Little Stones

by Kuiper, Elizabeth;

  I told her about the present I had been working on for Dad’s birthday: a story about a father–daughter team who make potions together, complete with illustrations.

  ‘That sounds delightful, Hannah. I’m sure he’ll love it.’

  ‘I don’t think my birthday present from him got lost,’ I said suddenly. ‘I think he never bought it.’

  ‘Oh, Hannah. I wouldn’t take it to heart. He’s very busy. And sometimes men just forget these things. I have to drop hints every day of the first two weeks of September, else Grandpa would never remember our anniversary.’

  ‘How long have you and Grandpa been together?’ I asked.

  ‘Ooh, let’s see now.’ Nana paused playing with my hair for a moment. ‘We met in ’54 … and we bought the Karoi farm in ’57 … and we were married a year before that in 1956. Gosh, that makes … 46 years we’ve been together.’

  ‘Mum and Dad weren’t even together for four years, including being married,’ I said.

  ‘Well, not all people are meant to be married,’ Nana replied, holding her palm out in front of me as an instruction to hand her my hair tie.

  I had often wondered what drew my mother to my father. Her dislike for him was now so apparent that it was hard to imagine a time when they were in love. Did they use to sit at the big dining table and talk about their days? Did they curl up on the upstairs sofa together watching movies?

  ‘Why do you think she married him?’ I asked Nana, after handing her the hair tie.

  ‘Love is a tricky thing, Hannah. It can make people do things they would never do if they were thinking straight. It blinds them. And it’s not like I didn’t warn her. But children never listen to their parents, and sometimes they need to make their own mistakes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I knew they weren’t a good fit,’ Nana said. ‘From the beginning. She was still so young when she got her job at the bank, only twenty-six. Of course I was already married to Grandpa at twenty-six, but things were different back then – I didn’t go to varsity for five, six years like your mum did. I was already working full-time by the time I was seventeen. Working for your dad was the first proper job your mum had—’

  ‘So why weren’t they a good fit?’ I interrupted, trying to keep Nana on track.

  ‘Oh, right. Well. Like I said, she was young – and certainly younger than him. And he was this successful, intelligent man in a position of power. But he was also controlling … and he got jealous. He didn’t want her to leave her job at Standard Chartered to work for the stock exchange, even though it was a great step up for her. Wanted to keep her where he could see her, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘But she did leave.’

  ‘She did,’ Nana said. ‘But he didn’t like it. And he was always funny about money. Money, money, money. He lived for money, but couldn’t stand that she was making her own. In fact, the first time Graham and I met him, he had us over for dinner and one of the first things he said to us was how much he had paid for that hideous heavy table of his. You know, for all that money his taste was awful, so old-fashioned. Your mother was the one who got into that house and made it a proper home.’ She stopped, as if reliving those days in her mind. ‘And then there was the pre-nup. That’s when I knew it wasn’t right.’

  ‘The pre-nup?’ I asked.

  Nana finished tying up the French braid she’d made in my hair before she answered. I turned around to look at her so we were sitting face to face.

  ‘A prenuptial agreement. The day before the wedding, your dad wanted your mum to sign a contract, saying that if they ever got divorced she wouldn’t get his money. Your mum came to me and I told her what I thought about it all. Your grandpa and I pooled our savings together to buy that farm and to make a life for our family. Whether he put in more, or I did, it didn’t matter, because we were together. So I let her know what I thought, and she became upset – not with your dad, but with me. She said I didn’t understand modern relationships, that I was interfering in her life, and I could see that he’d already gotten to her.’ Nana let out a long breath before continuing. ‘He never liked me and Graham. Thought we were simple. Just farmers. He was a business hotshot and we were lower-class gomtors living in country Zimbabwe. That’s what he thought. That we were simpletons.’

  ‘But running an entire farm is a lot more complicated than people think. You have to have a really good understanding of the agricultural processes and the economy,’ I said in response, having heard Nana often say something similar in conversations about the War Vets and how they’d soon be running the farms into the ground.

