zealand cricketer? He’s your son?’
Annamari stared at her in surprise. ‘Of course. But you knew that. Why else would you want to speak to us?’
The woman shook her head. She looked embarrassed. ‘No, that’s not why... but now that I’m here, yes, I’d like to ask you about De Wet as well. I’m not a sports writer – I actually know very little about cricket – but I am curious. What’s it like having your son play for New Zealand – especially when New Zealand is playing against South Africa?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Annamari said, confused. ‘If you didn’t come here to talk about De Wet, why did you come? Is it about Beauty?’
‘What’s beauty?’
Annamari stared at the journalist who looked as confused as she felt. ‘Not what – who. Bontle Maseko... you know? We’ve always called her Beauty.’
She sighed with relief as Thys came through the French doors. He held out his hand to the journalist.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Thys van Zyl. De Wet’s father. And you are...?’
‘Tracy Jacobs. Daily Express in Johannesburg. But I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, Mr van Zyl, Mrs van Zyl. I didn’t contact you to talk about De Wet, although I think it’s a fantastic story and everything. And Bontle Maseko – you mean that incredible woman who has just been appointed to the Western Cape bench? What has she got to do with you?’
Thys looked at Annamari and frowned. ‘Beauty – Bontle, grew up on Steynspruit. But now I’m confused.’ He turned back to the journalist. ‘What do you want? You told my wife on the phone that you wanted to speak to us about De Wet and now you say...’
‘No,’ the journalist said. ‘I never said that. When I spoke to you, Mrs van Zyl, I simply asked if it would it be okay if I came out to your farm to speak to you about a story I was working on.’
Annamari remembered that she hadn’t really paid much attention when the journalist phoned. Lots of journalists phoned, especially since the New Zealand squad for the South African tour had been announced. She’d been making bread and the timer was buzzing – if she hadn’t got the loaf out of the oven it would have burned – and it was so hot in the kitchen, even with the back door open. So when the journalist asked if she could come out to Steynspruit the next day, she had agreed without further thought.
She and Thys were so proud the media was taking such an interest in De Wet. He had worked really hard, and had had to be so patient while he waited to qualify to represent his new country. But she had always known that his talent would see him through, and she’d been right. The moment he got his New Zealand citizenship, the New Zealand selectors hadn’t hesitated to draft him in to the Black Caps squad. And they hadn’t been disappointed. De Wet was doing brilliantly; even the South African media praised him. There was none of that nasty undercurrent as there was with Kevin Pietersen, who was now playing for England. But perhaps that was because De Wet was very tactful about why he had gone to New Zealand in the first place. When asked, he always said it was because he had been given an opportunity to learn more about milk farming in one of the world’s top milk producing countries – and the rest had just happened.
‘So if you didn’t want to speak to us about De Wet, or Beauty – it’s still strange for us to think of her as Justice Bontle Maseko – what do you want?’ Thys asked.
The journalist fished in her handbag and withdrew a tatty-looking shorthand notebook. ‘I’m working on a backgrounder about Alan Silverman.’
Annamari bit back her gasp and looked at Thys. Thys looked at her, then glared at the journalist. Neither of them said anything. The silence lengthened.
‘Did you know him? I came down to Driespruitfontein because I found out that this was his home town. That he went to school there.’ The journalist looked at them anxiously.
Still they said nothing.
‘Anyway, I was in the Wimpy eating breakfast and I met this old woman...’ She stopped and flipped some pages in her notebook. ‘Yes, here it is. Estie Viljoen. She said she hadn’t really known him or his family – just that they owned the General Dealer store. I got the impression she hadn’t liked them very much.’ She looked at them expectantly. Annamari looked away. Thys was silent.
The journalist rushed on: ‘Yes, well, she said you were very close to Alan Silverman and would know all about him. Anyway, she gave me your phone number. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, but I honestly didn’t intend to mislead you.’
Annamari clenched her hands. She swallowed hard. She felt nauseous. Why on earth hadn’t she questioned this journalist more closely before letting her loose in their home?
‘It’s okay,’ Thys said. ‘But I don’t know how much we’ll be able to help you. We went to school together. That was a long time ago. I hadn’t spoken to Alan since...well, probably since school. I was living in Bloemfontein when he went overseas and I hadn’t seen or spoken to him after he returned, so I really can’t tell you much about him.’
‘Oh, that’s fine. I really wanted to try and find out what he was like as a boy, a young man. You know – to try and see if there was anything, you know, that would have ... that could explain... that could help us understand him, the man he became...’ Her voice faltered under Thys’ piercing gaze.
Annamari’s heart lifted. Thys would never indulge in gossip, which was obviously what this horrible journalist was after. Thys would throw her out... and then she’d be able to breathe again.
‘Listen here,’ Thys said. ‘I know what the newspapers said about Alan. I find it very hard to believe. But the poor man is dead... he died months ago. Don’t you think it’s time to let him rest in peace?’
‘I just want to get to the truth. What he did...’
‘That was never proved,’ Thys hissed.
‘Ja, well, everyone thinks he was guilty. What do you think?’ the journalist asked. ‘Is there anything you can think of, what you knew about him that would have, or could explain the way... well, what happened to him?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Thys said, sharply.
The journalist flushed. Annamari almost felt sorry for her. She knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of a Thys glare.
‘Look,’ Thys went on in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sure you are only doing your job. But all I can tell you is that the Alan Silverman I read about in the newspapers was not the same Alan Silverman who I grew up with. Wait here. I’ve got something to show you.’
‘Did you know Alan Silverman too?’ the journalist asked as Thys left the room.
Annamari swallowed. ‘Not really. Not as well as Thys,’ she muttered.
The journalist got up and walked over to the family portrait. ‘I never realised Arno van Zyl was your son,’ she said, staring intently at the photograph. ‘You must have been very young when he was born.’
Annamari almost choked. ‘Yes. We were. Thys and me. Very young.’
‘I met Arno during the inquest – you know – the one into Brenda Silverman’s death. And I saw him a couple of times after that, at the Silverman house. Yair Silverman – Alan and Brenda’s son – we’re sort of friends and that’s ... oh, Mr van Zyl, what’s that?’
Thys returned and handed the journalist a Driespruitfontein Hoërskool magazine. ‘This should give you some idea of the kind of boy Alan was. See? He was the best cross country runner in the province, back then. He was extremely clever too, and generous and kind about it. He helped us – Annamari and me – with our maths. I would never have passed matric if it hadn’t been for him.’
Annamari felt her face burn as the journalist turned back to her. ‘Oh, but you told me you didn’t know him.’
‘I... he helped me with my maths. But we weren’t friends, not like him and Thys.’
The journalist stared at her and then flipped through the magazine, pausing when she came to the cross country team photograph. Annamari found herself holding her breath, and praying that the journalist would leave – just get up and go.
‘I have to ask,’ the journalist said, pulling at one of her red curls, ‘were you related to Alan Silverman? I mean, you weren’t cousins or something, were you?’