Little Stones

by Kuiper, Elizabeth;

  40

  The court battle between my parents continued as a new year began at Bishopslea. Rather than feeling excitement at the prospect of my final year of junior school – and the privileges that came with it – I was so preoccupied with their vicious dispute that I couldn’t bring myself to care that I now had first choice of seating at lunch or was sporting a new blue blazer.

  After the stunt Dad pulled with the officers, Mum put in a request for supervised visitations, which was approved. I could no longer spend the night at Dad’s house, and our visits during the day were now to be conducted in the presence of another adult. Dad tried to argue that Mum’s failure to disclose the move to the estate was substantive proof of her untrustworthiness, that she was a flight risk and could end up driving off to Mozambique or Zambia with me in tow.

  According to Mum, the patience the magistrate had for my father was wearing thin. Because of course the court had her current address on file, and the idea that she’d disappear to a neighbouring country was nothing short of a paranoid delusion. Mum was starting to believe that there was an end in sight. But the small victories were short-lived, and it seemed like for every step forwards, she was thrown back a dozen.

  ‘I just found out Mr Wallace’s firm, Wagner & O’Dwyer, is representing the commercial white farmers in a class action,’ she told me on the way to school one day. ‘I mean, that’s got to have a negative impact on the judge, surely? It doesn’t look good. I’m not going to pull a Steve and change my representation at the last minute but, god, when can I catch a break?’

  In the past, I would have tried to offer whatever morsel of advice I could manage, but as the court case progressed I came to realise that most of the time she was talking to herself, and so I absorbed her rhetorical questions as a necessary and cathartic part of the process for her.

  The first time I saw my father after the court order was in place was for a prearranged afternoon picnic at the Botanical Gardens. Mum dropped Gogo and me off at the gates and promised to be back in three hours’ time.

  ‘Thank you, Ruth,’ Dad said when he saw us. ‘But I can take it from here. I need to talk to my daughter privately.’

  ‘No, sir, I am instructed to stay with Hannah,’ Gogo said.

  ‘It’s okay, just wait here. We won’t be long – we’re just going for a walk together.’

  Gogo shook her head. Dad pulled out his wallet, counted out a few million dollars and thrust it in Gogo’s face. Gogo looked at the money and snorted.

  ‘What, you want more? You buggers know how to bargain, don’t you?’ Dad emptied the contents of his wallet into his hand, fanning it out between his fingers, but Gogo didn’t reach for it. Instead, she grabbed hold of my hand and began to lead me away.

  ‘Get your filthy hands off my daughter,’ Dad yelled out.

  A family of five sitting on a picnic blanket a few metres away, who had previously been chatting animatedly, fell silent and stared at us.

  ‘No. She is coming with me. She is going home to her mother,’ Gogo said, firmly tugging on my hand, urging me to follow her lead.

  Dad lunged forwards. He shoved Gogo away and she fell down to her knees, bracing herself with her palms on the ground. I moved to help her up. The entire park was staring at us now. One man, about fifty metres away, had risen to his feet but stopped short of walking over.

  ‘Go away, Dad. Go. LEAVE!’ I yelled.

  ‘Hannah …’

  ‘LEAVE!’

  Dad looked confused as he gathered up his things and strode towards the exit. I turned back to face Gogo, who was brushing the grass stains off her skirt.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Gogo … I’m so sorry. I hate him, I do. I really hate him. I’m so sorry.’

  Gogo put her arms around me, and I cried into her shoulder until I couldn’t cry anymore. I didn’t care that all the visitors around the gardens were watching on.

  ‘I’m really lucky that you’re here,’ I told Gogo, once I could control my breathing enough to form a coherent sentence.

  ‘I am lucky for you and your mum,’ Gogo replied.

  On the drive home, Gogo and I recounted to Mum what had happened. Mum apologised profusely to Gogo and said she could have time off, as much as she needed. Mum seemed angry and sympathetic, but she didn’t appear all that shocked, and I wondered if Dad had ever pushed her over as he’d done to Gogo today without a second thought.

