I lick mayonnaise off my fingers and watch the circular washing line rotate a few degrees at a time in the light breeze, like it can’t quite decide what it wants to do. One of Charles’s old flannel shirts has one sleeve tossed over the line and caught on one of its own pegs. Kuti’s sunning herself on one of the steps leading up to the yard gate. Have the rains finally moved off? I thought it was never going to stop raining again.
Like the washing line, we’ve come full circle. Another braai, another milestone. Two years have passed this time. Gill’s travelled twelve thousand miles since the last such occasion and a lifetime of history’s been made in our country and yet I can still remember it as clearly as yesterday. I was thinking about the war. The same war.
I’d been wondering how much longer it was going to last. Now, two years older and wiser, I know so much more about the politics involved yet I understand the whole situation less. Two years ago I still had some sort of patriotic enthusiasm. I still got a bit teared up when we sang Rise, O Voices of Rhodesia in school assembly. Now I no longer know what is right, or what exactly I should be feeling or thinking.
The garden is the same. The washing line, the rockery, the glimpse of the ménage railings at the top, the Lion Rock – they’re all still there just as they were before. We carry on regardless with our parties and our braais while the fighting and the terror continue in the rural areas and the Combined Forces’ Honour Roll continues to lengthen. Three boys who went to our school died within three weeks of each other in January, then Heather’s brother was killed in February and now Jess’s cousin Mike has got himself added to the casualty list. I’ve never met him. He’ll recover though so I guess he’ll end up going back. Not so the others. More and more civilians are getting caught up in it, babies are being bayonetted and motorists are being ambushed on the roads.
Back to the cat. She’s licking her fur daintily, one hind leg pointing to the sky, toes outstretched. Déjà vu. Or like watching a film second time around.
And I don’t want to watch it anymore.
There’s a distinctly different age range within Gill’s guest list this year. Some of the older relatives I remember are missing. There are fewer aunts and uncles, but more younger men and women like Gill’s friends and some of the pupils she’s gained in her training business. Tammy’s here with her younger sister, Sherrie. She’s sixteen now and looks like Tammy did when I first met her – short and skinny, long legs in relation to her height and long curly blonde hair, although with a sharper face shape. She has the same sunny smile, but there’s something different in her. Her eyes have a slightly harder edge. Tammy manages to find a funny side to almost every situation and has herself a good time no matter what others are doing, whereas Sherrie seems bent on getting everyone else to enjoy themselves as much as she is and bloody well like it. I don’t know what she said to that guy from across the road – the one with the tufts of black hair in a circle round his head and a bald patch on top – but whatever it was he didn’t get the joke so she actually nudged him in the ribs repeatedly until he thought he’d better laugh.
And, without exception, all the young men are wearing camo in some form. A couple of them are in full uniform – trousers and shirts with sleeves rolled up – and the others have various bits, like trousers, shorts, T-shirts, vests or boots, mixed with civvy articles.
I’ve run out of food preparation tasks and I don’t reckon the meat’s ready yet, so I’ll go out and park on the paving at the edge of the pool and dangle my hot feet in the water. There’s a hubbub of voices and music behind me on the patio and in the emerald garden but for now I’m the only one at the pool. The glitter Slasto paving is wet and will make the seat of my shorts damp but I don’t care.
Gill’s not far behind me. She says, “Hi,” in her warm voice and plonks down cross legged beside me. My friend, Gill. Smiling, sunny, slender, pretty as ever, although more sophisticated now – a woman rather than a girl – and wearing a T-shirt protesting, “Rhodesia Is Super”. In that instant, the peaceful moment’s gone. We both have to lean back in unison to avoid being soaked by a child as it gallops from nowhere and leaps into the water right in front of us, bouncing up on bright yellow armbands.
“I’m losing track of these kids,” she sighs. “Whose is that? Oh, it’s Barry’s. I’m damned if I can remember his name. Jake? Jason? Jamie? His wife’s already got another one on the way. Things move on, don’t they? All my aunts and uncles and my parents’ friends think I should have had a couple by now. I’m getting old, Tess.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re only twenty-one.”
