Moments later, Mark strode into the parlour.
‘Nice chap, that Gideon,’ he remarked. ‘I never realised he was interested in butterflies. He’s just been telling me about the different species in your garden.’
Smiling inwardly, Stephen offered Mark a whisky. Mark was getting a little stooped, he noticed, and had developed a way of thrusting his head forwards, chin raised, to look into one’s eyes with a serious, worried expression. They went to the veranda to enjoy their drinks. The air was soft and warm as a bath.
Stephen said, ‘So, how are things in Sakubva?’
Mark took a long drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘There are still outbreaks of gang violence.’
Stephen grimaced. ‘It’s a bad business. Have you been called up?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Actually, official policy is to intervene as little as possible. So long as the blacks are breaking each other’s heads and burning their own property, they’re only hurting the African cause.’
‘Hmm.’
‘When I first met you and Ginie,’ Mark began, ‘I’ll admit I was somewhat influenced by your ideas about the Africans, but now I’m not so sure.’ He swallowed another mouthful of Scotch. ‘Look, I think teaching them to farm was a good thing – they have an aptitude for the work and we all benefit. But the unrest in the townships has convinced me that they’re simply not up to political engagement.’
Stephen frowned, wanting to object, but recognising the futility of trying to change Mark’s mind.
Mark raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. ‘I gather you’ve been talking to Sithole and his friends,’ he said casually.
Stephen looked at him in surprise.
‘I do know what’s going on,’ added Mark.
Stephen’s gut knotted. ‘There’s no law against talking, as far as I know.’
‘Damn it, Stephen, have some sense!’ Mark’s hands were clenched around his glass. ‘You don’t want to go putting ideas into their heads.’
‘I assure you I haven’t given them a single idea that they had not thought of already.’
Mark eyed him stonily. ‘You must remember this is Africa,’ he said, with barely contained anger. ‘This isn’t Bognor Regis. Things work differently here.’
Stephen said nothing. He sipped his drink and gave Mark a sideways glance, wondering what it was that made him turn his back on England. What wanderlust, or ambition, or misdemeanour had brought him to this remote part of Rhodesia? Despite having a wife and child, Mark seemed to be a nomad at heart, allergic to bureaucracy and reluctant to be tied to permanent, repetitive work. Southern Africa was full of oddballs who had found Britain too confined.
‘All I’m saying is be careful,’ he warned.
Stephen spotted Ginie walking towards them from the Fantasy. Mark had seen her too, every fibre of him fixed in concentration. Stephen’s heart sank.
‘I don’t want to fight with you,’ he said, eyes still on Ginie.
‘No, me neither,’ Stephen replied.
‘Why, Mark!’ Ginie exclaimed, as she reached the veranda. ‘This is a nice surprise.’
Mark was on his feet, kissing her on both cheeks. Stephen poured another glass of whisky and handed it to her.
‘I came to tell you that I’ve arranged for you to visit Mary,’ Mark said as they sat down. ‘Next Tuesday afternoon. I’ll drive you there and back, if you like.’
Ginie gave him an enchanting smile and the hint of a flush rose in his cheeks. ‘Oh, you are wonderful! Let’s drink to that.’
She raised her glass. There were signs of strain on her face that made Stephen’s heart sore – a worry line between her eyebrows that had deepened into a permanent crease and a flaking, reddened patch of eczema along her jaw. She was still magnificent, still mesmerizing, but it was as though some measure of air had leaked from beneath her skin.
Ginie was asking after Mark’s family, enquiring about Jill, who had been discharged from hospital and was staying with friends in Umtali.
‘She’s doing a little better,’ said Mark. ‘Though she hasn’t set foot on the farm since the tragedy. She can’t bring herself to go back.’
‘Poor soul,’ Ginie said sadly. ‘You can’t blame her.’
‘No,’ said Mark, with a small shake of his head. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but she wants to get out of Rhodesia. The farm is on the market and she’s making arrangements to go and live with her sister in England.’
