Michael and Andrew shared a two-bedroomed granny flat on the ground floor that had access to the rest of the house through a conservatory. They ate their meals in the warm, country-style kitchen beside a large Aga stove that never went out, a kettle always on the hob, family washing drying on pulleys suspended from the ceiling. Andrew spent most of his time in the company of Claire who chattered away constantly, never expecting a response, content to bond with her silent grandson at his own speed.
Michael made an appointment with the trauma therapist Annie Devilliers had recommended and took his son to see him. The man seemed more interested in discussing South Africa’s problems than addressing Andrew’s symptoms. When Michael did manage to steer the conversation back to the reason for their visit, all the specialist said was, ‘Company his own age would be good. Otherwise keep on with what you’re doing. Love, affection, routine, healthy food and a warm comfortable bed. Love him to pieces and be there for him. Now tell me, Mr King, do you think all this unrest would stop if Mandela were released?’
‘Shock therapist!’ Michael thought sourly on the way back to Hertford. ‘The only bloody shock was the size of his bill.’
But he followed the man’s advice about a companion and contacted Sally in France who readily agreed to bring her daughter, Dominique, to England for a couple of weeks. ‘We were coming over anyway,’ she told Michael over the telephone. ‘Just thought you’d like to settle in a bit first. How’s the weather over there?’ Just talking to his sister helped Michael to feel normal again.
Sally, her husband, Marcel, and Dominique arrived a few days later. Marcel, who ran his own clothing factory, could only spare a weekend but Sally stayed on with their daughter. Dominique, only two months older than Andrew, was a hyperactive little girl who managed to find something funny in everything. The two children immediately hit it off. Within a few days Andrew was responding verbally, just a yes or no at first but, by the end of his cousin’s visit, he was chattering away as clearly as ever.
Then the nightmares started. Without any warning, his terror burst forth from another world. It was a rough time for everyone. Nights were shattered by piercing screams. All he would ever say was, ‘Monsters.’ So Andrew would be held and soothed back to sleep and Michael, watching his son’s once again peaceful face would wonder if their lives could ever get back to normal.
The nightmare problem was solved by Gregor. At seventeen, and in his last year of school, he’d come home for the Easter holidays. Intelligent, sensitive and extremely talented artistically, he was supposed to use the break to study for his forthcoming A Levels. But a special rapport quickly developed between Andrew and Gregor. Andrew followed his uncle everywhere, giggling helplessly at his play-acting and stories.
Gregor dug out an old Punch and Judy set from the attic. Taking advantage of the fine spring weather, he assembled it, much to Andrew’s intrigued pleasure, in the garden. Chairs were brought out and Andrew, full of self-importance, told everyone where to sit. Gregor put on the show.
Andrew was rapt. He laughed, clapped his hands, booed with everyone else and became completely involved. Then came the loud bang. Andrew jumped with fright, his face drained of colour and he began to tremble. Claire reacted first, hissing and booing loudly. Peter and Michael joined in, desperately trying to convince the child it was all part of the show. Andrew sat frozen. Michael was about to tell Gregor to stop but his younger brother, realising what was wrong, acted instinctively, putting on the show of his life. Improvising frantically, the traditional Punch and Judy script was modified. Punch became more of a bumbling fool, tripping over things, making sillier than ever jokes. Gregor changed his voice, made it softer. Andrew, still watching, remained wary and unresponsive.
Then the masterpiece. The loud noise explained as Judy breaking wind, Punch fainting from the smell. Andrew shrieked with laughter. Poor old Judy nearly turned herself inside-out, the noises becoming more and more outrageous. Punch ran around the set swiping at the air, covering his nose, sitting with head in hands. Andrew begged for more.
That night Michael dealt with the nightmare by using the same level of toilet humour. It worked. After a week of the new, though not necessarily improved, Punch and Judy and, at night, hunting under the bed and in wardrobes for the naughty, flatulence-suffering Judy, the nightmares stopped.
‘You’re a genius,’ Michael told Gregor.