I’m studying her face suspiciously. Gill having babies? That’s one that’s never been on my radar. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.
We watch the boy doggy-paddle his way across the pool, his armbands keeping him bobbing on the surface. One of the small waves he created when he jumped in comes back and slaps him in the face, leaving him snorting water out of his nose. Charming.
With her elbows on her knees, Gill puts her fingers together in a steeple shape and rests her chin on their tips.
“I’ve had a couple of phone calls from Nath this last week. He seems to be getting on well in his training. I’m not too sure when the passing out parade is going to be. He’ll be in Independent Company number such-and-such of the Rhodesia Regiment when that’s all over. During May, I guess.”
Ah yes. Back to reality. Nathan’ll be off to our borders, to one of our hot operational areas, very, very soon. Maybe to Hurricane in the north, or Thrasher in the Eastern Highlands, or Repulse or Tangent in the south and south-west. The names are harsh and ominous – even Tangent, which up until a short while ago was just maths to me.
“Then they’ll send him out to fight the war. To achieve nothing.”
I shouldn’t have said that. She’s got her lips pressed together and as soon as she feels my eyes she turns her head away from me. I’d intended my voice to be matter-of-fact, but it comes out bitter, and that’s wrong. While I’m wondering what to follow this up with, she tells me, “Tessa, we’re fighting against communism. We have to fight it to preserve what we have, after everyone’s let us down. Fight for what we believe in. We must.”
There’s some exaggerated head nodding, her eyes still averted.
This isn’t right, coming from Gill. My parents are the ones who go on about being let down by everyone (the British government, the Yanks, the traitorous South African government). They’re the ones who echo the cries of the Rhodesian Front about fighting communism, preserving our way of life, being in the right and refusing to believe this is anything to do with black Africans wanting their country back. I try to compel her to look at me with what Paddington Bear would class as a hard stare, but she won’t. My bitter words, spoken half to myself, have had some deep effect on her emotions and I wish I could take them back. It was actually a pretty stupid thing to say because she wants to – needs to – believe Nathan’s not here with us today because he’s doing something worthwhile. I dig for more words and come up with nothing except truths I know she won’t want to hear. Best keep them to myself.
No one’s let us down. We’ve let ourselves down over the years and now we’re trying to blame everyone else because we can’t have what we want.
She reaches down and drags one hand through the crystal water that’s gradually going quiet after Jake-Jason-Jamie has scrambled up the steps on the far side and run off.
“We’ll all go to his parade of course. Dad will love that.”
The traditional military Passing Out Parade. Inevitably, one or two of the recruits, dressed up to the nines in heavy uniforms and standing to attention for hours in the burning sun, will do just that – pass out before they’ve officially Passed Out.
Is it a thing to be proud of though, your son going off to war? Your boy? Our Boys On The Border. They’re all someone’s son, brother, father or husband. Even Nathan, who’s as good as a son to Charles and Moira.
“Would his real dad have been proud of him, do you reckon?”
She sighs and wipes her hand on her shorts.
“Him? A stinking bastard drunkard who had an affair and managed to write himself off by wrapping a car round a baobab tree? Nah, he wouldn’t have had the sense to be proud of anything. Git.”
Oh. Should’ve known the answer to that one. She’s studying my face.
“You still look shocked every time Tess. He never had any interest in his son. It was only about five months after Nathan was born that he started seeing other women. I can only guess it was because they were more available to him – you know what I mean? My aunt did have a bit of post-natal depression and she had some pretty see-saw emotions, and it sure didn’t help when the idiot started going out and about spreading himself around. Good riddance, to be honest with you.”
He was killed when Nathan was only three. November 1963. A week before JFK. I don’t recall much from when I was three. If Mum and Dad had died then, would I remember them? What’s it like to never know your real parents? I’m thinking of that photo in the hallway of Gill hugging Captain when he was a puppy. She got him for her eighth birthday. Nathan’s in it too, sitting on the grass next to her, reaching out a hand that’s connected with Captain’s tongue and both children are giggling. I remember it especially because Gill loves the picture so much and she told me she wasn’t able to look at it for over a year after Captain had to be put to sleep. Was that taken around the time Nathan became her brother? Also, it’s one of the few photos in which he’s facing and smiling at the camera.
