When he was selected to fight the safe seat of Noordhoek, he ended his speech to the adoption committee with the words, ‘I’ll go to my grave knowing apartheid must be right, for blacks as well as for whites.’ He received a standing ovation.
That all changed on 18 August 1989.
Stoffel left the bank a few minutes early that evening, because he was due to address a meeting at his local town hall. The election was now only weeks away, and the opinion polls were indicating that he was certain to become the Member for the Noordhoek constituency.
As he stepped out of the lift he bumped into Martinus de Jong, the bank’s General Manager. ‘Another half-day, Stoffel?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Hardly. I’m off to address a meeting in the constituency, Martinus.’
‘Quite right, old fellow,’ de Jong replied. ‘And don’t leave them in any doubt that no one can afford to waste their vote this time - that is, if they don’t want this country to end up being run by the blacks. By the way,’ he added, ‘we don’t need assisted places for blacks at universities either. If we allow a bunch of students in England to dictate the bank’s policy, we’ll end up with some black wanting my job.’
‘Yes, I read the memo from London. They’re acting like a herd of ostriches. Must dash, Martinus, or I’ll be late for my meeting.’
‘Yes, sorry to have held you up, old fellow.’
Stoffel checked his watch and ran down the ramp to the carpark. When he joined the traffic in Rhodes Street, it quickly became clear that he had not managed to avoid the bumper-to-bumper exodus of people heading out of town for the weekend.
Once he had passed the city limits, he moved quickly into top gear. It was only fifteen miles to Noordhoek, although the terrain was steep and the road winding. But as Stoffel knew every inch of the journey, he was usually parked outside his front door in under half an hour.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. With luck, he would still be home with enough time to shower and change before he had to head off for the meeting.
As he swung south onto the road which would take him up into the hills, Stoffel pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, nipping in and out to overtake slow-moving lorries and cars that weren’t as familiar with the road as he was. He scowled as he shot past a black driver who was struggling up the hill in a clapped-out old van that shouldn’t have been allowed on the road.
Stoffel accelerated round the next bend to see a lorry ahead of him. He knew there was a long, straight section of road before he would encounter another bend, so he had easily enough time to overtake. He put his foot down and pulled out to overtake, surprised to discover how fast the lorry was travelling.
When he was about a hundred yards from the next bend, a car appeared around the corner. Stoffel had to make an instant decision. Should he slam his foot on the brake, or on the accelerator? He pressed his foot hard down until the accelerator was touching the floor, assuming the other fellow would surely brake. He eased ahead of the lorry, and the moment he had overtaken it, he swung in as quickly as he could, but still he couldn’t avoid clipping the mudguard of the oncoming car. For an instant he saw the terrified eyes of the other driver, who had slammed on his brakes, but the steep gradient didn’t help him. Stoffel’s car rammed into the safety barrier before bouncing back onto the other side of the road, eventually coming to a halt in a clump of trees.
That was the last thing he remembered, before he regained consciousness five weeks later.
Stoffel looked up to find Inga standing at his bedside. When she saw his eyes open, she grasped his hand and then rushed out of the room to call for a doctor.
The next time he woke they were both standing by his bedside, but it was another week before the surgeon was able to tell him what had happened following the crash.
Stoffel listened in horrified silence when he learned that the other driver had died of head injuries soon after arriving at the hospital.
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ was all Inga said.
‘You certainly are,’ said the surgeon, ‘because only moments after the other driver died, your heart also stopped beating. It was just your luck that a suitable donor was in the next operating theatre.’
‘Not the driver of the other car?’ said Stoffel.
The surgeon nodded.
‘But … wasn’t he black?’ asked Stoffel in disbelief.
Yes, he was,’ confirmed the surgeon. ‘And it may come as a surprise to you, Mr van den Berg, that your body doesn’t realise that. Just be thankful that his wife agreed to the transplant. If I recall her words’ - he paused - ‘she said, “I can’t see the point in both of them dying.” Thanks to her, we were able to save your life, Mr van den Berg.’ He hesitated and pursed his lips, then said quietly, ‘But I’m sorry to have to tell you that your other internal injuries were so severe that despite the success of the heart transplant, the prognosis is not at all good.’
Stoffel didn’t speak for some time, but eventually asked, ‘How long do I have?’
‘Three, possibly four years,’ replied the surgeon. ‘But only if you take it easy.’
Stoffel fell into a deep sleep.
It was another six weeks before Stoffel left the hospital, and even then Inga insisted on a long period of convalescence. Several friends came to visit him at home, including Martinus de Jong, who assured him that his job at the bank would be waiting for him just as soon as he had fully recovered.
‘I shall not be returning to the bank,’ Stoffel said quietly. ‘You will be receiving my resignation in the next few days.’
‘But why?’ asked de Jong. ‘I can assure you …’ Stoffel waved his hand. ‘It’s kind of you, Martinus, but I have other plans.’
The moment the doctor said Stoffel could leave the house, he asked Inga to drive him to Crossroads, so he could visit the widow of the man he had killed.
