by Gerda Pearce
Viv folds her arms around herself. The warmth from her early bath has deserted her, and she feels cold, almost naked beneath her thin T-shirt. Anxiety shivers through her veins. She longs for a cigarette. She does not want to talk.
Nick rubs at his eyes. He looks tired, thinks Viv. The continued silence unnerves her. I should have known it would come to this. The past will always find you out. She still cannot take in his words. She wonders what details Nick has unearthed. An odd forgotten entry here, an unguarded note there? Simon would not have left the truth. He had, after all, been as much at risk as she.
The fire starts to burn with an efficient briskness, the dry kindling catching quickly, feeding the coal. Nick reaches into the battered enamel bucket of pine cones, throws a handful on the shifting heat. Happier days spent collecting them come back to her as she watches them splutter and glow.
Eventually, eyes still fixed the progress of the fire, Nick asks, “What was Simon Gold to you?” He sounds tired.
“Nick, look…”
She starts to speak, but he stabs angrily at the fire with the poker, as if he cannot bear to hear her answer. His face, in profile, is set. He mutters something to himself.
“What did you say?” she asks.
He turns to her, his eyes meeting hers. But she drops her gaze, looks into the flames. Her arms are still wrapped around herself. The room is warming now, but she still feels chilled.
“You told me you didn’t know him. That you’d never met him. Yet you saw him, several times. That, at least, is documented.”
Policeman. Interrogator.
Viv says nothing. The colourless office, its high ceilings, the uncomfortable chair reform in her mind. She remembers her halting words, stumbling out her story to Simon. His grave, kind eyes. She had never told anyone else. Over the years, she had occasionally managed to forget. At times it had seemed it had never happened. Like parts of her life with Jonnie, that would sink and then surface with a randomness that felt surreal. Now she must tell someone else: Nick. And it is harder, infinitely harder, she realises, than telling Simon Gold.
She clears her throat. “I should have told you.” She looks up to see him still looking at her, arms folded again. “What made you think I had an affair with him?” she asks quietly.
He sighs at her words, but his stance does not change. When he speaks, his tone is exasperated. “Vivienne, you met with him. You had dinner, he sent you flowers… you denied knowing him… what was I supposed to think?”
It sounds so ludicrous to her that she starts to laugh, her laughter coming out in exhalations that sound to her like sobs. Only then does she realise she is sobbing, but no tears are forming. All she can hear are the hollow hiccoughing sounds from her throat, and all she can see is that window. That awful day, looking out the window at a sunny Johannesburg sky.
28. VIVIENNE
Viv’s heels clicked and echoed as she walked down the endless corridor. Room 311, she had been told downstairs by the pimple-obsessed young man, not long out of high school, and already bored with directing the unending stream of people through dreary government departments.
Her steps fell silent. The lurid poster on the outside of room 311 screamed, “There’s no excuse for abuse.”
Yes, this was it, this was the right place.
She opened the door, unprepared for the number of women inside. They lined the walls; squeezed onto the benches, they waited. Slowly, one by one, one after another, they entered and exited a small office at the end of the room. Viv queued alongside, trying to settle herself, trying not to feel self-conscious, reminding herself they were all here for the same reason. She moved from wall to wooden bench, a progression of sorts. The wood was worn smooth from the constant shuffle of women. Finally, her turn, her chance to enter the office. Her back felt stiff as she stood. She was nervous, adjusted her skirt, pulled at her blouse, which was stuck to her skin.
Inside, an overweight woman looked up at her impatiently. “Well?”
Viv was taken aback by the harshness in the woman’s tone. But then what had she expected? Kindness? Counselling? “I’ve come to – I’ve never done this before, what do I do? Where do I start?”
The woman put down her pen, sighed loudly, exaggeratedly. “Just tell me what happened.”
