by Jon Zackon
“You can see the point,” said Abie. “What we’re saying to any intruder is take anything you like downstairs, just leave us alone upstairs.”
“It’s as bad as that?”
“Don’t be naive, Danny,” Abie continued. “Jo’burg is awash with crime. People are killed in their beds.”
“This isn’t all,” said Penny gesturing towards the gate. “Just in case they break it down I sleep with a gun under my pillow.”
I was shocked. Although I harboured some pretty nasty thoughts towards Koos I couldn’t envisage shooting him or anyone else. I was totally opposed to the private ownership of guns – and this was my sister who owned one!
“Do you know how to fire it, Penny?”
“Definitely, my brother. I’ve taken a course. A group of us girls went together. You don’t know what goes on in this town.”
She was right – I didn’t.
While being driven around the city’s northern suburbs I’d also noticed more and more walls and fences being built. I mentioned this to Abie.
“I’ve been told,” he said, “that Jo’burg has the tallest fences in the world, after Sao Paulo, which, by all accounts, is a very lawless place.”
What a recommendation, I thought.
***
On December 16th, the day before I left South Africa, a series of blasts rocked government installations around the country. The Justice Minister, JB Vorster, blamed the explosions on Mandela. As I read the Rand Daily Mail the next morning I thought of Eric and was very afraid for him.
After a bad night’s sleep it was time for me to go.
Penny drove me to Jan Smuts Airport. My parents came with. I’d done my best to convince them that I was flying off to a bright future, so the mood was far from downbeat.
What they didn’t realise was that I was struggling to contain my emotions and it was a relief to board the plane, one of BOAC’s new Boeing 707s.
I was also relieved to find that, once again, I had a window seat. As the plane taxied on its take-off I tried to feel the precise moment when the wheels left the runway, left the ground, left South Africa. I turned my head towards the window, not wanting anyone to see my tears.
Chapter 27
1962
MY FIRST six weeks in London were miserable. I felt cold, lonely and disorientated. Dozens of streets looked the same to me. And none ran straight. I’d set off in one direction and find after fifteen or twenty minutes that I’d done a circle. Or worse, that I was lost. I was for ever asking strangers for directions.
True, the West End was exciting, but entertainment was costly, especially as I didn’t have a job. I sent off a batch of applications to national newspapers and didn’t receive a single reply. I knew the trick was to get to know someone already employed on a paper, but where would I meet such a person?
I spent a lot of my time writing airmail letters to Ruth but as I had no good news to impart this stretched my powers of invention past breaking point. She must have got tired of reading that it was foggy in London Town.
Desperate for work, I signed up with an employment bureau. The girl in charge of the branch promised to find me some kind of journalistic work. It turned out there was nothing but clerical work on offer and I was forced to take it.
While working as a filing clerk I met Ryan Hennessey, also a South African, also a reporter and like me more or less unemployed. The only real difference between us was that he had come overseas of his own volition.
I was also desperate for company. One freezing night towards the end of January I travelled from my bedsit in Clapham to a pub in Earl’s Court to meet Ryan for a drink.
I was wearing a big black overcoat I’d bought on my first day in London. My mother had given me the money for this specific purpose. The coat made me look like an East End gangster when I turned the collar up, which I did at all times. I was wearing it in the pub but still felt cold.
At the far end of the saloon bar a roaring fire spat sparks at a screen. It looked inviting but the fumes tended to make my chest feel tight, so I kept as far away as possible. I’d been told that the only coal that could legally be burnt was a new smokeless type called anthracite. I shuddered to think what the old dirty kind was like.
Most of the customers were colonials and my first thoughts were that they might as well have been locals, given that the main topic of conversation was the weather. On second thoughts, I realised their take on the subject was anything but British.
“Last year my mate Barry ran around in shorts the whole fucking winter,” said a tall Australian. “There he was in the middle of January in his tennis shoes and shorts – no socks. He definitely wouldn’t be doing it this winter.”
“Pommy climate is notoriously fickle,” said another Aussie. “That’s the trouble. You can never guarantee it like you can back home. You can never say these three months will be dry, or these three months will be sunny. Just doesn’t happen.”
“I disagree. You can definitely say, these three months will be bloody wet, and those three months will also be bloody wet,” said one of the others and everyone laughed.
Ryan bought me a pint.
“One day last week I addressed envelopes,” he said. “Envelopes. Can you believe that?”
“Got to eat,” I said.
“Yeah, well this place is washed up. I’m thinking of trying the States. Land of opportunity, eh?”
“Well, I’m staying here for the foreseeable future,” I said.
“In that case, I saw something that might interest you – a job advert in today’s Guardian. Not in newspapers but still might suit you, Danny. There’s subbing involved and I’m just not a desk-bound person, you know, so I disregarded it.”
“What was it, a mag?”
“Yeah. It’s called Market Europa. Obviously trying to cash in on the Common Market.”
“A trade magazine?”