‘It’s probably for the best,’ Stephen chimed in. ‘We didn’t see eye to eye with the Thompsons, but I wouldn’t have wished this on anyone.’
When Mark had gone, Stephen said gently, ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t lead him on, darling. He’s like a schoolboy with a crush. Don’t give him false hope.’
Ginie blushed deeply. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’ She was laughing but clearly uncomfortable. Seeing his face fall, she hugged him and he felt the tightness around his heart ease. ‘Really, my love, you’re being silly. I need Mark to get access to Mary. He means nothing more to me, I promise you.’
37
Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s
The visitor’s room of the prison was cold and bleak. A thick smell of filth and damp hung in the air; the stink of overflowing latrines and trapped bodies. There was a tiny slot of a window just below the ceiling.
Mary sat across the table from Ginie, looking thin and ill. Her eyes were sunken and there was a yellowing bruise on her cheek. The first words from her lips were questions about her children.
‘They’re staying with Gideon and Zandile, and doing quite well,’ Ginie answered, trying to hide her shock at Mary’s appearance and to sound as cheerful as she could. There was nothing to be gained from telling Mary that her oldest girl was refusing to go to school, or that the little one had started wetting his bed. ‘You must try not to worry, though I know it must be hard. Zandile and Gideon are caring for them as if they were their own. Stephen and I will keep an eye on them for as long as they need us.’
Mary sighed. ‘Thank you, Missus Ginie.’ Her mouth worked as she struggled not to cry. ‘It means so much to hear that.’
Ginie smiled at her. ‘Let’s talk about you. How are you holding up?’
‘I am working in the laundry,’ Mary replied, gathering herself. ‘The work is hard, but I don’t mind. It stops me thinking.’ She coughed, a deep, scraping sound that seemed to tear at her chest. ‘We work from seven until one, then we have lunch: porridge with a few vegetables, then back to work from two until seven, then more porridge and sometimes a small cup of cocoa. They put me in solitary confinement because I won’t give them information.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Ginie looked at her compassionately. ‘What’s it like?’
Mary sucked air between her teeth. ‘I have one blanket and only this dress,’ she answered, gesturing at her shapeless prison uniform. ‘Sometimes, they throw buckets of cold water onto the floor where I sleep to punish me.’
‘Dear God. I suppose that’s how you caught that cough.’
‘Yes, but I can take it.’ She lowered her voice to a murmur and Ginie had to lean forwards to hear her. ‘If I keep quiet, the others are safe. I know how to shut my mind off from what’s happening. I think of my children, or Eliot, when we were courting.’ The ghost of a smile played around Mary’s lips, and for a moment, Ginie saw the girl she must have been: pretty and forthright and radiantly in love, walking beside her sweetheart, laughing at something he had said.
‘You’re so strong,’ Ginie said, awed. ‘I don’t think I could be as brave as you are.’
‘I am not strong, really,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t stand being away from my children. It’s breaking me apart.’
Somewhere, a door screeched open and banged shut. Ginie thought she heard a woman scream.
Slowly, painfully, Mary said, ‘I worry about them so much, I can’t sleep.’ There was a spasm of coughing, one hand clutching the front of her dress. It was a few minutes before she could continue.
‘Sophie has spots on her face. It makes her shy to go out, sometimes she is teased and comes back crying. Tamai is a poor eater. His favourite food is a good broth made from chicken bones – he always finishes his bowl and asks for more. Please ask Zandile to make it? It will build up his strength and help his body fight illness when winter comes.’
‘Yes, of course. Gladly.’
‘How is La Rochelle?’ Mary asked, ‘I miss it. Tell me the news – I need something good to think about.’
‘Well, the home crafts club is in fine shape. Lucia is running our school, but she’s not half as good with the children as you are.’
They began to talk about the pupils, clinging to mundane everyday details, which seemed, at that moment, infinitely precious. The warden who had been stationed outside the open door to monitor the visit; a heavyset blonde woman with hard blue eyes, poked her head in. ‘Five minutes left,’ she announced.
