by Gerda Pearce
Michael moved forward, closing the short distance between them. He called her name softly, not wanting to startle her. But she jumped nonetheless, a hand went to her heart, her back straightening, stiffening, away from him. But a smile quickly formed and he felt himself heartened by this. He moved closer, stood in front of her. Her hand moved from her chest to his. He liked the gesture; it was easy, intimate. He reached around to hug her. But she did not return the embrace, instead left her hand on his chest, between them. No longer easy, intimate. It was to hold him at bay, rather. But then her smile forced itself brighter. More the Hannah of old. He asked her if she was feeling okay. She nodded, but there passed between them a tacit acknowledgement. That he had seen her weeping. That he knew.
“So we went to the coffee shop across the road,” he says to Gin, “you remember – Daisy’s?”
Gin nods. He knows she remembers. The bookshop, Daisy’s, both were near where she and Simon had lived. Even in this telling he cannot spare her more pain, he thinks. We are all connected, our lives spun together like a web.
Hannah held her mug tightly. Unusually for her, her nails were short and unpainted, her fingers bare except for two simple rings, one of them made of three intertwined bands, each a different colour. Michael found the sounds of the café at first loud and intrusive. But after a while, after they had ordered a pot of Daisy’s Kenyan coffee, after it had arrived with cheerful floral mugs and steaming milk, after they had sat facing each other over the table in the back corner, he found the noise a comfort. Something to absorb their silence, and something, he thought, for by then he had no doubt, if she was ever going to speak, something to absorb the starkness of her words.
“Daisy’s,” says Gin suddenly.
She hugs her mug close to her, much as Hannah had done that day. He is struck afresh by how alike Gin and Hannah have always been in some respect. Gin fairer, taller. Hannah darker, more like Gabe. But then some had thought Hannah was Gabe’s twin instead of Gin, he remembers. Same dark hair, same blue eyes. Same bright smile, same happy laugh. But it is Gin, he thinks, who shared Gabe’s intensity of spirit, his seriousness of soul.
“Why was Hannah so unhappy, Michael?” asks Gin, bringing him back to the cool kitchen.
Despite the grey pall of rain, it is still light. The long Northern summers still strike him as oddly as the curt dark days of winter’s chill. There is a sound of distant traffic that to him sounds like the sea. It is a pleasant house, he thinks. A nice house to live, to raise a child. Gin can be happy here. He laces his fingers with hers over the tabletop and looks at her. Her face is thinned with sorrow, and he regrets the way the conversation has turned.
“I’ll never understand why she cut you all off,” says Gin slowly. “Especially Gabe. Me, I understand.” She stutters here, and pauses.
“You? Why you?” he asks, incredulous. But of course he has known Hannah’s reasons all these years. Gin has had no recourse but to make up her own.
Gin takes her hands from his, lifts her mug and swallows hard. She puts it down unevenly, and the liquid slops inside, but does not spill. “Because of Simon,” she says, her voice hoarse. It is as if it hurts her throat to say his name aloud. She coughs, and says, more clearly. “Hannah always disapproved.”
“Because Simon was her cousin?”
She looks at him oddly, frowning slightly as if he is being obtuse. “No…” she starts, but then she stops as if to think. “Well, maybe. I suppose that could have made it worse for her.”
“Made what worse?”
“Because he was Jewish and I wasn’t. We only spoke about it once, when I asked why she never came to see us.”
“What did she say?”
Gin sighs, traces the pattern on her mug with her finger. “Said it was wrong. Said it wouldn’t last.”
She looks up at him. He cannot make out the emotion in her eyes, but their colour has clouded from a clear cerulean to a hue so dark it is almost indigo.
She smiles, a lop-sided grimace with no humour. “Well, she was right, wasn’t she?”