  ‘Exactly, Hannah. Exactly. Too right you are.’ Nana pulled me in to her. ‘So, there’s nothing I could have said or done, as much as I wanted to protect my daughter. I was still there for her; we went to the wedding and didn’t say a word against him. But when she came back to me, I was ready for her. I just hate that she had to get hurt. It’s certainly not been an easy ride for her. But don’t repeat any of this to her, she’d hate that.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  18

  My dad’s sixtieth fell on the last weekend of April, and he had organised a lavish birthday bash at Victoria Falls to celebrate.

  We flew up there together, and on the morning of his birthday Dad took me for a walk around the dense parkland surrounding the falls. We stood side by side and stared out at the Devil’s Cataract. The thick foam poured down the rock face with a steady urgency, the spray landing upon our skin. It was hard to believe that this violent cascade would flow east and gradually peter out to form the quiet tributary that Grandpa and I had relaxed on just days ago. The rush of water was deafening, and it was only by reading Dad’s lips, and following the gestures of his hands, that I understood he was pointing out that Zambia was straight ahead of us, just across the tumultuous river.

  People came from around the country – around the globe – to don orange lifejackets, clamber into little grey paddleboats and go whitewater rafting along the Zambezi, careering down rapids with names like the Washing Machine, Stairway to Heaven and Oblivion. Dad was one of those people. He liked to go when the water was low and the rocks were close to the surface, forcing the water to crash and boil through the gorge, increasing the thrill of the sport. But, for now, we were watching safely from afar, enjoying a tranquil nature walk before the festivities scheduled for later that day.

  The moisture in the air rendered the parkland surrounding Victoria Falls lush and fertile, the leaves such a brilliant green it seemed they’d been carved out of emeralds from the Sandawana mines. It was quite unlike Mana Pools, where the patches of hard earth and bare trees rendered most things in sight dull browns and yellows.

  As we ambled back to the hotel, Dad knelt down as though he was moving to tie his shoelace. I realised he was inviting me to climb onto his back, like I used to when I was younger. I jumped on and swung my legs over his shoulders, bracing myself before he rose to a standing position. Nearly ten feet up in the air, I was on top of the world.

  We boarded the party boat, which was situated on a calmer part of the river, in the mid-afternoon. The women aboard were elegant and pretty. Many wore large floppy hats that looked like UFOs and flapped in the breeze, sometimes causing the women to grasp the sides with both hands, bringing them down like bonnets around their cheeks.

  The men were dressed in suits. I recognised some of them as Dad’s friends from work and people he played squash with. Uncle Jack was there, of course; he stood out because of his looming six-foot-six presence and the bright orange kerchief he had placed in his pocket – and the fact he was now standing at the stern of the boat, clinking a teaspoon to his champagne glass.

  ‘I would like to thank you all for coming down to celebrate Steve’s birthday. It means a lot that you are here with us on this very special day. Steve, you are sixty now. But you have the good looks of a forty-year-old, t
he spirit of a twenty-year-old … and the libido of a teenager. As you all know, I am the younger, better-looking and ever-so-slightly taller sibling. Despite this, Steve and I have had a great relationship and, although we are living on opposite sides of the Zambezi, we are still as close as two brothers could be.’

  I glanced over at Dad, who seemed pleasantly amused, sipping on a short glass of whiskey.

  ‘What some of you might not know is that Steve was not always so keen on having a brother. In fact, when he was eight and I was four years old, he made the bold decision that he no longer wanted to have a younger brother. By then I had started talking properly and couldn’t just be made to do whatever he wanted me to – I had become competition. So he hatched a plan. He led me to the bus stop on the side of the road, with a fully packed bag, money for the bus, and a note that I was to give to the driver, claiming I was an orphan.’

  The boat filled with laughter, and Dad rolled his eyes, suggesting he had heard this anecdote a hundred times before.

