EMILY: All of this from a few lines in a notebook?
EDWARD: Her discomfort with herself is inside every book she ever wrote. I have always wondered about the source of it.
EMILY: That was your question, wasn’t it? ‘Why do you think your mother’s books are always so preoccupied with the anatomy of guilt?’
EDWARD: And even then you refused to answer it. Why did you refuse to answer it?
EMILY: Because I don’t like to speak about my mother in public.
EDWARD: So much for free speech!
EMILY: There’s a difference between free speech and speaking too freely, Edward.
EDWARD: That depends on what it is you’re trying to protect.
Silence.
EDWARD: I thought your mother was different. I thought, ‘Here is a woman who has spent her whole life writing about something wider, deeper, more complex than herself and her own interests. She has written her way into lives and places like no other white African writer has ever done before.’ But when I came here and entered her house, all I saw was racks of silver, oil paintings, Persian rugs – and a stoep with its view over the conquered land. And I wondered, ‘Who is this woman really?’ She sits up there in her sacred tower, where no one else is ever allowed to set foot, and comes up with this idea of herself. As the hero of the people. Yet she never gets her hands dirty. She’s up there paring her bloody fingernails, while her little girl is downstairs in this very room being –
EMILY Being what? Can you even say it?
EDWARD: Raped.
Silence.
EDWARD: By a black man without a face.
Silence.
EMILY: I promise you, Edward – if you write anything about any of this, I will never speak to you again.
EDWARD: Are you also trying to censor me?
EMILY: I’m trying to stop you from making a terrible mistake.
EDWARD: I’m not the one around here making terrible mistakes.
EMILY: It’s nothing more than defamation.
EDWARD: The proof is somewhere. And I intend to find it.
EMILY: You sound like a madman, do you know that?
EDWARD: Is that why you were drawn to me? Was I another black man without a face? Is that what you want – to re-enact your experience of abuse? You’re probably getting off on this – getting used and abused all over again.
EMILY: That is a horrible thing to say.
EDWARD: Is it? Look into your body. Look into your sex. The answer is there, waiting for you. Why do you throw yourself at men? Why do you give yourself away so easily? Because your mother as good as gave you away as a child. And why? Simply so she could write a book!
EMILY: Edward, if you write about any of this anywhere, we will be at war. Do you understand me?
EDWARD: Then war it is.
Blackout.
Part Four
Several months later. Late afternoon. Winter. BRONWYN’s sitting room. A clock ticks. There are notebooks strewn all over the floor, the couch. A fire glows.
EMILY enters. She is visibly pregnant and looks radiant with health. She starts to gather up the notebooks from the wooden chest – then stops, sits, opens one.
She starts to read:
EMILY: ‘Emily’s questions fill me with wonder: “Mummy, where does the sea come from?” “How do you reach your hand to move it?” “What do trees do when they get a sore knee?” She thinks blood is in the objects around her, not her own body. And that when you fall the blood comes out the objects and lands on your body and hurts you. She will say: “Mummy, does that pavement have blood in it?”’
BRONWYN enters, wearing an old dressing-gown and a woollen hat. She looks pale, sick, lost.
BROWNYN: I heard voices downstairs. Do we have guests?
EMILY: No, today it’s just us.
BROWNYN: And the children. (She looks around at the invisible children.) It takes half the day to get them ready to go out. What they will wear and what they won’t. This one doesn’t want to wear those shoes because they make her trip, that one doesn’t want those socks because they make his feet itch. (Smiling tenderly at one of them.) Thomas had a temperature all night. I wanted to run him a cool bath, but I couldn’t move my legs. Luckily this morning he took all his medicine and is feeling much better. It tastes horrible, but I follow it up with a teaspoon of sugar and we wash it down with a glass of water. If he can keep it all down without gagging, he gets a white marshmallow at the end of it. He draws the line at pink.
EMILY: I’m glad he’s feeling better.
BROWNYN: Who?
EMILY: Thomas.
BRONWYN looks around, as if suddenly the children have disappeared. But she is happy to find them there again. During the following, she wanders around – she never quite settles.
EMILY: I’ve been reading your journals. The ones from the chest. I thought they’d be all about your writing, and literature, but you know what you write about mainly? Me and Jo. Everything we’ve said and done from the moment we were born. I’ve spent the whole day weeping.
BRONWYN looks at her blankly.
EMILY: You were good mother, Mom. You still are.
BROWNYN: They keep me busy. All those mouths to feed.
Silence.
EMILY: Who was Henry?
BROWNYN: Henry?
EMILY: You write a lot about him too. Especially in your early journals.
BROWNYN: He was my husband.
EMILY: No, your husband was called Tom. Thomas Blackburne. My father.
BROWNYN: Of course.
EMILY: And Henry?
BROWNYN: Like a bird on fire. He fell from the sky.
Silence.
BROWNYN: And I loved him.
EMILY: I see.
She picks up another journal, pages through it.
EMILY: You wrote this when we were already in Johannesburg: ‘Today I sat at my desk all day and thought about Henry. I want nothing more than to write about him. He is the only thing I want to write about. But of course it’s impossible.’
BROWNYN: Did you write that?
