“Alain Frost was the father of my boy, Sipho.”
Chapter Eight
Sipho grabbed hold of Mbali’s arm and pulled her out of the room. “What are you doing?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mama. We’ve got seconds before they come in here and want answers from you.”
“And I’ll give them answers.”
“Why are you lying like this, Mother?”
She stared at him but sullenly refused to answer.
“Mama, we’ll have to prove I’m his son.”
“Who says you aren’t?”
Sipho stared at her. It would certainly make life easier if it were true. “If this is true why have you never mentioned this to me before?”
“I didn’t want to admit that I cheated on your father with him. Your father would have gone crazy. At the time, there was still apartheid. I had no choice.”
“Are you saying Alain raped you?”
“No, no, no. He just made it clear that it was in all our best interests to do as he wanted. Amahle was very young; my husband had just been promoted and was still learning. If he’d lost his job we wouldn’t have been able to find somewhere else.”
“But there were never any rumours. No whispered secrets about Mr. Frost using women like that. People used to talk about the fact he didn’t marry again after his wife died.”
“A man doesn’t need to remarry if he has everything he needs without it.”
“You’re saying he didn’t remarry because he was sleeping with you?”
“Because he was in love with me.”
Sipho stared hard. The more she spoke, the more unbelievable it sounded. But there was something that nagged at the back of his brain. Like a ghost of a memory, one he couldn’t picture but seemed like it was just something he knew. Something about his mother and Alain, but he couldn’t recall it. Or is that just wishful thinking? Did he want it to be true? He couldn’t deny that it would make his life easier if it was. It would make the issue of the missing money something he could deal with at least. He looked at his mother. Her hands trembled, and her breasts heaved. He could see her pulse throb at her temple and knew her heart was racing. Perspiration spotted her forehead, and the dank odour of it filled his nostrils. What he couldn’t ascertain was whether it was excitement or fear that made her blood pound in her veins.
Was this the real reason why Mr. Frost liked me so much better than the other boys? Is this why he really took an interest in me? Not because he saw potential, but because he saw the son he wouldn’t recognize any other way?
Sipho’s head began to pound as he tried to think through a lifetime of questions in a new light.
“They will test my blood.”
“You have the same blood group as he did. Besides, he’s been cremated. What can they test?”
The door opened and Jim Davitson walked in, the crowd at his back. “Mrs. Nkosi, we need to have a full and frank discussion about your claim. Ms. Frost disputes your son’s claim against the estate. She is adamant that her father was faithful to her mother, and that your claim is scurrilous.” He cleared his throat. “I would warn you that she will accept a full withdrawal of your accusation, but should you persist, she has threatened to sue you for slander.”
“Mama.” Amahle stood beside her mother. “Is it true?”
Mbali didn’t look at either of her children. “It is true.”
Sipho squared his shoulders. Truth or lie, it was out of his hands. The die was cast.
Chapter Nine
Imogen grabbed her briefcase from the overhead locker and cursed the heat that was already making her sweat. The sun blinded her as she stepped off the plane and shielded her eyes quickly to prevent her tripping down the steps. Her journey through customs was uneventful, and her luggage was already waiting for her at the carousel when she arrived. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she headed for the exit.
“Ms. Frost. Ms. Frost.” A tall man with a shock of red hair and ruddy cheeks ran to keep pace with her. “Mr. Davitson sent me to give you a lift.”
“Did he now? And you are?”
“Roland De Fries.” He held out his hand. “I’m a forensic accountant at Davitson, Johnson, and McRae. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” She shook his hand and sighed as he wrestled with her case for her. It felt strange to hear the accent in real life again. She wanted to laugh at herself. In England, she still had the faint traces of her Afrikaans accent. Those who worked with her still teased her about it from time to time. They called her springbok if they were feeling brave, the symbol of the national rugby team, reminding her over and over very subtly that she didn’t belong to them. Now back on South African soil all she could hear were the clipped English syllables that she’d worked so hard to adopt as a child trying to fit in. And yet again, she was reminded that she didn’t belong.
“Mr. Davitson said you’re a barrister in England.”
“That’s correct.”
“That sounds very impressive, Ms. Frost. Would you mind if I asked you some questions while we travel?”
She wanted to tell him, hell yes, she minded. But she didn’t have the energy. It was only a forty-five minute drive to Stellenbosch from the airport. She was confident she could keep going that long. After all, the flight had only been eleven and a half hours. She’d splashed out and opted for business class seats and spent the whole time reading about South African probate law.
“Where are we up to with Mrs. Nkosi’s claim on my father’s estate?”
“To the best of my knowledge, where we were when you boarded the flight. I’m not a lawyer, just an accountant really. They don’t tell me too much. I do know that she’s adamant that Sipho is your brother and thereby entitled to half of your father’s estate. Especially as he has been working on the estate and you’ve enjoyed the benefits of his labour in the form of your education and so on.”
“Does she have any proof?”