  ‘Unfortunately for Steve, our neighbours recognised me and I was taken home, safe and sound. Here I still am and still very much the younger, better-looking brother.’ Uncle Jack took in a breath. ‘In all seriousness, Steve: you’ve always pushed me to be better. When you became an accountant, I got into medicine. When you pursued the most attractive girls at varsity, I had to do the same. When you went out with Lucy Hinde, I doggedly pursued her sister – only to find out you beat me to her too. Always one step ahead of me, I’ll give you that … To Steve,’ he called out, raising the champagne glass above his head.

  ‘To Steve,’ echoed the chorus of people on the boat. I sheepishly raised my glass of orange juice to just above my nose and took a sip.

  A blonde woman wearing a cerise-pink hat came and sat down next to me. She said she had heard a lot about me, how I was a very special young girl.

  This wasn’t a question, and I didn’t know how to reply, so I simply said, ‘Oh, thanks.’

  The woman asked me if I liked make-up.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ I had only worn make-up for Bishopslea school plays, where volunteer mothers would attempt to paint whiskers or beaks onto the faces of overexcited kids.

  The woman fished around the contents of her handbag and pulled out a thin gold tube. She removed the lid, which made a ‘pop’ sound, to reveal a coral-coloured lipstick.

  ‘Smile for me,’ she instructed, then swiped the tube across my lower lip. ‘Now, rub your lips together.’

  I obliged, rubbing them as though they were covered in sugar from a sour strap. As I did so, Dad approached and asked how his ‘girls’ were going.

  ‘Oh, we’re having a blast. Aren’t we, Hannah?’

  I was trying to figure out what the lipstick tasted like – it was fruity but with a chemical aftertaste, a sweet rancidness, not unlike the smell that emanated from my schoolbag after I’d left a plum in there for three days by mistake.

  ‘We’re having fun. Hannah told me she likes make-up, so I let her play with mine.’ The woman grinned up at my dad as though she were waiting for him to dispense a gold star for answering a maths question correctly.

  ‘Can I wear your hat?’ I asked her, wanting to complete the look and see if I’d pass as a grown-up.

  ‘Um …’ The woman paused. ‘Yes, of course, here we go.’ She removed the hat from her head and placed it on top of mine, running her fingers through her newly exposed hair. ‘Just make sure you hold on when it gets windy.’

  I moved to the side of the boat to inspect my new accessory in the reflection of the windows.

  ‘Here, Hannah, come take a look in my compact,’ the woman said, waving me back and opening up a circular case containing bronze powder and a mirror.

  ‘You’re so good with her,’ Dad said to the hat-lady, in a way that made me feel a bit like a pet.

  ‘Oh, please, she’s so delightful. A testament to your parenting.’

  The only other times I had heard the word testament was during chapel services at school, so I figured she was calling my dad a sort of parenting god, which was hardly the case. Especially as he then took the woman by her elbow and guided her towards the bar, leaving me on my own. Luckily Stella spotted me, and she and John – the only two people there who were also friends with my mum – came over to check how I was doing.

  ‘Look at you, all dressed up. Are you wearing lipstick?’ Stella asked.

  I confirmed I was, but that it tasted strange, and so she handed me a napkin to dab it off with.

  ‘There’s no other kids around, hey?’ John said, scanning the ship.

  There weren’t. I would’ve been grateful for any company, even that of Michaela or six-year-old Elise.

  ‘Did you have a nice trip to Mana with your grandparents?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Yeah, it was really fun. Thanks for letting us borrow the tent and everything.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ Stella said. ‘Besides, your mum was so generous with her time – putting the whole show together. And you! You were brilliant.’

  ‘Truly brilliant,’ John echoed.

  ‘I wish my dad could’ve seen me.’

  ‘I doubt Steve is a big fan of musicals,’ John said and laughed.

  The three of us looked up to where my father was now located, at the bow of the boat, commanding a modest audience with his hand resting on the small of the hat-woman’s back.

