The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “There’s nothing to think about, Mbali. Do what you must to bury him, and I wish you well.”

  “But what about the vineyard? Your home?”

  “It isn’t my home. I’ll sell it, I suppose. I don’t want anything to do with it. Thank you for letting me know, Mbali.”

  “Don’t make a choice you will regret, child.”

  “I have many things I regret. This won’t be one of them. Good-bye, Mbali.”

  She disconnected the call and looked up at the sky. She wondered when the rain had started to fall and then realized she didn’t care. She stepped away from the wall, turned toward her office, and stopped. She couldn’t face it. It was a new feeling, and not one she was comfortable with, but the thought of walking into her office and carrying on as though nothing had happened made her pause. No, it made her stop. Maria was right; she had nothing to deal with that couldn’t wait for the morning, and the thought of being cooped up in her office—lovely as it was—made her skin itch.

  Rain and sweat mingled on her brow, and her heart pounded resignedly in her chest. It wasn’t beating fast. It was more like it was beating out of time and forcing itself to the slow cadence of the funeral dirge. She needed to feel alive. She needed to feel her blood move, and her heart rate pick up.

  She sent a quick text to Maria, telling her she wasn’t going back to the office, and followed the path her feet seemed to be setting of their own accord. Despite knowing that she was in charge of her body, right then it didn’t feel like it. It needed something, and her brain was more than willing to let it have its way. After all, the slow burning fire that settled in the pit of her stomach promised her brain much needed relief would be achieved if it did.

  The Bird in Hand pub was close by. Less than a ten minute walk from the Crown Court. She stuffed her wig in her briefcase and pulled her robe from her shoulders, slinging it over her arm as she pushed open the door and walked in. It was quiet. Maybe half a dozen people littered the handful of tables and carpet covered stools.

  “What can I get you, darlin’?” The woman behind the bar wore a black wife-beater brandishing the slogan, “Dip me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians.” She had bleach blond spikes, and a ring through her nose, a studded bar through her eyebrow, and a cocky smile upon her lips.

  “Brandy.”

  “With…? Coke? Lemonade?”

  “Neat.”

  The bartender raised her adorned eyebrow and reached for a glass.

  “Make it a double.”

  “Bad day?” She asked as she put the glass down before Imogen. “Want me to start you a tab?”

  “Thanks. That’d be good.” She slid her credit card over the bar with one hand and grabbed the drink with the other. “I’m celebrating.” She knocked the double back in one. “Another.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  She reached for the second glass and smelled it before putting it to her lips. Her father had drunk brandy the night her mother died. She chuckled and knocked it back. “The end of an era.” She could feel the warmth of the strong alcohol begin to thaw out the chill that had settled previously unnoticed in her bones.

  “Another one?” She reached for the glass.

  “No. Do you have any red wine?”

  “We do.” She picked up a bottled from the back counter. “Never drink the stuff myself, so I can’t vouch for how good it is.”

  Imogen shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m half pissed anyway.”

  “I’m Nat, by the way.”

  “Imogen.” She accepted the glass and smiled. “Thanks.” She perched on one of the tall barstools and sipped the slightly sour wine slowly. “Slow night?”

  “It’s early yet. Give it an hour and it’ll be a bit livelier.”

  Imogen glanced at her watch. It wasn’t yet four in the afternoon. No wonder it was quiet. Only serious alcoholics and students would be Nat’s usual patron at this time of the day.

  “So why are you really here, Imogen?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to say. While her brain was still deciding, her mouth and brandy-loosened tongue made the decision for her. “I’m celebrating and drowning my sorrows at the same time.”

  “What are you celebrating?”

  “I won my case this afternoon.”

  “Case?”

  She nodded and sipped some more, feeling the alcohol on her empty stomach. “Do you do food here?”

  “Not till six.” She reached under the counter and tossed a bag of crisps at her.

  “Thanks.” She tore open the packet. “A rapist is off the streets.”