“She says she does.”
“But you haven’t seen it yet?”
“No. She says she will produce it when you arrive.”
“Of course.”
“May I ask a personal question?”
“You can ask.” She rested her head on her hand, elbow perched against the car door. “I might not answer.”
“Fair enough.” He changed gear and pulled out onto the N2 heading east. “Why have you come back now to fight this claim, but you didn’t come back for the funeral?”
It was a question she’d been asking herself. She’d sworn she would never set foot back in South Africa; she’d been sure that she didn’t care and didn’t want anything to do with her legacy. She’d planned to sell the vineyard and be shot of it all. Maybe go on a nice holiday. Climbing in Europe or America, maybe South America. There were plenty of choices. Maybe she’d buy a new house, or set up her own legal practice. She could have left Jim Davitson to fight this claim from the comfort of her life back in England. Yet here she was. Heading back to the last place on earth she ever wanted to see again. Did she regret not coming for the funeral? She still wasn’t sure. But hearing her father’s words in his will had shifted something in her. She knew in her heart that the man who loved his wife so much that he couldn’t stand to look upon his daughter again would never cheat on her. The idea that anything else was true somehow diminished the sacrifice they’d both made. It made a mockery of his justification, and her loss that much more acute. She couldn’t stand the thought of everyone her father had cared about thinking him capable of siring a son he never acknowledged.
“In his will he confessed his most shameful secrets. The things he couldn’t have said to me while he was still alive. If Sipho was his son, why didn’t he say that then too? I think she’s lying, and I won’t have my family name dragged through the mud like that. I won’t stand for my mother’s memory being insulted like this. Hell, I don’t even remember her having a son.”
“I understand.” He dropped the sun visor and caught the sunglasses that slipped out. “You have to do this for your mother.”
“Yes.” And maybe, just a little bit for myself too.
“Listening to Mr. Davitson, it would seem that Mrs. Nkosi fell pregnant with Sipho after you left the country. Perhaps you are right. Your father never cheated on your mother. But perhaps she’s telling the truth also.”
She felt sick. The burn of bile rose up her gullet, acrid and hate-filled. She hadn’t considered that for a moment. In her head it was like Africa had somehow ceased to exist from the moment she left. As though time had stood still in her absence. How fucking arrogant, Frost? The whole world does not revolve around you. Try to remember that when you stand face-to-face with your baby brother. A whole new set of scenarios formed in her head, and she had to acknowledge that Roland had a point. Was Mbali’s claim real? Did she really have family left? Someone on the planet who shared a fraction of her DNA? Who could maybe ease this feeling that was growing inside her? A feeling she didn’t want to name, didn’t want to own, and wished it would leave her the fuck alone. Funny that. Wanting loneliness to leave her alone.
The journey went by quickly, Roland asking questions about practicing law in England, answering her questions as best he could in return. Everything was different about the country, yet everything looked much the same. Democracy ruled, but black women still walked barefoot along dirt roads with infants strapped to their backs and loads carried on their heads. They were all free of racial divide, but the townships were as overcrowded and poverty-stricken as they had ever been. They were free of tyranny, but brutality still turned the soil red with blood. Would it ever change?
The white lime washed walls reflected the sunlight as they entered Stellenbosch, and for her it was like stepping back in time. Part of her expected to see her mother step out of the chemist, or the butchers, and walk home with her, pointing out flowers and animals as they went.
“Do you need anything while we’re here? I have no idea what will be available at the house.”
“No, thank you. If I need anything I can always grab one of the cars from the vineyard.”
He laughed. “I can’t see you driving a buckie.”
“In that case I guess I’ll have to grab the keys to one of the tractors instead of the pickup.” She smiled. It felt alien on her face, the muscles unused to that particular expression.
“Now that, I would pay to see, Ms. Frost.” He looked over at her and grinned.
“Who is in charge of the vineyard now?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Mr. Davitson said he would discuss those matters with you tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to recover from the flight.”
“Of course.”
“He said he’ll be here at eight a.m. He’ll bring coffee.” He pulled to a stop outside her old home.
“Good deal.” She peered out the window and gripped the door handle. She didn’t want to get out of the car. She didn’t want to put her foot back on the property. She’d vowed she never would, and she hated breaking promises.
“It’s been a long time, yah?”
“Yes, it has.” She nodded. “Thirty-two years.”
“Not been back at all?”
“No. I was in exile.” She laughed bitterly. Enough. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door, not stopping until she was on the stoop and pulling open the screen door to the house where she’d been born.
Memories assailed her left and right. Her mother walking down the stairs, wiping dirt from her face, and telling her to put her shoes on before going out to play. She could see her father with his arms wrapped around her mother’s waist while she stirred something on the stove. It felt like a knife twisting through her chest, and she did something she hadn’t done since she’d left this house. She cried. Thirty years of grief and anger streamed down her cheeks, her hands shook as she moved from room to room, and she let them all come. She was glad Roland had left her bags on the stoop and disappeared. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.
