Seconds to Snap

by Tina McGuff

  Jacaranda and Mulberry trees surrounded the school and we used their leaves to feed the silk worms that all the kids collected and bred for fun. We had tons of caterpillars, which we swapped, in school, like kids in Dundee did with stickers and rubbers. They were really long and white, with touches of black. At home, we’d sit and watch for hours as they spun their beautiful silk cocoons. They were so soft and the thread was delicate and had a beautiful shimmer to it, like gold thread. Eventually, each worm would disappear into its cocoon and then slowly reappear as a huge beautiful moth that looked like beige velvet. Then they would lay eggs and start all over again. I had hundreds all the time and used to love watching the cycle.

  We fitted in easily and enjoyed our new lives. The only strange thing about South Africa was the fact that most of the school children were Afrikaans and all white. I was horrified when I was told that whites and blacks were not allowed to mix. In fact, we were made to feel that the dark-skinned people were worthless and the whites were in charge and superior. It was all wrong and Mum and Dad hated it, too. For us it was very unfamiliar to see such a division wherever we went.

  My sisters and I very quickly learned Afrikaans and spoke it fluently, sometimes going for days without speaking any English. As soon as we got home from school each afternoon, we would run into the house, change into our shorts and then run outside barefoot to play with our neighbours. It was a very free, happy life for a child. And since it was very hot all of the time, swimming was a massive part of our lives: everyone in our street, including us, had a pool.

  The best pool was the one at the Iscor Club, a private members club with a huge hall, games rooms, pools and bars. We would go swimming and then go inside to get chips with soy sauce, hot dogs or grape-flavoured Fanta.

  Once a fortnight, local black women came to the houses with their babies wrapped around their bodies in beautiful multicoloured blankets, carrying massive boxes on their heads. When they brought them down they contained tons of hand-carved soapstone, ornaments and handmade wooden crafts. There were always lots to choose from. These women were very strong and their necks must have been made of steel to carry all their wares. They would come in from the townships to sell to the houses. Mum bought a lot for the house from them. I thought these women were amazing – some of them carried two children at a time, one at the front and one at the back, and they walked for miles. Even the way they managed to bend down without dropping the boxes or their babies was so graceful.

  We loved being in South Africa – we were carefree and the world around us was bright, hot and sunny all the time. We had two Labradors, called Snoopy and Doody, a Ridgeback called Chang and Mum’s precious little Pomeranian, Trudy; also a couple of rabbits. We spent a lot of time with our animals in the garden, running around.

  The fruit trees were wonderful – I didn’t even know what a mango was before I went there. Now we ate figs, paw paws, guava, lychees and all sorts of other fresh fruit. We had sugar canes in the garden and we would cut them down and break them up, then suck and chew on the fibrous cane to get at the sweet sugar. It was like nectar. I loved eating the cane and we munched on them every day.

  Elizabeth our maid cooked delicious meals for us. Oxtail and a porridge called mealie pap (maize) were my favourites. I used to love sitting with her in her little shack in the garden, eating with our hands; it was much better than eating at the table. We would have Koodo or Springbok meat with thick, dark gravy, easily absorbed into the fluffy mealie pap we’d scoop up into our hands.

  Elizabeth had a little baby boy and she would hide him all the time for she was not allowed to have children while working. He was a tiny boy, with tiny black curls, and he was so cute. I liked sitting in her shed, watching him play on the metal-framed bed elevated by house bricks at each leg. She liked having it up high so it would ‘keep her safe from the devil’. She always smelled of soap and was very clean all the time. Her small, bare-brick room had net curtains, religious pictures on the walls and some books but nothing else. There was no electricity in there and she had little candle lamps.

  One day, I came home from school to find Mum storming about the place. She was furious because the lady across the road had reported her for allowing Elizabeth to eat at our table – she had spotted her through the window. The police came and gave Mum a stern warning that she would be fined a huge amount and Elizabeth would be taken, if it were to happen again. Mum never spoke to that lady again. Luckily, though, they never saw the baby or he would have been taken away. It was very distressing for all of us.