‘I know.’ Gregor grinned. ‘I can’t wait to tell the maths master that I was too busy farting to study.’
Michael laughed. ‘You might not get the marks you want but I’ll tell you this, little brother, you’ll never go short of work. You’re good. You could fart for England.’
After Gregor returned to school, Andrew appeared lost for a couple of days. It was only when Michael realised what was bothering his son and assured him that Uncle Gregor would be back soon, that his face lit up. ‘Thank God,’ Claire said that evening. ‘I thought he might, you know, think that Gregor would go away and never come back like . . .’ She left it hanging, uncertain how Michael would react.
He had put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Like his mother and brother,’ he finished quietly for her.
Claire looked into her son’s face. ‘Are you healing, darling?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘But you’re still determined . . .’
‘Yes I am.’
‘When?’ she whispered, afraid for him, afraid for his son.
‘Not yet.’ He sighed, closing his eyes. ‘I’m still too close to it. When I kill Jackson Mpande it will be in cold blood.’
She’d known his intention, of course. But hearing him voice it for the first time filled her with dread.
With Sally, Dominique and Gregor gone, Michael found himself thinking about Dyson. Claire had a number where he could be contacted. Michael had deliberately put off seeing his old friend, concerned that Jackson would come between them. In the end, however, he made the call and arranged to meet Dyson at a pub near York Gate in London, just off the Marylebone Road.
Dyson put down the telephone, elated to have heard from Michael. Claire had called to tell him about Jennifer and Jeremy. She gave no details, only mentioning that Michael would probably spend some time in England. But that was months ago. ‘Old friend,’ he responded to a colleague’s raised eyebrows. ‘We grew up together.’
‘He sounded white and South African,’ said the man who had answered the telephone.
‘He is.’
‘You know the rules.’
Dyson nodded, irritated by the comment. He needed no reminding. Caution was the name of the game. God knows how many times infiltration attempts had been made. The South Africans were clever, recruiting friends or even relations of known ANC members. Dyson knew he had to be careful, even with Michael. At the time of Claire’s telephone call he had already known that Michael’s wife and child had been killed as a result of SWAPO activity in the eastern Caprivi. There was every chance that it was Jackson’s group who had laid the very mine responsible. Not much got past the eyes and ears of the ANC. Dyson was fully aware of Jackson’s specialist training in Russia.
This aside, it would be good to see Michael again.
They’d arranged to meet at five-thirty. Michael caught the train into Kings Cross and walked from there. The pub was jammed with thank-God-it’s-Friday drinkers. He squeezed into a space at the bar and ordered a pint. A girl bumped him, apologised, had a second look, liked what she saw and smiled. ‘Haven’t seen you here before.’
‘New in town.’ He had to shout to be heard. ‘Is it always this crowded?’
She leaned towards him so he could hear. ‘By six-thirty most of them will be gone. Friday night is club night.’
He caught a whiff of her scent. It caught him completely off balance. Madame Roche. Jennifer’s favourite. He jerked back, looking frantically around and, spotting a space by the back wall, excused himself and made his way towards it. The girl watched him go, regret in her eyes. Married. You could always tell.
‘I see you, Nkawu,’ he said in Zulu, grinning. Then adding in English, ‘There’s a lady at the bar asked me to tell you she’s unattached. You made a big impression.’
Michael looked him up and down. ‘I can tell we’ll have to get you out of England. You are becoming positively British, pinstripe suit, overweight, the lot.’
Dyson laughed. ‘Is that bad?’ He handed Michael a beer.
‘For a Zulu? You must be kidding.’ He extended an open hand and they shook in the palm press, thumb clasp, palm press African way. ‘Hell it’s good to see you. Can we go somewhere quieter?’
‘Around here? It’s Friday night. Everywhere’s crowded. It’ll clear soon.’
