Once upon a time, he and Lou had been the golden couple.
He dragged himself up and went over to the stove.
He’d make some tea. Black, because there was no milk. But somewhere – he rummaged through a cupboard filled with empty brandy bottles and brown packets saved for God-knows-what – there was some sugar. He lit a match. His hands shook a lot these days. Maybe it was his eyes that were the problem, not his hands.
Bloody stove didn’t light.
He struck another match.
It wasn’t right. This was woman’s work. He shouldn’t be forced to make his own tea, cook his own food. If the navy had kept buying his fish, he’d be a wealthy man and other people could make his tea for him.
He struck another match, and then another.
He threw the matches down, some went out on the floor, others flickered.
And then he fell over. Like when Amos hit him the day he was arrested.
But somehow he’d managed to light the stove. Or had he? If he could find a kettle he’d fill it with water and then make tea and use the spare hot water to shave. But he was feeling sleepy. He’d just curl up here, on the floor.
The kettle would whistle when the water was boiling.
Chapter Fifty-Two
After the eviction notices, Simon’s Town went about its business like the sea recovering from a storm: the surface smooth but the water beneath churning with the remnants of the recent blow. Surely, we told ourselves as we tried to suppress the panic, the whole business would be declared a mistake, surely life would resume as normal?
There were indeed days when I felt hopeful.
But as time went by with no reprieve, they were soon outnumbered by the days when I despaired. Streets I’d run along all my life began to feel alien beneath my feet. Our palms caught the mood and hung dank and lifeless above the cottage. Whites who’d nodded to me and acknowledged my uniform and my service for years, blushed and looked away.
The Post Office stopped making deliveries, as if we’d already left.
We were still part of Simon’s Town yet utterly cut off.
Pa said there was a rumour that the Terrace removals were because our vantage point above the dockyard gave us a view of navy secrets that we could pass on to the Communists.
‘Madness!’ he cried. ‘We’re being moved away to protect the dockyard that my pa – all of our pas’ – he waved his hand heavenwards – ‘actually built?’
The government’s fear of Communism knew no bounds. Russia and its proxies were intent upon invading South Africa, they claimed. Simon’s Town was to be attacked while the world looked on and did nothing. Yet if they were right, surely everyone – including blacks and coloureds – should be mobilised in the fight, not evicted from the battlefield?
‘They won’t go ahead,’ Vera tried to convince herself. ‘Some of the whites have raised petitions. They say the town can’t afford to lose us. It’ll go bankrupt!’
But petitions, while worthy, don’t stir leaders who are certain that they’re right. And we coloureds couldn’t even speak for ourselves. We’d already been removed from the voters roll some years before, so there was no one to represent us officially or exert pressure. At the time of that particular discardment, a government minister said it was to avoid the collapse of white civilisation across Africa.
‘It’s worse than we thought it would ever get,’ Ma wept as she sorted through a lifetime’s clutter in the cottage.
‘We must be brave,’ said Pa quietly and gave her his best kiss. ‘Brave for Lou and for Sam.’
The blows kept coming.
Perhaps that was the intention: to hit us while we were down.
‘What’s this?’ Vera picked up the newspaper from our kitchen table with long fingers, as if it carried a bad smell.
‘It’s racial classification,’ I said as I brought tea over. ‘We have to declare which group we belong to. There are seven to choose from.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Vera squawked. ‘Tell me!’
‘Cape Coloured, Malay, Griqua, Indian, Chinese, Other Asian and Other Coloured,’ I recited.
‘And what if we fit none of those?’ Sam threw up his hands. ‘What’ll they do then?’
‘You’ll have to be Other Coloured,’ piped up Vera’s daughter Sandra, who’d inherited her mother’s frizzy hair and provocative poses. ‘Anyone who doesn’t know where they came from can be Other Coloured.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Sandra,’ bristled her mother. ‘I know exactly where you came from.’