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  Imogen shook her head. English people knew more about the American legal system than they did their own. Unless they were part of it. “I’m a barrister. For the CPS.”

  “What?”

  “The Crown Prosecution Service.”

  “How’s that different from being a lawyer?”

  “I guess it isn’t. Different terminology, different traditions.” She shrugged. “That’s all. I try to send bad people to prison.”

  “Do you wear one of those old-fashioned wigs?”

  “Yes.” Imogen smiled. “Every day.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah.” She rested her head in her hands.

  “And the sorrows you’re drowning?”

  “What about them?”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Here, you serving or what?” a bloke shouted from down the bar.

  Nat smiled. “Be right back.”

  Imogen thought about Nat’s question while she was pulling pints. Did she want to talk about it? About her dad? Did she want to think about the pain, the loss, the loneliness?

  “Top up?” Nat held the bottle over her glass, ready to pour.

  “Not yet. What time does your shift end?”

  Nat glanced at the clock. “At five.”

  “How old are you?”

  Nat’s eyebrow rose again. “Twenty-five. You?”

  “Thirty-nine. Fancy coming to dinner with me?”

  Nat stared at her, appraised her, and seemed to like what she saw as a slow smile spread across her lips. “I’d love to.” She leaned across the bar and whispered close to Imogen’s ear. “Then you can tell me all about it.”

  Imogen put her fingers on Nat’s lips. “Oh no. That’s my one rule for tonight. No more talking.” She smiled and watched Nat gulp. “I have much better plans for those lips.”

  Chapter Seven

  Amahle smoothed her hands down the front of her black dress and pushed her feet into mid-heeled black pumps. She checked her watch. The last thing she wanted was to be late for the funeral. Her mother was already unhappy about her not going to the vineyard to travel to the church with Sipho and herself, but as she wasn’t staying with them, it made no sense to travel fifteen minutes away from the church, only to turn around and come back. Besides, the small room at the Stellenbosch Hotel was comfortable, and staying in the small house on the vineyard with her mother was not an option. Mostly because her mother never asked her to stay there, and if Amahle asked, there always seemed to be some excuse as to why she couldn’t.

  A knock on the door stopped her wondering how they’d fallen into that particular trap over the past decade. She checked her watch and smiled as she pulled open the door to see her bodyguard, Thambo, waiting patiently.

  “Time to go?”

  “Indeed, Minister.” He drove them carefully through the streets of Stellenbosch to the church and held the door open as she climbed out and scoured the crowd for her mother and brother.

  Amahle hated funerals. She had since she was a small child and Elaine Frost’s funeral had been the catalyst for the biggest change in her young life. This one was no different. More than a hundred people crowded into the church in Stellenbosch, a veritable who’s who of the Stellenbosch elite welcomed each other like it was a brunch meeting at the golf club rather than a fu
neral. Mbali took a seat on the front pew; Amahle sat beside her, Sipho to her left.

  “I still can’t believe she won’t come, Mama.” She kept looking over her shoulder at the slightest noise, expecting her to come bustling in at the very last moment.

  “I left the arrangements as long as I could. I left messages with her secretary so she had all the details. I don’t know what else I could have done.”

  “Nothing. I didn’t mean that. I just don’t understand how a daughter wouldn’t make it to the funeral of her own father. She didn’t even visit him when he was sick.”

  “I told you about that, Amahle. He hadn’t told her. How could she come if she didn’t know?”

  “I suppose. But even that’s hard to believe. Why wouldn’t he tell her?”

  Mbali stared at the casket at the front of the church. “We all have our reasons for the secrets we keep, Amahle. I’m sure he had his.”

  “So you believe her? That he didn’t tell her.”

  “Yes. I don’t doubt it. Mr. Frost was a proud man, and he never liked to admit weakness. Nor could he admit when he was wrong.”

  “If Imogen’s as stubborn a woman as she was a child, their relationship could have only gotten more difficult over the years.”