Michael wanted to pound his arm, to speak with him in Zulu. Looking at his old friend made him feel like a boy again, brought back the total freedom of space, memories of rough-and-tumbles in the baking heat of a Zululand afternoon, the smell of the African bush after summer rain. Instead, they were crammed into a stuffy, noisy pub with smoke stinging their eyes and conversation impossible.
Dyson and the girl at the bar were right though, come six-thirty out they all rushed, like lemmings. ‘God help the last one through the door,’ Michael observed dryly. ‘He must feel like one of life’s failures. What is this? Mandatory exodus?’
They moved to a vacated table and sat down. ‘Now we can talk,’ Dyson said. ‘Before anything else, my heart is heavy over your loss. I was shocked and angered by the news.’
‘Thank you.’ Michael took a deep breath. ‘It’s still too hard to talk about.’
‘I understand.’
‘But what about you?’
‘Nothing new. I’m fine, as you can see.’
‘The last time I spoke with your father he said you were working for the ANC. How’s it going?’
It was a perfectly ordinary question but Dyson became wary. ‘I can’t discuss that, not even with you.’ A strange look came into Michael’s eyes and Dyson added quickly, ‘That mine was SWAPO, not the ANC. But you didn’t hear that from me.’
Michael closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them all he said was, ‘I know.’
Dyson changed the subject and they spoke of Wilson and Nandi and the two younger children, of Sally and her life, of Gregor and of old times in Zululand. Michael was aware that a friendship had developed between Dyson and Tessa but, when he asked about his sister, Dyson became vague and non-committal. When pushed, Dyson admitted that he and Tessa had seen a movie together a couple of weeks ago. Michael wondered what his old friend wasn’t telling him. Jackson’s name was carefully avoided by both men. There was constraint in their conversation. The old easiness had gone. Finally, as they were leaving, Dyson asked, ‘What will you do now?’
Michael glanced at him briefly as he shrugged into a coat. ‘Go back.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s where I belong,’ Michael answered evasively.
Dyson looked wry but added, ‘You’re lucky you can.’
They went out into the cold night. ‘Will I see you before you go back?’ Dyson wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
‘Sure. I’ll be in touch.’ Michael didn’t think he would be.
They parted company and walked hastily away from each other. Dyson was thinking how much his friend had changed. Okay, he’d had a tough time but so had many others. At least he wasn’t a fugitive from the Pretoria regime. Millions of black South Africans were suffering just as much. His friend seemed harder somehow.
As Michael walked towards the station he was reflecting that the reunion had not been anywhere near as enjoyable as he had hoped. Dyson didn’t trust him and that hurt. He’d become a city man. That was weird. He just wasn’t the old Dyson Mpande.
Neither man put their finger on the real reason: that they knew each other so well that both were aware the other was hiding something.
He hadn’t seen Tessa yet, in fact, not even spoken to her on the telephone. It was simply coincidence but each time she called Michael was out and each time he returned the call Tessa had just popped out a few minutes earlier.
‘Is she avoiding me?’ Michael eventually asked his mother. They had never been close and his memories of her were not pleasant, but he’d been in England for two months and felt they should have met by now.
‘She’s nervous I suppose. Unsure how you feel about her. You must see her though, Michael, she’s a changed person.’
‘So ask her down for a visit. I won’t bite.’
But Tessa stayed away, making lame excuses. Finally they managed to speak on the telephone, a difficult conversation that went in fits and starts and was impossibly polite. It was another three months before Michael took Andrew up to London to pay her a surprise visit. ‘She’s home for a few days. Don’t phone, just arrive. And Michael, keep an open mind, I beg you,’ Claire had urged.
On the way to Wimbledon he reflected that although his mind was wide open, never had he imagined taking his young son to visit his aunt, the prostitute. Dressed up as ‘companion’ or whatever else it was called, it still boiled down to the fact that men bought Tessa’s company. Michael had looked at it every way he could but never seemed to come close to the level of acceptance of Tessa’s occupation that his mother had reached.
Jennifer had once said, ‘It’s the old sister syndrome. It’s okay to lust after everybody else’s sister but God help the man who lusts after your own.’