  The meat in South Africa was very fresh and most of the people bought animals frozen whole or halved. In our own freezer, we would often have a whole half of a frozen pig. One particular day changed my life and my relationship with food for ever. I was at one of the neighbour’s as usual one afternoon and suddenly my friend’s dad reversed his truck into the back garden, with two huge pigs on the back. The pigs seemed very scared – going by the horrendous amount of noise and squealing and thrashing around they were making, they were obviously trying to get out. The dad and a few of his friends climbed onto the back of the truck, took out a handgun and shot one of the pigs right through the head. I was dumbstruck.

  At that moment, the other pig jumped from the trailer and ran away up the road. A few of the men started off after it in another vehicle, while the rest stayed and dragged the dead pig off the back of the truck. I was sure it was alive as I could see it moving as they hung it up from a tree. Then they sliced it open and all its innards fell out; it took them seconds. I stood rooted to the spot – unable to speak or move – I was so horrified by what I had seen. Eventually, the other pig was dragged back into the garden, squealing in terror. It kept thrashing around – in another second, they shot this one in the head with a handgun, too.

  To everyone else, this seemed normal but I had never seen anything so evil and murderous. Until that moment, I had no connection between food and live animals; it was a huge shock. I ran home, crying my eyes out, and vowed never to eat meat again. For a long time, I couldn’t get those pigs out of my head. Mum and Dad tried to reassure me that it was okay and that we were meant to eat animals and the pigs would not have suffered but I knew they had as I’d seen the fear in their eyes and heard their pitiful squeals.

  Over the years, we had some wonderful family holidays, visiting Kruger National Park, where I saw wild animals that I had only seen in books before: elephants, rhinos, lions, snakes and all sorts of incredible creatures. We also travelled to Durban Beach a few times. The beach was beautiful but it was where I got most of my worst sunburn as the temperatures soared to 120 degrees on the hottest days. I was covered in unsightly massive freckles all over my face. I hated them so much! I had to get zinc all over my nose to try to protect it for it was continually being burned and blistered.

  Our other outings were to the ice rink in Pretoria and to the Drive Inns to watch movies. As they started in the evenings, we’d go there in our pyjamas and Dad would put the backseat of the car down flat with our covers and pillows so we could fall asleep during the film. I’ll never forget watching Grease there and actually seeing Sandy at the Drive Inn at the same time we were in one, too! Eventually, we’d all drop off and Mum and Dad would carry us into our beds when we got home. When we woke in the morning, we’d have no memory of getting into bed!

  We became obsessed by Grease the movie. Dad bought us the soundtrack and we listened to it over and over again until we knew all the words to the songs and then we pretended to be the characters and would dance and sing in the back garden. Dad always had Abba, Barry Manilow or Neil Diamond playing, or Mum played Rod Stewart on the record player.

  One day, Mum announced she was pregnant and we were very excited, all of us secretly hoping for a brother. Celine, my new baby sister, was born on 17 January 1980 and, when I got home from school, Mum was sitting in the back garden holding her in a white shawl. We were all so excited to see her, we crowded around the tiny bundle, each of
us desperate to peep at her scrunched-up little face and doll-like fists. I loved having a baby in the house – I was naturally very caring and nurturing since I was the eldest, and the baby brought us all closer together.

  As for my parents – well, we were crazy about them. Especially Mum. When she came in from work, I’d run to her and give her a massive hug. She always smelled so good; she wore Cinnabar perfume, which was musty and aromatic. The smell was like my comfort blanket. Mum had time for all of us and never held back with the kisses and affection – somehow, with four girls, she made each of us feel special and safe.

  Celine was christened along with my other two sisters, Katie and Sophie, at our local church, where we always went for Sunday school. I wore my sequined Lucy Ewing outfit and a pair of glittery high-heel shoes to match. I must have looked ridiculous but Mum and Dad let me as I loved the TV soap Dallas so much and it made me happy.