‘Even whites can be Other Coloured,’ Sandra pouted, ignoring the interruption, ‘if the police decide you’re too dark. Serves them right for trying to get away with it.’
Our eviction played on the mind of my matron at the False Bay Hospital.
‘Louise,’ she chose her words carefully at one of our weekly meetings, ‘I’ve put you forward for advancement many times. This one, for example,’ she picked up a letter from a pile at the side of the desk, ‘to be part of Professor Barnard’s heart transplant team at Groote Schuur. I thought – if you were being forced to move anyway – then why not? But I’m afraid that others, often less outstanding, are chosen ahead of you.’
I clasped my hands in my lap. ‘I’m used to it, Sylvia. But thank you for trying.’
Shades of Ma. You should know that by now.
Matron was, of course, officially senior to me, but we divided her duties equally between us. I ran the hospital’s theatre and intensive care nursing, she ran ward and outpatient nursing. It was a formula that worked, but not one we publicised.
‘I’ve had one small success,’ Matron leant forward and her voice took on a conspiratorial note. ‘I’ve finally succeeded in getting your position re-evaluated. Your title will not change,’ she raised her eyebrows in rueful exasperation, ‘but from now on you’ll be earning more.’
‘Thank you, Matron. I’m very grateful.’
‘No,’ she stood up and held out her hand. ‘I’m the one who’s grateful. You’ve remained loyal while the politicians have pushed you away. I’m ashamed of what’s happening.’
I left the office and stopped in the corridor. Cape Hangklip’s peak jutted into the sky on the far side of the bay. Roman Rock Lighthouse gleamed white against the steel-blue water.
I’m ashamed of my country, too.
Vera has a radical solution.
‘Cross over! Try for white! Especially you and Sam’ – she tossed her head with its beehive hairdo – ‘you’re gold, not brown. All that Malay blood from your ma.’
We were sitting in Jubilee Square. So far, the benches were still unsegregated.
‘You’d have to leave, of course, go somewhere else, up the coast.’
‘No!’ I cried, grabbing Vera’s arm. Passers-by stared.
I lowered my voice. ‘I’d never do that. I won’t betray my own.’
And leaving the peninsula would mean I could never be found.
‘Don’t be a fool, Lou! Out of all of us,’ she thrust an angry arm at the diverse crowd on the square, ‘you’d have the best chance. You’re a nurse, there’d be less questions. You’d be free! And with a white salary. Your parents would understand.’
I shot her a glance and then stared out across the bay. A tug was steaming towards a grey warship, its bow wave creaming through the flat sea. Amazingly, no one had guessed about Sam’s father. Perhaps it was because he appeared to have inherited Piet’s dark hair, although I knew his hair was more like mine, more brown than black. And his blue eyes, initially far lighter than Piet’s, had luckily darkened as he got older. For me, the likeness was as clear as the memory of Oranjezicht. I saw David in the line of Sam’s nose, the way he held his head, the quiet fervency, at times, in his voice. Ma might have guessed, but she never spoke. The secret remained intact. But it lived in my heart like a knife.
‘Millie Phillips’ daughter is going to do it.’
‘But—’
The Phillips family were darker
than Vera and darker than me. Even if she got away with it, the price would be devastating. She’d have to shun every friend she knew, ignore her parents and her brothers and sisters if they happened to walk by on the street. No eye contact. No recognition. They’d be dead to her, as she would be to them.
‘Think about it,’ Vera repeated intently. ‘If I looked like you, I would. True as God is rainbow-coloured. I’d forget Abie, set up on my own somewhere, find myself a rich white man. I can still show some leg …’ She brandished a mottled ankle. ‘Think, Lou! There’s not much time left.’
Create a new identity and live brazenly as a white person at the top of the pyramid, ignoring the coloureds and blacks who toiled in its shadow?
‘I can’t.’ I stood up. ‘And I won’t leave Ma and Pa.’
Vera shrugged and put an arm through mine.