Annie Devilliers had smiled when he told her. ‘It’s a delightfully eccentric solution to a very real problem. It’s probably the only sensible answer for someone like Tessa.’
All of which left Michael feeling uncomfortably suspicious that women were more broad-minded and better able to deal with the bizarre than men.
The house was old, solid and respectable-looking, a replica of all the others in the quiet, tree-lined street. Ordinary and, yes, boring. As he paid off the taxi he half thought the driver would throw him a lewd wink, but the man simply nodded and drove away. Holding Andrew’s hand, he went through a low picket gate. The tiny front garden was well kept and had a cottage garden appearance. From behind the front door came strains of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. Michael rang the bell.
It was answered by Tessa herself. ‘Michael!’ Her surprise was total.
‘Hi, sis,’ he said, emotions welling unexpectedly in him. She looked wonderful. Flawless skin, devoid of any make-up. Jeans, a white T-shirt and barefooted. Of the old Tessa there was no trace.
She smiled at him uncertainly. ‘How lovely to see you.’ She went to hug him, thought better of it and abruptly dropped to her haunches in front of Andrew. ‘Hello, I’m your aunt Tessa.’ She looked up at Michael. ‘He’s just like . . . just as I expected. And so big.’ She rose. ‘Please come in. We’ll go through to the back garden. It’s lovely out there at this time of year.’ She was chattering to hide her nervousness. ‘I’ve been meaning to come and see you but, well, with one thing and another, you know how it is. Through here. Would you like a drink? Can I get Andrew anything?’
She led them through the house. It was surprisingly large inside. Beyond the lounge and sunroom lay a courtyard. They went out through double glass doors. Wisteria covered a pergola. Two narrow flower beds separated the cobbled area from a small lawn beyond. ‘Here we are.’ Tessa waved towards a garden table with bench seats on either side. ‘Please sit down. It’s so warm today.’
Michael sat and Andrew climbed up beside him. The house rose three floors above them, bulky and imposing. ‘Big place,’ he commented, not knowing how to break through her nervous chatter.
‘That’s my room.’ She pointed to a window on the first floor.
‘How many of you live here?’ He hadn’t meant to but the way the question came out made it sound like some kind of interrogation.
Tessa pulled a slight face but otherwise didn’t react. She calmly answered his question. ‘Judith owns the house. She has a room on the ground floor. There are five rooms on my floor and three above that. The cellar has been converted into a bed-sit. Two girls share that. There are two tiny rooms in the attic. They’re empty at the moment.’
‘Where are the others?’
Again, she patiently answered. ‘Judith is in her room writing letters. Two others are around somewhere. The rest are out.’ She hesitated slightly, then continued. ‘We live here, Michael, nothing more. I know what you must be thinking but we only live here.’
‘No, no. I just wondered.’ Christ! This is going badly. Lighten up for God’s sake. ‘Sorry, sis.’
‘I understand, Michael, I really do.’
Andrew cut in. ‘Where are the little people?’
‘Little people!’ Tessa glanced at her brother.
‘Children,’ Michael explained. ‘That’s what he calls them.’
‘Oh! I see.’ She laughed. ‘There are no little people here, Andrew. Only big people.’
Michael liked the way she spoke directly to him. Andrew nodded and remained silent. The expression on his face was one of resignation.
Tessa smiled. ‘I happen to know there are cartoons on the telly at the moment. If you like I’ll put it on for you. How about a glass of milk and some chocolate biscuits as well?’ She’d won him. They went off together, hand in hand, Tessa telling him that if Judith heard the cartoons she’d probably come and sit with him because she loved them too.
Returning ten minutes later with coffee on a tray, Tessa sat opposite him and got straight to the point, her earlier nervousness gone, as though she’d had a stern talk with herself inside. ‘I was shocked about what happened, Michael. You’re a good person. It was so unfair.’
‘Thanks.’ His voice was steady. ‘It’s still hard but I’m learning to cope. Some days are worse than others.’
People of Heaven Page 39