The tall, fair-haired white couple walked among the shacks of Crossroads, watched by sullen, resigned eyes. When they reached the little hovel where they had been told the driver’s wife lived, they stopped.
Stoffel would have knocked on the door if there had been one. He peered through the gap and into the darkness to see a young woman with a baby in her arms, cowering in the far corner.
‘My name is Stoffel van den Berg,’ he told her. ‘I have come to say how sorry I am to have been the cause of your husband’s death.’
‘Thank you, master,’ she replied. ‘No need to visit me.’
As there wasn’t anything to sit on, Stoffel lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs.
‘I also wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to live.’
‘Thank you, master.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you and your child would like to come and live with us?’
‘No, thank you, master.’
‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked Stoffel helplessly.
‘Nothing, thank you, master.’
Stoffel rose from his place, aware that his presence seemed to disturb her. He and Inga walked back through the township in silence, and did not speak again until they had reached their car.
‘I’ve been so blind,’ he said as Inga drove him home.
‘Not just you,’ his wife admitted, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘But what can we do about it?’
‘I know what I must do.’
Inga listened as her husband described how he intended to spend the rest of his life.
The next morning Stoffel called in at the bank, and with the help of Martinus de Jong worked out how much he could afford to spend over the next three years.
‘Have you told Inga that you want to cash in your life insurance?’
‘It was her idea,’ said Stoffel.
‘How do you intend to spend the money?’
‘I’ll start by buying some second-hand books, old rugby balls and cricket bats.’
‘We could help by doubling the amount you have to spend,’ suggeste
d the General Manager.
‘How?’ asked Stoffel.
‘By using the surplus we have in the sports fund.’
‘But that’s restricted to whites.’
‘And you’re white,’ said the General Manager.
Martinus was silent for some time before he added, ‘Don’t imagine that you’re the only person whose eyes have been opened by this tragedy. And you are far better placed to . . .’ he hesitated.
‘To … ?’ repeated Stoffel.
‘Make others, more prejudiced than yourself, aware of their past mistakes.’
That afternoon Stoffel returned to Crossroads. He walked around the township for several hours before he settled on a piece of land surrounded by tin shacks and tents.
Although it wasn’t flat, or the perfect shape or size, he began to pace out a pitch, while hundreds of young children stood staring at him.
The following day some of those children helped him paint the touchlines and put out the corner flags.
For four years, one month and eleven days, Stoffel van den Berg travelled to Crossroads every morning, where he would teach English to the children in what passed for a school.
In the afternoons, he taught the same children the skills of rugby or cricket, according to the season. In the evenings, he would roam the streets trying to persuade teenagers that they shouldn’t form gangs, commit crime or have anything to do with drugs.
Stoffel van den Berg died on 24 March 1994, only days before Nelson Mandela was elected as President. Like Basil D’Oliveira, he had played a small part in defeating apartheid.
The funeral of the Crossroads Convert was attended by over two thousand mourners who had travelled from all over the country to pay their respects.
The journalists were unable to agree whether there had been more blacks or more whites in the congregation.
TOO MANY COINCIDENCES*
WHENEVER RUTH looked back on the past three years - and she often did - she came to the conclusion that Max must have planned everything right down to the last detail - yes, even before they’d met.
They first bumped into each other by accident - or that’s what Ruth assumed at the time - and to be fair to Max it wasn’t the two of them, but their boats, that had bumped into each other.
Sea Urchin was easing its way into the adjoining mooring in the half-light of the evening when the two bows touched. Both skippers quickly checked to see if there had been any damage to their boat, but as both had large inflatable buoys slung over their sides, neither had come to any harm. The owner of The Scottish Belle gave a mock salute and disappeared below deck.
Max poured himself a gin and tonic, picked up a paperback that he had meant to finish the previous summer, and settled down in the bow. He began to thumb through the pages, trying to recall the exact place he had reached, when the skipper of The Scottish Belle reappeared on the deck.
The older man gave the same mock salute, so Max lowered his book and said, ‘Good evening. Sorry about the bump.’
‘No harm done,’ the skipper replied, raising his glass of whisky.
Max rose from his place and, walking across to the side of the boat, thrust out a hand and said, ‘My name’s Max Bennett.’
‘Angus Henderson,’ the older man replied, with a slight Edinburgh burr.
‘You live in these parts, Angus?’ asked Max casually.
‘No,’ replied Angus. ‘My wife and I live on Jersey, but our twin boys are at school here on the south coast, so we sail across at the end of every term and take them back for their holidays. And you? Do you live in Brighton?’
‘No, London, but I come down whenever I can find the time to do a spot of sailing, which I fear isn’t often enough - as you’ve already discovered,’ he added with a chuckle, as a woman appeared from below the deck of The Scottish Belle.
Angus turned and smiled. ‘Ruth, this is Max Bennett. We literally bumped into each other.’