“I guess that’s what you’d call it. It’s a weekly. Subscription only. The advert says most of its content concerns British companies that export to the Continent. Claims the circulation is growing fast.”
After buying Ryan a reciprocal pint I went to a newsagent, bought the Guardian and travelled back to my bedsit.
My application was in the post by midnight. I had a hunch that the trip to meet up with Ryan would prove worthwhile.
***
I sat accross a desk from two men. One was in his forties and well groomed. He was the editor, Blake Goodall. Beside him sat his deputy, a kindly, rumpled old bloke called Charlie Minty.
“Very good reference,” said Blake, holding the bit of paper I’d brought with me. “Why exactly have you left South Africa, Mr Waterman?”
“It can be an uncomfortable place for journalists,” I said. And I definitely wasn’t lying.
“You mean you are anti-apartheid?”
“Absolutely. But there are other reasons. I am really keen to get some experience in the UK.”
“Does that mean that as soon as you have settled in on Europa you will be looking for a job on the nationals?”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. Everything would depend on how much I was enjoying the job.”
We talked for another ten minutes and then Blake said, “We need someone who is outward looking, who understands there’s a world beyond Dover. I think you’ve shown that. What do you think, Charlie?”
The old guy nodded.
“If you want the job it’s yours, Mr Waterman.”
“Call me Danny, please.”
“When can you start?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Brilliant, Danny. Make it Monday.”
I silently thanked Soames for his reference. It had won me a job.
***
Back in my room I read a copy of Market Europa that Blake had given me. I liked it a lot. Everything about it was straight – the reporting, the headlines and the presentation. It was the sort of journal that looked for good
things to say. Constructive.
Magazine staff were said to be poorly paid compared to their counterparts on national newspapers. But I was perfectly happy with what Europa had offered. It was on a par with my salary at The Messenger.
At last I had something upbeat to report. That night I wrote to Ruth and then to my parents.
***
Working on Europa presented me with a problem. The offices were in Tudor Street, around the corner from Fleet Street. But the printers were in Romford, a long journey from Clapham. And as the office junior I was expected to see the paper off the stone every Friday in the company of the editor.
After three weeks I set out to find new digs east of the City, finally settling for Ilford, a few miles from the printers.
The work itself suited me fine. I was one of only two reporter-cum-subs. The other was a guy my own age named Norman Penhurst. Blake and Charlie pitched in at every stage of the process. Our enormous staff of four collected copy on Mondays and Tuesdays and subbed it on Wednesdays and Thursdays. The bulk of our copy was sent to the printers late on Thursdays to be set overnight.
Fridays were a really hard slog. Norman and Charlie kept watch in the office while Blake and I were at the printers, where he made life difficult for everybody by rewriting and changing layouts until the head printer complained, which he invariably did.
I never argued with Blake. It was his magazine and if he wanted to change things, well, it wasn’t my business. I think he appreciated it. I suspected he’d had juniors before who tired of his working practices.
The head printer routinely kicked us out at five o’clock and Blake would take me to a nearby pub for a few drinks. I was still pretty green by the time we retreated to the pub on my third stone shift.
“With a bit of luck we’ll get the final pulls of all the pages by seven,” said Blake. “We can look them over then go home.”
He looked at me carefully. “It’s a long day, I know. But I think you’ll get used to it.”
“I’m sure I will. But it will be a lot easier next week, after I’ve moved.”
“Talking about moving, and I don’t mean to be nosy, but why do you limp, Danny? Doesn’t bother you on the stone, does it?”
“No, no, not at all,” I said. “I had an accident before I left SA. Hurt my knee. It’s slowly getting better.”
***
Ruth’s air letters were amusing and I could hardly wait for the next one to arrive. She had a gift for lampooning her superiors at the hospital, pinpointing their idiosyncrasies with the deftness of a professional satirist. Her fondest target was an immigrant medic she called Herr Doctor von Spiegel.
“I swear to you, Danny,” she wrote, “I was standing in the corridor yesterday when I heard Herr Doctor von Spiegel say to one of the admin people, ‘I am von Spiegel. I am here from Chermany six munz aus.’ I had to stuff my handkerchief in my mouth to stop giggling.”
One of the ward sisters would have given Mrs Malaprop a run for her money, according to Ruth. She gave an example …
“The other day Sister Moffat was talking to one of the patients who was getting fed up waiting for treatment and she said, ‘You must remember, Mrs Jones, patience is a virgin’.”
I read and read all her letters.
One cold and dismal weekend I filled up an air letter to Ruth with news of my job. What a gentleman Blake was, what a worthy little paper Europa was and what a tidy little unit we were. How I could see myself staying on in such a cosy situation, laying the groundwork for when she would be joining me.
Late on Sunday afternoon I risked the frosty pavements to walk to a post box on the corner.
But it was a letter she never received.
Oh, Ruthie, my love...
Chapter 28
ILFORD WAS a good move, or so I told myself as I arrived at work. Apart from being near the printers it was a lot easier to get to the office – a single tube train to Blackfriars and a short walk to Tudor Street.