Gill uncrosses her legs and lets her own feet drop into the water.
“I’ve never shown you any photos of Don, have I? The only ones we keep are the wedding photos and that’s only because my gentle, beautiful aunt Annabelle’s in them. Dad keeps them in his bedroom cupboard. You’ll think that’s strange? Yes, I can see you do. I’ll tell you why. He doesn’t want Nathan to see them. I promise I’ll show you and I guarantee that you’ll be amazed at how much Nathan is starting to look like Don. But whatever you do, don’t ever tell him that. I mean it. I can’t expect you to really get this, but that’s why we keep photos of the guy out of sight. I dare say Nath knows damned well, but he’ll be shutting it out for sure.”
My mouth must be making the ‘oh’ shape again.
“He might end up being like his father on the outside, but inside he’s turning into my father, and maybe our Uncle Richard too. Him and Dad are very much alike. And he has a bit of Annie’s artistic side too, I guess.”
“Artistic? Does that make you a sensitive rider? He is, as it always seems to me that he’s constantly having these subtle, physical conversations with whatever horse he’s riding. A quiet, but very effective horseman.”
She gives me an appraising stare and purses her lips.
“That’s so true. You’re very observant and it makes me so proud that you’ve noticed it. Shows how much you understand what equitation is all about now. I always told you that boy has a gift when it comes to horses and riding. He susses out each horse and instinctively knows which buttons to press and which ones not to press. He’s so not like his father in that respect. In any respect, actually. I have no real memories of Don that I can recall – it’s mainly what my parents have told me. I was a flower girl at their wedding and have snippets of the day still in my head and I do remember Annie. She was a wild child. A free spirit. A painter. She fell head over heels in love with a handsome man and thought all her romantic dreams would come true. Dad says she couldn’t see past his good looks and the charm that he could ooze. He detested the bloke from the off and reckons he would never’ve trusted him as far as he could throw a house. He tried to warn her but she breezed along in good faith and blind love and dated him for nearly a year, had a whirlwind wedding and was pregnant with Nathan after only a few months. That’s when the problems started. He began looking elsewhere, and he had no shortage of female admirers. He didn’t try to hide it either. The drinking got worse and he started staying away from home. It was…”
“Gilly! There you are! I’ve been looking for you all over.”
It’s Moira, and she’s harassed, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Where’s your father? Please can you dig him out from wherever he’s hiding and find out how close we are to serving up? I’ll be with Amai in the kitchen. Now, now, please honey.” And she’s gone again.
Gill sighs, scrambles to her feet, says, “Catchya later,” and is also gone.
Her voice floats back to me, “Dad! Mum’s looking for ya! Dad!”
Dad.
Dads. They’re loving. They’re interested in and committed to their children. They’re responsible guardians. My dad, Charles, Jess’s father. Uncle Harry and Uncle Len. I’ve never met them, but Mum tells us stuff she’s read in the letters and what they’ve been up to and how she loves them both. None of them are stinking bastard drunkards. None of them have had an affair. Or at least I don’t think so. I hope not. And they’re here for us.
But at least Nathan’s had Charles.
*
“That,” Charles declares, “is the mother of all birthday cakes.”
He’s not wrong. Its separate sections are ten centimetres high and form the numbers 2 and 1 and it’s thick with pearly white fondant icing, trimmed with gold piped icing and embellished with gold paper ribbons. Moira orchestrates its grand entrance, whisking it out of hiding – or rather, bearing it out of hiding carefully on its gold board with Amai’s assistance – glowing as if she’s its mother. I guess she is, since she made it.