  41

  The sign on the wall opposite me read: No Party Regalia. I couldn’t imagine what sort of person would choose the Harare Magistrates Court as a venue for any sort of partying. As I waited in the courtroom, I realised my peers would be in the fourth subject of the day. It was a Tuesday and that meant it was geography. And since it was term one, they would have cross-country in the afternoon. Rudo Rusere would be ducking behind the chapel to avoid running laps, while I sat on these hard wooden benches, twiddling my thumbs and trying to find words in the embossed brass plaques. Gala. Tarp. Liar.

  I was only meant to be out of school one morning. But Dad didn’t show up twice. And when he did, his lawyers didn’t – abandoning their posts to attend to ‘serious family emergencies’. Then he changed counsel in the middle of one court day. All in all, he changed his legal representation half-a-dozen times, and I ended up missing two weeks of classes.

  When I was asked to testify against my father’s claim to guardianship, I forced myself to remember the petty and neglectful things he’d done. All the times he wouldn’t let me eat ice-creams or crisps, because he didn’t want me to get fat. The weekends he failed to collect me for my scheduled visits without giving any notice, the birthday presents that were either afterthoughts or non-existent. I remembered his temper. When he was angry and the veins in his temple would throb, and he’d slam his fist on the table, spit flying out from his mouth. The day he pushed Gogo to the ground and the look of fear on her face as she staggered back to her feet. I heard her voice saying that he wasn’t a nice man, the words becoming a mantra in my mind.

  My role in the court process didn’t seem real. I felt as if I was on stage at the Bishopslea theatre, reprising my role as a sheep, this time with only a handful of lines the whole show. My name would ring through the air around me, out of the mouths of men I’d never met, but who insisted the solutions they proposed were in my best interests.

  Despite Mum having numerous friends and acquaintances, including John and Stella, who were willing to give written statements of support, it was not enough. Dad’s legal team came prepared with a compendium of delay tactics, the latest of which was a request for a child psychologist, who would assess me interacting with both my parents and create a detailed report based on her observations. Mum acquiesced, and an appointment was set.

  ‘They’re scraping the bottom of the barrel here,’ Mum said. ‘What do they think is going to happen?’

  The child psychologist arrived one morning at Borrowdale Brooke to observe me first with Mum. She was a middle-aged woman named Rita, with dyed-red curls that matched her square glasses. It was awkward to begin with but, after a while, she blended into the background and, save for the occasional scratch of pen on paper, I almost forgot she was there.

  The visit with Dad the following day was different. Mum drove me over to his house and we waited outside the gate in the car until Rita pulled up behind us. It felt strange not heading inside on my own, as I had done a hundred times before, instead having to wait until an authorised adult could accompany me into my father’s house. I knew he wouldn’t be able to treat this woman in the same way he had Gogo, and that gave me some relief.

  ‘Okay, sweetie, be strong,’ Mum whispered, before she drove off.

  Dad greeted Rita and me at the front door, with a smile that seemed pulled back by fishhooks.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he asked of himself, glancing at his watch. ‘Twelve o’clock. Lunchtime – why don’t we grab something ou
t to eat, and you can “do your thing” there? Say we go to Victoria 22? Would that work for you, Rita?’ Dad was rushing his words. ‘That’s our special spot, isn’t it, Hannah-Banana?’ I shrugged. ‘We went there nearly a year ago, for her eleventh birthday,’ he added.

  ‘Sorry, Steve, as lovely as that sounds, I’m just here to see you and Hannah interact at home on a regular day. Here in the house will be fine.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Not a problem. You know, there’s so few good places left in Harare to eat, don’t you think?’ Dad said, as he led Rita down the corridor and into the formal living room. ‘There was a lovely French bistro on Oxford Street and now it’s gone.’

  ‘Chez Olivier? I think it’s been replaced by a sadza shop,’ Rita said.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s also nice. Have you been?’