Instead, I began to plan in secret for a different kind of crossing over. Sam was losing heart, I could tell. The first signs were already there. The lectern, while a welcome piece of work, was draining him in a way his other commissions hadn’t. He was worried about what he’d do once the project was finished and we were stuck in Ocean View. Who’d employ him there? And I was afraid that a part of Piet that had so far lurked silently about him, could erupt any day. I had to do something before that happened.
I once held on to David and forced him to make a terrible choice. I can’t do that with Sam.
However much I love him, however much he evokes David, I must let him go.
Chapter Fifty-Three
My darling, he began, his hand shaking so much that he had to start again on a fresh sheet.
I have written to you so often – indeed, hundreds of letters – but never sent them apart from one, some months ago, when my concern about your situation became acute. I offered financial help to you and your family to leave the country. That offer still stands. The letter was returned to me, saying address unknown. I hope – profoundly – that you are safe.
Many years ago, my lawyer asked me if I had any doubts about my wife’s ability to raise our daughter on her own. No, I said out loud. But yes, I said in my heart. I went back to Corbey, desperate for you, and watched Ella asleep in her cot and I realised I could never leave her under Elizabeth’s sole influence. My daughter has now grown up into a fine young woman—
He looked up. The rolling fields of Corbey stretched out beyond the study window, ordered, immaculate. How much should he say? How much should he describe Ella, the delight of his life, but the reason he left Louise?
I am soon to be divorced. Elizabeth agreed because, it turns out, she has a new companion. She will remarry once the divorce is final. I’m past feeling bitter, there is only a lasting regret for the wasted years.
If you’re free and still love me as I love you, I will come to Simon’s Town.
But if you’re married, I will leave you be and send you my best love and wishes … and thank you, again, for the most precious moments of my life.
I hope you will receive this letter. I realise you may have moved, but perhaps it will be forwarded as your family is well known.
Please reply, even if it is to say no.
It wasn’t right. Too stilted. He’d have to start the letter again.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Sam stood back from the new lectern. He’d gone for clean lines, the better to show off the yellow-wood’s seductive sheen. A little baroque moulding at the base, then the stem soaring upwards in a simple pillar, discreetly bevelled to reflect the light, and culminating in the angled reading shelf from which a velvet cloth could be draped – although Sam thought, privately, that the piece needed no further embellishment. The gleaming wood was its own adornment.
‘Beautiful, Sam. Wonderful work.’ The minister walked around, eyeing it from every angle. He stroked a thin hand across the shelf. ‘You’re an artist, young man.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I want to consecrate it the first Sunday of next month.’
Sam nodded.
‘It will be announced in the parish newsletter.’ The minister drew himself up to his full, gaunt, height. ‘I intend to dedicate it to the coloured community, staunch members of this congregation. If you don’t mind?’
‘I’d like that, sir.’
The minister sighed and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder to usher him down the aisle. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he consoled, ‘this wrenching of people from their homes. Appalling. We’ve fought it at the highest level, but there’s no swaying the authorities.’ He lifted his hands in despair.
Sam felt a flicker of rage. Sympathy and hand-wringing wouldn’t stop the bulldozers. Neither would the petitions presented by Simon’s Town’s whites, lamenting the heart being torn out of their town. It needed more forceful action. Why hadn’t the archbishop led a march on parliament? Why hadn’t white congregations risen up and said they wouldn’t stop until there was fairness for all?
There were only a few weeks left.
‘The Nationalists say they’re doing God’s work,’ he said, trying to keep his tone respectful. ‘They quote Genesis. They say God directed them to rule over the birds and the animals – and lesser people like us.’
‘No! A travesty of the scriptures,’ the minister interjected, shaking his head, ‘they’re perverting the Word of the Lord.’
Sam stopped and looked around the church. He’d come to Sunday school here. His parents and grandparents had been married here. It was his church. But it would be too far to come every week from Ocean View. And as far as he knew, there was no church where they were going.