Max smiled across at a woman who could have passed as Henderson’s daughter, as she was at least twenty years younger than her husband. Although not beautiful, she was striking, and from her trim, athletic build she looked as if she might work out every day. She gave Max a shy smile.
‘Why don’t you join us for a drink?’ suggested Angus.
‘Thank you,’ said Max, and clambered across onto the larger boat. He leaned forward and shook Ruth’s hand. ‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Henderson.’
‘Ruth, please. Do you live in Brighton?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Max. ‘I was just telling your husband that I only come down for the odd weekend to do a little sailing. And what do you do on Jersey?’ he asked, turning his attention back to Angus. ‘You certainly weren’t born there.’
‘No, we moved there from Edinburgh after I retired seven years ago. I used to manage a small broking business. All I do nowadays is keep an eye on one or two of my family properties to make sure they’re showing a worthwhile return, sail a little and play the occasional round of golf. And you?’ he enquired.
‘Not unlike you, but with a difference.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’ asked Ruth.
‘I also look after property, but it belongs to other people. I’m a junior partner with a West End estate agent.’
‘How are property prices in London at the moment?’ asked Angus after another gulp of whisky.
‘It’s been a bad couple of years for most agents - no one wants to sell, and only foreigners can afford to buy. And anybody whose lease comes up for renewal demands that their rent should be lowered, while others are simply defaulting.’
Angus laughed. ‘Perhaps you should move to Jersey. At least that way you would avoid …’
We ought to think about getting changed, if we’re not going to be late for the boys’ concert,’ interrupted Ruth.
Henderson checked his watch. ‘Sorry, Max,’ he said. ‘Nice to talk to you, but Ruth’s right. Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ replied Max. He smiled, placed his glass on a nearby table and clambered back onto his own boat as the Hendersons disappeared below deck.
Once again, Max picked up his much-thumbed novel, and although he finally found the right place, he discovered he couldn’t concentrate on the words. Thirty minutes later the Hendersons reappeared, suitably dressed for a concert. Max gave them a casual wave as they stepped onto the quay and into a waiting taxi.
When Ruth appeared on the deck the following morning, clutching a cup of tea, she was disappointed to find that Sea Urchin was no longer moored next to them. She was about to disappear back below deck when she thought she recognised a familiar boat entering the harbour.
She didn’t move as she watched the sail become larger and larger, hoping that Max would moor in the same spot as he had the previous evening. He waved when he saw her standing on the deck. She pretended not to notice.
Once he’d fixed the moorings, he called across, ‘So, where’s Angus?’
‘Gone to pick up the boys and take them off to a rugby match. I’m not expecting him back until this evening,’ she added unnecessarily.
Max tied a bowline to the jetty, looked up and said, ‘Then why don’t you join me for lunch, Ruth? I know a little Italian restaurant that the tourists haven’t come across yet.’
Ruth pretended to be considering his offer, and eventually said, ‘Yes, why not?’
‘Shall we meet up in half an hour?’ Max suggested.
‘Suits me,’ replied Ruth.
Ruth’s half-hour turned out to be nearer fifty minutes, so Max returned to his paperback, but once again made little progress.
When Ruth did eventually reappear, she had changed into a black leather mini-skirt, a white blouse and black stockings, and had put on a little too much make-up, even for Brighton.
Max looked down at her legs. Not bad for thirty-eight, he thought, even if the skirt was a little too tight and certainly too short.
‘You look great,’ he said, trying to sound convi
ncing. ‘Shall we go?’
Ruth joined him on the quay, and they strolled towards the town, chatting inconsequentially until he turned down a side street, coming to a halt in front of a restaurant called Venitici. When he opened the door to let her in, Ruth couldn’t hide her disappointment at discovering how crowded the room was. ‘We’ll never get a table,’ she said.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Max, as the maitre d’ headed towards them.
‘Your usual table, Mr Bennett?’
‘Thank you, Valerio,’ he said, as they were guided to a quiet table in the corner of the room.
Once they were seated, Max asked, ‘What would you like to drink, Ruth? A glass of champagne?’
‘That would be nice,’ she said, as if it were an everyday experience for her. In fact she rarely had a glass of champagne before lunch, as it would never have crossed Angus’s mind to indulge in such extravagance, except perhaps on her birthday.
Max opened the menu. ‘The food here is always excellent, especially the gnocchi, which Valerio’s wife makes. Simply melts in your mouth.’
‘Sounds great,’ said Ruth, not bothering to open her menu.
‘And a mixed salad on the side, perhaps?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
Max closed his menu and looked across the table. ‘The boys can’t be yours,’ he said. ‘Not if they’re at boarding school.’
‘Why not?’ asked Ruth coyly.
‘Why … because of Angus’s age. I suppose I just assumed they must be his by a previous marriage.’
‘No,’ said Ruth, laughing. ‘Angus didn’t marry until he was in his forties, and I was very flattered when he asked me to be his wife.’
Max made no comment.
‘And you?’ asked Ruth, as a waiter offered her a choice of four different types of bread.
‘Been married four times,’ Max said.
To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) Page 12