  “I don’t think they had a relationship at all.”

  The music started and they all rose. It was a lovely service. The eulogy given by one of Alain’s old friends, Jim Davitson, was moving; the reading by the priest was beautiful; but the atmosphere was tense. It was almost as though everyone expected Imogen to arrive at the last minute and make some kind of scene. By the time they were all back at the vineyard for the wake, Amahle felt smothered by the expectation, the feeling that something was going to happen.

  She stepped out of the drawing room and wandered along the stoop. Leaning against the brick column, she stared out at the fields that had been her childhood playground. The strong twisting vines that had borne the wealth of the Frost family for five generations spread out before her, and the mountains beyond cast their shadows down the valley as the sun began to dip. Orange hues found their way into the blue sky, pink and purple chasing them all the way. She’d forgotten how beautiful it was. How varied the terrain, the colours, and the feeling of peace that accompanied the scent of grapes in the air, and the earth beneath her feet.

  “Amahle, they are going to read the will,” Sipho said from the doorway. “Mama asked if you’d come inside.”

  “How can they read the will without Imogen here?”

  “They have her on the phone. She has given her consent to read it in her absence. The lawyer gave it some legal mumbo jumbo name and said that they were okay to do it this way.”

  Amahle shrugged and followed him inside. She sat beside her mother again and took hold of her hand. “Mama, are you all right?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Your hand is clammy.” She slipped her fingers around her mother’s wrist and swallowed her surprise at how frail age had made her vibrant and strong mother. “Your heart is racing.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little warm.” She waved away Amahle’s concern. Sipho looked on with a worried frown etched deeply into the lines of his face. She tried to get his attention to ask what was wrong, but he was avoiding her gaze. She was sure of it. She tried to ignore the feeling. It wasn’t the first time she had felt her mother was keeping secrets from her, and over the years she had learned that it was usually best to leave them with her. It did little for Amahle’s equilibrium to find out too much about her mother’s affairs.

  She looked around the room, noting some of the little cliques that had inevitably formed. She still found it amusing that of all the people in the room, politically, she had the most power and influence, yet every one of the wealthy, white, older men of Stellenbosch avoided contact with her. An attractive blond woman spoke to Jim Davitson and Fred Pugh, Stellenbosch’s most preeminent lawyer and the major general of the Western Cape police force, who looked deeply engrossed in the conversation. From her vantage point, the two men looked deeply annoyed while the young woman appeared to find their concerns boring. Until a tall, slightly rotund younger man with a shock of floppy red hair clapped a hand on Fred’s shoulder. She didn’t recognize the newcomer, but they all seemed to know him well, and the rolling of Fred’s eyes told her he wished he didn’t. Jim broke away from the little group and took a position behind the desk and rapped on the surface to gain everyone’s attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for attending the service today. I’m sure Alain would have been heartily glad at the wonderful turnout. This”—he lifted some papers from the surface of the desk—“is the last will and testament of Alain Frost, and reads as follows.” He cleared his throat in preparation. “I, Alain Peter John Frost, of the Frost Vineyard, Stellenbosch, South Africa, hereby revoke all former testimony dispositions and declare this to be my last will and testament on the fourteenth day of February, in the year of our Lord two thousand and fifteen. I hereby charge Mr. James Davitson as executor of my estate. In the event that he is unable to execute this duty, I trust he will have left in charge of his firm a person of sufficient merit to perform the task in his stead.

  “I have much wealth to endow but little of much worth as I lie here, waiting for my final day, alone. There is much I wish I could undo, much I wish I could atone for, but even I must know when to admit defeat. And this battle has long been lost. Please forgive the sentimentality, but I beg a little indulgence here. This is one correspondence I can be certain you will hear, Imogen. Therefore, it is my last chance to explain why I hurt you as I did, and to beg your forgiveness for my immortal soul.