He was right about Hannah’s words. At first, they came haltingly, staccato-like. Each word a stab, a cut into the air. Michael sipped his coffee and listened. Hannah started by asking him if he remembered the farewell dance of their final school year. He could hardly have forgotten, but he nodded yes. For a moment her look was one of innocent pleasure. Then came a wretchedness to her gaze. When she asked about Gabe, how he was. Michael contemplated telling her the truth. How Gabe had rang her and left messages as soon as he had heard she was back. Time after time, and how her continued silence had hurt him. He felt he should tell her how Gabe drank too much, and smoked too much, and how he went to every party, coming home each time with a different girl. He thought he ought to tell her Gabe’s heart was shattered, broken. And by her. Instead, Michael lied and told Hannah Gabe was fine. A long lock fell in front of her face again. Then she asked him if he knew why she’d gone to Israel. The question took him by surprise. In truth, he had never questioned it. He stumbled over an inadequate answer. Experience, he said. To meet with family, he supposed. To study. A cultural break, even. Her laugh was short and mirthless.
Michael stops.
Gin looks at him questioningly. “Well? Was it none of those things?” she prompts.
“Did you know she didn’t go straight to Israel?” asks Michael.
Her look is quizzical. “No. Why? Where did she go?”
He reaches for his mug, drains the last of his tepid drink. Then he puts the mug down and looks at her. “Gin, Hannah came to England before she went to Israel. And she came to England to have an abortion.”
16. MICHAEL
Gin’s mug slams into the table. This time her tea spills from its side. She stares at the pool of it. Outside, the sky darkens to a threatening violet.
Gin forms the words. “Gabe’s baby.” It is not a question, but a realisation.
Michael nods nonetheless.
She shakes her head. “No.”
He knew this would cause her pain, but at least his words are penetrating. “There’s more,” he says, but gently. Gin stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Hannah changed her mind about the abortion.” Her mouth opens. He knows the question and carries on hurriedly, wanting to explain. “Yes,” he says quickly, “that’s why she stayed the whole year, Gin. She changed her mind. She went to Israel to have her baby.”
“You mean –”.
He shakes his head, eager to finish. He knows what she wants to know, and does not want her to think the wrong thing. Quickly now, the words rushing. “The baby didn’t live, Gin. It was stillborn. There was something wrong. Badly wrong. Hannah said its heart stopped a few weeks before she was due. She had to give birth to –,” and here he stops finally, exhales. He does not want to distress her, but he can think of no painless way to say it. “The baby was born dead.”
She makes an exclamation. An odd noise emanates from her throat. “Dead?” she says, and it sounds as if she has a cold.
He nods wordlessly.
Gin’s eyes glisten. Perhaps she is about to cry, he thinks, and, while he hates the thought of her upset, he thinks perhaps this is the release she needs. But then she sits back, her hands drop to her rounded belly, link across the top of it. Protectively. He knows where her thoughts are.
The rain has become heavy, a hard patter on the kitchen roof. Water rushes into the gutters and the air in the kitchen cools.
After a while she asks, “What was it? The child? A boy or a girl?”
“A boy,” he replies.
“Gabe had a son,” she says, staring into space.
“Yes.” He can think of nothing else to add.
“Poor Hannah, how awful. What an awful thing to have to endure.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “I think she was very brave, defying her father. You know Gabe had asked Hannah to marry him?”
Her eyes widen. “No, when?”
“Night of the school dance. Before uni.”
Gin contemplates this, her face set.
Michael is grim. “He never told me either. But apparently Hannah’s father forbade it. Said he would never allow it. That’s why Hannah got pregnant.”
“It was deliberate?”
“I think she thought then her father would come round, would change his mind, that they’d have to get married.”
“But why didn’t she?” Gin’s voice is high. “I mean, why didn’t she still come back after – after – and marry him anyhow? They could have, she could still have children. She has three now. What happened? Why did she cut him off, after all that?”
Michael shrugs. “From what she told me that day, it seems her father was furious with her. Said it was best the baby died.”
Gin is aghast. “Jacob said that?” Her tone is one of disbelief.