  By this time, Dad had changed jobs within the business and was training to be a painter and decorator. Mum was running her Max Factor section. But after five years, Dad’s contract came to an end and he was offered tickets home for everyone, including a full relocation package. We were told very little of the move: we were so happy and contented, Mum did not want to upset us and, at first, going back to Dundee did seem like a real adventure.

  We made the 20-hour journey home in 1981 and moved in with my gran, my dad’s mum, while we found a place to live. Being back in Dundee was so far removed from what I remembered. Things looked different and much darker and, worst of all, we were freezing! Though at first it felt like a big holiday, after a few months the cold just seemed to seep into my bones and settle there.

  We enrolled into a local primary school and, on the first day, everyone looked at us strangely as we must have stood out like sore thumbs. Mum had sent us into school with our Burger Right uniforms on, our hair was all long and white and we were covered in massive freckles. We spoke Afrikaans most of the time and took our shoes off at every opportunity. There were days we left school altogether to run home to Gran’s house as we missed Pretoria. We didn’t fit in at all and were baffled by our changed environment. Where were the outdoor pools, the trees, the insects and silk worms?

  I struggled with all the subjects. School only starts in South Africa at six years old, so we were all about a year behind in our education and this increased my sense of loneliness and isolation. I knew nothing in the classes and felt so stupid but I made some lovely friends and they made me feel very welcome. However, I was trying to bluff my way through class as I had no idea what they were talking about. It made me panic about what was to come next – BIG SCHOOL!

  Gradually, I became friends with a few boys and girls in the area and my whole world opened up to new experiences and new ways of thinking. After six months, we got our own place right next to Baxter Park – it was a beautiful Victorian house divided up into three flats. Our flat had two large bedrooms, both enormous, with high ceilings and original fireplaces. It was old but Mum had great taste and furnished it beautifully with elegant and expensive antiques. We had a huge red Chesterfield sofa in the lounge, a massive old wooden bureau and a green velvet chaise longue, scrumptious thick carpets, lovely rugs, flock wallpaper and beautiful Victorian fireguards.

  The bedroom that I shared with my sisters was huge. Katie and Sophie slept in a double bed together, while I had my own single bed from Africa – a white metal frame with gold bed-end finials. Lying in it made me feel like a princess! We also had a huge walk-in wardrobe, where we kept all our clothes and toys, and a toilet outside our bedroom, a bit like an en suite. I even had my own phone. It was a green classic Trim line – sadly, it was not connected to a line. I had begged my parents to buy it for me because it was the same one Lucy Ewing had. I imagined myself as the Scottish Lucy Ewing – of course, without the oil, acres of land and sunshine!

  Once I had finished primary school, I started at the local high school and, to begin with, I struggled to fit in. I was so far behind academically, I froze with fear whenever the teachers asked me a question. Mum had now at least bought me a new uniform and shoes, so I looked almost the same as everyone else, but I still spoke with a South African accent and was conscious that I looked out of place. I tried desperately to change the way I spoke, I was so desperate to make friends and fit in.

  Eventually, my efforts paid off and I met a lovely friend called Susan, who took me to the Rollerama, a roller-skating rink in Dundee. It was brilliant! We hired four-wheeled skates and zoomed around to the music, like in a disco. I loved it, and Susan and I soon became very close friends. She went to a different school to me but lived just around the corner from us. We hung out nearly every night after school.

  Mum opened up her beauty salon after eight months, which had sun beds, the new ‘in thing’, and offered makeovers, massage therapy and specialised skincare products. It was a lovely little shop. Meanwhile, my dad had started his painting-and-decorating business. They both seemed to be very happy and working hard. We saw them a bit less, as they tried to make their businesses work, and my granny – our dad’s mum – looked after us, or our neighbours from across the road. After 18 months back in Dundee, it felt like we were finally settling down to our new lives.