What had happened? How did it get to this point? This point, where her husband had finally hit her so hard she could still feel his fist connecting with her jaw. When did it start? That mild summer’s night when he had looked deep into her eyes and promised to love her forever? Perhaps when she had told him, with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, that she was pregnant. Or when he walked out of the courtroom that had sentenced him away for political crimes against the State? Maybe it had been prison itself? Or did it start the day he was released? Prison had changed him. But maybe it was from way before then. He had told her once, sobbing, how he had stood, young and alone, watching his own father beat his mother so savagely that the blood spat from her nostrils and her mouth.
The woman sighed again, picked up her pen. “Do you want to come back tomorrow?” she asked. Her voice was flat.
Viv shook her head and started to stutter through the details. She started to tell this stranger how her husband had held her hair and smashed her head against the red tile of their kitchen floor. Again, and again. Viv heard the quaver in her own voice, but the woman didn’t appear to notice. She wrote a number on a form and handed it to Viv, then sent her back into the waiting area outside.
“Wait till I call your number,” she said.
Back on another bench, now she was a number.
An older woman next to her looked at her and smiled. “Don’t worry, girl, you’re lucky, you’re young. Look at me, I’m fifty-four.”
Viv had no words for her.
“You’re young,” the woman continued. “You can start again.”
Viv stared at her, tried to smile, and failed. She turned her attention to the form, tried to answer questions, tried to find words to describe in writing Jonnie’s aggression. Once this was done, the law could protect her. The police, with power to intervene, would only be a phone call away. With sudden dread, Viv realised how angry this would make Jonnie. But she just wanted it – wanted him – to stop.
Back in the cramped office, the woman read the form impassively. She wrote something on another piece of paper and handed it to Viv.
“Right,” she said, “take this form to the Sheriff of the court, so that it can be served on your husband. It’s a temporary order, which you will have to finalise in court after three months. If you don’t, it will fall away, and you will have to come back here when he hits you again.”
When, not if.
Viv clutched at the paper – her talisman of hope – and walked awkwardly from the office, trying not to stumble. A hundred faces assaulted her. There were so many women, all ages, races, classes. Violence, it appeared, was a great leveller. And so many seemed to be back for a second, third, even fourth time. That failure to follow up, to have him arrested, trusting his promises, trusting his empty words that it would never happen again, taking the flowers, accepting the kisses. A young blonde woman was flipping pages of the register, trying to track down her last complaint. She had a slight scar between her eyes, and as she looked up, Viv noticed a capped tooth in her mouth.
I will never come back here, she vowed.
Outside, in the fresh air, the sun was like a balm on her swollen face. She wanted to stand and let it soak through her, but instead she put on her sunglasses and walked quickly back to the car. She sat inside, lit a cigarette and inhaled strongly. Her ribs ached with the exhalation. She knew it was probably the bruises, but it felt as if she had been holding her breath for the past five years. Had it been that long? Yes, Kayleigh was five. Kayleigh, Abbie. She wanted to cry at the thought of her daughters; they were so small. How would all this have damaged them, she wondered. But this was no time for tears. At least he’d never hit the girls.
She
sat watching Cape Town city life pass by. A man smacked at his parking meter. A couple hurried by, the woman berating him for being late. The road stretched ahead of her, wide and tree-lined, van Riebeeck’s statue a dark bronze in the sun. Cars coursed through the crossroads.
Viv started the car, moving out into the traffic. She needed to fetch the girls. She had left them with Leila, who did not know where she had been. Viv checked the rear-view mirror. The make-up would hold; Leila must not suspect. Leila was Jonnie’s friend also. Panic filled her chest. She must get away from Jonnie before he was served with the order. The thought of his anger terrified her. She must get away. The panic intensified. He was wrong when he said she would never make it without him, that no one would have her. Having children ended any further studies, and she hadn’t worked for years. The job market would be tough; she would need somewhere to stay. He would never give her the house, not without a fight at least. Sweat dampened her armpits as she drove. She wished she had the girls already, could keep driving, keep on going, drive up Africa, to the ends of the earth if need be, as far away from Jonnie as possible. How he had changed from the charming, educated man she fell in love with.