EMILY: You did.
BROWNYN: What else did I write?
EMILY: ‘I wish I could go back to that moment. Standing on that little pathway that wound through the forest, the children having run on ahead. He stopped me and pulled me into a long, deep kiss, like he was gasping for breath. Our faces were wet with the mist. The water roared in our ears, made it almost impossible to speak. And that was the last time we touched.’
Silence.
EMILY: Was that at the Victoria Falls Hotel?
BROWNYN: It was our final kiss.
EMILY: And that man we had lunch with? Was he Dad’s friend? Was that Henry?
Silence.
BROWNYN: He died because he loved me.
EMILY: He came to the hotel to be with you, didn’t he?
BROWNYN: Did he? To be with me?
EMILY: I think you and Henry spent the weekend together. I think you were going to leave Dad. Is that what you’d decided?
BROWNYN: We decided when we kissed.
EMILY: And then he was shot down. Like a bird on fire. Is that how it happened, Mom?
BROWNYN: I do remember that kiss.
EMILY: I remember his airplane. His had curtains, ours did not. Somewhere else you wrote: ‘Emily cried as we walked towards our plane. I don’t know why she was crying. But I could see she knew that I loved him. And I could see that made her want to love him too. Henry made us laugh. He made the world feel lighter, less stuck. Thomas was always brooding, jealous, the air around him full of thunder.’
Silence.
EMILY: Did Daddy know about your affair?
Silence.
BROWNYN: He didn’t say anything. I thought he would hit me, but he walked out.
EMILY: Did you know he planned to kill himself?
BROWNYN: We hardly spoke after that.
EMILY: (Reading again.) ‘Morphine. From Morpheus, the god of sleep. He had the syringes and enough
morphine for each of us. He came and told me that. He said we would lose the war. That it was just a matter of time before we’d all be slaughtered in our beds. He said it would be easier if we went to sleep now. While still together, as a family. I said I had ordered the girls a chocolate cake for tea. I asked if he would go and pick it up for us – from Helen’s Cakes, at the Highlands shops. Then I packed one suitcase for all of us. And herded the girls into the car. I was just starting the engine when he came back. He parked right up behind me, making it impossible to get out. I saw him open the door, balancing the cake, a question on his face. So I just drove off through the rose garden, the car screeching through the bushes, and bumped away across the grass. I didn’t stop until I’d reached Johannesburg. The girls complaining all the way, the car like an oven, smelling of hot plastic, and Thomas lying dead in the bed my parents gave us.’
Silence.
EMILY: And you never called the police?
BROWNYN: I never said a word about it. Not to anyone.
Silence.
EMILY: Mom – did you want Daddy to die?
Silence.
EMILY: Later you wrote: ‘Now that he’s gone, at last I have some space to think.’
She closes the book, looks at her mother. She moves away.
Silence.
EMILY: Do you remember Edward?
Silence.
EMILY: I’m having his child.
BROWNYN: Is he ready for that?
EMILY: Edward?
BROWNYN: He’s still a child himself.
Silence.
BROWNYN: Of all the children, Edward is the most afraid of doctors. When he last got sick, he said, ‘Can’t I just get better by myself?’
EMILY: Edward is writing a book about your life.
BROWNYN: I didn’t want an argument. So I said to him, ‘Don’t worry. The body is very good at fixing itself. Especially with children. They heal so easily.’
EMILY: They do?
Silence.
EMILY: Did I heal easily?
BROWNYN: You were good at avoiding injuries. Not like Edward, who was always being stung by bees or wasps, falling off the garden wall into the hydrangeas. He put his finger in an electric socket three times, but somehow he always managed to survive it.
EMILY: I think you’re talking about Jo. Edward is a biographer – and a father.
BROWNYN: (Looking at her belly.) The father of our new child?
EMILY: Yes.
BROWNYN: What will we call him?
EMILY: It’s too early to tell.
BROWNYN: It’s about time I had another son. This time, you’ll see – I’ll do a better job of it. I want him to smile more easily, love more fiercely. I can already see him playing airplanes in the park, flying over enemy lands without a thought. He’ll grow tall, and I’ll love every bit of him. I won’t let him spill a single drop of blood. If he does, I will lick it up, like one of those women out of Lorca. And on my last day, when the darkness comes drifting in like smoke, the thought of him will be my sun.
EMILY: He’ll be my son, Mom. Not yours.
Silence.
EMILY: (Softening.) But if you like, sometimes you can borrow him.
Silence.
BROWNYN: And the father? Is he somewhere here in the house?
EMILY: The father, I’m afraid, came to an ignominious end.
BROWNYN: He was always accident prone. Did he die?
EMILY: I haven’t spoken to him in a long time. He may as well be dead.
BROWNYN: Well I did the best I could with each of them.
EMILY: Did you?
BROWNYN: With so many children, it’s difficult to keep track. They’re always running in and out the room, trying to talk at once. I find it impossible to listen to more than one voice at a time.
EMILY: You only have two children, Mom.
BROWNYN: Me? No, I have hundreds of children. Far too many heads to count.
Silence.
EMILY: What about poets? Did you ever have too many poets in this house?