“You look cheerful,” said Norman. “Been promised a rise?”
He could be amusing, with a range of sayings, mostly relating to an obsession with money. A few days before, when I’d thanked Charlie for praising one of my headlines, Norman had whispered, “Just remember, matey, fine words butter no parsnips.”
Now he stretched and yawned and said, “You’ll never guess it, Danny, but Blake just came in and told me he liked the way I subbed the lead story last week.”
“Aha! So you said something about fine words and parsnips, no doubt.”
“No, as a matter of fact I didn’t. I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Just write your thanks on a ten bob note, Blake’.”
Charlie Minty looked up and laughed. “You’re going to have to be more serious, Norman. That’s if you want to get on in this game.”
Monday mornings were probably our least busy time and the light-heartedness continued over the next hour or two.
Norman and I shared a phone, which had a long extension cord. It was on his desk when it rang. He picked it up and I heard him say, “What? No, no, not me. What? Hold on, please.”
He handed me the phone. “It’s from Durban,” he said. There was something in his manner … an uncharacteristic frown, perhaps … that sent a pang of apprehension through me.
“Hello, Danny?”
I knew the voice. It sounded distraught. Perhaps it was a bad line. But deep down I knew it was something else.
“Danny? It’s Steven ...”
Shit! Steven Fall!
“It’s terrible, Danny … it’s Ruth. She’s been killed.”
I dropped the phone and struggled to retrieve it.
“Steven! What did you say?”
“Ruth’s dead, Danny. She’s been killed by a hit-and-run driver. An accident.”
Steven paused.
“It happened on Friday. The funeral’s this afternoon. I couldn’t get you, Danny. I tried a number I found but they said you’d moved. Danny? Danny?”
***
How many of us ever have to deal with the death of a lover? It is egregious beyond imagining. The worst kind of tragedy. It assaults your reason. Reduces you. You might as well be dead, too.
And that’s how I felt for a while as I lay on my bed, shut off from the outside world. I didn’t want to be part of such a shitty place.
On reflection, though, suicide was not an option. Ruth would have been furious at such a suggestion. And then there was the matter of Koos. I had to give myself the chance to get even one day. So I just lay there, not moving. Through a day, through a night, another day, another night.
A hit-and-run accident? What bullshit!
Before leaving the office I’d phoned Conrad. He, too, had been trying to contact me.
“It was near the hospital,” he said. “It was early in the morning and she’d just finished a shift. She told Moira she had her mom’s car and was going home because she was off the next day. She crossed the road and opened the driver’s door and the other car just smashed into her. He was either blind drunk or the world’s worst driver, Danny.”
“Or a murderer?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You said ‘he.’ How do you know it was a man?”
“Just an assumption. Sorry, Danny.”
“Another thing, Conrad – the hospital is in a quiet little road just a few blocks long. Nobody speeds down there.”
All these words hammered away in my brain as I lay on my bed. Round and round whirled the few facts I had. I was thousands of miles away. What could I possibly know? Two things. This tragedy had the mark of Koos van Blatter on it. Sly. Malevolent. Cowardly. And the second thing was worst of all. If Koos killed Ruth it was because of me. It was possible that I led Fazal to his death and now I had done the same damned thing to the woman I loved.
I would make Koos pay. It didn’t matter how long it took, I would go back to South Africa and kill him. I swore it on Ruth’s mem
ory.
***
On a table next to my bed stood a framed photograph of Ruth running out of the sea at Ballito Bay. Waving at me. Laughing. I stared at it hour after hour. For exactly how long I wasn’t sure.
There was a knock on my door and before I could say or do anything it opened – and Blake stepped in.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “The landlady says you’d haven’t moved for three days. Three days! Aren’t you hungry?”
I was too surprised to speak.
“Don’t bother to answer,” said Blake, perching himself on a chair. “Look, Danny, we all know how you must be feeling, but we all want you to come back. You can’t just lie here fretting.”
Blake shifted in his chair.
“No, that’s nonsense, isn’t it? We don’t know how you are feeling, Danny. We can’t possibly know, can we? Sorry. But it’s hard on us, too, you know. You can see that, can’t you?”
I didn’t know what to say so I nodded. And Blake seized on it.
“Yes, well, that’s better. When are you coming back to work then? You’ve no idea how pleased we’ll be to see you.”
***
There were several letters waiting for me on my first day back. One was from Ruth’s mother. It was heartbreaking. She expressed her sorrow for me. She was sorry for me! Ruth had told her that we were unofficially engaged. Her daughter loved me, she said.
I put the letter down. What a shit I’d been. How bloody selfish! You’d have thought I was the only one who’d suffered a loss.
I immediately wrote to thank her. And, in the traditional Jewish way, I wished her and her husband a long life.
I sent separate letters to Lola and to Steven and his parents.
Then, with no one else to turn to, I wrote to Theo. I asked him how the police investigation was going and if there were any witnesses. I didn’t mention Koos. I reckoned he simply wouldn’t reply if I did.
