Never Tell A Lie

by Gail Schimmel

  ‘Did I hear my name?’

  Linda Henderson looks as she always did. Tall, with a bouncy ponytail and wide blue eyes that give her a slightly startled look. ‘Linda,’ I say, hugging her. ‘I was just remembering how you plaited my hair for me.’

  ‘Do you know,’ says Linda, ‘I often think about that when I do my own daughters’ hair.’

  ‘Do you pat them on the shoulder and tell them that they look beautiful?’ I ask.

  Linda looks at me, big-eyed. ‘Oh my God, I do,’ she says, and we both laugh.

  I turn to include April. ‘You remember April?’ I say, and I see something pass over Linda’s face – I think she has no memory of April at all. But she rallies and greets April with a hug. I find myself hoping that April didn’t notice. There’s something about her that makes me want to protect her.

  Chapter 6

  We stand and talk, and more people join us, and waiters come round with regular refills for our drinks. With each new person that I see and remember, I wonder more and more why I dreaded this. Even people that I didn’t particularly like at school, or know very well, suddenly seem exciting twenty years on. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Stacey and Marissa are sitting at their table already, deep in conversation. They are like a couple who have just met, with eyes for no one but each other.

  April, Linda and I stand together, and some others come and go; people I am pleased to see – but no one sticks. We move towards our table, and with a flutter of jackets and handbags, we sit. The table is a six-seater – three on each side. I sit down in the middle of one side, and April sits next to me. Linda sits opposite me, and we order more drinks. We paid for food and a welcome glass of wine online by EFT before we came, and all the other drinks are on our own tab, so the waiters are making us pay after each round. It’s tedious, but you can see the logic, and we swap stories about terrible times when we have been landed with the bill or paid more than our share, and, in April’s case, a time she entirely forgot to pay and couldn’t understand why her friends were so cold to her afterwards. ‘It all came out in a great big shouting match,’ she says. ‘They thought I’d done it on purpose, and I thought that they were just the most awful people.’ She laughs, and then frowns. ‘It never really quite came right with that group, I’ll be honest.’

  Linda and I laugh and commiserate. ‘What can you do?’ says Linda.

  ‘People,’ I say.

  As we’re speaking, two men approach the table and when I glance up, there’s no mistaking them. One is tall and broad-shouldered, with an impressive mop of hair compared to some of the men in the room. Joshua Botha has aged well. And next to him, looking almost exactly as he did in high school – medium height, stocky and smiling – is Steve Twala. We leap to our feet and there is much hugging and greeting and telling people that they haven’t aged a bit and look great.

  ‘That one at the front,’ says Steve, ‘said she would’ve known me anywhere.’ The rest of us laugh – turns out Bronwyn Boobs has greeted us all the same way. ‘But then,’ says Steve, sitting down next to Linda, and the rest of us follow suit, ‘then she thought that maybe I was Ian Sandsmith.’

  It takes a moment, and then we all burst into almost hysterical laughter. Ian Sandsmith was one of the whitest, blondest boys in the year. His hair and eyebrows and eyelashes were almost luminous, and everybody called him Beach Sand.

  ‘Do you think’ – I’m gasping for air I’m laughing so hard – ‘do you think that she mistook Ian for Steve Twala?’ And we’re off again, laughing.

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Linda. ‘Stop or I might wet my pants.’ There’s one of those strange lulls in conversation as she says this, so it seems to echo around a suddenly quiet room, which sets us all off again.

  ‘Well,’ says a woman standing next to the table. ‘Looks like I’ve drawn the merriest table.’ The voice doesn’t sound as pleased as it might. We all look up, guilty, like we’re expecting one of our teachers to have appeared, but it is, of course, Michelle Louw – my erstwhile Home-Ec partner. We all take a moment to take Michelle in. At high school, Michelle was a quiet, mousy sort of girl. Now, her hair is short and dyed bright pink, her earlobes have multiple piercings and she has both a nose and a lip ring. She’s wearing what appears to be a cerise boiler suit. The truth is, it all works rather well. She looks like Pink or Lady Gaga. I think all our mouths are slightly open. But Steve manages to speak first.