  ‘That’s beside the point though, isn’t it?’ Stella replied.

  Later on, when I found a moment that Dad wasn’t talking to Uncle Jack or the hordes of friends around him, I decided to give him the storybook I had made as a birthday present. I’d created it by folding several of pieces of paper in half and stapling along the fold.

  ‘Wow. This is beautiful. Thank you so much, my little Hannah-Banana.’ Dad wrapped his long arms around me.

  ‘So you like it?’

  ‘Like it? I love it! This is fantastic.’

  ‘I got you a birthday present and you didn’t even get me one.’ I tried to laugh at the end of my remark to make it sound like a joke, but the words had been delivered with a tone of anger that a light-hearted chuckle couldn’t mask. I didn’t even realise myself how upset I actually was.

  Dad let me out of his embrace. ‘Hannah, you have a deluxe suite at the Victoria Falls Hotel. You gave me some scraps of paper. Don’t act like an ungrateful cow.’

  I was alone in the deluxe suite later that night when I spotted a tennis-ball-sized spider scuttling across the gold-leaf wallpaper. Apparently no number of stars attached to an establishment can fully ensure a space free of arachnids.

  I went down the corridor to knock on the door to Dad’s room, afraid of sleeping in the room with the big spider by myself. Dad opened the door just a crack, and through the gap between him and the doorframe I saw the woman with the pink floppy hat sitting on his bed, without her hat and heels.

  ‘Hannah, it’s late. What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a spider in my room. Can I sleep in here instead?’

  ‘It’s probably just a daddy-long-legs.’

  I disputed the idea that I couldn’t tell the difference between a harmless cellar spider, with a pin-sized abdomen the colour of which would’ve been camouflaged by the wallpaper, and the giant black mass I’d seen that might be crawling beneath my sheets as we spoke.

  Dad pulled the door fully open, grabbed a white terry-cloth robe and put on some slippers.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he called over his shoulder and led me back up the corridor to my room.

  The spider was still there; it was just above the armchair nearest the window. Dad took off his slipper and, in one quick move, the sole made contact with the spider. Dad gave it another two whacks to be sure.

  ‘There we go. All gone,’ he said, as he put the slipper back on.

  ‘What if there’s more
?’

  ‘There won’t be any more. They’ll have seen what I did to the first one and be too scared to show up, okay?’ he said, ruffling my hair before he went towards the door.

  ‘Okay. But, Dad, can I please just …’ I noticed the frustration in his face as he turned back to look at me. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Alright, goodnight, Hannah. Sleep tight.’

  ‘Night, Dad.’

  I walked over to the brown smudge on the wall. The spider had shrunk to a fraction of its original size, its long legs mangled, its plump body oozing fluid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said out loud, to the spider, to my dad, before jumping into bed and pulling the blankets over my head.

  Stella and John were on the same return flight as me to Harare. Dad was staying up at the falls for a few extra days to whitewater raft (presumably with the floppy-hat woman), but I had to be back for the start of the second school term.

  As we buckled our seatbelts and settled in for the hour-long journey, Stella asked me how I enjoyed the birthday festivities. I told her I’d had fun, but I wasn’t sure Dad really liked the present I had made for him.

  ‘I’m sure he loved it. Just like I loved that ashtray you gave to me.’

  After we landed, Stella and John gave me a lift home from the airport; they also planned to collect the camping gear they had loaned us. When we arrived at my house, Mum came out to meet us in the driveway.

  ‘Hi, Hannah sweetie,’ she said, taking the lime-green duffel bag out of my arms and throwing it over her shoulder. ‘So how was it?’ she asked Stella.

  ‘It was very … well, it was very much like the Clarke brothers double act, if you know what I mean,’ Stella said.

  ‘Oh, I can imagine,’ Mum replied.

  ‘Bloody good nosh though,’ John chimed in.

  ‘Jack spoke. About all of Steve’s … escapades.’

  ‘But you were only there for a weekend, how did he have the time?’