“That’s what she told me. He forbade her to see Gabe again. Told her she was better off with someone Jewish, of her own culture, who would understand her. That sort of thing.” He sighs. “She went through such a lot. So young, and all on her own. I think it was simply easier for her, after what she went through. A hell of a thing, you know. Just easier for her to cope. She must have been full of anger and grief still.”
“Poor Hannah,” reflects Gin. “And you never told Gabe?”
And there it is, the stab to his heart. No, he had not told his best friend. Hannah had made him swear to it. And Gabe had died, not knowing. They look at each other, hard rain the only sound.
Eventually he says, “So that Easter, we – me and Gabe – we argued. He was so determined, you know, so set on going to Cape Town to see Hannah again. After all those years. I don’t know what got into him…” Michael’s voice trails off. He knows now Gabe’s state of mind, the decision he faced about the Army, were part of it. “I don’t know,” he continues slowly, “I don’t know. I wanted to protect Hannah, I guess. I thought her seeing Gabe again would bring it all up for her, for both of them. Gabe was with Viv by then, Hannah getting on with her life… it wasn’t fair on Viv either. You know, what if Gabe was going to throw it all away for Hannah again? Leave Viv? I suppose I was trying to protect her too.”
Gin reaches across and takes his hand in hers. Her fingers tighten. “Poor Michael,” she says softly. “Poor Hannah. Poor Gabe.”
“Yes.” He takes his hand away and stands. He wants a cigarette, a drink even. He walks to the large pantry door at the end of the kitchen. Inside are several bottles of wine and spirits. He picks up a bottle of Australian red, then changes his mind and pulls out a bottle of whisky. Returning to the table, he pours himself a generous glass.
Gin sits impassively, watching him swirl the amber liquid in the heavy-bottomed glass.
After a large sip, he looks at her. “I was so stupid,” he says. “I was trying to control things that weren’t mine to control. Weren’t even my business.” He takes another swig and feels it burn his throat.
It is dark outside now. The rain has steadied to a regular rhythmic drumming on the roof.
“I think you were trying to protect Gabe too,” says Gin, her voice low.
Michael puts his head in his hands at this. He feels a tremendous weariness settle on him. Ultimately, none of them, no one, not Gin, not Hannah, not Viv, and not even he, Michael, could protect Gabe from himself.
17. VIVIENNE
“Hello?” Viv is harassed. She balances the basket of laundry on one hip.
Nick’s voice at once cheers and unnerves her. “Usual time tomorrow?”
She can hear the grin in his voice. The walk on the beach has become somewhat of a routine for them. Every second weekend for the past few months, he had fetched her precisely at nine on the Saturday, his dog Manyanga barking excitedly in the back of his car. Viv had become almost eager to pack the girls off to Jonnie’s expensive cream house in the rich area of Constantia. It was ironic, she thought, that her ex-husband, the Indian doctor, should now be living in the formerly whites-only suburb, while she had stayed in the relatively mixed area of Kenwyn, where the houses were smaller and more compact, and the neighbours poorer. But this weekend is different.
“Is anything wrong?” Nick has heard her hesitation.
She tells him. This weekend the girls are staying at home; Jonnie is at a medical conference in Johannesburg. Initially he had said he might take the girls with him, but as the date approached, Viv had wearily heard his reluctance grow along with his excuses.
“Does it matter?” asks Nick, and she is momentarily stumped.
She has not yet mentioned Nick to her daughters. While Jonnie’s every girlfriend, however temporary, had been reported back to her in detail by Kayleigh, Viv had stayed resolutely single. Now, after all this time, she does not know how her children will react. But does it matter? Nick has challenged her. She could take the easy way out and say they cannot be left on their own when, in fact, there have been times she had been obliged to do so, in order to see her patients and make her calls. She had never given her address to her long list of dependants; some would not have hesitated to invade her privacy, others she would not want around her home. Abbie, at least, is old enough to be left on her own. Nick will know this also, she thinks. He waits in silence now while she deliberates.