BROWNYN: There were always too many poets in this house.
EMILY: And did you have a fight with any of them?
BROWNYN: Probably. They’re a difficult lot.
EMILY: Was there one in particular who disappointed you?
BROWNYN: Not that I remember.
Silence.
BROWNYN: Why do you ask?
EMILY: It doesn’t matter.
Silence.
EMILY: There are so many versions of a person. How do we know which one to hold on to and which one to relinquish?
BROWNYN: It’s always important to know what to edit out.
Silence.
EMILY: I heard you typing again last night. Were you writing something new?
BROWNYN: I was trying to get to the end of the sentence.
EMILY: I think you’ve earned the right to rest.
BROWNYN: But I’ve hardly started.
EMILY: You’ve written almost thirty books, Mom. They are read and admired all over the world.
BROWNYN: I’m afraid you’re thinking of someone else.
Silence.
BROWNYN: I should be getting on. A small boy is walking away from me. I must catch up with him before he slips off.
EMILY: Alright, Mom. You go ahead. I’ll put the supper on.
BRONWYN stands and shuffles out the room. She waits so some of the children can pass through the door ahead of her, and then she goes.
EMILY sits very still, her hands around her belly, as the light fades to darkness.
Part Five
BRONWYN’s sitting room. A few months later. Morning. Spring. BRONWYN is sitting at a desk, in the gloom, typing. She is wearing her pyjamas and an old coat.
EMILY enters, looking slim, pale, her hair loose. She opens the curtains to reveal a dappled Spring morning. Thrushes sing in the trees. She sighs wearily – and starts to tidy up during the following.
EMILY: You’re up early.
There is no response from BRONWYN. She will type, now and again, during the scene, between long pauses.
EMILY: Today I thought we could take a drive. Perhaps to the lion park. I haven’t been there since I was a child. Do you remember the one in Rhodesia? You had a story about it.
Silence.
EMILY: Otherwise we could go to the Home of the Chicken Pie. They had rabbits once. We used to push bits of cabbage for them through the wire mesh, but the goats usually got there first. You used to take me and Jo. I was good it imitating the peacock. It sounded like a baby cry.
Silence.
EMILY: Are you writing another book?
BRONWYN looks at the typewriter. She pulls out a piece of paper. EMILY takes it, reads.
EMILY: A new story? I hope it has a happier ending. You were never much good at those. You used to say, ‘We haven’t earned a happy ending yet.’ You also used to say: ‘Emily, we aren’t important enough for tragedy.’
BRONWYN stares at her blankly.
EMILY: I never knew if you were talking about the family or the country generally. Perhaps you didn’t like to distinguish. You were never really our mother. You always belonged to something more important.
BRONWYN sneezes.
EMILY: I never wanted to be a mother as a result. Until recently, of course. Then I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything. Which was a mistake, naturally.
BRONWYN resumes typing.
EMILY: When we were scared of going to a children’s birthday party, or jumping off a diving board, you liked to tell us about Aristotle. Courage is the mid-point between cowardice and foolhardiness, you’d say. Yes – you were always about the in-between spaces. Which is great philosophically, but it’s not what children want. They want clear lines to cross or not to cross. The illusion of order while they’re growing up. So they can feel they’ve grown up straight, and are able to think straight, and can go out and aim for what they want. We were always made to think about what was outside of ourselves first – and always fel
t outside of ourselves as a result. Don’t be selfish, you’d say. As if that was the worst crime of all. To claim something for yourself. To stand for a few moments in the light.
There is a buzz at the front door. EMILY leaves the room. BRONWYN puts in fresh paper and stares at her machine. We hear voices.
EMILY and EDWARD enter.
EMILY: I didn’t think you’d come.
EDWARD: I didn’t think you’d ask.
EMILY: Because of your book?
EDWARD: You mean you read it?
EMILY: I paged through it in a bookshop. I read enough.
EDWARD: And yet you still invited me in here?
EMILY: Your book is not nearly as significant as you think.
EDWARD: No one wants to buy it. I suppose it’s out of loyalty to your –
BRONWYN types. EDWARD sees her.
EDWARD: Mrs Blackburne, I’m sorry, I –
BRONWYN doesn’t look up. She stares at the page and then types a letter or two.
EMILY: She doesn’t speak.
Silence.
EMILY: I sometimes think she can understand me, at other times she seems completely blank. Like a page without any writing on it.
EDWARD: I had no idea.
Silence.
EDWARD: And you are looking after her?
EMILY: There’s a woman called Makhosi who comes during the week. But at the weekends it’s generally just the two of us.
Silence.
EMILY: Today we were thinking of going on an outing. Perhaps to the Lion Park.
EDWARD: She likes that?
EMILY: I’ve taken her to the zoo a few times. The sight of wild animals seems to perk her up.
Silence.
EMILY: When I was only a few months old, she and my father visited a lion park somewhere in Rhodesia. I was asleep in my car chair at the back, and they were watching a pride of lions sleeping under a tree. Then I woke up and let out a cry, and they said there were suddenly two lions’ faces at the car window. They didn’t even see the lions move. One moment the lions were asleep, the next they were there.
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