  ‘Did . . .’ he says, and he’s already started to laugh again so he can hardly get it out. ‘Did her at the front of the room with the boobs tell you she’d know you anywhere and that you haven’t changed at all?’

  Michelle’s eyebrows (perfectly plucked) shoot up. ‘She did,’ she says. ‘I thought she was bonkers, until she said that I was Laurice Twick.’ Laurice was, indeed, a very colourful character. I’m almost sure that she lives somewhere exotic now, like Thailand or an island somewhere.

  And with that, we’re all laughing again, even Michelle, who isn’t quite sure why we’re finding it so funny.

  Michelle sits down, and we call the waiter back for more drinks.

  ‘Should we go round the table and do a catch-up on our lives?’ suggests Linda.

  I can see Michelle giving her a kind of side-eyed look, but we all agree.

  ‘I’ll start,’ Linda says. ‘So, I’m actually Linda McPherson now. Been married for thirteen years this June. Got three daughters. They’re ten, eight and three. And I don’t work.’ She glares around the table.

  ‘You mean you don’t work outside the home,’ says Steve Twala, sitting next to her. I realise that I always think of Steve as Steve Twala, never just Steve.

  She rewards Steve with a huge smile. ‘You must have kids,’ she says.

  Steve sighs. ‘This is a sad tale,’ he says, holding up a finger as if to warn us. ‘No crying.’

  We all nod, promising solemnly not to cry.

  ‘So, I got married for the first time very young. To a sweet Afrikaans girl I met at university. Her parents were furious and my parents were furious, and as it turns out, you can only deal with a whole furious family for a few years before the marriage crumbles. We have two sons together, who live with Anneke. I see them on the weekends.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘So then I thought I should marry a nice black girl and avoid all that fury. So I did. And she was lovely. Really lovely. But she left me. For a woman. So now my family is furious, and her family is furious and everyone blames me. Except her. We have a son together, and we share custody.’ He sighs again. ‘And now I have a girlfriend who lives in London, and I’m never going to marry her or have kids with her or tell my family about her. The end.’

  He pauses.

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘And for work – I’m a lawyer. Divorces.’ For some reason we all find that uproariously funny. Steve Twala was always the master of the throwaway punchline.

  Steve looks at Joshua, sitting across from him. ‘Your turn, mate,’ he says.

  ‘I’m also a lawyer,’ says Joshua. ‘Constitutional and human rights?’ He sounds tentative about this, as if he’s not sure what we’ll make of it. ‘I work for an NGO. Not much money, but lots of satisfaction. And quite a lot of heartbreak. Bit like old Steve’s love life, really.’

  We all laugh, and the two men rather incongruously high five.

  ‘Wife? Kids?’ I say, and I find that I’m holding my breath slightly.

  Joshua is sitting next to me, and he turns so that he is almost facing me as he answers. ‘I have an eighteen-year-old daughter.’ He pauses, allowing this to sink in. We’re at our twentieth reunion, after all. We can all do the maths.

  ‘It happened in second year varsity,’ he says. ‘Her mom and I were never going to last, and then she got pregnant. I didn’t think she’d keep the baby – we were both so ambitious. But she did. And my parents were great, and her parents were great, and now we have this great big wonderful almost-grown-up daughter.’ He smiles, and I can see how much he loves her.

  ‘Anyway,�
�� he says. ‘Then after that I got married to someone else, but that didn’t work. And now I’m on my own.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, only I’m not.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘It was for the best. We made each other very unhappy.’

  I want to say that I know what he means, but I’ve suddenly become acutely aware that if we are going around the table, it’s my turn next. And I need to think carefully about how I phrase my story.

  ‘What about you, Mary?’ asks Joshua, as if on cue, before I have marshalled my words.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘I’m a journalist. Freelance. And I have a son. Django. He’s twelve. I adore him.’ I take a deep breath. ‘And I’m a widow,’ I say, probably slightly louder than necessary. ‘Django’s dad died in a car accident about eight years ago.’