Footsteps behind her made her hold her breath as she spun around.
“Who is it?” She squinted into the darkened doorway and then shook her head as she recognized the aged face in the shadows. “How dare you? What are you doing here? Get out! Get out of my house!”
“Miss Immy, I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw lights and came to make sure everything was okay. I will leave you now.”
“Don’t you dare come the Miss Immy with me, you lying old witch. Get out of my house.”
Mbali bristled and straightened her shoulders. “I was already going.”
“In fact, get off my property. I want you and your son—your son—off Frost Vineyard immediately.”
“This is our home, Miss Imm—Ms. Frost. You can’t make us leave.”
“Yes, I can. My father’s will left this to me. It is mine. I have every right to say who stays here and who doesn’t. My father bequeathed you a generous pension in his will. I won’t contest his wishes. Now use it and get off my land.”
“Mama, go.”
Imogen saw a young man behind her. “Ah, my supposed brother.” He was tall, easily six foot one or two, with broad, muscular shoulders, a lean physique, and a confidence in his bearing that Imogen recognized. Authority. He was used to giving orders and having them followed. He was used to being in charge. He was in control—of himself, his mother, and the situation. Sweat trickled down her back, and for the first time, she truly allowed herself to consider that this man might actually be her brother.
He nodded to his mother and waited until she had left the room. He looked at her and their eyes meet.
They were dark as night, unwavering, and as familiar as they were strange. There was nothing of her or her family in the face of this young man. Only the familiar set of features she’d seen on the face of her childhood friend. Her doubts about his lineage faded for her in that instant. That’s when she saw it. The shadows lurking behind the confident façade. The questions that he too was asking. He had no more idea about the claim than she did, and the confidence he was trying to project blew away like dust on the wind.
“I can assure you it came as quite a shock to me too.”
Imogen bit back the sarcastic retort that settled on the tip of her tongue.
“My mother is old, sick, and grieving. I ask you respectfully to let her be while you and I sort out this mess she has dumped on our laps. I will make sure she stays out of your way.”
“And you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Will you also stay out of my way? Or will I run into you as I look around my vineyard?”
“I have been managing the vineyard for the last six years or so. I have continued to do so since your father passed away.”
She felt the thrill of victory when he continued to refer to Alain as “her father” and not “theirs” or “his.”
“And if I don’t want you here?”
“Then you can sack me, of course. But I know this vineyard like the back of my hand. Whatever else is between us, Ms. Frost, do not let the vineyard suffer. There are too many people who need their jobs here.”
She nodded. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, right now she needed the stability he brought to the business, as she knew nothing. She shook her head. What did that matter anyway? She was going to sell it and go back to her life in England as soon as this business was sorted out. Her research had shown that selling the vineyard as a going concern would be much more profitable than selling it piecemeal would. Besides, she was confident now that the matter would be resolved quickly, and in her favour. What did she need to worry about?
“Fine. But keep her away from me.”
*
“I mean it, Mother. Stay away from her or I will have no chance of getting the money back before anyone notices it’s gone.”
“You still haven’t told me your grand plan to get that much money.”
“I’m going to try to
get a loan against the two acres Alain left me.”
“That scrap of land isn’t worth that much money.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a start.”
“And then where will you find the rest?”
“I know a guy.”
“A loan shark?”
“Just a guy.” A guy he wished he didn’t know, but one he had no choice but to call on. “Just stay away from her and don’t make anything worse.”
Chapter Ten
Dr. Marais looked at the readout on his screen and shook his head. He picked up the phone and dialled home.
“Hello?”
“Honey, it’s me.”
“Don’t tell me. You won’t be home for dinner.”
“I am sorry, my love. There’s just something here that I have to take care of.”
“And what about things here, Derek? Will you ever have time to take care of them?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You missed parents’ evening tonight. Isabella’s very upset.”
“Shit.” He rubbed his hand over his face and tried not to think about how upset his nine-year-old daughter would be. “You said you were going to remind me.”
“I did. I called and left three messages with your secretary today.”
“I didn’t get them.” He shuffled pages on his desk and found the sticky notes—all three of them—stuck to the bottom of the file he’d been looking at. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not the one you need to make this up to, Derek.”
“I’ll make it up to her.”
“So you keep telling us.”
“Please don’t be like this. I will make it up to you both. There’s just something here I have to take care of.”
“You have a whole hospital staff at your disposal, Derek. Delegate.”
The dial tone rang in his ear as she hung up. “Some things I can’t delegate, honey. No matter how much I wish I could.” He put the receiver down and tried to let go of the heaviness that settled in his heart. Another fuckup he’d pay for. But what was more important? A parent teacher evening for a daughter he knew was very bright, well-adjusted, and excelling, or the thousands, perhaps millions, who were at risk if his hunch was right? As cold as he felt making the decision, he knew it was the right one. The needs of the many and all that.
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