  Rita didn’t respond to this, but instead asked which one of Dad’s chairs she could sit in.

  ‘I know it may be hard but try to pretend I’m not here,’ she encouraged. ‘It’s just another day with Steve and Hannah.’

  Dad was visibly uncomfortable as he spoke to me, and his prepared questions made me feel as though I was undergoing an interview. He asked me what I had been doing at school recently. I told him that Diana had been appointed school prefect, just as her older sister Christine had, and I thought she was probably going to receive dux at the end of the year as well.

  ‘Oh, that’s good stuff. You must tell Diana congratulations from me,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, but I don’t think she’s ever met you.’

  ‘Well’ – Dad shot a glance over to Rita, who was scribbling notes – ‘I guess, given we have such little time together, I want to spend it all with you. But I do know she is a very special friend of yours.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said again, unable to think of another response.

  Dad suggested we play a game of chess, which, for the first time in memory, he let me win. Shortly after the match, Dad began re-engaging with Rita. He told her he would never wish to badmouth his ex-wife, but he was unsure she was financially capable of looking after me in Australia, and he only wanted what was best for his daughter.

  ‘There’s no way Jane will be able to get her money out of the country,’ Dad continued. ‘Things are just so difficult right now. Withdrawing money in itself is a real hassle. Let alone sending money out of the country.’

  ‘It is tough, you’re right,’ Rita conceded.

  ‘Although, as I’m sure you know, I work at Standard Chartered. That’s one perk of being a “number cruncher”, I suppose. If you ever did need to get hold of some cash, I am sure I could find a way to help you, especially since you have been so kind in taking the time today to be with little Hannah and me.’

  ‘Steve, I’m going to stop you right there. I am here as an impartial party. As a professional. And my assessment will reflect that. Is that clear?’

  Dad’s mouth was agape, and he seemed taken aback.

  ‘Oh … Oh, I can see how that came across. I apologise, sincerely. I wasn’t even considering in the realm of – well, perhaps what you were thinking. It’s just in my nature to want to help people. And, you know, it would be so easy – it wouldn’t be a burden on me at all. This country is a shambles, really. It’s a mess. The only way we can survive is through the kindness of others.’

  ‘If you feel that way, Steve … May I ask why you are intent on blocking Hannah’s mother’s passage to guardianship and their plans to emigrate?’

  Dad ignored Rita’s question and suggested that perhaps she ought to wrap up the session, as he had work to do.

  I met with Rita at her office the day after, while Mum waited outside in the car park. I was missing school once more, and the novelty of that had well and truly worn off.

  Rita guided me to the small blue couch that lined one wall, and took a seat in an office chair opposite me.

  I looked around the room, reading her framed university diploma. ‘Where’s the University of Fort Hare?’

  ‘South Africa,’ she replied. ‘On the Eastern Cape.’

  ‘My mum went to the University of Cape Town.’

  ‘Well, Nelson Mandela went to the University of Fort Hare.’

  ‘Oh wow! Did you meet him?’ My earnest question caused her to chuckle.

  ‘How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Thirty,’ I replied, instinctively.

  Rita threw her head back and let out a full-bodied laugh that made me want to join in. I decided I liked her. I felt as if I could trust her.

  ‘I know this has been a weird few days for you, Hannah,’ Rita said, her tone shifting. ‘But this is the last time you have to see me and then we’re all done.’

  She retrieved a folder from a grey filing cabinet next to her and placed it on the table between us. Then she pulled out a printed piece of paper with multiple-choice questions. For the most part, they were easy to answer: how often did I see my dad, did he and I play games together, what activities did we engage in and so on and so forth. The same questions were then asked of my mum. It became more difficult when she asked me how I would describe the relationship between my parents. I must’ve been silent for a while, because she simplified her question, asking whether I would describe it as ‘normal’ or ‘happy’. I shook my head.

  After I stumbled through a few more answers, Rita reached into the same folder and retrieved a series of photographs. She flipped the first one over and showed it to me.