  The reaction is exactly as expected. They all sort of reach for me, and pat the bits they can reach, and say ‘Oh God’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and I have to say things like ‘Well, one can’t change things’ and ‘A lot of time has passed’ and ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’

  And then Linda says, ‘Oh my God, and your mom died when you were a child. So much loss.’

  And before I know what is happening I blurt out the truth.

  Chapter 7

  ‘That’s what I’ve always believed,’ I say. ‘But last week I found something and now I don’t know what’s real any more. I think she might not have died.’

  They all lean forward slightly, as if I am pulling them in with some invisible force. I immediately regret saying anything. What in God’s name was I thinking? I need to undo what I’ve said.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, waving my hand around as if I can swat away my previous revelation. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding or something. Something I just need to talk to my dad about. Nothing to worry about now. I must have it wrong.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Linda, drawing out the word. ‘But, you know, if you want to talk . . . we’ll probably all get too drunk to remember a word you say.’ The whole table erupts in laughter.

  ‘So, anyway,’ I say, when the laughter dies down, trying to pretend that they aren’t all staring at me, wondering what revelation I was going to make. ‘So, I’m a freelance writer. I studied journalism and I worked for magazines for a while, and then when Django was born, I went freelance. And now I will write any crap that I am paid to. Like, literally, anything. So, if anyone needs any crap written, I’m the girl for you.’ I give a small laugh, determined not to show how sad my career makes me. I wanted to be a novelist. I planned to be the first South African to win the Pulitzer. Instead, I basically write the dregs of the words at the bottom of the writing food chain. But it pays the bills, and that’s what counts.

  The others seem to understand that I don’t want to talk more about my dead mother or my dead husband, and Michelle just gives my hand a last squeeze before the attention moves on to April sitting next to me. She gives me a smile and pats my leg under the table, and I feel like we are very old friends with a whole secret language. I smile back.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘I’m married. To Leo. My married name is Goldstein. I had to convert to Judaism to marry him. That was hard. But all worth it. We have two kids. A boy – same age as yours, Mary, so we should get them together – and my baby girl is four.’ We do a collective ‘aww’ even though we didn’t react like that to anyone else’s children, because something in April’s tone seems to suggest that we should. ‘And I’m an estate agent.’ She holds up her hands, as if in surrender. ‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘I swear, I’m one of the nice ones.’

  ‘Wait,’ says Joshua. ‘Is your husband Leo Goldstein. Like the Leo Goldstein?’

  April puts her head on the side. ‘Well, there are a few other Leo Goldsteins, but yes, probably. He’s the child rights activist.’

  ‘He is awesome,’ says Joshua. He turns to the rest of us. ‘He’s a psychologist by profession, but he does the most remarkable work with children in traumatic situations. Aids orphans and refugees and, really, the most terrible cases. He’s made a difference, that man. You must be proud, April.’

  April smiles at Joshua. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Yes, I am. Leo does very good work.’

  I can’t help wondering what it must be like to be married to a man like that. Someone people talk about, that everyone knows is good. Someone really devoted to a cause. It must be amazing, but also hard.

  ‘I’m sure that he can only do such great work because he has you backing him up,’ I say to her, and am rewarded with another smile.

  ‘Thank you, Mary,’ she says. ‘I hope that is true. It would be lovely to think I am part of Leo’s work.’ Then she turns to Michelle. ‘Anyhow,’ she says. ‘That’s me. You next, Michelle. You look like you have some tales to tell.’

  From someone else this could have sounded bitchy, but April’s tone is friendly and warm, and Michelle nods. She’s been the quietest so far – despite the pink hair and piercings, she seems like the most staid member of our group – but maybe she just doesn’t think that we are cool enough for her. I look at her with interest.

  ‘I can’t quite believe that I’m here,’ she says. ‘I never took myself for the school-reunion type. But my wife said that it would be good for me, and just listening to you guys, I think maybe she was right.’

  ‘Wives,’ says Steve Twala morosely, not thrown by Michelle having one. ‘Always know better, am I right?’

  Michelle smiles. ‘Exactly, Steve. I’m a nurse, and like I said, I’m married, and we are hoping to adopt a baby soon.’