There was so much more to be said. Ginie could feel all the unspoken words hanging in the air between them, but she felt too numb and clumsy to articulate them.
‘Do you know the worst thing about prison?’ Mary asked, eventually. ‘After missing my children?’
‘No, what is it?’
‘There is prejudice, even in here. The white prisoners are in a different block with better food, and they aren’t knocked around like we are. When I learned that even in prison we’re treated worse than the whites. . . Well, now I know what oppression really means.’
The warden had come into the room. ‘Time’s up,’ she said, putting her hands on Mary’s shoulders and yanking her roughly to her feet. Mary’s lips trembled, tears spilling down her cheeks. Ginie stood up too.
‘Go well, Missus Ginie,’ said Mary, swiping at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘I am so happy to have known you. I think God sent you to us.’
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ Ginie answered warmly. ‘And anyhow, this isn’t goodbye. I’m going to come again.’ She ached to hug Mary, but it wasn’t permitted. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I’m allowed,’ she repeated.
Mark was waiting for Ginie outside. He had one look at her face and took her in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder. If he hadn’t been there, she thought she might have toppled right over. She could feel his heart crashing against his ribs and knew he wanted to kiss her again, but all she could think about was Mary.
After a few moments, she pulled away. Mark signed them out and they walked to his truck without speaking. Mark helped her in, then went around to the driver’s side and started the engine. Soon, they had left the high-fenced prison behind. Ginie gazed unseeingly out of the window. The pain of what was happening to Mary was too raw, too agonising, it blocked out everything else.
There had been so many losses, Ginie thought, each one piled on top of the last; her grief always deepening.
‘Are you alright?’ Mark asked. ‘You’re very quiet. I’m sure the visit wasn’t easy.’
‘Mary’s ill,’ said Ginie. ‘She should be in hospital.’ The stench of prison lingered on her clothes.
‘Did she tell you anything that could be useful to us?’
Ginie stared at him, amazed by his callousness. He looked older, his face seeming to sag on its bones. She felt a confusing stab of pity.
‘Don’t think me unfeeling,’ he added, ‘I know you’re fond of her. But she’s dangerous – she has all sorts of undesirable connections.’
‘Political or criminal?’
‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’
The truck began to climb a hill. Below them were the houses of Sakubva laid out in rows, like hundreds of cardboard boxes.
‘It was you who reported Mary to the police, wasn’t it?’
The truck swerved into the middle of the road, but Mark righted it just in time to avoid an oncoming car crammed with people. The driver hooted and shook his fist, yelling something they couldn’t hear.
‘Yes. I saw her talking to one of the prisoners while we were walking at La Rochelle. There was that scrap of his uniform on the thorn bush.’
Ginie was in a fog of anger and despondency. ‘I suppose you saw me try and hide it. I didn’t think you had noticed.’
‘Well, I am trained to be observant. But I kept quiet about you obstructing the course of justice.’
‘I suppose I should thank you.’
He swallowed. ‘Part of me didn’t want to report Mary because I know what she means to you. I struggled with myself, but in the end, I had to do the right thing.’
Ginie said nothing. She was deeply disappointed in him and disgusted with herself for her fleeting surrender to temptation. How could she have been so inconsistent and foolish?
‘Tell me you understand,’ he begged.
Wincing, she closed her eyes. If only you had looked the other way.
Mark, panicked by her lack of response, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.
‘Prisoners in solitary aren’t supposed to have visitors,’ he said hoarsely, desperately. ‘I had to pull a lot of strings to get you in.’
‘I know,’ she said, but it came out more coldly than she had intended, so she added hastily, ‘and I appreciate it.’
He didn’t answer. Stealing a glance at him, she saw his body bent over the wheel in a dejected curve, his features pale and set. The cold knot of revulsion in her chest dissolved and she felt bitterly sorry for hurting him.
38
Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s
My father came home from taking Ginie to the prison and there was lipstick on his shirt.