Once cut, it vanishes as magically as it appeared. Dallying to help Amai tip rubbish into the old horse feed bags hasn’t helped me in my quest for cake; there are only a few sad looking remnants left, some scattered bits of fruit and numerous crumbs. It’s all over for another year – the bones have been disposed of, the braai embers are dying to a grey ash and the cake’s finished. Never mind. I’ve eaten too much as it is. I can maybe gather up some of the morsels with my fingertips just to get a taste.
“Oh poor Tessa!”
Gill’s voice is ever so slightly slurred.
“Come with us. There’s some gorgeously creamy, yummy ice cream in the freezer. Rum and raisin, no less. We’ll have some of that and we won’t share it with anyone else!”
In her wake, I’m wondering just who ‘us’ is.
It turns out to be her and a guy I’ve seen several times today, but only towards evening. I’m sure he wasn’t around at lunchtime and I kind of recognise him but I can’t quite place him. He’s very tall, standing at least a head above Gill, with a thin face and lank fair hair cropped in such a way that it could only have been done by an army barber. He’s one of those wearing parts of a uniform – camo trousers, boots and a khaki T-shirt. Slightly older than Gill, I think, but then I do find age hard to judge.
She introduces him in a muffled voice as she dives head first into the gargantuan chest freezer in the scullery area.
“This is Tim Morrison, by the way. Tim, meet Tessa Harmand. You know him, Tess. He rides Serendipity and Electromagnet.”
Ah yes, now I know. If Mum is ever unidentifiable as Sheila, she’ll be Tessa-and-Rosie’s-Mother. Similarly, Tim is Serendipity-and-Electromagnet’s-Owner.
It’s not just food I’ve had too much of. I’m ever so slightly spaced out, as if I’m not quite here. It’s a very odd feeling.
Gill rears back up from the depths of the freezer with a plastic tub of ice cream in her hands, as smug as a conjurer whipping a silk handkerchief from a top hat.
“Voilà! Who wants some?”
*
Tim is laying the attention on thick. I’m having plenty of opportunities to watch him focus all his considerable charm and wit on Gill, sharing a bowl of the ice cream, helping her to move the hi-fi to the French doors so there can be dancing on the verandah, getting very close and staying there, holding her in his arms under the multi-coloured glow of the fairy lights. He lets her go occasionally to dance with a couple of the only remaining elderly relatives but they don’t stay the distance. Their repertoire of dance steps doesn’t run to disco and one by one they sidle out of the area of maximum decibel count.
Dancing with Charles, trying to ignore his resemblance to a tipsy penguin, I can’t shake off the dismal idea that I seem to be the only one without a specific partner. Wasn’t I just reflecting earlier that Gill didn’t have a boyfriend? After another of Charles’s rum and Cokes, the spaced out feeling intensifies, as does the depression.
But now Dad’s here. I do recall phoning, as arranged, but not him actually arriving. How long ago was that?
We end up in the car – somehow, don’t remember actually saying goodbye to anyone – and set off for home. Dad tells me some stuff about what he got Elijah to do in the garden today. He asks me how the party was and I tell him about the cake. At the end of the road, a brief pause in our chat is broken by the ticking of the car’s direction indicator – tick, tick, tick. The one in Gill’s Alfa Romeo goes tick, gloop, tick, gloop, tick, gloop. Suppressed giggles come out as a shudder and my eyes start watering. This is no good. I’ll get rumbled and there’ll be all hell to pay. There’s an abrupt return of a clarity of mind as I feel Dad’s eyes on me.
I sit up very straight and focus on the tail-lights of the vehicle in front, the dark forms of the trees flashing past, the headlights of another car waiting at a side road junction. These are serious things, interesting things even. They are not funny. The other car’s right indicators are flashing orange. Tick, tick, tick. Tick, gloop, tick, gloop.
A strangled noise comes out and Dad jerks his head round again.
“Are you all right?”
Swallow. Stop. It’s not funny. It’s not hysterical. Stop.
“It was a joke. Gill told me a really good joke.”
“Oh? So what was it?”
You would ask, wouldn’t you?
“I can’t remember it. I’ll tell you another time.”
“Hmm,” he replies.