  ‘A nurse?’ says April. ‘I was waiting for you to say something outrageous, like a singer or a . . . a . . . graffiti artist. Not a nurse.’

  Michelle laughs. It is a warm tumble of a sound, and suddenly I am back in Home Ec.

  ‘Remember Home Ec?’ I say.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ she says. ‘That teacher! She was so worried about our husbands.’ Michelle snorts. ‘And I just remember thinking that I wanted nothing less than I wanted a husband. What was her name?’

  ‘Mrs Joubert,’ I say. I want to laugh with Michelle – there is something about her that makes me want to please her – but I’m also remembering the other times I’ve thought of Mrs Joubert and her warnings about our husbands. The times I’ve wondered if maybe she was right. I give myself a mental shake: what happened with Travis was not because my cakes flopped in the middle.

  We’re interrupted by Bronwyn tapping a glass. Slowly the room falls silent.

  ‘Welcome, everyone,’ says Bronwyn. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe how we all look exactly the same.’

  It’s ridiculous, we’re a room full of people who are twenty years older than the last time we saw each other, but I glance around and Bronwyn is right. Everybody could be eighteen. The years have melted. It seems I am not the only person who thinks so, because from another table a man I recognise as Jake Murphy yells, ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘So,’ says Bronwyn. ‘Just a reminder. Drinks are extra – pay as you order. And please don’t drink and drive, guys – it’s not like it was back in the day.’ We all laugh at that, even though it’s not very funny given that one of the boys in our class died in a drunk-driving accident in our final year. Bronwyn must have remembered this too, because her face suddenly becomes sombre and she says, ‘So not everyone could join us. Lots of people live overseas. And some of our beloved classmates have passed. So let’s take a moment to remember them.’

  I wait, expecting a list maybe, but Bronwyn has just dropped her head. She may be praying; or she may be contemplating her cleavage.

  After a very brief moment, Bronwyn’s head whips up again and she announces that we will play an ice-breaking game. ‘I want you to pair up at your tables and share a memory that you have of the other person. Or do it in threes,’ she yells.

  I absolutely hate ice-breaking exercises and it feels like we don’t really need it – certainly at our table the ice is completely broken. But when I turn to share this thought, Steve
and Joshua are already leaning across the table, talking to each other; and Linda has turned to Michelle as if this was the moment that she was waiting for. I turn to April, sitting next to me. I still don’t have a particular memory of her. I wonder if I can make one up.

  She smiles at me.

  ‘Do you want to go first?’ I ask, wondering if she remembers anything about me. So then I add, ‘It’s okay if you don’t remember anything about me, you know. We don’t need to do this just because Bronwyn told us too.’

  ‘Oh, Mary, how can you even think that I don’t remember you,’ she says, her eyes round. ‘You must know that you’re one of those people who makes an impression.’

  ‘I’m really not,’ I say, ‘but thanks for saying so. You’re very kind.’

  ‘Well, my memory that I want to share is actually about how kind you were to me,’ she says.

  I search my memory. Kind? To April? I think she might have me mixed up with someone else.

  ‘It was after the thing that happened on camp,’ she says, and pauses, as if to test whether or not I remember. And, of course, I don’t remember except for the fact that it happened. And I would really like to know, because it was obviously quite a thing, given that she wants me to remember it twenty years later. No, not wants me to; assumes that I will. Christ, it must’ve been huge. But if I admit to her that I don’t remember this huge thing that affected her, it’ll be like admitting that I don’t remember her at all. And she seems so nice, like a person that I could really be friends with. So I nod. ‘Yes,’ I say, hoping that my tone is appropriate to the severity of what happened. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, when we all got on the bus at the end of that camp, obviously no one would sit with me, even though most people didn’t know what had happened. The kids involved had been told they’d get into trouble if rumours started spreading, so nobody except those of us there really knew what had happened. Especially not my version.’

  I could kick myself. I probably never knew, because she’s just said that people didn’t. And now I’ve bloody gone and pretended that I know and will never be able to ask. ‘Oh, what a tangled web,’ as my father would say.