Viv feels a form of release, a knot dissolving inside her.
She agrees to their ritual, already feeling the thick sand between her toes, tasting salt on her lips. Each time Nick had taken a different route, chosen a different beach. Winter has allowed them freedom from crowds, their only company the hardiest of surfers, tackling the cold Atlantic, or other walkers suitably garbed against the freezing wind. Manyanga had been let loose to run ahead of them, occasionally looping back to leap up excitedly at Nick, bark, and then gallop ahead again, stopping to sniff at rocks, and paw at scurrying crabs.
Phone down, Viv hoists the basket onto a chair, and goes through to where Abbie and Kayleigh lie sprawled in front of the television. It feels surreal to her, this confessional. She shakes the discomfort from her shoulders and clears her throat.
He is outside promptly at nine, his knock confident and loud. A policeman’s knock, she thinks wryly, knowing she will not get to the door before her youngest. Kayleigh had taken the news somewhat better than Abbie, who had stared steadfastly ahead at the television programme after Viv had told them about Nick.
Sure enough, it is Kayleigh who is swinging open the heavy door as Viv walks down the stairs, impudently curious of her mother’s hot date, as she had termed it.
Bright sunshine streams into the hall.
“Well, Kayleigh, invite Mr Retief in!” Viv drops the Detective from his title. Her daughter is suddenly coy. “Nick,” smiles Viv, moving to open the door wider. “Would you like to come in and meet my children?”
Kayleigh wrinkles a face at her mother. She hates being called a child.
Nick steps inside. The sun, as he does so, turns his dark-blond hair to gold. He looks fresh – and young – she thinks ruefully. The seven-year age gap between them has not bothered her until this moment. Now she is mindful of her teenage daughters. Will he think her too old?
Nick is smiling at Kayleigh, who has recovered her composure enough to ask him what he does.
“Kayleigh, honestly, that’s quite rude,” chides Viv, but gently.
Her daughter rolls her dark eyes at her, and flicks her jet-black locks behind her ears. Kayleigh looks very much like Jonnie. Inevitable that she should inherit his coffee-coloured skin, but her eyes, the shape of her face, and her expressions are also all her father’s.
“That’s okay,” says Nick. “I’m a policeman,” he answers.
Viv shudders involuntarily. For her, the word has remained tainted. But it is lost on her daughter, growing up in a different land, and for this Viv feels thankful.
“Would you like some tea?” asks Kayleigh, emboldened by his friendliness.
He looks briefly at Viv, the question formed.
She shakes her head quickly.
&
nbsp; “Another time, perhaps. I’ve had a cup not long ago, but thank you.” He sounds polite.
Kayleigh giggles. They have not moved from the entrance hall. Viv picks up her bag from the table and checks inside for her keys. They are about to leave when Abbie appears. She skulks in shadow. Her eldest daughter, normally so graceful, looks sullen.
“Abbie,” says Viv, too loudly, “this is Mr Retief.”
Nick looks up. Viv sees surprise flick cross his face, and wonders why. He knows some of her life’s details now, if not the finer, rawer points. He knows that her daughters have different fathers. She has told him that Abbie’s father is dead, but not the manner of his death. He knows too that Jonnie is Indian, and a neurologist at the children’s hospital in Rondebosch, but the details of her divorce she has not found reason to divulge. On those slow and pleasant walks, she had felt unwilling to delve into sadness.
She wishes her daughter had made more of an effort to look her beautiful self. Abbie has her father’s eyes, blue and clear, that darken with emotion. And her hair curls wild and unruly, as did Gabe’s. But it is fairer, almost blonde in the sun. She stands, stooped, her hair hanging messily in front of her eyes and her slim figure hidden by a baggy jumper.
“Hello, you must be Abigail,” says Nick, in that stiff manner of his.
It strikes Viv that Nick feels awkward, that he hides a residual shyness.