Or had he? He was still charming, educated, and he had always been angry, always bitter. But in the beginning it had been at the State, at the government, the police, the system. She’d thought him brave, outspoken, a fighter. When had their marriage become the fight?
Viv tossed the cigarette butt out the window, fumbled in her bag for another. The folded white paper shifted, stared bleakly out at her. What had she done to deserve this? Had she turned the guilt after Gabe’s suicide into something external, that she should physically pay for his death? Or had her white guilt reached the point where she could accept the beatings from her Indian husband, whenever he was in the mood?
She pulled off the highway into Steenberg, drove along the barren stretch of veld that was filled with the reddish ochre of the fynbos growing wild. The mountain rose above her, soot-black. The light had passed beyond its summit. Yet it was not menacing, rather she felt its shadow as a comfort. Guardian, not threat.
The road turned left into Leila’s drive. A patch of front lawn, freshly tilled and planted with succulents amidst the gravel, led up to the porched entrance. Leila came out the front door as Viv got out the car. As always, Viv was struck by her fragile beauty, her flawless coffee skin, her almond eyes, the perfectly-applied eye-shadow, her lips never without the shine of lipstick. Viv felt unkempt in comparison.
From behind Leila, Abbie ran screaming, “Mommy, Mommy,” as if it had been days, not hours, since her eldest daughter last saw her. The blonde head buried itself to her, slender white arms clinging to her desperately.
Viv glimpsed tears in her daughter’s eyes. Those blue eyes that, like Gabe’s, she’d had to watch cloud with trouble. Her heart tightened as she thought of Gabe. She could not think of him then; her daughters needed her. There was no time for what-ifs, for hypothetical meanderings, wonderings of what could and could not have happened had Gabe lived.
His child looked up at her. “Mommy, can we stay with Aunty Leila tonight?” It was Abbie’s way of pleading not to go home to Jonnie.
Viv knew Abbie heard the fights. There had been times Viv had bitten her lip till it bled, trying not to scream and distress her children. Kayleigh was younger, slept more soundly. Abbie had been too young to remember Jonnie’s arrival, when Gin had first brought him home. But on his release from prison, the little girl had taken to him immediately. She would sit on his lap, show him her toys, follow him around. But, thinks Viv, that was before it had all started.
Before, before, before.
She became conscious of Leila’s watchful gaze. She found the woman unsettling, was never quite sure of their relationship. Leila had been Jonnie’s friend initially, and Viv felt cautious in her presence. It was not a natural friendship, not like her and Gin, she thought ruefully. But Leila had been her only friend in the days after Kayleigh’s birth, and then especially after Jonnie’s imprisonment. She had been so dependable, helping here and there, bringing supper, looking after the girls, one at a time or both together, and often at the last minute. Viv had grown dependent, grateful. So she had made an effort. Perhaps Leila was lonely. She appeared to have no man in her life. Viv had asked Jonnie once; he had been abrupt, dismissive, saying something about an affair with a white man that hadn’t worked out. Viv, not wanting to start him on the road to bitter regret, had not pressed for more.
In fact, she had always suspected other history between Leila and Jonnie. The woman was exotically alluring; she must be attractive to any man. There had been times she had caught Leila watching Jonnie, the furtiveness of it disturbing.
“Do you want some tea?” Leila asked her.
Viv was torn, wanting to go home, to take her daughters with her. But she was afraid. Perhaps Jonnie would be home. Perhaps, like the last time, he would leave the hospital early, stopping to pick up wine, and flowers, to make it up to her. And he would want to have sex, stroking the same hair he had pulled, touching the same body he had bruised.
She nodded and led Abbie inside. Leila’s house was cool, dark wooden floors made darker still by ethnic rugs and heavy furnishings. Viv found it womb-like, restful. She wondered if she should tell Leila the truth about Jonnie. She wondered if perhaps Leila would let them stay the night.