  Except something had suddenly gone terribly wrong – and I couldn’t, for the life of me, work out what it could be.

  After a few days with Maria and Alfonso, there was a knock at the door and my dad came in. He looked terrible – very pale and tired – but we were so happy to see him, we just flung ourselves into his arms and went mad, cuddling him. Eventually, he sat down on the couch but he did so very carefully, putting his hand back first to ease himself on. I could see from the tension in his body and the way he winced that he was in pain. Dave and Suzie came and sat down across from us, looking at us with loving smiles tainted with sadness. After a little while, Dad asked to speak to me outside.

  As we sat down in the antiques room, all the questions that had been chasing themselves round my head suddenly spilled out: ‘Where’s Mum? Is she okay? What’s happened?’

  Dad took hold of my hands and leaned forward, fixing me with a serious look.

  ‘Your Mum is in jail as she tried to kill me,’ he said, very carefully and deliberately. ‘She will be standing trial in the next few weeks and I don’t know what will happen.’

  WHAT? My brain couldn’t compute this at all. My mum tried to kill my dad? No! NO WAY! She wouldn’t do that! I had never known anything but kindness and gentleness from my mother; there wasn’t a violent bone in her body. My mind raced but my mouth was frozen. I didn’t know where to start!

  Finally, after a long silence, I spoke: ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Dad replied wearily. He looked tired. ‘Dave and Suzie have been to see her and they say she’s doing okay.’

  ‘What …?’ I began, but Dad interrupted me.

  ‘Look, honey, I really can’t say much more at the moment. I know this is hard but, trust me, she’s fine and I’m going to take us all home today. There’s nothing else I can tell you right now.’

  I nodded, trying to be brave, trying to be grown-up, but inside, I was distraught.

  ‘What about you, Dad?’ I asked. ‘Will you be okay?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Tina,’ he reassured me. ‘One day, I’ll explain, but I can’t at the minute. I might need an operation in the future but, right now, all you need to know is that I’m okay and we’re going home.’

  We went home that night with our dad and it was horrible. The house was quiet and pitch-black. I was scared to go in, frightened of seeing that blood again, but Dad didn’t hesitate: he marched straight in and flicked the lights on. I crept in slowly behind him – there were no bloodstains on the doorframes. In the living room, the strong smell of gas from the Calor heaters hit me, as did the damp, hot air. The carpets had all been cleaned and the intoxicating smell of chemicals stung my eyes and nose.

  I looked around. Everything seemed normal, e
xcept the carpet was wet and the huge rug from the middle of the room was missing. Dad went through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and asked me to get my sisters ready for bed as he was sore and needed to rest.

  ‘Why are you sore, Dad?’ I called out. But he didn’t answer.

  Upstairs in our room, pulling legs and arms through nighties and pyjamas, my curious sisters bombarded me with their questions: where was Mummy? Why wasn’t she home?

  ‘Mummy went away to see Granny, down in England,’ I lied. ‘She’ll be back soon.’

  I couldn’t tell them the truth. How could I? How could I tell my little sisters our wonderful Mum was in jail? We all got into our bed and Dad came through to tuck us in. He was walking strangely and looked as though he was in pain. After kissing us good night, he left. I just lay there, wondering where my Mum was, hoping she was okay.

  A few days later, I opened the front door to be met by a dark-haired man with a huge camera around his neck. He could see I was surprised.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, too brightly. ‘I’m a reporter and would like to talk to your mum or dad, if they are there – it’s for a story.’

  I had never heard of reporters coming to people’s doors, so I was very shocked.

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s no one here,’ I told him bluntly, suspicious of this man with the too-wide smile. Then he pulled out a card and asked me to give it to one of my parents. When Dad got home an hour later, I told him about the man – he was furious! He said he had been driven mad by reporters and there was going to be a story in the papers the next day. For the next few days, he was keeping us all off school as we might get some problems. I didn’t mind – I wasn’t in any rush to go to school.