  It was a picture of me and Oscar Wilde. I was maybe six or seven years old, sitting on the ground next to him, my hands full of dog treats, my head dipped as I pretended to eat them.

  ‘Do you remember this photograph being taken?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes, I do. That’s me and Oscar. He’s a ridgeback.’

  ‘Just answer yes or no to the questions, okay, Hannah?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly, to show I understood.

  ‘Do you remember when this photograph was taken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember which year?’

  ‘Ye— I mean, no. Not really … I guess I don’t remember when it was taken.’ I felt as if I were in a Shona test with Mrs Muduma.

  ‘Hannah, has your mother or grandparents – or any other family member – ever fed you dog food?’

  ‘What? No! Why? No.’

  ‘Perhaps when there wasn’t a lot of food around?’

  I shook my head.

  Rita flipped another photo over. It was taken on the dance floor of Jeanine’s wedding. I spotted Mum and Greg, and the Parkers among the crowd.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ She pointed to Greg, and I confirmed that I did. ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Rita then pursued a line of questioning about his ‘relationship’ with my mum, following up with queries about any other men that might be in my life. The picture, combined with the questions, took me back to Dad’s outburst at the wedding and all the hate-filled, alcohol-fuelled things I’d heard him say to Mum.

  Rita slid a final photograph across the table. It was of me, standing outside Dad’s house. I looked sad. My arms were covered in cuts and bruises, and my leg displayed a deep red gash that travelled from the top of my knee to halfway down my shin. It was oddly familiar but I couldn’t place it. Then I remembered. It was taken almost exactly a year ago.

  ‘Now this may be difficult, but I need you to be completely honest with me, okay, Hannah? Has your mother ever physically harmed you?’ she asked.

  ‘No! Why are you asking this?’

  ‘Please, Hannah. It’s important to answer the questions as best you can. Has your mother ever physically harmed you, or put you in a position where you have been harmed?’

  I thought back to the avocado tree, and how Mum had suggested that I ought to climb it to help Grandpa. ‘No … I mean … Maybe … But sh
e didn’t know I was going to get hurt. I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, thank you, Hannah.’

  I felt a growing sickness inside me, as though I had eaten eight packets of Simba cheese-and-onion crisps and was cooped up in the back seat of a car on a hot day. No, worse: I felt as though I had eaten eight packets of Simba cheese-and-onion crisps and had got in trouble for knocking over Mum’s lamp and lying about it. It was both physical and mental torment.

  ‘I fell off a tree. That’s where the bruises are from in that photo. But Dad … Dad has hit me. He’s pushed Gogo too. She’s our housekeeper. He lies about things. In that photo I seem sad, but I’m not really – he asked me to pose like that. And the photo with Oscar Wilde … I think that’s from a Christmas card my mum made. Or maybe Nana, I don’t know. But it’s not what it looks like.’ I had to remind myself to breathe. There was so much more to say but, from the expression on her face, I got the sense that Rita had already come to a conclusion.

  ‘Thank you, Hannah,’ she said. ‘You have done a good job.’

  At the end of the term, my name was not called out in the top five. Diana had taken my spot at number three, and I was flailing down the bottom, just above the girls who would receive ‘letters of concern’. But there was a large part of me that didn’t really care. I remembered what Nana had said over six months before, in the hospital: I’ve already left.

  42

  Until the phone beeped that afternoon, it had been the perfect Sunday. Mum had given Gogo the week off and money to visit her sister in Chegutu. Instead of Mum cooking Sunday breakfast (which was usually disastrous), she suggested we go to IB’s and pick up something to watch from Rainbow Video.

  After a solid half-hour of perusing every section in the store, from comedy to drama, scanning the shelves and periodically pulling out a VHS to examine the blurb on the back, I decided on the The Gods Must Be Crazy. I had already watched it at Diana’s house, on her big-screen TV, after Diana mentioned her mum worked on the film set in Botswana, procuring all the costumes and props.