They sipped Earl Grey from china cups, while the girls stuffed in mouthfuls of banana cake. Viv could not face the smell of it when Leila offered her a piece. Leila looked at her oddly when she shook her head.
“Are you all right, Vivienne?” she asked, in that quiet light voice of hers.
“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that you usually love my banana cake.”
Did she? Viv was taken aback. Good Lord, the woman noticed everything. Would she notice the bruises beneath the make-up? Jonnie had never hurt her face before, but yesterday he’d been brutal.
Viv swallowed, “I’m fine. Just a little tired.” She held out her plate, “And yes, I do love your banana cake. You must tell me your secret.” I’ll force it down, she thought. She could not tell Leila; she could not tell anyone, and she could not stay there. Dear God, where was she going to go? Must she go home, pretend all was unchanged, feed the girls, put them to bed, go through the repetition of making up, feign delight at the flowers, drink the wine, fake orgasm?
“Vivienne,” said Leila again, “you’re hiding something from me.”
Viv almost choked on the cake.
“But it’s okay,” continued Leila, “I understand.”
Understand? What did this woman understand? Viv looked at her, alarmed.
Leila smiled slightly, her lilac lips revealing even white teeth. “You forget, my dear, I’m a nurse.”
Viv, uncomprehending, continued staring at her.
“You see,” said Leila, “I can always tell when a woman is pregnant. I’m never wrong.”
29. VIVIENNE
“So you see, Nick,” she says, her voice without tone, “I couldn’t have his child. Not then. Not after what he had done.”
Viv is sitting on the couch, Nick beside her. Viv can feel his gaze, intent and unwavering, but she does not look at him. Her hands interlace in her lap.
“I had to get away,” she continues flatly. “So, I had a… termination.” The word emanates oddly from her lips. She was going to say abortion but she hates the sound of it, an ugly word for an ugly act. She wants to cry, to hug herself and rock back and forth. To scream: I killed my child. My child, like Abbie, Kayleigh. But I killed it. Instead, her interwoven fingers twist and tighten. Her teeth tug at her bottom lip. Her head drops, her chin to her chest.
Her voice is hard now, her secret out after all these years. And Nick the cause. “So Simon Gold did the op for me.”
The fire spits and rustles as it settles in the grate. The wind has come up, an eerie whistle around the house. A window clatters on the floor a
bove and Viv starts, her head darting upward. Her eyelids feel swollen and itchy, as if she has been crying, and she wants to close her eyes and rest.
Nick stands, then stoops to shovel more coal on the fire. He comes back to crouch in front of her, puts his hands on her arms. She cannot look at him, focusing instead on her hands, so tightly clasped her fingers are red, the knuckles white.
Something prompts her to explain further, like a sinner at confessional. “Simon helped me. I didn’t know him. I’d only ever seen him once, at Gabe’s –” She stops for a moment, clearing her throat. “At Gabe’s funeral. I went to see Simon in Jo’burg. I asked him to help me.” Her words come out in a rush now. “I couldn’t ask anyone else. All the doctors I know here know Jonnie. He would have found out. Someone, someone, would have told him.”
Viv looks past Nick, into the fire. Father, forgive me. She thinks she hears Nick say her name, but she cannot be sure, so in the silence she carries on talking. “Simon could have got into trouble also. He knew that. He knew the legal implications. Abortion here was still illegal then. He could have lost his career, been struck off…”
Does he say her name again, a little louder, she wonders. Or is it the wind, circling the house, as if seeking entrance? “He helped me,” she whispers. “He barely knew me, and he knew the risks. But he helped me. I think it was because of Gin.”
Again she is back in that sterile office. “I think he wrote up some story on my notes.” Her voice trails off. Nick mentioned a diary entry, the flowers. Perhaps there had been no notes. Perhaps Simon would rather have risked his personal life than his professional one.