‘So who is right, sir?’ he found himself rasping. ‘The Church or the government?’
There was a beat of silence. They’d reached the vestibule. The minister’s hand trembled as he passed it over his sparse hair. Sam instantly felt ashamed. The minister was a good man. He truly felt the pain of others. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t relieve it. Through the open door came the thunder of waves on Long Beach below the station. After all, the lectern was just another job. He’d been paid, he should leave, not yell at his customer about why he’d failed to halt the eviction of half his congregation.
‘I’m sorry, Reverend.’
‘The Church is right, Sam,’ the minister declared. ‘The government will face its sins on Judgement Day.’
Sam looked out of the door towards the restless sea.
‘That will be too late for us, sir.’
He stepped outside and began to run.
He sprinted past the side entrance to Admiralty House where his father liked to boast he had special access, and onto the main road. Up the slope, and not far from where the Admiral’s Waterfall spewed in winter, lay the low outline of the False Bay Hospital, where Ma worked. Beyond the old Officers’ Club, pylons for the aerial ropeway marched up the mountain, passing the former wards of the Royal Naval Hospital, where she served during the war. His old school brooded across the road. He ran on, sweat breaking out on his forehead, the pavement hard beneath his shoes.
This road, this tarmac, was real. It couldn’t be taken away from him.
This was his place.
Great Grandpa Ahrendts built the wall around the dockyard, Grandpa fixed the ships inside it, Grandma swept and fed and cleaned its people, Ma healed whoever was sick.
His place.
His mountain.
His world.
How dare anyone say he was no longer welcome?
Maybe Benji’s Communists weren’t crazy. Maybe they were on the right track.
Chapter Fifty-Five
It’s nearly time.
Now, white people don’t just blush and avert their eyes, they come up to me on St George’s Street and say how shocking it is that we coloureds are being forced to move; that it’s a scandal, a blind cruelty imposed by a government that doesn’t understand the kinship we’ve nurtured between the sea, the ships and those who serve them. People usually go on to say that the town will die without us. And they may be ri
ght.
We may not have had much money, but through our numbers we swelled the coffers of Sartorial House, Runciman’s and the post office, and filled St George’s Street for victory celebrations and sang in the church choir and shored up the mountain behind us.
‘It will empty the town, sir!’ Ma declared, cornering the admiral at the pensioners’ annual tea.
‘I hope not, ma’am. We must try to be positive.’
‘But after all we’ve been through,’ Ma persisted, clutching her elderly straw hat in the breeze, ‘you’d think they’d show some respect.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Ahrendts. I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. Government policy.’
‘Come, Sheila,’ Pa put an arm around her ample waist and steered her away. He waved his free hand northwards. ‘They don’t care.’
For Pa, the eviction was about more than Ricketts Terrace. It was about personal rejection.
His years of service. His pride.
The day dawned bright and clear. I hadn’t slept much so I got up early, put a pair of old trousers and a knitted jersey over my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, crept out without waking Sam and headed for Seaforth.
I don’t sprint any more but I still love to run.
The odd car passed, the odd person walking a dog nodded to me. The tide was low, licking at the base of the egg rocks, the water tinged with the pink of sunrise. More and more beaches were being closed to non-whites, but it was too early for the enforcers to be out. I’d be safe. I flung off my sweaty clothes as if I was a child again, and dived in and swam out past the forests of kelp. A vee of cormorants hugged the swells as they beat towards the lighthouse. Spirals of smoke and the shouts of parents hustling their children rose from the straggle of cottages above the beach. I rolled onto my back and looked up at the Simonsberg etched sharp against the pale sky, and drifted, letting my hair spread out about my head, relishing the tug of the current and the brisk chill of water not yet warmed by the sun. The young Piet came back, roused from the Philander cottage, diving for shells amid the flickering anemones. David came back, touching my cheek and telling me he loved me as we sat on the polished sand.
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