  “Fear will make a man do crazy things. Things he could not otherwise contemplate. Grief and pain will make him a fool. When we lost your mother, I was suffering with all of those afflictions, and rather than hold you tighter to me, I pushed you away. I think we can both understand at this point what happened then, but I think perhaps what is harder for you to understand is why I continued to keep you away, my darling daughter. Why I refused every request to come home for holidays, why I kept letters from your friends here in South Africa, from you. Why I did not pass on to them your missives. All of this will be more ammunition for your hatred toward me, of that I have no doubt. But I pray that once you get through the anger you have every right to feel, you will remember that I did everything I did with your best interest at heart.

  “I wanted you to build a new life away from the uncertain future South Africa faced. I needed to know that you would never fall victim to your mother’s fate, and in your friendship with Amahle, I could see your mother growing in you day by day. I saw her compassion, her kindness, and most importantly, and fatally in this bloody country, I saw her colour-blindness in you. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you too.

  “I lost you anyway to my own stupidity, overbearing control, and dishonesty. I beg you to forgive me. I truly thought you would be better off in England. I truly believed you would have a wonderful life at school. I thought making your own way in life, rather than falling into the same patterns, the same expectations, that I was already creating for you would be best for you. I hope you can agree with me, Imogen. You did a far better job than I could have ever imagined. I am so proud of all you have achieved. So proud. I just wish I’d had the courage to tell you this before it was too late. I am a coward. You deserved a better father than you got. Please remember that I loved you with all my heart, Imogen. Despite how it looks from the outside. I did the best I could.

  “Now to the matter at hand. I leave a pension of thirty thousand rand per annum to my housekeeper and long time employee, Mbali Nkosi. Enjoy your retirement, my friend. You have earned it. To Sipho Nkosi, I have written references for whoever takes over the vineyard, in the hope that they will continue to keep you on as the manager of the vineyard. But I also bequeath to you two acres of vines, the field backing onto the orchard at the edge of the property. Should they not have the foresight
to maintain your employment, Sipho, I hope you can see your way to building your own vineyard from this modest beginning.

  “Amahle Nkosi, it has been an honour to watch you grow in the absence of my own daughter, and your father. I was more than happy to help you wherever I could in all matters but one. To you, I return something I should have given to you thirty years ago. The letters Imogen wrote to you when she was first sent to England. She wrote to you for five years before finally giving up hope that you would respond. Perhaps you can find the friend you lost amongst the pages. I am sorry.”

  The large bundle of envelopes were tied neatly with a green ribbon, and tears slipped from her eyes onto the ink as she ran a hand over the topmost one. She didn’t hear the rest of the minor gifts that were awarded; she wanted to walk out the door and spend the afternoon in the orchard. Sitting in the tree where she and Imogen had hidden, reading about the life of her friend in the scary, exciting new world she had been thrust into.

  “The rest of my worldly goods, possessions, and wealth I leave to my only child, Imogen Annabelle Frost, to do with as you see fit. Manage it, sell it, return home and live in it. It doesn’t matter, Immy. Just find your happiness. Do not die like I did, alone, bitter, and full of regret. There is too much joy in the world for that.”

  “That’s not right,” Mbali said.

  “I’m sorry, what isn’t right?” James asked.

  “She wasn’t his only child.”

  “What other child, Mrs. Nkosi?” James Davitson asked. “I knew Alain Frost all my life. He had only one child.”

  “He had another. A son. He should get half of everything.”

  Amahle stared at her mother. “Mama, Mr. Frost only had Imogen. There was no son. You must be confused.”

  “Woman’s talking bloody rubbish, Jim,” Fred Pugh said from the back of the room. “Ignore her crazy talk.”

  “I’m not crazy, and I’m not confused. He had a son all right. One he never spoke about.”

  Jim cleared his throat. “What are you saying, Mrs. Nkosi?”

  Silence stretched taut across the room, once again heavy with expectation, and the slightest movement would tip the world on its axis and cast them all off into oblivion.