‘What is that?’ My mother’s voice rose in disbelief and her mouth contorted as if she had a pain somewhere. ‘Did you kiss her?’
He stared at her, puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’
Then, following her pointing finger, he saw the stain. He tried to rub it off, but only succeeded in smudging it, which made it look worse.
‘Don’t go putting two and two together and making five,’ he warned. His voice had an edge I hadn’t heard before. ‘Ginie was upset by the visit and I comforted her. There’s nothing more to it, so leave it alone.’
But Mum wouldn’t leave it. Recriminations poured from her mouth like bile. Dad slammed his fist on the table, cutting her off mid-sentence. The sound was loud as a gunshot in our small living room. Mum was stunned and shrank away from him.
‘That’s enough!’ His face had turned an ugly shade of red. ‘Cathy, you shouldn’t be listening to this. Go to your room at once.’
Reluctantly, I did as I was told. Though by kneeling on the floor with my ear pressed against the wall, I could hear them quite well.
‘I’m having a hard enough time without your nonsense,’ Dad told her.
‘You’re having a hard time,’ she spat, bitterly.
‘Yes.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, for one thing, I’ve got nothing useful on Stephen,’ he sighed. ‘Oh, other than the fact that he wrote a cheque to Sithole, and it was cashed. But nothing else.’
‘So?’
‘So, de Quehen is angry with me. He called my latest report “cotton wool without substance”. He can’t extract anything concrete from it. I’m afraid he’s losing confidence in me.’
My mother suggested acidly that perhaps Dad hadn’t managed to gather any useful Intelligence about Stephen because he was too busy being sweet on Ginie. ‘You have to be single-hearted and committed,’ she added, ‘to do this job properly.’
‘Perhaps there’s nothing to find out,’ he answered curtly. ‘Stephen’s an honourable man, if deluded. Funding the Nationalists may be stupid, but it’s not illegal.’
There was a pause so long, I couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. Opening my bedroom door as quietly as I could, I peered through the crack. The late-afternoon sun was coming through the living room windows and shadows had started creeping over the floor.
‘I can’t cope with you on my back too,’ Dad was saying. ‘Give me a bre
ak. Please?’
The sunbeams falling across his features made them look chiselled. I could see the shadow of stubble on his face. I knew that it was wiry and coarse enough to hurt my skin when he kissed me goodnight, but in the mellow light it looked downy, which made him seem younger and more vulnerable. My parents exchanged a long, long look and the air between them changed. Dad sat down heavily on the sofa. Mum sat beside him and he leaned his head on her shoulder. Relief surged through me. While he talked, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
‘The writing’s on the wall,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The townships are a mess. It’s only a matter of time before they turn all that frustration and hatred onto us.’ He exhaled a shuddering breath. ‘I’m scared for the future. I don’t know what it holds for you and me, let alone for Cathy.’
They stopped speaking, their faces caught up in invisible thoughts.
Then Mum said, ‘I’m worried about Cathy.’
‘You’re always worried about her.’
‘Yes, but this is different. She’s too careful, too polite. Don’t you think so? She’s like an anxious little ghost.’
‘Yes.’
Mum put her hand on his thigh and looked up into his eyes. ‘She’d be better if we were better.’
I turned away from the door without bothering to listen to my father’s reply. That frightful feeling of loneliness had come over me in all its strength. I lay on my bed, staring at the crazy paving of cracks running across the ceiling and tried not to cry. My parents had each other, but I was a misfit everywhere. If only Mufaro were here. I wished for him so hard, my breath caught in my throat.
39
Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s
Ginie walked slowly up the driveway, drinking in the peace of her garden; she thought it had never looked more beautiful. She passed a group of children kicking a ball around on the football pitch. The sun was low and gold, making long shadows of their bodies. Sophie, Mary’s daughter, was sitting on the ground watching them. She stood up when she saw Ginie and brushed the grass off her dress. Pimples swarmed her face and she had a way of hunching into herself, as if she didn’t want to be noticed.
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